Cade

Seven

Cade walked slowly and stiffly down the steps of Eastonville’s State hospital to where Ron Mitchell was lolling against his dusty Chevrolet.

Apart from a swelling under his left eye, a strip of plaster along his jaw and his paleness, Cade showed no visible signs of the brutal body beating he had received from the three deputies after his escape from the Central Motor Hotel.

His body ached and he had difficulty in holding himself upright, but a feeling of utter triumph which he was careful to conceal, kept him moving.

“Hello, Cade,” Mitchell said. “Get in. I bet you don’t want to miss your plane. I bet you have had enough of this little ol’ town, huh?”

“Just about,” Cade said and got into the passenger’s seat.

By now, he thought, as he carefully straightened his legs, the cartridge of film would be on its way to Mathison. In a day or so, the pictures would be with the F.B.I., and then those thugs who had killed Sonny Small and his girl friend would laugh the other side of their brutal faces.

Mitchell climbed in beside Cade and sent the car roaring towards the highway.

“Your camera’s on the back seat, Cade,” he said. “Thought I would bring it along.” He touched his bruised face and grinned. “I certainly asked for that. Well, you got beat up: I got beat up, so we’re square. Just keep your long nose out of this little ol’ town in the future.”

“I’ll do that,” Cade said tonelessly.

He turned to look at his worn Pan-Am overnight bag. Then he felt a prickle of apprehension. Had this moronic sadist checked the camera and found the film missing? Maybe he hadn’t thought about the film. He was stupid enough for the idea not to occur to him, but Cade now began to sweat a little. Maybe this was a trap and he wasn’t being taken to the airport. Maybe he was going to be taken somewhere and asked for the film: asked with the persuasion these thugs would know how to use.

“Something biting you, Cade?” Mitchell asked, glancing at him.

“I just don’t feel good. Nor would you if you got kicked in the belly.”

Mitchell laughed.

“I thought you had something on your mind.”

But they were heading for the airport. Cade could see a plane coming in to land, and in a few minutes, he saw the distant airport buildings.

“You haven’t asked about the march you were at one time so interested in,” Mitchell said. “Well, we broke it up. It was fun while it lasted. Those niggers are certainly sitting in their shanties with sore heads this morning.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t talk too much about it when you get back to your nigger-loving home. Just relax, and don’t flap with the mouth.”

Cade didn’t say anything. In another three minutes, they pulled up at the Departure Centre of the airport. Cade slung his heavy bag on his shoulder, wincing a little as he got out of the car.

“Well, so long, Cade,” Mitchell said. “Sorry you didn’t enjoy your visit.”

Cade walked into the lobby. He checked his ticket. The clerk gave him a sneering little grin as he stamped the ticket.

“Have a good trip,” he said.

Cade paid no attention. In another few minutes he would be past the police control and then he would be out of trouble.

“Hello, Cade.”

He stiffened and slowly turned.

Deputy Joe Schneider was strolling towards him, a half-grin on his fleshy face. He was immaculate in his khaki drill, his star shining in the neon light.

Cade waited, aware of fear, but thinking: all right, you sonofabitch, you can start something now, but this time I can finish it. I have this stinking town where I want it. Five of your natives are going to feel a hand on their collars, and it will happen because of me.

“You off?” Schneider said, pausing before Cade.

“That’s the idea, deputy,” Cade said.

“Fine. Well, none too soon, but now you’re going no ill feelings.”

Cade didn’t say anything.

“I guess you must be feeling a little sore. My boys get over-enthusiastic. You know how it is, Cade. We just don’t like nigger-lovers in this town.”

Still Cade said nothing.

“I brought along a little memento for you,” Schneider went on, his grin widening. “I wouldn’t like you to leave us without something to remember us by.”

Cade straightened his aching body. Here it comes, he thought. The sonofabitch is going to knock my teeth out. But take it, for you are going to even the score. You have this stinking town by the short hairs.

Schneider took something from his pocket and held it up between his finger and thumb.

