The Power tac-11

by Colin Forbes

  'Perfect,' enthused Grandjouan. 'I used the tissue-paper so there was no danger of any rattle.'

  Talking of danger, why did you say I might be stopped by the police? Oh, let's first settle up.'

  Marler made no attempt to haggle over the price. Producing a wad of French thousand-franc notes he counted out the correct amount on a table. He was reaching for the cello case and his cricket bag when Grandjouan explained.

  'Yes, you could well be stopped by the police. I have an ear to the grapevine. Paris has received a message that a team of terrorists is crossing into Alsace.'

  'Where from?' Marler asked sharply.

  'From Switzerland.'

  'I see. I'll be careful.'

  He shook hands, thanked the hunchback for his service. As Grandjouan closed the door behind him he paused to pull up the collar of his coat. Standing on the platform at the top of the stone steps he glanced down. Inset into the stone was a square piece of rubber. Of course! A pressure pad. That was how the wily old hunchback had known someone had arrived before he had pressed the bell.

  Marler was very alert as he walked back inside the alley, pausing at the exit to glance out. No sign of a patrol car. It was, of course, Beck who had warned Paris -warned them about the Americans.

  A little unfortunate from Tweed's point of view – that the Haut-Rhin, where Colmar was located, would be swarming with flics on the lookout. On the other hand the news confirmed that the Americans had followed them close on their heels. Maybe it was only just beginning.

  In mid-afternoon at the Chateau Noir the banker, Amberg, stared at his uninvited guest, listening, saying nothing. Gaunt had arrived in his hired white BMW without phoning first to make sure it would be convenient for him to call. Now his voice boomed in the Great Hall.

  'I was a close friend of your late lamented brother, Julius. I am a close friend of your sister-in-law, Eve. I feel I have a responsibility to track down whoever murdered Julius so brutally. After all, my dear chap, the tragedy did take place in my house in Cornwall, Tresillian Manor.'

  'I see,' Amberg replied and was silent again.

  Gaunt sat in one of the very large black leather button-backed armchairs scattered about the vast space. The chair would have dwarfed most men, but not Gaunt. His stature with his leonine head seemed to dominate the room.

  Swallowed up in another armchair close to a crackling log fire, Jennie Blade warmed her hands. If you were any distance from it the place was freezing. The Great Hall merited its name. About sixty feet square, it had granite walls and miserable illumination from wall sconces. She doubted whether the bulbs inside them were more than forty watts.

  The walls sheered up to a height of thirty feet or so. Scattered here and there, as though rationed, small rugs lay on the stone-flagged floor. The entrance hall was grim enough, but this so-called living-room was pure purgatory, Jennie said to herself. There was hardly any furniture except for the chairs and two large, bulbous – and repellent – sideboards standing against a wall. Gaunt was ploughing on, as though unaware of the lukewarm reception.

  'The question I have to find an answer to is why he was murdered, Amberg. I had a chat with him when he arrived. He told me he had fled Switzerland because he was scared stiff. Apparently a Joel Dyson had deposited with him at the Zurich headquarters a film and a tape. Is that so?'

  'That is correct,' Amberg replied and again lapsed into silence.

  Gaunt leaned forward. Jennie had the impression that he was studying the banker carefully. His voice became a rumble, his manner like that of an interrogator.

  'You saw what was on the film, you heard the tape?'

  'No. Dyson handed them to Julius.'

  'And did he watch the film, listen to the tape?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Where are they now?'

  'They have gone missing.'

  'What!' Gaunt exploded. 'Look, Julius told me he had first stored them in a vault at the Zurcher Kredit in Zurich. He then had them transferred to a less obvious place of safety. The bank vault in Basle.'

  'I know. He told me.'

  'So how the hell can they be missing?' Gaunt demanded. 'I always thought Swiss banks were like fortresses, that they kept the most meticulous records of every single transaction. Now you tell me they are missing.'

  'Mr Gaunt, if you can't speak more quietly I may have to ask you to leave.'

  'Plenty of room for my voice in this mausoleum. You haven't answered the question.'

