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 assistant to Dr Max Nagel. He's chairman of the bank.'
Newman had trouble holding his glass 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. God, 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 glass 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 glass 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 damn name stuck…'
`Bob Newman. No honorary titles…'
`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 assignment.' 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 bloody 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 shield 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 basement. 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 bumped 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…'
`God, 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 passing 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.'