by Colin Forbes
`Then what are you worrying about?'
`The Gold Club…'
Newman drank the rest of his cognac slowly to hide the shock Beck had given him. He placed the empty glass carefully back on the desk top and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief.
`You have heard of the Gold Club? Not many have.. commented Beck.
`A group of top bankers headed by the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Its base is in Zurich. The only other group capable of standing up to them are the Basle bankers. Where does the Gold Club fit in with the Berne Clinic?'
`A director on the board of the Zurcher Kredit Bank is Professor Armand Grange who, as you doubtless know, controls the Berne Clinic. He also has a chemical works on the shores of Lake Zurich near Horgen. I am under extreme pressure to drop my investigation of a project code-named Terminal…'
`Which is?'
`I have no idea,' Beck admitted. 'But there are rumours – unpleasant rumours which have even reached the ears of certain foreign embassies. Incidentally, a fellow-countryman of yours who is also staying at the Bellevue Palace is making enquiries about Professor Grange. A dangerous pastime – especially as news of his activities has already started circulating. Switzerland is a small country…'
`This fellow-countryman of mine – he has a name?'
`A Mr Mason. He flew in via Zurich. That is where he started his investigation – and that is where news of what he was doing leaked out. Now, as I have told you, he is here in Berne.'
`Anything else I should know?'
`Have you ever heard of a man called Manfred Seidler?' 'No, I haven't,' Newman lied. 'Where does he fit into the picture?'
Beck's pipe made bubbling noises. He was a wet smoker. He stirred in his chair restlessly as though bracing himself for a major decision.
`Everything about our conversation is confidential, classified. Now we are coming to the guts of the whole crisis. I have been asked by Military Intelligence to put out a dragnet for Manfred Seidler. They say he stole something vital from the chemical works at Horgen. Once I find him I am supposed to hand him over to Military Intelligence. Immediately! No questioning.'
`You don't like it?'
`I am not going to put up with it. I shall grill Seidler when we find him until I find out what is going on. There is a split between two power blocs on military policy. One group, the Gold Club, believe we should adopt more extreme measures to protect the country against the menace from the East. They even suggest we should organize guerrilla forces – that teams specially trained in sabotage should be positioned outside our borders. Specifically in Bavaria. That is a complete reversal of our policy of neutrality.'
`Beck, I'm not following this. Why should a group of bankers concern themselves with military strategy?'
`Because, my friend, a number of those bank directors are also officers in the Swiss Army. Not regulars. Captains, colonels. They carry a lot of clout inside the Army where the policy dispute is raging. The Gold Club, which advocates total ruthlessness, is beginning to get the upper hand. The whole thing scares me stiff. And these are the people who are trying to stop my investigation into the Berne Clinic..
`You said the killing of Nagy was4he second murder. What was the first?'
Beck walked round his desk, unlocked a drawer and brought out a file. He handed it to Newman. The file had been stamped Classification One on the cover. Newman opened it and read the heading at the top of the first typed page. Case of Hannah Stuart, American citizen. Klinik Bern.
`Who is Hannah Stuart?'
`She was an American patient at the Berne Clinic. She died at the end of last month – as you will see recorded in the file. I have a witness, a farm worker who was cycling home late near the grounds of the Clinic. He states he saw a woman running towards the fence surrounding the grounds, a woman screaming, a woman pursued by dogs…'
`They do have Dobermans prowling the place…'
`I know. That was the night Hannah Stuart died…'
`Haven't you confronted the people at the Clinic with your witness?' Newman asked.
`It would be useless – and would show my hand. The witness has a history of mental instability.' Beck leaned forward and spoke vehemently. 'But he is completely recovered. I personally interviewed him and I am convinced he is telling the truth. He had the sense to come to police headquarters in Berne with his story. Pauli phoned me and I took over the case. That woman was murdered in some way.'
`It says here she died of a heart attack. The death certificate is signed by Dr Waldo Novak…'
`Who is also American. A curious coincidence…'
`What about getting an order for an autopsy?' Newman suggested.