Cade stared at the Kodak film cartridge, feeling the blood drain out of his face and his body turning cold.

“Yeah. The film you took,” Schneider said. “You know, Cade, you don’t understand what goes on in this little ol’ town. Nigger eats nigger here. When a nigger thinks he can do good for himself, he does good for himself. Old Sam brought this film to me. He said you told him to send it to the Sun. He thought I would appreciate the gift more than the Sun, and he was right. We’ll take care of Sam. A nigger like him deserves to be taken care of.”

Cade had a mad impulse to snatch the cartridge and run for it, but he knew it was hopeless.

“I’ll tell you what we will do,” Schneider said. “I’ll keep the film and you have the cartridge. How’s that?” He began pulling the film out of the cartridge until it made a long black coil of destroyed film at Cade’s feet.

Cade looked down at the film. This was the worst moment of his life.

This is my finish, he thought. Nothing for Mathison. Nothing to show for my beating and those swine will now get away with their murder. But what does it matter? Juana... Adolfo... Ed... Vicki... and now this. What the hell does it matter? What does anything matter?

He stared at Schneider for a long moment while Schneider continued to grin at him.

“Screw you and screw your bastard town,” Cade said, then turning, he walked slowly through the barrier towards the waiting aircraft. Schneider’s bellowing laughter followed him.

Three and a half hours later the aircraft touched down at the Kennedy airport. Cade was now so drunk the air hostess had to help him along the ramp from the aircraft to the reception centre. The other passengers, some disgusted, others grinning, stood aside and let him go first.

When he and the girl finally reached the reception centre, the girl, a nice looking blonde, asked anxiously, “Are you sure you are all right now, sir?”

Cade tried to focus her, but her face swam in a haze of drunkenness.

“I’m fine, baby,” he said. “Thanks a million.”

A tall, thin man, wearing a smart chauffeur’s uniform came up to Cade. He jerked his head at the air hostess, dismissing her.

“Mr. Cade?”

Cade reeled, grabbed the man’s arm and steadied himself.

“That’s the name.”

“I have the car here, sir,” the chauffeur said. “Let me have your bag.”

“Mistake,” Cade said and shoving the chauffeur aside, he began to stagger towards the line of taxis he could vaguely make out through the open gates.

The chauffeur followed him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cade...”

Cade turned and squinted at the man.

“Now what the hell is it?”

“Mr. Braddock wishes to see you sir,” the chauffeur said. “May I have your bag?”

“Go ahead if you’re all that excited about it,” Cade said and let the chauffeur take his bag. “Who is Mr. Braddock?”

“The car is right here, sir,” the chauffeur said and indicated a black and yellow Rolls Royce parked at the kerb.

Cade stared at the car, then at the chauffeur.

“Sure you haven’t made a mistake?” he asked, trying to fight off the whisky fumes that enveloped his brain.

“There is no mistake, sir.”

Cade felt himself being helped into the car and he sank into the soft luxury of the seat, suddenly not caring any more. His head dropped back against the cushion and he passed out.

The chauffeur regarded him with distaste, then put Cade’s bag carefully by Cade’s feet. He got in the car and drove away.

Shad Braddock sat in a lounging chair in the shaded garden of his penthouse, twenty-four stories above the bustle and roar of New York.

He was tall, bony and heavily sunburned. A faddist about his health, he lived on health food, shunned all meat, and when he had the time practised Yogi exercises and sun worshipped at every opportunity. For his age, and he admitted to seventy-five, he was remarkably well preserved. His face was the face of a skull. His eyes were deeply sunk: small, glittering stones, animated and restless. His lips were thin, his nose pinched, his ears large and flat.

He was rated by the New York social index as the fifth richest man in America. One of his business sidelines was the scandal sheet Whisper. This weekly newspaper gave him more interest, and more amusement than any of his other varied business activities.

Braddock was a sadist. He was never happier than when he was able to cause pain and trouble for some well known person in the gutter-inspired pages of Whisper.

