by Colin Forbes
'You'd better believe it,' Newman told her.
'It must be a shock to you,' Paula intervened. 'I also saw poor Julius, Miss Frey. It gave, me one hell of a shock.'
'Call me Helen, everyone. You seem decent people. But
I'm wondering what your interest is in the tragedy. You've shaken me.'
Tweed changed tactics. He had assumed Helen Frey would be as hard as nails, but Paula's more sympathetic approach had altered Helen's attitude.
'You could call me an investigator,' he began. 'Julius was a friend of mine and I'm trying to find out who murdered him. If I can find out why this hideous crime was committed I'll be closer to the murderer. Was Julius expecting to make a great deal of money in the near future?'
Helen sat very erect on the couch, her long legs crossed. She reached for a silver cigarette box on a table, offered it to her guests.
Thank you, but I prefer my own,' Newman said, producing his pack. 'My friends don't smoke. This is a lovely room you have.'
He stood up and lit Helen's cigarette. She was concentrating on Tweed as Newman then wandered round, looked at a portrait of Helen, moved a few paces apparently to look at a framed landscape above the desk. A diary lay open at the day's date, reminding him that they were at the beginning of March. What caught his attention was Helen's next appointment.
4.30p.m. Emit Voser.
'Was Julius expecting to make a great deal of money in the near future?' Helen said, repeating Tweed's question after she'd taken several deep drags on the cigarette, blown smoke rings into the air. 'Yes, he was.'
'May I ask how you know that?' Tweed asked gently.
'You may.' She gave him a bewitching smile. 'It was on the day before he left for Cornwall.' She phrased her next remark delicately. 'He was here with me. He'd lost a big sum investing in foreign currencies. But he said he would more than make up the loss and end up with a fortune.'
'Did he give you any idea where this fortune was coming from?'
'He said fate had handed him a gigantic royal flush. I remember his exact words – they were so graphic. Julius was an enthusiastic card player.'
'May I also ask what his mood was like when he was here for… Tweed trailed off.
She smiled wanly, took another drag on the cigarette, blew another perfect smoke ring.
'You were going to say when he was here for the last time. And you are right, Tweed. That was the last time I saw him alive. His mood? It was rather strange – a mixture of excitement and…'
'Fear?' Paula suggested.
'Yes! That was it. He was very nervy as though what he had in mind was dangerous. I even told him not to take too great a risk.'
'And how did he react to that?' Tweed enquired.
'He said that making a lot of money always involved taking a risk. He added that also it was too late for him to change his mind, so he was going ahead to push the deal.'
'Thank you for being so frank, Helen. Now, I owe you a fee for your time, Business is business.'
'I normally charge one thousand Swiss francs.'
Tweed was reaching for his wallet when Helen thrust out a hand to stop him. Her tone of voice had an appealing quality which touched Paula.
'I don't want your money, Tweed. I'm convinced you are telling the truth – that you are determined to track down the monster who murdered Julius. A woman in my profession becomes an expert in knowing when men are lying. Regard it as my contribution to bringing the swine who killed him to justice.'
'If you insist…'
'But I do.' She stood up to unfasten the two deadlocks on her door. 'By the way, as you leave the opposite door on the landing may open. It will be Klara. We are in the same business but good friends. She is often curious about my clients.'
Tentatively, she held out her hand to Paula. Without one moment's hesitation Paula grasped it warmly and stared into Helen's steady blue eyes. She felt that they were, when all was said and done, sisters under the skin.
Newman walked out on to the landing first to make sure it was safe. The door opposite opened and a tall brunette peered out. She wore a housecoat loosely tied and grinned wickedly at Newman.
'I'm Klara,' she said as Helen closed her door. 'Have you the energy left to come and play with me?'
'A tempting proposal.' Newman smiled at her. 'There are two things against the idea. I've just had a very large lunch recently. And I'm late for an appointment which could be profitable.'
'Come back later, then. Spend a little of the profits on me. You and I could make music together.'
'I'm sure of it,' Newman agreed. 'I may see you later,' he lied.
