by Colin Forbes
'You were investigating it?' Tweed asked, puzzled.
'No. The local police handled the case, never even came up with a suspect. As I think you've realized, the FBI only enters the scene when a criminal crosses a state line. I came into the picture when the second rape and murder occurred six months later.'
'Why were you able to do so then?'
'The second victim – again a wealthy woman driving home in the dark – was attacked in another Southern state. I heard about it, checked the details – the same gory procedure had been carried out as in the first case. That strongly suggested the same rapist and killer was in business again – and he'd crossed a state line. Which brought in the FBI and I was given the investigation.'
'Was any evidence left behind in either case?' Tweed enquired.
Tweed was recalling cases he had solved years before -in the days when he had held a high rank while working for the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard. So often chance had fingered the guilty party.
'Not yet.' Ives sighed. 'It was a frustrating time. Then after six months I heard the details of the third case. This time in a different Southern state. By now we were thinking in terms of a serial killer. So the data from case three was fed to me almost at once. After the autopsy. Again the victim was a wealthy woman driving home in the dark by herself in an expensive car across a lonely area. After viewing the corpse – like the others, she had been physically attractive – I began to think, to ask questions of myself.'
'What sort of person would these women stop for in the middle of nowhere in the dark?' Tweed suggested quietly.
'Yes.' Ives sounded surprised. 'That was my main question. I saw you once at a security conference in Washington and friends who knew you said you were good. Very good…'
Tweed said nothing. He noticed that Paula was gazing into the night and he looked in the same direction. In the moonlight the snowbound summits and saddlebacks of the Vosges showed up clearly. There were pinpoints of light in remote villages. From her expression he guessed that Paula was contrasting the beauty of the scene with the terror they had experienced among the spiralling roads, the Siberian cold and icy ravines. Ives was talking again as the express began to lose speed.
'Then there were three more similar cases – so similar it was uncanny. In three more different Southern states. He never struck in Tennessee again. Always a wealthy woman by herself and driving across a lonely area in the dark. And he used the same hideous technique in every case. He was a serial killer – six cases.'
'And never a clue?' Tweed probed. 'Remarkable. They usually slip up once.'
'He did. In the last case. He left a clear thumbprint under the handle of the car which stopped, a Lincoln Continental. I'd heard rumours that Humphries, my old chief was going to be recalled, replaced by someone new from Washington. Some sixth sense made me hide the Lincoln Continental in an old barn in the wilderness. It's still there, I'm sure. And I've got a replica of that thumbprint…'
Newman had stood up, was leaning against the end of his seat, his windcheater unzipped so he could swiftly grab hold of his Smith amp; Wesson. The express was approaching Basle Bahnhof. If anyone was going to make an attempt on Tweed it would be soon – as soon as they could jump out of the train at the station after they'd pulled the trigger. Tweed knew exactly what he was doing. He stood up to put on his coat as he spoke to Ives.
'Have to continue this conversation a little later,' he suggested. 'Cardon is strolling towards us. He'll be guarding you. And maybe you'd watch over Amberg.'
'We should be OK now we've returned to Switzerland.'
'Just how OK were you when you were dodging from one hotel to another in Zurich?' Tweed reminded him.
Tweed and Newman left the express together, walking side by side. Close behind them Paula followed with Eve Amberg. Cardon brought up the rear, a step behind Barton Ives, who escorted the Swiss banker.
French Customs and Passport Control were deserted. As they passed through the Swiss checkpoints Tweed's fears were doubly confirmed. Standing in civilian clothes behind uniformed Passport officers he saw Arthur Beck. The Swiss police chief took no notice of him. As they walked on, heading for the first-class restaurant, Harry Butler appeared. He fell into step on the other side of Tweed.
'I'm amazed you made it here so quickly,' Tweed commented. 'Mind you, the express did stop a while for no reason soon after we left Colmar.'
'We put our feet down,' Butler said tersely. 'Auto-routes help. Do you really want to go into the first-class dining-room? Pete Nield is waiting there – he's watching a member of the opposition who followed us. Head like a skull. Saw him giving orders back at the Bristol…'
49
Leaving Colmar on his way to Basle in the Renault, Marvin Mencken had been lucky. Butler and Nield, however, had been unlucky.