Opposite him, holding a whisky and soda in an unsteady hand, sat Cade. The time was 22.15 hours and Cade was still a little drunk. He recognised Braddock as he had crossed the terrace to where Braddock was sitting. He knew him to be one of the most dangerous, influential and wealthy tycoons of all American tycoons.

“Well, Cade,” Braddock said in a dry, soft voice, “you seem to have reached the end of your road.”

The Japanese manservant who had served Cade his whisky and soda had gone and the two men were alone.

Cade sipped his drink. He felt pretty bad, but not bad enough to accept patronage from a man like Braddock.

“Who cares what you think?” he said.

“I’ve been following your career,” Braddock went on. He glanced at the gold Omega on his skinny wrist. “I haven’t a lot of time. I have an offer to make you.”

Cade lifted his shoulders. He finished his drink and set down the glass. He was genuinely uninterested.

“I want certain photographs. The fee will be ten thousand dollars,” Braddock said, staring at Cade. “You will also retain the syndicate rights. They could get you a small fortune.”

“Why pick on me?” Cade asked. “There are plenty of other photographers. I’m just a goddamn lush.”

“It is because you are what you are, Mr. Cade, that I know you are the man I need,” Braddock said, crossing his thin legs. “Drink destroys principles. I know you are in need of money. I have it. I think we could work together.”

The Japanese servant came in silently, refilled Cade’s glass and went as silently away.

“I’m still under contract to the Sun,” Cade said.

Braddock shook his head.

“Not any more. I have taken over your contract. Mathison seemed pleased to be rid of it”

Cade stared down at his drink, then he lifted his shoulders. He didn’t blame Henry. How much lower am I going to sink? he asked himself. To work for a rag like Whisper is about as far as I can get.

“I don’t know if you have studied your contract, Mr. Cade,” Braddock went on, “but it is a very comprehensive document Mathison would be in his rights to sue you for falling down on your various assignments, but he has a kindly disposition. I have not. I want it understood that you are to do as I tell you or else you will have a law suit in your lap that will prevent you from earning another dollar: even if you find work outside your particular speciality.”

Cade drank half the whisky in his glass and shrugged again.

“So what do you want me to do?” he said, looking at Braddock, his eyes glassy and out of focus.

“I am preparing a profile on Anita Strelik,” Braddock said. “I want certain photographs to complete the profile. It will be your job to get them.”

Anita Strelik was an international movie star. She rated along with Bardot, Moreau, Lollobrigida. She had been hailed by some of the New York critics as the modern Garbo. Russian by birth, aged around twenty-seven, blonde, handsome rather than beautiful, she had been headline news for the past five years. She was to the film world what Callas was to the Opera world: an intriguing international figure whose slightest move immediately appeared in the world’s press.

Cade knew all this. He finished his drink, then with a shaking hand, he lit a cigarette.

“What did she do to you, Braddock?” he asked. “A profile? I can imagine what that is going to be.”

“So much the better,” Braddock said. “Never mind what she has done to me. That is immaterial. Has it ever struck you as odd that this woman has never married?”

“Strelik doesn’t interest me. Why should she? Why should I care if she married or not?”

“You will take an interest in her now, Mr. Cade,” Braddock said, recrossing his thin legs. “So you should begin to think about her. She is unique as far as movie stars are concerned. During her five years of success, there has been no scandal and no men. She is not a lesbian. Her behaviour as it is must be suspect. She is made of flesh and blood. I do not believe a woman of her temperament has reached the age of twenty-seven and has remained a virgin. That is something I do not accept. However, up to now, we have been unable to discover a lover, and I might tell you, my men have watched her continuously from the time she became internationally famous.”

“Rough luck,” Cade said. “I can imagine how frustrated your dirty little rag must be, Braddock. Remind me to be sorry for you some time.”

“It so happens, Mr. Cade, that you are now working for my dirty little rag,” Braddock said, his skull-like face expressionless.

