by Colin Forbes
He boarded the Strasbourg express with Paula and found an empty first-class compartment. The whole train was nearly empty close to eleven in the morning. Behind them
Newman followed, the two Walthers belonging to Nield and Butler tucked inside his belt at the back. Cardon brought up the rear. At eleven precisely the express moved off.
'That conversation you had with Jennie Blade which you told me about,' began Paula, facing Tweed in a corner window seat. 'I've given it a lot of thought.'
'And your conclusion?'
'Jennie worries me. Has anyone except her seen this mysterious Shadow Man with the wide-brimmed hat? Has Gaunt?'
'It was the one question I forgot to ask him,' Tweed admitted. 'Although he didn't seem to take it seriously. Why?'
'Because if no one else has seen this Shadow Man how can we be sure he exists?'
'You've forgotten something,' Tweed reminded her. 'Old Nosy in Zurich gave us exactly the same description of a man who'd left the building shortly after Klara was garrotted.'
'Maybe Jennie was close by in the Altstadt when we were there. Saw a man like that leaving that building.'
'You're stretching supposition to breaking point.'
'Jennie was in Zurich at the time. We know that.'
'True.' Tweed sounded unconvinced.
'You know something?' Paula leaned forward. 'When a woman persists with trying to persuade a man of something he can eventually come to believe her.'
'Like you're persisting now,' he told her. 'Sowing a few doubts in my mind.' , 'Who do you think is behind all these brutal murders?' Paula asked, changing the subject. 'Have you any idea yet?'
'A very good idea. Go back to the beginning. Blowing up our headquarters in Park Crescent with a huge bomb. The timer for the bomb – a more sophisticated device than Crombie had ever seen. The fact that there are so many Americans swarming over Switzerland – all holding diplomatic passports. The fact that when Joel Dyson arrived at Park Crescent to hand over copies of the film and the tape Monica saw inside his suitcase American clothes – which suggests he'd just arrived from the States. The fact that our PM seems to be in the palm of the American President. All that has happened suggests limitless sums of money, a huge hostile organization. All that adds up to power – great power. Work it out for yourself. It's frightening.'
'You don't sound frightened,' she observed.
' I am not. I'm indignant, determined. The garrotting of Helen Frey and Klara was bad enough – although sometimes it's a risk of their trade. But Theo Strebel was a nice chap, didn't deserve to be shot. And that's curious and significant – two women garrotted, a man shot by someone he knew.'
'How do you know that?'
'Think of the precautions he took when we arrived – how we had to say who we were before he'd admit us.'
'I don't see the significance,' Paula confessed.
On a seat across the aisle Newman sat listening. He'd removed the two Walther automatics from behind his back. They now rested inside the pockets of the trench coat folded beside him.
Their owners, Butler and Nield, had hired cars in Basle for future use in the Vosges. It would have been risky taking firearms by car past a frontier post. They were now racing along the A35 autoroute to Colmar where they'd wait for Tweed and his team at the Hotel Bristol.
Cardon was seated in his usual strategic position at one end of the long compartment. Armed with his Walther, he could see any stranger approaching from either direction. He appeared to be asleep but his eyes never left the back of Tweed's head.
The express had stopped at St Louis, later at Mulhouse. Then it raced along to the distant stop of Colmar. Paula gazed out of the window to the west on the stretch from Mulhouse to Colmar. The Vosges were coming into view in the distance.
The sun was shining brilliantly again and the range, snowbound to midway down its slopes, showed up clearly. They'd be driving up into those mountains soon. Why did she find them sinister on this lovely morning? They swooped up and down in great saddlebacks with here and there a prominent summit. They looked so dreadfully lonely, Paula thought, so remote from the villages amid vineyards on the lower slopes.
As the express raced on north she reflected on the strangeness of this beautiful province. Its odd mix of French and German which appeared in the names of towns on a map she'd studied. Bollwiller. Ste-Croix-en-Plaine. Munster. Ribeauville.
