The Power

34

Trouble. Here it comes,' Marler said to himself.

He was driving along the autoroute towards Colmar in mid-afternoon and it was still light. He was in the middle of nowhere, tilled fields stretching away on both sides, when he heard the police siren, saw the patrol car racing up to him in his rear-view mirror. Slowing down, he stopped.

As he lowered his window icy air flowed inside. He was humming the tune of 'La Jeune Fille aux Cheveux de Lin' when the patrol car parked a few yards ahead of him. Before leaving Strasbourg he had pushed back the front passenger seat to its furthest extent and perched the cello case with its base on the floor and the rest of it angled against the seat. Several sheets of music were spread on the seat itself.

A tall lean-faced uniformed policeman got out of the patrol car. Leaving his companion behind the wheel, he wandered back to Marler. The flap of his pistol holster was unbuttoned.

'Papers!' he demanded.

Marler had his passport and driving licence ready and handed them over. The flic perused both documents carefully, returned them to Marler. He peered inside.

'You are on holiday?' he asked in French.

'No, I'm a musician,' Marler replied in the same language.'I'm working.'

'Where are you driving to?'

'Berne in Switzerland. To perform in a concert.'

Marler hoped there was a concert hall in the Swiss capital. But he doubted whether the flic knew either. He was saying as little as possible, using the minimum of words to answer. The police were always suspicious of voluble travellers. The flic stared at the cello case.

'Your concert is today?' he asked truculently.

'No, tomorrow. I'll put up somewhere for the night to get some rest. I need to be fresh for the concert.'

Marler's mind, racing, was considering every angle. It was not impossible he'd bump into this same flic when he reached Colmar. Walking round the front of the car, the policeman opened the door to the front passenger seat, leaned in, opened the clasp, lifted the lid of the cello case. He stared down at the long slim silk sleeve with the end of a bow projecting.

Marler said nothing. He was careful to display no sign of impatience, nervousness. No drumming of his fingers on the wheel. The flic peered into the back of the Audi.

'What are you carrying inside that bag?'

'It's cricket. One of our national games. Inside is what we play the game with – a bat and a ball.'

The policeman frowned, reached in, unzipped the bag, stared at its contents. He shrugged, re-zipped the bag. The English had peculiar tastes. Marler realized he'd made one of those glaring mistakes the most careful people sometimes make. Who played cricket in winter in this part of the world?

Slamming the back door shut as he had done the front, the policeman shrugged again at the strangeness of the English. Without another word he walked back to his vehicle, climbed inside. The patrol car took off like a rocket.

'And that experience is enough for one day,' Marler said to himself as he closed the lid of the cello case and resumed driving.

For Jennie the drive back from the Chateau Noir to Colmar was a nightmare. Gaunt was moving over snow-covered roads which might conceal ice underneath, racing round hairpin bends on the edge of precipices. Once he skidded close to an endless drop. With great skill he came out of it, proceeded down another steep slope. Jennie had her hands clasped tightly inside her gloves.

'We didn't get much out of Amberg, did we?' she remarked. 'Very Swiss. Although most Swiss I've met have been so polite and helpful.'

'Shut up! I'm driving.'

She knew Gaunt fairly well now, his volatile moods. As they swerved round another bend she studied his profile. No tension, no sign that the BMW could slide at any moment into a fatal skid. She suddenly grasped that only half his mind was on driving the car.

A superb driver, he was controlling the car automatically. Half his mind was miles away, pondering something which bothered him. What could it be that he was mentally gnawing at like a dog with a bone?

A yellow tractor was emerging from a snow-covered field a score of yards or so ahead of them. If it occupied the road ahead of them it would be difficult to overtake. Gaunt rammed his foot down on the accelerator, pressed his hand on the horn, blaring out across the mountains non-stop. God! He was going to try and get in front of it!

Jennie closed her eyes, waited for the shattering collision, couldn't bear not to see what was happening, opened them again. She gritted her teeth. Racing down the curving road, the BMW increased speed. The tractor driver seemed to take no notice. Its yellow hulk loomed over Jennie as the car sped past, almost skimming the side of the machine. She let out her breath.

