by Colin Forbes
No one else was about except for a couple of uniformed railway staff. He was also watching the second hand on the platform clock. Swiss trains always left dead on time. No one appeared to have boarded trie express as he ran forward, climbed into a first-class coach. The automatic door closed behind him and the long international express glided out of Cornavin.
The one section of the train Philip had not been able to watch was the front coach, due to a curve in the platform. It did not surprise him he was the sole passenger. At this early hour, at the beginning of March, he had anticipated few passengers.
In the coach he sat in a seat for two, facing the engine and two similar seats. He had chosen the left side of the train because on the other side it would soon be running past Lake Geneva. He did not wish to recall the memory of his previous journey with Jean when they had gazed out at the panoramic view of the lake and the mountains of France on the far shore.
Philip's emotional mood had changed. He was in a grim frame of mind.
'God help anyone who gets in my way.' he said to himself.
The coach door leading to the next section slid open and a man walked slowly towards him. A fat man with a bushy moustache and a ruddy, outdoor face. The man who had sat in the lobby of the Hotel des Bergues the previous evening.
'May I sit down opposite you, sir?' the fat man asked.
He spoke in English, had an overcoat over his arm, wore a black suit with a pale yellow tie bisecting a clean white shirt. He remained standing while he waited for Philip's reply.
Outwardly, Philip was amiable – he even smiled. He gestured towards the seat.
'Please do.'
Inwardly he was totally alert, ice-cold. If this was the beginning of trouble so be it. He would render the newcomer unconscious.
'Most kind of you.' the fat man said as he settled himself. 'We appear to be the only two passengers on the express so far. I like a little company when I'm travelling. My card, sir.'
Philip took the small piece of pasteboard. He read it with a shock.
Leon Vincenau. Inspecteur. Police. Geneve.
'Thank you.' he said quickly. He smiled again as he handed the card back to the fat man. Vincenau waved a hand.
'Please keep it. You might want to get in touch with me.'
'Why should I want to do that?' Philip asked as he tucked the card inside his wallet. The card had a phone number.
'Because you are travelling alone. Because the world -even Switzerland – has turned into a dangerous zoo. We collected six bodies off the street after a shoot-out in Geneva a day or two ago.'
'Then Geneva is a good place for me to leave. Are you, if I may ask, on business or pleasure?'
'I am never sure. A detective is on duty twenty-four hours a day.'
'You are travelling far?' Philip enquired.
Damn this for a lark, he thought. I'll be the one who asks the questions.
'To the end of the line. To Milano. A terrible city. You take your life in your hands when you cross a street. The lights are in your favour, they change when you are three-quarters of the way over. The armada of traffic comes straight at you. If you didn't hurry they would run you over.' He waved a hand. 'Different countries, different manners. Would it disturb you if I smoked a cigar?'
'Go ahead. I think I'll use up one of the few cigarettes I smoke in a day…'
The fat man took out a cigar case, extracted a cigar, neatly trimmed off the end which he placed in the ashtray, then used a match to light it, moving the match backwards and forwards.
For the next hour or so Philip, growing more and more intrigued – even fearful – by what he saw out of the window, said nothing. Vincenau, wreathed inside the smoke from the large cigar he was smoking slowly, also said nothing. Philip suspected it was the old police tactic – using silence to compel the suspect to start saying something.
After leaving Montreux, the express entered the vast and endless gorge which was the Valais. Philip looked out on a frozen world. On both sides the world was hemmed in by continuous ranges of high, rugged, grim mountains.
The mountains, their summits towering so far above the express he couldn't see them often, were covered in deep snow. At frequent intervals mysterious valleys disappeared inside the mountain walls, their entrances guarded by immense cliffs.
Every now and again there would be a sinister narrow gash, a crevasse enclosing a threadlike waterfall, now solid ice. He saw great rock outcrops over which, at one time, water had spilled. Now the water was frozen into dagger-like stalactites, often a hundred feet long. Dozens of them formed palisades of ice.
