Terminal. Part 16

'It was addressed to you,' Beck said, 'so I gave strict orders it was not to be opened. Don't I get to see it?'

'No. Not until you tell me what you want me to do - and maybe not then.'

'I need someone I can fully trust who has access to the Berne Clinic. I have no reason to go there myself - and I don't want to tip my hand. I have not a shred of evidence - even in the case of Hannah Stuart. Only the gravest suspicions. I need to know exactly what is going on inside that place...'

'I would have thought it was the chemical works at Horgen you needed to investigate. Especially in view of this story about tracing this Seidler...'

'Hannah Stuart died at Thun,' Beck replied sombrely. 'Now, that envelope ...'

'I work on my own or not at all. I'll keep the envelope for the moment...'

'I have to warn you you are up against men with unlimited power. One more thing. I have found out that the Gold Club people have secretly allocated the enormous sum of two hundred million Swiss francs for Terminal Terminal.' He held up a hand. 'Don't ask me how I discovered that fact, but the Americans are not the only ones who go in for what they call creative book-keeping.'

'Who controls that money?' Newman asked.

'Professor Armand Grange. Every franc of it...'

'And Grange is also a part-time member of the Swiss Army - another of those officers you mentioned?'

'At one time, yes. Not any more. You must take great care, Bob. I know you are a lone wolf, but on this one you may need help.'

'Is there anyone powerful enough, any individual individual, who can stand up to Grange and his fellow-bankers?'

'Only one man I know of. Dr Max Nagel, the Basle banker. He is also on the board of the Bank for International Settlements, so he has world-wide connections. Nagel is the main opponent of the Gold Club...'

'This Manfred Seidler - you are really looking for him?'

'I am trying to find him before the counter-espionage lot get to him. All the cantonal police forces have been alerted. I think that man could be in great danger...'

'From counter-espionage?' There was incredulity in New- man's tone. 'You really mean that?'

'I didn't say exactly that aloud...'

'And this Englishman, Mason, who is checking on Grange. Where does he come in?'

'Frankly I have no idea who he is working for. I am not sure yet who who is working for is working for who who. But I also believe Mason could be at risk. Remember, we have lost track of Lee Foley, and he is a killer. Never forget, you are walking in a minefield ...'

It was nine o'clock at night when Newman reached the luggage locker section at the Bahnhof. He had walked through the silent city from, the Taubenhalde, doubling back through the network of arcades until he was certain no one was following him As-he had guessed, the key from Nagy's envelope fitted the numbered locker which corresponded to the number engraved on the key.

Unlocking the compartment, he stooped to see what was inside. Another envelope. Again addressed to himself at the Bellevue Palace in the scrawly hand-writing which was becoming familiar. Pocketing the envelope, he walked to the station self-service buffet. He was thirsty and famished.

He chose a corner table in the large eating place and sat with his back to the wall. As he devoured the two rolls and swallowed coffee, he watched the pa.s.sengers who came in through the entrance. No one took any notice of him He took out the envelope and opened it.

M. Newman. I don't know I can last much longer. The first two photos I took outside the Bahnhof. Chief Inspector Tripet (Geneva) told me follow you. That was when I came off the Zurich train. I was beat up inside a lavatory on the train. The thug gave me money and told me follow you. The phone number on the bit of paper you took off me in the alley is the number I had to call to tell them what you was doing. The car number was a Mercedes waiting outside the Bahnhof. The man I think is the thug's boss got into the car. That's the first two photos. The third photo is the same man who got into the Mercedes. I saw him back here in Berne just before dark. Don't know the man he's talking to. I saw the first man by chance near the Bellevue Palace. Which is why I took the photo. These are very tough people M. Newman He felt slightly sick. He had a vivid memory flash of Julius Nagy being pinned against the wooden door by Foley's walking stick. The reaction was swiftly replaced by an emotion of cold fury. He sat working out what must have been the sequence of events after Nagy had walked away down the Finsterga.s.schen Finsterga.s.schen.

The little man must have caught a tram - maybe even splashed out on a cab fare-to the Bahnhof. Quite possibly he had scribbled his message - Newman had had difficulty deciphering some of the words - in this very buffet. He must have then hurried to the luggage lockers, slipped the envelope inside, put the key into the second envelope with the shorter note also scribbled in the buffet - or wherever - and shoved it inside his coat pocket. The mystery was why Nagy had then hurried back to the Munsterga.s.se.

Newman calculated the little man could have carried out these actions by 6.30 pm if he had hustled. By the time he arrived back at the Munsterga.s.se someone had been waiting for him. Who lived in that district? The only person he could think of was Blanche Signer-which reminded him it might be worthwhile calling her.