'Silly devil,' Gaunt commented offhandedly. 'Should have waited. My right of way.'

'Only your right of way if the other chap gives it to you,'she reminded him.

'What was that you said?' He glanced at her briefly.

He hadn't heard a word she had spoken. Now she knew she was right – he was driving on automatic pilot. Most of his mind was miles away. Where?

She went over in her mind all that had been said while they were at the Chateau Noir. Was it frustration that was affecting Gaunt? Frustration at hearing that the film and the tape had gone missing?

Then it hit her. Did Gaunt know what was on the film, the tape? During an early stage of his verbal exchanges with Amberg she recalled one thing Gaunt had said. When Julius had arrived at Tresillian Manor Gaunt had had a chat with him. Had Julius told Gaunt then what he had seen on the film, what he had heard on the tape? It was possible, maybe even likely.

Suddenly as they approached Colmar a dense mist crept in from the fields, entering the town. Gaunt switched on his fog lights. He was crawling now as they came close to the Hotel Bristol, were passing a shopping parade. She put a hand on his arm.

'Greg, could you drop me here. There are lights on in the shops, they're still open. I want to buy something from the chemist.'

'Here do you?'

He pulled in by the kerb. She opened the door, swung out her long legs. As she turned to close the door and looked at him he seemed to be finally aware of her existence.

'Bristol's just down the way. You'll know where to find me. In the bar. Of course…'

The rear of the BMW was swallowed up in the mist which had now become a fog. Glancing in the mirror, Gaunt's last sight of her was a vague silhouette standing by the kerb.

At the Bristol Tweed had chosen the Brasserie for a belated lunch. After their arrival he'd spent a long time alone in his bedroom studying a map of the Vosges, checking the different routes to the Chateau Noir.

There was a more upmarket restaurant at the hotel, entered, from the reservation lobby. The waiter who met Tweed as he led Paula and Newman wore formal black jacket and trousers. His manner, as he attempted to guide them to a table, was that he was conferring an honour on them.

'I'm looking for the Brasserie,' Tweed told him in English.

'Really, sir?' The waiter's tone conveyed that he'd misjudged the quality of the client. 'Through that door, then turn left and left again.'

'This is more like it,' Tweed remarked. 'More homely. That other place you could wait an hour for the first course with a lot of chichi nonsense, removing the covers from the plate and all that rubbish.'

Paula agreed the atmosphere was more welcoming. And in contrast to the restaurant, where the guests had sat like waxworks, the few customers here were locals having an aperitif, eating a main meal.

In the main dining area a waitress led them to, the panelled walls were painted a bright ochre. The cloths on the table were a cheerful pink, Paula noted with approval. The Brasserie faced the railway station across a wide road. Tweed had chosen well.

'I think I'll have a glass of wine,' Tweed announced to her surprise when they were seated. 'We're in Riesling country. A beautiful wine.'

The waitresses, bustling about, wore white blouses, black skirts and short white aprons. Tweed ordered a bottle of Riesling when the others agreed enthusiastically.

This is when you say it's a good year,' Newman chaffed him, when a bottle of 1989 vintage arrived.

'Let's hope it is. I've no idea. Have you heard of the Chateau Noir?' he asked the waitress in French.

'Yes. Up in the mountains above the Black Lake. A bad place. It is fated.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Its strange history, sir. It was built by an American millionaire years ago. Built of granite from plans of a medieval fortress. It cost many millions of francs. He committed suicide.'

'Who did?' Tweed asked.

'The American millionaire. He jumped from the chateau into the Black Lake. No one knows why. It remained empty for years. Who would buy such a place?'

'I heard that someone did. A Swiss banker.'

'Of course. He bought it for a song. Mr Julius Amberg from Zurich. Maybe he was not superstitious. He did not think he would become dead before his time. Good luck to him. He is a nice man.'

Paula was watching Tweed, wondering whether he was going to tell her that Amberg was no longer alive. Tweed simply looked interested, asked the waitress another question.

