Amberg nodded to the guard at the entrance to the bank. As Marler came inside carrying his equipment the guard stopped him to examine what he was carrying.
'Do not worry, Jules,' Amberg called out over his shoulder. 'That gentleman is with me, as are the people behind him.'
Obeying Tweed's instructions, Amberg took everyone first to his private office, telling his secretary he must on no account be disturbed. Leaving the others inside the spacious room, Tweed accompanied Amberg with Newman and Paula to the vault where the Swiss opened his private box. Inside were two familiar-looking canisters. Was this really the end of their long journey, Tweed wondered as they returned to the private office.
In their absence Marler had drawn the curtains over the windows. After turning on the lights he had assembled the projector, had erected the viewing screen, had placed on the same desk the American tape recorder so he could synchronize viewing and listening.
He had removed a number of chairs from a boardroom table, arranging them in short rows like a makeshift cinema. He took the canisters from Amberg while Tweed personally made sure the door was securely locked.
Paula sat in the front row with Tweed next to her. Beyond Tweed sat Amberg with Barton Ives on his other side. In the row behind them sat a nervous Joel Dyson flanked by Newman and Cardon. The third row was occupied in the centre by Pete Nield, his Walther in his hand, and Butler. While Marler was fiddling with his machines Nield tapped Dyson on the shoulder with the muzzle of his Walther.
'Just to remind you you're never alone,' he informed the photographer genially.
'Ready to go,' Marler called out in a neutral tone as he switched out the lights.
A harsh white light appeared on the blank screen. Tweed could hear the tape reel whirring. Then, sharp as crystal, the images began to appear…
A one-storey log cabin in a forest clearing. A short, powerfully built man in a windcheater, open at the top, exposing his thick neck, struggling with a girl with long blonde hair. One hand gripped her hair, the other shoved her in the small of the back. She was screaming at the top of her voice and Paula gritted her teeth.
The man pushed her inside the log cabin, both faces were very visible before they disappeared into the cabin.. The hard crack of the door being slammed shut. But they could still hear her screaming even with the shutters closed over the windows. Her screams stopped suddenly. Silence.
Now Paula could only hear the whirring of the machines behind her. Why did the silence seem even more awful than what they had seen so far? She was startled when the stocky man emerged by himself, closed the door, locked it, tossed the key on the roof. Why?
'Oh, my God, no!' she whispered to herself.
The answer to her question was horrifically clear. Smoke was drifting out from behind a shuttered window. Almost at once it burst into flames. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the killer. A look of sadistic satisfaction. Sweat streamed off his face.
The camera now showed the man full length. He appeared to be staring straight at the lens. Snatching a gun from his belt, he moved closer. Paula flinched back in her seat. Her hand clenched as the whole cabin seared into a flaming inferno. The girl left inside would be incinerated.
The loud crackle and roar of the huge fire made the man pause, look briefly at the dying cabin. Gun in hand, the man turned again towards the camera, began advancing towards it, his famous face again so clear, identifiable…
The screen went blank, the white glare returned, vanished as Marler switched off the machines, The audience sat as though frozen. The only sound was the click of Marler switching on lights. Paula blinked, glanced at Tweed, at Ives. It was difficult to decide which man looked grimmer.
It was Tweed who broke the silence. He leaned forward to speak to Ives across Amberg.
'Now you have your evidence. That was Bradford March, President of the United States.' He turned round, looked at Joel Dyson whose pouched lips were quivering.
'You took those pictures. Don't argue with me. I just want a simple answer. Who was the girl – the victim?'
'His secret girl friend. Cathy Willard, daughter of the San Francisco newspaper magnate.'
'So, well-heeled,' Ives commented.
'Oh, a very wealthy family. I heard later it was called an accident. She got herself shut in the cabin. The weather was cold, so she had a log fire' – Dyson was reverting to his normal loquacious self, Newman thought, as the story continued – 'a spark jumps out, sets fire to the rug and whoosh! the whole place goes up. Windows shuttered so she can't get out that way.'
'Sounds as though you wrote that version yourself,' Newman said cynically.
'No! But that's the way I heard they told it…'
'You have your evidence, Ives,' Tweed repeated, interrupting Dyson. 'It follows a similar pattern, doesn't it?'
'It does indeed. You see, March was a hick from the boondocks. It flattered his ego to make it with well- educated and wealthy women. Now you have your answer to the weird question – who would a wealthy woman driving in the dark across lonely country stop for? A man standing in the headlights of his brown Cadillac, a well- known Senator running for the White House, his mug plastered on billboards along every state highway. Maybe he pretended his car had broken down. They'd feel so safe with Senator Bradford March. It hit me suddenly that I'd found my serial killer – six women slaughtered. I have to take this film, this tape back to Washington.'
'They'll kill you thirty minutes after you leave the plane,' Newman warned.
'I have a powerful friend. He'll meet me at Dulles Airport with a large entourage, smuggle me into his house. Then it's up to him.'
'I think we'd better come with you,' Tweed said.
'I'm not coming,' Dyson protested.
'You'll be held in cold storage in Britain. After you've made a statement describing what you saw when you made the film.' Tweed's manner was harsh. 'A sworn statement made before a Swiss lawyer. That or come with us to Washington.'
'I'm not sure ethically I can release these items,' Amberg asserted.
'Ethically?' Tweed stared at the banker. 'You have to be joking. If you'd handed these over to me earlier think of how many lives would have been saved. Why did you hang on to them? You'd watched this film on your own much earlier, hadn't you?'
'Yes. When I saw what was on it I realized my own life was in danger…'
'So, ethically,' Tweed rasped, 'you kept quiet. If those are ethics I'll do without them. Amberg, from now on you had better shut up – if you want to stay alive…'
52
The man with long shaggy grey hair peered over his half-moon glasses at the entrance to the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Norton was too smart to sit in the car he'd used to follow the Tweed group from the Chateau d'Ouchy. The rush-hour traffic had helped to mask his presence behind Nield's station wagon following the familiar Espace. He was standing in front of a book-shop, pretending to study a volume he had bought at random.
Norton, staying at the Chateau d'Ouchy, had watched Tweed having breakfast from his corner table, seated by himself. He was confident that the transformation in his appearance would save him from recognition – and so it had turned out.
Called to the phone, Norton had left his breakfast to take the call in his room.
'Mencken here,' the urgent voice had begun.
'I told you not to call except in case of a major crisis.'
'Which is what I'm dropping in your lap. All our troops have been rounded up, taken away in cars. Official…'
