making a pilgrimage to look down where Mason had died. Such an idea would have made the dead man snort.
Tweed was trying to work out how they had killed him. It was the work of a professional, of course. A trained assassin, a commando-type soldier – or a policeman. No one else could have got close enough to Mason to do the job. His eyes scanned the river from the Dalmazi bridge to the Kirchenfeld.
Wiley, 'commercial attache' at the British Embassy, had given him sufficient details when he phoned him in London for Tweed to work it out. He started from the premise as to how he would have planned the killing.
Dropping the body into the river so it would be battered by one of the sluices had been deliberate, he felt sure. It was a brutal warning, an intended deterrent. No good pushing Mason over the railings lining the Aarstrasse below – the body might easily have simply drifted into the backwater near the Primarschule in the Matte district.
The Kirchenfeld bridge was out – too great a danger of traffic. No, it must have been the small and much lower Dalmazi bridge he decided. A body – Mason must have been unconscious because he was a strong swimmer – dropped from the centre of that bridge would inevitably be carried by the river's natural flow until it was hurled against one of the sluices.
Satisfied that he knew now how it had been done, Tweed walked back to the exit from the Plattform and continued along the Munstergasse. It was very quiet. No sound except his own footsteps. He walked on into the Junkerngasse and the pavement was sloping downwards now. He paused just before he reached his destination, listening. He was very concerned to protect her.
He resumed his walk a short distance and stopped outside a doorway with three bell-pushes. He approved the sight of the newly-installed speak-phone. He pressed the bell-push alongside the name, B. Signer.
`Who is it?' Blanche's voice twanged through the metal grille.
`Tweed…'
`Come on up…'
Twenty-Three
Anna Kleist pulled up a chair to the table and sat down facing Nancy. The two doctors, Newman had already noticed, were on the same waveband. Kleist removed her tinted spectacles, clasped her hands on the table and began speaking.
`Now, this could be important to me, Dr Kennedy. I was told by Mr Beck you were the first person to examine the body of the unfortunate woman who was brought here. You may like to know I have phoned Dr Kobler of the Berne Clinic. He informs me the patient was called Holly Laird from Houston, Texas. According to his version she was suffering from a state of mental imbalance. She overpowered one of the staff, a woman called Astrid, stole her keys to their poisons cupboard and made off with a quantity of potassium cyanide. Although outwardly calm, I detected in Kobler a state of agitation. He qualified every statement he made. 'Subject to further verification', was the phrase he used. Could you please tell me your impression after you examined Mrs Laird?'
`It was not a proper diagnosis, of course,' Nancy replied promptly. 'It was carried out under the least ideal conditions. I was surrounded with not only policemen but also armed soldiers. It was dark. I used a torch borrowed from one of the police. You understand?'
`Perfectly…'
`One factor I had to take into consideration was exposure. It was a bitterly cold night. The temperature was sub-zero. Mrs Laird was wearing only a pair of pyjamas and a thick dressing-gown. She may have run quite some distance before she reached the road.'
`Death due to exposure?' Kleist asked. 'That was what you concluded?'
`No!' Nancy began talking more rapidly. 'I had the strong impression she died from some form of asphyxiation. And the complexion of the face showed distinct traces of cyanosis. Her mouth was twisted in the most horrible grimace – a grimace consistent with cyanosis.'
`May I ask, Anna,' Beck intervened, 'what is your reaction to Dr Kennedy's on the spot conclusions?'
When she sat at the table Kleist had taken a scratch pad from a pocket of her pale green gown and she now produced a ball-point pen and began doodling on the pad. Newman guessed it helped to concentrate her thinking. She continued her doodling as she replied in her soft voice.
`My examination so far confirms precisely Dr Kennedy's impression. We have taken blood samples and they, in time, may tell us more…'
`How much time?' Newman demanded. 'That may be a commodity we are very short of – time.'
`A week. Possibly only a few days. Another pathologist is dealing with that aspect. I have requested that he give the matter the most urgent priority…'
`So we just have to wait,' Newman commented.
`I did find something else, something which puzzles me greatly,' Kleist went on. 'There are unexplained lacerations round the neck and over the crown of the skull…'
`You mean she could have been strangled?' Beck probed.
`Nothing like that. It is almost as though her neck and head had been bound in cloth straps…' She was still drawing something on her notepad. 'One explanation – although it seems bizarre to say the least – is that shortly before she died she was wearing some kind of headgear…'
`Some kind of mask?' Beck queried.
`Possibly,' she agreed, with no certainty in her tone. '1 can only be positive at this stage about the asphyxiation…'
`An oxygen mask?' Beck persisted. 'That would fit in with the equipment you'd expect to be available in a clinic. Maybe the oxygen supply was turned off, causing asphyxiation?'
Kleist shook her head. 'No. You have forgotten – she was seen running some considerable distance according to what you told me. It is the agent which caused death we have to isolate and identify. There we have to wait for the results of the blood tests.' She frowned. 'It is those lacerations which 1 find so strange. Still, I am probably saying far too much at this early stage. After all, I have not yet completed the examination.'
`You said she was a Mrs Holly Laird from Houston,' Newman remarked. Did you get any further information from Kobler about this woman's background? How old was she, by the way?'
`Fifty-five. And yes, I did press Kobler for more details. He was reluctant to say much but also, I sensed, wary of not appearing to cooperate fully. Mrs Laird is the nominal head of a very large oil combine. She was brought to the Berne Clinic by her step-daughter in one of the company's executive jets…'
`Any information on her husband?' Newman said quickly.
`He's dead. I couldn't obtain any further details.' She glanced at Beck. 'I had to use your name to get that much out of him…'
`Another similar case,' Newman commented.
`And what might that mean?' Beck enquired.
`I'll tell you later.' Newman stood up. 'And now I think we have taken up more than enough of Dr Kleist's time. I appreciate her frankness at this early stage…'
`My pleasure…' Kleist hesitated, staring at Newman. 'It is just possible I may be able to tell you more by morning.'
`You're working through the night?' Newman asked with a note of incredulity.
`This man…' Kleist also stood up and linked her arm in Beck's, `… is the most unfeeling taskmaster in Switzerland. You do realize that, Arthur?' she added mischievously.
Beck shrugged and smiled. 'You would do the job, anyway, but I appreciate your dedication. And I have the same premonition as Newman – time is what we don't have…'
`Dr Kleist,' Newman said as they were about to leave, wonder if you would mind if I took your doodle? I collect them…'
`Of course.'
She tore off the sheet, folded it and handed it to him. He slipped it inside his wallet and she watched him with a quirkish smile.
Beck drove them back to the Bellevue Palace in a police car and in silence. Nancy had the impression the
