The Power

24

It was a replay of the grim tragedy in Helen Prey's apartment. Klara, fully dressed, lay back in an armchair, her head flopped at an unnatural angle. A dark crimson sickle gash curved round her throat, disappearing round the back of her neck.

'He's been here,' Paula said quietly.

Despite Newman's warning she had followed Tweed into the apartment. She pulled on her surgical gloves as Tweed walked slowly round the back of the chair. Again the head was almost severed from the neck. Someone favoured garrotting.

Paula stood sniffing the air. She frowned, began prowling round the apartment, careful not to disturb anything.

'What is it?' Tweed asked Paula sharply.

'Cigar smoke…' She continued walking slowly, weaving her way among armchairs, passing a large couch. 'Got you,' she called out.

She was extracting a specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag when Newman stood alongside her. On top of a small piecrust table, hidden by the arm of the couch, stood an ashtray. Inside it rested a thick roll of cigar ash. Tweed joined them as she lifted the container with her gloved hand, skilfully tipped the ash roll inside the wallet. Sealing it, she wrote the date, the second of March, and a name. Klara.

'She had a customer at nine thirty a.m. according to her desk diary,' Newman said.

He took them over to a table where a new diary lay open.

9.30a.m. Edwin Allenspach. Tweed and Paula stared down at the entry.

'Strange she underlined the initials of each name,' Paula remarked.

'Could have been any reason,' Newman reacted dismissively. 'Maybe it was a new client and she was reminding herself to check up on him.' He glanced at Paula. 'Or maybe he had certain tastes she catered to,' he suggested, phrasing it carefully.

'You mean kinky,' Paula suggested. 'Somehow I don't think Klara went in for that sort of thing. And nine thirty in the morning seems rather early for… although I suppose some men…'

She trailed off as she saw Newman watching her. She grimaced at him.

'You know what I mean.'

'I wonder whether either of you are right,' said Tweed.

He was still gazing at the entry. He made no attempt to explain what had crossed his mind. Standing in the centre of the apartment he scanned it swiftly, taking in everything.

'Again no sign that the place has been ransacked, searched in any way.' Paula realized he was talking to himself as he continued: 'So, whoever is the murderer came for that specific purpose. Murder. He's systematically exterminating everyone who might provide vital information.'

'Maybe it's just become a habit with him,' Newman said, attempting to lighten the traumatic atmosphere with a little black humour. 'Could be a psychopath, I suppose.'

'I think not,' Tweed objected. 'But yes, systematically exterminating all potential witnesses,' he repeated.

'Well, the bastard's doing a damn good job,' Newman remarked.

Tweed was strolling round the apartment. Paula, watching him, saw him suddenly clap a hand to his forehead. He grunted. He stiffened.

'On our way out, I'll try out my German again on Old Nosy downstairs. I did understand the dirty remark she made. She may have seen him arrive or leave. She has the mind of a concierge who can't abide not knowing what people are doing. I also suspect she's greedy.'

'We must report this crime,' Newman said. 'I know we skipped out of Helen Prey's place…'

'It was important we didn't get tangled up in an inquiry, slowed down. But this I was going to report,' Tweed agreed. 'Something else is worrying me though. We'll report it to the police shortly.'

As they made their way back down the stone stairs the door on the ground floor opened and Old Nosy stood in her doorway, arms akimbo. Both Paula and Newman also understood German.

'That was a quick one,' she sneered. 'Must have been easy money for that new girl.'

'I have a question to ask you,' Tweed said in German.

'Ask away. Don't promise you'll hear anything from me. Not as though I'm the local gossip.'

'I'm sure you're not,' Tweed said amiably. 'The new girl had someone who called on her before we arrived. Did you by chance see them? Could you give me a rough description?'

Between his fingers he held a hundred-franc note. She was eyeing it with great interest. She tossed her head.

'Information costs money in Switzerland.'

'Which is why I'm willing to pay – if I'm convinced you're not making it up.'

'Me make something up for money?' she blazed indignantly. 'Who do you think you're talking to?'

'Someone, apparently, who isn't interested in accepting a fee in good faith,' Tweed replied, his tone harsh.

'Didn't say that, did I?' She simpered and Paula felt nauseated. 'I didn't see them go up,' the woman said in a regretful tone. 'I was listening to my favourite radio programme. But I did hear them leaving. Tiptoeing down those steps pretty fast.'

'You saw who it was?' Tweed asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

'Only saw the back of the caller. As they was leaving, going out the front door.'

'Describe them for me as best you can,' Tweed coaxed.

'He had a black wide-brimmed hat on, pulled well down…'

'Colour of hair?'

'I just told you – he had the hat pulled well down. So how could I see the hair? One thing I can tell you is his height. I always notice how tall someone is. About as tall as her.' She nodded towards Paula, looking her up and down. Paula's gaze remained steady as she stared back at the ferret-like eyes. 'Wore a long black overcoat and a thick woollen scarf.'

'A fat man?' Tweed enquired.

'No. He was tall and fairly slim. Had a funny walk.'

'Funny in what way?'

Took quick short steps. Like a pansy.'

'Did he move like a pansy then?' Tweed pressed.

'No, I don't think he did. Didn't mince, if that's what you mean. I only got a glimpse as the door was closing.'

