by Colin Forbes
'Look, Bob, I'm going to Sprungli's. I'd like to be on my own. Nothing personal. I've a job to do and you'll get in the way. Nothing personal. Tweed OK'd it.'
'After what happened in the Altstadt, Tweed says I have to stick to you like glue.'
'Bob, I can't do my job with you hanging on to my coat-tails. I won't even try. But I am going to do my job.'
They were moving fast up the street because Paula, furious, was walking so quickly. Tweed had no right to countermand his previous agreement. And she'd tell him when she saw him.
'Could we compromise?' Newman suggested.
'I don't think so. You're too well known. What had you in mind?' Maybe she was being too rigid. Bob had saved her life in the past.
'You're going into Sprungli's,' he began quietly. 'Suppose I stay outside. Out of sight?'
'We could try it, I suppose . . .'
They had arrived opposite Sprungli's entrance. She darted inside. Newman walked on a short distance, put on dark glasses. He wouldn't look conspicuous. The sun shone as a brilliant glare now.
* * *
Paula thought the only drawback to Sprungli's was the staircase you had to mount to reach the first floor. The ground floor was devoted to their shop. The staircase curved dangerously, on one side the treads were narrow at the middle curve. She wondered how women with high heels managed. Of course, they went up on their toes.
At the top she paused, the cash desk on her left. Not many customers this morning. The bitter weather. She was about to walk to an empty table when she stiffened. A shock. She couldn't move for a moment. Seated at a table with her back to Paula was a woman with a fur hat. Same colour, same type as the one Elena Brucan had worn. Same coat. Same size.
Her legs felt leaden as she walked to the table. She stood on the opposite side behind an empty chair, stared. The woman was well over eighty, thin-lipped, haggard lines barely masked with makeup. Her fierce eyes glared at Paula. She spoke in German, a language Paula understood.
'This is my table. I am expecting a friend. Plenty of empty tables,' she snapped.
'From the back you looked like someone I know.'
Paula didn't apologize. The woman's manner, her words, had been downright aggressive. One of the grandes dames who came here daily to chatter with her friend. She chose a table well away from her. A waitress appeared immediately and she ordered coffee. A strong hand rested on her shoulder from behind. Paula had had enough of people grasping her. She swung round, her expression bleak. It was Marienetta.
'Oh, hello there,' she managed.
Marienetta had a sable coat over her arm. She was holding two plates, each with a creamy cake. Putting one in front of Paula she sat down facing her, ordered coffee when the waitress reappeared. She spoke softly.
'You had a shock, like me, when you arrived. You thought that woman was Elena Brucan, didn't you?'
'Yes, for a moment.' Paula noticed Marienetta had a folded newspaper under her arm. This was too opportune not to exploit. 'How did you come to think it was her?' she asked. Marienetta had not appeared while she was viewing the body and police were keeping people well away from the horror.
'Simple.' Marienetta smiled, opened the newspaper. The front page of the Neue Zilrcher Zeitung. Today's edition. A huge slamming headline, easy to translate.
SECOND HEADLESS BODY FOUND -IN ZURICH
A lot of text below. The story by Sam Snyder. He'd even included the fact that the head - after severing -had been perched back on the neck. There was a large, accurate drawing of Elena Brucan's head, the fur cap now straightened up. Paula looked up at her companion.
'That's how I knew,' Marienetta explained. 'Like you, I saw her from the back when I arrived just before you. And back in London she came to see Roman. At the Cone. Said she had vital information for him. He only saw her for a short time, then thought she was weird, called me to take her away. She was wearing the same clothes as that woman we both saw when we arrived.'
A very pat explanation, Paula thought. But she had learned something from Marienetta chatting. The links Tweed was desperately seeking were beginning to come together.
'Did you go and look at her?' Paula asked.
'Yes, then saw it was someone else.'
'Which tells me why she was so ratty with me. She was fed up with people trying to occupy the reserved chair. What was the vital information Elena had for Roman?'
'Damned if I know. Don't you like the look of your cake? I can go and get another one.'
'Sorry. The newspaper story distracted me. I see it even gives details of the tragedy at Montreux. I think this cake looks delicious.' She used her fork to taste it. 'The cake is delicious. I think I'll take one back to the Baur au Lac.'
'Sit still. Don't move,' Marienetta commanded.
She jumped up and went back to the counter where a great variety of cakes were displayed. You chose what you wanted, paid one of the spry women beyond the glass counter. Soon Marienetta was back with another cake inside a carton which she pushed across the table.
'I must pay for this one,' Paula said firmly.
'Don't be silly. It's only a few marks. What are you up to this morning? You're always up to something. Making any progress with your investigation?'
'Sometimes I get lucky,' a cheerful voice boomed out as a hand squeezed Paula's shoulder. Here we go again, she thought.
She looked up. Black Jack Diamond stood behind her. Clad in full riding kit. Spotless jodhpurs tucked into gleaming boots. His right hand held a whip. She glowered up at him.
'Kindly remove your sweaty hand.'
'Sweaty?' He took his hand away. 'Had a wash five minutes ago.'
