by Colin Forbes
From a low table concealed by the arm of the couch Paula lifted up a large glass ashtray. Inside nestled an intact roll of cigar ash. Extracting another wallet, she carefully tipped the roll of ash into the second wallet. Sealing it, she wrote only Cigar ash specimen No. 2, and put this wallet into her bag.
'I missed that. Good work,' Tweed told her.
Newman was standing by the desk near the curtained window. He was staring down at the open desk diary.
'She had no other appointments today. Only this Voser.'
'We'll go now,' Tweed decided. 'I'll leave the door, half an inch open as we found it. Move silently – mind that creaking stair. We don't want to attract Klara's attention
They stepped into a quiet street, Tweed leaving last to pull the door almost closed, his hands now wearing leather gloves. Again Cardon signalled to them from the window in the cafe. This time Newman went inside, then turned to beckon Tweed and Paula to follow him. Tweed understood his motive when he saw Klara sitting by herself at a side table with a cup of coffee in front of her.
'I'm going to talk to Klara,' Newman said. 'She might have information.'
'Good idea,' Tweed agreed after a moment's hesitation.
'So you've come back again for a frolic?' Klara greeted Newman.
Tweed smiled as they sat at her table. He ordered coffee from the waitress for himself and Newman after Paula shook her head. Her stomach was queasy. Like Tweed, she kept quiet while Newman and Klara talked.
'I'm afraid I haven't,' Newman began. 'Maybe you ought to put that cup down. I have some rather shocking news for you. Just about as shocking as you can get.'
'I've got strong nerves,' Klara told him, her expression serious. 'You need them in my business. Some of the men who come to see you.'
'That's really the tragedy in Helen Prey's case.'
Tragedy?' Klara looked down as she slowly drummed the pink-varnished nails of her right hand on the table. She looked up again direct at Newman. 'I'm tough – so don't treat me like a kid. Just tell me what's happened to Helen.'
'We came back a few minutes ago to ask her some questions we'd overlooked earlier. The front door was open, her door was open a bit. We found her inside. Murdered.'
'Oh, hell. I was always telling her to be more careful.
Which is why – if I hadn't a client – I used to open my door a crack when one of the stairs creaked. Not to be nosy, believe me. Just to try and look after her. I hope it wasn't a pervert. Did she suffer?'
'I'd say it was pretty quick. He slashed her throat open. It's not a nice sight. Did you by any chance see her four thirty appointment arrive this afternoon?'
'Yes, I did.'
'But there's no light on the staircase. In daytime the fanlight at the top gives enough illumination to see your way, but now…
'There's a time switch, lasts one minute. If you know where to find it you can switch it on from just inside the front door. Then Helen and I have switches inside our apartments we can operate. When he came upstairs she'd obviously operated her time switch.'
'So you can describe him?'
'Well, yes and no. I only open my door a crack so her client won't spot me. I'd say he was taller than you are. His feet seemed to hurt him a bit the way he was walking slowly and carefully.'
'Slim?'
'No. Pretty fat, I'd say. His black overcoat was tight across his waist and the buttons looked as though they could fly off at any moment.'
'Colour of hair?.'
'No idea. He also wore a black broad-brimmed hat pulled well down. Couldn't see his hair.'
'Describe his face.'
That's difficult too. He had a pair of those wrapround tinted glasses which covered a lot of his face. And a white silk scarf which covered more of it. I do know his feet hurt him.'
'What about his age?' Newman pressed. 'Thirty, forty, older?'
'I honestly couldn't tell. I judge a man's age by the way he moves – but coming up unfamiliar stairs with tender feet throws any body language.'
'Would you recognize him again if you saw him?'
'Only if he was dressed exactly as he was when he came up those stairs.'
'Then you'd really just be identifying the clothes,' Newman pointed out.
'I suppose you're right.'
'Sitting here, did you see him leave, get a better view?'
'No, I didn't. But just before you came in I was chatting with a girl friend. I didn't even see the three of you go back inside.'
'You're English, aren't you?' Newman suddenly shot at her.
