He squeezed past Tweed who gave him the flash. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound as they slowly mounted the staircase. Paula, who had quietly closed the front door, brought up the rear. The atmosphere of the dark staircase was eerie: she felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The closed front door shut out all sounds from the outside world. A stair tread creaked loudly as Newman stepped on it. He climbed higher, shone the torch back to illuminate the giveaway tread. Tweed and Paula stepped over it.
Arriving at the landing, Newman first pressed gently against Klara's door. It held firm. He walked over to Helen's door, saw that it was open half an inch or so. Someone had left in a hurry – so why hadn't she secured it afterwards?
With his gun still in his right hand, he used his left to push the door wider open, waited, listened. He had switched off the torch. He was listening for sounds of breathing, any sound. Nothing. He switched on the torch again, shone it slowly round, then held it motionless. With a swift movement he shone it towards the window: the curtains were still closed. He spoke over his shoulder.
'Paula, I wouldn't come in if I were you.'
That was just the sort of remark which made her determined to go inside. She followed Tweed, who took two steps inside and stopped. She saw him reach inside his jacket pocket under his raincoat, produce a pair of surgical gloves and put them on his hands. She extracted her own pair from her shoulder-bag. Newman stood very still inside the room, his torch beam held steady. He had pushed the door open with his knuckles. No fingerprints.
Tweed reached for the wall switch he'd noticed on their earlier visit, pressed it down. The pink wall-sconce lights came on and Paula saw what Newman had been staring at.
'Oh, no!'
Helen Frey, clad only in underclothes, lay sprawled back in an armchair. The front of her white slip was drenched with dark red blood. Her head flopped against the back of the chair at an unnatural angle. A savage crescent moon, blood red, circled her throat. She had been garrotted.
Tweed went close to the armchair followed by Paula. He guessed that a strong sharp wire had been used. The head had been almost severed from the body. She looked hideous with her lipsticked mouth open and her tongue protruding. The weird angle of the head was now explained. Very little remained to attach it to the body.
'Emil Voser. 4.30 p.m.,' said Paula, recalling Newman telling them about the desk diary.
'Which is probably not his real name,' Tweed commented, his eyes scanning the apartment. 'I don't think that we ought to linger here. What is it, Paula?'
She was crouched near the side of the chair. She used her index finger to point and Tweed crouched beside her. On the carpet lay a blood-stained pearl, pierced at either end as though it belonged to a string.
'Bring it with us,' Tweed ordered.
'Which means we are tampering with evidence.'
'Which means exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'But we know more about these people than anyone.'
Paula was already extracting a Cellophane specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag. She fumbled in her bag again and her right hand came out holding a pair of tweezers. She used them to tease the pearl, split along one side, into the wallet and sealed it. With a pen she wrote on the attached tab the date and Rennweg590, and slipped the wallet inside her bag. She was sniffing the air as she stood up. She began prowling round the apartment.
'Can't you smell the faint whiff?' she said to Tweed. 'I caught it as soon as we came in – someone has been smoking a cigar. Got you. ..'
From a low table concealed by the arm of the couch Paula lifted up a large glass ashtray. Inside nestled an intact roll of cigar ash. Extracting another wallet, she carefully tipped the roll of ash into the second wallet. Sealing it, she wrote only Cigar ash specimen No. 2, and put this wallet into her bag.
'I missed that. Good work,' Tweed told her.
Newman was standing by the desk near the curtained window. He was staring down at the open desk diary.
'She had no other appointments today. Only this Voser.'
'We'll go now,' Tweed decided. 'I'll leave the door, half an inch open as we found it. Move silently – mind that creaking stair. We don't want to attract Klara's attention
They stepped into a quiet street, Tweed leaving last to pull the door almost closed, his hands now wearing leather gloves. Again Cardon signalled to them from the window in the cafe. This time Newman went inside, then turned to beckon Tweed and Paula to follow him. Tweed understood his motive when he saw Klara sitting by herself at a side table with a cup of coffee in front of her.
'I'm going to talk to Klara,' Newman said. 'She might have information.'
'Good idea,' Tweed agreed after a moment's hesitation.
'So you've come back again for a frolic?' Klara greeted Newman.
Tweed smiled as they sat at her table. He ordered coffee from the waitress for himself and Newman after Paula shook her head. Her stomach was queasy. Like Tweed, she kept quiet while Newman and Klara talked.
'I'm afraid I haven't,' Newman began. 'Maybe you ought to put that cup down. I have some rather shocking news for you. Just about as shocking as you can get.'
'I've got strong nerves,' Klara told him, her expression serious. 'You need them in my business. Some of the men who come to see you.'
'That's really the tragedy in Helen Prey's case.'
Tragedy?' Klara looked down as she slowly drummed the pink-varnished nails of her right hand on the table. She looked up again direct at Newman. 'I'm tough – so don't treat me like a kid. Just tell me what's happened to Helen.'
'We came back a few minutes ago to ask her some questions we'd overlooked earlier. The front door was open, her door was open a bit. We found her inside. Murdered.'
'Oh, hell. I was always telling her to be more careful.
Which is why – if I hadn't a client – I used to open my door a crack when one of the stairs creaked. Not to be nosy, believe me. Just to try and look after her. I hope it wasn't a pervert. Did she suffer?'
'I'd say it was pretty quick. He slashed her throat open. It's not a nice sight. Did you by any chance see her four thirty appointment arrive this afternoon?'
'Yes, I did.'
'But there's no light on the staircase. In daytime the fanlight at the top gives enough illumination to see your way, but now…
'There's a time switch, lasts one minute. If you know where to find it you can switch it on from just inside the front door. Then Helen and I have switches inside our apartments we can operate. When he came upstairs she'd obviously operated her time switch.'
'So you can describe him?'
'Well, yes and no. I only open my door a crack so her client won't spot me. I'd say he was taller than you are. His feet seemed to hurt him a bit the way he was walking slowly and carefully.'
'Slim?'
'No. Pretty fat, I'd say. His black overcoat was tight across his waist and the buttons looked as though they could fly off at any moment.'
'Colour of hair?.'
'No idea. He also wore a black broad-brimmed hat pulled well down. Couldn't see his hair.'
'Describe his face.'
That's difficult too. He had a pair of those wrapround tinted glasses which covered a lot of his face. And a white silk scarf which covered more of it. I do know his feet hurt him.'
'What about his age?' Newman pressed. 'Thirty, forty, older?'
'I honestly couldn't tell. I judge a man's age by the way he moves – but coming up unfamiliar stairs with tender feet throws any body language.'
'Would you recognize him again if you saw him?'
'Only if he was dressed exactly as he was when he came up those stairs.'
'Then you'd really just be identifying the clothes,' Newman pointed out.
'I suppose you're right.'
'Sitting here, did you see him leave, get a better view?'
