by Colin Forbes
'Is Barton Ives Jeb Galloway's man?' enquired the banker.
'I didn't say that, did I?' Wingfield replied cautiously.
'And how would you handle it if all this grim business concerning six serial murders proved true?' demanded the statesman in his direct way. 'Impeachment?'
'We can't have the nation's name dragged through the mud. That's the only certainty I know now,' the Senator replied. 'As to how we'd handle it – I suggest we adjourn this meeting, tell no one of our suspicions, and await events…'
Bradford March was drinking beer out of an upended bottle when Sara answered his summons. She waited while he wiped the back of a hairy hand across his mouth.
'I hear strong rumours that the Holy Trinity are meeting more frequently,' he remarked. 'Don't like it.'
This was the President's irreverent way of referring to the Three Wise Men. He pouched his lips, stared at Sara. She realized he expected a reaction.
'So we do something about it? Is that what you're saying? If so, how do we hack it? We could be dealing with a load of dynamite. Those three may be old dinosaurs but they sure as hell carry plenty of clout. Back off, Brad.'
'Sometimes, Sara, your advice is good, very good.' March leaned back in his chair, nursing the beer bottle. 'And sometimes it's lousy, real lousy. This is one of those times.'
'It's your' – she had been going to say 'funeral' but hastily changed the word – 'decision. Just tell me.'
'I want three guys from Unit One – each in his own car -to follow the senator, the statesman and the banker night and day. Draw up a duty roster so they get relieved, stay fresh, on the job. I want daily reports of every person the Holy Trinity bums contact.' His head tilted up, he stared at her hard. 'Why not get started now?'
Sara moved fast on her new mission. Inside an hour the three chosen watchers from Unit One were stationed near Senator Wingfield's house in Chevy Chase. Sara had just heard rumours of a meeting taking place there.
The watchers arrived exactly thirty minutes too late. The two limousines had already called at the house, had picked up and driven away their illustrious passengers.
48
Seated by himself at a table in the Brasserie, Jason, the American with a head and a face like a bulldog, wore his padded windcheater despite the warmth of the restaurant. He had to – in the shoulder holster under his left armpit nestled a Luger.
As he sat drinking beer and piling omelette into his wide mouth he congratulated himself on his luck. His main target – selected by Mencken himself – was sitting facing him with a couple of good-looking chicks and a harmless young guy who couldn't be a day over thirty.
Between shovelling mouthfuls of omelette into his maw he took another look at Paula and Jennie. The target -Tweed – was a pushover, he'd decided. At that moment his eyes met Tweed's. The Englishman gazed back at him with a penetrating stare and Jason hastily glanced away. The eyes worried him – but no one shot with their eyes.
Jason glanced towards the exit leading to the street and decided he'd make the distance in seconds. After putting a couple of bullets into Tweed – which would guarantee his next destination would be the local cemetery.
Accompanied by Newman, Barton Ives walked in from the hotel. Tweed's admiration of the FBI man increased as he looked at his appearance. Ives was wearing one of those deep medical collars of foam material used to support the head and restrict its movements. With his jaw tilted up and a dark beret concealing his trim black hair his appearance was transformed. He sat next to Tweed and spoke in an urgent whisper.
The sooner we can talk with each other alone the better. What I've got to tell you concerns the present occupant of the White House…'
'Later,' Tweed whispered back. 'Arrangements are being changed. I've had second thoughts. You'll travel with me by train to Switzerland and Newman will come with us. Don't look at that rough character facing me at a table opposite…'
At that moment Butler and Nield walked into the Brasserie by the short cut from the hotel. Tweed watched the two men as they suddenly paused.
'Don't much like the look of that chap sitting by himself and facing Tweed,' Nield commented.
'Reminds me of a pit-bull terrier,' replied Butler, who didn't know much about dogs.
'He must be roasting in that heavy windcheater. Funny he hasn't taken it off.'
'Maybe that bulge under his left armpit is the reason. I could swear he's carrying a gun,' Butler remarked. 'And he's a Yank – the sort Norton would employ. Look at the way he shovels food into his mouth with a fork. No table manners. I think he's trouble.'