'Yes, I am,' Klara said after a pause. 'So was Helen -her real name is – was – Helen Dane from Cornwall. We teamed up to come out here, hoping we'd have a novelty value for Swiss men. And we do. But they prefer you to have a common Swiss name. Don't ask me why. And don't ask my real name.'
'What's your Swiss surname, then? Klara who?'
'I'm not telling you that either. I'm clearing out of my apartment within the hour. Do the police know about Helen yet?' Klara asked.
'No, they don't. I'd just as soon you didn't mention our visits.'
'You can count on that,' she assured him. 'First, I simply couldn't stay in a building where poor Helen was murdered. Second, what clients are going to come back to me here? Rennweg 590 will become notorious once the press get hold of the story. That girl friend I was chatting to is about to vacate her apartment to take up a job in Geneva. I'm also not giving you the address.'
'Fair enough.'
Klara looked at Paula. 'Would you do me a great favour? Come back with me to my apartment while I pack? Please.'
Paula looked at Tweed. He checked his watch. His six o'clock appointment with Jennie Blade at the Hummer Bar was coming up soon. Klara sensed his problem – time. She gazed at Paula.
'I'm the world's quickest packer. One suitcase and in five minutes we'll be in the street again.'
Tweed, reluctantly, nodded agreement to Paula. Newman warned Klara as she stood up, door key in her hand: 'When you're going to this new address I'd take a taxi. You know Zurich well? Good. Think of two fake destinations. Then get a third taxi to take you where you're going.'
'Good idea. Thanks…'
Tweed checked his watch again as the two women left the cafe. He doubted Klara's statement that she could pack in five minutes. Paula could but how many other women achieved that speed?
'Her description of Voser was pretty distinctive,' Newman commented. 'A tall fat man with tender feet.'
'I found two aspects of her description intriguing,' Tweed remarked.
'Which two aspects?'
'I want to chew them over in my mind,' Tweed told him cryptically.'I did notice Klara is very tall.'
Newman gave up trying to penetrate the subtle recesses of Tweed's mind. He sat watching the closed door opposite.
Tweed had time to call Monica after he arrived back at the Gotthard. Klara had been as good as her word – she had packed the suitcase and emerged back on Rennweg with Paula in five minutes. Newman saw her safely into a taxi before they hurried back to the Gotthard… 'Monica, Tweed here. Are you alone? I do not want to get in touch with Howard now. I'm speaking from my hotel.'
'All's quiet down here in Surrey…' Monica was wording what she said carefully. Anyone could be listening in. 'I have the details of the Gaunt concern. The top man is a millionaire. He likes to spread it round that he has no idea where the next penny is coming from. He owns the manor -no mortgage – a property in Rock with no name and has considerable assets in Switzerland. No details about them, of course. He was once a captain in the SAS. Had to resign – too independent-minded. A bit of an adventurer, like the old buccaneers. Popular with women. Has had a lot of girl friends. That's it.'
'Thank you. Now, two women have applied to me for jobs. I need to have detailed references. Ready to take down their names? Good. Jennie Blade. And Eve Amberg – maiden name Royston. I'll spell that last name. Got it? I suggest concentration on the Padstow area. I must go now.
&nbs
p; I'll call you in the near future. Take care…'
Paula was intrigued as Tweed put down the phone. Waiting while he loosened his collar, she asked her question.
'Why especially do you want to know about those two women?'
'Both of them have connections with Cornwall/Which is where it all started.'
21
Walking briskly into the Oval Office Sara Maranoff knew the moment she saw the President that he was expecting a visit from his latest girl friend, Ms Hamilton. Bradford. March was freshly shaven, wore a smart grey suit, had a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket.
'Senator Wingfield has asked to come and see you.'
That friggin' wooden Indian? Stall the bastard Tell him I'm up to my neck in paperwork for a new bill. Oh, I didn't tell you, Ms Hamilton is calling on me in half an hour. See I'm not disturbed while we talk.'
'Sure, boss.' Sara's expression suggested it was news to her. And she liked the word 'talk'. He wouldn't waste time talking to her. 'Norton is on the line,' she went on. 'Sounds to be in a hurry.'
