The Power (46 page)

Tweed joined her and they watched a stubby tug hauling
downriver a string of huge barges. They were container
craft and the German flag flew from each stern.

'I've got the same view,' she enthused. 'Oh, dear, I
suppose I shouldn't feel so buoyant after the horror on the
express. That poor conductor...'

'He was dead before we knew anything was happening.'
Tweed put his arm round her. 'So we couldn't have saved
him. Now we go after the people responsible for the
atrocity. But first, interested in lunch?'

'Ravenous.'

To reach the lift they moved along a railed walk which
surrounded a well looking down on to the
floor below. Not a very high rail, Paula observed. Newman arrived from his
room as they entered the lift and squeezed inside with
them; Stepping out into the lobby the first person they saw
was Eve Amberg.

'It's a small world, to coin a cliché,' Eve greeted them.
'My, it's cold outside.'

'I love it,' Newman said cheerfully. 'I can work and think
better in this weather.'

'Bully for you.' Eve turned her attention to Tweed after
nodding to Paula. 'I'm just going in to lunch.' She smiled at
him warmly.

'By yourself?' Tweed enquired.

'As it happens, yes.'

'Why not join me for lunch, then?'

'How nice of you.' She glanced at Paula and Newman.
'But you have your friends.'

'Oh, that's all right,' Paula said quickly. 'Bob and I have
something to work out. Do it better on our own.'

Eve was again looking as smart as paint, reminding
Paula of their first meeting, as opposed to when she had
caught Eve leaving the villa on a shopping trip. She wore a
soft green tailored jacket, a mini skirt and a cream blouse
with a high neckline. Must have cost a bomb, that outfit,
Paula estimated.

As they followed Tweed and Eve towards the dining
room Paula looked round the large lounge area. Out of the
corner of her eye she'd seen someone sitting there when they arrived. The grey-haired man had gone.

They entered the dining room - oblong with windows to
their right giving a view across a canopied platform
extending over the Rhine. Tweed pointed towards it as a
waiter showed them to a window table.

'That's what they call the Ry-Deck. In summer you eat
out there and it's like being aboard an ocean liner.'

'I know,' Eve agreed. 'Julius brought me here when he was visiting Basle.' She sat down. 'What a coincidence -
the two of us arriving at the same time at the same hotel.'

'Not really, if you are visiting Basle. This is the most
prestigious hotel, as I'm sure you know. Goes back ages and the food and service are excellent.'

Like the entrance hall and the lounge area, the walls
were covered with old panelling and the comfortable atmosphere suggested somewhere which had existed for ever.

'There are buildings just along here by the river which
have amazing dates of origin,' Tweed remarked as he
studied the menu. 'Incidentally, why are you in Basle, if I
may ask?'

'You may,' she teased him, squeezing his hand. 'I came
to have a serious talk with Walter, to pin him down - about
money, of course. My money. I phoned the bank and the
pest has flown to France.'

'Really?' Tweed concealed his anxiety. 'Any idea where
in France?'

'Oh, I can tell you exactly. Walter owns a place up in the
Vosges mountains. Very remote. The Château Noir. Easiest way to get there is to take the train to Colmar, a
picturesque town only half an hour from Basle Bahnhof.
Then you hire a car to drive you up into the mountains. I'm
going to catch him up if I have to follow him all over
Europe.'

'Would you like a drink? Wine? White, then how about
Sancerre?'

'Love it.'

'Would you excuse me for a few minutes?' Tweed asked
when the wine had arrived. 'I have to phone London -
should have done it before I came down to lunch .. .'

He left Eve sipping her wine appreciatively. Newman
and Paula sat together at a table some distance away.

Seated alone at a table which
gave a view of the whole room was Harry Butler. At two other
tables, also by themselves, sat Pete Nield and Philip Cardon.

In his room Tweed checked the number of the Zurcher
Kredit in the directory, dialled the number. A woman with a severe voice answered his call.

'Mr Amberg is away at the moment. No, I have no idea
when he will return.'

'I am a client,' Tweed persisted. 'Mr Amberg was going
to collect two items which belong to me from the bank vault. Do you know if he did visit the vault.. .'

'I really have no idea. If you will leave your name . . .'

Tweed put down the phone, waited a moment, dialled police headquarters, asked for Beck. He explained what he wanted. Beck said he'd contact the Zurcher Kredit and
call him back. Five minutes later the phone rang and Beck was on the line again.