'You should have accepted her invitation,' Paula teased him as they got to the bottom of the stairs. 'I liked Helen, but I think Klara could be great fun too…'
Rennweg was quiet as they stepped back into the street. Opposite Helen Prey's doorway was a small cafe. Inside, close to the window, Cardon sat with a soft drink in front of him. He stroked a hand across his forehead to signal he had seen them.
'I want to call Eve Amberg,' Tweed said. 'I need a public phone box.'
'There's one near Bahnhofstrasse,' Paula told him. 'I remember seeing it on our way here…'
As the three of them walked off Cardon waited for a few minutes inside the cafe. He had seen the cripple in the wheelchair taking an unusual interest in shop windows near Prey's doorway. The invalid man wore a peaked shabby cap like those once sported by German students. His face was muffled in a woollen scarf, but it had slipped for a moment and Cardon had a good look at his face.
The nose curved downwards over his upper lip, reminding Cardon of an evil parrot. In his forties, Cardon had estimated. A worn rug covered his lap and his hands, on the controls, remained concealed underneath it. The wheelchair now began to follow Tweed and his companions. Cardon walked slowly after it.
Tweed entered the phone cubicle, looked up Eve Amberg's number in the directory. He inserted coins, dialled and she answered quickly.
'Amberg. Who is calling?'
Tweed here, Eve. Sorry to bother you again but there are one or two personal questions I didn't ask when we met.'
'Ask away. It's a relief to talk to someone English. I come from Cornwall. I'm reverting to my maiden name – Eve Royston. Now, the stage is yours.'
'Would you mind confirming how close it was to Julius's departure for England that you separated?'
'Two days before,' she said crisply. 'I'd challenged him earlier about his visits to Helen Frey. She may be a call-girl but I sensed their relationship was close. He then phoned me, as I said, two days before he flew to Britain. Said he wanted a separation and a divorce in good time. We had a helluva row over the phone. I told him I'd already decided to walk, so his suggestion was a bit late in the day.'
'You mean you never saw him again before he left? All this was over the phone?'
'It was,' she said emphatically. 'Something else I did not appreciate. He might have come to see me.' 'May I also ask how you first knew about Helen Frey?' 'Like something out of a cheap play. He was careless. Came home with traces of lipstick on his collar and he smelt of the wrong perfume. Despite smoking, I have a good sense of smell. I didn't say anything. I phoned the best private detective in Zurich to follow him. A bit sordid, but I was desperate to know the truth. He – the detective -followed him three times to Prey's place in Rennweg. That was it.'
'Would you be willing to give me this detective's name, address and phone number?'
'Of course. Name is Theo Strebel. He has a small apartment in the Altstadt – on this side of the Limmat. Here are the details…
Tweed had his notebook and pen ready, scribbled down the information. Outside the phone cubicle Newman was leaning against a wall as though waiting to use the phone. Paula appeared to be window-shopping. 'Thank you, Eve,' Tweed said. 'I'm most grateful.' 'Did you want to interview Strebel? If so, ten in the morning is the best time. He's going through his post. Would you like me to call him, introduce you, arrange a time?'
'That
would be helpful. Ten in the morning tomorrow would be fine. And thank you again…
Tweed emerged and continued walking with Newman and Paula into Bahnhofstrasse. Behind them the wheelchair began moving again.
Tweed told them about his conversation with Eve. Paula guessed why he wanted to talk to Strebel, but asked him, to see if she'd guessed right.
'He's a detective – a good one, Eve said. I want to see whether he took any photos of Julius entering Helen's place.'
'Why?'Paula persisted.
'Just an idea I have. Helen said Julius was in a strange mood.'
'But she explained that,'Paula recalled.
'So she did,' Tweed agreed, and Paula knew he wasn't going to tell her any more. In Bahnhofstrasse commuters on their way home were clustered in a crowd round a tram stop twenty yards or so away. Cardon came up behind them.
'Freeze. Don't move…'
They obeyed his instruction instantly. Newman saw out of the corner of his eye that Cardon was gazing at something. He looked in that direction. A man in a wheelchair was backing it inside a side-street where there was a small modern white church Paula admired. When the wheelchair was alongside the street's far wall it stopped moving.