In 1871 Bismarck's Prussia had annexed Alsace-Lorraine. At the end of the First World War France had taken Alsace-Lorraine back. She was still staring out of the window. Many of the houses had steep-pitched rooves like flat chutes, which suggested winter could be severe, with heavy snow.
She glanced at Tweed and he was humming to himself, which was a rare habit. Why was he so pleased?
'What are you thinking of?' she asked him.
'That with a bit of luck soon I shall meet the two men who, I'm convinced, hold the key to this whole horrific business.'
'And you're keeping their names to yourself?'
'Joel Dyson – who knows Amberg is at the Chateau Noir. Who is, I'm sure, so anxious to get back the originals of his film and tape.'
'The second man?'
'Probably the most important of all. Barton Ives, Special Agent of the FBI…'
'These are the ideal ambush points,' Norton said. 'All up in the Vosges. You should wipe out the whole of Tweed's team at one blow.'
Norton was meeting Marvin Mencken for the first time, because he had to make sure Mencken didn't make a mistake. But even at this face-to-face meeting Mencken realized Norton had been clever. Close together as they were, he couldn't see Norton's face.
They were sitting inside a small cafe in Little Venice, deep inside Colmar. Norton had searched the area to discover this place before phoning Mencken. The cafe was divided into two sections, separated by a heavy lace curtain. Tables on either side were close to each other.
One side was for customers who required food. Norton had arrived early, consumed an omelette and salad and a huge quantity of French bread. He needed plenty of food to fuel his exceptional energy. He had finished the meal before Mencken arrived, had waved away the waiter.
'Later…'
The windows facing the narrow street were also hung with heavy lace curtains. Mencken, as instructed, went into the bar entrance, ordered a glass of white wine and took it to the table next to Norton's beyond the curtain. As he sat down, facing the curtain, the only other customer had twisted round in his chair as though greeting a friend.
Yes, Mencken thought, Norton had been clever. The face he looked at was distorted by the lace curtain. Norton wore a French beret he'd purchased and his grey hair was tucked under it. He also wore a windcheater and a scarf which covered his chin. Perched on his nose was a pair of pebble glasses. The eyes which stared at Mencken were huge, intimidating. The map was held so Mencken could see it clearly, pressed against the curtain.
'Each cross marked on this map locates the ambush points,' Norton continued. 'See this one in Kaysersberg.'
'I've studied my own map. That place is a short drive from Colmar…'
'Just listen. The cross marks a bridge. If they go that way into the Vosges you could mine that bridge with explosives, detonate them by remote control.'
'OK,' Mencken said impatiently. 'I visited hardware and electrical shops before I drove here from Basle. I have the equipment I can use to make a timer system; crude, but it will work.'
There's a stone quarry I've marked here – on the way to Colmar from Basle. It has a shed with explosives inside
'OK, I don't miss much. I spotted it on my way here. It'll be like breaking into a piggy bank…'
'Kindly listen! Tweed and his team may arrive in this area at any moment – he moves very fast. So your first priority is to grab those explosives…'
'Which was my priority one anyway
'This cross, if you're listening, marks a cliff by the roadside. It looked pretty unstable and faces an abyss. Maybe you could create a
n avalanche when they…'
'OK. I like that…'
'This position – again high up above the snowline – is where you could catch them in a crossfire. You're not making notes.'
'Yes, I am.' Mencken tapped his forehead. 'Up here. I've a mind like a computer – one that works. Next?'
Norton gazed at Mencken from his side of the curtain. His view was also distorted – and the pebble glasses increased the effect. Mencken's face looked very skeletal with its hard pointed jaw line and prominent cheekbones. A man who would not hesitate to carry out any cold-blooded execution. Which suited Norton. But he still didn't trust him. In the slate-grey eyes which stared back he detected overweening ambition. You wouldn't miss a single chance to take over from me, he thought. So the answer was to be very tough with Marvin Mencken, a natural killer.
