`Keep ten per cent for the tip. I'll call back tomorrow for the rest.'

Tweed took another sip of his Margharita, put down the glass and blinked. He took off his glasses, rubbed at them with the corner of his handkerchief, put them back on. He blinked again.

`Is something wrong?' Diana asked.

`Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute. I'm OK…'

He walked rapidly out of the restaurant. Butler saw him go, saw that Diana was left alone and remained in his seat. Tweed pushed his way through the queue waiting for tables, headed for the elevator, pushed the button. His head felt very peculiar.

He walked inside the elevator, pressed the button for his floor. The small elevator began to ascend. He blinked again. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He stepped out, hurried to his room, key in hand. He had trouble inserting the key, turned it, pulled it free automatically and shut the door, then locked it. As he took his hand away his fingers dragged out the key, which fell on the floor.

He turned on the light, stared. The room seemed full of smoke. Something drifted towards him through the smoke, something floating in space. A naked cherub, an evil grin on its horrid little face, a pudgy hand stretched out towards Tweed. Christ! He'd been doped! That bloody girl had dropped something in his glass. He staggered towards the bathroom and the cherub floated backwards, beckoning him on.

Downstairs in the lobby Munzel asked the girl behind the reception counter to get him a pack of cigarettes. She looked dubious about leaving her station until he gave her the tip. The moment she'd gone to the bar he reached over, lifted up the box containing the registration slips, rifled through them. Tweed. Zimmer 303.

He thanked the girl when she came back, paid her, pressed the elevator button for Tweed's floor. Inside the elevator, the second the doors closed, he took out his bunch of keys, found the pick-lock. This was Munzel the pro, he told himself. The master of improvisation – improvisation of accidents.

Forty-Eight

Tweed was hallucinating. The tiled bathroom floor was crammed with naked cherubs, staring up at him, reaching up to him through the smoke with their beastly little hands. Water! He had to drink water – before the hallucinatory drug thoroughly polluted his bloodstream. He grabbed for the glass, knocked the soap on to the floor, filled the glass, drank it all down, refilled the glass, drank more.

Fresh air! The atmosphere was stifling. Sweat ran off his forehead. He staggered to the double windows, slipped on the soap, saved himself by grabbing the ledge. He threw open both windows. Below was a sheer drop of thirty feet, straight down to the tiled floor of an interior well. All windows overlooking it were glazed, like his own. Better get away – dangerous.

He stumbled back to the tap, filled the glass, drank more water. Something touched his shoulder. He jerked round. One of those hideous cherubs, floating in space. Dining-room, Four Seasons. Then the connection was gone. A horseman in hunting clothes appeared out of the fog. The horse reared up, crashed down on top of him. He felt nothing. A skull floated out of the mists, the skull of Harry Masterson, grinning hideously. He put out a hand, pushed it away, his hand feeling nothing, pushing through the skull. He turned away, grabbed the glass, refilled it. As he drank he glanced into the mirror. Oh, Jesus!

Hugh Grey's image, a head without a body, stared back out of the mirror, laughing madly. With a trembling hand he refilled the glass. He had a moment of clarity. The bloody paintings Masterson had shown him at his Sussex cottage. He forgot what he'd remembered a moment later. He drank more water. The stuff was running down his suit jacket. Get it inside you, for God's sake.

His own head was floating now. He couldn't see it – he could feel it drifting away from his neck. A vile sensation. He refilled the glass, drank greedily. Guy Dalby's head stared at him out of the mirror, catlick drooped over his forehead, an evil smile on his drifting face. Tweed's left hand reached out to the mirror. The image receded, vanished.

He felt his feet leave the floor as though someone behind was lifting him. Now he was floating in space, like one of those astronauts he'd seen on TV. Tweed hammered the glass he was holding down hard on to the area beside the wash basin. He heard, felt, the thud. Again his mind cleared.

The atmosphere seemed fresher. Air percolating in through the open windows. A logical thought. He sensed his mind was on a tightrope – midway between sanity and hallucination. Another logical thought. He drank three more glasses. Something touched his left hand. He looked down. A cherub with an outsize head gazed up at him, its hand touching his. Oh, no…'

He stared down at the obscene thing. The vision was less defined, faded as he continued staring at it. He stepped back, slipped on the soap tablet and his foot skidded. He saved himself again by grabbing the edge of the basin with his left hand. Must keep away from those open windows – and the abyss beyond.

He was filling the glass when he glanced in the mirror. In his state of shock he let the water fill up the glass – run over the rim. He'd never had time to switch on the bathroom light. The only illumination was light filtering in from the bedroom. A figure loomed behind him. He saw it only vaguely in the dim light, the face of Kurt Franck. The face moved, was shown up in a little more light. He'd grown a beard. Tweed took a firmer grip on the glass and swung round. This was no hallucination. This was for real.

Franck had stepped out of the elevator into a deserted corridor. He checked the numbers of the rooms. He found 303 at the end of the corridor. He tried the handle gently. The door was locked. He inserted his pick-lock, fiddled, felt the lock slide open.

He went inside into a bedroom. The light was on. From the bathroom he heard the sound of running water. He turned to lock the door. No sign of the key. Too tricky to use the pick-lock. He'd want to leave quickly. He walked into the darkened bathroom.

Tweed was standing staring into the mirror over the washbasin. Munzel noticed the soap smears on the floor, gleaming in the dim light, the open windows beyond. A perfect set-up. So many accidents happened in bathrooms. He stepped behind Tweed. Their eyes met in the mirror. Tweed swung round with surprising speed. He dashed the glassful of water into Munzel's eyes. The German couldn't see for a moment. In that moment

Tweed brought the tough base of the glass down on the bridge of Munzel's large nose. His eyes watered – this time with real pain – but Tweed was too weak to have delivered the blow with great force.

`Bob! How good to see you…' Diana had half-risen from her seat, handbag tucked under her arm, when Newman walked into the restaurant. 'Tweed is here,' she went on. 'I was just going to find out what's happened to him…'

'Why?'

`He suddenly felt unwell. He went to his room. But he's been there a long time. I was going up to see him. And soon after he'd gone I saw a big blond German get up from his table over there and go out of the restaurant. From the back, the way he moved, in a great hurry…'

`Tweed's room number?'

`Three-O-Three…'

`Wait here. Don't move.'

Newman, remembering the placid pace of the elevator, ran up the staircase. 303? That was the room Tweed had occupied before. He knew exactly where it was. He reached the third floor, raced down the corridor, tried the handle and pushed it open quietly, pushing it almost closed behind him. The sounds came from the bathroom. He ran to the open door. Tweed was grappling with Franck, who had his huge arms round Tweed's waist, lifting him off the floor.

Newman, fresh from East Germany, took in the scene at a glance. The soap-smeared floor, the open windows beyond. He clenched his right fist, jerked his elbow back, rammed his fist forward, slamming a vicious kidney punch into the German. Franck let go of Tweed, doubled over, straightened up and started to turn. He slipped on the floor, skidded clear across the bathroom and his hands slapped down on the window ledge. He turned again and his feet slithered under him. He ended up half out of the window, his waist against the ledge, his long legs stretched in front of him.

He bent down, hauled up his left trouser leg, heaved out the broad-bladed knife from the sheath strapped to

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