by Colin Forbes
'Marienetta. She thought my moods were dangerous. I heard her say that to my father. I had the feeling she was disappointed when the shrink said I was just wired.'
'Was this consultation in London?'
'No, when I was in the States.'
'Whereabouts were you? This must have been disturbing.'
'In Boston.' Sophie drank more Scotch without any apparent effect. 'My father has a plant there manufacturing explosives. I visit it now and again. This time Marienetta jumped on the plane at the last moment. Which made me suspicious.'
She giggled like a schoolgirl. This unexpected change in her personality startled Paula. She had been so mature and logical earlier.
'It's the Scotch,' Sophie explained, her normal self again. 'Makes me see the funny side of life. I thought Marienetta such a joke - boarding the Gulfstream at the last moment. Then she started talking about this doctor who wasn't a doctor.'
'Been anywhere else in the States?' Paula asked casually.
'New York. Went there with Black Jack. Something strange about him. Talk about my moods. You should see his.'
'What's he like when he's in a mood?' Paula wondered.
'Crazy. Capable of doing anything in public. Once we were in a New York club and he jumped onto an empty table, started dancing madly. An attractive woman stopped to watch. Reaching down he hauled her up, snapping one of her shoulder straps. He had a good grip on her and to start with she looked annoyed, then she began to take to him. He started singing at the top of his voice "America the Beautiful". He has a good voice. He'd have been thrown out but everyone started joining in the singing. The manager joined in. He has this extraordinary personality.'
'Sounds as though he has.' Paula checked her watch. 'I have enjoyed our conversation but I must get up now and change for dinner.'
She turned as she was leaving the lounge. Sophie was giggling, waving her empty glass for another refill.
Vigliano's bar is in a side street off Bahnhofstrasse, not far from the Baur au Lac. In the Altstadt - the Old Town -it has several rooms separated from each other. All with stone walls, the ceiling shaped in stone arches. The phone booth is near the entrance, opposite the bar.
The phone call was made from this booth late in the evening. The call was answered by a certain Luigi Morati, not a man you would want to have a drink with. Picking up the phone, Luigi reacted cautiously.
'Si?'
'Am I speaking to Luigi Morati?'
The voice was strange. Couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Luigi caught on immediately. The caller was using a voice distorter.
'You might be,' he answered in English. 'What is it?'
'It is about a hundred thousand dollars.'
That caught his attention. But he still proceeded cautiously. In his 'profession' he had to if he was to survive.
'Who gave you my name?'
'I am not allowed to tell you. Are you interested or not?'
The voice had sharpened, sounded impatient, as though the caller was prepared to slam down the phone. Luigi took a deep breath.
'What do I do to earn one hundred thousand dollars?'
'Kill someone. Within the next twenty-four hours.'
'Give me the details. I need a description, where they can be found, their—'
'Shut up! Name of the woman is Paula Grey. Staying at the Baur au Lac. I have just stuffed an envelope behind this phone at Vigliano's Bar. How long for you to get here?'
'Five minutes.'
'Inside the envelope is a photo of Paula Grey. Inside the same envelope is one hundred thousand dollars in used notes. If you take the money and do not do the job you will be dead.'
'Don't talk to me like that. I am reliable. My reputation is my living. I am leaving now.'
22
It was late and Zurich was very quiet as Broden, wearing a cap and with his overcoat buttoned up to the neck, walked down Bahnhofstrasse. He could have been anybody. The cap concealed his en brosse haircut, the coat collar concealed the lower part of his face. He carried a suitcase.
He turned off Bahnhofstrasse down the side street leading to ACTIL's headquarters. At the far end he could see police tape closing it off, lights from police cars. Taking out a key, he unlocked the door, went inside without turning on the light, re-locked the door.
Climbing the stairs he reached Roman's office, door closed, a light on behind it. He knocked. No reply. He opened the door quietly. Roman was sitting at his desk in front of the window with the blind pulled down, poring over a file.
'It's me,' Broden said softly.
'Why the hell don't you knock?' Roman demanded.
He glared at his security chief. His right eye twitched several times. Which meant he was under pressure. Broden took off cap and coat - it was damned Siberian outside. The office was warm.
'I did knock. You didn't hear me. Something wrong?'
'Yes, money is missing. I've checked and double-checked. It's Dorf. Sack him in the morning.'
'We could prosecute . . .'
'We do not want the police creeping around us. What's in that suitcase?'
'Warmer clothes. Earlier I found one shop just closing. I don't know whether you've heard. There's been another murder,'
'What!'
Roman swivelled round in his chair. The eye started twitching again. Broden waited for him to say something but his employer remained silent. He slipped the file into a large briefcase. Standing up, he put on his heavy overcoat. He picked up the briefcase.
When they left the building Roman never glanced to his right where police tape fenced off the street. Carrying his bulging briefcase, he turned left, his head bowed. Broden was not surprised. He knew his chief's remarkable brain was always concentrated on building up ACTIL, on sweeping out of his way anything that might interfere with expansion. Or anyone.
