Of course, the Krontag directors had been well aware that Closter had a potentially important new drug in Seromig. The information had been common knowledge for years. But Lybred and Greet had produced copies of confidential clinical reports they claimed had not yet been shown to anyone else outside Closter. The reports in the file were authentic copies all right: Treasure was well aware that they confirmed the astonishing efficacy of Seromig.
Krontag had thus been more than ever spurred to renew its previous attempt to acquire Closter. And Lybred and Greet had added yet more enticement to the prospect.
‘They said a crisis was about to break at Closter,’ Fritzoller recounted. ‘When it happened, there would be a dramatic fall in the price of the shares. The position would be short-lived but to the advantage of a buyer ready to step in at the critical time. We had only to leave the timing of everything to Lybred and Greet. That way it was certain that a substantial part of the Closter equity could be snapped up at bargain prices.’ Then the doctor had insisted: ‘Herr Grubber had no reason to believe the crisis would be precipitated by a dishonest act.’
In Treasure’s view, Grubber had been unbelievably naïve in not demanding to know the cause of the ‘crisis’ – either that, or the man had been sufficiently suspicious of that cause to want to stay ignorant of it. That Grubber and others hadn’t asked the obvious questions could only be inferred, of course. Fritzoller was unable to confirm the point either way.
The doctor did go so far as to say that Grubber might have been ‘too anxious to buy Closter, so that natural prudence gave way to the acquisitive instinct’. Treasure had made no comment on this remark which he felt, grimly, might be destined to feature as the most famous understatement of the year.
Fritzoller had later reluctantly agreed that the Lybred and Greet package seemed to have been based on not just one dubious act but a series of them – although the evidence for this was so far only circumstantial. Treasure had insisted that a criminal conspiracy must have existed between Lybred and Greet and the SAE kidnappers. Proving that Krontag was never a party to this conspiracy could reasonably excuse the Swiss company from blame. Helping to outwit the criminals now would be a step in that direction. It had been on a reiteration of this sombre but – for Fritzoller – compensating note that the two men had parted.
The banker rang the basement bell again. There was still no response. He pushed open the flap of the letterbox and listened. There was no sound of any kind from within. This did nothing to still the gnawing concern that Dermot Hackle could be a prisoner within feet of where the caller was standing. It was a bizarre thought, but several kidnap victims had been transported over national boundaries recently.
‘Hello,’ Treasure called through the letterbox. ‘Is anyone there? Ist jemand zu Hause?’
Silence followed: Treasure let the boxflap spring closed. He moved beyond the door, intending to circle the house. There was only one window down the left side, shuttered like the ones at the front. He passed along the narrow basement defile to the rear of the building. Here the basement area was wider, but grated over at the top and blocked vertically halfway along. There were no windows at all on this side, and no door either, only a nearly horizontal trap-door arrangement at ground-floor level, next to the back door up there. This probably gave access to a basement fuel store via the permanent concrete shoot that was blocking Treasure’s further progress. He returned the way he had come, and climbed the steps to the forecourt. This time the still suspicious cat stayed where it was.
A few minutes later the banker had walked right around the building. The doors to the fuel store had been locked and, like the shutters elsewhere, gave every indication that they had not been disturbed for a very long time. There were no unshuttered basement windows anywhere.
Treasure’s progress had not gone unobserved, though none of the office workers – one man and a pair of giggling young women – who had watched him from separate windows in the house had paid any enduring attention. The man, on the second floor, had made a vaguely helpful expression but then disappeared from view. The young women, on the floor above, had seemed only to be appraising the good-looking Treasure, not questioning the reason for his circling their place of work.
The banker decided to return to the front door and to call up the ground-floor occupants on the entryphone. Enquiry from them might produce information at least about the most recent activity by the basement tenants. It was as he rounded the front of the building that he heard a car door slam close by. A moment later, he became vaguely aware of a taxi driving away on the road outside, beyond the parked cars there, and on the forecourt.
