The Power

19

Rennweg was a narrow street of shops which led off Bahnhofstrasse at a slanting angle. No. 590 had a closed door with a metal grille speakphone beside it. Tweed pressed a button below the grille, wondering what he was going to say to a professional call-girl. Best to improvise on the spur of the moment.

' Ja? ' a soft feminine voice answered in German.

'Helen Frey?' he asked.

'Ja.'

'I only speak English. I'm a friend of Julius Amberg, the banker. Zurcher Kredit, Talstrasse. I was given your name.'

'You sound OK,' the voice replied in English. 'Come up – push the door when the buzzer goes…'

Tweed leaned against the door and it swung inward, revealed a straight staircase. Followed by Paula and Newman, he mounted the stairs quickly. A door opened at the top landing and Paula stared at one of the most attractive women she had ever seen.

A natural blonde, Helen Frey had a long face, a shapely nose and full lips, emphasized with red lipstick. She gazed back at Paula, turned her attention to Tweed and spoke in English again.

'What the hell is this? I don't do foursomes.'

She was closing the heavy door. Tweed used shock tactics. He rammed his foot between the door and the frame. The girl, twenty-eight or so, Paula guessed, wore a smart blue figure-hugging suit. Her other hand appeared, holding a wide flick knife. There was a loud click as the blade shot out.

'Julius Amberg is dead, murdered in England,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'm concerned about a lot of money. This is my assistant, Paula, and my adviser, Newman. A lot of money,' he repeated.

She studied Paula again, then Newman, who stared back with no particular expression. Tweed folded his arms, a pacific gesture, and kept his foot in the door. She nodded as though answering a question she had asked herself.

'You'd better come in, then.'

'I'd feel happier if you put away that knife,' Tweed told her. 'All we want is a discussion. I am willing to pay a reasonable fee. I appreciate your time is valuable,' he ended without a trace of sarcasm.

'I did say you could come in.' She held up the knife and there was another click. The blade shot back inside its sheath. 'Feel more comfortable now, Mr…?'

'Tweed. Now we're all introduced.'

Discreetly, Paula glanced curiously round the large sitting-room. The main colour motif was pink, which normally would have seemed over-ornate, but instead the effect was welcoming. Curtains drawn over the window protected the room from the outside world.

It was illuminated by soft pink wall-sconce lampshades. The deep-pile carpet was off-white and against one wall stood a vast couch – large enough to take two reclining people. Comfortable armchairs were scattered about the carpet and an antique desk occupied one corner near the curtains. A huge wall mirror faced the couch.

Presumably some men liked to watch what they were doing while others didn't – a long brass rod ran full length along the top of the mirror flanked by pink curtains, held in place with tie-backs. A silver champagne bucket perched on a metal tripod stood at one end of the couch.

Helen Frey walked slowly over to the couch, sat down, waved her hand towards the chairs.

'Well, make yourselves at home, everyone. And tell me what this is all about. You're sure Julius is dead? He was my most profitable client.'

'Oh, he's very dead, I assure you,' Tweed said with rare brutality. 'I myself saw his blood-soaked body. A machine-gun makes an awful mess fired at point-blank range.'

'I can hardly believe it,' Helen said.

'You'd better believe it,' Newman told her.

'It must be a shock to you,' Paula intervened. 'I also saw poor Julius, Miss Frey. It gave, me one hell of a shock.'

'Call me Helen, everyone. You seem decent people. But

I'm wondering what your interest is in the tragedy. You've shaken me.'

Tweed changed tactics. He had assumed Helen Frey would be as hard as nails, but Paula's more sympathetic approach had altered Helen's attitude.

'You could call me an investigator,' he began. 'Julius was a friend of mine and I'm trying to find out who murdered him. If I can find out why this hideous crime was committed I'll be closer to the murderer. Was Julius expecting to make a great deal of money in the near future?'

Helen sat very erect on the couch, her long legs crossed. She reached for a silver cigarette box on a table, offered it to her guests.

Thank you, but I prefer my own,' Newman said, producing his pack. 'My friends don't smoke. This is a lovely room you have.'

He stood up and lit Helen's cigarette. She was concentrating on Tweed as Newman then wandered round, looked at a portrait of Helen, moved a few paces apparently to look at a framed landscape above the desk. A diary lay open at the day's date, reminding him that they were at the beginning of March. What caught his attention was Helen's next appointment.