They were approaching the entrance to the Baur au Lac when Roman spoke. Looking at Broden his eye was twitching again.
'That would be the fourth murder. Anyone we know?'
'Yes.'
Entering the hall after an excellent dinner, Tweed, Newman and Paula found Marler waiting. He wore a raincoat and carried a suitcase. He shook his head. He didn't want any conversation in public. Only when they were all inside Tweed's suite, with the door locked, did he speak. First he placed his case on a luggage rack, opened it.
'I've visited someone I know in Zurich. Spent a lot of money. This is for you.'
He handed Paula a .32 Browning automatic and several magazines. She immediately checked that the weapon was unloaded, then slid a magazine into the butt. The Browning was then slipped inside the special pocket in her shoulder bag.
'Thank you, Marler, I've felt naked without this.'
Marler produced a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, handed it to Newman. He then gave him a bag containing ammo. Next he brought out a Walther 7.65mm automatic which he handed to Tweed. Most of his life Tweed refused to carry a weapon but this time he accepted it. He was convinced that when he confronted the killer he'd have to shoot it. After the crimes it had committed that would be the best solution. Marler took out another Walther.
He was holding the automatic in his hand when Newman let into the suite Butler and Nield. Walking forward to Marler, Nield held out his hand.
'Gimme.'
'Sorry. My supplier would only give me four hand weapons. I had to coax him to get the ones I've dished out to Paula, Tweed and Bob. It's the two murders here in Zurich. The supplier is worried they'll provoke the police into visiting him.'
'Not to worry,' said Butler. 'Wherever you are there's always something you can use as a weapon.'
'Where have you two been all this time?' Tweed asked.
'Trawling Zurich,' Nield replied. 'It's a complex city. In an emergency we need to know it like the backs of our hands. I took the Altstadt on the other side of the Limmat, Harry explored this side.'
'On a motorbike,' Harry said. 'Bought a second-hand Yamaha. Goes like the wind. Blindfold me, drop m
e anywhere this side of the Limmat, remove the blindfold. I'll know exactly where I am.'
Newman checked his watch. 'It's getting late. I'm feeling sleepy. Time to go to bed. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?'
'Lord knows. Off you go.'
Paula waited as they were leaving. She came up to Tweed and whispered. Newman, last to leave, turned at the door, looked at Paula.
'See you in the morning.'
'That's what I want to talk to you about,' Paula said when she and Tweed were alone.
The phone rang. Tweed answered and it was Monica. She spoke in coded language, realizing the call was going through a switchboard. Tweed listened, thanked her, looked at Paula as he put down the phone.
'That was Monica. She's traced two brothers who emigrated from Italy about the same time as Roman moved to London, and Vicenzo - Vincent - emigrated to the States. A Silvio went to London, got married. A Mario went to the States, he also married. This means there are probably more offspring in Britain and the States. She hasn't any names yet.'
'It's a step forward.' Paula paused, staring hard at Tweed. 'You look worried. I can tell. That's very rare for you.'
'Well, we move from A to B to C. Our arrivals are punctuated by more murders. I think I can see it, but I can't put a face to the killer.'
'It's frustrating,' she sympathized. 'You know I'm good at sensing what people are really like behind the masks they wear in public. Earlier today when I was out with Newman I went into a bookshop. In the window there was a book by Abraham Scale. Titled Normal and Abnormal. The bits I've read so far are fascinating. I want you to let me go out on my own and talk to all the people we've met - including Sam Snyder. Without Newman tagging along. I know he's protecting me - and I'm grateful. But he'd get in the way. Please.'
'Well
'And I've got my Browning now,' she pressed.
'Perhaps you're right. Do it.'
'Thanks.'
She kissed him on both cheeks before she left the suite. Once on his own Tweed immediately called Nield. He worded his request carefully.
'Pete, Paula wants to mooch around on her own - without Newman. Tomorrow morning. Can you discreetly follow her without her knowing? You'll have to be clever.'
'Easy. I'll be the Invisible Man.'
Inside the stone-walled flat he occupied in the Altstadt, on the far side of the Limmat, Luigi Morati oiled his Glock pistol, a deadly weapon. Earlier he had collected the envelope his mysterious caller had left in the telephone booth in Vigliano's Bar.
Inside the envelope he had found a hundred thousand dollars in used notes, a photo of Paula Grey. As he checked the weapon he kept glancing at the photo pinned to the table he worked at. A handsome-looking woman. In different circumstances he wouldn't have minded getting to know her.
He looked at his face in the mirror on the wall. Greasy black hair, cold eyes, a crooked nose broken in a fight long ago, a fight which had ended in his opponent ending up with a broken skull smashed against a wall. Finite.
He had considered using a silencer, had rejected the notion. A silencer could jam a handgun. So the vital decision was his escape route. He had long ago been taught to think of this first, by an experienced hitman during his days in Rome.
The solution came to him as he continued maintaining the gun with loving care. His motorcycle, now chained up inside an alley near the entrance to the old building where he lived. His flat was not so far from police headquarters on the opposite bank, an irony which amused him.
