The Power (30 page)

Newman grinned and Tweed smiled. They had guessed that Beck's man who was there 'by chance' had picked the
American's pocket. Yes, Beck was a fox, Tweed said to
himself. He stood up to leave.

'Sit down for a moment more,' Beck urged. 'Since that episode I had a call from another visitor at the Baur-en-Ville - an individual I suspect could be the leader of the new contingent. A Mr Marvin Mencken.'

'And what did this Mencken want?' Tweed asked.

To report the loss of the diplomatic passport. He said
his assistant had had his pocket picked, that I should know
which petty thieves patronized Bahnhofstrasse and would I
trace the criminal and return the passport within the next
twenty-four hours. A very unpleasant man, this Mencken.
One of my men, disguised as a street photographer, tried
to take his picture and he smashed the camera.' He paused.
'The photo is a good one.'

'But you said the camera was smashed,' Paula reminded him.

'I said just that. But the first man in civilian clothes was a
decoy. While his camera was being smashed a backup man
took another picture. You might like copies
...

Opening a drawer, Beck took out an envelope and
extracted four glossy prints. Paula studied her copy. The
slim man's face came out clearly, a foxy face twisted into an
expression of cold fury.

'A savage-looking brute,' she commented.

'Not the sort of chap you'd invite to your London club,' Newman remarked ironically.

'Keep those pictures,' Beck advised as his guests pre
pared to leave. They might save your lives...'

'Who is it?' Norton answered the phone in his usual
abrasive tone.

'Marvin here...'

'Get to it, Mencken. Any news? There should be by
now, for Christ's sake.'

'It's Tweed. He's just returned from a visit to Amberg's
wife, Eve. I had the news ten minutes ago
...'

'Why the hell didn't you report earlier, then? Tweed? I want him taken out - before he reaches Dyson, Dillon or
Ives. Especially Ives ...'

Tweed's at Zurich police headquarters now...'

'Then organize it. I want him carried away in a box
before tonight. Just do it...'

Outside police HQ a black Mercedes was parked. Butler
sat behind the wheel. A short distance away Pete Nield
stood, taking a great interest in the River Limmat.

'Our next port of call is Helen Prey's apartment at
Rennweg 590,' Tweed told Paula and Newman. 'It's only a
short distance on foot.'

'Our next port of call is lunch,' Paula said firmly. 'My stomach is rumbling.'

Tweed agreed reluctantly. He seemed to be able to go
for hours without food once he'd picked up a scent.
Newman said he was starving too.

'The Baur-en-Ville is close,' Tweed said. 'We'll get a
quick meal there.'

'I'll trail along behind you,' remarked Cardon, who had heard every word.

'Then first go over and tell Butler to take Nield back to
the Gotthard for something to eat...'

The Baur-en-Ville's lunch bar is entered by climbing
curved steps just off Bahnhofstrasse. Newman led the way
as the automatic doors slid back. He scanned the few
customers as he walked inside. The bar is a split-level room
with a curved bar on the ground level. At the back steps
lead up to the second tier which is separated from the lower
level by a low wooden wall topped with a gleaming brass
rail.

Newman walked up the steps, chose one of the blue leather banquettes with its back to the wall. Illumination
came from lights recessed in the ceiling. Paula thought the
atmosphere was luxurious and welcoming. While she sat
with Tweed on the banquette Newman went back down to
the bar for a pack of cigarettes.

Tweed was studying the menu when Paula nudged him.
He looked up.

'That man who has just come in from the hotel entrance
and stopped at the bar. The tone of this place has dropped
to zero.'

At that moment, Mencken, standing at the bar, glanced
up at the second tier. His cadaverous face froze for a
second in an expression of vicious hardness, his foxy eyes
bored into Paula's. She slowly switched her gaze as though
interested in the other customers. Tweed noted the soul
less blank eyes as he also looked round the bar.

Seated at a small table by the door, Cardon's right hand
had slid inside his windcheater, was gripping the butt of his
Walther. Mencken appeared to change his mind and
walked rapidly back into the hotel. He had not noticed
Newman.

Later, Tweed ate his club sandwich of smoked turkey,
egg and bacon with great gusto. His manner was buoyant.

'It's starting - what I hoped for. The enemy is crawling
out from under the rocks. Remember Cord Dillon warned us photos of myself and you, Paula, had been taken from
his safe in Langley? That walking skeleton recognized us,'
he said with great satisfaction.

'What a perfectly horrible thug,' Paula commented.
'And while I remember it, why are we visiting
Helen
Frey?
I've always wanted to see a call-girl's apartment, par
ticularly a high-class one. It will
add to my experience.'

