by Colin Forbes
'Don't bother him, thank you. I'm going up to have a rest. I'll surprise him at dinner.'
'So Gaunt has been here for quite several hours,' Tweed remarked as they entered the elevator.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon in Basle when Tweed narrowly escaped with his life.
In Washington it was nine o'clock in the morning. Bradford March had a black stubble all over his jaw and upper lip. Which told Sara Maranoff that neither Ms Hamilton nor any other attractive woman would be visiting the President in the Oval Office today.
When she had bad news she always tried to tell March in the morning. He was fresher then and less inclined to react viciously. Standing by the window, March glanced at her, scratched with his thumbnail at his stubble. He had guessed from her expression that something he didn't want to hear was coming.
'Go on, spit it out, Sara,' he snapped.
'Tom Harmer, who contributed a sizeable proportion of the big bucks you sent to Europe by courier, has been on the phone.'
'So Tom wants what?' he demanded.
'The money he gave you back. Apparently a large loan he took out has been called in. Needs the money back inside fourteen days.'
'Does he now.' March hitched up his pants and smiled unpleasantly. 'You've got those photos of Tom screwing that bimbo – use one of them. Tom's wife would find them interesting souvenirs on her coming wedding anniversary.'
'You mean send one to her? Brad, that will get you no place.'
'Slept badly last night, did you? Wake up, Sara. I mean you send a copy – choose a good one yourself – to his office marked for his confidential and personal attention. Soon as it's arrived call him. Ask him how he likes his picture. Then tell him the money he gave was a contribution to party funds, can't be sent back.'
'I think he's desperate, Brad. He has to repay that loan or he's in deep trouble.'
That's his problem. Handle it the way I told you.'
Sara, her black hair perfectly coiffured, wore a plain grey dress belted at the waist. As long as she looked neat she never bothered much about clothes. March's 'hatchet' woman from his early days of obscurity in the South, she tried to watch every angle to protect her boss. She bit on the end of her pen, decided to take the plunge.
'I hear a team of Unit One has returned from Europe, a large team. At your request to Norton, I presume.'
'So what?' March demanded impatiently.
'I didn't know they were taking over the duties of the Secret Service. You never consulted me.'
It was a tradition that the President's safety was in the sole hands of the Secret Service. They sent men ahead to any destination the President was flying to, checking out the lie of the land in advance, with full powers to override the local police. They were professionals to their fingertips.
'That's right,' March said off-handedly. 'As from today those Secret Service types are out. They seem to think they can run my life. Unit One takes over from them. And you're right again -I didn't consult you.'
'I don't like it…'
'Don't recall asking you to like it. That's the way it's going to be. Unit One types are tougher than the Secret Service. My own ruthless boys. I want men I can trust around me.'
'They haven't the experience of the Secret Service,' she persisted.
'They shoot on sight. They don't monkey around. I like their attitude. And I tell them what to do.'
'I think it's a mistake…'
'You're due for a break.' March leaned against a wall, ankles crossed, hands shoved inside his baggy trouser pockets. 'Go climb Mount Rushmore. Drop off it.'
Sara gave up, said nothing. There was a time when he'd listened to her. All of the time. The phone rang. The private line. She answered it, put her hand over the mouthpiece.
'Norton on the line.'
He raised his thick eyebrows, walked slowly towards her, grinned. He stroked her strong-boned face with his index finger. He grinned at her again.
'I know I'm an old grouch. Pals again? Don't know what I'd do without you. Let's hope Norton's cleaned up.'
He took the phone and waited until she'd left the office. Sara's head was spinning. One moment she could kill him, then he turned on the charm and she knew she'd go on being his right arm.
'President March here,' he said in a cold voice. 'You've got the two items I'm waiting for?'
'Not yet, but I'm close.:.' Norton began.
'Close to Mencken taking over from you. Norton, how many of the four targets have you hit?'
