by Colin Forbes
'And you said we could have dinner even if we arrived at a late hour.'
'The dining-room is at your service, but only when you are ready.'
'I think we'd like to go up to our rooms to freshen up first,' Tweed told her.
He had seen Ives coming in, accompanied by Amberg and Cardon. Behind them followed Butler and Nield flanking a defeated-looking Joel Dyson. He ordered Butler to take turns with Nield in guarding Dyson in his room, that the photographer was only to be given sandwiches and mineral water, then he asked Paula and Newman to accompany him with Ives to his room after registering. There was no time to waste. Lord knew what the morning would bring.
'What sort of person would those six wealthy women who were then brutally raped and murdered stop for – driving in the middle of nowhere in the dark?'
Tweed deliberately repeated the key question he had put to Barton Ives aboard the train from Colmar to Basle. He had previously recalled, for the sake of Paula and Newman, in abbreviated form the story Ives had told him. The FBI man sat up straight on the couch he occupied with Paula, facing Tweed and Newman who were sitting in chairs.
'Yes, that was the question I asked myself over and over again. Then, in the last two cases, there was someone else driving late on the fatal nights. They overtook the cars of the victims – and saw a brown Cadillac parked in a nearby field. I had a hunch, a sudden flash of inspiration, luck – call it what you will. I began checking the movements of a certain man to see whether by chance he was in the state concerned on any of the six fatal nights.'
Ives paused, lit a rare cigarette. Paula glanced round at the suite she had booked for Tweed. It had its own sitting area, spacious and comfortable, and beyond a row of arches, the bedroom. She concentrated again on Ives as he continued.
'The checking on this point wasn't too difficult. What was difficult was carrying out my enquiries without anyone knowing what I was doing. If I was right I knew my life could be in danger. Power carries a lot of clout.'
'So you were investigating a powerful man?' Paula suggested.
'Powerful and ruthless,' Ives agreed. 'To get where he had, to get where he is now. As I checked I began to get more excited – I was hitting more pay dirt than I'd ever really believed I would. The person I was after had made a political speech early in the evening in the same state in the first three cases. And the city where he'd made the speech wasn't all that far, in driving distance, from where a woman was raped and murdered later that same evening.'
'Circumstantial. But not conclusive,' Tweed commented.
'Wait!' Ives held up a hand, stubbed out the cigarette. 'I went on checking the last three cases. Certain that the same circumstances wouldn't apply. But, by God, they did. Senator X – as he then was – had again spoken in public in all three states hours before the last three women victims were attacked and died. A lot of speeches in six states, but then he was running for the highest-' Ives broke off briefly. 'I'll get to that in a minute.'
'What about this Senator's movements after he'd made his speeches?' Tweed asked. 'Were you able to check them?'
That was my next task. Even more difficult to conceal. And he has a very shrewd hatchet woman who runs a whole network of informants. But over a period of time I did manage to do just that – to check his movements after he left the place where he'd made his speech, lifted his audience out of their seats – a real rabble rouser. He was known for wanting to be on his own after bringing the roof down. Always says he needs to recharge his batteries, go some place on his own, drink one bottle of beer. He did exactly that after all six speeches – on the nights when later within driving distance, I checked the times – a woman was raped, murdered.'
'So at least he has no alibi,' Tweed remarked.
'But he does have a brown Caddy he likes driving. And this I haven't ever told anyone so far. I explored round the area of the sixth victim, combed the grass for hours. I was about to call it zilch when I found this empty beer bottle, with a complete set of fingerprints. Some beer that the guy I was checking on likes. That bottle – inside a plastic bag – is in the boot of the Lincoln Continental I have hidden away in an old barn.'
'Again the evidence is circumstantial,' Tweed pointed out. 'No offence, but the trouble is a court would only have your word for where you found that bottle. Unless you can get the fingerprints of the man you were tracking. Of course, if they match…'
'Not so easy.' Ives lit a fresh cigarette. 'Not so easy,' he repeated. 'Not to obtain the fingerprints of ex-Senator Bradford March, now President of the United States.'
