The Power

23

Beck reappeared after about ten minutes. He waved for them to follow him. As they left the room two policemen wearing protective clothing, one carrying a tool-kit box, arrived, slipped inside the room.

'Bomb squad boys,' Beck remarked. 'Your room is clean – as regards explosives…'

When they entered Tweed's room a small gnome-like figure in civilian clothes was waiting for them. On a table a compact leather case was open and inside lay a collection of instruments. The only one Paula recognized was a calibrated dropper – like an eye dropper. A small container made of thick glass with a screw top stood next to the case. Inside it was half full with a crimson liquid. Beck introduced the gnome.

'This is our chemical specialist, Dr Brand.'

'After what I found, Beck,' the gnome said, 'you might be interested to take them into the bathroom.'

Tweed stood with Beck just inside the bathroom doorway. Paula peered over Tweed's shoulder.

'Now have a good look round,' Beck suggested to Tweed. 'You're exceptionally observant. Notice anything not the way you left it before dinner?'

Tweed stared slowly round. His eyes lingered on items from his spongebag he'd placed on a glass shelf over the basin. He shook his head.

'It appears to be the same. I can't see anything unusual.'

'When do you use the mouthwash?' Beck enquired, pointing to a bottle.

'First thing every morning. It freshens me up for the day.'

'In that case,' Beck said cheerfully, 'you had only a few hours to live. Come back into the bedroom.' He looked at the gnome. 'My friend here uses the mouth-wash every morning when he gets up.'

'I gargle with it,' Tweed added.

'Then maybe you would sniff this,' Dr Brand suggested and unscrewed the cap on the small thick glass container. He held it a moment before handing it to Tweed. 'Be very careful. It contains a small quantity of the mouthwash and a certain solvent I tested it with.'

Tweed raised the container, took a cautious sniff. Paula saw his facial muscles stiffen for a second. He handed it back to Brand, who immediately screwed on the cap.

'A faint aroma of bitter almonds,' Tweed said slowly.

'That's right,' Brand said agreeably. 'Prussic acid. I calculate you'd have gargled for two seconds. I placed the mouthwash bottle back exactly as I found it after I tested.'

'So did someone else,' Beck said grimly, 'after he used a pick lock to get into your room.'

'Prussic acid. Oh, my God,' Paula said half to herself.

She had a sudden vivid picture of Amberg at Tresillian Manor in Cornwall, his face destroyed with acid.

Beck and his team had left as Tweed sat with Newman and Paula in the bedroom. Before leaving he'd reported to Tweed that not a single fingerprint had been found in the room occupied by the man who'd registered as Barton Ives.

'Probably wore surgical gloves before he even entered the room,' he commented. 'And all the glasses and cutlery he used at dinner has been washed. His case also has disappeared. It's as though he'd never been here. And Brand has taken the mouthwash bottle with him. Take care…'

Newman had ordered a double Scotch from room service when they were alone while Paula decided she needed a glass of white wine. Tweed stayed with mineral water.

'God! That has shaken me,' Paula said. 'How on earth did you spot that it wasn't Barton Ives?'

'An accumulation of things,' Tweed told them. 'First the phone call from a hoarse-voiced man asking if Barton Ives could come. He opened up with "Cord here" – something like that. Unlike many Americans, Dillon is very formal, always introduces himself by his surname. Not conclusive.'

'Why phone at all?'Paula asked.

'To make sure the real Barton Ives hadn't already come to see us. After he'd arrived he kept referring to Dillon as Cord, which increased my suspicion. From his own made-up story about how they met, he was only an acquaintance. Still not conclusive

'So what was – conclusive?' Paula persisted.

'An accumulation of implausible things, as I just said. The real giveaway was no reference on his part to pursuing the serial murderer – and that information came from Dillon, so has to be true. Then I bring up the subject over dinner – and he dismisses it in two or three sentences! A gory long-drawn-out case like that. Then there was the story he'd thought up as to why he had fled the States. Why should Galloway send over an army to kill "Ives" when he'd admitted he had no evidence that would be accepted in court? A rubbish story. Then at dinner he kept checking every customer who entered the restaurant.'

'What was the significance of that?' Paula enquired.

'Link it with his nervousness about the men who'd been watching the hotel…'

'Yes,' Newman intervened, 'he was obsessed with them. While you were away he kept peering out to see if they had gone away.'

'No,' Tweed contradicted. 'To make sure they were still there! '

'Don't follow that,' Paula commented, frowning.

'You're usually quicker,' he gently chided her. The men outside were Norton's. Placed there in case the real Barton Ives arrived and tried to enter the hotel. That would have been a disaster for Norton, impersonating Ives. His men were there to take care of the real Ives for good if he showed up.'