Taking twenty men away from me back to Washington hasn't helped
…'
'Bullshit. You still have over thirty under your control. What do you need? The friggin' Army? Norton!' March shouted. 'This is final. You have ten days to bring me those two items. In case your memory is failing, you'll recognize the film in the first few seconds when you see who is on it. You then switch it off. On the tape you will hear a hysterical girl screaming because she's seen fire. She's in no danger but as a kid she had to run out of a burning building. Soon as you hear screaming you switch off the tape. Bring them both to me. Got it now?'
'Nothing wrong with my memory, Mr President…'
'So maybe you lack guts. Now you listen and listen good.
You have ten days to take out that Brit Tweed, Ives, Joel Dyson and Cord Dillon. To remove them from the face of the earth. It's March 3. That ten days includes today. That's your deadline. I stress the word "dead"…'
March put down the phone, took out a handkerchief, mopped his brow and his thick neck. He was sweating like a bull. Within twenty-four hours of handing over to him the film and tape Norton would suffer an accident. A fatal one.
'We may well be close to the moment of decision,' Tweed said. 'Tomorrow we take the train to Colmar and go up into the Vosges. We'll have an advantage there we've lacked so far.'
He had phoned Beck, had thanked him for saving their lives. He'd had to take a gentle lecture from the Swiss about the risk of leaving the hotel. In his bedroom he was outlining his plan of action to Newman and Paula.
'What advantage?' Paula queried.
'So far it's been like street righting – we've been in cities, not sure where the opposition would strike at us next. Out in the open we'll see them coming – in the mountains.'
'When we go up to see Amberg at the Chateau Noir?' Newman suggested.
Earlier, Tweed had told them of his conversation over lunch with Eve. He had recalled the information she had given him about Amberg leaving for France. Newman was dubious when Tweed confirmed that was their destination.
'Here we have Beck's protection,' he pointed out. 'The moment we cross into France we're on our own. There appears to be a huge apparatus operating against us. Have you any idea who is controlling it? If it's the film and the tape Dyson brought here, what could be on it to cause all these deaths?'
'I've no idea. That's why I'm going to see Amberg. I'm convinced he's taken the film and the tape with him. Maybe he's been threatened – so he's using possession of the film and the tape to stay alive. That's one thing.'
'What's another?' Newman asked.
'I'm determined to watch that film, to listen to that tape. I've phoned Monica and she's been in touch with Crombie, who's supervising clearing the rubble at Park Crescent.'
'Why?' Paula queried.
'Because he's still digging for my safe – which has the copies of the film and the tape inside it. No sign of it yet.'
'I'd also like to know what Cardon has been up to,' Newman remarked. 'We hardly saw him in Zurich.'
'Then let him tell you. I'll get him along here now.'
Tweed grabbed the phone, dialled Cardon's room number, asked him to come at once. He looked at Newman when he put down the receiver.
'You want to know. Ask him yourself…'
Tweed stood staring out of the window while they waited. An incredibly huge oil tanker was moving upriver. Along its deck was a network of pipes and warning notices. Newman let in Cardon when he knocked on the
door.
'The floor is yours,' Tweed said, moving around restlessly.
'Philip,' Newman began, 'we're interested in what you spent your time doing in Zurich.'
'Using the photocopy of Joel Dyson Paula helped to produce. Criss-crossing Zurich hour after hour. Looking for Dyson.' Cardon grinned. 'Then I found him.'
'You did!' Paula exclaimed. 'Where? Why didn't you grab him? He can probably tell us all we desperately need to know.'
'Hold your horses.' Cardon smiled at her. 'I spotted him getting into a cab in Bahnhofstrasse. Couldn't grab him when the cab was moving, could I?'
'You lost him, then?'
'I said hold your horses,' Cardon went on patiently. 'I took another cab, followed him to Kloten Airport. Lots of people about – a plane had just come in. Plus security men. Again, couldn't just walk up and stick a gun in his ribs.'
'I suppose not,' Paula agreed. 'What happened next?'
'The only thing that could happen. I watched him check in. I was close behind him. He had one case. He really has a foxy-looking face.'
'He's a creep!' Newman snapped.