'I wouldn't dispute that,' agreed Nield. 'I think maybe we ought to keep a close eye on Brother Pit-Bull. Let's outflank him. Rattle him. With a bit of luck he'll push off outside and we can follow him …'
As Tweed watched, the two men separated. Jason had already noticed their arrival, the pause while they stared in his direction. He began to feel less confident.
Nield made a lot of noise as he pulled out a wooden chair from a table behind Jason, scraping it across the tiled floor. Butler chose a more distant table, at a diagonal angle to the American's thick neck. To see either of the new arrivals Jason had to twist round in his seat in two different directions – making it obvious what he was doing.
Tweed had surreptitiously watched the manoeuvre of Butler and Nield with a mixed feeling of amusement and relief. The arrival of Barton Ives, despite his effective disguise, worried him. It was a very public place. Ives spoke to him from behind the menu he was studying.
'I had spotted him. A professional gunman. A Norton recruit would be my guess. Cold as ice. Except he's now hot and bothered, as I believe you Brits say. Literally -sweat is running off his forehead. Those two guys who came in are yours? Thought so. I like their tactics …'
Jason had decided – rightly so – that it would be suicide to draw his Luger. He called for the bill, paid the waiter, left half his beer in the glass, stood up and walked casually to the exit leading to the street. Outside rush hour had vanished like water down a plug-hole and the pavement was deserted now night had fallen.
'After you, sir…'
Jason paused at the open door, a door held open by Nield who had reached it first the moment Jason began to move. The American suffered a rare moment of indecision. If he said he'd changed his mind and started back into the restaurant, where would that get him? The only alternative was to proceed on into the deserted street – a course of action Jason felt uneasy about.
'OK, buddy…'
He stared at Nield who was smiling pleasantly while holding the door open with his left hand. Jason walked out.
Nield followed him immediately, moving as silently as a cat close up behind his quarry. Jason felt something hard and cylindrical pushed hard against his spine. He froze.
'This is a Walther 7.65-mm. automatic and the magazine holds eight rounds,' Nield informed him in a conversational tone. 'I'm prepared to pull the trigger until the mag is emptied. Turn slowly to your right, walk twelve paces, again slowly, then stop. Start counting now.'
'This a friggin' hold-up?' Jason blustered.
'Don't ask questions. Just do what I told you to…'
As Jason began counting paces Butler appeared alongside him, keeping in step. The American glanced sideways and didn't like the expression on Butler's face. After twelve paces he stopped. Nield pressed the Walther harder into his spine to remind him of its presence. There was no one else about as Butler stood in front of Jason, reached inside his windcheater with his gloved hand, hauled out a Luger.
'You said something about a hold-up,' Butler remarked. 'Is that the trade you practise?'
'I need protection…' Jason began.
'Shut up!' snapped Nield.
Near where they stood two chairs were propped against a wall. In more clement weather tables and chairs were spread out on the pavement for customers to sit at while they enjoyed a drink. Shoving the Luger behind his belt inside his jacket, Butler moved swiftly. He ar
ranged the chairs together so they could be sat on. He went back to where Jason stood with a puzzled expression.
'Turn round and face my partner,' Butler ordered.
As the American turned away from him Butler brought down the barrel of the Luger on Jason's skull. The American was sagging when both Butler and Nield grabbed hold of his inert body, dragged him to the chairs, sat him down, arranged him so he leaned against the back of them.
Nield produced a half bottle of wine he'd brought from the Brasserie. Uncorking it, he spilt a liberal amount down Jason's chin and over his windcheater. Butler had checked his neck pulse, which beat steadily, before they walked back inside the Brasserie. He had also shoved the Luger back inside the shoulder holster.
The one thing both men omitted to notice was a Renault parked in the shadows, apparently empty.
Marvin Mencken, his seat pushed as far back as it would go, had concealed himself when he saw the three men emerging from the Brasserie. In a state of shock, he instinctively hid himself. Once again an apparently foolproof plan had gone wrong. Mencken had told Jason he'd wait outside to pick him up, drive the hell out of Colmar once he'd killed Tweed.