They passed through Martigny, a small town huddled beneath a menacing giant of overhung rock, gleaming like an enormous mirror as a brief shaft of sunlight broke through the low overcast. There was no sign of life and the streets were piled high with snow.
Philip thought he had never before seen such a wasteland, as though this part of the world had returned to the wilderness of the Ice Age. He knew Vincenau was watching his reaction through the smoke and kept his face expressionless.
The floor of the valley, along the centre of which the rail line ran, was a bleak expanse of snow. Here and there was a sign of life. From the chimney of a stone house, perched on a lip, rose a trail of smoke vertically to meet the overcast above them. Could Siberia be any worse?
Vincenau tapped ash from what was left of his cigar, used the cigar as a pointer.
'See that snail-like thing halfway up that mountain? It's a small train.'
Philip gazed in disbelief at the two tiny coaches which appeared to be clinging to the face of the mountain as they crawled higher and higher.
'Where is it going to?' he asked.
'It ends near a glacier. There are villages which have to be served. That is their only communication with the outside world in March. It will have a small snowplough attached to the front.'
'All right, if you like the quiet life.' Philip commented.
'The people who survive here are a tough, sturdy breed. The trouble is all the young folk have left for the bright lights of the cities. There are villages up in those mountains which are deserted, the houses becoming derelict. Old wooden houses with shingle roofs. Apart from tourism and vineyards in good weather later the Valais is dying.'
It was a long speech for Vincenau and, once again, Philip had the feeling his companion, conducting the conversation in French, was studying his reaction. He checked his watch and stood up to lift down his case from the rack.
'You are getting off at Sion?' Vincenau enquired.
'Yes.'
'Look out of the window.'
They were passing more slowly through a small station. On the platform stood a group of what looked like young refugees, waiting for a stopping train. Several were holding broken skis. One girl was on crutches and had her right leg swathed in bandages. All of them looked in a state of misery. Vincenau sighed.
'They will do it.'
'Do what?' Philip asked.
'Go skiing when they have been warned that the weather is changing, that the ski slopes are treacherous.'
The express was slowing even more when Philip saw out of the window an airfield. It was quite close to the rail line and a snowplough stood motionless at one end of a runway it had just cleared.
'That's just outside Sion.' said Vinceneau. 'They must be expecting an aircraft to land.'
'Well, I'd better get to the exit door. These trains don't wait long.'
'One minute at Sion.' said Vincenau.
He stood up to shake hands after stubbing his cigar. He stood close to Philip, who noticed his fleshy nose had red veins. The Swiss detective obviously liked his wine.
'Do not go up into the mountains,' Vincenau said with great emphasis.
'Thank you for your company. I hope conditions in Milan are better.'
Philip was standing by the exit door when the train stopped and the door slid open automatically. He was the only one to step down onto the platform. He waited, seeing
no sign of station staff, no sign of anyone. The express moved off and Philip watched it disappearing rapidly. He felt he had just lost his last link with civilization.
Vincenau did not travel on to Milan. He got off at the next stop, Brig. He hurried to a phone, dialled Beck's private number at police headquarters in Zurich.
'Beck speaking.'
'Inspector Vincenau here, sir. Speaking from Brig in the Valais. I accompanied Philip Cardon on an express from Geneva. He didn't give me his name but he fitted one of the descriptions you gave me. I will repeat it…'
He did so while Beck, in his office overlooking the River Limmat, listened carefully. He only spoke when Vincenau had finished.
'Yes. That would be Philip Cardon. Where was he going to?'
'He got off the express at Sion.'
'Who was with him?'
'No one. He was alone. Of that I am sure.'
'Alone! Oh, my God…'
After he had finished speaking to Vincenau and they had agreed Vincenau should catch the next express back to Geneva, Beck, who had been up all night, put down the phone and sat thinking. He was appalled at the news. Beck took quick decisions. He called the Schweizerhof, asked to speak to Tweed, told him he was on his way over.