'Do get on with it,' Paula urged, knowing Cardon was playing with her.
'He'd worked it so he just had time to catch his flight. Without a ticket – and no time to get one -I couldn't follow him through Passport Control and Customs. Guess what his destination was.'
'The planet Mars,' Paula said in exasperation.
'Not quite as far as that. His destination was Basle. He's somewhere in this city.'
Paula looked stunned. Newman suggested a course of action immediately.
'Let's trawl Basle like we did Zurich. Philip came up trumps there eventually. We all have photocopies of the sketch of Dyson.'
'No,' said Tweed. 'Beck told us to stay in the hotel. We ignored his advice – at least, I did. The result? I came within a hair's breadth of getting us all killed. Basle, like Zurich, is a big city. Within a few hours – tomorrow morning – we leave for Colmar. I'm not risking anyone's life again in this city.'
'What about the weapons we're carrying?' Cardon queried. 'Won't Beck want them back?'
'Significantly, knowing we will be venturing into France, he hasn't mentioned them. And Arthur Beck never forgets a thing.'
'But we'll be crossing a frontier,' Paula reminded him.
'Bob, you remember when we once went to Colmar? It's the most curious set-up at the station here. You walk direct from the Swiss Bahnhof into the French station. If we catch a train at eleven in the morning there should be no one manning either control point. There wasn't before.'
'Supposing the control points are manned this time? No way to guard against that,' Paula insisted.
'Yes, there is,' Tweed explained. 'I'm carrying nothing. I go through first, you lag behind. If you see me stopped, turn back. We'll think of something else.'
'I wonder where Joel Dyson is now,' Paula mused.
'What I'd like to know is who murdered Helen Frey, Klara and that detective, Theo Strebel,' Newman commented.
'I think I've worked that out – from information one of you provided me,'Tweed replied.
Bankverein, the tram-stop midway between the Rhine and the railway station, is where most of the Basle banks are situated. The Zurcher Kredit was one of them. The hippie sitting on the pavement near the bank's entrance had his legs sprawled out in front of him. He wore a shabby old Swiss hat, the brim pulled down over his forehead. His worn dark overcoat was buttoned up to the neck against the cold. His stained corduroy trousers were too long and draped over his ancient Swiss climbing boots. By his side Joel Dyson had a large canvas bag.
Dyson had rubbed dirt into his plump face and a torn scarf concealed his receding chin. Several Swiss who passed by glanced at him curiously, but Dyson knew the American watcher on the other side of the street would find nothing strange in his presence.
Dyson was waiting his opportunity to slip into the bank without the American seeing him enter. He had worked out the moment – providing a customer went inside the bank at that moment. The guard inside the bank would then escort the customer out of sight of the lobby and take him or her to whoever they were visiting.
Dyson knew it would take split-second timing, but he'd learned to move fast taking compromising photographs of celebrities. He gripped the canvas bag tightly by its wooden handle as a woman dressed in black approached. Three small green trams – toys compared with the modern blue giants of Zurich – trundled up from the direction of the Rhine close together. This could be the right moment.
The woman in black entered the bank, the guard spoke to her, escorted her out of sight. The trams masked him from the American. Dyson leapt up, pushed open the door into the empty lobby, then moved even faster.
Unbuttoning his disreputable overcoat, he tore it off, revealing a smart blue business jacket. Slipping out of his trousers, he exposed the blue suit trousers. Hauling off the boots, he opened the canvas bag, took out a pair of smart slip-ons, tucked his feet inside them. Pulling off the hat he bundled the boots and old clothes inside the canvas bag, closed it. Smoothing his hair with a comb and wiping his face with a cloth he had dampened earlier, he held a visiting card in his hand when the guard returned. He presented the card without saying a word. The guard examined it, turned it over to look at the writing on the back. He read the message in German carefully.
Please give every assistance to this gentleman. He is a most valued client.
