by Colin Forbes
'I'd better go inside, see what's happening.'
Newman had left the Espace, was now outside Tweed's open window. His right hand by his side held the Smith amp; Wesson.
Take Butler and Nield with you,' Tweed ordered. 'They may have a number of armed men inside.'
'So I'll go with them too,' said Cardon, who had materialized beside Newman.
'I'm coming,' said Paula, her Browning already in her hand.
'You're staying to guard me,' Tweed told her.
Paula bit her lip, opened her mouth, closed it without saving anything. Tweed had cleverly checkmated her. Newman had to hold on to Amberg's arm to compel him to accompany the team.
'I wonder what hell is going to break loose inside that building,' Paula remarked aloud.
'I'll take the lead,' Newman told the others. 'I don't like the look of this. They've forgotten to close the door properly…' All the lights were on the first floor. The entrance hall was a cavern of darkness. Newman paused, held the others back with his left hand while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. He'd have liked to use his pencil flash, but they might have left a lookout at the top of the wide curving staircase. It had a wrought-iron rail and the hall floor was solid marble. Some Swiss banks liked to show clients they had come to the right place.
'Can't hear a thing,' Cardon whispered in his ear. 'It is 'too quiet. Maybe they've come and gone…'
'Assume an army is waiting up there,' Newman whispered back.
Holding on to the rail to help guide himself, he began to mount the steps. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he continued higher and higher – the first-floor landing was a surprising distance above the ground floor. Then he heard a voice.
'Come on, my dear, we haven't got all night. Before I spoil your face for ever open the bloody safe…'
The voice had spoken English with an upper-crust accent. Blurred by distance, Newman thought of Gaunt, who, when he had caught up with Butler at Basle Station, had said he was driving straight on to Ouchy. A brief remark of Butler's which hadn't really registered. Until now…
'No! Don't! Please! I'll do it…'
A woman's voice also talking English, a woman's voice expressing the last extremes of panic. Newman moved, ran up the last few steps with Cardon at his heels and the others close behind. He ran across the landing to an open doorway framing light, rushed in, crouching low, gun in front of him, then stopped in sheer surprise.
A man was holding a knife close to a woman's throat as she bent in front of a large safe, operating a combination lock. A small slim man with a plump face and pouched lips. In his thirties, he had a receding chin and a sneering smile as he watched the terrified woman opening the safe.
There was a click and she heaved the massive door open.
'Drop the knife,' Newman ordered. 'There are four of us.'
'Stand back or I'll cut her throat,' the slim man screeched.
Newman smiled, walked forward, placed the muzzle of his Smith amp; Wesson carefully against the side of the man's head. He pressed the metal close to the skull.
'You won't cut anything,' Newman said in a quiet voice. 'Because if you did in the next second half your head would be plastered over that wall. So stop playing silly games. Drop it! ' he roared. 'Or you're dead.'
The knife clattered to the floor. Cardon noticed that the hand which had held the knife was trembling like a leaf in the wind. The woman's assailant stared at Newman as though seeing a ghost.
'Who the heck is this creep?' Cardon asked impatiently.
'Meet Mr Joel Dyson, notorious member of the paparazzi mob. Someone outside wants to meet you badly, Joel.'
PART THREE
The Power
50
In Washington it was late afternoon, the lights were on, blurred in a steady snowfall. President Bradford March was pacing the Oval Office restlessly when Sara came in.
'What is it now?' he snapped. 'More trouble? And when do I get a report on the treachery of the Holy Trinity?'
'It may be good news,' she replied in a soothing tone. 'Norton is on the line.'
'Leave me while I talk to the bastard…'
March took a deep breath as he sank into his chair and picked up the phone. He was in a foul mood.
'Norton here. I've reached Neuchatel…'
'Have you? Great. Where is the friggin' place?'
'In Switzerland. French-speaking Switzerland…'
'Cohabiting with the Frogs now, are we? You haven't got a woman with you, have you? Because if you have I'll hear about it from Mencken and…'
'I'm alone and in a hurry. Are you going to listen for a change or shall I put down the receiver?'