'Have another.'
He hauled a free chair from another table, sat down on it between them. His healthy face was flushed with the cold. He snapped his fingers for the waitress. Paula was to remember that snapping of the fingers. The waitress appeared with a blank expression.
'Coffee for the customer, darlin'. I'm the customer.'
'This is Sprungli's - not some cheap bar,' Paula told him.
'Got results, didn't it?' He grinned. 'I've been riding in the fresh air. At a riding school outside the city. Feel like a million dollars.'
'You don't act like it,' Paula rapped back.
'You ladies looked so serious when I came in.' He reached for the newspaper. 'You don't want to dwell on the seamier side of life.'
'I'll take that,' said Paula, easing the paper out of his grip. 'After what happened yesterday this is no time for exuberance.'
'Oh, come on! Life is for the living.'
'Ever seen a few dead bodies?' Paula enquired.
'Not since yesterday.'
Paula stood up. Behind the bravado she had sensed a touch of menace. He'd presumably intended it to be a joke but his tone of voice had been odd. She looked at Marienetta, picking up the carton with the cake.
'Let's meet under pleasanter circumstances. I must go now.'
'We'll do that,' he called out after her. 'Dinner tonight suit you?'
He stood up and behind her she heard the crash of a chair falling over. Glancing back she saw him stooping to pick it up. His movements were wobbly and while at the table she'd caught a whiff of alcohol. What had caused him to drink so early in the day?
Leaving Sprungli's with the newspaper folded under her arm, she paused, looking round for Newman. He materialized out of nowhere. She handed him the paper.
'You can read German,' she said. 'I'm going over to that bar Sam Snyder frequents. I could do with the heavy mob on this trip.'
'I'm the heavy mob. Wait a minute.' He scanned the news on the front page. 'I think we have to ask Mr Snyder a few serious questions. Beck will be appalled at the detail. Sam has no respect for anyone if he can get a scoop . . .'
'And after that back to Tweed. I've done rather well. Caught more than one of the people involved off guard.'
They entered the bar and Sam Snyder was sitting at the same table, the newspaper spread out before him and a
glass of beer next to it. Paula started out slowly after Snyder had greeted them with apparent delight. They sat opposite to him.
'You've seen my story?'
'We have. Read every word. Makes interesting reading. So quick.'
'Thank you, dear lady. What are you drinking?'
'Nothing. I'm curious, even disturbed. Zurich will be in a panic after reading that.'
'Ace reporters,' he began with a smile, 'do just that. They create stories that create panics.' He leered at Newman who was staring at him with a blank expression. 'Stories all so-called respectable citizens just have to read. Why? Because it gives them a secret satisfaction they still have their heads on their shoulders.'
'You had to use a drawing of Elena,' Paula observed, still quietly.
'Couldn't use the camera. The flash would have alerted the police to my presence. I always carry a small sketch block. I did another sketch when Zeitzler - that's his name, isn't it? - lifted the head off the shoulders to show it was severed from the neck. Hoped they'd use that one but they funked it.' He reached towards his back pocket. 'I'm sure you'd like to see it.'
'Keep it in your underpants - where it belongs,' Paula snapped.
'Don't think the lady has a high opinion of me.'
'She thinks you're a louse,' Newman burst out. 'And so do I.'
'Keep it cool, Bob,' Paula advised. 'Now, Mr Snyder, how were you able to get this material? I was there and didn't see you anywhere. Obviously, neither did the police.'
'Ah!' Snyder placed a thick index finger by his nose. 'A trade secret. But since she's asked me so nicely - Newman, you ought to study her technique - I'll tell you. On the opposite bank of the Sihl there's a shadowed walk. That's where I stood, keeping very still. I could even hear what was being said - the Sihl's pretty narrow. Had to be careful not to move much while I was making the sketches. The editor of the paper was away - some temporary guy in his place. Which was lucky. I could tell he wanted to make his name before he moved on. Think I saw the killer when I first arrived before the police rolled in.'
'What did it look like?' Paula asked, lighting one of her rare cigarettes.
'Tall, wore a black coat, very long. And a funny hat. It walked stiffly. Mind you I only had a glimpse so don't take that description as accurate. Vanished in the direction of the Baur en Ville, where we are now.'
'You didn't include that in your article,' Paula remarked.
'No.' Snyder grinned. 'If I had, Beck would have locked me up for hours while he interrogated me. That I could do without.'
'Ever seen anyone like that figure before?' she asked.
'Can't say I have.'
'Sure?'
Snyder lifted his glass, drank quite a lot of beer, smacked his lips as he put down the glass. He was so pleased with himself Newman could have smashed his fist into his face. But he was leaving the floor to Paula, who was doing so well.
'Mr Snyder,' she said, still quietly, 'was the figure carrying something?'
'Could have been holding a very large briefcase, something like that.' He waved a large hand. 'Can't be sure.'
'And this was before the body was discovered - and before you'd noticed it?'
Snyder took out a small cigar. He spent his time lighting it. Then he took several puffs, gazing round the bar. It was spacious, a luxuriously furnished room with mahogany walls, a crescent-shaped counter way over to the right with black leather stools where several customers sat. In the middle of the room was a large black piano and illumination came from stud lights embedded in the ceiling.
