The Power (57 page)

'This is more like it,' Tweed remarked. 'More homely.
That other place you could wait an hour for the first
course with a lot of chichi nonsense, removing the covers
from the plate and all that rubbish.'

Paula agreed the atmosphere was more welcoming.
And in contrast to the restaurant, where the guests had
sat like waxworks, the few customers here were locals
having an aperitif, eating a main meal.

In the main dining area a waitress led them to, the
panelled walls were painted a bright ochre. The cloths on the table were a cheerful pink, Paula noted with approval.
The Brasserie faced the railway station across a wide
road. Tweed had chosen well.

'I think I'll have a glass of wine,' Tweed announced to
her surprise when they were seated. 'We're in Riesling country. A beautiful wine.'

The waitresses, bustling about, wore white blouses,
black skirts and short white aprons. Tweed ordered a
bottle of Riesling when the others agreed enthusiastically.

This is when you say it's a good year,' Newman chaffed
him, when a bottle of 1989 vintage arrived.

'Let's hope it is. I've no idea. Have you heard of the Château
Noir?' he asked the waitress in French.

'Yes. Up in the mountains above the Black Lake. A
bad place. It is fated.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Its strange history, sir. It was built by an American
millionaire years ago. Built of granite from plans of a medieval fortress. It cost many millions of francs. He committed suicide.'

'Who did?' Tweed asked.

'The American millionaire. He jumped from the château
into the Black Lake. No one knows why. It
remained empty for years. Who would buy such a place?'

'I heard that someone did. A Swiss banker.'

'Of course. He bought it for a song. Mr Julius Amberg from Zurich. Maybe he was not superstitious. He did not
think he would become dead before his time. Good luck
to him. He is a nice man.'

Paula was watching Tweed, wondering whether he was
going to tell her that Amberg was no longer alive. Tweed
simply looked interested, asked the waitress another
question.

'You said he is a nice man. You have met him?'

'Many times. When he comes to Colmar he always
comes in here - to the Brasserie. For an aperitif, for a
main meal.' She lowered her voice. 'He said the restaur
ant is for snobs, that the food here is much better and you get it quickly. I must go now . . .'

'Has Mr Amberg been here recently?' Tweed asked
before she could rush off.

'No, not for some time. Yet when it was clear this
afternoon just before dusk we saw lights in the château.
Maybe a ghost walks there. You have decided what you
would like to eat? I can come back.'

'The veal escalope
pan
é
e
for me, with sauté potatoes.'

Tweed looked at Paula. 'What do you fancy?'

'The same for me, please,' Paula said, looking at the
waitress.

'Make that three,' Newman requested.

The waitress darted away. Paula, who was facing the
rear of the Brasserie, stared at a huge mural painted in
oils above the door leading to the kitchen. It depicted a
small lake sunk in the grim heights of the Vosges. Tweed followed her gaze.

'I wonder if that's Lac Noir,' she mused. 'If,so, it looks
pretty forbidding. And what a strange story she told us
about Château Noir. Obviously Walter Amberg doesn't
patronize the Brasserie.'

'Walter,' Newman commented, 'from what I've seen of
him, would patronize the restaurant, silver-plate covers and all that jazz.'

'From what we've gathered,' Tweed pointed out,
'Amberg has only been at the château for two or three
days. It was interesting to hear that the place
is
occupied. The lights the waitress mentioned.'

'We are going up there to beard him in his den, aren't
we?' Paula enquired.

'It's one reason why we came here. Incidentally, I don't
want to spoil your meal, but I think the opposition has already arrived. As we walked through the restaurant I noticed six men sitting at a quiet table in a corner. I also
caught a snatch of conversation - with an American
accent. They're not pleasant-looking characters.'

'But why here, for Pete's sake?' Paula asked.

'In Zurich there is a whole number of first-class hotels.
In Basle there are only two, the Drei K
ö
nige and the
Hilton - if you prefer that. Here the only major hotel is
the Bristol. It's logical some of them
would choose to stay here. They may even have detected its strategic position.'

'Strategic in what way?' Paula wanted to know.

'If their objective is also the Château Noir then we are on the right side of the town. From here we can drive straight into the outskirts across the railway and up into
the Vosges. We practically bypass Colmar.'

'There's a heavy fog drifting in,' Newman remarked.

Twisting round in her seat, Paula looked at the windows fronting on the street and hung with net curtains.
For customers coming in off the street there were double doors leading into the Brasserie.