'Norton…' March's tone became dangerously soft. 'If you ever threaten me again Mencken takes over instanter. Get to it.'
'I'm close to Ouchy – where the exchange will take place. The money for the two items you need. The place is ringed with my troops. I may clean up the whole job before the night is out…'
'You'd better. You're running out of time. Remember? I gave you a deadline. Of course, if you obtain what I'm after without paying over the big bucks there'd be a nice fat bonus waiting for you.'
'Any point in asking how much?' Norton enquired.
Thought you were in a hurry to get to this Owchy. OK. You asked. Fifty big ones,' March said, clutching a figure out of the air. .'I'll be in touch. My new number at the Hotel Chateau d'Ouchy is. ..'
'Got it. Get on your horse…'
In the Neuchatel hotel where he'd paid for a room for the night so he could use the phone, Norton put down the receiver. At least this time he'd beaten March to the punch in contacting him and giving him his new phone number.
He went downstairs, pulling on his coat, told the receptionist he'd be back for dinner later, went out into the arctic night to drive on to Ouchy.
In Washington March was pulling at his stubby nose with his thumb and forefinger. A bonus? The only bonus Norton would get when he returned would be a bullet in the back of the neck.
March never took a chance he didn't have to. He was working on the assumption that – despite orders – Norton would take a peek at the film, would listen to the tape when he laid his hands on them. That risk could only be eliminated by eliminating Norton. Maybe things were now looking good. He opened a bottle of beer, drank from it and wondered about the Holy Trinity.
Senator Wingfield was alone in his study with the curtains closed against the night. He was also drinking but his beverage was Brazilian coffee from a Royal Doulton service arranged on a silver tray. He was studying a typed message which had come special delivery from Europe. No indication on the sheet of paper of the whereabouts of the sender – except the stamps were Swiss.
'That's right, Galloway,' he said to himself, referring to the Vice President. 'When the bullets start to fly keep your head down.'
The experienced Senator was cynically amused that this communication had come direct to him. He could imagine the brief phone conversation Jeb Galloway had had with his FBI contact.
'Barton, from now on I guess it would be best if any further communication was sent direct to Wingfield…'
The message was very direct – and highly dangerous if it got into the wrong hands. The Oval Office, for example. Events appeared to be moving to a climax and the Senator knew he was going to have to devote thought as to how to handle a potentially explosive situation. The ball was now in his court.
Have positive evidence as to identity of six-serial murderer in the South. Expect soon to have conclusive data. Will then communicate with you again – in person if at all possible. Barton Ives.
'Meet Joel Dyson,' Newman said, introducing his captive to Tweed, who had climbed down from the Espace. 'At long last,' he added.
Garden, who always seemed equipped with everything, had produced a pair of handcuffs inside the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Dyson's hands were now pinioned behind his back and Butler, who was holding him by one arm, had shown him his Walther. The slim little m
an, his hair dishevelled, stared at Tweed.
'I'm going to complain to the British consul. I'm still a British citizen.'
'I have a better idea,' Tweed suggested. 'We can hand you over to the American Embassy in Berne. I'm sure there's a man very high up in Washington who would be happy to meet you.'
'Blimey, guv, for Gawd's sake don't do that. Like handing a Christian to the lions,' he pleaded in his best cockney mimickry.
'Some Christian,' Newman commented. His voice hardened. 'Don't play silly games with my chief. He means what he says.'
'God, no! I'm begging you…'
Dyson's nerve had broken suddenly. Tweed looked down at the man who had sunk to his knees, his body shaking with terror. He pursed his lips with distaste, nodded to Butler.
Take him to the station wagon. Keep him quiet while we drive to Ouchy. I'll question him later.'
Dyson opened his mouth to scream. Newman clamped a gloved hand over the mouth before it could utter a sound. Nield twisted his handkerchief into a gag, inserted it inside Dyson's mouth, tied it at the back of his neck. Butler and Nield carried him away to the station wagon. Tweed and Paula listened as Newman gave a brief account of what had happened inside the bank.
