by Colin Forbes
'I remember – Zurcher Kredit has a branch in Basle. But why are we following him there?' Paula asked.
'Maybe you've forgotten. Amberg told us Julius had moved the film and tape Dyson delivered to the bank vault in Basle.' He checked his watch. 'I'll have to leave soon for my appointment with Theo Strebel.'
'Well, at least we know now what Norton looks like – the man who up to last night no one had ever seen.'
'I wouldn't count on that,' Tweed replied.
Inside the apartment he had rented, Norton returned to the bathroom. Thirty minutes earlier he had rubbed grey colourant into his normally light brown hair. Now he rinsed off the surplus with water and examined the result in the mirror.
His appearance was changing already. He'd forget his weekly visit to a barber, and let his hair grow longer. It grew very rapidly. Satisfied with its progress, he put on his jacket, checked the time.
Timing was everything. He had his whole day planned out with the precision of a general preparing for a major battle. He was whistling a tune as he left the apartment.
Tweed was accompanied by Paula when he climbed ancient stone steps inside the old building in the Altstadt which housed Strebel's office. Newman followed a few paces behind, waited in the corridor as Tweed opened a door with a frosted-glass window in the upper half. Etched into the glass was a simple legend. THEO STREBEL. No indication of his profession.
They walked into an empty ante-room. A solid oak door in the opposite wall with a glass spyhole. Paula was suddenly nervous – the atmosphere on the old stone staircase had been eerie, the smell of a musty building barely occupied for years had assailed her nostrils.
Here the atmosphere was even more sinister. A heavy silence filled the room which was furnished only with an old empty desk. She was sure no one had occupied the room for ages. She slipped her hand inside her shoulder-bag, gripped her Browning automatic.
'Announce yourselves. Your names. please.'
The disembodied voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Tweed pointed to an ancient cone-shaped speaker fixed to a corner high up. The voice had spoken in English.
'Is that you, Mr Strebel?' demanded Tweed.
'I said announce yourselves. Your names and business.'
'I have an appointment with Theo Strebel. For 10 a.m. Eve Amberg said she would phone you. My assistant, a woman, is with me.'
'Tell her to say something,' the disembodied voice commanded. 'Anything. Apples are green.'
'Only when they are not normally ripe,' Paula called back.
'Enter.'
There was a sound like the buzzer Helen Frey had operated on the front door in Rennweg. Tweed pushed at the heavy door and, reluctantly, it swung inward.
'Good morning, Mr Tweed. Don't just stand there. My greetings to you, Fraulein.'
A very fat man dressed in a black suit sat behind a desk. His hair was dark and brushed back over his high forehead without a parting. Below a short pugnacious nose he sported a trim dark moustache. The door closed automatically behind them as they walked inside the office. Paula heard the lock click shut, felt trapped.
'You are Mr Tweed. You fit Mrs Amberg's description. Do sit down, both of you. Now, what exactly can I do for my latest client?'
'You are Theo Strebel?'
'The great detective himself. No impersonations here.'
As Paula followed Tweed's example, seating herself in the other hard-backed chair facing the Swiss, she found she rather liked Strebel. He radiated energy and the good humour often associated with fat men. He leaned both elbows on the desk, clasped his surprisingly small hands under his jowly chin and smiled.
'The ball is in your court, Mr Tweed.'
'I am trying to locate the new address of a brunette who lived in the apartment opposite Helen Frey
'Whose ghastly murder is written about at length in the newspaper. So?'
'I have just said what I wish you to find out. Where Helen Prey's friend went to. I only know her first name. Klara.'
'And have you any clue as to her profession? Clues are my lifeblood, Mr Tweed.'
'She was a high-class call-girl. Like Helen Frey.'
'I appreciate the description. Everyone has to earn a living. That profession can be highly dangerous – as the latest news indicates. They are entitled to charge the high fees they do for their services. Danger money, Mr Tweed.'
'I need to locate her urgently.'
'First things first. Would you be so kind as to show me some identification? Your description may fit, but I am known as the most careful man in all Zurich.'