After killing his subordinate – who had failed in his mission to liquidate Tweed – Mencken had headed for the autoroute. He had only moved a short distance from the Bristol when he saw a gas station. At that same moment his engine coughed and spluttered.
Pulling into the petrol station, Mencken asked a mechanic to check his ignition when his tank was refilled. He was about to drive on when he saw two familiar vehicles pass – a grey Espace and a station wagon. Mencken grinned, followed them.
'You know we have a tail,' Nield warned Butler over his walkie-talkie as they proceeded along the autoroute.
'The Renault,' Butler replied. 'Can't do a damn thing about it. We've been told to get into Switzerland at the earliest possible moment. Just keep driving. Leave the problem until later…'
Reaching Basle Bahnhof, they parked their cars, walked into the first-class restaurant as two separate individuals, sat at different tables, ordered coffee. A skeletal-faced character in a trench coat walked in after them, chose a table by the wall some distance away, ordered a drink.
'I could score one off Norton,' Mencken said to himself. 'They could be waiting for the rest of their gang…'
He wasn't in the least worried that he was delaying his arrival in Ouchy. Plenty of his men were on their way to the Swiss resort. Mencken had, with his usual efficiency, arranged for Louis Sheen, the courier with the suitcase containing a huge fortune, to be driven under guard to Ouchy. That, apparently, was where the vital exchange would take place. He frowned when, some time later, Butler stood up and wandered out of the place.
Pete Nield had remained sitting at his own table. Mencken glanced at the slim man with the trim moustache who was, apparently, watching a blonde girl at a distant table.
Mencken decided his opponents had made a mistake. He'd wait until he could get Moustache on his own in a less public place. Mencken had no doubt he could make Moustache spill his guts.
'When you saw this American giving orders,' Tweed said to Butler as he continued walking slowly towards the restaurant, 'did you get the impression he carried a lot of authority?'
'One of Norton's top brass, would be my guess. I saw where he's parked his Renault just outside,' Butler added.
'First, point him out to me from the entrance. Second, you then take Ives, Paula, Eve, Amberg and Cardon to the Espace. Third, you fix our American friend's Renault.'
'What are you going to do?' asked Butler, alarmed.
'It's time Bob and I had a word with the opposition face to face. ..'
Tweed had decided it was time to stop running. He'd said in Colmar they were going on to the offensive. This seemed like a good moment to start. Butler indicated Mencken to Tweed from the door, although Tweed now recognized him instantly – the same man had walked into the bar at the Baur-en-Ville in Zurich, had stared up at Paula and himself before retreating back into the hotel. At that moment the American was watching Nield,
Hands deep inside his trench coat pockets, Tweed headed straight for Mencken's table with Newman beside him. He took out one hand, pulled back a chair at the table for four, sat facing the skeletal-faced man, who stiffened. Newman sat alongside Mencken, used his left hand to stop
the American pushing his chair back from the table. His right hand was slipped inside his windcheater, gripping his Smith amp; Wesson.
'Relax,' Newman advised him. 'Take it easy, as you never stop saying in New York.'
'What's New York got to do with anything?' Mencken sneered.
He reached inside his own trench coat. Newman's right hand closed over his wrist.
'Be careful what you take out,' he advised again.
'Your nerves all shot to hell?' Mencken sneered again.
He withdrew his hand slowly. It was holding a pack of Marlboro and a lighter. Lighting a cigarette, he blew the smoke in Tweed's direction. Tweed waved it away before he spoke.
'Maybe my friend should have said Washington,' he remarked.
'Don't give me no smoke,' Mencken snapped, his manner nervy at the reference to Washington.
'I hope you don't mind our joining you,' Tweed went on, 'but you've been keeping us company for a long time. Maybe you would tell me why?'
'What the shit does that mean?'
'Manners,' Newman interjected. 'You ought to wash out your mouth more often. It means you've been stumbling over us all the way from Zurich. My friend would like to know why. He just asked you.'