“So what?”

“In May, Strelik went to Switzerland. My agent there was alerted. He lost her in Lausanne. In September, Strelik again went to Switzerland. My agent who is no fool again lost her in Montreux. She seems to have been aware that she was being followed and she took elaborate precautions to shake off my men. Why? I think she has a lover who she meets somewhere in Switzerland. I want to know who he is. I want photographs of him and her together. This will be your job, Mr. Cade. Get me those photographs and I will pay you ten thousand dollars and you will have the syndicate rights. If you fail to get them, I will sue you. You might as well cut your throat if I do have to sue you for I will see that you are never in a position to earn a dollar without paying that dollar to me.”

Cade flicked his cigarette butt onto the close-cropped lawn. “Where is she now?”

“She is in Paris. Tomorrow morning, you will be in Paris. My agent will meet you in Orly. He will line everything up for you. Would you like another drink?”

Cade smiled.

“Why not? What was it you said: drink destroys principles? Yes, I’ll have another drink.”

Ben Sherman, Whisper’s Paris representative, was waiting outside the harrier of Orly airport’s reception centre. He was stocky, around thirty-two, dark with small ice-grey eyes. He had the bustling, efficient air of a second-rate salesman. Rain glistened in his close-cropped hair and darkened his raincoat around his shoulders. His shirt was grubby, his tie worn, his pointed shoes shabby.

After a casual handshake, he went with Cade to the Customs barrier and waited until Cade had collected his bag, then the two men walked in silence to where Sherman had parked his Simca.

As Sherman headed for Paris, along the broad highway that connected with the Autoroute du Sud, he said, “She’ll be off any time now. Goddamn this rain! This time, we haven’t made any mistakes. She always drives herself. I now have her garage attendant fixed. Her concierge is also on our pay roll. Her hairdresser — she is costing me two hundred francs a week, for God’s sake! — reported this morning that Anita is packing. We have now only to wait for the green light. As soon as we know she has left, you will fly to Geneva where Baumann will take care of you. He is a good guy. I will try to follow Anita by road. She drives an Aston Martin and I could lose her. She drives like a lunatic. Anyway, you and Baumann will be waiting for her at Vallorbe. She has to cross the frontier there. Twice we have lost her on the Lausanne-Montreux road. I have a couple of boys in fast cars waiting for her to show between Lausanne and Vevey. If I lose her this time, I’m cooked. S.B. pays well, but he doesn’t go along with failure.”

Cade didn’t say anything. He was thinking of a double whisky with ice. This assignment was utterly without interest to him. It was up to Sherman to line the job up for him. He was prepared to take pictures, but he wasn’t prepared to make any effort to get them.

Sherman glanced at him.

“Listen, pal, take that mask-like expression off your map. I know about you. You may be able to click a mean shutter, but right now, you and me have to work together. There is plenty for you to do, so don’t imagine you’re going to sit around like a goddamn prima donna waiting for her cue, because you aren’t.”

Cade glanced at him, then settled down comfortably in his seat.

“Get stuffed,” he said and closed his eyes.

Later, in silence, Sherman pulled up outside a shabby hotel on the Left Bank, off Rue de Vaugirard.

“Dump your bag and check in,” Sherman said. “I’ll wait here for you. I want to see Anita’s concierge. You can come along with me.”

Cade got out of the car and shouldered his bag.

“You talk to whoever you like,” he said. “I have other things to do,” and he walked into the hotel.

Sherman hesitated, then shrugged and starting his car, drove away.

Cade spent the evening lying on his bed, a bottle of Scotch at hand, the New York Herald Tribune to glance at. Around 21.00 hours, he went across the street to a bistro for a light supper, then he returned to his room. He had often been in Paris during his successful days. He liked the city, but in his present mood, he wanted nothing but solitude and alcohol.

A little after 23.15 hours, just when he was going to sleep, the bell of the telephone by his bed rang.

It was Sherman.