Tweed could have produced his driving licence. Weighing up Strebel, he produced instead his Special Branch folder, a document forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent – when it had existed. Strebel raised his thick eyebrows as he studied the folder, looked at Tweed while he handed back the document.
'Special Branch? I am honoured,' he said gravely. 'You are a new experience for me.'
'I realize I have no jurisdiction here,' Tweed commented quickly.
'I was not about to make that remark.' He clasped hands under his jaw again. 'Unprecedented movements of certain people are taking place in Zurich. I get a hint of why you are here. There could be danger for me.'
'Why do you say that?' Tweed asked.
'That I cannot tell you.'
'Mr Strebel, I know you watched Rennweg 590. Could you tell me who called on Helen Frey recently – apart from Julius Amberg?'
'Ah! Julius…' The Swiss paused. 'I cannot reveal information confidential to clients of mine.'
'This is now a murder case – a particularly horrible one.'
'True, Mr Tweed. True. Let us say I observed someone from your country entering that door and leave it at that.'
'You won't even give me a hint?'
'I have already done that, Mr Tweed.'
'Thank you. Now I still need to locate Klara urgently.'
'That could take some time. Zurich is an intricate city. It has two Altstadts – the one you are now in and then another equally complex area on the other side of the River Limmat.'
'I haven't got the time, Strebel.'
'Obtaining information quickly is more expensive. My fee would be one thousand Swiss francs.'
Tweed produced his wallet. Extracting a 1,000 Swiss franc note, he laid it on the desk, his hand still resting on top of it. Strebel gave him his warm smile and included Paula in his hospitality. He was reaching into a drawer when Paula spoke for the first time.
'I've never seen such a tidy office. Not a single filing cabinet, no cupboards – just yourself and your desk.'
'Also my head.' He smiled at her again as he placed a notepad on his desk. He wrote something on the top sheet with care in a neat legible script. 'My files are stored in a bank vault. I respect my clients' confidences. Also I carry a secret filing cabinet in my head.' Strebel tore off the sheet, folded it, handed it across the desk to Tweed.
'That is the new address of Klara. She is in this Altstadt. Not five minutes' walk from the front door to this building.'
Tweed smiled, pushed the banknote across the desk. The Swiss picked it up, inserted it carefully inside a slim wallet.
'So,' Paula teased him, 'you knew all the time?'
'In my profession I charge for providing the information a client requires. Mr Tweed is paying for what I know.'
'I've said this before, Paula,' Tweed reminded her. 'It is not always what you know, it's where to find it.'
'Were you once a police detective?' Strebel asked.
A perceptive man, Tweed thought. It was the first time he'd ever been asked the question in that form.
'I was with the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard once,' he said.
'And he was the youngest superintendent the Yard had ever had up to that time,' Paula told Strebel.
'No need to go into details,' Tweed snapped.
'I can well believe it,' Strebel told Paula. 'Mr Tweed, maybe before you leave Zurich you would join me for a drink. W
e could exchange experiences – I mean from when you were at the Yard,' he added hastily.
' It would be my pleasure.'
Strebel accompanied them to the door after pressing a button underneath his desk. He shook hands formally with both of them and when Paula glanced back as they reached the outer door he smiled again, bowed his head.
'What a nice man,' Paula said as Tweed closed the outer door. 'I always picture private detectives as nasty little men in shabby raincoats.'
'I suspect Strebel was once a member of the Swiss police. He may well know Beck.'
Newman was waiting for them at the end of the dark corridor. He spoke to Tweed immediately.
'Someone started to come in downstairs, opened the door. I think they saw me and changed their minds. Didn't get a glimpse of who it was.'
'People calling on private investigators are often shy of being seen. We've got Klara's new address…'
Outside on the uneven pavement which, like the buildings, looked as though it had been there for centuries, Paula consulted her map. She looked to the end of the deserted square from the edge where they stood. The square was surrounded with six-storey buildings as old as time.
'Klara is living at the far side of the square. No. 10.'