In his room Tweed told Newman what Beck had said. He had also been up all night. He had held a conference with Newman, Marler, Butler, and Nield on the problem of leaving Zurich alive.
'I have a plan.' Marler had suggested. 'We take a train. Preferably an early morning express before commuters clutter up the station. I will lead a guard team – all disguised in station officials' uniforms.'
'How are you going to get hold of themRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET' Newman had begun, only to be interrupted by Tweed.
'No good. There will be some passengers about and if it comes to a shoot-out innocent people could end up as corpses.'
Whatever plan was suggested it always came up against Tweed's objection that innocent lives could be at stake. For the first time in his life Tweed felt checkmated.
They were all still in Tweed's room when Beck tapped on the door, came in with his fur coat, flecked with snow, over his arm. Typically, he came straight to the point.
'I've just heard that Philip Cardon has arrived – in Sion.'
He explained briefly the circumstances which, on his orders, had led Inspector Vincenau to the Hotel des Bergues.
'That is where Philip Cardon and Paula Grey stayed on the night of the massacre in Geneva. Some instinct led me to have the hotel watched.'
'Well, at least Philip has got there safely.' Tweed remarked.
'What the hell's wrong with you?' Beck had exploded. 'One man against all those troops Brazil has brought in from France and Germany!'
'He will cope
'You hope.'
It was not a remark which made Tweed feel any better. He then explained to Beck that they were trapped inside Zurich – and why. Beck listened, then sat down, frowning.
'That I will not put up with,' he announced grimly. 'So you wait here for two hours. Have a leisurely breakfast. Then walk into the station and catch the first express.'
'What have you in mind?' enquired Tweed.
'A horde of uniformed police, plus men in plain clothes, will check the identity of everyone inside and outside the Hauptbahnhof. They will be searched for weapons. Because from what you have told me any of Brazil's thugs will be armed. I shall arrange with several police stations to have cells ready for them.' He grinned. 'Mr Brazil no longer carries the clout with that group of bankers who were putting pressure on me.'
'Why not?' asked Tweed.
'Because Brazil promised them huge profits for certain funds they loaned him. Now these so-called clever men believe they have been tricked. They know that he has transferred huge funds to the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Sion. Undoubtedly to pay the army of mercenaries he has assembled there. They come expensive – mercenaries. Even if they had not changed their minds I would have put this clean-up operation into action.'
'You are a good friend.' Tweed told him.
'I am a good policeman. Now, I must rush back to headquarters to organize the operation. I shall supervise it myself.'
In his living room at the Baur-en-Ville Brazil was giving secret instructions to Gustav, one of the few men he trusted.
'I am sure there is a leak inside our organization. I want the informant tracked down, eliminated. You have those compact listening and recording devices which can be concealed anywhere. Use them.'
'I would like first to install one in Jose's office.'
'Jose? You really think so?'
'We can at least check. Also I have another suspect in mind. Again I can use a listening device. Have I permission to check on anyone I wish to?'
'I suppose it is the only way to be sure. Who is the second suspect?'
'That I do not wish to reveal at this stage.'
Brazil glared at him, stroked the wolfhound, Igor, which had stood up from the floor beside his chair, as though detecting its master's brief annoyance. It bared its teeth, subsided as its master kept stroking it.,
There was a knock on the door and Brazil called out, 'Come in.' Marco appeared, wearing an overcoat, holding a dog's leash.
Time for you to go for a walk, Igor.' Brazil said.
He had heard several owners of dogs say 'walkies' and he detested the word and all that it implied. For Brazil Igor was a guard dog, an attack dog if necessary. Igor showed excitement when it saw the leash, submitted to the leash being attached, and went out of the room with a bounce in its step as Marco closed the door.
'That's a fierce animal.' Gustav remarked. 'And it can sense when you are annoyed.'
