by Colin Forbes
'Pardon me.' It was Vincenau who had heard what she had said. 'You have a wounded man? With the bullet in him? Then he must be rushed to hospital in Sion. I will make all the arrangements. I must use a phone.'
'Take me to Harry.' Tweed stared. 'Look, he's trying to get out by himself.'
Paula ran to the vehicle Harry was laboriously clambering out of. Newman, who had left the vehicle after telling him to stay where he was, also swung round, running back. Paula got there first, with Tweed and Newman close behind her.
'You damned fool.' Paula admonished him. 'Always have been, always will be.' Butler said with a grin. Tweed took one arm, Paula the other as they helped him towards the canteen. Butler kept telling them all this was unnecessary but they ignored him. When they had him settled on a couch in a private room, he grimaced, then looked at them.
'All this stupid fuss. Anyone would think I'd been shot.'
Vincenau put down the phone, told Tweed an ambulance was on the way. Paula said she would go with him. Tweed called Beck, told him what had happened. Beck asked to speak to Vincenau when they had finished talking.
'I'll get the name of the hospital he's being taken to in Sion. I'll call the chief administrator, tell him if Butler is fit to board the jet after treatment I'll have an ambulance standing by at Kloten to rush him to a clinic here. Put Leon on, if you would…'
As they waited for the ambulance Tweed studied the faces of the people in his team. They all showed signs of strain – except for Marler who stood leaning against one of the walls, smoking a king-size. Marler was indestructible. Butler, he saw thankfully, had fallen asleep.
'What's the next move?' asked Newman, his face drawn with fatigue.
'We stay here, give you all a rest.' Tweed said firmly.
'Brazil's got away…'
'I know. Forget about him. For the moment. Beck will be tracking him. At the present Brazil is on his way back to Zurich.'
'Can he arrest him?'
'No. I asked Beck that same question. No evidence.'
'No evidence!' Newman repeated.
Sagged in a chair, he recalled what he had seen on the battlefield in the mountains. Bodies lying all over the snow, all looking very dead. Some crumpled in pathetic attitudes as though only asleep. Certainly they were thugs, men who lived by the gun, but they lay there, doubtless for ever, because of a man called Brazil, who was probably now drinking coffee in a comfortable chair aboard his luxurious jet. Reliving the horror, Newman felt sick in his stomach, but nothing showed in his face. It was all part of the job.
The ambulance arrived, took a still protesting Butler with Paula accompanying him to the hospital in Sion. By then Newman had drunk several cups of strong coffee, was feeling more like a human being.
He proceeded to give Tweed a concise report of everything that had happened. Tweed listened, watching Newman for signs of returning fatigue. At one stage he deliberately turned to Nield to ask him to enlarge on a point. Nield immediately caught on that Tweed thought Newman had talked enough and completed the story. He used his little finger to smooth down his neat moustache when he had finished.
'So the ground station is totally destroyed?' Tweed asked.
'A complete write-off,' said Marler, entering the conversation for the first time. 'Flattened under so many tons of rock I don't think the Swiss will ever bother to try and unearth it.'
'And the cabins the scientists occupied?'
'Another write-off. For the same reason.'
'That doesn't disturb you? The thought of all those high-flying scientists perishing with their wives?'
'Not really,' Marler responded. 'After all, they created the system which caused world chaos – and knew what they were doing. And, I'm sure, were being paid huge fortunes to work for Brazil. World could be a quieter place without them.'
'An interesting point of view.' Tweed mused.
'I'm glad we're staying on in Sion,' Newman said, standing up and putting his coat on.
'Where are you off to?' Tweed snapped.
'To the Hotel Elite to get some sleep. It was your suggestion. I need to be fresh for tonight. I think now we should all stay at the Elite. They'll have a decent room for you, Tweed. And you're looking a bit flaked out, if you don't mind my saying so.'
'I do mind!' Tweed reared up. 'I've just been sitting on my backside while everyone else was up on the Keller-horn.'