'I don't have to talk to you guys, whoever you are…'
'I wouldn't think about leaving.' The suggestion had come from Nield who was now sitting at the next table, his chair twisted round so he faced the American. 'Ever felt the walls closing in on you?' he enquired.
This is a free country. We're in Switzerland.'
Mencken's aggressive manner was fading. Minutes ago he had been confident he would get Nield on his own. Now he was the one on his own. He cursed the fact that he'd sent all his men rushing down to Ouchy. He suddenly realized that the blonde girl had left the restaurant, that it was empty except for himself and his interrogators. Even the staff seemed to have vanished. The time of the year – March – and the time of day.
'Is America such a free country these days?' Tweed asked him. 'Considering the people in power? Talking about power, how is my old acquaintance, Mr Norton?'
'Look…' Mencken was talking fast as though making a desperate attempt to convince Tweed he didn't know what he was talking about. 'Look, I'm an executive of a company selling machine tools. Business is lousy…'
'You sell a lot of machine tools in the Vosges mountains?'Newman demanded.
'If you guys don't get off my back I'm going to want some police…'
The strain was showing in Mencken's shifting eyes, in the way he smoked his cigarette, being very careful to keep smoke away from Tweed, in the way his shoulders kept jerking under his trench coat. Marvin Mencken was coming apart at the seams.
'You can have the police,' Newman assured him. 'Right out of the top drawer. The Chief of Federal Police happens to be here in this station. Want me to go and fetch him? Just say the word.'
'Look, you guys, I didn't expect this. I've had a long day. Nothing but pressure.' He turned to Newman. 'You know? That's what gets to you when you're away from home. Pressure. What's all this stuff about, anyway?'
'Maybe we could start with your name?' Tweed suggested.
'Sure. Why not? I'm Marvin Mencken…'
'What company do you work for?' Tweed pressed on.
'An outfit based in the Middle West. I guess you mixed me with someone else. Right?'
'Not right.' Tweed shook his head, his attitude still cool, almost offhand. 'You could spend Lord knows how many years in a Swiss gaol. Not comfortable places, Swiss gaols. Over here they believe in punishment for criminal offences.'
'What criminal offence?' Mencken stubbed out his cigarette, immediately lit a fresh one. 'Like I said, you're all mixed up…'
'The bomb thrown in Bahnhofstrasse by the pseudo-cripple,' Tweed went on remorselessly. 'The Chief of Police, Beck, is handling that case himself. A hard man.'
'Don't know nothin' about a bomb,' Mencken protested.
He was sweating. Beads of moisture had formed on his low forehead. Newman passed him a handkerchief.
'Use this. Clean yourself up.'
Mencken took the handkerchief. Afraid to show fear, to take out his own handkerchief, he mopped himself dry, returned the handkerchief.
'See the state you guys have got me into? What is this? The third degree? I don't have to take this…'
'Then there was the mass murder down in Cornwall, England. Eight people just shot down in cold blood by a masked gunman.'
'Mass murder? In England?' Mencken had jerked himself upright. 'You guys are crazy. Cornwall, you said? So where's that? I ain't never been to the place. This is screwy. You have got the wrong guy.'
Tweed had been watching the American closely, listening to him intently. For the first time there was vehemence in his tone, the vehemence of a man telling the truth.
Nield had been keeping one eye on the entrance to the restaurant. Now he saw Butler appear briefly, giving a thumbs-up signal. He had dealt with Mencken's Renault. Nield nodded twice to Tweed as Butler disappeared. Tweed sighed, checked his watch, pushed back his chair, stood up, both hands in his pockets as he addressed Mencken.
'I advise you to catch a flight from the airport here in the morning to Zurich. From there you can board a non-stop flight to Washington. You might just get clear of Norton.'
'Washington? I told you – I'm from the Middle West. Why this Washington thing? And Norton, Norton, Norton. Who the hell is he?'
Mencken was talking to himself. Tweed had walked away, leaving the restaurant. Newman followed, leaving Nield behind to watch the American. When they had disappeared Nield also stood up, leaned down, patted Mencken on the shoulder.