The man huddled inside the chair whipped back his lap rug. He showed startling agility. His right hand, holding something, was hoisted high, like a bowler in a cricket match about to throw the ball. A cylindrical object sailed through the air in an arc, descending to land at Tweed's feet. Garden's left hand, clawed, caught the object before it landed on the pavement. In a blur of movement he lobbed it back. It landed in the lap of the man in the wheelchair. The 'cripple' jerked upright, had one foot on the street, when there was a loud explosion.
The man who had hurled the grenade disintegrated. The relics of his body were smashed against the white wall where a red lake appeared. The wheelchair became a shambles. One wheel rolled up Bahnhofstrasse, leaving a trail of dark red blood in its wake. Paula saw a severed hand lying in the street.
As the commuters jerked their heads round Newman suddenly dropped into a crouch, his Smith amp; Wesson gripped in both hands. Behind them, five feet or so away, a man in a belted raincoat had opened a violin case, extracted a snub-nosed Uzi machine-pistol. The muzzle was aimed at Tweed as Newman fired three times in rapid succession. The sound of the shots was masked by the screeching stop of an approaching tram – the driver had seen the lake of blood spilling into the road. The man holding the Uzi was hurled back against a plate-glass window with such force it fractured as he sagged to the ground. 'Scatter!' Tweed ordered. 'Meet up at the Gotthard…'
20
Paula sat on the edge of the bed in Tweed's room at the Gotthard. Her feet were pressed hard on the floor to prevent them from trembling. She was suffering from delayed shock brought on by the events in Bahnhofstrasse. Also in the room, seated in chairs, were Newman and Cardon. Paula's mood was not helped by Tweed's – she sensed he was puzzled by something. His first words didn't help her to detect what was bothering him.
'Let's sum up what happened. While we were in the bar at the Baur-en-Ville that villainous-looking type – I'm going to nickname him the Skull – spotted Paula and myself and then hurried back into the hotel.'
'I don't see what you're getting at,' Paula said, forcing herself to speak in a calm voice.
'Have patience. We didn't spend long over lunch but when we left to walk to Helen Prey's place in Rennweg the fake cripple was waiting for us, presumably already armed with his grenade. The speed with which the Skull and his associates move is incredible. Professionals of the top rank, Hear.'
'I still don't really see what you're driving at.'
'Communications. I feel sure the wheelchair man also had a mobile phone under the lap rug which concealed his grenade. He could have used that phone without Cardon seeing him. I'm worried about Helen Frey.'
'What on earth for?' Newman intervened.
'Because the cripple must have used the phone to report we were nearing that tram-stop. Hence that man with the Uzi you dealt with was waiting for us.'
'I see that,' Paula agreed, 'but why this anxiety about Helen Frey?'
'The cripple could have reported our visit to her to the Skull. She could be in danger. Time for me to call her.'
'She has a 4.30 p.m. appointment with an Emil Voser,' Newman recalled. 'I noticed it in her desk diary. So she may be busy.'
'Then she'll indicate that on the phone.'
While Tweed was checking Frey's number in the directory Paula began talking to Cardon. She kept her voice down as Tweed dialled the number.
'Philip, I still can't understand how you were able to catch that grenade in time and lob it back. Or, Bob, how you spotted the second assassin.'
'Easy.' Cardon grinned. 'First I'm good at cricket as a bowler. But mainly it was Butler's training me on a course down at the Send manor in Surrey. In the grounds he'd throw me a live grenade with the pin out -I had to lob it over the other side of a brick wall before it detonated. He tested me first with a cricket ball. Just one of the many contingency attack situations he trained me in. So, easy.'
'You make it sound so simple,' Paula remarked, her hands pressed against the bed. 'What about you, Bob?'
'Oh, I'm getting the measure of this mob. Organized up to the hilt. It occurred to me the grenade thrower might well have back-up, so I checked all round, saw this character with a violin case. Rather old-fashioned technique – a method used by Chicago gangsters at one time, carrying a sub-machine-gun in a violin case.'