'Worrying yourself sick as you watched through those binoculars I see beside you. And, talking of sleep – when did you last get some?'
A blank look came on Tweed's face. He realized he could not remember the answer to that question.
'I thought so,' said Newman, reading his expression. I recommend a meal for you as soon as we get back – if you can face one. Then straight to bed for you, Mr Tweed.'
'And I had a strange idea I was in charge of this outfit.' Tweed said ruefully.
'We all dwell under our illusions.' commented Marler, poker-faced.
'Anyone else care to comment on the state of my health?' Tweed enquired, looking round.
'Yes.' said Philip, who had sat quietly so far, not saying anything. 'You look terrible.'
'You're taking after Paula.' Tweed replied.
'I'm leaving for the Elite now.' Newman said with a return of his normal vigour. 'I'll take Philip and Pete Nield with me. Marler can bring you later when you've rested here a bit longer. You do look terrible!'
'Bob!' Tweed called out as Philip, putting on his coat opened the door, disappeared. Newman paused at the open door. 'Why did you say earlier.' Tweed went on, 'that you needed to be fresh for tonight?'
'Because The Motorman is in Sion. I want to kill him before he kills someone else…'
Tweed blinked, trying to keep his eyes open. He stood up, hurried to the open door.
'Bob.' he shouted. 'I know who The Motorman is.'
His words were lost as Philip, behind the wheel, started the engine of the four-wheel-drive and Newman dived into the seat beside him.
45
Darkness had fallen on Sion when Philip, wakened by his alarm, compelled himself to get up, stumbled across to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and sluiced his face, hands, and arms. It seemed very quiet in his room as he dressed quickly for bitter weather. He still hated silence when he was alone – it brought back memories of Jean.
He decided it wasn't worth putting on the radio, which had become his friend. He left his room, went downstairs and out into the Siberian night. He was going to visit the Marchats – he felt it was the least he could do, to tell them what had happened. After all, the information they had given him had helped the success of the operation on the Kellerhorn.
The night seemed even colder than it had been when with Paula he had visited the Marchats. Frequently, he stopped suddenly, looking back down a dark tunnel of a street, anxious in case he led The Motorman to two more possible victims. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The heavy silence of a windless night pressed down on him. The moon was obscured by clouds.
His feet made no sound on the hard rocklike snow as he finally turned the corner leading to the colony of old houses. In his hand he held his Walther, a precaution he had taken the moment he left the Elite he had moved to.
Again no lights showed in the ancient house where the Marchats lived, set back from the houses on either side. No light shed even a gleam from the closed shutters. Taking one last look behind him, standing close to another house's wall, he walked up to the heavy front door. Stopped.
The door was open a few inches. No chain across it. By now Philip's eyes had become well accustomed to seeing in the dark. The cold had penetrated his coat earlier, but now he was chilled to the bone. Chilled with dread.
He eased the door open inch by inch in case it creaked. It didn't. Karin Marchat kept the hinges well oiled. He stepped inside, a torch in his left hand, listened, listened for the breathing of another human being. Not another sound, except his own suppressed breathing.
Crouching down, to mak
e a smaller target, he switched on the torch. The beam shone on Anton Marchat, lying at the foot of his favourite rocking-chair, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle, his eyes staring into eternity. Philip, who hardly ever used foul language, swore foully to himself. He advanced into the room.
The door to what he presumed was the kitchen was open. Again no light. He approached it cautiously, saw nothing he would bump into, switched off his torch which made him a perfect target. Reaching the open door, he listened again for another man's breathing. Heard nothing.
He stood to one side of the open door, switched on his torch. It nearly jumped in his hand. Karin was lying with the upper half of her body sprawled over the working surface, her head inside the enamel sink full of water, her head twisted in a weird way beneath the water, which gave the angle of her neck an even more grotesque appearance.