'Does he? I'm in a hurry – for him to finish the jobs he was sent out to do. Put him on the line
'Norton here. We're closing in on Tweed. Nearly got him today…'
'Nearly! You mean the pest is hospitalized?'
'Not exactly. I've thought up a new angle to fix him for all time. Thought you'd like a bulletin…'
'Oh, you're issuing bulletins now, are you?' Livid, March leaned across the desk, shouting down the phone. 'For bulletin I read bullshit. The only bulletin I want from you is that Tweed, Dyson, Ives and Dillon are all gone to join the fathers they never had. How is Mencken working out?'
'He takes orders…'
'More calls like this and you will be taking orders from him.. .'
He crashed down the phone and Sara shuddered inwardly. If Brad went on like that he was going to shatter the instrument. It would be expensive replacing that special private phone. Sara was money-conscious; She tried another tack.
'I just heard you've recalled Ambassador Anderson from Switzerland. That you're sending out Mike Gallagher in his place.'
'I congratulate you on your source of information,' March said sarcastically.
'Anderson is an experienced diplomat. Gallagher is raw, a rough diamond. He could cause trouble, the language he uses.'
'Gallagher is a man I trust. Anderson has been interfering with things that don't goddamn concern him. He is out. Out!'
'Gallagher hasn't left the States yet. You could change your mind. I would if I were you…'
'But you're not me!' March roared at her. 'When you're sitting in this chair you can decide who goes where. And Gallagher contributed plenty to my election campaign.'
She sighed. Normally she could handle Brad, but there were times when he acted like a maddened bull. This was one of them. Time to change his mood. A reference to Ms Hamilton, bringing her back into his thoughts, should do the trick.
'Another bottle of champagne – to oil the works?' she suggested.
March glared at her and Sara realized her tactic had misfired. He pointed a short stubby finger across the room.
'The door is there. Walk. Preferably through it without opening it…'
'Thank you, Sara,' said Senator Wingfield. 'Don't worry about it. I know you tried.'
He put down the phone in the room at his Chevy Chase residence where the Three Wise Men were gathered. The banker and the elder statesman, nursing their drinks at the round table, watched the Senator as he joined them. Wingfield shook his head regretfully.
'I'm sorry, gentlemen. The President refuses to see me at the Oval Office. Some nonsense about paperwork piling up. It's a ploy to avoid meeting me. He probably guessed the subject I was going to raise.'
'Gallagher,' snapped the statesman. 'From my own experience I know the Berne embassy isn't a plum job. But Berne is a good listening post. How can he contemplate appointing a man who may come under investigation by a Senate sub-committee – for corruption in obtaining government contracts?' He lapsed into unusual vulgarity. 'When the shit hits the fan, when the press gets a whiff of it – which they will – the US government is going to be a laughing-stock all over the world.'
'You may be right,' Wingfield agreed.
'He is right!' the banker burst out. 'On top of that he is spending money on programmes like there's no tomorrow. Face up to it, March has become a menace.'
'Thank God Jeb Galloway is waiting in the wings,' said the statesman.
'Don't let's get excited,' Wingfield urged. 'Timing is everything in politics. We'll wait and see how it all pans out…'
Jeb Galloway paced his office, his six-foot frame taking long strides while his closest aide, Sam, watched him. Galloway sat down suddenly, pounded his clenched fist on the table where Sam sat.
'The rumours are growing about this private army March has organized. Ever heard of Unit One, Sam?'
'Maybe the odd whisper.'
'You have?' Galloway looked surprised, annoyed. 'Is that the name of the secret paramilitary force Brad March is rumoured to have built up?'
'Brad,' Sam remarked, watching the Vice-President closely, 'is wily, throws out smokescreens, spreads rumours. Best forget all about this thing, even if it did exist.'
'You seem to know one helluva lot. Most Americans here in Washington have never heard of it.'
'Jeb, I'm not "most Americans". I've been on the Hill for quite a few years. Stay cool. What about that guy you contacted secretly?'
'He's already been in place for some time,' Galloway snapped. 'I heard a rumour that forty more invisible men were being flown to London aboard a United flight.'
