'You mean you never saw him again before he left? All this was over the phone?'
'It was,' she said emphatically. 'Something else I did not appreciate. He might have come to see me.' 'May I also ask how you first knew about Helen Frey?' 'Like something out of a cheap play. He was careless. Came home with traces of lipstick on his collar and he smelt of the wrong perfume. Despite smoking, I have a good sense of smell. I didn't say anything. I phoned the best private detective in Zurich to follow him. A bit sordid, but I was desperate to know the truth. He – the detective -followed him three times to Prey's place in Rennweg. That was it.'
'Would you be willing to give me this detective's name, address and phone number?'
'Of course. Name is Theo Strebel. He has a small apartment in the Altstadt – on this side of the Limmat. Here are the details…
Tweed had his notebook and pen ready, scribbled down the information. Outside the phone cubicle Newman was leaning against a wall as though waiting to use the phone. Paula appeared to be window-shopping. 'Thank you, Eve,' Tweed said. 'I'm most grateful.' 'Did you want to interview Strebel? If so, ten in the morning is the best time. He's going through his post. Would you like me to call him, introduce you, arrange a time?'
'That would be helpful. Ten in the morning tomorrow would be fine. And thank you again…
Tweed emerged and continued walking with Newman and Paula into Bahnhofstrasse. Behind them the wheelchair began moving again.
Tweed told them about his conversation with Eve. Paula guessed why he wanted to talk to Strebel, but asked him, to see if she'd guessed right.
'He's a detective – a good one, Eve said. I want to see whether he took any photos of Julius entering Helen's place.'
'Why?'Paula persisted.
'Just an idea I have. Helen said Julius was in a strange mood.'
'But she explained that,'Paula recalled.
'So she did,' Tweed agreed, and Paula knew he wasn't going to tell her any more. In Bahnhofstrasse commuters on their way home were clustered in a crowd round a tram stop twenty yards or so away. Cardon came up behind them.
'Freeze. Don't move…'
They obeyed his instruction instantly. Newman saw out of the corner of his eye that Cardon was gazing at something. He looked in that direction. A man in a wheelchair was backing it inside a side-street where there was a small modern white church Paula admired. When the wheelchair was alongside the street's far wall it stopped moving.
The man huddled inside the chair whipped back his lap rug. He showed startling agility. His right hand, holding something, was hoisted high, like a bowler in a cricket match about to throw the ball. A cylindrical object sailed through the air in an arc, descending to land at Tweed's feet. Garden's left hand, clawed, caught the object before it landed on the pavement. In a blur of movement he lobbed it back. It landed in the lap of the man in the wheelchair. The 'cripple' jerked upright, had one foot on the street, when there was a loud explosion.
The man who had hurled the grenade disintegrated. The relics of his body were smashed against the white wall where a red lake appeared. The wheelchair became a shambles. One wheel rolled up Bahnhofstrasse, leaving a trail of dark red blood in its wake. Paula saw a severed hand lying in the street.
As the commuters jerked their heads round Newman suddenly dropped into a crouch, his Smith amp; Wesson gripped in both hands. Behind them, five feet or so away, a man in a belted raincoat had opened a violin case, extracted a snub-nosed Uzi machine-pistol. The muzzle was aimed at Tweed as Newman fired three times in rapid succession. The sound of the shots was masked by the screeching stop of an approaching tram – the driver had seen the lake of blood spilling into the road. The man holding the Uzi was hurled back against a plate-glass window with such force it fractured as he sagged to the ground. 'Scatter!' Tweed ordered. 'Meet up at the Gotthard…'
20
Paula sat on the edge of the bed in Tweed's room at the Gotthard. Her feet were pressed hard on the floor to prevent them from trembling. She was suffering from delayed shock brought on by the events in Bahnhofstrasse. Also in the room, seated in chairs, were Newman and Cardon. Paula's mood was not helped by Tweed's – she sensed he was puzzled by something. His first words didn't help her to detect what was bothering him.
'Let's sum up what happened. While we were in the bar at the Baur-en-Ville that villainous-looking type – I'm going to nickname him the Skull – spotted Paula and myself and then hurried back into the hotel.'
'I don't see what you're getting at,' Paula said, forcing herself to speak in a calm voice.
'Have patience. We didn't spend long over lunch but when we left to walk to Helen Prey's place in Rennweg the fake cripple was waiting for us, presumably already armed with his grenade. The speed with which the Skull and his associates move is incredible. Professionals of the top rank, Hear.'
'I still don't really see what you're driving at.'
'Communications. I feel sure the wheelchair man also had a mobile phone under the lap rug which concealed his grenade. He could have used that phone without Cardon seeing him. I'm worried about Helen Frey.'
'What on earth for?' Newman intervened.
'Because the cripple must have used the phone to report we were nearing that tram-stop. Hence that man with the Uzi you dealt with was waiting for us.'
'I see that,' Paula agreed, 'but why this anxiety about Helen Frey?'
'The cripple could have reported our visit to her to the Skull. She could be in danger. Time for me to call her.'
'She has a 4.30 p.m. appointment with an Emil Voser,' Newman recalled. 'I noticed it in her desk diary. So she may be busy.'
'Then she'll indicate that on the phone.'
While Tweed was checking Frey's number in the directory Paula began talking to Cardon. She kept her voice down as Tweed dialled the number.
'Philip, I still can't understand how you were able to catch that grenade in time and lob it back. Or, Bob, how you spotted the second assassin.'
'Easy.' Cardon grinned. 'First I'm good at cricket as a bowler. But mainly it was Butler's training me on a course down at the Send manor in Surrey. In the grounds he'd throw me a live grenade with the pin out -I had to lob it over the other side of a brick wall before it detonated. He tested me first with a cricket ball. Just one of the many contingency attack situations he trained me in. So, easy.'
'You make it sound so simple,' Paula remarked, her hands pressed against the bed. 'What about you, Bob?'
'Oh, I'm getting the measure of this mob. Organized up to the hilt. It occurred to me the grenade thrower might well have back-up, so I checked all round, saw this character with a violin case. Rather old-fashioned technique – a method used by Chicago gangsters at one time, carrying a sub-machine-gun in a violin case.'
He stopped talking as Tweed put down the phone. His expression was serious. He began to put on his overcoat.
'I don't like it. I called Prey's number. No reply for a number of rings, then the phone was lifted, no one spoke, the phone was put down again. I just asked to speak to Helen Frey, gave no name. We're going back to Rennweg. I'm really worried now…'
It was dark as they approached Rennweg 590 for the second time. Again Paula and Newman walked with Tweed while Cardon trailed behind them. On opposite sides of the street Butler and Nield strolled along, pausing to gaze into shops. The cafe opposite the entrance to No. 590 was still open and Cardon slipped inside it.
Tweed was about to press the speakphone button when he stiffened. The door was not closed properly – its automatic lock had failed to work. Glancing up and down the street, he pushed gently and the door swung inward. No light on the staircase. Odd. He stepped inside, produced a pencil torch, shielded it with his hand so it gave just enough illumination to see the stair treads.
'I'd better go up first,' Newman whispered, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand.