He was inside one of the station phone booths when it occurred to him maybe he should first call Nancy. He dialled the Bellevue Palace with a certain reluctance. He had to wait several minutes before they located her. It was not a pleasant conversation.

'It's a b.l.o.o.d.y good job I didn't wait for you for dinner,' she greeted him. 'Where are you, for Christ's sake?'

'In a phone booth..

'I suppose you expect me to believe that...'

'Nancy...' His tone changed. '... I came to Berne to help you find out what was happening to Jesse. The whole evening has been spent with that very objective. I have not enjoyed it overmuch.'

'Well, that makes two of us. I waited so long for dinner I was beyond enjoying it when I eventually decided I'd better eat something. May I expect to see you sometime tonight? Or will your investigations keep you out till morning?'

'Expect me when you see me...'

He put down the phone and dialled Blanche's number. She answered almost at once. When she heard his voice she sounded excited.

'Bob! I'm so glad you phoned - I've got those photos for you. My friend stayed late to develop and print them. Considering the poor light they've come out very well. All three of them. Are you coming over?'

'I'll be there in ten minutes...'

On his second visit to the apartment in the Junkernga.s.se she showed him straight into the sitting room, a small, comfortably-furnished place lit only by table lamps. On a low table by a large sofa two gla.s.ses stood on place mats.

Blanche was dressed in a pleated skirt and a black cashmere sweater which showed her figure without making her look tarty. It had a cowl neck, which she knew he liked. Her long mane of t.i.tian hair glistened in the half-light.

'I may have traced Manfred Seidler,' she announced, tut more of that later. Have you eaten? I'll get the Montrachet from the fridge...'

'No food, thank you. I can't stay long...'

She vanished into the kitchen. Newman wandered over to look at a silver-framed photograph of a serious-faced officer. in Swiss Army uniform. He was staring at it when she returned and filled their gla.s.ses from an opened bottle.

'Your stepfather?'

'Yes. I hardly ever see him. We're simply not on the same waveband. Cheers!'

She sat alongside him on the sofa, crossing her long shapely legs encased in sheer black nylon. Clasped under one arm was a large, cardboard-backed envelope she tucked between herself and a cus.h.i.+on. Newman reflected that this was only the second time in the whole ferocious day he had felt relaxed. On the first occasion they had been in another room in this same apartment.

'Manfred Seidler may be in Basle,' she said, putting down her gla.s.s on the table. 'I've been on the phone almost the whole time since you left - except for rus.h.i.+ng out to get the photos. I'd almost given up when I phoned a girl friend in Basle who is in banking. There's a girl called Erika Stahel who works in the same bank. Erika has let drop occasional rueful hints that she only sees her boy friend, Manfred, when he's in town, which isn't often. This Manfred moves about a lot...'

'Manfred is a fairly common name...'

'He's quite a bit older than Erika. Recently he brought her back a present from Vienna. An owl in silver crystal. That's how my girl friend heard of the trip. She showed the owl to her friend she was so pleased with it. Erika has a very good job,' Blanche remarked.

'What's a good job?'

'Personal a.s.sistant to Dr Max Nagel. He's chairman of the bank.'

Newman had trouble holding his gla.s.s steady. He hastily had another drink. Blanche was watching him. She tucked her legs underneath herself like a contented cat. Reaching for the envelope, she spoke again.

'It's probably the wrong Manfred. But apparently Erika is very careful not to mention his second name. Mind you, that could simply mean he's married. That could be the reason this Erika is so mysterious about his background and his job. I've got Erika Stahel's phone number if you want it.'

'How did you get that?'

'I asked my friend to look it up in the directory while we were talking, of course. Here it is on this piece of paper, plus her address. She has an apartment near the Munsterplatz. I must have phoned thirty people before I came across anyone who knew someone with the name Manfred. Want to see the pics?'

'Blanche, you have done so well. I'm very grateful. G.o.d, you move...'

'You have to if you're operating a tracing service. People like quick results. They recommend you to other clients - which is the way to build up any business. The pics...'

Newman looked at the first glossy print. The rear of a Mercedes, the registration number clearly visible. The number of the car which had almost driven them under the blade of the snowplough on the motorway. Poor little Nagy might yet pay back his killers from the grave. He kept his face expressionless as he looked at the second print. Bruno Kobler. No doubt about it.

'These prints are invaluable,' he told her.

'Service with a smile - of all kinds,' she said mischievously. 'The third one any good?'

Newman felt as though he had just been hit in the solar plexus. He gazed at the last print with a funny feeling at the pit of his stomach. He recognized the building in the background. Bruno Kobler had again proved very photogenic. It was the man he was talking to who shook Newman and made his brain spin, made him start looking at everything from a new, brutally disturbing angle. The man was Arthur Beck.

Sixteen.