51
In Switzerland it was not difficult the following morning for Marler to obtain a film projector, a screen and the other equipment he needed on Tweed's instructions. He arrived back at the hotel at 8.30a.m. to find Tweed having breakfast with Paula and Newman.
'I lay awake half the night,' Paula was saying. 'I still can't believe the President of the United States is guilty of such horrific crimes.'
'Read the history of previous occupants of the Oval Office,' suggested Barton Ives who had overheard her remark as he joined them. 'Under our crazy electoral system a really depraved guy was bound to get there one day. He has.'
'What do we do next?' Paula asked.
'You've got everything?' Tweed checked with Marler as he sat down.
'Everything.'
'Then our next trip is to take Amberg to his branch here, force him to produce the film and tape Dyson gave them in Zurich for safekeeping. Then we view the film inside the bank…'
Amberg was still under guard in his room with Cardon keeping him company. Their breakfast came up from room service. Joel Dyson was also trapped in his room with an extremely unsympathetic Butler acting as his guard.
'You know we were followed here all the way from Basle?' Newman warned his chief.
'Not to worry – it was an unmarked car but they would be Beck's men. After seeing us pass through the control at Basle Station when we arrived from Colmar he's not a man to let us out of his sight. Talk of the devil…'
Arthur Beck, wearing a smart grey suit, walked into the dining-room, which overlooked a small garden. He refused an offer of coffee, bent down to whisper to Tweed.
'I have brought a small army of men into Ouchy. We saw the Americans returning. So-called diplomats waiting for their postings. This is too much. I'm organizing a dragnet to check all the hotels.'
'I can save you time.' Tweed produced the list Marler had drawn up the previous evening. This lists where they all are. They will be armed.'
'So are my men.' Beck smiled wryly. 'Thank you for doing my job for me. May I ask how you tracked them down?'
'Marler, tell our friend about your researches.'
'Not difficult,' drawled Marler. 'I'd call at a hotel, tell the night clerk some American friends of mine had arrived, that I wanted to pay them some money I owed to them. Also I needed a room for the night and how much would it be? I had a handful of Swiss coins – which can be of reasonable value – and pushed them over the far edge of the counter. While he was scrabbling for them I checked his box of registration slips, memorized all names where the nationality was American. I then told the clerk I'd left my passport in my car, that I'd be back for the room I'd paid for. Then on to the next hotel. Quite easy.'
'And very skilled – to pull it off with Swiss hotel staff.' Beck glanced at the list. 'I should have this lot within the hour – for immediate deportation via Geneva Airport. Spoil their breakfasts…'
He had just disappeared when Gaunt trooped in with Jennie clinging to his arm. Marching straight up to
Tweed's large table, he sat down
Top of the morning to you,' he greeted them breezily. 'Lovely day. Sun shining on the mountains of the Haute-across the lake. A large English breakfast for two,' commanded the waiter.
'I just want croissants,' Jennie said, her eyes glowing with annoyance. 'And I do like to be asked.'
'Nonsense! You must stoke up. Busy day ahead of us, eh, Tweed? Saw
a bunch of American thugs filing into the Hoteld'Angleterre just opposite last night. Have to keep a lookout for spoilers.'
'We have an appointment,' Tweed wiped his mouth with his napkin. 'May see you later.'
He had hardly spoken when Eve Amberg appeared, asked if she could sit with them. Tweed gestured to an chair and Paula caught Jennie glaring at the new What was it between these two women? Eve wore a form-hugging purple sweater and black ski-pants tucked knee-length leather boots. A striking outfit, Paula to herself.
'Where is Walter?' Eve enquired as she selected a roll. 'Coffee for me,' she told the waiter. 'So where is Walter?' she repeated.
'He's exhausted,' Tweed lied. 'Sleeping in until about ten before he surfaces.'
'A poor fish,' Gaunt boomed. 'No energy…'
He was talking to a smaller audience. Tweed, followed by Paula and Newman, was leaving the restaurant. Walkbriskly, he went up to Amberg's room, rapped on the with the agreed signal, walked in with the others Cardon opened it. Tweed was in his most aggressive when he addressed the banker, who was again neatly in his sombre black suit.
