The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  She'd insisted they have a talk and they did. It made matters worse. As he calmly explained his odd behavior—just a business call, some forgotten detail at his office, he didn't want it to disturb her sleep—in her mind she marveled, sadly, at what a smooth and practiced liar he was.

  Damn you, Paul. I heard you mention my father. And who is supposed to stay out of sight? And after you've explained it all away and poor, dumb little Susan says, “Oh. Makes sense to me, Paul. How could I have ever misunderstood?”—-tell me how it is that considerate Paul Bannerman goes out to make a routine phone call with a kitchen knife tucked up his sleeve.

  She soaked for almost an hour, during which time she thought she heard movement outside the bathroom door. When she finally emerged, having tried to imagine what he might say to her, or she to him, she saw that the bedroom door was open, the bed where he had slept was made up, and he was gone. There was a note on the kitchen counter. It said, There's no coffee. Gone to shop for groceries. XXX. Paul.

  XXX. Sweet of him. Don't you feel terrible? Here's good old Paul trudging through the snow to get you breakfast and all you can think about is a few teeny white lies and a dumb old bread knife.

  She dressed quickly in a parka, furry boots and jeans. She scribbled a note and left it next to his. I've gone for a walk. I want some time alone. She underlined alone three times.

  In the coffee shop of the Alpina Hotel, directly across from the Klosters station, Caroline Bass touched her husband's arm and gestured toward the road outside. “First him, now her,” she said.

  Ray Bass twisted his head to look. Susan was approaching the village. There was something peculiar, he noticed, about the way she was walking. She was moving in spurts, peering ahead through the still-falling snow, staying close to a row of railroad utility sheds. Suddenly she paused, then backtracked a few feet and stepped out of sight behind a small freight warehouse. Ray Bass turned his head in the other direction. There was Paul. A plastic shopping bag in each hand. Heading her way.

  “Know what I think?” Ray smiled

  Caroline nodded. “From the look of it, those two had a tiff. Seems like Susan wants no part of him just now.”

  “Could be real convenient, she keeps her distance from him for a while. Why don't we tag along and see where she goes?”

  Caroline watched as Paul went by the freight warehouse. He was thirty yards past it when Susan reappeared and resumed her walk to the village. “Let's wait a bit, darlin’,” she suggested. “Like as not, Paul will see she's gone and come lookin' for her.”

  Ray Bass wiped the window for a better look at Susan. “Can't tell whether she's sad or mad. Of course, one's as distractin' as the other. I bet a couple of friendly faces like ours would be real welcome right about now.”

  Caroline nodded again. “We meet up with her, let's do it from the car, not on foot.”

  Ray Bass agreed. “Take her on a nice ride, let her cry on your shoulder about whatever mean thing Paul did. I wouldn't mind findin' out a little bit more about him either.”

  “Whyn't you go to the front door, sweetie? See which way she goes. I'll sit here and keep an eye out for Paul.”

  In a corner room two floors above them, Josef Brugg, who had also seen the daughter of Elena's policeman hide from the man known as Mama's Boy, quickly put on his coat and hat. He too could see that the girl was distracted. Though he saw no particular peril in it, it could do no harm, he decided, to keep an eye on her. At least he would get some exercise.

  Susan had no destination in mind. She might, she thought, pick up a dozen postcards although she knew she was in no mood to write breezy messages to friends. Or she might just keep walking. Pumping strength back into her legs. Or find a place to sit and give her thoughts a chance to settle. Maybe in one of these little patisseries, although she didn't feel much like eating either. Or maybe in a movie theater, if one were open at this hour, and if Klosters had one. It didn't seem to.

  She passed a storefront that appeared to be a chamber of commerce office. Racks of brochures, things to see and do, posters. One poster listed the movies showing that week in Davos. Four cinemas to choose from. All current films, most of them American.

  Davos. Not a bad idea. A much bigger town. Time to herself without looking over her shoulder for Paul, half hoping he'd be there, half hoping he wouldn't. She turned back toward the train station.

  “Paul's come lookin' all right.” Kay Bass slid back into the booth with Caroline. Together they watched.

  Susan had gone directly to the station, where she stood studying the yellow Abfahrt Klosters sign. Paul nearly walked by her. But he saw her now and approached her from the rear. Caroline saw Susan stiffen, her shoulders heaved as if in a sigh, and she turned to face him. His manner seemed conciliatory, and he gestured in the direction of their apartment as if asking her to come back to it, but Susan was more than adamant.

  Twice he reached to touch her and twice she recoiled. At last she turned away. She stood facing the tracks, glancing now and then toward the north. Paul stood watching her for a minute or two, his manner one of helplessness. He approached her one more time, spoke to her briefly, and she nodded without turning. He walked away.

  “The way she's lookin’,” Ray Bass said, “she's waitin' for a southbound train. Not much down that way except Davos. We could be waitin' when she gets there, dar-lin”

  “Oh, shoot.” Caroline touched his hand. “Paul's gonna try again.”