He stopped talking as Tweed put down the phone. His expression was serious. He began to put on his overcoat.
'I don't like it. I called Prey's number. No reply for a number of rings, then the phone was lifted, no one spoke, the phone was put down again. I just asked to speak to Helen Frey, gave no name. We're going back to Rennweg. I'm really worried now…'
It was dark as they approached Rennweg 590 for the second time. Again Paula and Newman walked with Tweed while Cardon trailed behind them. On opposite sides of the street Butler and Nield strolled along, pausing to gaze into shops. The cafe opposite the entrance to No. 590 was still open and Cardon slipped inside it.
Tweed was about to press the speakphone button when he stiffened. The door was not closed properly – its automatic lock had failed to work. Glancing up and down the street, he pushed gently and the door swung inward. No light on the staircase. Odd. He stepped inside, produced a pencil torch, shielded it with his hand so it gave just enough illumination to see the stair treads.
'I'd better go up first,' Newman whispered, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand.
He squeezed past Tweed who gave him the flash. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound as they slowly mounted the staircase. Paula, who had quietly closed the front door, brought up the rear. The atmosphere of the dark staircase was eerie: she felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The closed front door shut out all sounds from the outside world. A stair tread creaked loudly as Newman stepped on it. He climbed higher, shone the torch back to illuminate the giveaway tread. Tweed and Paula stepped over it.
Arriving at the landing, Newman first pressed gently against Klara's door. It held firm. He walked over to Helen's door, saw that it was open half an inch or so. Someone had left in a hurry – so why hadn't she secured it afterwards?
With his gun still in his right hand, he used his left to push the door wider open, waited, listened. He had switched off the torch. He was listening for sounds of breathing, any sound. Nothing. He switched on the torch again, shone it slowly round, then held it motionless. With a swift movement he shone it towards the window: the curtains were still closed. He spoke over his shoulder.
'Paula, I wouldn't come in if I were you.'
That was just the sort of remark which made her determined to go inside. She followed Tweed, who took two steps inside and stopped. She saw him reach inside his jacket pocket under his raincoat, produce a pair of surgical gloves and put them on his hands. She extr
acted her own pair from her shoulder-bag. Newman stood very still inside the room, his torch beam held steady. He had pushed the door open with his knuckles. No fingerprints.
Tweed reached for the wall switch he'd noticed on their earlier visit, pressed it down. The pink wall-sconce lights came on and Paula saw what Newman had been staring at.
'Oh, no!'
Helen Frey, clad only in underclothes, lay sprawled back in an armchair. The front of her white slip was drenched with dark red blood. Her head flopped against the back of the chair at an unnatural angle. A savage crescent moon, blood red, circled her throat. She had been garrotted.
Tweed went close to the armchair followed by Paula. He guessed that a strong sharp wire had been used. The head had been almost severed from the body. She looked hideous with her lipsticked mouth open and her tongue protruding. The weird angle of the head was now explained. Very little remained to attach it to the body.
'Emil Voser. 4.30 p.m.,' said Paula, recalling Newman telling them about the desk diary.
'Which is probably not his real name,' Tweed commented, his eyes scanning the apartment. 'I don't think that we ought to linger here. What is it, Paula?'
She was crouched near the side of the chair. She used her index finger to point and Tweed crouched beside her. On the carpet lay a blood-stained pearl, pierced at either end as though it belonged to a string.
'Bring it with us,' Tweed ordered.
'Which means we are tampering with evidence.'
'Which means exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'But we know more about these people than anyone.'
Paula was already extracting a Cellophane specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag. She fumbled in her bag again and her right hand came out holding a pair of tweezers. She used them to tease the pearl, split along one side, into the wallet and sealed it. With a pen she wrote on the attached tab the date and Rennweg590, and slipped the wallet inside her bag. She was sniffing the air as she stood up. She began prowling round the apartment.
'Can't you smell the faint whiff?' she said to Tweed. 'I caught it as soon as we came in – someone has been smoking a cigar. Got you. ..'