and the French border. That was when he heard again the sound of the chopper coming closer.
Le Brassus VD – the road sign said – was a village of ancient villas, stark trees and gardens fronted with beech hedges half-buried under a coating of snow. Again deserted. They had left the lake behind. Newman pulled out of a skid and drove on.
`The second case I threw in the back,' he called out. 'It contains what, Seidler?'
`Old newspapers. Where are you taking me?'
`To safety. The French frontier is just ahead. If I have to, I'll crash the border to get through…'
`We're leaving Switzerland?' Nancy asked.
`You'll be safer in France, so will Seidler. And I may be able to operate more freely outside Switzerland. I plan to phone Beck, tell him we have Seidler's evidence, see if he'll raid the Berne Clinic…'
The sign came up in their headlights. Zoll – Douane. 2 km. They were within a couple of kilometres of escape. Newman pressed his foot down, at times gliding over the ice shining threateningly in the beams. He glanced at Nancy and she nodded her approval of the course he was taking. She had been badly shaken by the violence at Le Pont station, by the shooting outside the old house.
`Oh, God! No!' she exclaimed.
Something else was showing up in the headlights and Newman slowed down. The black Audi had been positioned at right-angles, acting as a road-block. To one side a second car, a Saab, was parked on the verge. Uniformed policemen stood waving torches frantically. Newman stopped the car, sagged behind the wheel. They were trapped.
The first sound he heard as he stepped out on to the slippery road was the roar of the chopper's rotors as it landed, a large, dark silhouette, in a nearby field. He told Nancy and Seidler to stay in the car and went to meet the nearest policeman.
`What the devil do you think you're doing?' he asked in French.
`Instructions, sir. Someone is coming..
The policeman gestured towards the field where the chopper had landed. A compact figure came out of the darkness, hatless and wearing an overcoat. Arthur Beck. Of course. The Federal police chief trod his way carefully across the road and peered inside the Citroen.
`You've no reason to stop us,' Newman snapped.
`You were thinking of leaving the country?' Beck enquired. `What concern is it of yours?'
`Every concern, my friend. You are a material witness in my investigation into the deaths of Julius Nagy and Bernard Mason…'
Another man had emerged from the helicopter and was walking towards Beck. A man of medium height, well-built, who walked with a deliberate tread. As he passed in front of the headlights of the Citroen Newman saw he was dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Swiss Army. Under his peaked cap, beneath his thick eyebrows, motionless eyes stared at Newman. Clean-shaven, he had a strong nose, a thin-lipped mouth and he carried himself with an air of confidence verging on arrogance. Newman recognized him before Beck made his introduction.
`This is Colonel Victor Signer, president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He called on me just before I was leaving – he expressed a wish to accompany me. This is Robert Newman…'
No handshake. Signer half-smiled, not pleasantly, dipped his head in acknowledgement. The blank eyes, still studying Newman, reminded him of films he had seen of sharks, which was fanciful, he told himself. Of one thing he was sure. God had just arrived.
`I hear you have been causing us some trouble, Newman,' Signer remarked.
He spoke through his nose, like a man with adenoids and he looked at the ground as though addressing a subordinate.
`You are speaking personally?' Newman suggested.
`I didn't come here to fence with you…'
`Why did you come here, Signer?'
The eyes snapped up and there was a brief flicker of fury. He would be a bastard to serve under. Autocratic, callous, sarcastic. The original martinet. Newman understood now why Blanche disliked her stepfather so much. The colonel clasped his hands which, despite the cold, were clad in fine suede gloves. A very tough baby, Victor Signer. Beck intervened, as though afraid things were getting out of control.
`Newman, I have to ask you to return with me to Berne – together with your two companions..
Signer walked slowly round the Citroen and peered in at the rear seat. Seidler shrank back from his gaze, clutching his suitcase.
`Not Dr Kennedy,' Newman said firmly. 'You have no grounds for detaining her…'
`She witnessed the death of Mrs Laird. Until that case is resolved I must insist that she remains on Swiss territory.. `You bastard,' Newman whispered.
`And the man in the rear of the car. He wouldn't by chance be Manfred Seidler?' Beck opened the rear door. `Please step out Mr Seidler-we have been searching everywhere for you.'
`Grab his case,' Newman whispered again. 'Don't open it – and don't let Signer get his hands on it..
Seidler emerged shakily from the car, releasing the suitcase Beck reached for without protest. Signer wandered round the Citroen to join them, flexing his gloved hands. Then he stood waiting. He would be about five feet ten tall, Newman guessed, but the controlled force of his personality made him seem taller. This was a man who dealt in millions at his bank.
`I would like to see the contents of that suitcase,' he remarked.
`No! Colonel,' Beck replied. 'I am investigating three potential homicides, two positive ones. Not an hour ago a couple of men arriving at Le Pont station were murdered. This case may well contain evidence. It goes straight to our forensic people unopened. It is not a matter I care to debate…'
`As you wish…'
Signer half-smiled again and walked across to stand in front of the headlight beams of the Saab parked on the verge. He removed his left glove and clenched his hand. Beck, still holding on to the suitcase, gestured for Seidler to follow him. Newman sensed that something was wrong but couldn't immediately put his finger on it. Signer had given up too easily…'
`Seidler! Get away from those headlights!' he shouted.
Following Beck, Seidler was illuminated by the headlamps of the Citroen – illuminated like a target on a firing range at night. There was a loud report and Seidler leapt forward, vaulted clear off the ground and sprawled over the bonnet of the Audi. A second rifle report shattered the night. The sprawled body coughed, a convulsive movement, then flopped back over the bonnet. In the headlights a patch of dampness – blood – began to spread midway down the centre of Seidler's back. The second shot had fractured his spine. He was dead twice over.
Twenty-Nine
Chaos. Beck shouting, 'Douse those bloody lights…' An order hardly necessary – the drivers inside the Audi and the Saab turned them off while he was shouting the order. No one wanted to be a target for the marksman. Policemen running all over the place. Newman had turned off his own lights.
It was Beck who regained control of the situation, issuing terse commands through his walkie-talkie. Policemen crouched under cover of the vehicles. Nancy was crouched over Seidler's spread-eagled body, checking his pulse. She turned to Beck who gently pressed her down by the car as Newman joined them.
`He's dead,' Nancy told them. 'Half his head was shot away by the first bullet…'
`My commiserations, madame,' said Beck.
'Why?'
`For your most unfortunate experiences in my country. This is the second time this week you have been present to confirm a violent death. If I may offer my services? We can fly you back to Berne in the helicopter. A policeman can drive your Citroen back to the Bellevue Palace.' He looked up. `There is something wrong, Newman?'
`Signer. Look at him. He's the only man who didn't move…'
The colonel was still standing motionless in front of the Saab where he, also, had been silhouetted in the