  Amberg, perhaps to compensate for his lack of height, sat in a low-backed hard chair perched on a dais behind an old desk Jennie thought could have come from a second-hand stall in the Portobello Road. To break the tension, to get a little more warmth, she reached into a basket, took out two logs, placed them on the fire. Amberg frowned at her.

  'Those logs are very expensive.'

  'Oh, pardon me.'

  Stuff you, she thought. Everything here is rationed. The logs, the rugs, the words Amberg allowed to escape his lips. She stood up, straightened the jodhpurs she'd worn against the cold, thrust her hands inside her pockets to ward off the chill, wandered past the dais.

  At the far end of the hall, down a wide flight of stone steps, was an indoor terrace. A huge picture window gave a panoramic view across the lower slopes of the sunlit Vosges. The glare of the sun off the snow was intense. The air was so clear Jennie could see in the distance another range of mountains. The Black Forest. In Germany beyond the Rhine.

  She happened to glance down and sucked in her breath. Beyond the picture window the ground fell away into a sheer precipice. At the bottom was a sinister black lake, shrouded from the sun by the Vosges. Behind her the conversation continued. Assuming 'conversation' now meant one man talking to another.

  'I have no idea why they went missing,' Amberg replied. 'It was Julius who supervised the transfer.'

  'I thought you were Chairman of the bank,' Gaunt threw at the Swiss.

  'That is correct. Day to day business was handled by Julius.'

  'Are you saying you have no idea what happened to two items given into the bank's safekeeping?'

  That is correct.'

  'Put that remark on a record so you can play it,' Gaunt snapped.

  As he stood up, his expression grim, Jennie decided to intervene. Amberg had also stood up, small, portly, dressed in a black business suit. He turned to her in surprise, as though he'd forgotten her presence. Jennie realized the intensity of his concentration on his duel with Gaunt.

  'How on earth do you manage to run this enormous place?' she enquired. 'Surely you need servants?'

  'True. They don't live in. Too much of an invasion of privacy, which I value highly. The peasants from the local villages provide all the manpower needed.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'Of course, I have to pay them more in summer, but that's understandable. They can make a living tending the vineyards. I own a vineyard myself. Next time you come and see me you can sample some of my wine. I think you will like it. But your friend appears anxious to leave.'

  Jennie had been staring straight into his shrewd blue eyes for every second he spoke. The transformation in his personality astounded her. Then she thought of the probable explanation. He was a man who preferred the company of women – and Gaunt had, gone at him like a bull at a gate. She glanced at the Squire. He stood like a man carved out of stone. Furious that he'd got nowhere with the banker.

  Amberg escorted them into the entrance hall. As she was stepping out of the chateau Amberg held out his hand, shook hers warmly.

  'Don't forget my invitation to taste the wine…'

  His expression changed suddenly as he looked at Gaunt. It reminded her of the expression the Swiss had adopted during the 'conversation'. Like a slab of ice.

  'Goodbye, Mr Gaunt.'

  'And it hasn't been a pleasure,' Gaunt roared at the top of his voice.

  34

  Trouble. Here it comes,' Marler said to himself.

  He was driving along the autoroute towards Colmar in mid-aft
ernoon and it was still light. He was in the middle of nowhere, tilled fields stretching away on both sides, when he heard the police siren, saw the patrol car racing up to him in his rear-view mirror. Slowing down, he stopped.

  As he lowered his window icy air flowed inside. He was humming the tune of 'La Jeune Fille aux Cheveux de Lin' when the patrol car parked a few yards ahead of him. Before leaving Strasbourg he had pushed back the front passenger seat to its furthest extent and perched the cello case with its base on the floor and the rest of it angled against the seat. Several sheets of music were spread on the seat itself.

  A tall lean-faced uniformed policeman got out of the patrol car. Leaving his companion behind the wheel, he wandered back to Marler. The flap of his pistol holster was unbuttoned.

  'Papers!' he demanded.

  Marler had his passport and driving licence ready and handed them over. The flic perused both documents carefully, returned them to Marler. He peered inside.

  'You are on holiday?' he asked in French.

  'No, I'm a musician,' Marler replied in the same language.'I'm working.'

  'Where are you driving to?'