For several minutes he listed other areas in the Vosges marked by crosses. With his hands covered with silk-lined gloves, he eventually passed the map through to Mencken under the curtain. Mencken found the use of gloves interesting. It suggested Norton's fingerprints were on record in the States – maybe under a different name. Ex-CIA, FBI? Or a criminal history?
He snatched the map from under the curtain, put it in his pocket. He'd had a bellyful of Norton – explaining everything as though he was new to this type of work. Plus the fact that there was something patronizing in the other man's attitude. But Norton wasn't finished yet.
'Stay where you are. It's not just Tweed and his team we need to eliminate. I'm confident Joel Dyson will appear in this area
'Because my man spotted him outside the Zurcher Kredit in Basle, made him squawk…'
'And then let him escape alive,' rasped Norton. 'Not a great success, Mencken. Don't interrupt me again. Just concentrate on what I say. Joel Dyson must be eliminated. Equally important, that Special Agent FBI, Barton Ives, must be too. We need all of them wiped off the face of the earth.'
Mencken leaned forward. His nose was touching the curtain.
'I'll terminate the lot. It will be a blood bath.'
'Don't forget they could drive to the Chateau Noir by either route,' Norton reminded him,
'It will be a blood bath,'Mencken repeated.
33
Marler, typically, had told Tweed before leaving Basle that he'd hire his own car, make his own way to Colmar.
'I may not reach the Hotel Bristol until late in the evening,' he had warned.
Tweed, knowing Marler liked to operate on his own, had agreed immediately.
'See you at the Bristol then,' Marler ended jauntily.
Hiring an Audi, he had driven to Mulhouse. There, instead of continuing north along the autoroute to Colmar, he had turned west, heading for the Ballon d'Alsace in the southern region of the Vosges. He had reached the French glider airfield and had a long chat in his fluent French with the controller.
Marler, after training in Britain, was an expert in flying gliders. He had examined a machine, climbing into the confined cockpit. The controller had leaned against the side as Marler haggled over the price. He would want the glider for several days.
'Incidentally, you've seen my licence, but accidents happen. How much if I smash it up?'
'Sir, that would cost you a lot of money.'
'How much?'
The controller had told him and Marler had nodded. He knew Tweed had the funds to fork out if necessary. The deposit paid, Marler drove off, returning by the route he'd come until he joined the autoroute north near Mulhouse.
Keeping just inside the speed limit, he raced along the autoroute, bypassing Colmar, continuing north to the great river port of Strasbourg on the Rhine. Arriving there, he was driving much more sedately. Marler knew Europe as well as Newman, and he thought the ancient city unique.
The old city is perched on an island and spanned by many bridges. Marler parked his Audi outside and walked the rest of the way, crossing one of the bridges, glancing up to admire the medieval architecture. This was history, the Free City where once Protestant refugees had fled from French Catholic oppression. Which probably explained why it housed so many craftsmen in different fields. It was one of these craftsmen Marler was visiting. A gunsmith – who provided on the quiet the greatest range of weapons of any secret armaments supplier on the Continent.
Near the immense mass of the looming cathedral, Marler turned down a narrow stone-flagged alley. Suddenly he entered a world of silence, all sounds of traffic and human bustle gone.
He mounted a flight of worn stone steps to a landing on the first floor. Facing him was a massive studded wooden door with a Judas window. The only modern item in sight was a metal-grilled speakphone with a button alongside it. No indication as to who lived there.
'Who is it?' a quiet voice asked in French.
'Marler. You know me, Grandjouan. We've done business before.'
The Judas window opened, eyes peered out at him through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on a hooked nose. Marler waited while chains were removed, bolts pulled back, locks unfastened. The place was a fortress. The door swung open.
'Marler, indeed. So long since we last met. Come and join me for a glass of wine.'
Grandjouan was a hunchback with tiny feet. Marler was careful not to stare at his deformity. When his host had closed the door, chained and relocked it, they shook hands.
'I hadn't time to press the button, you old rascal,' Marler remarked. 'So how did you know someone had arrived?'
'One of my state secrets.' Grandjouan chuckled throatily. 'Now the wine…'
'Not for me, thank you so much. I have a long way to drive when we 've completed our business.'