4.30p.m. Emit Voser.

'Was Julius expecting to make a great deal of money in the near future?' Helen said, repeating Tweed's question after she'd taken several deep drags on the cigarette, blown smoke rings into the air. 'Yes, he was.'

'May I ask how you know that?' Tweed asked gently.

'You may.' She gave him a bewitching smile. 'It was on the day before he left for Cornwall.' She phrased her next remark delicately. 'He was here with me. He'd lost a big sum investing in foreign currencies. But he said he would more than make up the loss and end up with a fortune.'

'Did he give you any idea where this fortune was coming from?'

'He said fate had handed him a gigantic royal flush. I remember his exact words – they were so graphic. Julius was an enthusiastic card player.'

'May I also ask what his mood was like when he was here for… Tweed trailed off.

She smiled wanly, took another drag on the cigarette, blew another perfect smoke ring.

'You were going to say when he was here for the last time. And you are right, Tweed. That was the last time I saw him alive. His mood? It was rather strange – a mixture of excitement and…'

'Fear?' Paula suggested.

'Yes! That was it. He was very nervy as though what he had in mind was dangerous. I even told him not to take too great a risk.'

'And how did he react to that?' Tweed enquired.

'He said that making a lot of money always involved taking a risk. He added that also it was too late for him to change his mind, so he was going ahead to push the deal.'

'Thank you for being so frank, Helen. Now, I owe you a fee for your time, Business is business.'

'I normally charge one thousand Swiss francs.'

Tweed was reaching for his wallet when Helen thrust out a hand to stop him. Her tone of voice had an appealing quality which touched Paula.

'I don't want your money, Tweed. I'm convinced you are telling the truth – that you are determined to track down the monster who murdered Julius. A woman in my profession becomes an expert in knowing when men are lying. Regard it as my contribution to bringing the swine who killed him to justice.'

'If you insist…'

'But I do.' She stood up to unfasten the two deadlocks on her door. 'By the way, as you leave the opposite door on the landing may open. It will be Klara. We are in the same business but good friends. She is often curious about my clients.'

Tentatively, she held out her hand to Paula. Without one moment's hesitation Paula grasped it warmly and stared into Helen's steady blue eyes. She felt that they were, when all was said and done, sisters under the skin.

Newman walked out on to the landing first to make sure it was safe. The door opposite opened and a tall brunette peered out. She wore a housecoat loosely tied and grinned wickedly at Newman.

'I'm Klara,' she said as Helen closed her door. 'Have you the energy left to come and play with me?'

'A tempting proposal.' Newman smiled at her. 'There are two things against the idea. I've just had a very large lunch recently. And I'm late for an appointment which could be profitable.'

'Come back later, then. Spend a little of the profits on me. You and I could make music together.'

'I'm sure of it,' Newman agreed. 'I may see you later,' he lied.

'You should have accepted her invitation,' Paula teased him as they got to the bottom of the stairs. 'I liked Helen, but I think Klara could be great fun too…'

Rennweg was quiet as they stepped back into the street. Opposite Helen Prey's doorway was a small cafe. Inside, close to the window, Cardon sat with a soft drink in front of him. He stroked a hand across his forehead to signal he had seen them.

'I want to call Eve Amberg,' Tweed said. 'I need a public phone box.'

'There's one near Bahnhofstrasse,' Paula told him. 'I remember seeing it on our way here…'

As the three of them walked off Cardon waited for a few minutes inside the cafe. He had seen the cripple in the wheelchair taking an unusual interest in shop windows near Prey's doorway. The invalid man wore a peaked shabby cap like those once sported by German students. His face was muffled in a woollen scarf, but it had slipped for a moment and Cardon had a good look at his face.

The nose curved downwards over his upper lip, reminding Cardon of an evil parrot. In his forties, Cardon had estimated. A worn rug covered his lap and his hands, on the controls, remained concealed underneath it. The wheelchair now began to follow Tweed and his companions. Cardon walked slowly after it.

Tweed entered the phone cubicle, looked up Eve Amberg's number in the directory. He inserted coins, dialled and she answered quickly.

'Amberg. Who is calling?'