  'Berne in Switzerland. To perform in a concert.'

  Marler hoped there was a concert hall in the Swiss capital. But he doubted whether the flic knew either. He was saying as little as possible, using the minimum of words to answer. The police were always suspicious of voluble travellers. The flic stared at the cello case.

  'Your concert is today?' he asked truculently.

  'No, tomorrow. I'll put up somewhere for the night to get some rest. I need to be fresh for the concert.'

  Marler's mind, racing, was considering every angle. It was not impossible he'd bump into this same flic when he reached Colmar. Walking round the front of the car, the policeman opened the door to the front passenger seat, leaned in, opened the clasp, lifted the lid of the cello case. He stared down at the long slim silk sleeve with the end of a bow projecting.

  Marler said nothing. He was careful to display no sign of impatience, nervousness. No drumming of his fingers on the wheel. The flic peered into the back of the Audi.

  'What are you carrying inside that bag?'

  'It's cricket. One of our national games. Inside is what we play the game with – a bat and a ball.'

  The policeman frowned, reached in, unzipped the bag, stared at its contents. He shrugged, re-zipped the bag. The English had peculiar tastes. Marler realized he'd made one of those glaring mistakes the most careful people sometimes make. Who played cricket in winter in this part of the world?

  Slamming the back door shut as he had done the front, the policeman shrugged again at the strangeness of the English. Without another word he walked back to his vehicle, climbed inside. The patrol car took off like a rocket.

  'And that experience is enough for one day,' Marler said to himself as he closed the lid of the cello case and resumed driving.

  For Jennie the drive back from the Chateau Noir to Colmar was a nightmare. Gaunt was moving over snow-covered roads which might conceal ice underneath, racing round hairpin bends on the edge of precipices. Once he skidded close to an endless drop. With great skill he came out of it, proceeded down another steep slope. Jennie had her hands clasped tightly inside her gloves.

  'We didn't get much out of Amberg, did we?' she remarked. 'Very Swiss. Although most Swiss I've met have been so polite and helpful.'

  'Shut up! I'm driving.'

  She knew Gaunt fairly well now, his volatile moods. As they swerved round another bend she studied his profile. No tension, no sign that the BMW could slide at any moment into a fatal skid. She suddenly grasped that only half his mind was on driving the car.

  A superb driver, he was controlling the car automatically. Half his mind was miles away, pondering something which bothered him. What could it be that he was mentally gnawing at like a dog with a bone?

  A yellow tractor was emerging from a snow-covered field a score of yards or so ahead of them. If it occupied the road ahead of them it would be difficult to overtake. Gaunt rammed his foot down on the accelerator, pressed his hand on the horn, blaring out across the mountains non-stop. God! He was going to try and get in front of it!

  Jennie closed her eyes, waited for the shattering collision, couldn't bear not to see what was happening, opened them again. She gritted her teeth. Racing down the curving road, the BMW increased speed. The tractor driver seemed to take no notice. Its yellow hulk loomed over Jennie as the car sped past, almost skimming the side of the machine. She let out her breath.

  'Silly devil,' Gaunt commented offhandedly. 'Should have waited. My right of way.'

  'Only your right of way if the other chap gives it to you,'she reminded him.

  'What was that you said?' He glanced at her briefly.

  He hadn't heard a word she had spoken. Now she knew she was right – he was driving on automatic pilot. Most of his mind was miles away. Where?

  She went over in her mind all that had been said while they were at the Chateau Noir. Was it frustration that was affecting Gaunt? Frustration at hearing that the film and the tape had gone missing?

  Then it hit her. Did Gaunt know what was on the film, the tape? During an early stage of his verbal exchanges with Amberg she recalled one thing Gaunt had said. When Julius had arrived at Tresillian Manor Gaunt had had a chat with him. Had Julius told Gaunt then what he had seen on the film, what he had heard on the tape? It was possible, maybe even likely.

  Suddenly as they approached Colmar a dense mist crept in from the fields, entering the town. Gaunt switched on his fog lights. He was crawling now as they came close to the Hotel Bristol, were passing a shopping parade. She put a hand on his arm.