On the front side was printed Walter Amberg, Zurcher Kredit. The printing was embossed. Dyson had asked Julius's brother for his card when he had deposited the film and the tape with Julius. On his recent visit to Zurich he had entered several bars before he struck up a conversation with a Swiss by buying him several drinks. He had then asked him to write this message in German on the card, saying he was playing a joke on a Swiss friend.
Dyson was an expert at bluffing his way into offices and houses where he wasn't known. The guard said something to him in German,
'Sorry,' Dyson said, 'I only speak English.'
'I think you should see Mrs Kahn,' the guard suggested in English.
'I think that was the name of the lady I was given…'
Mrs Kahn was a dark-haired lady of uncertain age wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She studied the card after asking him to sit down. Then she said she would be back in a minute. She closed the door to another room carefully after leaving.
Dyson grinned to himself. He knew exactly what she was doing. She was phoning Zurich to check on him. Dyson had deposited a small sum of money when he had handed over the film and the tape for safekeeping. He had realized that if you were a client – no matter how small or large the account – you had joined the club.
While he was alone he took out his handkerchief, wet it with his tongue, rubbed vigorously at his cheek. He had already cleaned off most of the dirt in the lobby but he was anxious to make a good impression. A man of substance was the phrase. A pukka member of the club. Mrs Kahn returned, sat behind her desk.
'What can I do for you, Mr Dyson?'
'I have to get in touch with Mr Amberg. He is keeping something valuable for me. He said I should ask for him when I needed to collect the valuables. The matter is rather urgent.'
'Mr Amberg is in France.'
'I know.' He smiled briefly. 'I've left the address he gave me at my London apartment. I'm a bachelor so there's no one there I can call to look it up for me '
'He's in Alsace…'
'I can remember that. Foreign addresses go out of my head.'
'It is not too far. The Chateau Noir in the Vosges. You can take the train to Colmar.'
'I travel by car. I've driven there before. To Colmar.'
'It's difficult to find, Mr Dyson. Up in the mountains. I suggest you purchase a road map. When you get to Colmar there is a hotel outside the railway station. The Hotel Bristol. Show them the map and they will guide you.'
'I am much obliged, Mrs Kahn.'
'It is my pleasure. The guard
will show you out…'
That was inconvenient. He had hoped to change back into his hippie clothes in the lobby before emerging from the bank. The guard appeared, escorted him to the main front door, opened it, nodded to him.
Dyson stepped out into a freezing cold afternoon. The interior of the bank had been cosily warm. He walked a few paces down the street, watching the American who still stood on the opposite side of the street. A gun barrel was rammed into his back from inside a trench coat.
'Where is Amberg, Mr Dyson? A correct answer means I may not pull the trigger.'
'At the Chateau Noir. France. Up in the Vosges mountains. Near Colmar.'
Dyson was scared stiff, but he was a survivor. So close, now to a huge fortune. He wasn't going to risk a bullet in the back at this stage. The man with the American voice behind him might be testing him.
'So let's you and I go for walkies,' the voice continued. 'There's a short cut through an alley…'
He stopped speaking. Dyson had spotted a police car patrolling slowly along the street. He shoved both hands in the air, way above his head. Everything happened in a flash. The patrol car stopped, the gun was removed from his back, he heard the sound of feet running as a policeman, gun in hand, came up to him.
'He held me up with a gun, wanted my passport and money.'
Dyson glanced over his shoulder. No sign of the American.
'He didn't get anything. You arrived
The policeman had nodded, was now running with long strides towards where several streets radiated. He disappeared round a corner. Dyson sighed with relief, picked up the canvas bag he'd dropped, walked quickly away.
He'd already hired a silver Mercedes. Within the hour he'd be driving across the frontier, heading for Colmar.
Talking to the President, each time Norton started out by giving the phone number of his latest perch. The President had no idea what city the first numbers identified – Sara found that out after he'd closed the call.
Norton, his 'grey' hair now getting shaggy, was sitting in the Basle apartment he'd commandeered. It was normally occupied by a diplomat from the Berne Embassy. The Ambassador, Anderson, hadn't liked it when Norton had told him to throw out the present occupant.