Double Jeopardy

CHAPTER 6

Wednesday May 27

Stunned, Martel's teeth clenched tight on the cigarette-holder. To mask his reaction he took the holder out of his mouth and readjusted the position of cigarette in holder. She called me only ten minutes ago.

What the hell was wrong with the timing? Thirty minutes earlier Arnold had told him on the phone that 'less than half an hour ago' her body had been found in the Limmat. That meant Hofer had been found about one hour from this moment. And now Nagel – the most precise Swiss – had clearly stated the call from Claire Hofer had come through 'ten minutes ago'. On the scrap of paper Nagel had handed to him was written a St Gallen phone number.

Nagel would know the girl's voice well. Being Nagel he would have wanted proof of the identity of his caller. Irrevocable proof. Martel began to consider whether he could be going out of his mind.

'Something wrong?' Nagel enquired softly.

'Yes, I'm tired.' Martel folded the scrap of paper and put it in his wallet. 'What sort of a night are you having?'

'Routine so far.'

Again Martel was stunned. David Nagel, chief of. police Intelligence, had no knowledge of the traumatic event which had taken place in Bahnhofstrasse. There was no reason for him to conceal such knowledge – Martel felt certain of this. He had to tread damned carefully.

'Why do you mistrust Ferdy Arnold?' he asked.

'It was a political appointment – not a professional one…' 'And why does Claire Hofer-who works for Arnold -call you when she has a message for me?'

'Because she knows you and I are close friends.' The Swiss paused. 'I also employed her before she transferred to counterespionage…'

'You said you've had a routine night so far,' Martel probed.

'Except for the explosion aboard some tourist's launch out on the lake. Some poor idiot who obviously knew nothing about engines or boats – so he had an accident and lost his life. We did hear the faint boom of the detonation…' He pointed towards the open windows behind curtains which hung motionless in the airless night. The sound came up the Limmat from the lake…'

No, it didn't, Martel thought. It came straight up the funnel of Bahnhofstrasse and then down Uraniastrasse, the side street leading towards police headquarters. He was watching Nagel and the extraordinary thing was he was convinced the Intelligence man was not lying. Someone was trying to cover up the incident, to pretend it had never happened.

'Good to see you, David,' Martel said and stood up. 'And I'll call Claire Hofer soon but there's something I have to attend to, and you don't want to know about it…'

'That is a direct line which bypasses the switchboard,' Nagel suggested, pointing to one of three phones on his desk. 'I can leave you on your own…'

'It isn't that, David. I'm just short of time.'

'Enjoy yourself while you're in Zurich…'

It was 2310 hours when Martel left police headquarters. He had half an hour to catch the 2339 train to St. Gallen, but he still had things to deal with. He walked past a patrol car parked outside, a cream Volvo with a red trim. Two uniformed men sat in the front with the windows open. Where the devil had they been when all hell broke loose in nearby Bahnhofstrasse?

And he had lied to Nagel he recalled as he hurried back to the Hauptbahnhof. He felt certain he could rely on the Swiss but he had mistrusted the offered phone which passed through no switchboard. He was now gripped by a feeling of insecurity and determined to take no chances.

'Maybe I'm getting paranoid,' he told himself as he slipped inside one of the empty phone booths in the station. These were safe. Again he remembered the dead Warner who apparently had also haunted Hauptbahnhofs. As he dialled the number Nagel had given him he began to sympathise with Charles Warner. Martel himself felt hunted.

The receptionist at the Hotel Hecht in St. Gallen confirmed that Claire Hofer was staying with them. She asked him to hold while she tried her room. A girl's voice came on the line – decisive, sharp and wary.

'Who is this?'

'Our mutual friend, Nagel, passed on your message and I want you to take certain action very fast. Can you get to an outside payphone? Good. Get there immediately and call me at this number.' He read out the booth number from the dial. 'It's Zurich code,' he added tersely. 'I'm very short of time…'

'Goodbye!'

Martel found he was sweating. The atmosphere inside the booth was oppressive. He felt both exposed and trapped in the confined space. The phone rang in an astonishingly short time.

He snatched up the receiver. The same voice asked the question crisply.

'Is that…? Please confirm name of our mutual friend… 'Nagel. David Nagel…'

'Claire Hofer speaking…'

'Again do what I tell you without questioning my judgement – as fast as you can. Pay your bill at the Hotel Hecht – make up some plausible reason why you have to…'

'All right, I'm not stupid! What then?'