'Such a pity. I have the most excellent Riesling.'
'Well, just a small glass.'
Grandjouan had a clean-shaven weathered face. Impossible even to guess his age. He had a nice smile and his eyes twinkled behind the spectacles as he handed Marler the glass.
'Sante!'
'Sante!' Marler repeated. This is very good.'
'I told you so. Now, as always you are a man in a hurry. So down to business.'
'I want an Armalite rifle, dismantled, with plenty of ammo. Twelve hand-grenades. A tear-gas pistol with a supply of shells. A Luger, again with ammo. All without any history.'
'Of course.' Grandjouan sipped again at his wine. 'I believe you are going to start a small war?'
'It could be something like that.'
Marler had carried from the car a cricket bag which contained a bat and several balls. He had put it on a table when he accepted the glass. Grandjouan looked at it, shook his head, covered with thinning grey hair.
'You proposed to carry these items away in that? Yes? I can do better. The container will come free, my friend.' He opened a cupboard, produced a cello case. 'Much better. It will take the load, which your cricket bag will not. Also we like some camouflage, in case you are stopped by the police.'
Grandjouan wore an old leather jacket with a woollen blue shirt underneath, open at the neck. His trousers were old but clean' corduroy. Marler looked round his lair as his host ferreted about.
The walls were lined with huge old wooden chests and cupboards. When Grandjouan opened one cupboard it was stacked to the gunwales. Heaven help any policeman who came to search this place. Illumination came from a large oval window in the slanting roof. Heating was provided by several oil heaters. The only reasonably modern item of furniture was the massive old fridge from which Grandjouan had taken the bottle of Riesling. The place reminded Marler of a hermit's cave.
Grandjouan returned holding a black beret in one hand, a folder of leather tucked under his other arm. He handed Marler the beret.
'You are English. Obvious – very – from the clothes you're wearing.'
Which was true. On the Continent Marler was always taken for what they imagined the typical Englishman to be, a member of the idle upper classes. His drawling way of speaking reinforced the impression. It had thrown more than one adversary off guard.
Un
der the British warm, which he had placed on an armchair, he wore a houndstooth sports jacket, heavy grey slacks, a blue cravat below his strong jaw. He looked at the beret.
'Why this?'
'You are posing as a musician with that cello case. The beret on an Englishman dressed as you are suggests the artistic temperament.'
'God forbid!'
'Wear it. And here in this folder are some sheets of music. Spread one or two on the car seat beside you. They will strengthen the impression that you are a musician.'
Marler glanced at the sheets. He paused at one sheet -
'La Jeune Fille aux Cheveux de Lin', 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair'. Unconsciously he began to hum the tune to himself. Grandjouan performed a little dance of delight.
'Excellent, my friend! You have thought yourself into the part.. .'
Grandjouan himself packed the twelve grenades, the tear-gas shells in the cello case after wrapping each item in thick tissue-paper. He performed the same routine with the tear-gas pistol, the Luger and ammo. Then he took a box he had extracted from beneath one of the floorboards which was hinged invisibly. Inside was the Armalite, dismantled.
'I'll assemble that if I may,' Marler suggested.
Grandjouan watched with approval the speed at which Marler put the separate parts together. He attached the magnifying night scope, squinted through it at the skylight, pressed the trigger of the unloaded gun.
'It feels good…'
With equal rapidity he dismantled it and Grandjouan picked up the pieces, again wrapping them in the tissue-paper. He fitted them inside the cello case, added ammo. Then he took a large piece of black velvet, spread it over the case's contents. From another deep drawer in an ancient chest he took out a long slim object inside a silk sleeve. He pointed to the end projecting before laying it on top of the velvet.
'More camouflage. The bow for your imaginary cello -with the end showing.'
He closed the case, snapped down the latch. Grandjouan had been right – everything had fitted in snugly, filling the case. Marler picked it up, tested the weight as the hunchback beamed, spoke again. Marler was wearing the beret.