be eliminated by eliminating Norton. Maybe things were now looking good. He opened a bottle of beer, drank from it and wondered about the Holy Trinity.
Senator Wingfield was alone in his study with the curtains closed against the night. He was also drinking but his beverage was Brazilian coffee from a Royal Doulton service arranged on a silver tray. He was studying a typed message which had come special delivery from Europe. No indication on the sheet of paper of the whereabouts of the sender – except the stamps were Swiss.
'That's right, Galloway,' he said to himself, referring to the Vice President. 'When the bullets start to fly keep your head down.'
The experienced Senator was cynically amused that this communication had come direct to him. He could imagine the brief phone conversation Jeb Galloway had had with his FBI contact.
'Barton, from now on I guess it would be best if any further communication was sent direct to Wingfield…'
The message was very direct – and highly dangerous if it got into the wrong hands. The Oval Office, for example. Events appeared to be moving to a climax and the Senator knew he was going to have to devote thought as to how to handle a potentially explosive situation. The ball was now in his court.
Have positive evidence as to identity of six-serial murderer in the South. Expect soon to have conclusive data. Will then communicate with you again – in person if at all possible. Barton Ives.
'Meet Joel Dyson,' Newman said, introducing his captive to Tweed, who had climbed down from the Espace. 'At long last,' he added.
Garden, who always seemed equipped with everything, had produced a pair of handcuffs inside the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Dyson's hands were now pinioned behind his back and Butler, who was holding him by one arm, had shown him his Walther. The slim little man, his hair dishevelled, stared at Tweed.
'I'm going to complain to the British consul. I'm still a British citizen.'
'I have a better idea,' Tweed suggested. 'We can hand you over to the American Embassy in Berne. I'm sure there's a man very high up in Washington who would be happy to meet you.'
'Blimey, guv, for Gawd's sake don't do that. Like handing a Christian to the lions,' he pleaded in his best cockney mimickry.
'Some Christian,' Newman commented. His voice hardened. 'Don't play silly games with my chief. He means what he says.'
'God, no! I'm begging you…'
Dyson's nerve had broken suddenly. Tweed looked down at the man who had sunk to his knees, his body shaking with terror. He pursed his lips with distaste, nodded to Butler.
Take him to the station wagon. Keep him quiet while we drive to Ouchy. I'll question him later.'
Dyson opened his mouth to scream. Newman clamped a gloved hand over the mouth before it could utter a sound. Nield twisted his handkerchief into a gag, inserted it inside Dyson's mouth, tied it at the back of his neck. Butler and Nield carried him away to the station wagon. Tweed and Paula listened as Newman gave a brief account of what had happened inside the bank.
'Karin, Amberg's kidnapped assistant, is in better shape than you'd expect,' Newman reported. 'She insisted on staying back to make coffee for herself and the guard Dyson coshed when he first arrived with Karin. You're looking impatient,' he ended.
'I think we ought to get out of Basle like bats out of hell,' Tweed ordered. 'The sooner we reach Ouchy the happier I'll be.'
'Who was that funny little man your people carted away?'
The voice called out from the back of the Espace – Eve Amberg's.
'A minor member of the opposition,' Tweed called back quickly.
'Eve does like to know what's going on,' Paula commented. 'Unlike Amberg, who seems to have thrown in his hand.'
A door slammed. Newman and Cardon were aboard. Cardon took up his old position next to the Swiss banker while Newman sat behind Paula. Tweed replied as he started the Espace moving, heading out of Basle, 'Amberg is sitting there with a grim expression. Typical that he hasn't enquired if Karin is all right. But he always was the cold fish of the two brothers as I recall. Let me concentrate on driving,' Tweed said brusquely.
Paula glanced at him. What he really meant was – let me concentrate on thinking this thing out.
They were well south of the city, driving with the Jura mountains rearing up to their right, when Tweed began talking to Paula in a voice which wouldn't carry to his passengers in the rear.
'I was right in my theory about two different jigsaws interlocking, that one wouldn't exist without the other. Two quite different styles of murder have been committed, which suggests two different groups are involved.'
'Two different styles of murder? That's a graphic phrase,' she remarked. 'Explanation, please.'
'The blowing up of our headquarters at Park Crescent, the bomb thrown at me in Zurich, the planned demolition by explosives of the Kaysersberg bridge, the second use of demolition by explosives of that cliff up in the Vosges. All those are what I'd call organization acts, requiring the services of a large and powerful apparatus. In short, Norton and the Americans. That is one distinctive style of attempted murder.'
Tweed accelerated a little more. There was no other traffic on the road below the mountains. He was anxious to reach Ouchy, to question Joel Dyson, to compel
Amberg to produce the film and the tape, and to hear the rest of Barton Ives' story. Paula glanced back and saw Ives, seated next to Newman, staring out into the night with a far-away look.
'You said two different styles of murder,' she reminded Tweed. 'What about the second style?'
'Highly individual. One person, disguised as the postman, arrived at the manor, knifed the butler, walked into the kitchen, sprayed the staff with tear-gas, then marched into the dining-room with a machine-gun and mowed down the seven people sitting there. Cold-blooded, audacious.'
'Not Norton, you mean?'
'A different style from Norton. Then take the hideous garrotting of the call girl Helen Frey and her friend Klara. I think the killer had a wire garrotte disguised as a string of pearls – hence the single blood-stained pearl found in Prey's apartment.'
'How do you think it was managed with such horrific skill?'
'Oh, not difficult. You offer to loop the pearls round Prey's neck so she can see how she looks in them. What woman could resist such an offer? Same technique with Klara.'
'A man,' Paula said thoughtfully. 'Maybe he even offered to give them the pearls. That would be irresistible.'
'Again an individual murder – as opposed to Norton's mass killing attempts.'
'But what about that nice detective, Theo Strebel? He was shot,' she reminded him.
'You'd hardly play the murderous trick with the pearl garrotte on a man, would you? But I'm sure he was shot by someone he knew, who put him off his guard. Again an individual murder. Don't forget the Shadow Man with the wide-brimmed hat who stalked Jennie Blade.'
'Butter wouldn't melt in Jennie's mouth. That type of woman always makes me suspicious.'
'It couldn't be simply that you dislike her?' Tweed probed.
'Men can be very naive about attractive women,' Paula persisted. 'Especially when a woman like her gazes at a man adoringly. And much earlier Jennie remarked she'd seen Eve in Padstow about the time of the massacre. I think she was lying, but it could be a significant lie.'
'In what way?' Tweed enquired.
'It suggests that Jennie herself could have been in Padstow at the time of the massacre.'
'You could be right, I suppose.'
'And,' Paula went on, in full flood, 'I only caught a glimpse of the fake postman who killed all those people, riding along the drive up to the mansion.'
'Which suggests something to you? Remember Jennie has a mane of golden hair.'
'There again men don't know enough about women. Jennie could have piled up her hair on top of her head. That fake postman wore a uniform cap which could conceal the hair. It was a cold day so I didn't think it odd that the figure on the cycle wore a cap – it was a very cold day.'
'I still find it difficult to believe,' Tweed commented.
'And now she's gone off with Gaunt, who, according to Butler, was in the devil of a hurry to get to Ouchy in