'Helen Frey may have vital information,' Tweed
explained. 'During one of his visits Julius Amberg may
have indulged in pillow talk ...'

Only one person noticed something unusual as they
entered Bahnhofstrasse. Philip Cardon, strolling well back
from them, observed a cripple in a battery-operated wheelchair emerge from an alley-way. The wheelchair
kept pace behind Tweed and his companions.

19

Rennweg was a narrow street of shops which led off
Bahnhofstrasse at a slanting angle. No. 590 had a closed
door with a metal grille speakphone beside it. Tweed
pressed a button below the grille, wondering what he was
going to say to a professional call-girl. Best to improvise on
the spur of the moment.

'
Ja?
' a soft feminine voice answered in German.

'Helen Frey?' he asked.

'Ja.'

'I only speak English. I'm a friend of Julius Amberg,
the banker. Zurcher Kredit, Talstrasse. I was given your
name.'

'You sound OK,' the voice replied in English. 'Come up - push the door when the buzzer goes ...'

Tweed leaned against the door and it swung inward,
revealed a straight staircase. Followed by Paula and New
man, he mounted the stairs quickly. A door opened at the top landing and Paula stared at one of the most attractive
women she had ever seen.

A natural blonde, Helen Frey had a long face, a
shapely nose and full lips, emphasized with red lipstick.
She gazed back at Paula, turned her attention to Tweed
and spoke in English again.

'What the hell is this? I don't do foursomes.'

She was closing the heavy door. Tweed used shock
tactics. He rammed his foot between the door and the
frame. The girl, twenty-eight or so, Paula guessed, wore a
smart blue figure-hugging suit. Her other hand appeared,
holding a wide flick knife. There was a loud click as the
blade shot out.

'Julius Amberg is dead, murdered in England,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'm concerned about a lot of money. This is my assistant, Paula, and my adviser, Newman. A lot of
money,' he repeated.

She studied Paula again, then Newman, who stared back with no particular expression. Tweed folded his
arms, a pacific gesture, and kept his foot in the door. She nodded as though answering a question she had asked
herself.

'You'd better come in, then.'

'I'd feel happier if you put away that knife,' Tweed told
her. 'All we want is a discussion. I am willing to pay a
reasonable fee. I appreciate your time is valuable,' he
ended without a trace of sarcasm.

'I did say you could come in.' She held up the knife and
there was another click. The blade shot back inside its
sheath. 'Feel more comfortable now, Mr . ..?'

'Tweed. Now we're all introduced.'

Discreetly, Paula glanced curiously round the large sitting-room. The main colour motif was pink, which
normally would have seemed over-ornate, but instead the effect was welcoming. Curtains drawn over the window
protected the room from the outside world.

It was illuminated by soft pink wall-sconce lampshades.
The deep-pile carpet was off-white and against one wall stood a vast couch - large enough to take two reclining people. Comfortable armchairs were scattered about the carpet and an antique desk occupied one corner near the
curtains.
A huge wall mirror faced the couch.

Presumably some men liked to watch what they were
doing while others didn't - a long brass rod ran full
length
along the top of the mirror flanked by pink curtains, held in
place with tie-backs. A silver champagne bucket perched
on a metal tripod stood at one end of the couch.

Helen Frey walked slowly over to the couch, sat down, waved her hand towards the chairs.

'Well, make yourselves at home, everyone. And tell me
what this is all about. You're sure Julius is dead? He was
my most profitable client.'

'Oh, he's very dead, I assure you,' Tweed said with rare
brutality. 'I myself saw his blood-soaked body. A
machine-gun makes an awful mess fired at point-blank
range.'

'I can hardly believe it,' Helen said.

'You'd better believe it,' Newman told her.

'It must be a shock to you,' Paula intervened. 'I also saw poor Julius, Miss Frey. It gave, me one hell of a shock.'

'Call me Helen, everyone. You seem decent people. But

I'm wondering what your interest is in the tragedy.
You've shaken me.'

Tweed changed tactics. He had assumed Helen Frey would be as hard as nails, but Paula's more sympathetic
approach had altered Helen's attitude.

'You could call me an investigator,' he began. 'Julius
was a friend of mine and I'm trying to find out who
murdered him. If I can find out why this hideous crime was committed I'll be closer to the murderer. Was Julius
expecting to make a great deal of money in the near future?'

Helen sat very erect on the couch, her long legs
crossed. She reached for a silver cigarette box on a table, offered it to her guests.