  She watched as Paul retraced his steps but he did not approach Susan. For a long moment he stared at her back, then, with a gesture of resignation, he stepped to a telephone that was out of Susan's line of sight. As he dialed a number he patted his pockets until he found a pen. He waited, then scribbled what must have been a phone number on the telephone casing. He dialed again, his expression grim, and spoke into the phone. As he did so he rubbed out the number with his thumb. He broke the connection and walked away. He did not look back.

  “Funny time to make a call,” Ray Bass frowned. “Unless Dear Abby has a hotline from over there.”

  Caroline nodded. “Considerin’ his own phone ain't but two minutes away.”

  “Still, we got a bird in the hand here. That train comes, we're gonna lose her.”

  “Let's go.” Caroline picked up her purse.

  With their attention upon Susan and Paul's actions, neither Ray nor Caroline noticed that Susan had been followed to the station. A large, middle-aged man in a fleece-lined coat and fur hat had taken a position near the newspaper kiosk. Paul, with his mind on Susan, and his own carelessness the night before, and on his phone call, made with the greatest reluctance, for Carla Benedict's room in the Des Alpes hotel, also failed to notice that the same man who'd watched them arrive was now there again as Susan left.

  Caroline Bass, having explored Davos on the preceding evening, found that it was a long and narrow town, almost a city, that had grown lengthwise along the valley floor. Its shops, hotels and cinemas ran along a single one-way street called the Promenade. She'd seen that the Promenade ran parallel to the railroad tracks but had been cut through rock some eighty feet further up the slope. For passengers detraining in Davos, the shops were reached by climbing a single winding street. The way was clearly marked.

  The place to wait for Susan, Caroline decided, was in their black Saab on the Promenade itself. From it they could watch the train pull in. If Susan was in fact aboard she would almost certainly follow the signs to the Promenade. It would not do to wait for her outside the station because the street she must climb ran the wrong way against them. They would not be able to follow in their car.

  Carla Benedict, however, was on foot. And in foul humor. She'd been in bed when Paul rang their room, having unenthusiastic sex with Gary, mostly to stop his whining about his having to stay by the phone in Davos while she went up to Klosters. To look things over. To see if any familiar faces were showing up in town. To see who might be driving a black Saab with a blue ski pod on its roof. But now she
wasn't going. Instead, she fumed, she now had to play chaperone to Paul's pain-in-the-ass little play toy. Make sure she doesn't get lost, or slip on the ice, or get sold a Japanese watch. Paul owes her for this, by God. A week in Hawaii. Two weeks. Without Russo. No more mercy-fucking.

  She spotted Susan at once. Stepping off the train. In a fog. Following the crowd down the steps and through the underpass to the street. Then standing there trying to figure out where to go next. Come on, dummy. Follow the signs. Why do you think everyone else is. ...

  But everyone else wasn't.

  The one in the fur hat. Hands in his pockets. He was waiting. Moving only when Susan moved. Waving off a taxi driver who looked at him questioningly but keeping his right hand in his pocket. Now following her. Up the hill.

  Carla began humming to herself.

  There was a large variety store at the top of the hill, positioned to get first crack at the tourists' money. All the window displays had sale signs in German. Susan went in. Carla watched as she browsed, finally stopping at a display of carved wooden heads that wore fierce expressions and had long, wild hair fashioned from horses' tails and real horses' teeth and were said, by those who sold them, to ward off evil spirits. Susan was smiling now, trying to choose among them. At last she selected one, paid for it with a credit card, paused twice more to look over a food display and a rack of junk earrings, then left the store. The fur hat followed. Carla brushed past him at the entrance, her fingers nimbly tracing the outline of an automatic pistol in that right-hand pocket.

  Now she was sure. He was a tail, no question, and he was armed and ready. But why would he be following the girl? And who was he?

  She considered watching and waiting. But that went against both her habit and her temperament. When in doubt, take 'em out Or at least force the issue. Hadn't Anton told her to make her presence felt? To let it be known that Paul was not alone in Switzerland?

  Her humming picked up in tempo.

  Josef Brugg had fallen to a prudent distance behind the Lesko girl. The red plastic bag she carried made it all the easier to pick her out among the shoppers and strollers.

  “Excuse me.” He heard the voice, a woman, American, behind him. He turned. A tiny woman. Wearing a fur jacket that seemed too large for her.

  “No English,” he lied.

  “Are you a policeman?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  He frowned. “Nein. Nicht polizei. No English.”

  Josef tried to step past her. She sidestepped with him, babbling something about being lost. But then she slipped on the snowy surface. She would have fallen had they not grabbed each other. He moved to straighten her but now she seemed stuck to him. Her left hand, he was shocked to realize, was suddenly in his pocket. It had gripped his pistol. He felt the movement of her thumb as it snapped off the safety, now twisting it violently so that the muzzle was lined up against his crotch.

  “How would you like your pecker shot off?” she asked in German.