'I wouldn't leave for ten minutes. If you do there are police outside who'll arrest you. They'll take a great interest in that gun you're packing under your armpit. Do yourself a big favour. Start counting now…'
'I think I achieved my aim,' Tweed said to Newman as they walked towards the station exit.
'Which was?'
To shake Master Mencken to the core – to rattle his cage. Above all, to persuade him to underestimate me. He'll report the encounter to Norton sooner or later. I want them off guard for the final confrontation…'
Butler escorted them to the Espace. Barton Ives had done exactly what Tweed had quietly suggested to him as they earlier conversed briefly before leaving the train. He'd escorted Amberg to the Espace, parked just outside the station. The two men were sitting near the rear while Ives, alert as ever, watched Tweed and his companions approaching.
Paula, assuming that Tweed would again be driving, sat by herself in the front passenger seat. In a row further back Eve sat on the other side of Amberg, flanking the banker with Ives. Was she also suspecting that the Swiss was going to try and run off if he got the opportunity?
Tweed climbed in behind the wheel while Newman boarded the Espace at the rear. Closing the door, Tweed suddenly stood up, made his way swiftly to where Amberg sat in grim silence. He tapped the banker on the knee.
'You said the key to the security box in Ouchy is kept at your branch in Bankverein. I'm driving there now. You will, accompanied by Newman, open the bank, go in, collect the key, come straight back to the Espace. You understand me clearly?'
'At this time of night there are alarms…' the banker began.
'Which you know how to deactivate so they won't wake up half Basle. Don't play games with me, Amberg. I'm no longer in the mood for them.' He looked at Newman. 'Where is Philip Cardon?'
'Just about to come aboard. He insisted on maintaining a watch hidden in the entrance to that hotel over there. He told me he'd wait outside just before we entered the restaurant. Cardon is smart…'
As Tweed settled himself behind the wheel again, started the engine, he glanced all round. In the depths of winter no one lingered outside the station. A tram, ochre-coloured and smaller than its Zurich counterpart, trundled in to a nearby stop. No one aboard except the driver. No passengers waiting to board it. The empty tram
seemed to Paula to symbolize the deserted desolate atmosphere of Basle in March after dark. She had purposely said nothing to Tweed, sensing his concentration on his secret thoughts. He saw Butler and Nield hurrying towards the parked station wagon, waited until they were inside the vehicle and moved off. To the Zurcher Kredit Bank.
Tweed followed the tramline along a deserted street which curved and sloped steadily downwards – towards the distant Rhine and the Drei Konige where they had stayed. Was it a million years ago? There was no other traffic and Paula found the street, hemmed in on both sides by tall, solid stone buildings, eerie and unsettling. In his wing-mirror Tweed saw the station wagon transporting Butler and Nield following him.
'Should be round the next corner if I remember rightly,' Tweed commented, sensing Paula's unease.
'They go to bed early in Basle,' she remarked.
'Not a lot to stay up for, is there?' Tweed replied.
'Stop the car! There are lights in my bank. Someone has broken in
…'
Amberg's voice, calling out in surprisingly commanding and vigorous tone. Tweed signalled, pulled in to the kerb. Unfastening his belt, he twisted round in his seat, staring at the banker and Eve, who had laid a restraining hand on his arm.
'There is a woman who works for you at the bank…' Tweed began.
'It can't be her, I tell you,' Amberg rapped back with an air of authority. 'Karin would have gone home hours ago. Always at the same time to her apartment near by.'
'And always by the same route?' Tweed suggested.
'Yes. It's the quickest way for her to get home. Even when she's going shopping she goes home first to collect her basket…'
'Always at the same time and by the same route?' Tweed repeated.
'Yes. I've already told you that…'
So even Swiss security can be fallible, Tweed thought grimly. The deadly scenario was so obvious. Someone had followed Karin home after checking her routine. They had probably forced her at gunpoint to return after dark with the keys to the bank. They'd been clever enough to foresee the alarm system, to force her to deactivate it. Now they were inside and doubtless she knew about the key to the vital safe deposit. Tweed thought he now knew why Mencken had lingered in the restaurant at the station – waiting for his thugs to do this job.