'You haven't answered my question,' Paula prodded.
'You know what?' Snyder took another puff at the cigar. 'I reckon I've answered more than enough of your questions.'
'Thank you for your support, Bob,' Paula said as they headed back to the Baur au Lac.
'I didn't say anything - except for one brief outburst.'
'That's what I meant by your support.'
She glanced at Newman and he had pursed his lips. Not best pleased with her attitude. She didn't care - she'd done the job.
'What did you think of his vague description of someone he suggested could have been the killer?' she asked.
'Vague is the word.'
'I'm developing a new theory from the way he dragged that in when he needn't have done. Sam Snyder was in the right place at the right moment. Earlier he could have walked down the promenade on the opposite bank from where he made his sketches. He could be it - the killer we're tracking.'
25
'Hello,' said Tweed, answering the phone in his suite.
'Ed Danvers here.' Voice abrupt. 'Mr Straub wishes to see you. We're in suite . . .'
'And I'm in suite . . .'
'We know where you are. The Vice-President wishes to see you immediately.'
'Then he will be very welcome to come down and see me. I will be waiting for him.'
Tweed broke the connection. He went over to the well-stocked drinks cupboard. Yes, he had whiskey, what the Americans preferred to drink. If anyone came down to see him. They did. A heavy hammering on the door, nonstop. Tweed opened the door and Straub pushed his way in.
He now wore a white two-piece suit, a pink shirt, a tie with the emblems of the American flag. The colours clashed horribly but you couldn't miss him. Refusing Tweed's offer to sit down he stormed round the suite. The expression he wore did not go with his clothes - his long lean face was twisted into fury.
'I am the Vice-President, in case you'd forgotten. People come to see me when summoned.'
'I'm not people.'
'You won't hold your job for long when I return to Washington.'
'So when are you going home?' Tweed enquired in the same calm tone.
'Not yet.' He suddenly calmed down, saw the whiskey bottle. 'I'll have some of that,' he snapped, sitting in an armchair.
'My pleasure. You are a very worried man, Mr Straub,' Tweed observed as he poured whiskey into two glasses. Then he sat down facing his guest, raised his glass. 'Cheers!'
'What makes you think I'm worried?' Straub asked.
'You are noted for never stopping smiling. You face any audience and answer the most hostile questions amiably. Yet you came in here as though your ship was going down. Is it?'
'A strange simile.' Straub stared hard at Tweed. 'These serial murders are hitting the headlines in the States. And over here. They always mention my presence.'
'Because you always happen to be in the vicinity when it hits again? And I must disagree with you. The words "serial murders" suggest random killings. I believe they are all linked.'
'Linked?' Straub's normally ruddy face paled. A pause before he responded. 'What on earth do you damned well mean?'
'I mean that when we identify it we'll find a personal motive behind these atrocities.'
'That's so implausible as to be ludicrous,' Straub said savagely.
'Your reaction suggests this is what is worrying you. Were you in Pinedale, staying at your mansion near the asylum when it was burned to the ground?'
'I did not come here to be interrogated.'
'No, you came here to discover how far my investigation has progressed. Well, I will tell you. Since arriving here in Zurich I'm beginning to link up the elements in the chain. The appearance, once more, of the Arbogast family is very significant. I believe you know them.'
'You believe wrongly. And I could do with another drink.'
Tweed did the honours. He watched as Straub lifted his glass again. His hand was shaking. He steadied it by pressing the glass against his lips, swallowing half the contents of the stiff one Tweed had poured.
'If you were in court, and I was a barrister, I would next ask you about your visit to Roman Arbogast at the Cone in London. I would produce evidence to back up my question.'
Tweed, his voice still calm, was bearing down hard on his guest. He produced an envelope he'd slipped down the side of a cushion before Straub had arrived. He selected a photo showing Straub mounting the steps to the entranc
e to the Cone. He placed it on the table in front of the Vice-President.
Straub stared down at the picture which also included the limo by the kerb which had brought him there. He spent too long gazing at the picture before looking up at Tweed.
'Naturally I have a distant acquaintance with Roman Arbogast. He has a plant employing several thousand workers in Boston.' He attempted a smile. 'Politicians have to think of voters.'
Straub, like some Americans, spoke very rapidly. Watching him on TV, addressing an American audience, Tweed had sometimes found it difficult to catch what he'd said.
'And Pinedale?' Tweed said quietly.
'I never knew Hank Foley—'
He stopped suddenly. It was obvious he regretted replying so quickly. He drank the rest of his whiskey, gripping the glass tightly.
'I'm surprised,' Tweed observed, 'that you remember the name of a caretaker. And that photo was taken by Elena Brucan, whose body was discovered yesterday evening close to this hotel.' He was speaking slowly and very deliberately. 'I refer to poor Elena Brucan, whose head was severed from her body and then - a really foul touch - placed back on the severed neck.'
'Never heard of her.'
Again he stopped. Again he had regretted reacting to the name so fast.
