'Good question. Asked it myself times without number. A crooked banker – or bullion merchant – is the only answer. Mind you, they wouldn't get anything like the twelve million – the robbers. Eight if they were lucky – and had the right contacts. You'd find the answer in Luxembourg City or Brussels. Better still, in London. I'll give you a name.'
He extracted from his wallet a blank white card, wrote on it rapidly in neat script, handed it to Tweed. 'Mention my name. For obvious reasons it's not on the card. He'll phone me for confirmation, then talk to you.'
'Who would buy the gold – the ultimate customer, I mean.'
'Russia,' Romer said promptly. 'At the head of the list. I probably overdid it when I said the bastards who took the bullion would get eight million. Six more likely. The go-between wants his cut. Then Russia – if it was them -gets four or five million francs for nothing. Hard currency for nothing when they sell it again.'
'I don't know much about bullion,' Tweed persisted, 'but I understood each bar of gold is stamped with its origin?'
'Quite so. So, the go-between has it melted down, destroying the distinguishing mark, then cools it, resolidifies it. No trace of origin left. Of course, he'd need all the facilities. That chap in London will know more.' He opened his brief-case. 'Now, Beck tells me you want to know about the explosive used.'
'It would help?'
'Not much, I'm afraid.' He handed Tweed a sheaf of typed papers. 'It's in English – for your experts. It's a new type of explosive. That's really all we can say. There's a lot of chemical analysis stuff there that doesn't mean a thing to me. All our chaps had to go on was smears taken from flashpoints inside the vault. Oh, the mechanism of the bomb was a bit diabolical. Caused implosion – if you know what that means.'
'Designed so the whole force of the explosion goes in one direction…' Tweed glanced at Paula who had lost colour. Took ninety per cent of the vault door,' Romer went on, 'nine inches of cold steel
…' He took a slim executive case out of the bulky brief-case, handed it to Tweed with a key.
'Inside is a plastic bag containing pieces of debris our boffins scraped off the floor of the vault. Maybe your people can make something of it. God knows they've had enough experience with the IRA crowd. I think that's it.'
Beck produced an envelope, handed it to Tweed. 'Copies of the blueprints found inside Gaston Blanc's safe at Montres Ribaud. Colonel Romer says they are designs for timers – and control boxes. Take them, too. Just about all we can do now.'
There is one more thing,' Tweed said. 'I'd like to look at that barge harbour further down the Rhine where you dragged out a second body…'
'Let's all go,' Romer said. 'In my car.' He glanced at Beck. 'Your friend, Tweed, has that look in his eye.' 'What look?' 'A bloodhound. Never gives up.'
Romer led the way, followed by Tweed and Paula, Beck brought up the rear as they picked their way over a complex of rail tracks. The barge harbour was protected from the Rhine by a peninsula on which stood several large silos. Behind them oil storage tanks reared up like large white cakes.
Barges were moored three abreast alongside the river. There was a stench of oil and tar and resin Tweed associated with waterfronts. Romer paused, called back to Paula to join him. 'You've charmed the Colonel, too,' Tweed whispered.
'Phooey!' She went ahead and Romer took her arm. Using his other hand which held a baton he pointed across the oily, gliding river. 'That's France over there on the far bank.'
'And over there?' She pointed eastward. 'Germany?'
'On the nose, as you say. The dredger is still at work, I see.. .'
Tweed and Beck joined them near the tip of the peninsula. On the other side of the entrance to the harbour a line of cypresses screened a factory complex. Workmen in stained boiler suits trudged steadily about their labours.
'The dredger which hauled up the second body?' Paula asked.
'Yes,' said Romer.
He was watching Tweed who stood, hands in his coat pockets, staring fixedly at the dredger. Its dragline emerged dripping from the water, carrying a load of rocks. Nearby a barge was heeled over, its bow partly submerged. Men were working, attaching fresh cables to the stricken vessel.
'This harbour is drained regularly for silt?' Tweed enquired. The entrance is very narrow – and the Rhine flows past it.'
'Good Lord, no!' Beck explained. 'That barge carrying rocks capsized. Hence the dredger working – to haul up the cargo, clear the depths. Pure chance the first thing the dredger brought up was the body. Not a pretty sight. Bloated to an extraordinary size after long immersion.'
'And normally the harbour is never dredged for silt?' Tweed asked again.
'No. Look at the current. Sweeps straight past. So, no debris to fetch up.'
'Then how did that body drift in here?'
There was a long silence before Beck replied. Paula noticed Romer was watching Tweed closely, tugging at his moustache. A habit of his when he was intrigued, she suspected.
'We assumed it must have done,' Beck said eventually. The local police put that in their report…'
'And where was the other body dragged out of the river?'
'By the Rhine Falls at Schaffhausen. A long way upstream. So the natural assumption was the second body had floated down to here. Both were UTS men, both had street plans of Basle with the two banks marked.'
The corpse recovered here was identified because he had his papers in a waterproof wallet. What about the one at Schaffhausen?'
'Same thing. He also had his papers in a new waterproof wallet.. .'
' New? '
'Yes. Purchased in Munich. We even traced the shop.'
'Didn't that strike you as odd?' Tweed suggested. 'That the killer should leave both wallets on his victims? He could so easily have taken them away-then no connection with the UTS would have been made.'
'Yes, it did,' Beck admitted. 'We couldn't think of an explanation
…'
'The killer wanted the connection with the UTS established – in case the bodies surfaced. To point you in the wrong direction – and away from the real reason the bullion was stolen.'
That's an assumption,' Beck pointed out.
'And a very valid one, I'd say,' Romer intervened.
'Where exactly was this corpse found here in the harbour?' Tweed asked.
'Under the very lee of that far side of the harbour. The very first time the scoop was sent down it brought up this body and one large rock. We were lucky – the dredger must have scooped up the big rock first, then lifted the body. Had it been the other way round the corpse would have been smashed to a pulp – maybe never even noticed. You see the rocks it is bringing up being dropped into the barge alongside.'
Paula turned away, as though examining the inner harbour. She had a sudden vision of a corpse bloated to at least twice its original size, the huge rock smashing down and bursting it like a pricked balloon. She swallowed, took a deep breath. Beck had changed the subject.
'I don't suppose it means anything, but a bloodstained coat was discovered in a luggage locker at Cornavin Gare. Probably worn by the man who killed Gaston Blanc. Forensic have estimated his probable height and weight. Giant of a man. Here are the details.'
He handed Tweed a folded sheet which Tweed tucked in his wallet without looking at it. 'Time to go?' he suggested, still watching the dredger, the barge alongside.
'Nothing more here for us,' Beck agreed. He talked as he joined Tweed in the walk back to the car while Paula chatted to Colonel Romer behind them. 'You like all the bits and pieces, I know. Gaston Blanc's car was discovered abandoned by the roadside near Broc, the place where the Nestle factory is. God knows why!'
'Interesting,' remarked Tweed.
'Is it? Oh, a final titbit. My assistant who sorts reports before I see them is on holiday. I've got a fool of a girl who dumps everything on my desk standing in. The titbit? A Nestle truck and its Turkish driver has gone missing en route to make a delivery to Brussels. Big deal, as the Americans would say.'
'I think we'll fly back to London tomorrow,' Tweed said, stretching out his legs in the armchair in his
