by Colin Forbes
'You are thinking of going back to England?' Tweed asked.
'Not bloody likely.' She reached for a cigarette out of a pearl-encrusted box, lit it with a gold lighter. 'Not yet. During the final blazing row Julius let slip he was expecting to make a fortune within days. Think I'm mercenary if you like, but I'm entitled to something after enduring his way of life for two years.'
'His way of life?' Tweed probed.
'Some bankers have their girl friends in other cities – are discreet. Not Julius. He visited a high-class call-girl on his doorstep. She has an apartment in Rennweg – in the middle of Zurich, for God's sake.'
'You know her name?'
'Yes. I had him followed by a detective. Helen Frey is her name. Rennweg 590. An apartment on the first floor. A bit too close for comfort. My comfort.' Her expression clouded over. 'I still think it's beastly the way he died. Damned weird, too.'
'Have you any idea where this fortune he spoke of was coming from?'
'No real idea at all. He speculated successfully on a large scale buying and selling foreign currencies. It might be that – although I gathered it was some new and unique deal. God knows how the bank will fare under the guidance of Walter.'
'He wasn't as competent as Julius?' Tweed ventured.
'I can never make him out. He's devious, gives the impression he's just chairman to preside over meetings. Sometimes I wonder about Walter.' Her arm touched Tweed's neck, her voice very soft. 'Did Julius suffer before he died? Gaunt gave a perfectly horrific description, but he's not known for his subtlety; He thinks finesse is a French pastry. Do smoke if you want to, Mr Newman. I saw your hand reaching towards your pocket. May I call you Bob?'
'Please do.'
Paula had taken an instant dislike to Eve Amberg at first sight. Now she was changing her mind about her: she was only human after all, had shown genuine distress at the manner of her husband's death. Newman reached down for a crystal glass ashtray on the lower shelf of a small table.
Inside it was a crushed cigar stub. Gaunt must have spent some time with Eve to have smoked a whole cigar. Which reminded him of the cigar ash sample which Paula and Tweed had left at police headquarters for analysis – the sample Tweed had collected off the window-ledge in the no-name house at Rock in Cornwall. Eve jumped up, brought him another ashtray.
'That one is messy.'
She returned to her place on the couch beside Tweed. She was smoking her own cigarette in a long ivory holder and waved it to make a point. Her other hand clasped Tweed's and squeezed it.
'It really was very sweet of you to come here to tell me about Julius's tragic death. It just happened Gregory Gaunt got here first. I'm grateful to you. Now I am wondering whether po-faced Walter knows. Hardly ever see him but I'll have to call him.'
'I've saved you the trouble,' Tweed informed her. 'We visited him at the Zurcher Kredit…'
'Ah! And rather than come to see me himself he agreed you should perform the horrid task. Typical of him. But Walter and I are practically strangers.'
You catch on quick, Paula thought. You have got all your marbles. Julius was a fool to play around with other women. They chatted for a little longer, then Tweed said they must go. Eve accompanied them to the door, her arm looped through Newman's.
'Please do come and see me again before you leave Zurich. Promise.' She looked at Paula. 'That invitation does include you, Paula. I'm sorry that I haven't paid you the attention a perfect hostess should have done.'
'Think nothing of it,' Paula assured her. This really is the most difficult time for you.'
The maid said you came by taxi,' Eve recalled suddenly. There aren't any as high up as this. I'll phone for one. Be here in no time
…'
As the taxi was driving them away from the villa Tweed glanced back through the rear window. The BMW was still parked further up the hill and there were two people inside. He had told the cab driver to drop them on the Limmat quay, close to the Rudolf bridge.
The sun was still shining out of a clear blue sky as he led the way across the Rudolf-Brun-Brucke. Looking back to the Altstadt – the Old Town on that side of the river – Paula drank in the ancient stone buildings, the green spires of churches which had once been gleaming copper. Butler's black Mercedes was just turning on to the bridge.
'We're going first to police headquarters again,' Tweed told them. 'Let's hope Beck is in this time.'
