The Power (79 page)

He had stood up, checked his watch. They had to get out of France before the corpse outside was discovered.
In the Brasserie there were locals who had nothing better to do than to notice what was going on. He hurried back into the Brasserie to collect the others. It would be a race against time - to cross the frontier before
a
flic
decided to
check the body.

They boarded the express with two minutes to spare. At that hour and time of year they found an empty first-class coach. Tweed sat with Barton Ives. Cardon, who had left
the table in the Brasserie to guard Amberg before the meal started - the banker had been locked in Tweed's
room - sat next to the Swiss further along the coach.

Newman occupied a seat on his own, which gave him a
good view of both entrances to the coach. Paula sat
chatting with Eve in seats out of hearing of any conversa
tion between Tweed and Ives. Earlier, Tweed had given instructions that he wanted to travel alone with Ives.

Much earlier still, Marler had left Colmar, driving his red Mercedes down the autoroute. His instructions from
Tweed had been clear and decisive.

'We are approaching a major crisis - a climax to this
whole business might be a better phrase. I'm assuming
that in some way Norton will have discovered that Ouchy
is our destination. He's discovered everything else we
planned to do.'

'I'll drive like the wind - strictly within speed limits, of course,' Marler drawled. 'And when I reach Ouchy?'

'In your own individual way - you can pass for a
Frenchman and Ouchy is in French-speaking Switzerland
- you check all the hotels which are open at this time of
the year. You're looking for recently arrived Americans.

When I say "recently", I mean today. When I arrive you should know the location of the opposition, if they have arrived. We are going over on to the offensive.'

'It's Switzerland,' Marler said thoughtfully, 'so gunshots
are liable to bring the local police running. If a shop is still
open when I reach Basle I'll buy some Swiss Army knives.
Useful little tools, Swiss Army knives - for silent kills.'

'In this situation you have a free hand. Come to think of it, you usually have one anyway.'

'You did use the word offensive,' Marler reminded
Tweed.

The express took about forty minutes to reach Basle from
Colmar. During the journey Barton Ives began talking,
hoping to Heaven that Tweed would believe him.

'Several years ago, Mr Tweed, I was stationed at FBI headquarters in Memphis, Tennessee. I'd been promoted to senior agent, responsible only to Humphries, the local
director. There was a hideous murder in that state soon after I'd settled there. An attractive woman driving a
Cadillac across lonely country was somehow persuaded to
stop her car after dark. I'd gotten to know the local medical
examiner - what you call a. pathologist. He told me the
details of the autopsy. Got a strong stomach, Mr Tweed?'

'Reasonably so. Try me.'

'The woman - from a wealthy family - had been savagely
raped. Then her throat had been cut. The instrument used
was a knife with a serrated blade. Most probably a kitchen
knife, the ME said. She had then been sadistically
mutilated in a way which suggested the murderer was a psychopath. Quite horrendous. After viewing the body I
can tell you I didn't eat much that evening. The mutilation
puzzled the ME. He told me it was exactly how he'd commence an autopsy.'

'Someone with medical knowledge?' Tweed queried.

The ME didn't think so. But he thought the sadist who'd
inflicted the wounds may once have witnessed an autopsy
being performed. That was the first case.'

'You were investigating it?' Tweed asked, puzzled.

'No. The local police handled the case, never even came
up with a suspect. As I think you've realized, the FBI only
enters the scene when a criminal crosses a state line. I came
into the picture when the second rape and murder occurred
six months later.'

'Why were you able to do so then?'

'The second victim - again a wealthy woman driving home in the dark - was attacked in another Southern state.
I heard about it, checked the details - the same gory procedure had been carried out as in the first case. That
strongly suggested the same rapist and killer was in
business again - and he'd crossed a state line. Which
brought in the FBI and I was given the investigation.'

'Was any evidence left behind in either case?' Tweed
enquired.

Tweed was recalling cases he had solved years before -
in the days when he had held a high rank while working for
the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard. So often chance had
fingered the guilty party.

'Not yet.' Ives sighed. 'It was a frustrating time. Then after six months I heard the details of the third case. This
time in a different Southern state. By now we were
thinking in terms of a serial killer. So the data from case
three was fed to me almost at once. After the autopsy.
Again the victim was a wealthy woman driving home in the
dark by herself in an expensive car across a lonely area.
After viewing the corpse - like the others, she had been
physically attractive - I began to think, to ask questions of
myself.'

'What sort of person would these women stop for in the
middle of nowhere in the dark?' Tweed suggested quietly.

'Yes.' Ives sounded surprised. 'That was my main
question. I saw you once at a security conference in
Washington and friends who knew you said you were
good. Very good ...'