The entrance hall was similar to the one they had just left. As they entered a door opened on the ground floor. A hook-nosed woman with beady eyes and dressed in a black dress peered at them.
'You want the girl who's just moved in upstairs?' Her thin lips curled. 'Some people don't care how they make their money. Mixed doubles this time, is it?'
She slammed the door before Tweed could retort. Newman led the way up the old iron-railed stone staircase. Close to the only door on this landing he stopped. Tweed and Paula stared past him The door was open a few inches.
Newman had his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand as he moved silently to the door, paused to listen, pushed the door open wider with his left hand, took a step inside, froze. He called over his shoulder.
'Paula, for God's sake don't come in here…'
24
It was a replay of the grim tragedy in Helen Prey's apartment. Klara, fully dressed, lay back in an armchair, her head flopped at an unnatural angle. A dark crimson sickle gash curved round her throat, disappearing round the back of her neck.
'He's been here,' Paula said quietly.
Despite Newman's warning she had followed Tweed into the apartment. She pulled on her surgical gloves as Tweed walked slowly round the back of the chair. Again the head was almost severed from the neck. Someone favoured garrotting.
Paula stood sniffing the air. She frowned, began prowling round the apartment, careful not to disturb anything.
'What is it?' Tweed asked Paula sharply.
'Cigar smoke…' She continued walking slowly, weaving her way among armchairs, passing a large couch. 'Got you,' she called out.
She was extracting a specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag when Newman stood alongside her. On top of a small piecrust table, hidden by the arm of the couch, stood an ashtray. Inside it rested a thick roll of cigar ash. Tweed joined them as she lifted the container with her gloved hand, skilfully tipped the ash roll inside the wallet. Sealing it, she wrote the date, the second of March, and a name. Klara.
'She had a customer at nine thirty a.m. according to her desk diary,' Newman said.
He took them over to a table where a new diary lay open.
9.30a.m. Edwin Allenspach. Tweed and Paula stared down at the entry.
'Strange she underlined the initials of each name,' Paula remarked.
'Could have been any reason,' Newman reacted dismissively. 'Maybe it was a new client and she was reminding herself to check up on him.' He glanced at Paula. 'Or maybe he had certain tastes she catered to,' he suggested, phrasing it carefully.
'You mean kinky,' Paula suggested. 'Somehow I don't think Klara went in for that sort of thing. And nine thirty in the morning seems rather early for… although I suppose some men…'
She trailed off as she saw Newman watching her. She grimaced at him.
'You know what I mean.'
'I wonder whether either of you are right,' said Tweed.
He was still gazing at the entry. He made no attempt to explain what had crossed his mind. Standing in the centre of the apartment he scanned it swiftly, taking in everything.
'Again no sign that the place has been ransacked, searched in any way.' Paula realized he was talking to himself as he continued: 'So, whoever is the murderer came for that specific purpose. Murder. He's systematically exterminating everyone who might provide vital information.'
'Maybe it's just become a habit with him,' Newman said, attempting to lighten the traumatic atmosphere with a little black humour. 'Could be a psychopath, I suppose.'
'I think not,' Tweed objected. 'But yes, systematically exterminating all potential witnesses,' he repeated.
'Well, the bastard's doing a damn good job,' Newman remarked.
Tweed was strolling round the apartment. Paula, watching him, saw him suddenly clap a hand to his forehead. He grunted. He stiffened.
'On our way out, I'll try out my German again on Old Nosy downstairs. I did understand the dirty remark she made. She may have seen him arrive or leave. She has the mind of a concierge who can't abide not knowing what people are doing. I also suspect she's greedy.'
'We must report this crime,' Newman said. 'I know we skipped out of Helen Prey's place…'
'It was important we didn't get tangled up in an inquiry, slowed down. But this I was going to report,' Tweed agreed. 'Something else is worrying me though. We'll report it to the police shortly.'
As they made their way back down the stone stairs the door on the ground floor opened and Old Nosy stood in her doorway, arms akimbo. Both Paula and Newman also understood German.