'So when you came back from phoning Beck…' Paula began.

'My story,' Tweed interjected. 'Yes, it was my remark -invented – that reception had told me the police had removed the watchers which told Norton he was in trouble. Again, the real Ives could have walked in on us. Hence his exit to his room, supposedly for cigarettes.'

'And to your room,' she reminded him.

'Well, that's why he came here – to kill me. But for Beck bringing Dr Brand he'd have succeeded. I find the method he chose interesting.'

'Not the word I'd have used,' she remarked. 'But using acid does make me wonder if Norton was the fake postman who committed the massacre at Tresillian Manor.'

'I was going to say interesting because it's a measure of the ruthlessness of the man – and his determination. He was worried stiff Ives himself might turn up but he still went ahead and tried to murder me.'

'What is the programme for tomorrow?' Newman asked impatiently.

'I have a ten o'clock appointment with that detective of Eve Amberg's, Theo Strebel,' Tweed reminded him. 'I'm hoping he'll lead me to wherever Klara, Helen Prey's friend, has moved to. I want to talk to her again. I have an idea she knows more than she realizes. Then in the evening it's drinks with Gaunt's girl friend, Jennie Blade, at 6 p.m. downstairs in the Hummer Bar.'

'I wonder how Squire Gaunt fits into all this,' Paula mused.

'He was in Cornwall at the time of the massacre,' Tweed reminded her.'He could be a key figure.'

While it was dark and drizzling in Zurich, it was still daylight in Washington. 'A kinda daylight,' March reflected as he gazed out of the window. It was snowing heavily. The traffic down on Pennsylvania Avenue was already getting snarled up. He pressed a button on his intercom.

'Sara, get hold of the shit-kicker who's supposed to send out snow ploughs. I want them on Pennsylvania Avenue in ten minutes. When the machines get moving let the press know I gave the order.'

'Good thinking, boss

'Sure is. Let the folks know their President is lookin' after them.'

'There's a call, long distance, on your private phone. The caller won't give a name. Said you might be interested in a couple of items you were searching for…'

'Put them through. And put a trace on the call…'

'They're leery, boss. They rang off, said they'd call again shortly. I'll try a trace… Hold it, I think they're back on the line…'

'Who is this?' March barked when the connection was made.

'No names. Got a pad and pen? Good…'The voice was husky. 'I have a film and a tape recording for sale. The price is still twenty million dollars

'A courier is on the way to Zurich with the pay-off. I need first to be sure…'

'You need to shut your trap…'

March's mouth became ugly. You didn't talk to the President of the United States that way.

The voice went on: 'I know you're trying to trace this call. Write this down. The three possible rendezvous for the exchange – money for film and tape. On the Zurichberg, Orelli-strasse by the hotel. I'll spell it… Next possible place, airfield at Hausen am Albis. Here's that spelling… Third is Regensburg, outside Zurich… I'll be in touch again with specific details

The connection was broken. March was puzzled by the voice. Husky, yes. Growly, yes – very growly. But twice it had become high-pitched, sounded like a woman. Sara came on the internal line a few minutes later.

'No luck, boss. Trace took us to Zurich in Switzerland. Couldn't get the number in Zurich…'

'Hell! Don't know why we bought that trace equipment…'

March slammed down the phone. He'd pass this info, over to Norton when he next came through.

In Zurich the woman who had called March smiled at the man who had listened. She had disguised her voice by speaking from the bottom of her throat. 'March would never recognize your voice even if he ever met you,' the man said, wrapping his arm round her.

'I growled. That's the trick. Twenty million dollars. That should enable us to live in style.'

'You were great. What about going to bed to celebrate?'

'Why did I think you had that in mind?'

The following morning Tweed had breakfast with Paula and Newman in the first-floor dining-room, La Soupiere, at the Hotel Schweizerhof. Butler, Cardon and Nield sat by themselves at separate tables. The previous evening Butler and Nield had visited the hotel, entered all six rooms and rumpled the bedclothes.

'Since Norton knows we're staying at the Gotthard,' Paula suggested, 'is there any point in us remaining there?'

'None at all,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're moving our things back here after breakfast. I've already paid our bill at the Gotthard, told Harry, Pete and Philip to do the same thing.'

'What is the next move?' Newman asked. 'I'd like to get to grips with Norton and Co.'

'If he is the real enemy,' Tweed remarked. 'Nothing is certain. I'm now convinced few of the people we've met here – and in Cornwall – are what they seem.'

'That's reassuring,' Paula said ironically. 'Anyone in particular you're after?'