'You said he is a nice man. You have met him?'

'Many times. When he comes to Colmar he always comes in here – to the Brasserie. For an aperitif, for a main meal.' She lowered her voice. 'He said the restaurant is for snobs, that the food here is much better and you get it quickly. I must go now…'

'Has Mr Amberg been here recently?' Tweed asked before she could rush off.

'No, not for some time. Yet when it was clear this afternoon just before dusk we saw lights in the chateau. Maybe a ghost walks there. You have decided what you would like to eat? I can come back.'

'The veal escalope panee for me, with saute potatoes.'

Tweed looked at Paula. 'What do you fancy?'

'The same for me, please,' Paula said, looking at the waitress.

'Make that three,' Newman requested.

The waitress darted away. Paula, who was facing the rear of the Brasserie, stared at a huge mural painted in oils above the door leading to the kitchen. It depicted a small lake sunk in the grim heights of the Vosges. Tweed followed her gaze.

'I wonder if that's Lac Noir,' she mused. 'If, so, it looks pretty forbidding. And what a strange story she told us about Chateau Noir. Obviously Walter Amberg doesn't patronize the Brasserie.'

'Walter,' Newman commented, 'from what I've seen of him, would patronize the restaurant, silver-plate covers and all that jazz.'

'From what we've gathered,' Tweed pointed out, 'Amberg has only been at the chateau for two or three days. It was interesting to hear that the place is occupied. The lights the waitress mentioned.'

'We are going up there to beard him in his den, aren't we?' Paula enquired.

'It's one reason why we came here. Incidentally, I don't want to spoil your meal, but I think the opposition has already arrived. As we walked through the restaurant I noticed six men sitting at a quiet table in a corner. I also caught a snatch of conversation – with an American accent. They're not pleasant-looking characters.'

'But why here, for Pete's sake?' Paula asked.

'In Zurich there is a whole number of first-class hotels. In Basle there are only two, the Drei Konige and the Hilton – if you prefer that. Here the only major hotel is the Bristol. It's logical some of them would choose to stay here. They may even have detected its strategic position.'

'Strategic in what way?' Paula wanted to know.

'If their objective is also the Chateau Noir then we are on the right side of the town. From here we can drive straight into the outskirts across the railway and up into the Vosges. We practically bypass Colmar.'

'There's a heavy fog drifting in,' Newman remarked.

Twisting round in her seat, Paula looked at the windows fronting on the street and hung with net curtains. For customers coming in off the street there were double doors leading into the Brasserie.

Newman was right. As she watched the fog seemed to grow denser every minute. The blurred headlights of crawling cars appeared, disappeared in the milky haze. And the temperature had dropped swiftly. A man came in through the entrance and briefly a current of ice-cold air drifted into the Brasserie.

A waiter, wearing a white shirt, black trousers and a long apron tied round his waist, went to push the door shut quickly. Outside stooped silhouettes of people hurrying home as fast as they dared passed beyond the windows.

'I like this wine,' Tweed said, finishing off his glass. 'It really is a very good Riesling.'

Out of the corner of her eye Paula saw Newman refilling his glass. She turned round, picked up a bottle of Perrier the waitress had brought, topped up Tweed's water glass.

'You'll end up floating,' she teased him.

'Riesling is my favourite wine. It helps me to think. I'm going to order another bottle.'

'Any excuse is better than none,' she teased him.

She twisted round again. The ghostly tableau of cars and people beyond the window fascinated her. Then she stiffened. A woman had hauled open the door, came inside looking frightened to death. Jennie Blade. She spotted Tweed, ran to his table. 'I've been followed again,' she burst out. 'By the man with the wide-brimmed hat.'

Her blonde hair glistened with fog vapour. Her eyes were wild. Tweed stood up, walked round the table, pulled out a chair for her which faced his. Returning to his seat he sat down, gazed at her as he spoke.

'When did this happen?'

'Just now. He damn near caught up with me. Thank God this place was so close. The same man – following me with his bloody wide-brimmed black hat, turned down so I couldn't see his face. I'm scared to death, Tweed.'