His expression was malevolent and evil as he climbed out of the Renault he had commandeered from one of his surviving teams. In return, he had given them the Land-Rover with a shattered windscreen. Listening, he heard only silence. At this hour even the streets were clear of traffic.
Bending over Jason, he checked the carotid artery, felt its steady beat. His expression became matter-of-fact as he pulled on a pair of gloves. Like Butler, he reached inside Jason's windcheater, hauled out the Luger. Unlike Butler, who had used only enough force to render Jason unconscious for some time, Mencken checked again to make sure he was alone.
He then raised the barrel of the Luger high above his shoulder, brought it down on Jason's skull with such vicious force it rebounded off the skull. Again Mencken checked the carotid artery. Nothing. Jason was dead meat. He'd failed in his task – and there was the added chance the police would find the corpse. Thrusting the Luger back inside the holster, Mencken was about to topple the sagging corpse on to the pavement when he heard a car approaching. He dived back inside the Renault, dipped his head out of sight. The car moved on into the night. Mencken straightened up, adjusted his seat, started the engine and drove off. Bound for this Ouchy dump on the shores of Lake Geneva.
'Do let me in on the secret,' Gaunt's voice boomed out as he joined Tweed's table unasked. 'What's our next port of call on this Cook's tour? Ouchy and points south? Eve is dying of curiosity.'
'Eve is doing nothing of the sort,' Eve Amberg rapped back at Gaunt, obviously well tanked up on alcohol. 'You're the one devoured with curiosity.' She looked at Tweed. 'Then he pretends I'm the one after all sorts of strange and weird information.'
Paula pricked up her ears. Eve sounded convincing. Why would Gaunt adopt this devious ploy?
'I've ordered the largest omelette in the world,' Gaunt went on as his bulk sagged into a chair at the table. 'I trust, Eve, you'll be keeping me company in the BMW. Can't travel without some feminine companionship.'
'Your trust is misplaced,' she shot back at him. 'I'm travelling back by train with Tweed.'
'I suppose you'd accept me as a substitute companion?' Jennie suggested.
'Damn right I will,' boomed Gaunt. 'Jennie and I are on the same waveband.'
Paula glanced at Jennie and then at Gaunt. She had the impression Gaunt had known Eve would refuse, had known Jennie would offer to come with him. Paula had begun to sense that Gaunt and Jennie were working hand in glove without making it obvious.
Gaunt's relationship with the two women intrigued her. At first she'd thought it was Eve who was close to the Squire. Now it appeared Gaunt had used that as a cover, for his closeness to Jennie and Eve had consistently distanced herself from him. Why?
Eve had joined Tweed for dinner soon after the incident of the man with a face like a dog. They were finishing the meal, drinking coffee and Tweed was draining his glass of Riesling while Gaunt wolfed down his huge omelette. At that moment Butler, who had strolled out of the exit on to the street for the second time, came hurrying back. He laid a hand on his chiefs shoulder.
'Excuse me,' Tweed said, standing up. 'Arrangements to make!' He looked at Newman. Take care of the bill for me, Bob.' He guessed that some kind of emergency had just arisen from Butler's action.
Tweed was leaving the Brasserie by the short cut into the hotel when Butler, close behind him, gave a little jerk of his head to Nield who was lingering over coffee at a table by himself.
Having paid the bill earlier, Nield left the table and strolled casually after them. At Tweed's table Gaunt was holding everyone's attention with some outrageous story – except for Newman, who saw Nield leaving.
Passing through the main restaurant – now empty -Tweed led the way into the reception hall and into a small sitting area in a large alcove. There was no one behind the reception counter as the others joined him.
'A crisis?' Tweed enquired in a mild tone.
'A major one,' Butler reported, keeping his voice down as Nield sat in a third chair. 'That gunman we dealt with outside the Brasserie is dead.'
'So what happened?'
'Pete and I sorted him out. I knocked him unconscious with his own Luger, left the gun with him after we'd parked him on a couple of chairs.'
'I poured wine down his jaw and over his windcheater,' Nield added. 'No one wants anything to do with a drunk sleeping it off.'
