The Power

20

Paula sat on the edge of the bed in Tweed's room at the Gotthard. Her feet were pressed hard on the floor to prevent them from trembling. She was suffering from delayed shock brought on by the events in Bahnhofstrasse. Also in the room, seated in chairs, were Newman and Cardon. Paula's mood was not helped by Tweed's – she sensed he was puzzled by something. His first words didn't help her to detect what was bothering him.

'Let's sum up what happened. While we were in the bar at the Baur-en-Ville that villainous-looking type – I'm going to nickname him the Skull – spotted Paula and myself and then hurried back into the hotel.'

'I don't see what you're getting at,' Paula said, forcing herself to speak in a calm voice.

'Have patience. We didn't spend long over lunch but when we left to walk to Helen Prey's place in Rennweg the fake cripple was waiting for us, presumably already armed with his grenade. The speed with which the Skull and his associates move is incredible. Professionals of the top rank, Hear.'

'I still don't really see what you're driving at.'

'Communications. I feel sure the wheelchair man also had a mobile phone under the lap rug which concealed his grenade. He could have used that phone without Cardon seeing him. I'm worried about Helen Frey.'

'What on earth for?' Newman intervened.

'Because the cripple must have used the phone to report we were nearing that tram-stop. Hence that man with the Uzi you dealt with was waiting for us.'

'I see that,' Paula agreed, 'but why this anxiety about Helen Frey?'

'The cripple could have reported our visit to her to the Skull. She could be in danger. Time for me to call her.'

'She has a 4.30 p.m. appointment with an Emil Voser,' Newman recalled. 'I noticed it in her desk diary. So she may be busy.'

'Then she'll indicate that on the phone.'

While Tweed was checking Frey's number in the directory Paula began talking to Cardon. She kept her voice down as Tweed dialled the number.

'Philip, I still can't understand how you were able to catch that grenade in time and lob it back. Or, Bob, how you spotted the second assassin.'

'Easy.' Cardon grinned. 'First I'm good at cricket as a bowler. But mainly it was Butler's training me on a course down at the Send manor in Surrey. In the grounds he'd throw me a live grenade with the pin out -I had to lob it over the other side of a brick wall before it detonated. He tested me first with a cricket ball. Just one of the many contingency attack situations he trained me in. So, easy.'

'You make it sound so simple,' Paula remarked, her hands pressed against the bed. 'What about you, Bob?'

'Oh, I'm getting the measure of this mob. Organized up to the hilt. It occurred to me the grenade thrower might well have back-up, so I checked all round, saw this character with a violin case. Rather old-fashioned technique – a method used by Chicago gangsters at one time, carrying a sub-machine-gun in a violin case.'

He stopped talking as Tweed put down the phone. His expression was serious. He began to put on his overcoat.

'I don't like it. I called Prey's number. No reply for a number of rings, then the phone was lifted, no one spoke, the phone was put down again. I just asked to speak to Helen Frey, gave no name. We're going back to Rennweg. I'm really worried now…'

It was dark as they approached Rennweg 590 for the second time. Again Paula and Newman walked with Tweed while Cardon trailed behind them. On opposite sides of the street Butler and Nield strolled along, pausing to gaze into shops. The cafe opposite the entrance to No. 590 was still open and Cardon slipped inside it.

Tweed was about to press the speakphone button when he stiffened. The door was not closed properly – its automatic lock had failed to work. Glancing up and down the street, he pushed gently and the door swung inward. No light on the staircase. Odd. He stepped inside, produced a pencil torch, shielded it with his hand so it gave just enough illumination to see the stair treads.

'I'd better go up first,' Newman whispered, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand.

He squeezed past Tweed who gave him the flash. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound as they slowly mounted the staircase. Paula, who had quietly closed the front door, brought up the rear. The atmosphere of the dark staircase was eerie: she felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The closed front door shut out all sounds from the outside world. A stair tread creaked loudly as Newman stepped on it. He climbed higher, shone the torch back to illuminate the giveaway tread. Tweed and Paula stepped over it.

Arriving at the landing, Newman first pressed gently against Klara's door. It held firm. He walked over to Helen's door, saw that it was open half an inch or so. Someone had left in a hurry – so why hadn't she secured it afterwards?

With his gun still in his right hand, he used his left to push the door wider open, waited, listened. He had switched off the torch. He was listening for sounds of breathing, any sound. Nothing. He switched on the torch again, shone it slowly round, then held it motionless. With a swift movement he shone it towards the window: the curtains were still closed. He spoke over his shoulder.

'Paula, I wouldn't come in if I were you.'