“She leaves tomorrow,” he said. “I have your ticket for Geneva. You’ll catch the 09.14 plane. I’ll pick you up at 08.00 hours. Baumann will meet you at the other end.”

Cade grunted and hung up. He lay there staring up at the ceiling for some moments, thinking, then lifting his shoulders in a resigned shrug, he turned off the light.

In the darkness, his brain fuddled by drink, he thought of Juana. The picture he had of her in his mind was sharp etched. He could see her clearly, lying on the bed in the bedroom of the house in Chapultepec Park, her black hair covering her nakedness, her eyes veiled with desire as she waited for him to come to her.

Every time he was alone and in darkness, he thought of her, and swearing under his breath, he put the light on again. It wasn’t until he had had three stiff drinks that he was stupefied enough to fall asleep.

The following morning, Sherman drove Cade to Orly Airport. Cade’s complete indifference infuriated Sherman.

“Can’t you snap out of this goddamn alcoholic haze?” he demanded as he drove in the heavy traffic, battling his way towards the Autoroute du Sud. “This is important to me. How the hell do you expect to get pictures if you’re always plastered?”

“Screw you,” Cade said, sinking lower in his seat. His head ached and his mouth felt as if it were lined with fur.

“S.B. must be crazy to employ a lush like you!” Sherman said savagely. “And I collect the blame if this turns sour!”

“Screw you again,” Cade said and closed his eyes.

At the airport, Sherman checked Cade’s bag, then gave him his ticket.

“You’re on your own now. Baumann will be at Geneva, and he’ll take it from there,” he said. “Watch Baumann. He is a little tough. He hasn’t my tolerance.”

Cade blew out his cheeks and squinted at Sherman.

“Don’t be so anxious, little man,” he said. “Who cares for Baumann except perhaps his mother? Who cares for Braddock come to that?”

He walked away with lurching steps towards the escalator that would take him to the departure centre.

By the time Cade reached Geneva airport, he was pretty drunk. He was the last passenger to leave the aircraft and the Swiss Customs officials were startled and officially stiff as they passed him through the barrier.

Horst Baumann was waiting beyond the barrier. He was a Zürich Swiss, short, compact and heavily built. His fattish face was sun-tanned, his eyes cold and shrewd, his mouth humourless and thin. He had been warned both by Braddock and by Sherman what to expect so it came as no surprise to find Cade drunk.

Baumann considered he was capable of handling any situation. He had been the Swiss representative of Whisper for five years. Switzerland offered tax-free sanctuary for many world-famous names and Whisper thrived on digging out the secrets of such people. Baumann had proved himself one of the most efficient muck-rakers of Whisper’s company of gutter-inspired, dedicated men.

“She won’t be at Vallorbe for three or four hours,” Baumann said. “You should be sober by then. From now on, Cade, you stop drinking. You have a job to do. You’ll find I am rough if I don’t get my own way.”

Cade looked at the stocky, powerful figure.

“Is that right?” he said. “Here, carry my bag. I’m Cade. Your moronic boss wouldn’t have bought my contract if he didn’t think I could give him what he wanted. Park your chatter. You bore me.”

Baumann took the bag. The two men walked out into the cold, crisp sunshine to where Baumann’s E-type Jaguar was waiting.

As soon as Cade settled himself in the bucket seat, he went to sleep. Baumann regarded him thoughtfully, his light blue eyes icy, then he drove out of Geneva, heading for Vallorbe.

At Vallorbe, Baumann drove to the Customs post and pulled up outside the small hotel that was within twenty metres of the frontier. By this time Cade was half awake and half sober. The two men got out of the car and walked into the hotel where Baumann had a room reserved. Baumann ordered a litre of black coffee to be sent up to their room. He then led the way up the stairs and into the large bedroom, the windows of which overlooked the frontier post.

Cade slumped down on the bed, holding his head in his hands.

“I want a double Scotch and ice,” he said. “Hurry it up. I have to have a drink!”