  'Greg, could you drop me here. There are lights on in the shops, they're still open. I want to buy something from the chemist.'

  'Here do you?'

  He pulled in by the kerb. She opened the door, swung out her long legs. As she turned to close the door and looked at him he seemed to be finally aware of her existence.

  'Bristol's just down the way. You'll know where to find me. In the bar. Of course…'

  The rear of the BMW was swallowed up in the mist which had now become a fog. Glancing in the mirror, Gaunt's last sight of her was a vague silhouette standing by the kerb.

  At the Bristol Tweed had chosen the Brasserie for a belated lunch. After their arrival he'd spent a long time alone in his bedroom studying a map of the Vosges, checking the different routes to the Chateau Noir.

  There was a more upmarket restaurant at the hotel, entered, from the reservation lobby. The waiter who met Tweed as he led Paula and Newman wore formal black jacket and trousers. His manner, as he attempted to guide them to a table, was that he was conferring an honour on them.

  'I'm looking for the Brasserie,' Tweed told him in English.

  'Really, sir?' The waiter's tone conveyed that he'd misjudged the quality of the client. 'Through that door, then turn left and left again.'

  'This is more like it,' Tweed remarked. 'More homely. That other place you could wait an hour for the first course with a lot of chichi nonsense, removing the covers from the plate and all that rubbish.'

  Paula agreed the atmosphere was more welcoming. And in contrast to the restaurant, where the guests had sat like waxworks, the few customers here were locals having an aperitif, eating a main meal.

  In the main dining area a waitress led them to, the panelled walls were painted a bright ochre. The cloths on the table were a cheerful pink, Paula noted with approval. The Brasserie faced the railway station across a wide road. Tweed had chosen well.

  'I think I'll have a glass of wine,' Tweed announced to her surprise when they were seated. 'We're in Riesling country. A beautiful wine.'

  The waitresses, bustling about, wore white blouses, black skirts and short white aprons. Tweed ordered a bottle of Riesling when the others agreed enthusiastically.

  This is when you say it's a good year,' Newman chaffed him, when a bottle of 1989 v
intage arrived.

  'Let's hope it is. I've no idea. Have you heard of the Chateau Noir?' he asked the waitress in French.

  'Yes. Up in the mountains above the Black Lake. A bad place. It is fated.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Its strange history, sir. It was built by an American millionaire years ago. Built of granite from plans of a medieval fortress. It cost many millions of francs. He committed suicide.'

  'Who did?' Tweed asked.

  'The American millionaire. He jumped from the chateau into the Black Lake. No one knows why. It remained empty for years. Who would buy such a place?'

  'I heard that someone did. A Swiss banker.'

  'Of course. He bought it for a song. Mr Julius Amberg from Zurich. Maybe he was not superstitious. He did not think he would become dead before his time. Good luck to him. He is a nice man.'

  Paula was watching Tweed, wondering whether he was going to tell her that Amberg was no longer alive. Tweed simply looked interested, asked the waitress another question.

  'You said he is a nice man. You have met him?'

  'Many times. When he comes to Colmar he always comes in here – to the Brasserie. For an aperitif, for a main meal.' She lowered her voice. 'He said the restaurant is for snobs, that the food here is much better and you get it quickly. I must go now…'

  'Has Mr Amberg been here recently?' Tweed asked before she could rush off.

  'No, not for some time. Yet when it was clear this afternoon just before dusk we saw lights in the chateau. Maybe a ghost walks there. You have decided what you would like to eat? I can come back.'

  'The veal escalope panee for me, with saute potatoes.'

  Tweed looked at Paula. 'What do you fancy?'

  'The same for me, please,' Paula said, looking at the waitress.

  'Make that three,' Newman requested.

  The waitress darted away. Paula, who was facing the rear of the Brasserie, stared at a huge mural painted in oils above the door leading to the kitchen. It depicted a small lake sunk in the grim heights of the Vosges. Tweed followed her gaze.

  'I wonder if that's Lac Noir,' she mused. 'If, so, it looks pretty forbidding. And what a strange story she told us about Chateau Noir. Obviously Walter Amberg doesn't patronize the Brasserie.'