`The body was cremated. And that is where the trouble really started. I had an official from the American Embassy here who complained. Apparently Hannah Stuart was very wealthy – from Philadelphia. Her heirs, a son and his wife, were furious. In her original will she had made the inheritance conditional on her body being buried in Philadelphia…'
`Then how the devil was the Clinic able to get away with cremation?'
`Dr Bruno Kobler, the chief administrator, produced a document signed by Hannah Stuart stating she wished to be cremated. You'll find a photocopy at the end of the file. I had the signature checked by hand-writing experts and they say it's genuine.'
`Which blocked you off. Neat, very neat…'
He broke off as someone knocked on the door. Beck called out come in, a small, myopic-looking man wearing thick glasses and a civilian suit entered. He was carrying a cellophane envelope.
`We have obtained some fingerprints,' the man informed Beck. 'All of them the same person. Probably the deceased's – but we shall only know that when the pathologist has released the body.'
`Thank you, Erich…' Beck waited until the man had gone and then handed the envelope to Newman. 'Inside is the envelope – still sealed – which Moser found inside Nagy's coat pocket…'
Newman extracted the crumpled, cheap white envelope and saw it carried a few words. For M. Robert Newman, Bellevue Palace. He opened it and inside there was a scrap of paper torn from a pad and a key. In the same semi-literate script as the wording on the envelope were written the words M. Newman – Bahnhof. He replaced the contents inside the envelope and slipped it into his wallet.
`It was addressed to you,' Beck said, 'so I gave strict orders it was not to be opened. Don't I get to see it?'
`No. Not until you tell me what you want me to do – and maybe not then.'
`I need someone I can fully trust who has access to the Berne Clinic. I have no reason to go there myself – and I don't want to tip my hand. I have not a shred of evidence – even in the case of Hannah Stuart. Only the gravest suspicions. I need to know exactly what is going on inside that place…'
`I would have thought it was the chemical works at Horgen you needed to investigate. Especially in view of this story about tracing this Seidler…'
`Hannah Stuart died at Thun,' Beck replied sombrely. `Now, that envelope…'
`I work on my own or not at all. I'll keep the envelope for the moment…'
`I have to warn you you are up against men with unlimited power. One more thing. I have found out that the Gold Club people have secretly allocated the enormous sum of two hundred million Swiss francs for Terminal.' He held up a hand. 'Don't ask me how I discovered that fact, but the Americans are not the only ones who go in for what they call creative book-keeping.'
`Who controls that money?' Newman asked.
`Professor Armand Grange. Every franc of it…'
`And Grange is also a part-time member of the Swiss Army – another of those officers you mentioned?'
`At one time, yes. Not any more. You must take great care, Bob. I know you are a lone wolf, but on this one you may need help.'
`Is there anyone powerful enough, any individual, who can stand up to Grange and his fellow-bankers?'
`Only one man I know of. Dr Max Nagel, the Basle banker. He is also on the board of the Bank for Inte
rnational Settlements, so he has world-wide connections. Nagel is the main opponent of the Gold Club…'
`This Manfred Seidler – you are really looking for him?'
`I am trying to find him before the counter-espionage lot get to him. All the cantonal police forces have been alerted. I think that man could be in great danger…'
`From counter-espionage?' There was incredulity in New- man's tone. 'You really mean that?'
`I didn't say exactly that aloud…'
`And this Englishman, Mason, who is checking on Grange. Where does he come in?'
`Frankly I have no idea who he is working for. I am not sure yet who is working for who. But I also believe Mason could be at risk. Remember, we have lost track of Lee Foley, and he is a killer. Never forget, you are walking in a minefield…'
It was nine o'clock at night when Newman reached the luggage locker section at the Bahnhof. He had walked through the silent city from, the Taubenhalde, doubling back through the network of arcades until he was certain no one was following him As-he had guessed, the key from Nagy's envelope fitted the numbered locker which corresponded to the number engraved on the key.