Tweed here, Eve. Sorry to bother you again but there are one or two personal questions I didn't ask when we met.'

'Ask away. It's a relief to talk to someone English. I come from Cornwall. I'm reverting to my maiden name – Eve Royston. Now, the stage is yours.'

'Would you mind confirming how close it was to Julius's departure for England that you separated?'

'Two days before,' she said crisply. 'I'd challenged him earlier about his visits to Helen Frey. She may be a call-girl but I sensed their relationship was close. He then phoned me, as I said, two days before he flew to Britain. Said he wanted a separation and a divorce in good time. We had a helluva row over the phone. I told him I'd already decided to walk, so his suggestion was a bit late in the day.'

'You mean you never saw him again before he left? All this was over the phone?'

'It was,' she said emphatically. 'Something else I did not appreciate. He might have come to see me.' 'May I also ask how you first knew about Helen Frey?' 'Like something out of a cheap play. He was careless. Came home with traces of lipstick on his collar and he smelt of the wrong perfume. Despite smoking, I have a good sense of smell. I didn't say anything. I phoned the best private detective in Zurich to follow him. A bit sordid, but I was desperate to know the truth. He – the detective -followed him three times to Prey's place in Rennweg. That was it.'

'Would you be willing to give me this detective's name, address and phone number?'

'Of course. Name is Theo Strebel. He has a small apartment in the Altstadt – on this side of the Limmat. Here are the details…

Tweed had his notebook and pen ready, scribbled down the information. Outside the phone cubicle Newman was leaning against a wall as though waiting to use the phone. Paula appeared to be window-shopping. 'Thank you, Eve,' Tweed said. 'I'm most grateful.' 'Did you want to interview Strebel? If so, ten in the morning is the best time. He's going through his post. Would you like me to call him, introduce you, arrange a time?'

'That would be helpful. Ten in the morning tomorrow would be fine. And thank you again…

Tweed emerged and continued walking with Newman and Paula into Bahnhofstrasse. Behind them the wheelchair began moving again.

Tweed told them about his conversation with Eve. Paula guessed why he wanted to talk to Strebel, but asked him, to see if she'd guessed right.

'He's a detective – a good one, Eve said. I want to see whether he took any photos of Julius entering Helen's place.'

'Why?'Paula persisted.

'Just an idea I have. Helen said Julius was in a strange mood.'

'But she explained that,'Paula recalled.

'So she did,' Tweed agreed, and Paula knew he wasn't going to tell her any more. In Bahnhofstrasse commuters on their way home were clustered in a crowd round a tram stop twenty yards or so away. Cardon came up behind them.

'Freeze. Don't move…'

They obeyed his instruction instantly. Newman saw out of the corner of his eye that Cardon was gazing at something. He looked in that direction. A man in a wheelchair was backing it inside a side-street where there was a small modern white church Paula admired. When the wheelchair was alongside the street's far wall it stopped moving.

The man huddled inside the chair whipped back his lap rug. He showed startling agility. His right hand, holding something, was hoisted high, like a bowler in a cricket match about to throw the ball. A cylindrical object sailed through the air in an arc, descending to land at Tweed's feet. Garden's left hand, clawed, caught the object before it landed on the pavement. In a blur of movement he lobbed it back. It landed in the lap of the man in the wheelchair. The 'cripple' jerked upright, had one foot on the street, when there was a loud explosion.

The man who had hurled the grenade disintegrated. The relics of his body were smashed against the white wall where a red lake appeared. The wheelchair became a shambles. One wheel rolled up Bahnhofstrasse, leaving a trail of dark red blood in its wake. Paula saw a severed hand lying in the street.

As the commuters jerked their heads round Newman suddenly dropped into a crouch, his Smith amp; Wesson gripped in both hands. Behind them, five feet or so away, a man in a belted raincoat had opened a violin case, extracted a snub-nosed Uzi machine-pistol. The muzzle was aimed at Tweed as Newman fired three times in rapid succession. The sound of the shots was masked by the screeching stop of an approaching tram – the driver had seen the lake of blood spilling into the road. The man holding the Uzi was hurled back against a plate-glass window with such force it fractured as he sagged to the ground. 'Scatter!' Tweed ordered. 'Meet up at the Gotthard…'