Satisfied with the state of the Glock, he stood up, aimed the unloaded weapon at the photo. He pulled the trigger.
Small, but wiry and strong, able to kill with one blow from his hand. If Paula Grey came out of the Baur au Lac tomorrow she was dead meat. He had never failed yet.
23
Without a warning forecast, the following morning the temperature had dropped ten degrees Fahrenheit. As Paula walked out through the entrance she was clad in a leather outfit. She was by herself and it was early as she entered Bahnhofstrasse, turned left up the street. She had already decided on her first objective.
A municipal cleaner was sweeping the gutters. His hands were only protected by half-gloves, the tips of his fingers exposed. They were blue with the intense cold. Men and women hurrying to their jobs were huddled up. Shop windows were coated with ice. A short distance further up the street a police car was parked with two uniformed officers inside.
In the rather scruffy park facing the entrance to the Baur au Lac, Luigi Morati recognized her immediately and cursed. The presence of the police car meant action at the moment was impossible. He wheeled his motorcycle into the street, began pushing it.
Pete Nield, who had shopped earlier, stood on the far side of the street. He wore an overcoat she had never seen and a hat he had purchased. Nield never wore a hat. Hidden inside an alcove leading to a shop he watched her proceeding past the police car. A motorcyclist, smartly dressed in leather and with a crash helmet on his head, pushed his machine past him.
The sun was shining brilliantly but without warmth.
Paula realized the pavement had to be watched. There were patches of ice. She wasn't worried. She was wearing rubber-soled knee-length boots. A blue tram rumbled past, sounding like a tank going in to attack.
She crossed Bahnhofstrasse just before Parade-platz, a zone where trams changed direction. Several were stopped behind each other as passengers flooded off while others waited to board. The Swiss went to work early and Zurich was alive with activity.
The entrance to the bar of the Baur en Ville is separate from the main reception area of the hotel. Semicircular steps lead up to tall glass doors which open automatically. As soon as she entered Paula realized she was lucky.
As she had hoped, Sam Snyder was seated at a table by himself on the lower level, eating breakfast. He waved to her with his fork, used the other hand to beckon for her to join him. She was concentrating on him as she sat down, so she didn't notice a man in a camel-hair coat and a Swiss hat walk slowly past, hunched up, and climb the stairs at the back to the upper level. Nield now wore tinted glasses and settled himself in at a table at the back. It gave him a good view, looking down, of Paula.
'What an unexpected pleasure.' The hawk-faced reporter greeted her with a warm smile. 'I do like company when I'm having a meal.'
A waitress appeared immediately. 'I needed coffee to warm me up,' Paula explained after ordering.
'I like the cold. But I don't expect everyone to agree with me.'
'Who did it, Sam?'
She threw the question at him without warning. He helped himself to the rest of his omelette before replying. She could hear the wheels churning round.
'Who did what?' he eventually enquired.
'Oh, come off it. You investigated the murder of Hank Foley at Pinedale in Maine. Then Adam Holgate at Bray. You were in Montreux when another hideous murder took place. Here, Elena Brucan.'
'She was a nice lady.'
'You knew her?'
'She approached a lot of people. Had the type of personality to do that. She trapped me down on the quai at Montreux when I'd taken pics of the late Dr Abraham Scale. Asked me if I'd known him.'
'Had you?'
'No.'
Paula caught the hesitation before he replied. He drank more coffee and his dark eyes bored into hers. He hadn't liked the question. His mouth twisted into a sneer. Friendship time was over. She persisted.
'Get some good pics of Elena Brucan?'
'Who sent you to interrogate me? Tweed? Newman?'
He was leaning back, openly assessing her. Hostile now. She had extracted all she'd get. His suggestion irked her. She slammed her cup down.
'No one sent me, as you so politely put it. I came here all on my own. I'm not manipulated at the end of a string. Get that into your thick skull.'
'My, the lady has spirit. I like that. Why don't you come up to my room? We could continue the conversation in peace and quiet.'
He was smil
ing. But the twist still existed. He didn't earn top marks for self-control. She gestured to the waitress, paid her bill.
'You're not walking out on me, are you? Women don't do that to me.'
She was staring straight at him, studying his expression. So she didn't notice the man in the camel-hair coat descend slowly from the steps to the upper level, dragging his feet as though walking was a problem. Nield paused by the door, adjusting his coat collar, making sure she was leaving.
'Maybe your choice of women isn't very sophisticated,' she rapped back.
The smile vanished. He leaned towards her, his right hand clenching and unclenching. His eyes seemed darker than ever. Normal and Abnormal. The latter was disturbing. Get out of here, she said to herself. Your time wasn't wasted.
She was standing up when he reached over, clasped her right arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. His hawk-face was inches from hers. She spoke calmly.
'If you don't take your hand off me I'm going to call the manager.'
'If I have offended you I apologize.' His expression was normal and his smile seemed genuine. He sat down as though to reassure her. 'To prove I am not your enemy let me warm you. On the grapevine I have heard you are in great danger. You have been targeted.'
'Really? Who by?'
