The Power (39 page)

'I need to locate her urgently.'

'First things first. Would you be so kind as to show me
some identification? Your description may fit, but I am
known as the most careful man in all Zurich.'

Tweed could have produced his driving licence. Weigh
ing up Strebel, he produced instead his Special Branch folder, a document forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent - when it had existed. Strebel raised his
thick eyebrows as he studied the folder, looked at Tweed
while he handed back the document.

'Special Branch? I am honoured,' he said gravely. 'You
are a new experience for me.'

'I realize I have no jurisdiction here,' Tweed commented
quickly.

'I was not about to make that remark.' He clasped hands
under his jaw again. 'Unprecedented movements of cer
tain people are taking place in Zurich. I get a hint of why
you are here. There could be danger for me.'

'Why do you say that?' Tweed asked.

'That I cannot tell you.'

'Mr Strebel, I know you watched Rennweg 590. Could
you tell me who called on Helen Frey recently -
apart from
Julius Amberg?'

'Ah! Julius ...' The Swiss paused. 'I cannot reveal
information confidential to clients of mine.'

'This is now a murder case - a particularly horrible one.'

'True, Mr Tweed. True. Let us say I observed someone from your country entering that door and leave it at that.'

'You won't even give me a hint?'

'I have already done that, Mr Tweed.'

'Thank you. Now I still need to locate Klara urgently.'

'That could take some time. Zurich is an intricate city. It
has two Altstadts - the one you are now in and then another
equally complex area on the other side of the River Limmat.'

'I haven't got the time, Strebel.'

'Obtaining information quickly is more expensive. My fee would be one thousand Swiss francs.'

Tweed produced his wallet. Extracting a 1,000 Swiss franc note, he laid it on the desk, his hand still resting on
top of it. Strebel gave him his warm smile and included
Paula in his hospitality. He was reaching into a drawer
when Paula spoke for the first time.

'I've never seen such a tidy office. Not a single filing
cabinet, no cupboards - just yourself and your desk.'

'Also my head.' He smiled at her again as he placed a
notepad on his desk. He wrote something on the top sheet
with care in a neat legible script. 'My files are stored in a
bank vault. I respect my clients' confidences. Also I carry a
secret filing cabinet in my head.' Strebel tore off the sheet,
folded it, handed it across the desk to Tweed.

'That is the new address of Klara. She is in this Altstadt.
Not five minutes' walk from the front door to this building.'

Tweed smiled, pushed the banknote across the desk.
The Swiss picked it up, inserted it carefully inside a slim wallet.

'So,' Paula teased him, 'you knew all the time?'

'In my profession I charge for providing the information
a client requires. Mr Tweed is paying for what I know.'

'I've said this before, Paula,' Tweed reminded her. 'It is
not always what you know, it's where to find it.'

'Were you once a police detective?' Strebel asked.

A perceptive man, Tweed thought. It was the first time he'd ever been asked the question in that form.

'I was with the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard once,' he
said.

'And he was the youngest superintendent the Yard had ever had up to that time,' Paula told Strebel.

'No need to go into details,' Tweed snapped.

'I can well believe it,' Strebel told Paula. 'Mr Tweed,
maybe before you leave Zurich you would join me for a
drink. We could exchange experiences - I mean from when
you were at the Yard,' he added hastily.

' It would be my pleasure.'

Strebel accompanied them to the door after pressing a
button underneath his desk. He shook hands formally with
both of them and when Paula glanced back as they reached
the outer door he smiled again, bowed his head.

'What a nice man,' Paula said as Tweed closed the outer
door. 'I always picture private detectives as
nasty little men
in shabby raincoats.'

'I suspect Strebel was once a member of the Swiss police.
He may well know Beck.'

Newman was waiting for them at the end of the dark
corridor. He spoke to Tweed immediately.

'Someone started to come in downstairs, opened the
door. I think they saw me and changed their minds. Didn't
get a glimpse of who it was.'

'People calling on private investigators are often shy of
being seen. We've got Klara's new address ...'

Outside on the uneven pavement which, like the build
ings, looked as though it had been there for centuries,
Paula consulted her map. She looked to the end of the
deserted square from the edge where they stood. The
square was surrounded with six-storey buildings as old as
time.

'Klara is living at the far side of the square. No. 10.'