'I need more data before I can plan an elaborate trap. Elaborate because someone is masterminding a complex plot. I only realized that after we arrived here.'

He was keeping his thoughts all to himself once again, Paula said to herself. She tried another tack.

'Well, we're staying in Zurich, then.'

'No, we aren't,' Tweed told her. Tomorrow we catch an express train from the Hauptbahnhof to Basle.'

'Why Basle?'

'I phoned the Zurcher Kredit before breakfast to speak to Amberg. Luckily I got Amberg's personal assistant. She told me he had left suddenly for Basle in a great rush.'

'I remember – Zurcher Kredit has a branch in Basle. But why are we following him there?' Paula asked.

'Maybe you've forgotten. Amberg told us Julius had moved the film and tape Dyson delivered to the bank vault in Basle.' He checked his watch. 'I'll have to leave soon for my appointment with Theo Strebel.'

'Well, at least we know now what Norton looks like – the man who up to last night no one had ever seen.'

'I wouldn't count on that,' Tweed replied.

Inside the apartment he had rented, Norton returned to the bathroom. Thirty minutes earlier he had rubbed grey colourant into his normally light brown hair. Now he rinsed off the surplus with water and examined the result in the mirror.

His appearance was changing already. He'd forget his weekly visit to a barber, and let his hair grow longer. It grew very rapidly. Satisfied with its progress, he put on his jacket, checked the time.

Timing was everything. He had his whole day planned out with the precision of a general preparing for a major battle. He was whistling a tune as he left the apartment.

Tweed was accompanied by Paula when he climbed ancient stone steps inside the old building in the Altstadt which housed Strebel's office. Newman followed a few paces behind, waited in the corridor as Tweed opened a door with a frosted-glass window in the upper half. Etched into the glass was a simple legend. THEO STREBEL. No indication of his profession.

They walked into an empty ante-room. A solid oak door in the opposite wall with a glass spyhole. Paula was suddenly nervous – the atmosphere on the old stone staircase had been eerie, the smell of a musty building barely occupied for years had assailed her nostrils.

Here the atmosphere was even more sinister. A heavy silence filled the room which was furnished only with an old empty desk. She was sure no one had occupied the room for ages. She slipped her hand inside her shoulder-bag, gripped her Browning automatic.

'Announce yourselves. Your names. please.'

The disembodied voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Tweed pointed to an ancient cone-shaped speaker fixed to a corner high up. The voice had spoken in English.

'Is that you, Mr Strebel?' demanded Tweed.

'I said announce yourselves. Your names and business.'

'I have an appointment with Theo Strebel. For 10 a.m. Eve Amberg said she would phone you. My assistant, a woman, is with me.'

'Tell her to say something,' the disembodied voice commanded. 'Anything. Apples are green.'

'Only when they are not normally ripe,' Paula called back.

'Enter.'

There was a sound like the buzzer Helen Frey had operated on the front door in Rennweg. Tweed pushed at the heavy door and, reluctantly, it swung inward.

'Good morning, Mr Tweed. Don't just stand there. My greetings to you, Fraulein.'

A very fat man dressed in a black suit sat behind a desk. His hair was dark and brushed back over his high forehead without a parting. Below a short pugnacious nose he sported a trim dark moustache. The door closed automatically behind them as they walked inside the office. Paula heard the lock click shut, felt trapped.

'You are Mr Tweed. You fit Mrs Amberg's description. Do sit down, both of you. Now, what exactly can I do for my latest client?'

'You are Theo Strebel?'

'The great detective himself. No impersonations here.'

As Paula followed Tweed's example, seating herself in the other hard-backed chair facing the Swiss, she found she rather liked Strebel. He radiated energy and the good humour often associated with fat men. He leaned both elbows on the desk, clasped his surprisingly small hands under his jowly chin and smiled.

'The ball is in your court, Mr Tweed.'

'I am trying to locate the new address of a brunette who lived in the apartment opposite Helen Frey

'Whose ghastly murder is written about at length in the newspaper. So?'

'I have just said what I wish you to find out. Where Helen Prey's friend went to. I only know her first name. Klara.'

'And have you any clue as to her profession? Clues are my lifeblood, Mr Tweed.'

'She was a high-class call-girl. Like Helen Frey.'

'I appreciate the description. Everyone has to earn a living. That profession can be highly dangerous – as the latest news indicates. They are entitled to charge the high fees they do for their services. Danger money, Mr Tweed.'

'I need to locate her urgently.'

'First things first. Would you be so kind as to show me some identification? Your description may fit, but I am known as the most careful man in all Zurich.'