Unlocking the compartment, he stooped to see what was inside. Another envelope. Again addressed to himself at the Bellevue Palace in the scrawly hand-writing which was becoming familiar. Pocketing the envelope, he walked to the station self-service buffet. He was thirsty and famished.
He chose a corner table in the large eating place and sat with his back to the wall. As he devoured the two rolls and swallowed coffee, he watched the passengers who came in through the entrance. No one took any notice of him He took out the envelope and opened it.
M. Newman. I don't know I can last much longer. The first two photos I took outside the Bahnhof. Chief Inspector Tripet (Geneva) told me follow you. That was when I came off the Zurich train. I was beat up inside a lavatory on the train. The thug gave me money and told me follow you. The phone number on the bit of paper you took off me in the alley is the number I had to call to tell them what you was doing. The car number was a Mercedes waiting outside the Bahnhof. The man I think is the thug's boss got into the car. That's the first two photos. The third photo is the same man who got into the Mercedes. I saw him back here in Berne just before dark. Don't know the man he's talking to. I saw the first man by chance near the Bellevue Palace. Which is why I took the photo. These are very tough people M. Newman
He felt slightly sick. He had a vivid memory flash of Julius Nagy being pinned against the wooden door by Foley's walking stick. The reaction was swiftly replaced by an emotion of cold fury. He sat working out what must have been the sequence of events after Nagy had walked away down the Finstergasschen.
The little man must have caught a tram – maybe even splashed out on a cab fare-to the Bahnhof. Quite possibly he had scribbled his message – Newman had had difficulty deciphering some of the words – in this very buffet. He must have then hurried to the luggage lockers, slipped the envelope inside, put the key into the second envelope with the shorter note also scribbled in the buffet – or wherever – and shoved it inside his coat pocket. The mystery was why Nagy had then hurried back to the Munstergasse.
Newman calculated the little man could have carried out these actions by 6.30 pm if he had hustled. By the time he arrived back at the Munstergasse someone had been waiting for him. Who lived in that district? The only person he could think of was Blanche Signer-which reminded him it might be worthwhile calling her.
He was inside one of the station phone booths when it occurred to him maybe he should first call Nancy. He dialled the Bellevue Palace with a certain reluctance. He had to wait several minutes before they located her. It was not a pleasant conversation.
`It's a bloody good job I didn't wait for you for dinner,' she greeted him. 'Where are you, for Christ's sake?'
`In a phone booth..
`I suppose you expect me to believe that…'
`Nancy…' His tone changed. `… I came to Berne to help you find out what was happening to Jesse. The whole evening has been spent with that very objective. I have not enjoyed it overmuch.'
`Well, that makes two of us. I waited so long for dinner I was beyond enjoying it when I eventually decided I'd better eat something. May I expect to see you sometime tonight? Or will your investigations keep you out till morning?'
`Expect me when you see me…'
He put down the phone and dialled Blanche's number. She answered almost at once. When she heard his voice she sounded excited.
`Bob! I'm so glad you phoned – I've got those photos for you. My friend stayed late to develop and print them. Considering the poor light they've come out very well. All three of them. Are you coming over?'
`I'll be there in ten minutes…'
On his second visit to the apartment in the Junkerngasse she showed him straight into the sitting room, a small, comfortably-furnished place lit only by table lamps. On a low table by a large sofa two glasses stood on place mats.
Blanche was dressed in a pleated skirt and a black cashmere sweater which showed her figure without making her look tarty. It had a cowl neck, which she knew he liked. Her long mane of titian hair glistened in the half-light.
`I may have traced Manfred Seidler,' she announced, tut more of that later. Have you eaten? I'll get the Montrachet from the fridge…'
`No food, thank you. I can't stay long…'
She vanished into the kitchen. Newman wandered over to look at a silver-framed photograph of a serious-faced officer. in Swiss Army uniform. He was staring at it when she returned and filled their glasses from an opened bottle.
`Your stepfather?'
`Yes. I hardly ever see him. We're simply not on the same waveband. Cheers!'
