The Power

27

The express train from Zurich to Basle thundered across northern Switzerland. Tweed sat in a first-class compartment with his case on the seat beside him while Paula sat opposite. Across the central aisle Newman occupied the seat next to the aisle while Cardon sat in the next two seats by himself. Cardon was in a corner, facing Tweed so he had a good view of him diagonally.

'We are not flying to Basle,' Tweed had announced in his hotel room before they left. 'Philip has been over to the Hauptbahnhof and bought return tickets for all of us to Basle.'

'Why the train?' Paula had asked.

'Because it's quicker for a start. Driving out to the airport, waiting to board a flight, taking a cab from Basle Airport, which is half an hour's journey – it all takes longer. Also, we can slip away more easily with the station just across the way.'

'But you told Beck you were flying there,' she reminded him.

'So I did.' He had smiled. 'I don't want to be hemmed in by his protectors. In any case, I have my own. I'll call him from the hotel in Basle…'

Paula sat looking round the sparsely populated compartment, alternately gazing out of the window. So far there were few mountains on this trip. They were travelling through industrial Switzerland, where many factories stood close to the railway line.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone approaching their compartment. She glanced in the direction of the automatic door. A tall monk had entered. He wore a dark robe, his waist spanned with a rope girdle. A hood was pulled over his head and he had a pair of hornrimmed glasses perched on his nose. She slid her hand inside her shoulder bag, gripped the butt of the Browning.

The train was swaying round a bend as the monk, carrying a case in his left hand, made his slow progress towards them. Newman had seen Paula's reaction. He glanced quickly in a mirror, saw the monk coming, slipped his hand inside his jacket, rested his hand on the Smith amp; Wesson.

Tweed, apparently absorbed in writing names on a pad, linking them with different permutations, sensed the tension. He glanced up as the monk arrived alongside him. At that moment the express lurched again as it roared round a curve.

'The monk's case hit Tweed's, toppled it over on the seat. Tweed stared at the face under the hood. Cord Dillon.

The uniformed conductor who had checked their tickets a few minutes earlier left another first-class compartment which had been empty. Not many people travelling at this time of year. It was early March.

Out of a lavatory where the door had been open a few inches a tall heavily built man stepped into the deserted corridor. At this point no other passengers were visible.

'Ticket, sir,' the conductor requested.

'Sure, buddy. Got it here somewhere…'

The American glanced in both directions. No other passengers in sight. The train swayed again. The conductor, accustomed to the movement, stood quite still, feet splayed.

The American, as tall as the conductor, appeared to lose his balance. He lurched against the conductor. The flick knife concealed behind him appeared, was rammed swiftly up through the open jacket and between the ribs of the conductor. As he grunted, sagged, the American grabbed him and hauled the body inside the lavatory, used an elbow to close the door. He lowered the body on to the seat, locked the door. Checking the neck pulse he felt nothing.

Swiftly he began the awkward task of removing the conductor's uniform – jacket, trousers and peaked cap. As he stripped off his own suit, folded it roughly, shoved it inside a plastic carrier, the eyes of his victim stared at him.

Tucking the carrier behind the seat, the American took out a penknife. He opened the door a few inches, saw no one. From the outside he used the penknife to move the small notice which indicated that the lavatory was occupied.

Straightening his cap, he checked his watch. Only a few minutes left before the train stopped at Baden. Mencken had a car with a driver waiting there to take him back to Zurich. He checked the Luger tucked inside his shoulder holster to make sure he could whip it out quickly from under the jacket, felt the handle of the second flick knife tucked inside his belt. The jacket, buttoned up, was a little tight across the midriff, but who notices a conductor? Holding the instrument used to clip tickets in his left hand he made his way back to the first-class compartment where Tweed was sitting. He'd be able to kill him and any guards in seconds…

Three things happened at once as the 'monk' toppled Tweed's suitcase. Newman rammed his revolver into Cord Dillon's back. Paula's Browning appeared in her hand. Tweed held up a hand to indicate all was well.

'My apologies,' Dillon whispered to Tweed, relieved when the gun muzzle was withdrawn from his back. 'The train lurched…'

As he spoke he dropped a card with writing on it in Tweed's lap. The message was terse, clear.

Barton Ives is aboard the train. Where can he meet you? Not on this train.

'No need to apologize,' Tweed said in a low tone. 'You can both contact me at Hotel Drei Konige – the Three Kings – in Basle. Sooner speak to you first.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Dillon.

He proceeded on through the compartment, carrying his bag. The last Tweed saw of him was when he disappeared beyond the compartment door. Paula leaned forward.

'What was all that about? I nearly shot him.'

'That was Cord Dillon. He did take a chance, but he's on the run still, obviously. On the train that outfit is a perfect disguise.' He folded the card, tucked it inside his wallet without showing it. 'He had an urgent message for me. We could take a mighty leap forward at Basle.'

'How in Heaven's name did he know you were on the train?'

'Because he's a trained observer, one of the best in the world. I can only guess – I imagine he saw us leaving the Gotthard for the Schweizerhof. He could have been up all night watching the hotel exit from the station across the Bahnhofplatz. That station never goes to sleep.'

Tweed,' Paula persisted, speaking loud enough for Newman to hear her, 'there must be danger aboard this train. For Dillon to go to such lengths. If he saw us waiting at Zurich to board the express the opposition could also have seen us.'

'I doubt that. I didn't tell you I'd phoned Swissair and booked reservations for us on a flight to Basle. In our own names. They'll be watching the airport

He stopped speaking. Paula wasn't listening to him. In a mirror she was watching a uniformed conductor about to enter their compartment. She started fussing with her hair in the mirror to give a plausible reason for staring in that direction.

Tickets, please…'

Paula shifted swiftly into the empty seat beside her so Newman could also hear her. She leaned forward.