As if he had witnessed the murder, Philip saw what had happened. Karin had run screaming into the kitchen, followed by Hie Motorman who had dealt with Anton. Her screaming had annoyed him, so he had turned on both taps, filling the sink swiftly, then he had forced her head under the water to shut her up. She was probably half-drowning when his hands had done their devilish work, breaking her neck. Water was slopped all over the tiled floor.
Philip left the house of death, ran back to the Elite to tell Newman.
Newman had woken out of a deep sleep, had washed, dressed, combed his hair, when the phone rang.
'Yes, who is it?'
'You can recognize my voice, I am sure.'
Archie's. Soft and calm as usual. Little more than a whisper.
'Yes, I can.'
'I am going up the huge rock which rises up behind Marchat's house. There is only one pathway. The beginning is behind his house. The Motorman is out. I am going to lead him up to the top. This time you can get him – the pathway is the only way back…'
'Archie!' In his desperation Newman let out the name. The phone had gone dead.
He was reaching for his overcoat when someone rapped on his door. Despite his anxiety to leave at once Newman had the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand when he unlocked the door, opened it a few inches, then flung it wide open. Philip, ashen faced, walked in, closed the door.
'I've just come back from the Marchats' home. I was going to tell them what had happened, to thank them for their help.'
'I've got to leave."
'I found both Anton and Karin murdered, their necks broken. Karin had been half-drowned in a sink full of water before he broke her neck …'
'I've had a call from Archie.' Newman was putting on his coat, picking up his gloves. 'He's going up that hunk of rock behind their house. The Motorman is still there. Archie is using himself as bait. I'm off…'
I'll come with you.'
They ran through the night. They ran, keeping pace with each other like racers in a marathon approaching the finishing post. Again the streets were deserted, but this was the middle of the night. It was not snowing and the ground was still paved with hard-packed snow, so there was no ice to trip them up. And the moon was shining brilliantly.
The looming mass of the great rock came into view. Philip took the lead, knowing the way to the Marchats' home. He went behind the house, explored swiftly, found the start of a steep, narrow path protected on one side by a drystone wall. They paused to catch their breath and Newman put out his hand.
'Philip, you wait here. If The Motorman gets me he has to come back down this way. Then you kill him.'
'I'd sooner come with you…'
'Who's in command of this team?' snapped Newman. 'That was an order.'
Philip gritted his teeth, watched Newman start to climb, moving swiftly and silently, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. He watched him until he disappeared round a bend higher up, then he stepped back into the shadows thrown by the houses, slipped his Walther out of his holster.
Because he couldn't see – or hear – what was happening, Philip couldn't keep still. His eyes never left the path as he paced a few steps one way, then another. He almost disobeyed Newman and followed him up, but all his training had drilled into him that you took orders from the head man in a team.
Newman, thankful only that the moonlight showed him the footpath, which here and there had patches of ice and sharp stones protruding above the snow, continued his ascent. To his right a panoramic view was opening up of the snowbound rooftops of Sion which, at that hour, looked like a dead city. He glanced at it only once and then concentrated on reaching the top, thinking of poor little Archie at the mercy of a professional killing machine.
At the summit, some distance above where Newman ran, Archie pulled up the collar of his coat against the freezing cold. He was standing in the shadow of the Chapel, an ancient building which looked like a ruin by the light of the moon. Left-handed, he adjusted the cigarette stub in the corner of his mouth. It gave him a certain comfort.
He was at the top of the path and in front of him, a few feet away, there was a break in the outer drystone wall where it had crumbled. He wriggled his toes inside his shoes to try and bring back the circulation.
Out of the shadows behind him a waiting shadow emerged silently. The first Archie knew of his presence was when a powerful arm was wrapped round his neck. He sagged back against the figure.
'You've talked too much,' a reedy voice said in English. 'Now you'll never talk again.'
Archie's left hand clawed out the small automatic in his pocket, quickly pressed the muzzle against the lower part of the strangling arm, just below the elbow. He pulled the trigger. The arm relaxed, there was a groan of pain, the arm fell away from him. He took two steps forward carefully, near the gap in the wall, swung round.