Newman was right. As she watched the fog seemed to
grow denser every minute. The blurred headlights of
crawling cars appeared, disappeared in the milky haze.
And the temperature had dropped swiftly. A man came in
through the entrance and briefly a current of ice-cold air
drifted into the Brasserie.

A waiter, wearing a white shirt, black trousers and a
long apron tied round his waist, went to push the door
shut quickly. Outside stooped silhouettes of people
hurrying home as fast as they dared passed beyond the
windows.

'I like this wine,' Tweed said, finishing off his glass. 'It really is a very good Riesling.'

Out of the corner of her eye Paula saw Newman
refilling his glass. She turned round, picked up a bottle of
Perrier the waitress had brought, topped up Tweed's
water glass.

'You'll end up floating,' she teased him.

'Riesling is my favourite wine. It helps me to think. I'm
going to order another bottle.'

'Any excuse is better than none,' she teased him.

She twisted round again. The ghostly tableau of cars
and people beyond the window fascinated her. Then she
stiffened. A woman had hauled open the door, came
inside looking frightened to death. Jennie Blade. She
spotted Tweed, ran to his table. 'I've been followed
again,' she burst out. 'By the man with the wide-brimmed
hat.'

Her blonde hair glistened with fog vapour. Her eyes
were wild. Tweed stood up, walked round the table,
pulled out a chair for her which faced his. Returning to his
seat he sat down, gazed at her as he spoke.

'When did this happen?'

'Just now. He damn near caught up with me. Thank
God this place was so close. The same man - following me
with his bloody wide-brimmed black hat, turned down so
I couldn't see his face. I'm scared to death, Tweed.'

35

'I need a drink,' said Jennie as she took off her coat,
draped it over the back of a nearby chair. 'Brandy.'

'No spirits at the moment,' Tweed advised. 'You are in
a state of shock. Try a glass of this Riesling.'

Paula reached across to another empty table, picked up a glass, placed it in front of their guest. Tweed was glad he'd placed Jennie facing him as he poured the wine - she was not looking at Paula, whose expression was full of
doubt.

'Can you tell me exactly what happened?' Tweed sug
gested.

Jennie drank half the contents of her glass, put it down,
then almost immediately raised it again, drained it.
Tweed refilled it.

'Why were you outside in this fog?' he coaxed.

'I'd been with Gaunt in the BMW. We'd just returned
from the Chateau Noir. I asked the Squire to drop me by
the shopping parade so I could go into a chemist. It was when I came out that it happened.'

'Go on, you are doing fine,' Tweed encouraged her.

'I came out of the shop and it was eerie. I hadn't
realized how dense the fog had become. He was standing
with his back to me, holding up something in his left
hand. The same black wide-brimmed hat, turned down as I told you so I couldn't see his face. The same long black
overcoat. I began to walk towards the Bristol, towards
here. I heard him coming after me. I panicked, began to
run. Behind me he was moving much faster.'

'How do you know that?' Paula enquired. 'Did you
look back?'

'God, no! I was too scared. But there was no other
sound in the fog - just the clack of his shoes catching me
up. The clacking sound hit the pavement at longer inter
vals - so I knew he'd increased the length of his stride.'

'Very shrewd of you,' Tweed commented. He sipped at his coffee which the waitress had brought just before their
frightened guest appeared. 'Especially as you were so
scared.'

'Then I saw the Brasserie. I dived in here, saw you.
What a relief.'

'Drink some more wine.' Tweed waited until she had swallowed half her second glass. He topped it up. 'What
happened to your pursuer?'

'I've no idea. At least he didn't follow me in here. But
then I'd have been all right.' She smiled wanly for the first
time. 'You were here.'

'Are you feeling better?' Tweed reached across, took hold of her right hand resting on the table, squeezed it reassuringly. 'You are safe, among friends.'

Newman had remained silent, leaving it to Tweed. He
noticed that in the warmth of the Brasserie the vapour
drops had melted on Jennie's golden hair, giving her a
somewhat bedraggled look. She was still incredibly
attractive.

'Would you like something to eat?' Tweed asked her.

'Just some bread. My stomach can't face anything else.'

She took a piece of French bread, piled on it some of
the butter Newman had ordered, chewed ravenously,
then reached for a second hunk.

That's better,' she announced a minute later. 'Pardon
my table manners. I haven't eaten for hours.'