'Talk of the devil,' Paula said a? they turned right up a steep incline. 'There is Philip – staring at police headquarters.'
'You must be psychic,' Tweed told Cardon as he joined them. 'Where have you been?'
'Exploring Zurich, sniffing the atmosphere. You might be interested that the city is crawling with Americans who appear to be drifting round to no purpose. I stress the word "appear". All of them men and all carrying handguns. In this weather in a tight overcoat – topcoat as they call it – a holster is a giveaway.'
'Significant,' Tweed commented, and left it at that.
***
Arthur Beck, whose Federal HQ was in Berne, had an office in the solid four-storey building which is Zurich Police HQ. His large first-floor room overlooked the Limmat and the university perched high up on the opposite bank. He greeted Tweed and his three companions gravely and smiled briefly at Newman.
Paula sensed Beck's change of mood as he squeezed her arm, escorted her to a chair at a table. Cardon sat beside her. Newman and Tweed were seated as Beck took his place at the head of the table. The atmosphere was tense. Beck unlocked a drawer, took out a certificate signed by himself, a Walther with ammo, pushed everything across to Cardon including a hip holster.
'I fear you are all in great danger,' Beck began. 'And I have to warn you I cannot guarantee your protection. You have been followed by armed men since you left the Gotthard this morning. Your unknown adversary appears to be employing American gunmen – many dressed in Swiss clothes. They work in teams which alternate frequently. Only a very smart detective observed that you were followed again when you left the Zurcher Kredit Bank. I was informed because my people carry walkie-talkies. I took action.'
'What was that?' Tweed asked quietly.
'When you took a taxi to somewhere across the Limmat a car attempted to tail you. One of my patrol cars blocked this car. You had disappeared by the time the car was free to proceed.'
'Thank you for that,' Tweed said.
'Even so, I cannot guarantee your protection,' Beck repeated. 'The situation is exceptional.'
'Exceptional in what way?' Tweed enquired. Lord, he thought, are we back to square one? Is it possible that this huge organization we are up against can reach out and taint the Chief of Swiss Federal Police? Beck's next words in response to his question told him how wrong he had been to doubt the Swiss.
'No fewer than forty more Americans – all carrying diplomatic passports – have arrived via Kloten. I do not have the manpower to track them – bearing in mind those who arrived earlier.'
'If they are carrying guns…' Paula began.
'I understand your thinking. But they have diplomatic immunity. We cannot arrest or search any of them. It is against international law.'
'You are powerless,'Tweed commented.
There is a further difficulty. Last night in Munich an American diplomat was shot down, murdered. A woman got in the way of the assassin who shouted and threatened her with his gun. She reported that the killer spoke with a strong American accent before he escaped. So for the moment all American so-called diplomats in Europe have an added excuse for carrying a gun.'
'You're suggesting the Munich diplomat was murdered to provide this excuse?' Newman asked.
'I think these are very ruthless people we are dealing with. Yes, that is what I was suggesting. It conjures up nightmares, does it not?'
There was a heavy silence after Beck's words. Paula sat stunned. Newman looked thoughtful. Cardon, after checking the Walther, slid it inside the hip holster he had strapped on. He looked at Tweed and grinn
ed, quite at ease with the situation.
'This calls for a Swiss protest to Washington,' Tweed said eventually. 'All these pseudo-diplomats flooding in.'
'Which is exactly what I have done,' Beck said in a very different tone. 'You think I remain passive regarding this invasion of our territory? I have already phoned Anderson, the American ambassador in Berne. You would like to guess what he said to me?'
'No. What did he say?'
'The same old phoney story as when I contacted him last time. The March administration is recalling diplomats from all over Europe. These men are supposed to be the replacements. Anderson, a friend of mine, sounded most embarrassed. He has already protested to Washington.'
'So that road is closed. But it tells me something.'
'But I am a fox.' Beck smiled at Paula. Today I fly to Berne to confront Anderson with evidence. I shall be taking with me one of the new arrivals' so-called diplomatic passports. My experts tell me it is forged.'
'I'd better not ask you how you got hold of the passport,' Tweed remarked.
