`That's not what I meant.' She held out the envelope. 'I was asked to give this to you by Mr X. No probing trying to get his identity out of me. Maybe I had letter leave now.'
Newman slipped the envelope inside a drawer. 'Your stepfather is at the reception. Have you talked to him?'
`You must be joking. He walked straight past me as though I didn't exist. I was rather glad. I took a good long look at him and I didn't like what I saw. He's grown even harder. I'll go now.' She kissed him full on the mouth, then gave him a tissue from her handbag. 'You're wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. Bob, for God's sake don't do anything I would worry about. Promise?'
`I'll bear your affectionate request in mind…'
It was midnight when the unmarked van carrying Beck's film unit arrived at the forest above the Berne Clinic. Leupin was behind the wheel with Marbot alongside him. In the back of the van was the cine camera technician, Rolf Fischer, and his equipment.
Leupin stopped the van and then backed it off the snowbound road into a clearing under the trees. He had no way of knowing he was choosing the same vantage point Lee Foley had selected to observe the Clinic on the previous Tuesday. Leupin, having tested the firmness of the ground, now swung the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees so the rear of the van faced the panoramic view of the Clinic and its grounds.
In each rear door of the van was a round window of frosted glass, a hinged window which could be opened so Fischer's telephoto lens could be aimed at any required area of the Clinic, a lens which could see what was happening as clearly in the darkness as in broad daylight. Leupin got out, treading carefully in the snow, and made his way to the back where Fischer had already opened one of the windows.
`This suit you?' Leupin called out.
`Perfect. I can see everything – the Clinic, the laboratory, the grounds, even that deep slope near the lab.'
`And they won't see us in the daytime – not a white van against the snow. Just a moment, something's moving beyond the Clinic…'
Leupin raised the night-glasses looped round his neck and focused them on the drive curving down to the gatehouse. A black, six-seater Mercedes was driving away from the Clinic. Leupin lowered his glasses, calling out again to Fischer.
`That's funny. I'm sure that car is Grange's. He's not supposed to be here tonight…'
It was Beck who had vetoed the suggestion that they should arrive earlier. He was determined the van should not be spotted. And, as he had remarked, nothing would happen that evening with Grange at the reception and later spending the night at Elfenau.
Thirty-Five
Sunday, 19 February. The call came late in the morning just after Newman and Nancy had got out of bed. They had slept in late and Nancy drew back the curtains as Newman reached for his wristwatch on the bedside table. 11.45 am. He threw back the bed-clothes and hoped no one would make a loud noise.
`Bob! Just come and look at this…'
He blinked at the unusually strong light. The sun was shining brilliantly. Slipping into his dressing-gown, he yawned and joined Nancy at the window. No more mist. No traffic on the Sunday roads. Nancy gripped him by the arm and pointed to the left.
`Isn't it just magnificent? And we might never have seen it if the weather hadn't cleared.'
In the near distance – or so it seemed – they were gazing at the vast panorama of the Bernese Oberland range, a wall of mighty snowbound peaks silhouetted against a background of an azure sky. Newman wrapped an arm round her waist, squeezing her. The long night's sleep, the dream-like view, had relaxed her.
`I think that big job is the Jungfrau,' he commented. 'It's the right shape…'
`Isn't it just wonderful? We can have breakfast up here, can't we?'
`Probably the only way we'll get some at this hour…'
That was when the phone started ringing. Nancy danced to the phone, picked up the receiver and announced herself in a lilting tone.
Newman realized something was very wrong from the change in her expression, in her tone of voice, in the way the conversation turned. She was standing very erect now, her complexion drained of all its natural colour and she began to argue, her voice harsh and aggressive.
`You can't do that! I forbid it! You bastard! I'll call you a bastard any time I want to – because that's what you are… I don't believe any of it… I'm going to raise bloody hell! Don't interrupt… You murdering swine…' Her voice suddenly went strangely quiet. 'You'll pay for this – that I promise you…'
`Get them to hold on,' Newman called out. 'Tell me what it's about. I'll talk to them…'
She had slammed down the receiver. She turned to look at Newman and he stared back at her. Her face had closed up. She began to walk slowly round the room, sucking her thumb, which Newman guessed was reversion to a childhood habit.
`Tell me,' he said quietly.
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He tore off his night clothes, slipped into vest and pants and pulled on a pair of slacks, his shirt and shoes. At that stage she emerged from the bathroom where he had heard the tap running. She had washed and applied her makeup. She moved like a sleepwalker.
`Do as I tell you,' he snapped. 'Sit down in that chair. Talk.'
`They've killed Jesse…' She spoke in a flat monotone. `That was Kobler. He said Jesse had had a heart attack – that he died almost immediately. They've already cremated him…'
`They can't do that. Who signed the death certificate? Did Kobler say?'
`Yes, he said that Grange signed the certificate. He said they have a sworn document signed by Jesse requesting cremation…'
`They can't get away with that. It's too quick. Christ, this is Sunday…'
`They covered themselves on that one, too. Kobler said Grange found Jesse was infected with cholera. That could justify immediate cremation. I think it could. I'm not familiar with Swiss law…'
She was talking like the playback of a slow-running taperecorder. She sat quite still, her hands slack in her lap as she looked up and Newman was startled by the coldness in her eyes.
`We'll get them to send up some coffee…'
`That would be nice. Just coffee, no food. You order for yourself. You must be hungry…' She waited while he gave Room Service the order and then asked the question. 'Bob – can you tell me something? Is Signer really mixed up in this Terminal thing Dr Nagel mentioned last night?'
`Yes, I'm sure now. I'll show you something while we're waiting for the coffee.' He was glad to get her mind moving on another track – any other track. He produced the report Blanche had brought him. She remarked wasn't that what he had been reading when she'd fallen asleep? He said it was and showed her three pages where he had turned down the corners.
`His signature confirming the transfer of these huge sums of money is clear enough. Victor Signer. He's president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank, the outfit which dominates the Gold Club which backs Grange. After breakfast,' he went on, 'I suggest we go and see Beck if he's in his office – which I'm sure he will be. He's practically sleeping on the job…'
`So,' she said, ignoring his last suggestion, 'Grange and Signer and Kobler are the mainspring behind the Terminal thing?'
`It's beginning to look very much like that. Did you hear what I said about Beck? That we go and see him after we've eaten?'
`I think I'd like that…'
Beck, clean-shaven and spruce, sat behind his desk listening while Nancy repeated the gist of her phone call from Kobler. As she talked he glanced at Newman once or twice, raising an eyebrow to indicate he was disturbed by the calm, detached way she spoke. At the end of her story he used the intercom to call in Gisela and was waiting by the door when she came in.