'Karin, Amberg's kidnapped assistant, is in better shape than you'd expect,' Newman reported. 'She insisted on staying back to make coffee for herself and the guard Dyson coshed when he first arrived with Karin. You're looking impatient,' he ended.
'I think we ought to get out of Basle like bats out of hell,' Tweed ordered. 'The sooner we reach Ouchy the happier I'll be.'
'Who was that funny little man your people carted away?'
The voice called out from the back of the Espace – Eve Amberg's.
'A minor member of the opposition,' Tweed called back quickly.
'Eve does like to know what's going on,' Paula commented. 'Unlike Amberg, who seems to have thrown in his hand.'
A door slammed. Newman and Cardon were aboard. Cardon took up his old position next to the Swiss banker while Newman sat behind Paula. Tweed replied as he started the Espace moving, heading out of Basle, 'Amberg is sitting there with a grim expression. Typical that he hasn't enquired if Karin is all right. But he always was the cold fish of the two brothers as I recall. Let me concentrate on driving,' Tweed said brusquely.
Paula glanced at him. What he really meant was – let me concentrate on thinking this thing out.
They were well south of the city, driving with the Jura mountains rearing up to their right, when Tweed began talking to Paula in a voice which wouldn't carry to his passengers in the rear.
'I was right in my theory about two different jigsaws interlocking, that one wouldn't exist without the other. Two quite different styles of murder have been committed, which suggests two different groups are involved.'
'Two different styles of murder? That's a graphic phrase,' she remarked. 'Explanation, please.'
'The blowing up of our headquarters at Park Crescent, the bomb thrown at me in Zurich, the planned demolition by explosives of the Kaysersberg bridge, the second use of demolition by explosives of that cliff up in the Vosges. All those are what I'd call organization acts, requiring the services of a large and powerful apparatus. In short, Norton and the Americans. That is one distinctive style of attempted murder.'
Tweed accelerated a little more. There was no other traffic on the road below the mountains. He was anxious to reach Ouchy, to question Joel Dyson, to compel
Amberg to produce the film and the tape, and to hear the rest of Barton Ives' story. Paula glanced back and saw Ives, seated next to Newman, staring out into the night with a far-away look.
'You said two different styles of murder,' she reminded Tweed. 'What about the second style?'
'Highly individual. One person, disguised as the postman, arrived at the manor, knifed the butler, walked into the kitchen, sprayed the staff with tear-gas, then marched into the dining-room with a machine-gun and mowed down the seven people sitting there. Cold-blooded, audacious.'
'Not Norton, you mean?'
'A different style from Norton. Then take the hideous garrotting of the call girl Helen Frey and her friend Klara. I think the killer had a wire garrotte disguised as a string of pearls – hence the single blood-stained pearl found in Prey's apartment.'
'How do you think it was managed with such horrific skill?'
'Oh, not difficult. You offer to loop the pearls round Prey's neck so she can see how she looks in them. What woman could resist such an offer? Same technique with Klara.'
'A man,' Paula said thoughtfully. 'Maybe he even offered to give them the pearls. That would be irresistible.'
'Again an individual murder – as opposed to Norton's mass killing attempts.'
'But what about that nice detective, Theo Strebel? He was shot,' she reminded him.
'You'd hardly play the murderous trick with the pearl garrotte on a man, would you? But I'm sure he was shot by someone he knew, who put him off his guard. Again an individual murder. Don't forget the Shadow Man with the wide-brimmed hat who stalked Jennie Blade.'
'Butter wouldn't melt in Jennie's mouth. That type of woman always makes me suspicious.'
'It couldn't be simply that you dislike her?' Tweed probed.
'Men can be very naive about attractive women,' Paula persisted. 'Especially when a woman like her gazes at a man adoringly. And much earlier Jennie remarked she'd seen Eve in Padstow about the time of the massacre. I think she was lying, but it could be a significant lie.'
'In what way?' Tweed enquired.
'It suggests that Jennie herself could have been in Padstow at the time of the massacre.'
