Precipice

25

Eve was fretting at being confined to the villa. It had been Brazil's express order that she should not leave the building. She had never been in Berne before and she was dying to go out and look at the shops. Besides, the five thousand francs she had taken off Craig was burning a hole in her shoulder bag. When Eve had money she spent it. And she had interesting news to tell Brazil – that she had spotted Paula Grey and Philip on Kochergasse.

She'd just had the thought when the phone rang. She ran to it, curious to know what was going on.

'Is that you, Eve? Good. Brazil here, speaking from a phone in a gas station. No, damnit! A service station. The Americans can't speak proper English to save their lives.'

'How can I help?'

'Get in your car with your suitcase. Drive immediately to Zurich. I've phoned ahead, booked a room for you at the Baur-en-Ville. It's in Bahnhofstrasse nearRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

'I know where it is. I was once in Zurich.'

'Then please get moving. I'm in a hurry. Stay in your room at the Baur-en-Ville from the moment you arrive. See you there

Then he was gone. Stay in your hotel room… He'd be lucky, Eve thought as she hurried to her bedroom to pack her case. With Bahnhofstrasse on her doorstep. All those wonderful shops…

'I wonder if I killed that thug in the alley?' Paula reflected aloud.

With Philip behind the wheel, they were driving along a main highway, had left Berne half an hour earlier. It was snowing steadily and they had passed several snowploughs keeping the road clear. Philip glanced at her, spoke firmly.

'No, you didn't kill him. I paused before following you out of the alley and checked his carotid. The pulse was beating normally. But what if you had killed the thug? It was him or me – and he'd have finished me off with that long knife. How would you have felt then – if you hadn't moved quickly enough? Just bear that in mind.'

It was Paula's turn to glance at Philip, whose strong face was concentrating on the road ahead. For the moment he was no longer in the toils of Eve, a beastly woman, in Paula's opinion. And although she had no doubt the grief for his late wife, Jean, was still strong under the surface he now had full possession of his faculties. She recalled something Tweed had said to her.

'Philip, in the end, will have to work it out for himself. None of us has had his grim experience, so none of us really knows what it must be like…'

Tweed had flown to Zurich with Newman seated alongside him. He had ordered Butler and Nield, also aboard the same flight, to travel quite separately as though they had nothing to do with him.

'The point is.' he had explained to Newman when they were in mid-air, 'according to Archie, Brazil has an incomplete list of our team. He knows about Paula, about you, and has Bill Franklin as a possible member. But he doesn't know about Philip, Butler, or Nield, so let's keep it that way. Nor does he know about Marler.'

'And the only people who could have informed him from our stay in Dorset are Eve, Kent, or Franklin himself.'

'Not Franklin.' Tweed pointed out. 'He would hardly put himself on their list even as a possible. I'm curious as to why Brazil is so anxious to build up a list.'

'Sounds like a hit list.' Newman said calmly. 'Something for Mr Craig to attend to. Or maybe The Motor-man.'

'I wonder where The Motorman is now.' Tweed mused as the plane began to descend to Kloten Airport, Zurich.

Keith Kent was driving his hired Audi at speed along the highway from Geneva to Zurich, window open – a fresh-air fanatic. Well muffled against the cold, he whistled a tune to himself as he overtook huge juggernauts.

He was listening to a cassette playing Sade, the pop singer. She had a mellow, enticing voice which suited his buoyant mood. He was making money again, always a most satisfactory feeling. Maybe he'd buy himself a really expensive suit made in Germany in Bahnhofstrasse. The Germans had become superb tailors.

Kent had left Geneva early and was on his way to the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Talstrasse, which ran parallel to Bahnhofstrasse. Most convenient. He was overtaking a Mercedes sports car when he glanced sideways. Driving it by herself was an attractive blonde. He smiled and waved. She smiled back – Kent was a good-looking man attractive to the opposite sex.

Pity we hadn't been in Zurich, caught up in the traffic, he thought. I might have persuaded her to have dinner with me. Always observant, he had noticed her left hand on the wheel wore no ring.

Kent was always careful not to get mixed up in an affair with a married woman. It was not so much a matter of ethics – but when there was a husband about it could turn messy.

He reached Zurich about lunchtime, drove slowly down Talstrasse, where there was very little traffic, stared, slowed down even more, still staring. Outside the Zurcher Kredit Bank a stretch black Mercedes with amber-tinted windows had pulled up.

Kent stopped by an unoccupied meter, sat very still, his hand cupping his jaw. A tall, imposing figure had stepped out of the limo, paused while he limbered up, then strode into the bank as a black-suited man greeted him and the two men went inside.

Kent's mind was racing. There was no doubt about it. The man who had entered the bank was Leopold Brazil. The last man in the world he would have expected to return to this bank.

Keeping an eye open for a parking warden, he thought about earlier events. The time when it had leaked out that the bearer bonds, assumed to be the bank's total capital, had disappeared. The murder of the bank's chairman. No, that was something not to dwell on.

When news of the missing bonds had leaked out Zurich had been shaken to its foundations. The city had been on the verge of panic with talk of a consortium of all the major banks being formed to rescue Zurcher, followed by the realization that its branches all held more than sufficient funds to remain solvent.

Brazil had been a consultant to this bank, a non-executive director. Although how he had gained the latter position was beyond Kent – Swiss law was firm that only citizens of Swiss birth could be any kind of director of a bank.

'I'll have to postpone my visit while he's inside.' Kent said to himself.

A taxi pulled up in front of Kent's car, a very old lady clambered out slowly. The driver appeared round the front of the vehicle, carrying a huge case with both his hands. His passenger gave him some money. The driver looked at the money, made a contemptuous gesture, got back behind the wheel, and drove off. The old lady gazed round with a bewildered expression. Kent jumped out, spoke to her in German.