Baumann took off his heavy windcheater which he tossed on a chair. The room was stifflingly hot. He crossed to the window and opened it. There was now a hint of snow in the sky that had become overcast and the air was sharp and cold.

“Shut that goddamn window,” Cade said.

Baumann walked over to him.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

Cade took his hands from his face and peered up at Baumann.

“You heard me. I said shut that window.”

Baumann slapped Cade’s face. Four lightning backhand slaps that flattened Cade on the bed. He lay there, stunned, staring up at the stocky Swiss. Then he struggled upright, trying to get to his feet Baumann slapped him again, sending him once more flat on his back on the bed.

Cade lay still. He put his hand to his burning face, his eyes now in focus, suddenly sober and hating Baumann as he had hated Ron Mitchell of Eastonville.

“I can keep that up for hours,” Baumann said softly. “You and I have to work together. I said no drinking, and that means no drinking? Get it?”

Cade braced himself, then he came off the bed in a rush, his fist wildly seeking Baumann’s dead-pan face. Baumann shifted his head avoided Cade’s blow with humiliating ease and banged his fist with all his weight and strength in a devastating punch that landed just below Cade’s heart.

Cade dropped to his knees, gasping.

Baumann grabbed Cade by his hair, dragged him half upright and then slapped his already bruising face three more times with a vicious violence that stunned Cade into helplessness.

Leaving Cade on the floor, Baumann walked across the room and opened the door. He took the coffee from the porter, winked and put the tray on the dressing-table. He turned in time as Cade, gathering his remaining strength and self respect, struggled off the floor and came staggering towards him. Brushing aside Cade’s weak lead, Baumann slammed another punch into Cade’s body, bringing him with thudding violence to the floor.

Baumann sat on the bed, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit a cigarette.

Cade lay on the floor, then he stirred and dragged himself to a sitting position. He stared at Baumann, his eyes hating him.

“You’re quite a bastard, aren’t you?” he said.

Baumann smiled.

“That’s just what I am. Now we have that behind us, have some coffee.”

He got up and poured coffee into a cup.

“Sugar?”

“No.”

Baumann handed Cade the cup and then sat on the bed again.

Cade remained on the floor. His body ached from the two heavy punches he had taken. His mind had become clear. He suddenly realised how he must look to a man like Baumann, sitting there on the floor, a lush with a bruised face, his clothes crumpled and his defeat showing so plainly. His tiny spark of self respect asserted itself. He got painfully to his feet, drank the scalding coffee, crossed the room and poured more coffee.

“Cigarette?” Baumann asked, offering his pack of Marrocaine.

“Thanks,” Cade said and lit the cigarette. He drank more coffee, then putting: down the cup, he went into the bathroom and bathed his aching face. Feeling clearer in mind than he had felt since he left New York, he came back to the bedroom and went over to the open window and looked across at the Frontier Post, breathing in the cold, crisp air.

“She should be arriving in about three hours. We have plenty of time,” Baumann said. “Feel like eating?”

“No.”

“Well, I do. If you want anything, ring. They won’t serve you with any alcohol, so don’t try that one on.” He went to the door. “See you,” he said and left.

Cade drank another cup of coffee, then sat down in a lounging chair.

After a while he got bored with his depressing thoughts, and getting up, he went down to the lobby. Taking his overcoat off the peg, he walked across to the Boutique shop. The Magnum-sized bottles of Scotch whisky made him stare, but he resisted the urge to buy one. Instead, he bought a packet of wine gums and seeing Baumann had come out of the hotel, he joined him.

“Feel like something to eat now?” Baumann asked. “They have some pretty good steaks. You should eat something.”

“I guess,” Cade said. He wasn’t hungry, and his ribs still ached, but he had the impulse to become normal again.

When he had finished a very late lunch, Baumann paid the check, and the two men went out into the growing dusk and sat in the Jaguar, facing away from the frontier post.