'You could be right, I suppose.'
'And,' Paula went on, in full flood, 'I only caught a glimpse of the fake postman who killed all those people, riding along the drive up to the mansion.'
'Which suggests something to you? Remember Jennie has a mane of golden hair.'
'There again men don't know enough about women. Jennie could have piled up her hair on top of her head. That fake postman wore a uniform cap which could conceal the hair. It was a cold day so I didn't think it odd that the figure on the cycle wore a cap – it was a very cold day.'
'I still find it difficult to believe,' Tweed commented.
'And now she's gone off with Gaunt, who, according to Butler, was in the devil of a hurry to get to Ouchy in his BMW.'
'If you add Gaunt to the equation you do make out a very strong case,' Tweed admitted. 'I have an idea we'll break this mystery open in two bites. First the film and the tape will tell us the Washington angle – solving Norton's frantic efforts to stop us. Later we may have to return to Padstow to pin down who was responsible for the massacre. To say nothing of the murders of Frey, Klara and Theo Strebel.'
'You think you know who is guilty of those murders, don't you?' Paula challenged him.
'I've known for some time. The key is Jennie Blade's references to the so-called Shadow Man appearing in Colmar.'
When Marvin Mencken left the restaurant in Basle Bahnhof – he had carefully waited for fifteen minutes to be on the safe side – he hurried to where his Renault was parked. He was about to climb behind the wheel when he noticed his front right tyre was flat.
He swore aloud, then began the time-wasting task of changing it for his spare tyre. He had no way of knowing it was sabotage. While Tweed was confronting him inside the restaurant Butler had used a simple method of disabling the car.
Crouching down by the front tyre as though lacing up his trainer, he had taken out a ballpoint pen, unscrewed the cap, inserted the end of his pen and pressed down the valve, holding it there until all the air had escaped. He had then replaced the cap.
Mencken worked frantically in the vain hope of arriving in Ouchy before Norton. Sweating with the effort, despite the bitter cold, he eventually got behind the wheel and started the car. The delay meant that when Norton reached his destination there was no one to tell him where his troops were located in dif
ferent hotels.
The Hotel Chateau d'Ouchy was one of the weirdest, most intriguing hotels Paula had ever seen. Tweed had driven the Espace down a steep hill, had turned on to a level road and as the moon came out from behind a cloud Paula had her first view of Lake Geneva, the largest of all the Swiss lakes. The water was calm, without a ripple, stretching away towards distant France on the southern shore.
Butler overtook them in the station wagon as Tweed paused, crawling ahead to sniff out any sign of danger. As Tweed waited Paula peered up at the Chateau d'Ouchy. Illuminated by external arc lights, it was built of fawn-coloured stone and its steep, red-tiled roofs were decorated with a black, almost sinister zigzag design. At the corners steepled turrets reared up and it looked very old.
'Looks as ancient as history,' she commented.
'Used to be a castle in the twelfth century,' Tweed told her, 'before ages later it was rebuilt and converted into a hotel. At least it's quiet down here.'
Paula thought that was an understatement, recalling the furious hustle and fast tempo of Zurich. Across the road from the hotel was an oyster-shaped harbour encircled with eerie green street lamps, their light reflected in the harbour water. Boats cocooned for winter in blue plastic covers were moored to buoys.
But it was the stillness which most struck her – the waterfront was deserted, there was no other traffic, no one else in sight. To their left beyond the road they had driven along was a line of small hotels and cafes, all apparently closed. Tweed had lowered his window and refreshing air drifted inside – so different from the ice-cold of the Vosges. Marler appeared from nowhere alongside the window.
'OK to come ashore,' he drawled. He handed a sheet of paper to Tweed. 'That lists the hotels round here where Norton's men are stationed. The Chateau d'Ouchy, so far as I can tell, is clean…'
Tweed had parked the Espace in a courtyard alongside the hotel and next to Marler's red Mercedes. He entered reception with Paula, who spoke to the girl behind the counter, reminding her of the phoned reservations.