He had reached the steps to the front door when he turned about at the sound of footsteps approaching from the street. The figure coming into view took him totally by surprise.
‘Kirsty Welling,’ he uttered in astonishment, then quickly wished he hadn’t.
The young woman had been hurrying through the gateway, a parked Audi car separating the two still. She was clasping a tall, overfull, brown-paper grocery bag. Her gaze had been down while she rummaged in an open shoulder-strap bag with her free hand. But there was no mistaking the assured, coquettish face and shapely figure. Even the beret was the same. Only the sharply sculpted hair was different: instead of black it was auburn.
Her head was up now, the expression on her face turned from blankness to fright as she saw Treasure.
‘Nein— ’ She had begun the pointless denial as he moved around the car towards her. She looked about in panic. Then, with no warning, determinedly she heaved the brown bag straight at him, turned, and fled into the street.
Treasure jumped backwards and sideways as the bag, and what was left of its contents, burst at his feet. Oranges, tomatoes and potatoes, plus a carton of milk had already found their target by then, and more fruit and vegetables continued to bounce in his direction off the bonnet of the Audi. There was a piercing squawk as he slipped and fell. His left foot had landed on the now totally outraged cat, all its suspicions proved, that shot from under him for the second time that morning.
Miss Welling was rounding the corner into Hirschengraben by the time Treasure gained the street. She was frantically hailing a taxi but it hadn’t stopped, so she ran on, glancing behind her. Treasure hurried after her, moving as fast as he could, though not as fast as Miss Welling. The sharp pain in his left ankle was excruciating.
The girl was on the far side of the street now and sprinting into the paved precinct of the Kunsthaus art museum, an islanded, concrete building that Treasure had noticed on his arrival earlier. Here there were many more people to dodge, and to confuse pursuit. There was also a choice of routes around the gallery or even into it. Sure that his quarry had purposely chosen familiar ground, the banker blundered after her, fearful of losing sight of the green-shirted figure, but aware that she was gaining ground.
On the other side of the museum he lost sight of her. He was about to double back, thinking she had done the same. Then on impulse he went to the railings at the end of the precinct and spotted her again, well ahead of him. She was struggling through the lunchtime crowds on the long stone stairway leading down to the shop-lined Heimstrasse, the street that ends its own long descent there and disgorges into the even more bustling Heimplatz.
And on the far side of the Platz, to the right of where he had briefly paused above the steps, Treasure could see what he took to be Kirsty Welling’s objective – a line of empty taxis on the rank.
Dodging, jumping, twisting down the steps after her, enduring the ankle pain, mouthing apologies, and creating protest in his wake, Treasure reached the Heimstrasse not so far behind the girl. He had seen her try to cross here, but a crowd of others had been waiting to do the same at a crossing light and under the forbidding gaze of two policemen.
Miss Welling was now running on down into the Platz, to the next crossing, and still fifty yards ahead of her pursuer. The lights ahead of her were changing, and the traffic in the widened thor
oughfare was stopping already before the crossing. As soon as a gap opened, Kirsty Welling moved off fast. In a moment she was alone in the central reservation between the sets of tramlines, and she scarcely hesitated there.
She was already halfway to the far pavement when the accelerating motor-bike hit her.
The rider had come from behind a slowing tram on the right. Like the girl, he had been trying to beat the lights. There was a deafening screech of brakes, and a shower of sparks as the machine slewed across the metalled surface.
The bike swung full circle and over on to its side. The upset rider was pinned underneath. Then man and machine were threateningly impelled towards the crowd on the pavement. Women screamed. Everyone fell backward. People were toppled in the press, the ones at the back pinned against shop windows.
The running girl had been knocked high in the air by the impact, her arms and legs splayed. She seemed to hover before coming down limply, like a rag doll, falling head first with a sickening, audible thump just short of the gutter. The beret, the shoulder-bag, and one shoe flew away from her in different directions while she was still in the air. The contents of the bag spilled out as it hit the road. It was Treasure who was to gather them up.