'A thick neck?' Tweed probed.

'No idea. How could I? He was wearing this thick woollen scarf. I just told you that.'

'So you did,' said Tweed, who was checking her powers of observation. 'Was he carrying anything?'

'Not in his hands. But he had something pretty heavy in his coat pocket. Weighed it down, it did.'

'Thank you,' said Tweed and handed her the banknote. 'I congratulate you on your powers of observation.'

'Something funny has happened up in her apartment?' she asked, her eyes gleaming at the prospect.

'According to you something funny is always happening in that apartment.'

Tweed left the building before she could think up some vicious retort. He began walking rapidly across the square, returning to the side they had come from. His legs, despite his shorter stature, moved like pistons and Newman had trouble keeping up with him. Paula was running when they reached the entrance to Theo Strebel's building.

'What is wrong?' Paula asked.

'Nothing, I hope. But I am very much afraid…'

Newman managed to get alongside Tweed as he took two steps a time up the staircase to the first floor. On the landing Tweed stopped suddenly, pointed. The door with frosted glass in the upper half leading to the ante-room was open several inches. Behind them, Paula froze briefly. Doors partly open were beginning to fill her with terror.

She grabbed for her Browning as Newman, Smith amp; Wesson in his hand, used his other hand to hold Tweed back. Paula caught up with them.

'Strebel is so careful about security,' she whispered.

'Exactly,' Tweed responded in a grim tone.

'You're not armed,' Newman reminded Tweed. 'We'll go ahead, check the lie of the land.'

Paula had slipped off her gloves, held the Browning in both hands as she followed Newman into the ante-room. It had the same long-uninhabited feel she had sensed last time. But there was one difference. The heavy oak door to Strebel's office was open several inches.

Tweed had followed closely on their heels. He stood for a moment, fists clenched out of sight in his trench coat pockets. Newman, on the hinge side of the door, reached out his left hand, pushed it hard. It swung open slowly, noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges. There was a terrible silence pervading the atmosphere, a lack of life. Paula, awaiting a signal from Newman, was pressed against the wall on the other side of the door.

Tweed, standing very still, watched the door expose more and more of the room beyond. There was something theatrical about its movement. Then he had a clear view of the interior of the room.

Without hesitation, Tweed marched straight inside. Newman, inwardly cursing what he regarded as fool-hardiness, jumped in after him, stopped. Paula, Browning aimed for instant firing, stood in the open doorway, slowly lowered the angle of her gun until the muzzle pointed at the floor.

'Dear God, no!' she exclaimed in anguish. 'Not again.'

'Yes, again,' Tweed said in a voice which held no emotion. 'Exactly what I expected. Except for the method of execution…'

Theo Strebel lay back in his chair behind the large desk. His jacket was open, revealing his white shirt front. A large red rose shape decorated the white shirt to the right. Over the heart. A red rose which blossomed and spread slowly as Paula watched, almost hypnotized.

Tweed walked swiftly round the desk. He felt the carotid artery, shook his head.

'He's dead,' he said simply. 'Shot through the heart. One bullet, I suspect. And I blame myself. I was so looking forward to having that drink with him. Some people – a rare few – make an instant impact on you – he was one of that rare breed. Such a bloody waste.'

Paula had seldom heard Tweed swear. And he had spoken with a ferocity that startled her.

'Where's the flaming phone?' Tweed demanded.

'Why, for Heaven's sake, blame yourself?' she enquired.

'Because the murderer arrived while we were talking to Theo Strebel.' He looked at Newman. 'You gave me the hint and a faint alarm bell rang. I was fool enough to ignore it.'

'What hint?' Newman, puzzled, asked.

'When we were leaving here before you said someone started to come in through the front door. You thought they'd seen you and changed their minds. That was the murderer. He'd just committed one and was on his way here to kill Strebel.'

'Committed one?' queried Paula.

'Yes. The garrotting of Klara. I only realized Strebel was probably in great danger when I said aloud that the murderer was exterminating everyone who might provide information. I shouldn't have delayed our departure by questioning that awful woman. But on the other hand she did say something very significant, and Strebel was by then probably already dead.'

'What was very significant?' Paula asked.

'So where is the phone? I must call Beck…'

It was Paula who found out where Strebel hid his phone. Wearing her surgical gloves, she began opening drawers in his desk. Hauling open a deep drawer at the bottom, she lifted out a telephone. She dialled police headquarters, then handed the instrument to Tweed who was wearing gloves. He asked for the Swiss police chief, giving his name.

'Tweed here, Arthur…'

'I have news for you,' the familiar voice broke in. 'I have at long last received the expert's report on that cigar ash specimen you gave me. Whoever smoked the cigar has expensive tastes. It is a Havana.'

'Thank you, I have another specimen for you to check – but that can wait. There have been two more murders

Two more?' Beck's tone was ironical. 'You know then about the killing of a certain Helen Frey?'

'Yes, we can talk about that when we meet. One victim is

Klara, the girl who had the apartment opposite Helen Prey's. The other is a private detective. I'm speaking from his office now. A Theo Strebel…'

'Strebel! Oh, no, not Theo. He worked in the police force just before I got the top job. I wouldn't have thought anyone could have murdered Theo. You said you were at his office?'

'Yes. The address is-'

'I know it. I'm on my way there now…'