She sat alongside him on the sofa, crossing her long shapely legs encased in sheer black nylon. Clasped under one arm was a large, cardboard-backed envelope she tucked between herself and a cushion. Newman reflected that this was only the second time in the whole ferocious day he had felt relaxed. On the first occasion they had been in another room in this same apartment.
`Manfred Seidler may be in Basle,' she said, putting down her glass on the table. 'I've been on the phone almost the whole time since you left – except for rushing out to get the photos. I'd almost given up when I phoned a girl friend in Basle who is in banking. There's a girl called Erika Stahel who works in the same bank. Erika has let drop occasional rueful hints that she only sees her boy friend, Manfred, when he's in town, which isn't often. This Manfred moves about a lot…'
`Manfred is a fairly common name…'
`He's quite a bit older than Erika. Recently he brought her back a present from Vienna. An owl in silver crystal. That's how my girl friend heard of the trip. She showed the owl to her friend she was so pleased with it. Erika has a very good job,' Blanche remarked.
`What's a good job?'
`Personal assistant to Dr Max Nagel. He's chairman of the bank.'
Newman had trouble holding his glass steady. He hastily had another drink. Blanche was watching him. She tucked her legs underneath herself like a contented cat. Reaching for the envelope, she spoke again.
`It's probably the wrong Manfred. But apparently Erika is very careful not to mention his second name. Mind you, that could simply mean he's married. That could be the reason this Erika is so mysterious about his background and his job. I've got Erika Stahel's phone number if you want it.'
`How did you get that?'
`I asked my friend to look it up in the directory while we were talking, of course. Here it is on this piece of paper, plus her address. She has an apartment near the Munsterplatz. I must have phoned thirty people before I came across anyone who knew someone with the name Manfred. Want to see the pics?'
`Blanche, you have done so well. I'm very grateful. God, you move…'
`You have to if you're operating a tracing service. People like quick results. They recommend you to other clients – which is the way to build up any business. The pi
cs…'
Newman looked at the first glossy print. The rear of a Mercedes, the registration number clearly visible. The number of the car which had almost driven them under the blade of the snowplough on the motorway. Poor little Nagy might yet pay back his killers from the grave. He kept his face expressionless as he looked at the second print. Bruno Kobler. No doubt about it.
`These prints are invaluable,' he told her.
`Service with a smile – of all kinds,' she said mischievously. `The third one any good?'
Newman felt as though he had just been hit in the solar plexus. He gazed at the last print with a funny feeling at the pit of his stomach. He recognized the building in the background. Bruno Kobler had again proved very photogenic. It was the man he was talking to who shook Newman and made his brain spin, made him start looking at everything from a new, brutally disturbing angle. The man was Arthur Beck.
Sixteen
Newman met – collided with – 'Tommy' Mason when he entered the bar at the Bellevue Palace on his way back from Blanche. It was precisely 10 pm. Mason turned away from the bar holding a tumbler of whisky which he spilt down Newman's jacket. Newman grinned and shrugged.
`I say, I'm frightfully sorry. Waiter, a damp cloth. Quick!' `I wouldn't lose any sleep over it…'
`Jolly careless of me. Look, the least I can do is buy you a drink. Double Scotch – or whatever…'
`You called it…'
Newman took his glass and led the way to the same corner table where he had talked with Blanche. The place was crowded. He sat with his back to the wall, raised his glass and drank as his companion eased his way on to the banquette.
`Captain Tommy Mason,' he introduced himself. 'The "Tommy" is purely honorary. They tacked it on when I was in the Army and the damn name stuck…'
`Bob Newman. No honorary titles…'
`I say, not the Robert Newman? The Kruger case and all that? I thought I recognized you. I'm market research. I've nearly completed my present assignment.' Mason smiled. `Really I'm not hurrying the job – I like this place. Marvellous hotel.'
Newman nodded agreement while he studied Mason. A military type. Early thirties. Trim moustache. Held his slim build erect. Shrewd eyes which didn't go with his general air of a man who would rise to captain and then that would be his ceiling. Mason continued chattering.