Tweed could have produced his driving licence. Weighing up Strebel, he produced instead his Special Branch folder, a document forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent – when it had existed. Strebel raised his thick eyebrows as he studied the folder, looked at Tweed while he handed back the document.

'Special Branch? I am honoured,' he said gravely. 'You are a new experience for me.'

'I realize I have no jurisdiction here,' Tweed commented quickly.

'I was not about to make that remark.' He clasped hands under his jaw again. 'Unprecedented movements of certain people are taking place in Zurich. I get a hint of why you are here. There could be danger for me.'

'Why do you say that?' Tweed asked.

'That I cannot tell you.'

'Mr Strebel, I know you watched Rennweg 590. Could you tell me who called on Helen Frey recently – apart from Julius Amberg?'

'Ah! Julius…' The Swiss paused. 'I cannot reveal information confidential to clients of mine.'

'This is now a murder case – a particularly horrible one.'

'True, Mr Tweed. True. Let us say I observed someone from your country entering that door and leave it at that.'

'You won't even give me a hint?'

'I have already done that, Mr Tweed.'

'Thank you. Now I still need to locate Klara urgently.'

'That could take some time. Zurich is an intricate city. It has two Altstadts – the one you are now in and then another equally complex area on the other side of the River Limmat.'

'I haven't got the time, Strebel.'

'Obtaining information quickly is more expensive. My fee would be one thousand Swiss francs.'

Tweed produced his wallet. Extracting a 1,000 Swiss franc note, he laid it on the desk, his hand still resting on top of it. Strebel gave him his warm smile and included Paula in his hospitality. He was reaching into a drawer when Paula spoke for the first time.

'I've never seen such a tidy office. Not a single filing cabinet, no cupboards – just yourself and your desk.'

'Also my head.' He smiled at her again as he placed a notepad on his desk. He wrote something on the top sheet with care in a neat legible script. 'My files are stored in a bank vault. I respect my clients' confidences. Also I carry a secret filing cabinet in my head.' Strebel tore off the sheet, folded it, handed it across the desk to Tweed.

'That is the new address of Klara. She is in this Altstadt. Not five minutes' walk from the front door to this building.'

Tweed smiled, pushed the banknote across the desk. The Swiss picked it up, inserted it carefully inside a slim wallet.

'So,' Paula teased him, 'you knew all the time?'

'In my profession I charge for providing the information a client requires. Mr Tweed is paying for what I know.'

'I've said this before, Paula,' Tweed reminded her. 'It is not always what you know, it's where to find it.'

'Were you once a police detective?' Strebel asked.

A perceptive man, Tweed thought. It was the first time he'd ever been asked the question in that form.

'I was with the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard once,' he said.

'And he was the youngest superintendent the Yard had ever had up to that time,' Paula told Strebel.

'No need to go into details,' Tweed snapped.

'I can well believe it,' Strebel told Paula. 'Mr Tweed, maybe before you leave Zurich you would join me for a drink. We could exchange experiences – I mean from when you were at the Yard,' he added hastily.

' It would be my pleasure.'

Strebel accompanied them to the door after pressing a button underneath his desk. He shook hands formally with both of them and when Paula glanced back as they reached the outer door he smiled again, bowed his head.

'What a nice man,' Paula said as Tweed closed the outer door. 'I always picture private detectives as nasty little men in shabby raincoats.'

'I suspect Strebel was once a member of the Swiss police. He may well know Beck.'

Newman was waiting for them at the end of the dark corridor. He spoke to Tweed immediately.

'Someone started to come in downstairs, opened the door. I think they saw me and changed their minds. Didn't get a glimpse of who it was.'

'People calling on private investigators are often shy of being seen. We've got Klara's new address…'

Outside on the uneven pavement which, like the buildings, looked as though it had been there for centuries, Paula consulted her map. She looked to the end of the deserted square from the edge where they stood. The square was surrounded with six-storey buildings as old as time.

'Klara is living at the far side of the square. No. 10.'

The entrance hall was similar to the one they had just left. As they entered a door opened on the ground floor. A hook-nosed woman with beady eyes and dressed in a black dress peered at them.

'You want the girl who's just moved in upstairs?' Her thin lips curled. 'Some people don't care how they make their money. Mixed doubles this time, is it?'

She slammed the door before Tweed could retort. Newman led the way up the old iron-railed stone staircase. Close to the only door on this landing he stopped. Tweed and Paula stared past him The door was open a few inches.

Newman had his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand as he moved silently to the door, paused to listen, pushed the door open wider with his left hand, took a step inside, froze. He called over his shoulder.

'Paula, for God's sake don't come in here…'