'Book in at another hotel in St. Gallen. Reserve a room for me. Warn them I'll arrive about one o'clock in the morning…'. 'You need parking space for a car?'

'No. I'm coming in by train…'

'I'll call back in minutes. I have to find accommodation and tell you where to come. Goodbye!'

Martel was left staring at a dead receiver. More precious time was being consumed. But she sounded good, damned good. He had to give her that. The whirlpool was gyrating faster. He felt he had been talking to a ghost. Claire Hofer had just been dragged out of the Limmat – according to Arnold…

Despite the growing heat inside the kiosk he inserted a cigarette into his holder, cursed, removed the cigarette and placed it between his lips minus holder. While talking he had turned round with his back to the coin box so he could watch the deserted concourse. He took several deep drags and the phone was ringing a second time. Her voice…

'Is that…? Good. Our mutual friend…'

'Nagel. Martel here…'

'I got lucky. Two twin-bedded rooms on the first floor. Hotel Metropol. Faces the station exit. Staring at you as you come out. I'll leave a note at the desk with just my room number inside the envelope.

O.K.?'

'Very…'

'Goodbye!'

In the next few minutes Martel moved very fast. He bought his rail ticket for St. Gallen. At the Hotel Schweizerhof he paid for the room he no longer needed. He did his best, to make the cancellation seem normal.

`I'm a consultant – medical – and I'm urgently needed in Basle by a patient…' Consultant was the word he had filled in on the 'occupation' section of the registration form when he had arrived. The term was impressive and totally vague.

He had not unpacked his bag a precaution he always took when arriving at a fresh destination – so all he had to do was to shove his shaving kit and toothbrush inside and snap the catches. Running down the stairs – the night clerk would see nothing odd now in his speedy departure – he hurried across to the first of the taxis waiting outside the station.

`I want you to take me to Paradeplatz. Can you then wait a few minutes by the tram stop while I deliver something? Then drive me straight back here?'

`Please get in…'

He was using up his last few minutes before the St. Gallen train departed but – knowing Zurich and the quietness of the streets at this hour-he believed he could just manage it. Because he had to check the state of Bahnhofstrasse where shots had been fired, blood spilt all over the sidewalk, and a bomb detonated against a bank.

He began chatting to the driver. All over the world cabbies are plugged in to a city's grapevine.

`Did you hear that terrific explosion not so long ago? Sounded like a bomb going off.'

'I heard it.' The driver paused as though picking his words with care. `Rumour is some fool of a tourist blew himself and his boat up on the lake…'

`It sounded closer…'

Martel left the query mark hanging in the air, wondering why the driver sounded so cautious. They were near Paradeplatz: soon all conversation would cease.

`Sounded closer to me,' the driver agreed. 'I was with a fare in Talstrasse and that was one hell of a bang. Now it could have come up the street from the lake…' He paused again. `Anyway, that's what the police told us.'

The police?'

'A patrol car stopped at the Hauptbahnhof rank. The driver got out to chat. He told us about this fool tourist blowing himself up on the lake.'

`Someone you knew? The policeman?' Martel asked casually.

'Funny you should say that.' Their eyes met in the rear-view mirror. 'I thought I knew every patrol car policeman in the city. I've been driving this cab for twenty years – but I never met him before …'

'Probably a new recruit fresh out of training school.'

'He was fifty if he was a day. All right if I wait here?'

It suited Martel admirably. The cabbie had parked well inside Paradeplatz – which meant he wouldn't be able to see where Martel went after he turned down Bahnhofstrasse. He lit a fresh cigarette and walked quickly. He was going to catch – or lose – the train by a matter of seconds.

The street was deserted and the only sound was that of his own footfalls on the flagstones. He crossed over to the other side and then stopped in sheer bewilderment. The whirlpool was spinning again.

There was no sign of the bloody incident Martel had witnessed and participated in two hours earlier. And there was no mistaking the location. He could see the archway where he and the girl had come through into Bahnhofstrasse. And there was a large and important bank in just the right position – opposite where the tram had been stopped, a bank with double plate- glass doors. But the glass was intact.

There was not a sliver of shattered glass in the roadway that Martel could see. The Swiss were good at clearing up messes, at keeping their country neat and tidy – but this was completely insane.

Now he was checking the sidewalk for blood, the blood he had slipped in, the dried blood still staining the soles of his shoes. The sidewalk was spotless. He had almost given up when he saw it. The fresh scar marks where bark had been torn and burnt by explosive from a tree. Even the Swiss couldn't grow a new tree in two hours.