'You definitely left him unconscious?' Tweed probed.
'Fact one,' Butler began, 'I checked his neck pulse. It was normal. Fact two, there was no blood from the blow I gave him. Now there's blood all down the side of his face – and a second blow has split his skull. Dead as a doornail.'
'Then we leave here fast.' Tweed took out a notebook, checked train times Paula had obtained earlier. 'An express for Basle leaves here in thirty minutes. I'll be aboard – with Paula, Eve, Amberg, Barton Ives, Newman and Philip Cardon. You both know what to do, where to meet us.'
'I drive the Espace to Basle, Pete drives the station wagon,' Butler replied. 'We park near Basle Bahnhof and wait for you to arrive in the station's first-class restaurant.'
'I have phoned Beck,' Tweed told them. 'He has the registration numbers of both vehicles and has given orders to the Swiss border guards to let you through. So you can tape the weapons underneath the chassis of both cars without worry. Now, speed is the order of the day.'
He had stood up, checked his watch. They had to get out of France before the corpse outside was discovered. In the Brasserie there were locals who had nothing better to do than to notice what was going on. He hurried back into the Brasserie to collect the others. It would be a race against time – to cross the frontier before a flic decided to check the body.
They boarded the express with two minutes to spare. At that hour and time of year they found an empty first-class coach. Tweed sat with Barton Ives. Cardon, who had left the table in the Brasserie to guard Amberg before the meal started – the banker had been locked in Tweed's room – sat next to the Swiss further along the coach.
Newman occupied a seat on his own, which gave him a good view of both entrances to the coach. Paula sat chatting with Eve in seats out of hearing of any conversation between Tweed and Ives. Earlier, Tweed had given instructions that he wanted to travel alone with Ives.
Much earlier still, Marler had left Colmar, driving his red Mercedes down the autoroute. His instructions from Tweed had been clear and decisive.
'We are approaching a major crisis – a climax to this whole business might be a better phrase. I'm assuming that in some way Norton will have discovered that Ouchy is our destination. He's discovered everything else we planned to do.'
'I'll drive like the wind – strictly within speed limits, of course,' Marler drawled. 'And when I reach Ouchy?'
'In your own individual way – you can pass for a Frenchman and Ouchy is i
n French-speaking Switzerland – you check all the hotels which are open at this time of the year. You're looking for recently arrived Americans.
When I say "recently", I mean today. When I arrive you should know the location of the opposition, if they have arrived. We are going over on to the offensive.'
'It's Switzerland,' Marler said thoughtfully, 'so gunshots are liable to bring the local police running. If a shop is still open when I reach Basle I'll buy some Swiss Army knives. Useful little tools, Swiss Army knives – for silent kills.'
'In this situation you have a free hand. Come to think of it, you usually have one anyway.'
'You did use the word offensive,' Marler reminded Tweed.
The express took about forty minutes to reach Basle from Colmar. During the journey Barton Ives began talking, hoping to Heaven that Tweed would believe him.
'Several years ago, Mr Tweed, I was stationed at FBI headquarters in Memphis, Tennessee. I'd been promoted to senior agent, responsible only to Humphries, the local director. There was a hideous murder in that state soon after I'd settled there. An attractive woman driving a Cadillac across lonely country was somehow persuaded to stop her car after dark. I'd gotten to know the local medical examiner – what you call a. pathologist. He told me the details of the autopsy. Got a strong stomach, Mr Tweed?'
'Reasonably so. Try me.'
'The woman – from a wealthy family – had been savagely raped. Then her throat had been cut. The instrument used was a knife with a serrated blade. Most probably a kitchen knife, the ME said. She had then been sadistically mutilated in a way which suggested the murderer was a psychopath. Quite horrendous. After viewing the body I can tell you I didn't eat much that evening. The mutilation puzzled the ME. He told me it was exactly how he'd commence an autopsy.'
'Someone with medical knowledge?' Tweed queried.
The ME didn't think so. But he thought the sadist who'd inflicted the wounds may once have witnessed an autopsy being performed. That was the first case.'