'It's just a dog.' Brazil said curtly. 'How do you propose to handle this secret check if you do detect an informant?'
'I will bring the cassette straight to you. Then you can listen to what was said for yourself on your recorder.'
'Do it.'
He studied the man with the hooked nose as he got up to go. Gustav was probably the most reliable of all the staff he employed. Even more reliable than Craig who had a tendency to blow his fuse. At that moment Craig entered the room as Gustav, without a glance in his direction, left. Craig, as always, had not bothered to knock before being told he could come in. He sank his bulk into a carver chair, which creaked under the pressure.
'All set, Chief.' Craig reported. 'And no one has left the Schweizerhof. I've had it watched round the clock.'
'So we have them penned up. I'm leaving Zurich. Jose and Gustav are staying here for the moment to check how the situation develops. One other person may stay to assist Jose.'
'Who?'
'It doesn't matter. My jet has been flown in from Belp to Kloten. You will accompany me.'
'What about Eve?' Craig asked.
'She will stay here, too. I have told her.'
'Where are we flying to?'
'Sion, of course.'
31
'Police.'
The man in plain clothes held up his warrant card in front of the hard-faced man who had been pretending to read a newspaper in the Hauptbahnhof.
'Identity papers, please.' the detective demanded.
Hard-Face stiffened, then slipped his hand inside his raincoat. The hand of another man behind him grasped the hand, brought it out slowly, then rammed his own hand back into the breast pocket, slowly withdrew a 7.65mm Luger from the shoulder holster.
'Take him to the wagon,' the first detective ordered.
There was a click as the second detective locked a handcuff round Hard-Face's wrist, clipped the other cuff round his own wrist, marched him off.
It was happening all over the main station. Detectives worked in pairs, even checked every member of the uniformed station staff. Within an hour the chief of detectives reported to Beck over the phone.
'All clear at the Hauptbahnhof. We're staying in case more rubbish turns up…'
At Police Headquarters Beck put on a coat, ran down the stairs, and w
alked briskly, avoiding ice, to the Schweizerhof.
Tweed had also been up all night. He had sent Marler with Butler and Meld back to the Gotthard to pack their cases and be ready for instant departure to the station when he called. They had arrived in his room separately and had left at intervals to fool anyone watching the hotel. So far as Tweed knew their identities were still completely unknown to Craig's gang. Newman was talking to Tweed when Beck rapped on the door. Again he carried his coat over his arm and again it was flecked with snow.
'Still coming down?' Tweed queried, glancing at the coat.
'The forecast is it won't stop. I came to stretch my legs, to tell you the station is clear. We arrested eleven men, all armed with various cannons. Where are you off to?'
'Geneva.'
'An express leaves in one hour from now. You need how many tickets?'
'Five, first class. Why?'
'I'll get them for you and leave them in a sealed envelope with the night concierge downstairs. You'll keep in touch with me? I'm staying at Zurich Police HQ.'
'I'll report to you if and when I can, certainly.'
Beck paused at the door, smiled without humour.
'One more small item you might care to know. Brazil has had his jet flown to Kloten from Belp. The pilot has filed a flight plan for take-off just after dawn. Guess for what destination.'
'Sion.'
'Give the man the money…'
When Beck had left Newman began talking again. Like Tweed, he showed no signs of strain.
'I'm surprised Beck has never questioned me about that car crashing into the tram.'
'He probably thinks we're under enough pressure. They cleared up the mess quickly. From my window I watched police cars arrive escorting a huge lifting machine. They were very careful how they attached the claws of the crane to what remained of the car. Then they took it away, presumably for examination.'
'I don't envy them doing that with three bodies inside,' Newman remarked.
'They were probably hoping to find the registration plates but I'd say their chances weren't good.'
'But there was the shotgun Craig was going to use. It will carry Craig's fingerprints. He wasn't wearing gloves.'