Tweed said nothing. He noticed that Paula was gazing into the night and he looked in the same direction. In the
moonlight the snowbound summits and saddlebacks of
the Vosges showed up clearly. There were pinpoints of light in remote villages. From her expression he guessed
that Paula was contrasting the beauty of the scene with
the terror they had experienced among the spiralling
roads, the Siberian cold and icy ravines. Ives was talking
again as the express began to lose speed.

'Then there were three more similar cases - so similar it
was uncanny. In three more different Southern states. He
never struck in Tennessee again. Always a wealthy
woman by herself and driving across a lonely area in the
dark. And he used the same hideous technique in every
case. He was a serial killer - six cases.'

'And never a clue?' Tweed probed. 'Remarkable. They
usually slip up once.'

'He did. In the last case. He left a clear thumbprint
under the handle of the car which stopped, a Lincoln
Continental. I'd heard rumours that Humphries, my old
chief was going to be recalled, replaced by someone new from Washington. Some sixth sense made me hide the Lincoln Continental in an old barn in the wilderness. It's
still there, I'm sure. And I've got a replica of that
thumbprint...'

Newman had stood up, was leaning against the end of
his seat, his windcheater unzipped so he could swiftly grab
hold of his Smith & Wesson. The express was approach
ing Basle Bahnhof. If anyone was going to make an
attempt on Tweed it would be soon - as soon as they
could jump out of the train at the station after they'd pulled the trigger. Tweed knew exactly what he was
doing. He stood up to put on his coat as he spoke to Ives.

'Have to continue this conversation a little later,' he
suggested. 'Cardon is strolling towards us. He'll be guarding you. And maybe you'd watch over Amberg.'

'We should be OK now we've returned to Switzerland.'

'Just how OK were you when you were dodging from one hotel to another in Zurich?' Tweed reminded him.

Tweed and Newman left the express together, walking
side by side. Close behind them Paula followed with Eve
Amberg. Cardon brought up the rear, a step behind
Barton Ives, who escorted the Swiss banker.

French Customs and Passport Control were deserted.
As they passed through the Swiss checkpoints Tweed's
fears were doubly confirmed. Standing in civilian clothes
behind uniformed Passport officers he saw Arthur Beck. The Swiss police chief took no notice of him. As they walked on, heading for the first-class restaurant, Harry
Butler appeared. He fell into step on the other side of
Tweed.

'I'm amazed you made it here so quickly,' Tweed commented. 'Mind you, the express did stop a while for no reason soon after we left Colmar.'

'We put our feet down,' Butler said tersely. 'Auto-
routes help. Do you really want to go into the first-class
dining-room? Pete Nield is waiting there - he's watching a
member of the opposition who
followed us. Head like a
skull. Saw him giving orders back at the Bristol...'

49

Leaving Colmar on his way to Basle in the Renault,
Marvin Mencken had been lucky. Butler and Nield, how
ever, had been unlucky.

After killing his subordinate - who had failed in his
mission to liquidate Tweed - Mencken had headed for the
autoroute. He had only moved a short distance from the Bristol when he saw a gas station. At that same moment
his engine coughed and spluttered.

Pulling into the petrol station, Mencken asked a mech
anic to check his ignition when his tank was refilled. He
was about to drive on when he saw two familiar vehicles
pass - a grey Espace and a station wagon. Mencken
grinned, followed them.

'You know we have a tail,' Nield warned Butler over
his walkie-talkie as they proceeded along the autoroute.

'The Renault,' Butler replied. 'Can't do a damn thing
about it. We've been told to get into Switzerland at the
earliest possible moment. Just keep driving. Leave the
problem until later ...'

Reaching Basle Bahnhof, they parked their cars,
walked into the first-class restaurant as two separate individuals, sat at different tables, ordered coffee. A skeletal-
faced character in a trench coat walked in after them,
chose a table by the wall some distance away, ordered a
drink.

'I could score one off Norton,' Mencken said to himself. 'They could be waiting for the rest of their gang ...'

He wasn't in the least worried that he was delaying his
arrival in Ouchy. Plenty of his men were on their way to
the Swiss resort. Mencken had, with his usual efficiency,
arranged for Louis Sheen, the courier with the suitcase
containing a huge fortune, to be driven under guard to
Ouchy. That, apparently, was where the vital exchange
would take place. He frowned when, some time later,
Butler stood up and wandered out of the place.

Pete Nield had remained sitting at his own table. Men
cken glanced at the slim man with the trim moustache
who was, apparently, watching a blonde girl at a distant
table.