'Oh, he dropped it in the street after leaving the Hotel Baur-en-Ville. By chance one of my men picked it up when the owner had disappeared.'
Newman grinned and Tweed smiled. They had guessed that Beck's man who was there 'by chance' had picked the American's pocket. Yes, Beck was a fox, Tweed said to himself. He stood up to leave.
'Sit down for a moment more,' Beck urged. 'Since that episode I had a call from another visitor at the Baur-en-Ville – an individual I suspect could be the leader of the new contingent. A Mr Marvin Mencken.'
'And what did this Mencken want?' Tweed asked.
To report the loss of the diplomatic passport. He said his assistant had had his pocket picked, that I should know which petty thieves patronized Bahnhofstrasse and would I trace the criminal and return the passport within the next twenty-four hours. A very unpleasant man, this Mencken. One of my men, disguised as a street photographer, tried to take his picture and he smashed the camera.' He paused. 'The photo is a good one.'
'But you said the camera was smashed,' Paula reminded him.
'I said just that. But the first man in civilian clothes was a decoy. While his camera was being smashed a backup man took another picture. You might like copies…
Opening a drawer, Beck took out an envelope and extracted four glossy prints. Paula studied her copy. The slim man's face came out clearly, a foxy face twisted into an expression of cold fury.
'A savage-looking brute,' she commented.
'Not the sort of chap you'd invite to your London club,' Newman remarked ironically.
'Keep those pictures,' Beck advised as his guests prepared to leave. They might save your lives…'
'Who is it?' Norton answered the phone in his usual abrasive tone.
'Marvin here…'
'Get to it, Mencken. Any news? There should be by now, for Christ's sake.'
'It's Tweed. He's just returned from a visit to Amberg's wife, Eve. I had the news ten minutes ago…'
'Why the hell didn't you report earlier, then? Tweed? I want him taken out – before he reaches Dyson, Dillon or Ives. Especially Ives
…'
Tweed's at Zurich police headquarters now…'
'Then organize it. I want him carried away in a box before tonight. Just do it…'
Outside police HQ a black Mercedes was parked. Butler sat behind the wheel. A short distance away Pete Nield stood, taking a great interest in the River Limmat.
'Our next port of call is Helen Prey's apartment at Rennweg 590,' Tweed told Paula and Newman. 'It's only a short distance on foot.'
'Our next port of call is lunch,' Paula said firmly. 'My stomach is rumbling.'
Tweed agreed reluctantly. He seemed to be able to go for hours without food once he'd picked up a scent. Newman said he was starving too.
'The Baur-en-Ville is close,' Tweed said. 'We'll get a quick meal there.'
'I'll trail along behind you,' remarked Cardon, who had heard every word.
'Then first go over and tell Butler to take Nield back to the Gotthard for something to eat…'
The Baur-en-Ville's lunch bar is entered by climbing curved steps just off Bahnhofstrasse. Newman led the way as the automatic doors slid back. He scanned the few customers as he walked inside. The bar is a split-level room with a curved bar on the ground level. At the back steps lead up to the second tier which is separated from the lower level by a low wooden wall topped with a gleaming brass rail.
Newman walked up the steps, chose one of the blue leather banquettes with its back to the wall. Illumination came from lights recessed in the ceiling. Paula thought the atmosphere was luxurious and welcoming. While she sat with Tweed on the banquette Newman went back down to the bar for a pack of cigarettes.
Tweed was studying the menu when Paula nudged him. He looked up.
'That man who has just come in from the hotel entrance and stopped at the bar. The tone of this place has dropped to zero.'
At that moment, Mencken, standing at the bar, glanced up at the second tier. His cadaverous face froze for a second in an expression of vicious hardness, his foxy eyes bored into Paula's. She slowly switched her gaze as though interested in the other customers. Tweed noted the soulless blank eyes as he also looked round the bar.
Seated at a small table by the door, Cardon's right hand had slid inside his windcheater, was gripping the butt of his Walther. Mencken appeared to change his mind and walked rapidly back into the hotel. He had not noticed Newman.