' Had your breakfast? Good. Time to get moving. To your bank. I want the film and the tape out of the vault five minutes after we arrive. We'll accompany you everywhere.
In case you feel like staging a protest, Beck, the Chief of Police, as you know, is here in Ouchy. He'd be very interested to talk to you about those murders in Zurich.'
'I had nothing to do…' Amberg began.
'Policemen never believe a word you say. We'll get moving now. By the back way into the car park. Avoid the dining-room that way. Three tough-looking American types are having breakfast. Don't want to meet them either, do you, Amberg?'
Marvin Mencken, who was staying at the d'Angleterre, had risen early and had a quick breakfast at another hotel. He liked to be up before any of his subordinates and he made a habit of not following a routine. He never ate where he was staying.
Returning from a brisk walk alongside the lake he saw two Audis pull up in front of the d'Angleterre. Men in plain clothes stepped out, walked towards the entrance with almost military precision, disappeared inside the hotel. Seconds later more cars pulled up outside two other hotels where his men were staying and uniformed police, holding automatic weapons, climbed out swiftly and moved inside.
'Jesus Christ! ^ ' Mencken said to himself.
Without hurrying, he crossed the road, reached his car parked behind a stretch of grass and trees. He got in behind the wheel, pulled out of his trench coat pocket a Swiss hat he'd bought in Basle, rammed it on his head and slid down out of sight as he started the engine.
Mencken waited until he saw the police bringing out his men, wrists handcuffed behind their backs. More cars with only a driver had arrived. His captured men were bundled inside the vehicles. Mencken had no worry that he would be betrayed – he'd been careful to ensure that none of these men knew he was driving a Renault.
As the convoys drove off he cruised slowly round the park towards the Chateau d'Ouchy. Norton had given him explicit instructions he was not to be contacted, not that Mencken had any idea what he looked like. But he had been told Norton would be using the name Dr Glen Fleming. He'd have to phone him, warn him quickly.
The Zurcher Kredit Bank was open for business when Tweed arrived in the Espace with Amberg alongside him. Paula, Newman, Ives and Butler were travelling with him. In the rear of the vehicle Marler sat with the projector and the rest of his equipment.
In the station wagon following close behind were Car-don, guarding Joel Dyson, and Pete Nield who was driving. Before leaving the Chateau d'Ouchy for the short drive to the bank Tweed had spoken to Dyson, making no bones about the position he was in.
'Cardon has a gun, won't hesitate to use it if you make one wrong move. But more likely, we'd put you aboard an aircraft for Washington at Cointrin Airport, Geneva.'
Watching the little man closely, Tweed had seen a flicker of triumph in Dyson's shifting eyes. Joel Dyson clearly knew Europe well, knew the lines of communication by air travel. There was no better way of subduing a man than by raising his hopes and then dashing them.
'Of course,' Tweed went on, 'there are no direct flights to Washington from Geneva. So Cardon would escort you aboard a flight from Cointrin to Zurich. Then you'd be put aboard the first non-stop flight for Washington. A phone call would be made so certain people would wait at Dulles Airport for you to disembark. Something wrong, Dyson? You've gone pale as a ghost…'
Amberg nodded to the guard at the entrance to the bank. As Marler came inside carrying his equipment the guard stopped him to examine what he was carrying.
'Do not worry, Jules,' Amberg called out over his shoulder. 'That gentleman is with me, as are the people behind him.'
Obeying Tweed's instructions, Amberg took everyone first to his private office, telling his secretary he must on no account be disturbed. Leaving the others inside the spacious room, Tweed accompanied Amberg with Newman and Paula to the vault where the Swiss opened his private box. Inside were two familiar-looking canisters. Was this really the end of their long journey, Tweed wondered as they returned to the private office.
In their absence Marler had drawn the curtains over the windows. After turning on the lights he had assembled the projector, had erected the viewing screen, had placed on the same desk the American tape recorder so he could synchronize viewing and listening.