He held the automatic in both hands now, aimed at the stomach of the figure which had straightened up. They stood looking at each other for a few tense moments.
'You can't shoot me again.' said Bill Franklin in his normal voice.
'I can empty the magazine into your stomach without a second thought,' Archie said. 'Now, turn your back to me or I'll pull the trigger again.'
On Franklin's face disbelief and fear were mingled. He turned round, stood with his back to Archie.
'Now step backward a few paces so we are not so close.' said Archie, moving to one side.
Franklin was moving backwards, as ordered, forcing himself to move his right arm, flexing the fingers of his right hand, waiting for the chance to throw himself at Archie, to knock the automatic to one side.
At that moment Newman appeared at the top of the path in a rush. He stopped, stunned as he gazed at the scene unfolding, remaining perfectly still so as not to distract Archie. He had never felt so taken aback in his life.
'I told you to take several paces.' Archie ordered. 'I'm about to press the trigger nonstop if you don't do what I told you to do.'
There was something in the quiet tone of Archie's voice which scared Franklin. He noticed that the automatic levelled at his stomach was steady, showed no sign of even a quiver. Newman gazed in fascination as Franklin obeyed the order.
His second step took him through the gap into space over the precipice below. He yelled, fell, grabbed with both hands at the edge of the path, his fingers clawing at, holding on to two small rocks protruding above the snow.
'Help me!' he screamed. 'For God's sake have pity.'
'It depends on whether you tell the truth.' said Archie. 'First, you are The Motorman?'
'Yes! Craig paid me a lot of money.'
'To kill, among other victims.' Archie continued, 'the bartender, Ben, at Bowling Green in Wareham?'
'Yes! Yes!' Franklin yelled desperately.
'And Rico Sava in Geneva was another victim?'
'Yes! I can't hold on much longer…'
'And Anton and Karin Marchat here in Sion.' Archie went on remorselessly.
'Yes! Yes! Yes…'
Franklin's right hand slipped off the rock. He held on with his left hand, sweat pouring down his face, freezing into small beads of ice almost
at once. His right hand reappeared, clutched again at the rock.
Time to go.' said Archie.
'You can't leave me here!' screamed Franklin. 'I can't hold on much longer.'
'Those people you killed horribly were my friends.' Archie told him.
He started to walk back down the path and Newman followed him. They descended in silence for some time. Newman could not think of anything to say – he was still stunned by what had happened. Of all people – Archie.
'He'll have dropped by now.' Newman said as they arrived at the bottom of the path.
Philip was standing on the far side of the road in the moonlight, staring up. They joined him, looking up to the summit. A tiny figure was still hanging there, suspended over the almost sheer precipice, which had occasional outcrops of huge boulders. No one spoke after Newman had told Philip: 'It's The Motorman up there. Guess who he is. It's Bill Franklin
He had just spoken when the hanging figure began its fall. Franklin plunged down, struck an outcrop with a force which made Newman wince, was bounced off and then turned as he completed his fall, landing on the snow a hundred yards from where they stood with an unpleasant crunching sound.
'Why didn't you finish him off up there?' Newman asked.
'I'm not a sadist,' Archie replied, 'far from it. But he made many people suffer, the friends and relatives of all those people he murdered, I believe in crime and punishment.'
46
'How on earth did you know The Motorman was Bill Franklin?' Newman asked Tweed. 'I thought I heard you call out as I rushed away from the airfield.'
It was late the next day and Newman was driving Tweed to the airfield with Butler and Paula in the back. Butler had insisted on being discharged from the hospital in Sion, overriding the doctor.
'A chance incident,' Tweed explained. 'I was with Professor Grogarty, a tall well-built man, in Harley Street. He was stooped over and suddenly straightened up. It struck me that Keith Kent is of medium height – as Grogarty looked when he stooped. But when Grogarty straightened up he was the height of Bill Franklin. We know The Motorman, whenever described, stooped. It was his way of disguising that he was tall. Simple.'
