The Power (42 page)

Newman sat in the dimly lit bar leading off the lobby,
drinking a glass of white wine. He was recalling the tough
interview with Beck after the Swiss police chief had arrived
at Theo Strebel's office.

'I'm not easily shocked, as you know,' he told Tweed as
he viewed Strebel's corpse. 'But before he left us to set up a
private investigator business - you can make more money
that way - he solved a baffling murder case I couldn't
crack. He was a great detective and it's a great loss.'

Beck kept his voice down. The office was swarming with
the forensic and fingerprint teams. The police doctor had
just left after officially pronouncing Strebel dead.

They had then hurried over to Klara's apartment. New
man had come with them and was not disappointed when
Old Nosy poked her vulture-like nose out of the door.

'Is there some trouble upstairs?' she asked.

'Stay in your apartment,' Beck ordered. 'I'll want to talk
to you later.'

'And who do you think you are?'

'Police.' Beck flashed his folder under the nose. 'I said stay until I get round to you
...

'Local Eye-at-the-Keyhole,' he remarked as he strode
up the stairs. 'There's one in every district...'

The doctor had visited Klara's apartment first and by the
closed door to the ante-room stood a uniformed police
man. He saluted Beck, opened the door and they went
inside.

Beck stared at the garrotted woman. He pursed his lips,
turned to Tweed.

'I see now why the doctor said it was a bit nasty here.
Never known him make a comment like that before and he's seen everything.'

Beck leaned against a wall. He folded his arms as he stared first at Tweed, then at Newman.

'Yesterday there was a small blood bath in Bahn
hofstrasse. Have you seen the papers? No? Well they
report a cripple in one of those battery-operated wheel
chairs blew himself to pieces with a grenade. At about the
same moment an American was shot dead - holding a
machine-pistol. Now would you by chance know anything
about these events?'

Tweed explained exactly what had happened - that he'd
been up to his neck in trying to track down who was behind
the murders. Beck nodded without comment as Tweed continued, then concluded: 'I'm sorry I didn't contact you
earlier.'

'And I'm damned sorry too you didn't. I do like to know
what is happening on my patch, as I think they say in
Britain. And my patch is the whole of Switzerland - which
includes Zurich.'

'I have apologized,' Tweed said quietly. 'How close are
you to discovering what is happening, to solving the mur
ders of this poor woman, Klara, and Theo Strebel?'

'I've only just arrived,' Beck pointed out. 'You mean
you have some idea of who the murderer is?'

'The pieces of a huge international jigsaw - stretching all
the way from Washington via Cornwall to here -
are
beginning to fall into place. I'm a long way from seeing the
whole picture, but I'm getting there. Your further cooperation would be much appreciated.'

'Oh, you have that. Unreservedly. You're continuing
your investigation in Zurich?'

'Not for much longer. Tomorrow we leave for Basle.'

'May I ask why?'

'You just did,' Tweed told him tersely. 'Walter
Amberg is reported to have gone to Basle. I need to talk
to him again.'

'Thank you. I think I can hear the technical teams
arriving. Let's get out of here. If you could come to
police headquarters I can take statements from both of
you. It will take time, I fear. Oh, while we are still
alone, I have had installed at Customs at Zurich,
Geneva and Basle airports a special new machine. It
checks the contents of cases without the arrivals know
ing. A Swiss invention.'

'You mean an X-ray machine?' Newman asked.

'Much better than that. It photographs all the contents
of a closed case. I want to see what any new American
arrivals are bringing in to this country ...'

Louis Sheen, from Washington, arrived at Kloten Air
port. He waved his diplomatic passport and prepared to
walk past Customs.

'Excuse me, sir,' the Customs officer behind the
counter said. 'Please place your case on the counter.'

Sheen was tall and slim, his face long and pale, and he
wore rimless glasses. He put down the case, waved the
passport again, spoke in a nasal drawl.

'This is a diplomatic passport. Something wrong with
your friggin' eyesight? You can't examine my bag.'

The Customs officer nodded to one of his subordinates
who stood on the same side of the counter as the Ameri
can. The Swiss picked up the case, placed it in a certain
position on the counter, which was etched with a curious
mosaic design.

'Goddamnit! You can't open that case,' Sheen
shouted. 'It would be a breach of diplomatic etiquette.'

'Who said anything about opening the case, sir?' asked
the Customs officer. 'Could I have a closer look at that passport?'