'We've already had our tickets checked by one conductor. This is a different man…'

Paula had travelled on many Swiss trains. She knew that the conductors had remarkable memories. They would instantly spot a fresh passenger who had boarded en route, ask him for his ticket. But they never asked the same passenger twice.

The only people in the compartment were Tweed and his five companions. The conductor could see that from the moment he had entered. And yet he had said…

'Tickets, please…'

The conductor clipped Garden's ticket a second time. He was walking slowly as he approached Tweed and Paula. His right hand slipped inside his tight jacket, which slowed down his lightning movement. The Luger was half out from behind the cloth when Newman jumped up. He grabbed the barrel of the gun, forced it to point at the ceiling of the car. The American was strong as an ox. He began to press the barrel down to aim it at Tweed.

Butler, seated at the other end of the compartment, hurtled forward. His bunched right hand hit the assassin a savage punch in the kidneys. The assassin sagged, butted Harry Butler in the chest. Butler grunted, stayed standing where he was, gasping for air.

Paula was on her feet, holding the Browning by the barrel, awaiting her chance to smash the butt against the attacker's head. Cardon came up behind him, tried to kick his legs from under him, but it was a confused struggle, everyone close together. Newman's fingernails, hard as a chisel, dug deep into the American's gun hand. He loosened his grip and Paula caught the weapon in mid-air.

'Get the bastard out of the compartment,' Newman panted.

Nield was standing at the far end of the compartment where he had sat near Butler. He was watching to make sure no one was coming. An extra body flailing into the turmoil would be one too many.

In the violent struggle in the aisle the conductor's cap the assassin had worn fell off. Paula bent down, picked it up off the floor. Newman now had worked his way behind the American, had an arm round his throat. Butler bent down, grasped both legs by the ankles, crossed them and elevated. The thrashing assassin was now held between Butler and Newman who carried him out of the compartment.

The struggle became more violent outside the compartment as they carted the American towards the platform joining two coaches. The assassin twisted his head, his teeth were closing over Newman's hand. Newman let go, jumped back, hauled out his Smith amp; Wesson. He had no intention of firing it – even above the rumble of the swaying express's wheels it would be heard. Butler held on to the ankles and Newman cannoned against Cardon, whose back hammered into a lavatory door. Not completely locked, the door gave way and Cardon fell inside the confined space.

'It's occupied…' Newman started warning him.

'It bloody well is,' Cardon agreed. Take a look but don't move the door any more…'

Newman glanced round the door. A tall man in shirt and underclothes sat on the seat. A knife handle projected from the shirt, the blade was inside the body. From its position Newman realized it had penetrated the heart. The conductor…

In the corridor the attacker had broken free from Butler. He was on his feet faster than Newman would have believed possible. The flick knife in his hand was aimed at Butler's abdomen. As he lunged forward Newman moved. He brought down the barrel of his revolver with all his strength on the assassin's skull. The knife point was within an inch of Butler's abdomen when the barrel bounced back off the skull. For one incredible moment the assassin remained standing and Newman raised the revolver for a second blow. Then the assassin fell backwards into the lavatory.

Newman caught him round the waist. Cardon had sidled out of the lavatory to give assistance. Newman was heaving the assassin's inert body back into the lavatory when he saw Butler stooping to pick up the flick knife which had dropped from their adversary's hand.

'Don't touch that!' he shouted.

'You want this?'

Paula had appeared, holding the conductor's cap. Through the gap on the hinged side of the door she had seen what was sprawled on the seat.

'Yes. Give it to me,' Newman snapped.

He had fitted the body of the assassin into the corner facing his victim and under the washbasin. A brief check of the carotid artery told him the man was dead as his victim. He rammed the cap on to the corpse's head, kicked the knife inside the lavatory.

'Fingerprints,' he told Paula and the other two. 'It has to have his fingerprints on that knife. Now to shut this damned door…'

Using a handkerchief round his fingers, he closed the door. He then took a slim gold pen out of his pocket. Working with a steady hand, he eased shut the slide which indicated the lavatory was occupied. He'd made a better job of it than the assassin had earlier. Paula, delving in her shoulder bag, handed him a wad of tissues.

'Your gun,' she said. 'Blood on the barrel.'

Newman had automatically clung on to it while he had wrestled the body inside the lavatory. He thanked her, quickly cleaned the barrel. Paula held out more tissues she had flattened out.

'Drop the messy ones here. I'll get rid of the lot in a litter bin at Basle…'

Nield was standing by the entrance door to the compartment, his right hand inside his jacket. Paula told Butler to wait a minute. She then refastened two buttons on Newman's shirt which had come undone in the struggle. She straightened his tie, told him to comb his hair, then gave Butler similar attention.

'What about me, Paula?' Cardon asked, looking doleful to lighten the atmosphere.

'You can look after yourself, Cry-Baby,' she told him, hoping she was keeping the tremble out of her voice.

Tweed sat very upright in his seat, staring at them as they came back. Newman sat in his old seat and Paula perched herself facing Tweed. His expression was grave as he asked the question.

'What about the real conductor?'

'He's dead,' Newman said simply. 'The assassin killed him to get his uniform.'

'I see. Was he married, do you think?'

'Don't know. No sign of it,' Newman lied.

Tweed was too quiet. Both Paula and Newman realized he was very upset because he knew he was the target the conductor had died for. And Newman had seen that the conductor was married. A gold band had adorned the third finger of his hand hanging down by the side of the lavatory.

'It's a bit scary,' Paula suggested. The ^way they're following us like wolves, know exactly where we are. Whoever "they" may be.'

The mastermind behind all this,' Tweed said quietly, 'is going to pay a heavy price for the loss of life. I'll see to that personally.. .'