Newman met - collided with - 'Tommy' Mason when he entered the bar at the Bellevue Palace on his way back from Blanche. It was precisely 10 pm. Mason turned away from the bar holding a tumbler of whisky which he spilt down Newman's jacket. Newman grinned and shrugged.

'I say, I'm frightfully sorry. Waiter, a damp cloth. Quick!' 'I wouldn't lose any sleep over it...'

'Jolly careless of me. Look, the least I can do is buy you a drink. Double Scotch - or whatever...'

'You called it...'

Newman took his gla.s.s and led the way to the same corner table where he had talked with Blanche. The place was crowded. He sat with his back to the wall, raised his gla.s.s and drank as his companion eased his way on to the banquette.

'Captain Tommy Mason,' he introduced himself. 'The "Tommy" is purely honorary. They tacked it on when I was in the Army and the d.a.m.n name stuck...'

'Bob Newman. No honorary t.i.tles...'

'I say, not the Robert Newman? The Kruger case and all that? I thought I recognized you. I'm market research. I've nearly completed my present a.s.signment.' Mason smiled. 'Really I'm not hurrying the job - I like this place. Marvellous hotel.'

Newman nodded agreement while he studied Mason. A military type. Early thirties. Trim moustache. Held his slim build erect. Shrewd eyes which didn't go with his general air of a man who would rise to captain and then that would be his ceiling. Mason continued chattering.

'They're all talking about some poor sod who took a dive from that square by the Castle - no, Cathedral - earlier this evening. Ended up like mashed potato on top of a car, I gather..

'Who says he took a dive?'

Mason lowered his voice. 'You mean the old saw - did he fall or was he pushed?'

'Something like that...'

'Well, that's a turn-up for the book. I was trotting round that square earlier today myself. Peered over the wall and nearly had a fit. Like a b.l.o.o.d.y precipice. In Berne too, of all places...'

'Berne is getting as dangerous as Beirut,' Newman remarked and drank the rest of his whisky. 'Thanks. It tastes better going down the gullet...'

'Berne you said was getting dangerous? Watch your back and all that? Don't walk down dark alleys at night. Place is full of dark alleys.'

'Something like that. A research trip, you said?' Newman probed.

'Yes. Medical. Standards of and practice in their private clinics. They rate high, the Swiss do. Their security is pretty formidable too. Here on a story?'

'Holiday. I think I'd better go. My fiancee will be going up the wall. I've been out all evening...'

'Nice of you to join me in a drink - especially considering the first one I gave you. But don't let me keep you. May see you at breakfast. Avoid the dark alleys...'

As Newman threaded his way among the packed tables Mason sat quite still, watching the Englishman until he had vanished out of the bar. Then he stood up and strolled out, his eyes flickering over the other drinkers.

'Who is this stranger I see?' Nancy enquired when Newman came into the bedroom. She raised a hand as though to s.h.i.+eld her eyes. The gesture irritated Newman intensely. He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed along with the folded coat he had carried over his arm.

'You should keep the bedroom door locked,' he told her. 'Criticism the moment he does eventually decide to come back.'

'Look, Nancy, this is a busy hotel. If I wanted to get at you I wouldn't use the main entrance - the concierge might see me. I'd come in by the coffee shop entrance and up those stairs from the bas.e.m.e.nt. The lift is then waiting for me. I'm simply thinking of your safety...'

'Have a good evening? Your jacket stinks of alcohol. Did she spill her drink in her excitement?'

'A man in the bar b.u.mped into me. He bought me a drink to say sorry. So, before you comment on it, I also have alcohol on my breath. I've had a swine of an evening...'

Dear me,' she said sarcastically, 'was it very rough?'

'A man who was following me earlier, a man I've used in the past for the same purpose, a nice little man, ended up spread like a goulash over the top of a car. He went over the wall behind the Munster. He was probably pushed. That sheer drop must be a hundred and fifty feet...'

'G.o.d, I've just had a very large dinner. You do have a way of putting things...'

'A large dinner. Lucky you. I've got by on a couple of bread rolls...'

'Room Service...!'

They both said it at the same time. Newman couldn't help recalling how Blanche had asked whether he had eaten. He undid his tie and loosened his collar, made no attempt to phone down for a meal. He was beyond it. She didn't press him.

'Who was killed tonight then?' she asked.

'The little man you said you didn't see pa.s.sing the window of the Pavillon in Geneva when we were having breakfast...'

'Oh, I remember.' She was losing interest. 'Flotsam, you called him. One of life's losers...'

'Sympathetically I said it. You know, you should hail from New York. They divide the world there into winners and losers. He was a refugee who fled from Hungary in fifty-six. He made his living any way he could. He deserved a better epitaph.'

'I had company at dinner,' she told him, changing the subject. 'Another Englishman. Beautiful manners I think he had been in the Army. We got on very well together...'