'What source fed you that dangerous info., Jeb?' enquired Sam quietly.
'I don't name informants.'
'OK, clam up. We're just talking.'
'When I heard that,' Galloway rattled on, 'I called someone I know inside the American Embassy in London. He was at London Airport when the flight landed. They transferred to a Swissair flight for Zurich. So-called diplomats.'
'And the guy you have in place – to quote your own words. Where might he be?'
'In Zurich, of course,' Galloway said with a smile of self-satisfaction.
Sam lit a cigarette. Galloway pursed his lips. He didn't allow smoking in his office, but Sam was a law unto himself. Sam eyed Galloway shrewdly. He was wondering how he could persuade him to stop playing the power game.
'Better watch your step, Jeb,' he advised. 'All this intrigue you're tangled in. If Brad gets just one hint of what you're up to your ass will end in a sling.'
'I know what I'm doing. I need to know what's going on.'
Sure you do, Sam thought, but what are you doing?
The phone message which had come through while Tweed was talking to Monica was slipped under his door by a member of the Gotthard's staff. Tweed opened the envelope, read the typed sheet inside and half-closed his eyes. Paula knew something had happened which was making him think furiously. He handed it to her. 'Read it, then show it to Bob and Philip.'
I am sorry I have to cancel our date for tonight. Something urgent cropped up. Can we meet same place same time tomorrow instead. Again, apologies. Love. Jennie Blade.
'She does leave it till the last minute,' Paula remarked as she handed it to Newman, who scanned it, passing it on to Cardon.
'The last minute is the significant factor.' Tweed went on talking before she could react. 'One key to this whole grim business is Newman's friend, Joel Dyson. I suspect everything started with him.. .'
'Acquaintance, not friend,' Newman said sharply.
'Just listen, I hadn't finished. Paula was always good at art, drawing portraits. Do you think, Bob, you could describe Dyson to Paula while she makes a sketch, an identikit picture?'
'I could try,' Newman agreed.
'I can use some of the good notepaper in that hotel folder,' Paula suggested. 'Pity I haven't a piece of charcoal. I'd get a much better result with that
'This d
o?' Cardon produced a short stick of charcoal. 'I use it to darken my eyebrows when I'm changing my appearance.'
'Now I can get to work. You seem to carry everything on you…'
Newman sat on the arm of the chair Paula occupied, began to give her a description and she made bold strokes on her paper with the charcoal. 'Nose a bit longer,' he said at a later stage.
While they were working on the identikit sketch Tweed took out his notebook, started writing down names and linking them. Cardon watched over his shoulder, fascinated.
Joel Dyson – Julius Amberg – Gaunt – Jennie Blade – Eve Amberg (Royston) – Amberg – Helen Frey – Klara – Theo Strebel, Eve's detective – Gaunt? – Norton. Cornwall: Gaunt – Eve Amberg – Helen Frey. Washington: Dillon -Barton Ives, Special Agent FBI-Norton.
'It's beginning to link up,' Tweed remarked.
'Darned if I can see how,' Cardon commented.
'You might – if you bear in mind most of them are not what they seem.'
'You've lost me…'
'Bob says this is Joel Dyson,' Paula said, bringing her third sketch.
The very image of the little creep,' Newman said, joining them.
'Good,' Tweed told Paula. 'You've done very well. Now tomorrow we need six small photocopies of that sketch.'
'I noticed there was a photocopying firm in Rennweg,' she recalled. 'I'll go there and get six reduced in size copies.'
'Why reduced?' Cardon asked her.
'Because the result will be clearer if you reduce it. If you enlarged it the detail would begin to disappear.'
'And,' Tweed told Cardon, 'I want every one of us to have a copy. I'm convinced Dyson is still in Zurich. This way whoever encounters him – if anyone does – will recognize him instantly. Paula, could you make a second copy of that sketch?'
'I'm sure I can. Why?'
'Joel Dyson is on the run. My guess is he's running for dear life. So he may well try to disguise himself. He's had time to take the obvious precaution – to grow a small moustache. Can you add that to the second sketch? Then get the Rennweg printer to run off six copies of each version?'
'It will only take minutes,' she said.