He had removed a number of chairs from a boardroom table, arranging them in short rows like a makeshift cinema. He took the canisters from Amberg while Tweed personally made sure the door was securely locked.
Paula sat in the front row with Tweed next to her. Beyond Tweed sat Amberg with Barton Ives on his other side. In the row behind them sat a nervous Joel Dyson flanked by Newman and Cardon. The third row was occupied in the centre by Pete Nield, his Walther in his hand, and Butler. While Marler was fiddling with his machines Nield tapped Dyson on the shoulder with the muzzle of his Walther.
'Just to remind you you're never alone,' he informed the photographer genially.
'Ready to go,' Marler called out in a neutral tone as he switched out the lights.
A harsh white light appeared on the blank screen. Tweed could hear the tape reel whirring. Then, sharp as crystal, the images began to appear…
***
A one-storey log cabin in a forest clearing. A short, powerfully built man in a windcheater, open at the top, exposing his thick neck, struggling with a girl with long blonde hair. One hand gripped her hair, the other shoved her in the small of the back. She was screaming at the top of her voice and Paula gritted her teeth.
The man pushed her inside the log cabin, both faces were very visible before they disappeared into the cabin.. The hard crack of the door being slammed shut. But they could still hear her screaming even with the shutters closed over the windows. Her screams stopped suddenly. Silence.
Now Paula could only hear the whirring of the machines behind her. Why did the silence seem even more awful than what they had seen so far? She was startled when the stocky man emerged by himself, closed the door, locked it, tossed the key on the roof. Why?
'Oh, my God, no!' she whispered to herself.
The answer to her question was horrifically clear. Smoke was drifting out from behind a shuttered window. Almost at once it burst into flames. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the killer. A look of sadistic satisfaction. Sweat streamed off his face.
The camera now showed the man full length. He appeared to be staring straight at the lens. Snatching a gun from his belt, he moved closer. Paula flinched back in her seat. Her hand clenched as the whole cabin seared into a flaming inferno. The girl left inside would be incinerated.
The loud crackle and roar of the huge fire made the man pause, look briefly at the dying cabin. Gun in hand, the man turned again towards the camera, began advancing towards it, his famous face again so clear, identifiable…
The screen went blank, the white glare returned, vanish
ed as Marler switched off the machines, The audience sat as though frozen. The only sound was the click of Marler switching on lights. Paula blinked, glanced at Tweed, at Ives. It was difficult to decide which man looked grimmer.
It was Tweed who broke the silence. He leaned forward to speak to Ives across Amberg.
'Now you have your evidence. That was Bradford March, President of the United States.' He turned round, looked at Joel Dyson whose pouched lips were quivering.
'You took those pictures. Don't argue with me. I just want a simple answer. Who was the girl – the victim?'
'His secret girl friend. Cathy Willard, daughter of the San Francisco newspaper magnate.'
'So, well-heeled,' Ives commented.
'Oh, a very wealthy family. I heard later it was called an accident. She got herself shut in the cabin. The weather was cold, so she had a log fire' – Dyson was reverting to his normal loquacious self, Newman thought, as the story continued – 'a spark jumps out, sets fire to the rug and whoosh! the whole place goes up. Windows shuttered so she can't get out that way.'
'Sounds as though you wrote that version yourself,' Newman said cynically.
'No! But that's the way I heard they told it…'
'You have your evidence, Ives,' Tweed repeated, interrupting Dyson. 'It follows a similar pattern, doesn't it?'
'It does indeed. You see, March was a hick from the boondocks. It flattered his ego to make it with well-educated and wealthy women. Now you have your answer to the weird question – who would a wealthy woman driving in the dark across lonely country stop for? A man standing in the headlights of his brown Cadillac, a well-known Senator running for the White House, his mug plastered on billboards along every state highway. Maybe he pretended his car had broken down. They'd feel so safe with Senator Bradford March. It hit me suddenly that I'd found my serial killer – six women slaughtered. I have to take this film, this tape back to Washington.'