Later, Tweed ate his club sandwich of smoked turkey, egg and bacon with great gusto. His manner was buoyant.
'It's starting – what I hoped for. The enemy is crawling out from under the rocks. Remember Cord Dillon warned us photos of myself and you, Paula, had been taken from his safe in Langley? That walking skeleton recognized us,' he said with great satisfaction.
'What a perfectly horrible thug,' Paula commented. 'And while I remember it, why are we visiting Helen Frey? I've always wanted to see a call-girl's apartment, particularly a high-class one. It will add to my experience.'
'Helen Frey may have vital information,' Tweed explained. 'During one of his visits Julius Amberg may have indulged in pillow talk…'
Only one person noticed something unusual as they entered Bahnhofstrasse. Philip Cardon, strolling well back from them, observed a cripple in a battery-operated wheelchair emerge from an alley-way. The wheelchair kept pace behind Tweed and his companions.
19
Rennweg was a narrow street of shops which led off Bahnhofstrasse at a slanting angle. No. 590 had a closed door with a metal grille speakphone beside it. Tweed pressed a button below the grille, wondering what he was going to say to a professional call-girl. Best to improvise on the spur of the moment.
' Ja? ' a soft feminine voice answered in German.
'Helen Frey?' he asked.
'Ja.'
'I only speak English. I'm a friend of Julius Amberg, the banker. Zurcher Kredit, Talstrasse. I was given your name.'
'You sound OK,' the voice replied in English. 'Come up – push the door when the buzzer goes…'
Tweed leaned against the door and it swung inward, revealed a straight staircase. Followed by Paula and Newman, he mounted the stairs quickly. A door opened at the top landing and Paula stared at one of the most attractive women she had ever seen.
A natural blonde, Helen Frey had a long face, a shapely nose and full lips, emphasized with red lipstick. She gazed back at Paula, turned her attention to Tweed and spoke in English again.
'What the hell is this? I don't do foursomes.'
She was closing the heavy door. Tweed used shock tactics. He rammed his foot between the door and the frame. The girl, twenty-eight or so, Paula guessed, wore a smart blue figure-hugging suit. Her other hand appeared, holding a wide flick knife. There was a loud click as the blade shot out.
'Julius Amberg is dead, murdered in England,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'm concerned about a lot of money. This is m
y assistant, Paula, and my adviser, Newman. A lot of money,' he repeated.
She studied Paula again, then Newman, who stared back with no particular expression. Tweed folded his arms, a pacific gesture, and kept his foot in the door. She nodded as though answering a question she had asked herself.
'You'd better come in, then.'
'I'd feel happier if you put away that knife,' Tweed told her. 'All we want is a discussion. I am willing to pay a reasonable fee. I appreciate your time is valuable,' he ended without a trace of sarcasm.
'I did say you could come in.' She held up the knife and there was another click. The blade shot back inside its sheath. 'Feel more comfortable now, Mr…?'
'Tweed. Now we're all introduced.'
Discreetly, Paula glanced curiously round the large sitting-room. The main colour motif was pink, which normally would have seemed over-ornate, but instead the effect was welcoming. Curtains drawn over the window protected the room from the outside world.
It was illuminated by soft pink wall-sconce lampshades. The deep-pile carpet was off-white and against one wall stood a vast couch – large enough to take two reclining people. Comfortable armchairs were scattered about the carpet and an antique desk occupied one corner near the curtains. A huge wall mirror faced the couch.
Presumably some men liked to watch what they were doing while others didn't – a long brass rod ran full length along the top of the mirror flanked by pink curtains, held in place with tie-backs. A silver champagne bucket perched on a metal tripod stood at one end of the couch.
Helen Frey walked slowly over to the couch, sat down, waved her hand towards the chairs.
'Well, make yourselves at home, everyone. And tell me what this is all about. You're sure Julius is dead? He was my most profitable client.'
'Oh, he's very dead, I assure you,' Tweed said with rare brutality. 'I myself saw his blood-soaked body. A machine-gun makes an awful mess fired at point-blank range.'
'I can hardly believe it,' Helen said.