Anita Strelik arrived at the frontier post at 17.50 hours: an hour ahead of Baumann’s estimated time. By now it was dark, but Baumann spotted her red Aston Martin as it pulled up under the bright lights of the frontier post.

“Here she comes,” he said. “She won’t be more than five minutes passing through the customs. We’ll get moving.” He started the engine and headed towards the Lausanne road.

Turning in his seat, Cade looked through the rear window. He caught a glimpse of a tall woman, wearing ski-ing trousers, a white windcheater and a white helmet that concealed her hair. She was standing by the Aston Martin, talking to one of the grey-uniformed frontier guards. Then he lost sight of her.

He felt suddenly excited: a feeling that hadn’t come to him for many months.

“We’ll let her pass,” Baumann said.

A few minutes later, the impatient note of a horn made Baumann pull to his near side and the Aston Martin stormed past, travelling at over a hundred kilometres an hour.

“That’s the way to get yourself killed on these narrow roads,” Baumann said, slightly accelerating.

He switched on the short wave receiving set on the dashboard and picking up the microphone, said, “Horst calling YR. Come in, YR.”

A man’s voice came through the loudspeaker, “Listening in, Horst.”

“Our party is heading for Lausanne. Where are you?”

“By Grand Pont.”

“She’ll come that way. Follow from in front, but watch it. She’s moving fast.”

“Roger.”

They didn’t see the Aston Martin again until they had reached the outskirts of Lausanne. Baumann who knew the road from Vallorbe like the back of his hand, had driven with tremendous bursts of speed when the road was straight, and with carefully controlled speed on the bends. He knew he couldn’t be much more than three minutes behind the Aston Martin, but he was relieved when he caught sight of the red car now slowed down in the heavy traffic entering Lausanne.

They crawled along the traffic congested road until they began to cross the Grand Pont. They had already lost sight of the Aston Martin. The car had weaved through the traffic much faster than Baumann could drive. The short wave set came to life.

“YR calling. She’s right behind me, trying to pass. We are on Avenue du Leman, heading for Vevey.”

“Don’t let her pass,” Baumann said. “I’m closing up.”

“Roger.” There was a sudden curse. “Hell! She’s passed me! That was nearly a pile up! She snaked around me right in the teeth of an oncoming truck and she scraped by it by the paint of her fender! She’s way out of sight and I’m blocked in!”

“Call yourself a driver?” Baumann snarled. He accelerated and threaded the Jaguar dangerously through the traffic, and in a few seconds, swept past a T.R.4. He waved and the driver waved back.

Cade was sitting forward now, tense and excited. He couldn’t but admire the way Baumann was handling his powerful car.

“If she thinks she can shake me off she has another think coming,” Baumann muttered. He reached for the microphone. “Calling Grau. Come in, Grau.”

Another man’s voice came from the loudspeaker.

“Listening in, Horst.”

“Our party is heading your way. Where exactly are you?”

“I’m parked on the lake road between Claren and Montreux.”

“Stand by. She’s moving fast.”

“Roger.”

They were through Lausanne and moving fast along the lake road. The traffic was heavy and Baumann took chances, cutting in, overtaking when he shouldn’t, but always watchful for any sign of a policeman.

It was now very dark, and there was a light mist coming in from the lake. The on-coming traffic with undipped headlights bothered Baumann.

“We could lose her in this visibility,” he said and he sounded uneasy. “I’ll have to hope Grau picks her up.”

They drove through Vevey, then as they increased speed on the straight road to Montreux, Cade said suddenly, “You’re passing her! She’s stopped!” He had just seen the Aston Martin parked in the shadows as Baumann swept past.

Cursing, Baumann stood on his brakes and the Jaguar squealed as it slowed. He pulled to the kerb.

“Are you sure?”

Cade leaned out of the car and looked back along the dark road.

“Yes... she’s talking to a cop. She’s been flagged down.”

“About time,” Baumann said and picked up the microphone. “Grau, our party has been stopped for speeding. She’ll be along in a while. It’s my guess she won’t be racing this time.”