'That was a quick one,' she sneered. 'Must have been easy money for that new girl.'
'I have a question to ask you,' Tweed said in German.
'Ask away. Don't promise you'll hear anything from me. Not as though I'm the local gossip.'
'I'm sure you're not,' Tweed said amiably. 'The new girl had someone who called on her before we arrived. Did you by chance see them? Could you give me a rough description?'
Between his fingers he held a hundred-franc note. She was eyeing it with great interest. She tossed her head.
'Information costs money in Switzerland.'
'Which is why I'm willing to pay – if I'm convinced you're not making it up.'
'Me make something up for money?' she blazed indignantly. 'Who do you think you're talking to?'
'Someone, apparently, who isn't interested in accepting a fee in good faith,' Tweed replied, his tone harsh.
'Didn't say that, did I?' She simpered and Paula felt nauseated. 'I didn't see them go up,' the woman said in a regretful tone. 'I was listening to my favourite radio programme. But I did hear them leaving. Tiptoeing down those steps pretty fast.'
'You saw who it was?' Tweed asked, mentally crossing his fingers.
'Only saw the back of the caller. As they was leaving, going out the front door.'
'Describe them for me as best you can,' Tweed coaxed.
'He had a black wide-brimmed hat on, pulled well down…'
'Colour of hair?'
'I just told you – he had the hat pulled well down. So how could I see the hair? One thing I can tell you is his height. I always notice how tall someone is. About as tall as her.' She nodded towards Paula, looking her up and down. Paula's gaze remained steady as she stared back at the ferret-like eyes. 'Wore a long black overcoat and a thick woollen scarf.'
'A fat man?' Tweed enquired.
'No. He was tall and fairly slim. Had a funny walk.'
'Funny in what way?'
Took quick short steps. Like a pansy.'
'Did he move like a pansy then?' Tweed pressed.
'No, I don't think he did. Didn't mince, if that's what you mean. I only got a glimpse as the door was closing.'
'A thick neck?' Tweed probed.
'No idea. How could I? He was wearing this thick woollen scarf. I just told you that.'
'So you did,' said Tweed, who was checking her powers of observation. 'Was he carrying anything?'
'Not in his hands. But he had something pretty heavy in his coat pocket. Weighed it down, it did.'
'Thank you,' said Tweed and handed her the banknote. 'I congratulate you on your powers of observation.'
'Something funny has happened up in her apartment?' she asked, her eyes gleaming at the prospect.
'According to you something funny is always happening in that apartment.'
Tweed left the building before she could think up some vicious retort. He began walking rapidly across the square, returning to the side they had come from. His legs, despite his shorter stature, moved like pistons and Newman had trouble keeping up with him. Paula was running when they reached the entrance to Theo Strebel's building.
'What is wrong?' Paula asked.
'Nothing, I hope. But I am very much afraid…'
Newman managed to get alongside Tweed as he took two steps a time up the staircase to the first floor. On the landing Tweed stopped suddenly, pointed. The door with frosted glass in the upper half leading to the ante-room was open several inches. Behind them, Paula froze briefly. Doors partly open were beginning to fill her with terror.
She grabbed for her Browning as Newman, Smith amp; Wesson in his hand, used his other hand to hold Tweed back. Paula caught up with them.
'Strebel is so careful about security,' she whispered.
'Exactly,' Tweed responded in a grim tone.
'You're not armed,' Newman reminded Tweed. 'We'll go ahead, check the lie of the land.'
Paula had slipped off her gloves, held the Browning in both hands as she followed Newman into the ante-room. It had the same long-uninhabited feel she had sensed last time. But there was one difference. The heavy oak door to Strebel's office was open several inches.
Tweed had followed closely on their heels. He stood for a moment, fists clenched out of sight in his trench coat pockets. Newman, on the hinge side of the door, reached out his left hand, pushed it hard. It swung open slowly, noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges. There was a terrible silence pervading the atmosphere, a lack of life. Paula, awaiting a signal from Newman, was pressed against the wall on the other side of the door.