'I put pressure on the old dragon who took my call, told her I was investigating three murders which took place on Swiss soil. Amberg did collect something from the vault
before he left. . .'

'For his château up in the Vosges behind Colmar,'
Tweed interjected.

'Don't go into France,' Beck warned. 'I can try to
protect you here but France could be even more danger
ous. The train incident has been dealt with. I'll need some
more statements.'

'You'll get them before we leave.'

'For France?
Don't do it,
for God's sake. I'm carrying
out a sweep through Basle. They obviously know you're
here. Take care . . .'

Tweed was leaving the room when the phone rang again.
He locked the door, ran to answer it, sure it would stop just
as he reached it.

'Yes?' he said.

There's someone on the phone for you, Mr Tweed,' the
operator told him. 'He won't give a name but says it's very
urgent.'

'Put him on.'

'Dillon here. We have to take a decision—'

'Operator!' Tweed interrupted suddenly. 'This is a bad
connection. I can't hear the caller ...'

He waited. For the hotel operator to answer. For the
click which would betray the fact she had been listening in.
Nothing.

'Sorry, Dillon. It's all right. Go ahead.'

'Barton is in town. But so is the opposition. Believe me.
Barton won't come to see you in Basle.'

'Cord, first give me a description of him. Detailed, if you
please. I need to be able to recognize him.'

There was a pause. Tweed was taking no more chances -
not after the fake Barton Ives, whom he was convinced had
been Norton, had turned up at the Gotthard. Dillon spoke tersely.

'Six feet tall, slim build, wiry, black hair, now has a small
black moustache, a small scar over his right eye - where a
scumbag caught him with a knife. Speaks very
deliberately. Economical in movement. Except in a crisis.
Then he moves like a rocket taking off from Cape Can
averal . That enough? It had better be.'

'Enough. Today or tomorrow latest we move to the
Hotel Bristol, Colmar, in Alsace. A thirty-minute train
ride. He contacts me there. And so do you. In person. I'll
meet you both in Colmar - together or
separately. I don't give a damn. The alternative? Forget it.'

'Look, Tweed, when you're on the run ...'

'By now I know at least as much as you do - maybe more
- about being on the run. Time to stop running, to face the
swine who don't care what methods they use. Ives
must
see
me in Colmar. So
must
you. I have to go now
...'

Tweed, his mood cold as ice, put down the phone. He
had meant it. No more being driven from place to place by
the opposition. Time to lay a huge trap for them. Probably in the Vosges mountains.

Tweed apologized to Eve as he rejoined her. She was
smoking, waved her ivory cigarette holder.

'Please, say no more. I've been enjoying myself now I'm
away from Zurich. Awful thing to say, but I'll always
associate that city with Julius. Does that sound too too
dreadful?'

Tweed noticed she must have drunk about three glasses
of the Sancerre during his absence. Some of these women
had heads like rocks. She showed no sign of being even slightly inebriated. He refilled her glass.

'No, it doesn't. If he gave you a bad time. The lines to
London were busy. Hence my neglecting you.'

'Nonsense. As regards Julius, all those women. Ah, here
is the waiter.
. .'

They both ordered grilled sole. Tweed remembered
from a previous visit that sole was particularly good at the
Drei Könige. When they were alone again Eve leaned
towards him, her greenish eyes holding his.

'You've changed since you made that call. You're like a
pulsating dynamo now. Like a man about to do battle. I can sense the change.'

Tweed became aware that he was sitting very erect in his
chair, that as he spoke he'd been making vigorous ges
tures. It was uncanny the way Eve had hit the nail on the
head. He felt rejuvenated at the prospect of meeting
Barton Ives, a man he was convinced knew a great deal
about why the world was exploding about them.

He chatted to Eve about Switzerland in general until the
main course arrived. They ate in silence, devouring the
excellent fish. He began probing again when they had
ordered their dessert. But first he refilled her glass. So far he had consumed one glass of wine and a lot of mineral water.

'How did you get here? By car?'

'Lord, no! The traffic is terrible. I flew from Zurich. It's
only a half-hour flight. For some stupid reason I got to the
airport at the last minute, boarded the plane and it took
off.' She toyed with her half-empty glass. 'Are you still
investigating the horrible murder of that woman - what
washer name? Helen Frey.'

'I have other fish to fry - pardon the unintended pun.
Could there be a link with her murder and the fact that she
. . . knew Julius?'