“Roger.”

Baumann replaced the microphone.

“We’ll have to watch her. This is where we lost her before,” he said to Cade. “What’s happening?”

Cade was still staring back along the road.

“The usual. He’s giving her a ticket. She should be through any moment now.”

Baumann set the Jaguar moving at a sedate sixty kilometres an hour.

“Here she comes,” Cade said.

The Aston Martin passed them and Baumann tagged along behind its twin rear lights. From then on, through Montreux, Villeneuve and towards Agile, they had no trouble keeping behind the Aston Martin.

“Is she heading for the Italian border or will she go up into the mountains?” Baumann muttered. “It’s going to snow.” As rain began to blur his windshield, he switched on the wipers.

A car behind them flashed on its headlights and flashed them off.

“That’s Grau.” He reached for the microphone. “She’s just ahead, Grau, overtake me and get in front of her. Watch out you don’t lose her at the fork road to Italy. She could turn off for Villars.”

“Roger.”

Twenty minutes later with Grau some metres ahead of the Aston Martin and with Baumann a hundred metres behind, they saw the car swing to the left.

“She’s going to Villars,” Baumann said. “It’ll be rough up there,” and he accelerated. “The visibility as you climb gets bad, and it is certain to be snowing.”

They hadn’t climbed more than a kilometre before snow started flaking on the windshield. The Aston Martin had increased speed and was travelling dangerously fast, taking the sharp bends with a skill that hinted the driver knew the road well. Baumann had turned off his lights and he drove after the Aston Martin, keeping close, scared that on this stretch of road he would lose sight of the car.

Grau had gone on the Italian road and he had had to stop, reverse and come after them.

Through the narrow bottleneck of the small village of Huèmoz, the Aston Martin slowed and Baumann had to brake sharply to avoid a collision. He cursed under his breath.

“I wonder if she spotted us,” he said. “There she goes. Goddamn it! She can certainly handle that lump of metal!”

They stormed up the steep ascent and into the village of Chesieres, empty in the mist and snow. The Aston Martin was now a hundred metres ahead. Baumann took the slight turn out of the village too fast and got into a skid. He steered into the skid, slowed and for a moment the Jaguar threatened to turn right around. Then Baumann got control and straightened the car.

“She’s gone,” Cade said in a flat voice. He had been sitting forward, staring through the misting windshield, his eyes glued on the bright red rearlights: now they had vanished.

“She’s heading for Villars... there’s nowhere else for her to go,” Baumann said. He slowed and began the steep approach that led to the town.

“To your right!” Cade exclaimed. “She’s gone in there! Double gates! I saw two men closing them!”

Baumann kept on, but slowed. A few metres further on, he pulled up. Grau in a Lancia drew alongside. Cade looked at him as he leaned out of his car window, snow whitening his green Swiss hat and his raincoat. Grau was around the same age as Baumann. He was fat and broad-shouldered and typically Swiss.

“She turned off into some estate,” Baumann said. “Did you spot her?”

“No. How can you see anything in this snow?”

Baumann got out of his car.

“Wait here,” he said and bending his head against the driving snow, he walked back down the road.

Grau manoeuvred his car ahead of the Jaguar to get off the road. He lit a cigarette and getting out, came over to Cade.

“So you’re Cade,” he said, peering at him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’ve heard a lot about myself,” Cade said indifferently. He shifted around so he wasn’t looking directly at Grau and fumbled for his cigarettes.

“You certainly can take photographs,” Grau went on. “I’ve followed all your work.”

“So have I,” Cade said.

There was a long pause, then Grau sensing he wasn’t wanted, walked back to his car.

After a five minute wait, Baumann returned.

“She’s gone in there all right,” he said. “High walls; iron gates and a long drive-in. Can’t see any sign of a house. Okay, Grau you stay here. Watch the gates. We are going on to Villars. I have to find out what this place is.”

“Okay,” Grau said and waved as Baumann, getting into the Jaguar, drove on towards Villars.