'You are worried about something?'

'My suitcase. It is heavy. I told the driver I live on the third floor of this building. How am I going to get my bag up to my apartment?'

'Third floor? Easy. Follow me at your own pace. No need to hurry. ..'

He lifted the bag, which felt as though it was full of blocks of cement. Slim as he was, Kent ran up the steps, mounted the darkened staircase beyond without a pause. He had to wait ages for the old lady to appear, a key in her hand. She unlocked a door and Kent followed her inside with the immense suitcase. He dumped it on a divan she gestured to. The interior of the apartment smelt musty, was crammed with old-fashioned furniture. The old lady sank into a chair, gazed at him without warmth.

'You'd better go now,' she said.

'I'm on my way. You're all right?'

'Just go. Now…'

He ran back down the gloomy stone staircase, wondering whether he'd got a ticket for parking without putting coins in the meter. The street was deserted -except for the parked limo. The chauffeur, a dark-skinned man, was polishing the windscreen. What had impressed Kent was the fact that, instead of waiting for the chauffeur to open the car door, the normal procedure for men who ranked themselves among the elite, Brazil had got out of the car himself.

Getting back inside his own car, Kent flexed the hand which had carried the bag. It didn't even ache. Kent was not only strong, he was very fit. He drove off, following a devious route through the city due to its one-way system. He eventually parked in the underground garage of Globus, the great department store near the top of Bahnhofstrasse.

Feeling the need to stretch his legs after the drive from Geneva, he walked up to Bahnhofplatz, the large square in front of the main station. Descending the escalator into Shopville, he walked across it, ascended another escalator into the main station.

He bought himself a carton of coffee from a stall, took it outside to drink it. Here there was traffic, nonstop, plus Zurich's large blue trams rumbling along in all directions. Across the square was the Hotel Schweizerhof.

He was drinking more coffee when he stopped and again stared. A taxi had pulled up in front of the Schweizerhof. Tweed and Newman stepped out.

The experience which greeted Tweed's arrival at the hotel was hardly the peace and quiet he had anticipated before meeting Brazil. As he walked into the lobby with Newman, a tall man in a dark suit with greying hair, grey eyes, a neat grey moustache, and a face with a grim expression jumped up, came forward. Arthur Beck of the Federal Police.

'Tweed, I have to talk to you now. You, too, Newman. I have reserved a room where we will be quiet. This way.'

'I hope you're paying for the room,' Tweed said quizzically.

'No charge to the police.' Beck snapped as they entered an elevator and he pressed the button.

'We should have registered.' Tweed remarked.

The concierge knows you well.'

'Damn it!' snapped Newman, irked by Beck's abrupt manner. 'We've had no lunch and I'm hungry.'

'That will have to wait.'

Beck had a key in his hand. Leaving the lift he went to a door, unlocked it, waited until they had walked past him inside.

'You may sit. Perhaps you'd better.'

'I was going to anyway.' Tweed observed after taking off his coat and settling in an armchair. He looked at Newman. 'Make yourself at home. Nice of Arthur to arrange all these comforts for us.'

Beck took a dining chair from under a table, placed it in front of Tweed and Newman, who had also occupied an armchair. He straddled his long legs over the seat, perched his elbows on the top of the back, gazed at them, and said nothing.

Tweed and Newman, who knew this police tactic, refrained from saying a word. Eventually Beck spoke, his eyes on Tweed.

'You had some of your team in Berne this morning?'

'Not to my knowledge.' Tweed answered truthfully. 'Why?'

'You know a thug called Marco? Handy with a knife.'

'No.'

'I had an anonymous call from a man at my HQ in Berne. He informed me that he was walking down an alley off the Munstergasse when he came across a man sprawled in the snow. The man reached for a knife so the caller kicked him in the head. The victim was Marco. Am I ringing any bells?'

'Did you hear a bell ringing?' Tweed asked Newman.

'Look.' Beck said aggressively, 'Marco is all right. He was discharged after we took him to out-patients. But I don't appreciate violence on my doorstep.'

'Move your doorstep, then.' Newman joked.

'There's nothing funny about the present situation.' Beck snapped. 'Switzerland is supposed to be a peaceful country. We have a murderous shoot-out last night in Geneva. Six bodies in the morgue now. Plus another strange murder just reported – also from Geneva.'

'What strange murder is that?' Tweed asked.

'An unsavoury arms dealer was killed in Geneva also. A man called Rico Sava.' He paused. 'He had his neck broken.'

'The Motorman?' Tweed asked quietly.

'It has all his trademarks. That makes seven corpses. Now this thug, Marco, in Berne.' He smiled. 'Now I've done it.'

'Done what?' Newman demanded.

'Given you both a dressing down, covered myself. Just in case someone influential – a friend of Brazil's -asks me about you.'

Beck's whole manner had changed. He stood up, swivelled his chair round, sat in his normal manner.

'There's a development you ought to know about. I can't prove they're employed by Leopold Brazil, but I know they are.'

'Who?' asked Tweed quietly.

'A whole army of tough-looking thugs disguised as skiers came into Geneva from France. They broke up into groups and boarded several different expresses heading east towards the Valais. God knows what there is for them in that canton. The season is almost over – the slopes are dangerous and there's the risk of avalanches. Yet they've flooded in like a small invasion.'

Beck stood up, extended his hand. He shook hands warmly with both Tweed and Newman.

'Why not go and have a good lunch? At least Zurich is quiet. Incidentally, I'll be based for the next few days at Zurich Police HQ. You know where it is – close to this hotel, overlooking the River Limmat.' He paused. 'Have a care. We now know The Motorman is back.'