  He stood frozen.

  “Put your arm around me. Walk with me.” She cocked her head toward a service alley between two shops. “That way.”

  “There she is,” Ray Bass pointed. “Got a red bag.”

  Caroline saw. Susan was ambling along, reading a map or pamphlet as she walked. Now she was stopping, making half turns as if to get her bearings. She lifted her head, focusing on a point halfway up the western slope of the valley. “Come on, honey. Keep comin' this way. You got some old friends to visit. ... Oh, darn.” Susan was crossing the Promenade. Now she was leaving it. “What's up where she's goin?” Caroline asked.

  Ray checked his own map. “Not much. Just houses. Oh, wait.” He traced his finger over the grids. “There's a tramway there goin' to a restaurant up the mountain.” Ray reached for the door handle. “Let's go, darlin'. We'll have to leave the car.”

  Caroline hesitated. Something down the road had caught her eye. “What's all that, you think?” Looked like a man and woman dancing. Or wrestling. A crowd started to gather.

  “Maybe it's how the Swiss have babies,” he said impatiently. “Darlin’, let's get this done.”

  They hurried on foot down the Promenade, rehearsing as they went. Susan? Susan darlin'? . . . My golly, I don't believe it! . . . Ray here says, look, there's that pretty Susan, and I said can't be . . . but sure enough here you are. My golly, I just can't believe . . . Ray here losin' your address and all . . . Where's your handsome fella? . . . He is?. . . We'll go surprise him later. . . . Meanwhile it's almost lunchtime and me and Ray were headin' up this tramway to try some of that hot raclette cheese they got, and why don't we all . . . ?

  “Let go or shoot,” the big Swiss said to Carla.

  He had her in a bear hug, lifting her a foot off the ground, her eyes now level with his, her arms pinned to her sides, the knuckles of one fist digging into her lumbar vertebrae.

  Shit.

  Hardly one man in a hundred, she thought disgustedly, wouldn't have followed meekly at the thought of his balls sprayed all over the sidewalk. She had to pick one who'd been neutered.

  “Let go,” he repeated, “or shoot.”

  She considered it. But his muscles were tensed and ready. Without a killing shot, not possible where the gun was pointed, those knuckles could snap her spine. His eyes promised it. But she was not about to release the gun. And she couldn't dangle here all morning. She decided. Carla drew back her head.

  “Fuck you,” she snarled. She slammed her forehead against his nose. Once, then again. In the same moment wriggling violently, tugging on his gun to free it from his pocket. That was a mistake. For an instant it became knotted in the fabric of his pocket. His right hand came down and covered hers. She could feel his thumb close over the hammer. With her other hand, still pinned against him, she clawed desperately at the soft flesh around his crotch but now, with a growl, he seized her hair and tore her free of him.

  People around them had stopped. Some were shouting. But she saw only the face of the big Swiss, advancing on her now. She feinted a jab with her fingers at his eyes, then threw a spinning kick against the side of his knee but her footing and her leverage were poor. He had her again. One hand gripped her coat and the other slammed a fist into her ribs. She gagged.

  “Stop this.” A shouted voice in German. A woman. Carla, blinded with pain, could hear the sound of blows against the big man's back. A clattering sound. Like an umbrella. The big man raised an arm to ward them off. Another man, a passerby, seized it. Now still another grappled with him. The big Swiss was shouting, trying to explain. Carla heard the word meuchel. Assassin. She freed herself and aimed a final well-timed kick. Josef Brugg gasped and sank to his knees.

  She turned to her rescuers so that they might see what this beast of a man had done to her. Her face was streaked and splattered with the blood from Josef's nose and from her own tears. She backed away from him as if in terror, now breaking into a run as two men seized and pummeled him.

  Down the Promenade she ran, searching through the crowds and the falling snow for the red shopping bag, peering into every shop she passed. Susan Lesko, damn her, had disappeared.

  Paul Bannerman tried reading, he tried watching television, but mostly he paced. From the silent telephone at one end of the room to the terrace door at the other. Watching for each arriving train. Hoping to see Susan among those walking from the station. Wanting to go to Davos, to look for her, not wanting to leave the phone in case she called.

  The only call had been from Carla. She'd lost Susan. But so had the man who'd been following her. No, Carla had no idea why. Or who he was. Possibly a policeman. Possibly something worse. She had watched him for a while after failing to find Susan. As soon as he freed himself from the people who were berating him, he rushed to the nearest phone and reported. To whom? Who knows. Should she watch him or keep looking for Susan?

  Look for Susan, Paul told her. She doesn't know Davos. The way to bet is she'll stick to the shopping streets. You find her, get her back here no matter
how much you have to tell her.

  He watched one more train arrive, then picked up his phone. He dialed three Westport numbers before reaching Anton Zivic at the clinic.

  “Anton,” he said, after relating the substance of Carla's call from Davos, “Is it possible that Susan's father arranged to have her watched?”