picked the American's pocket. Yes, Beck was a fox, Tweed said to himself. He stood up to leave.
'Sit down for a moment more,' Beck urged. 'Since that episode I had a call from another visitor at the Baur- en-Ville – an individual I suspect could be the leader of the new contingent. A Mr Marvin Mencken.'
'And what did this Mencken want?' Tweed asked.
To report the loss of the diplomatic passport. He said his assistant had had his pocket picked, that I should know which petty thieves patronized Bahnhofstrasse and would I trace the criminal and return the passport within the next twenty-four hours. A very unpleasant man, this Mencken. One of my men, disguised as a street photographer, tried to take his picture and he smashed the camera.' He paused. 'The photo is a good one.'
'But you said the camera was smashed,' Paula reminded him.
'I said just that. But the first man in civilian clothes was a decoy. While his camera was being smashed a backup man took another picture. You might like copies…
Opening a drawer, Beck took out an envelope and extracted four glossy prints. Paula studied her copy. The slim man's face came out clearly, a foxy face twisted into an expression of cold fury.
'A savage-looking brute,' she commented.
'Not the sort of chap you'd invite to your London club,' Newman remarked ironically.
'Keep those pictures,' Beck advised as his guests prepared to leave. They might save your lives…'
'Who is it?' Norton answered the phone in his usual abrasive tone.
'Marvin here…'
'Get to it, Mencken. Any news? There should be by now, for Christ's sake.'
'It's Tweed. He's just returned from a visit to Amberg's wife, Eve. I had the news ten minutes ago…'
'Why the hell didn't you report earlier, then? Tweed? I want him taken out – before he reaches Dyson, Dillon or Ives. Especially Ives
…'
Tweed's at Zurich police headquarters now…'
'Then organize it. I want him carried away in a box before tonight. Just do it…'
Outside police HQ a black Mercedes was parked. Butler sat behind the wheel. A short distance away Pete Nield stood, taking a great interest in the River Limmat.
'Our next port of call is Helen Prey's apartment at Rennweg 590,' Tweed told Paula and Newman. 'It's only a short distance on foot.'
'Our next port of call is lunch,' Paula said firmly. 'My stomach is rumbling.'
Tweed agreed reluctantly. He seemed to be able to go for hours without food once he'd picked up a scent. Newman said he was starving too.
'The Baur-en-Ville is close,' Tweed said. 'We'll get a quick meal there.'
'I'll trail along behind you,' remarked Cardon, who had heard every word.
'Then first go over and tell Butler to take Nield back to the Gotthard for something to eat…'
The Baur-en-Ville's lunch bar is entered by climbing curved steps just off Bahnhofstrasse. Newman led the way as the automatic doors slid back. He scanned the few customers as he walked inside. The bar is a split-level room with a curved bar on the ground level. At the back steps lead up to the second tier which is separated from the lower level by a low wooden wall topped with a gleaming brass rail.
Newman walked up the steps, chose one of the blue leather banquettes with its back to the wall. Illumination came from lights recessed in the ceiling. Paula thought the atmosphere was luxurious and welcoming. While she sat with Tweed on the banquette Newman went back down to the bar for a pack of cigarettes.
Tweed was studying the menu when Paula nudged him. He looked up.
'That man who has just come in from the hotel entrance and stopped at the bar. The tone of this place has dropped to zero.'
At that moment, Mencken, standing at the bar, glanced up at the second tier. His cadaverous face froze for a second in an expression of vicious hardness, his foxy eyes bored into Paula's. She slowly switched her gaze as though interested in the other customers. Tweed noted the soulless blank eyes as he also looked round the bar.
Seated at a small table by the door, Cardon's right hand had slid inside his windcheater, was gripping the butt of his Walther. Mencken appeared to change his mind and walked rapidly back into the hotel. He had not noticed Newman.
Later, Tweed ate his club sandwich of smoked turkey, egg and bacon with great gusto. His manner was buoyant.
'It's starting – what I hoped for. The enemy is crawling out from under the rocks. Remember Cord Dillon warned us photos of myself and you, Paula, had been taken from his safe in Langley? That walking skeleton recognized us,' he said with great satisfaction.
'What a perfectly horrible thug,' Paula commented. 'And while I remember it, why are we visiting Helen Frey? I've always wanted to see a call-girl's apartment, particularly a high-class one. It will add to my experience.'
'Helen Frey may have vital information,' Tweed explained. 'During one of his visits Julius Amberg may have indulged in pillow talk…'
Only one person noticed something unusual as they entered Bahnhofstrasse. Philip Cardon, strolling well back from them, observed a cripple in a battery-operated wheelchair emerge from an alley-way. The wheelchair kept pace behind Tweed and his companions.
19
Rennweg was a narrow street of shops which led off Bahnhofstrasse at a slanting angle. No. 590 had a closed door with a metal grille speakphone beside it. Tweed pressed a button below the grille, wondering what he was going to say to a professional call-girl. Best to improvise on the spur of the moment.
' Ja? ' a soft feminine voice answered in German.
'Helen Frey?' he asked.
'Ja.'
'I only speak English. I'm a friend of Julius Amberg, the banker. Zurcher Kredit, Talstrasse. I was given your name.'
'You sound OK,' the voice replied in English. 'Come up – push the door when the buzzer goes…'
Tweed leaned against the door and it swung inward, revealed a straight staircase. Followed by Paula and Newman, he mounted the stairs quickly. A door opened at the top landing and Paula stared at one of the most attractive women she had ever seen.
A natural blonde, Helen Frey had a long face, a shapely nose and full lips, emphasized with red lipstick. She gazed back at Paula, turned her attention to Tweed and spoke in English again.
'What the hell is this? I don't do foursomes.'
She was closing the heavy door. Tweed used shock tactics. He rammed his foot between the door and the frame. The girl, twenty-eight or so, Paula guessed, wore a smart blue figure-hugging suit. Her other hand appeared, holding a wide flick knife. There was a loud click as the blade shot out.
'Julius Amberg is dead, murdered in England,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'm concerned about a lot of money. This is my assistant, Paula, and my adviser, Newman. A lot of money,' he repeated.
She studied Paula again, then Newman, who stared back with no particular expression. Tweed folded his arms, a pacific gesture, and kept his foot in the door. She nodded as though answering a question she had asked herself.
'You'd better come in, then.'
'I'd feel happier if you put away that knife,' Tweed told her. 'All we want is a discussion. I am willing to pay a reasonable fee. I appreciate your time is valuable,' he ended without a trace of sarcasm.
'I did say you could come in.' She held up the knife and there was another click. The blade shot back inside its sheath. 'Feel more comfortable now, Mr…?'
'Tweed. Now we're all introduced.'
Discreetly, Paula glanced curiously round the large sitting-room. The main colour motif was pink, which