That was just the sort of remark which made her determined to go inside. She followed Tweed, who took two steps inside and stopped. She saw him reach inside his jacket pocket under his raincoat, produce a pair of surgical gloves and put them on his hands. She extracted her own pair from her shoulder-bag. Newman stood very still inside the room, his torch beam held steady. He had pushed the door open with his knuckles. No fingerprints.

Tweed reached for the wall switch he'd noticed on their earlier visit, pressed it down. The pink wall-sconce lights came on and Paula saw what Newman had been staring at.

'Oh, no!'

Helen Frey, clad only in underclothes, lay sprawled back in an armchair. The front of her white slip was drenched with dark red blood. Her head flopped against the back of the chair at an unnatural angle. A savage crescent moon, blood red, circled her throat. She had been garrotted.

Tweed went close to the armchair followed by Paula. He guessed that a strong sharp wire had been used. The head had been almost severed from the body. She looked hideous with her lipsticked mouth open and her tongue protruding. The weird angle of the head was now explained. Very little remained to attach it to the body.

'Emil Voser. 4.30 p.m.,' said Paula, recalling Newman telling them about the desk diary.

'Which is probably not his real name,' Tweed commented, his eyes scanning the apartment. 'I don't think that we ought to linger here. What is it, Paula?'

She was crouched near the side of the chair. She used her index finger to point and Tweed crouched beside her. On the carpet lay a blood-stained pearl, pierced at either end as though it belonged to a string.

'Bring it with us,' Tweed ordered.

'Which means we are tampering with evidence.'

'Which means exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'But we know more about these people than anyone.'

Paula was already extracting a Cellophane specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag. She fumbled in her bag again and her right hand came out holding a pair of tweezers. She used them to tease the pearl, split along one side, into the wallet and sealed it. With a pen she wrote on the attached tab the date and Rennweg590, and slipped the wallet inside her bag. She was sniffing the air as she stood up. She began prowling round the apartment.

'Can't you smell the faint whiff?' she said to Tweed. 'I caught it as soon as we came in – someone has been smoking a cigar. Got you. ..'

From a low table concealed by the arm of the couch Paula lifted up a large glass ashtray. Inside nestled an intact roll of cigar ash. Extracting another wallet, she carefully tipped the roll of ash into the second wallet. Sealing it, she wrote only Cigar ash specimen No. 2, and put this wallet into her bag.

'I missed that. Good work,' Tweed told her.

Newman was standing by the desk near the curtained window. He was staring down at the open desk diary.

'She had no other appointments today. Only this Voser.'

'We'll go now,' Tweed decided. 'I'll leave the door, half an inch open as we found it. Move silently – mind that creaking stair. We don't want to attract Klara's attention

They stepped into a quiet street, Tweed leaving last to pull the door almost closed, his hands now wearing leather gloves. Again Cardon signalled to them from the window in the cafe. This time Newman went inside, then turned to beckon Tweed and Paula to follow him. Tweed understood his motive when he saw Klara sitting by herself at a side table with a cup of coffee in front of her.

'I'm going to talk to Klara,' Newman said. 'She might have information.'

'Good idea,' Tweed agreed after a moment's hesitation.

'So you've come back again for a frolic?' Klara greeted Newman.

Tweed smiled as they sat at her table. He ordered coffee from the waitress for himself and Newman after Paula shook her head. Her stomach was queasy. Like Tweed, she kept quiet while Newman and Klara talked.

'I'm afraid I haven't,' Newman began. 'Maybe you ought to put that cup down. I have some rather shocking news for you. Just about as shocking as you can get.'

'I've got strong nerves,' Klara told him, her expression serious. 'You need them in my business. Some of the men who come to see you.'

'That's really the tragedy in Helen Prey's case.'

Tragedy?' Klara looked down as she slowly drummed the pink-varnished nails of her right hand on the table. She looked up again direct at Newman. 'I'm tough – so don't treat me like a kid. Just tell me what's happened to Helen.'

'We came back a few minutes ago to ask her some questions we'd overlooked earlier. The front door was open, her door was open a bit. We found her inside. Murdered.'

'Oh, hell. I was always telling her to be more careful.

Which is why – if I hadn't a client – I used to open my door a crack when one of the stairs creaked. Not to be nosy, believe me. Just to try and look after her. I hope it wasn't a pervert. Did she suffer?'

'I'd say it was pretty quick. He slashed her throat open. It's not a nice sight. Did you by any chance see her four thirty appointment arrive this afternoon?'

'Yes, I did.'

'But there's no light on the staircase. In daytime the fanlight at the top gives enough illumination to see your way, but now…

'There's a time switch, lasts one minute. If you know where to find it you can switch it on from just inside the front door. Then Helen and I have switches inside our apartments we can operate. When he came upstairs she'd obviously operated her time switch.'