'Your friggin' Passport guys saw it.'

'And now I would like to see it. This will only take a
moment.' The officer opened the passport, walked a few
steps along the counter, flipped open the pages. He handed
it back, put his hand on the case as Sheen reached for it.

'Just leave it there for a moment longer. I have to check
this passport number. It will only take a moment.'

'Friggin' Swiss bureaucracy,' Sheen stormed.

'It takes up a lot of our time too.'

The officer smiled, disappeared through a doorway behind him. The technician who had photographed the
case through a hole in the patterned wall showed the officer
the photo which was already developed. After one glance,
the officer nodded to a plain-clothes policeman standing in
the small room.
The policeman nodded back.

When Sheen, fuming, was ushered on his way - fuming
because he'd had to hold his left hand with the handcuff
chain on top of the case - he was followed. Sheen was
sweating as he sank into a cab.

It will take time, I fear.
Beck had proved to be right. He'd
had an excellent lunch brought in for Newman and Tweed
at police headquarters. Each dictated a statement of con
siderable length and then both statements had to be typed
out. By the time they had signed them the lunch had
arrived. It was early afternoon. Tweed decided they might
as well eat it and Beck joined them, chatting about past experiences.

It was late afternoon when a tired Tweed reached the
Schweizerhof and listened in her room to Paula's account
of her visit to Eve Amberg.

When she had finished, he thanked her and left for the
Hummer Bar. It was dark as he walked down the side
street to the direct entrance to the bar. Behind him on
either side of the street Butler and Nield strolled along as though taking the night air.

Tweed pressed the bell which opened the door. He
took a deep breath before walking inside to meet Jennie
Blade. What would the girl he'd first met that grim after
noon outside Tresillian Manor have to tell him, he
wondered.

26

Norton checked his changing appearance in the bathroom
mirror before he left the apartment. After the second
application of the colourant his hair was starting to look
very grey. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose
gave him a professorial look. He carried a large file full of
business statistics which he had no interest in.

Checking his watch, he left the apartment to arrive in
good time at the Baur-en-Ville before Louis Sheen turned
up. The cab he flagged down swiftly transported him to Parade-platz. A short walk across Bahnhofstrasse and he
was inside the Baur-en-Ville.

He entered the hotel, made certain arrangements with
a messenger boy, then sat in a chair where he could see reception. The boy stood a distance away and watched
Norton. It was precisely 5.30p.m. when Louis Sheen
walked in with the brown suitcase attached to his left wrist with a handcuff chain.

Norton was ice cold as he watched over the top of his
file. The reception area was crowded with soberly dressed
Swiss men greeting each other. Norton knew they were
bankers. He had phoned the hotel earlier, pretending to
ask for a room.

'I'm sorry, sir,' the girl had told him. 'We have no rooms
at all available. There's a convention of bankers from all
over Switzerland

Sheen went up to the reception counter, perched on it the suitcase to rest his hand. His voice was loud and overbearing when a receptionist turned to him.

'Louis Sheen, Philadelphia. I have a room reserved for
several nights.'

'Certainly, sir.' The receptionist checked his records. 'Did you say Sheen, sir? I fear there is no reservation.'

Norton put down the file in his lap. It was the signal the
generously tipped messenger boy had been waiting for.

Norton also noticed a man in a Swiss suit who wandered
in within thirty seconds of Sheen's arrival. He stared as the
man checked his watch, picked up a magazine, remained standing. It appeared he was waiting for someone - but he
hadn't glanced round the reception area. Norton pursed
his lips. Sheen had been followed from the airport.

'Now look here,' Sheen continued at the top of his voice,
'Louis Sheen, Philadelphia. I phoned the booking—'

He broke off as someone touched his right arm. Glanc
ing down he saw a uniformed messenger boy.

'Mr Sheen?'the boy asked.

'Maybe. Why?'

'I have a message for him. Are you Mr Sheen?'

'I am. Give it to me .. .'

He turned away from the counter, ripped open the
envelope. A white sheet of paper without a printed address at the top was inside. The message was brief.

Take a cab at once to the address given below. Walk out now
and get a cab. Lincoln Memorial.

Underneath the address the message was signed with a
flourishing 'N'. Sheen had been warned this was how
Norton always signed his instructions. He resisted the temptation to look around at the people assembled in the
reception area.