The entrance hall was similar to the one they had just
left. As they entered a door opened on the ground floor. A
hook-nosed woman with beady eyes and dressed in a black
dress peered at them.

'You want the girl who's just moved in upstairs?' Her thin lips curled. 'Some people don't care how they make
their money. Mixed doubles this time, is it?'

She slammed the door before Tweed could retort. New
man led the way up the old iron-railed stone staircase.
Close to the only door on this landing he stopped. Tweed
and Paula stared past him The door was open a few inches.

Newman had his Smith & Wesson in his hand as he
moved silently to the door, paused to listen, pushed the
door open wider with his left hand, took a step inside,
froze. He called over his shoulder.

'Paula, for God's sake don't come in here .. .'

24

It was a replay of the grim tragedy in Helen Prey's apart
ment. Klara, fully dressed, lay back in an armchair, her
head flopped at an unnatural angle. A dark crimson sickle
gash curved round her throat, disappearing round the back
of her neck.

'He's been here,' Paula said quietly.

Despite Newman's warning she had followed Tweed
into the apartment. She pulled on her surgical gloves as
Tweed walked slowly round the back of the chair. Again
the head was almost severed from the neck. Someone favoured garrotting.

Paula stood sniffing the air. She frowned, began prowl
ing round the apartment, careful not to disturb anything.

'What is it?' Tweed asked Paula sharply.

'Cigar smoke
...'
She continued walking slowly,
weaving her way among armchairs, passing a large couch.
'Got you,' she called out.

She was extracting a specimen wallet from her shoulder-
bag when Newman stood alongside her. On top of a small
piecrust table, hidden by the arm of the couch, stood an ashtray. Inside it rested a thick roll of cigar ash. Tweed
joined them as she lifted the container with her gloved
hand, skilfully tipped the ash roll inside the wallet. Sealing
it, she wrote the date, the second of March, and a name.
Klara.

'She had a customer at nine thirty a.m. according to her desk diary,' Newman said.

He took them over to a table where a new diary lay open.

9.30a.m. Edwin Allenspach. Tweed and Paula stared
down at the entry.

'Strange she underlined the initials of each name,'
Paula remarked.

'Could have been any reason,' Newman reacted dis
missively. 'Maybe it was a new client and she was
reminding herself to check up on him.' He glanced at
Paula. 'Or maybe he had certain tastes she
catered to,'
he suggested, phrasing it carefully.

'You mean kinky,' Paula suggested. 'Somehow I don't
think Klara went in for that sort of thing. And nine
thirty in the morning seems rather early for
...
although
I suppose some men ...'

She trailed off as she saw Newman watching her. She grimaced at him.

'You know what I mean.'

'I wonder whether either of you are right,' said
Tweed.

He was still gazing at the entry. He made no attempt
to explain what had crossed his mind. Standing in the
centre of the apartment he scanned it swiftly, taking in
everything.

'Again no sign that the place has been ransacked,
searched in any way.' Paula realized he was talking to
himself as he continued: 'So, whoever is the murderer
came for that specific purpose. Murder. He's sys
tematically exterminating everyone who might provide
vital information.'

'Maybe it's just become a habit with him,' Newman
said, attempting to lighten the traumatic atmosphere
with a little black humour. 'Could be a psychopath, I
suppose.'

'I think not,' Tweed objected. 'But yes, systematically
exterminating all potential witnesses,' he repeated.

'Well, the bastard's doing a damn good job,' Newman
remarked.

Tweed was strolling round the apartment. Paula, watching him, saw him suddenly clap a hand to his forehead. He
grunted. He stiffened.

'On our way out, I'll try out my German again on Old Nosy downstairs. I did understand the dirty remark she
made. She may have seen him arrive or leave. She has the mind of a concierge who can't abide not knowing what
people are doing. I also suspect she's greedy.'

'We must report this crime,' Newman said. 'I know we skipped out of Helen Prey's place
...'

'It was important we didn't get tangled up in an inquiry,
slowed down. But this I was going to report,' Tweed
agreed. 'Something else is worrying me though. We'll
report it to the police shortly.'

As they made their way back down the stone stairs the
door on the ground floor opened and Old Nosy stood in her
doorway, arms akimbo. Both Paula and Newman also
understood German.

'That was a quick one,' she sneered. 'Must have been
easy money for that new girl.'