'So you can describe him?'

'Well, yes and no. I only open my door a crack so her client won't spot me. I'd say he was taller than you are. His feet seemed to hurt him a bit the way he was walking slowly and carefully.'

'Slim?'

'No. Pretty fat, I'd say. His black overcoat was tight across his waist and the buttons looked as though they could fly off at any moment.'

'Colour of hair?.'

'No idea. He also wore a black broad-brimmed hat pulled well down. Couldn't see his hair.'

'Describe his face.'

That's difficult too. He had a pair of those wrapround tinted glasses which covered a lot of his face. And a white silk scarf which covered more of it. I do know his feet hurt him.'

'What about his age?' Newman pressed. 'Thirty, forty, older?'

'I honestly couldn't tell. I judge a man's age by the way he moves – but coming up unfamiliar stairs with tender feet throws any body language.'

'Would you recognize him again if you saw him?'

'Only if he was dressed exactly as he was when he came up those stairs.'

'Then you'd really just be identifying the clothes,' Newman pointed out.

'I suppose you're right.'

'Sitting here, did you see him leave, get a better view?'

'No, I didn't. But just before you came in I was chatting with a girl friend. I didn't even see the three of you go back inside.'

'You're English, aren't you?' Newman suddenly shot at her.

'Yes, I am,' Klara said after a pause. 'So was Helen -her real name is – was – Helen Dane from Cornwall. We teamed up to come out here, hoping we'd have a novelty value for Swiss men. And we do. But they prefer you to have a common Swiss name. Don't ask me why. And don't ask my real name.'

'What's your Swiss surname, then? Klara who?'

'I'm not telling you that either. I'm clearing out of my apartment within the hour. Do the police know about Helen yet?' Klara asked.

'No, they don't. I'd just as soon you didn't mention our visits.'

'You can count on that,' she assured him. 'First, I simply couldn't stay in a building where poor Helen was murdered. Second, what clients are going to come back to me here? Rennweg 590 will become notorious once the press get hold of the story. That girl friend I was chatting to is about to vacate her apartment to take up a job in Geneva. I'm also not giving you the address.'

'Fair enough.'

Klara looked at Paula. 'Would you do me a great favour? Come back with me to my apartment while I pack? Please.'

Paula looked at Tweed. He checked his watch. His six o'clock appointment with Jennie Blade at the Hummer Bar was coming up soon. Klara sensed his problem – time. She gazed at Paula.

'I'm the world's quickest packer. One suitcase and in five minutes we'll be in the street again.'

Tweed, reluctantly, nodded agreement to Paula. Newman warned Klara as she stood up, door key in her hand: 'When you're going to this new address I'd take a taxi. You know Zurich well? Good. Think of two fake destinations. Then get a third taxi to take you where you're going.'

'Good idea. Thanks…'

Tweed checked his watch again as the two women left the cafe. He doubted Klara's statement that she could pack in five minutes. Paula could but how many other women achieved that speed?

'Her description of Voser was pretty distinctive,' Newman commented. 'A tall fat man with tender feet.'

'I found two aspects of her description intriguing,' Tweed remarked.

'Which two aspects?'

'I want to chew them over in my mind,' Tweed told him cryptically.'I did notice Klara is very tall.'

Newman gave up trying to penetrate the subtle recesses of Tweed's mind. He sat watching the closed door opposite.

Tweed had time to call Monica after he arrived back at the Gotthard. Klara had been as good as her word – she had packed the suitcase and emerged back on Rennweg with Paula in five minutes. Newman saw her safely into a taxi before they hurried back to the Gotthard… 'Monica, Tweed here. Are you alone? I do not want to get in touch with Howard now. I'm speaking from my hotel.'

'All's quiet down here in Surrey…' Monica was wording what she said carefully. Anyone could be listening in. 'I have the details of the Gaunt concern. The top man is a millionaire. He likes to spread it round that he has no idea where the next penny is coming from. He owns the manor -no mortgage – a property in Rock with no name and has considerable assets in Switzerland. No details about them, of course. He was once a captain in the SAS. Had to resign – too independent-minded. A bit of an adventurer, like the old buccaneers. Popular with women. Has had a lot of girl friends. That's it.'

'Thank you. Now, two women have applied to me for jobs. I need to have detailed references. Ready to take down their names? Good. Jennie Blade. And Eve Amberg – maiden name Royston. I'll spell that last name. Got it? I suggest concentration on the Padstow area. I must go now.

I'll call you in the near future. Take care…'

Paula was intrigued as Tweed put down the phone. Waiting while he loosened his collar, she asked her question.

'Why especially do you want to know about those two women?'

'Both of them have connections with Cornwall/Which is where it all started.'