‘She’s badly injured. Fractured skull. Her pelvis and the right leg also fractured. We operate straight away.’
‘Will she survive, Doctor?’
‘She has so far.’ The young houseman in the white coat smiled and continued to practise his English. ‘So she has a chance, yes. She’s young. She seems healthy.’ He paused. ‘Also very pretty. Her face is not marked, that’s lucky. Not so lucky, she’s in a coma still.’
‘How long will that last?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘That’s always impossible to say. Hours? Days? Weeks sometimes. We must hope not too long. You said you’re not a relative?’ The gaze had become curious.
‘No. A business acquaintance. Her parents live in Schaffhausen.’ The wallet had revealed as much. ‘The police are contacting them.’
The two were in a corridor at the hospital in the Ramistrasse. Treasure had followed the ambulance the short distance in a cab. He had been waiting here nearly an hour.
‘But you saw the accident?’
‘Quite by chance, yes,’ he lied. ‘I gave all the information I could to the police. There were other, closer witnesses.’ This was true. The police hadn’t detained him or troubled to question him at length.
‘That’s just as well. If you live in London, you won’t want to come back later. To the court. Not for a … for a business acquaintance.’
Was there a touch of sarcasm in the voice?
‘Quite. I’d come if necessary, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘The motor-cyclist. He’s all right?’
‘Cuts and bruises only. The police will prosecute the guilty party, I expect.’
‘It wasn’t the lady’s fault. All the witnesses agreed. The lights had changed to green.’
‘As you said. You’ll excuse me now?’
‘Of course. Thank you for telling me all you have, Doctor.’
‘Not at all.’ The young man looked at Treasure speculatively again. He seemed to be about to ask a question, then thought better of it. He was wondering if the witness knew the patient a lot better than he was admitting. Was she his girlfriend – something the proper and probably married Englishman couldn’t afford to acknowledge? Except he was deeply concerned about her condition. Awkward, the doctor acknowledged to himself, but not his business.
‘I’ll be in touch with the hospital about her progress.’
‘Yes. Do that, sir. It’s a service. Goodbye, then.’ The doctor turned on his heel.
Treasure also turned about, his hand going involuntarily to the pocket holding the diary and the ring with the latchkeys on it. He’d picked up both articles from between the tramlines, along with the other contents that had spilled from the handbag. He wasn’t stealing – only borrowing the two items he hadn’t replaced, and in his view for a wholly defensible reason.
There was an empty taxi standing outside the hospital. Treasure got into it. ‘Zwei Hendrickstrasse, bitte,’ he ordered.
He was sure the keys would open the basement door. He’d had plenty of time to scour the diary during his wait at the hospital. He had already called his secretary, Miss Gaunt, from a payphone there, and without offering an explanation for the instruction he had given her. If he was right that the kidnappers’ ubiquitous moles could not possibly be listening in on such a call, then his cautious phraseology had certainly been overdone. It was simply that he was still avoiding unnecessary risk. Miss Gaunt had understood what he wanted her to do about the telephone number – the significant one in the diary.
For the first time in the fourteen or so hours since he had learned about the kidnapping of Dermot Hackle the banker felt he was making positive progress. He had thought as much from the moment he had caught sight of the credit cards in the handbag.
The real identity of the young woman in the accident wasn’t Kirsty Welling. Treasure was sorry about her injuries, but pleased that she was effectively in custody for the next day or two at least.
The name on the credit cards was Helga Greet: it was on the passport, too.
Chapter Thirteen
As Treasure was leaving the hospital in Zürich, Bob Larden and Stuart Bodlin were drawing up in Bodlin’s car outside the Larden house in Fulham. They had been to a meeting with Professor Garside, at the Royal Society of Medicine.
‘Well we’ve achieved one positive thing today,’ said Larden edgily, when, shortly afterwards, he was ushering the other man into his study on the middle floor.
The room was as gracious as the owner’s factory office was stark. It was small, square, and bookcase-lined to ceiling height, with a glazed case for sporting guns in one corner. The curtains were heavy velvet. There was a leather-topped, antique desk, with two chairs in sympathy, and several simulated oil lamps offering electric illumination in three strengths. More sophisticated electronic gadgetry was hidden inside two matching, early nineteenth-century chest-commodes set behind the desk on either side. It was all a demonstration of Jane Larden’s design capability in the ‘practical classical mode’ – a term that went some way to justifying the fake lamps and the vandalising of the commodes.
‘I can’t get over how indifferent Garside was to the takeover.’ Bodlin shook his head. He had made the same point earlier, during the drive from Harley Street.
‘Or the crash in our shares yesterday,’ Larden agreed. ‘Of course, he knew that was nothing to do with Seromig. And it doesn’t matter to him who owns the company. What’s important is his attitude to Seromig.’
‘Which hasn’t altered. Even after the cheapening news conference.’
‘The conference didn’t bother him. These protected academics aren’t nearly as touchy as people assume,’ said Larden unfeelingly, since it was Bodlin who had made the dour predictions about Garside’s attitude – and had continued the lament up to the time of today’s encounter. ‘You were right to be sensitive about him, I suppose,’ he added, in mitigation. ‘I’m glad we didn’t postpone the meeting. Though we had plenty of cause.’
‘Garside’s still postponing his paper.’
‘No disadvantage in that. It’ll be a more definitive effort now. Mary Ricini said that, remember?’ Larden waved a hand in the direction of a leather armchair. ‘Sit down, Stuart. I’m sorry Jane’s out. I’ll make us some tea. Unless you’d prefer something else? Something stronger?’
‘Tea’s fine, thanks,’ the other answered abruptly. The last time he had accepted alcohol had been at the Savoy dinner, and what had happened afterwards still made him uncomfortable, especially with someone who had been there.
‘Then I’d like to go over those notes Garside gave you,’ said Larden. ‘Just the headings. You’re still going back to the office?’
‘I need to, yes.’
‘There’s no point in my attempt
ing it. Not with Laurence Stricton from the bank meeting me here. He’s coming at six. To update me on what’s happened since lunch.’ Larden had been at Grenwood, Phipps up to the time of the Garside meeting. He breathed out heavily. ‘God, I’ll be glad when this week’s over.’
The unguarded comment still only hinted at the turmoil Larden was enduring over his future with his company and his wife: he was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he might have lost control of both. Counting his assets gave a short-lived buoyancy to his spirits.
His Closter shares had fetched 4.4 million pounds yesterday, even from the forced sale. He had a four-year, watertight contract as Managing Director of the company whoever owned it. Above all, he had paid a crippling price – half the real value of his shares – to keep his wife.
Only the final fact had a hollow ring. Jane’s ultimatum in the car two nights before had rocked Larden to the core. He hadn’t chosen, or dared, to press her since then about its true meaning – whether she had been insisting he had to save Hackle’s life for reasons of humanity, or whether it was because Hackle meant more to her than her husband did.
‘I’m sorry? … Yes, Laurence Stricton’s very good,’ he said now, in answer to a comment from Bodlin that had hardly registered.
‘And Mark Treasure wants us to oppose the bid? Even if it has nothing to do with the kidnap?’
Larden moved towards the doorway. ‘You still believe the two aren’t related?’
‘Krontag are very respectable,’ Bodlin answered defiantly.
‘And they’re involved in a very unbelievable coincidence.’ Larden rubbed the side of his cheek. ‘Treasure has strong feelings about that. But he doesn’t want any public comment till we’ve got Dermot back in one piece.’
‘Treasure’s gone to Zürich?’
‘Not officially.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Good question,’ Larden commented with a frown. ‘He’s making an off-the-record call on Willy Fritzoller. The bank set it up early this morning, but they’re not acknowledging it’s happening. Not to outsiders. Treasure wants to give Fritzoller a private chance to extricate Krontag if he wants. If he doesn’t want, we’ll know where we stand. Also where Krontag stand.’
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