'Baur-en-Ville. Now look here, buddy…'
Then get back inside your hotel now. And don't come out again tonight.'
'Christ! You can't do this
'The Baur-en-Ville. Now! Or I'll haul you off in that police van over there and you can spend the night in a cell. Arrested as a suspect character.,.'
The American swore foully, pulled up his collar, walked off in the direction of the hotel. Other Americans, similarly accosted, were leaving, trudging off through the drizzle which had given the street a surface like a band of wet blue leather. All was quiet in minutes.
In the restaurant Paula sat opposite Ives. She thought he looked more like a teddy bear than ever with his ice-blue button eyes, his closely trimmed brown hair. He looked up from his menu and smiled, the most charming smile. So why did she feel disturbed?
Tweed sat beside her with Newman opposite him. They had a table by the wall with no one near them. Tweed was studying his irienu when he asked Ives the question.
'I heard a rumour that while you were in Memphis you had another job, investigating a spate of serial murders in different states.'
Ives hesitated for a fraction of a second. Paula was watching him, felt he was unsure whether to reveal dangerous information.
'Hell,' Ives addressed Tweed, 'that was one of my failures. I spent months on that grim case, got nowhere. Serial murderers are the most difficult to catch. Murcall, my old boss, switched me to checking Galloway, the embezzlements.'
'Which was not one of your failures,' Tweed observed, 'even though you were later removed from that case.'
He ordered the same as Paula had chosen, filet de fera with boiled potatoes, a fresh salad and mineral water to drink. Ives plumped for lobsters – this was a lobster bar and the German word for lobster was Hummer. Newman once again ordered his favourite dish which he had lived off at main meals since they arrived – emince de veau with rosti potatoes. He drank white wine while Ives ordered half a bottle of Beaujolais. When the waiter had gone Tweed continued asking questions, gazing at Ives.
'Why would Galloway want you killed since you had no evidence strong enough, no witnesses left alive to confront him with in an American court of law?'
'Galloway,' Ives responded promptly, 'is a success in both business and politics. He made it by taking no chances, leaving no loose ends. I'm a loose end.'
Paula sensed Ives was tense. Whenever a new customer entered the restaurant he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Newman was unusually silent. Only Tweed seemed completely relaxed as he glanced slowly round the restaurant.
The dining-room was oblong, divided from the bar with sheets of frosted glass which had Edwardian couples etched on its surface. The main colour motif of the room was red. The ceiling was divided into large crimson panels, the walls were covered with carmine velvet. The small table lamps which provided the main illumination had crimson shades and the tablecloths were pink.
Paula thought it was a daring decor which could so easily have been chichi. But it worked: the whole atmosphere of the Hummer Bar suggested a warm and welcoming intimacy. She felt relaxed – except for an aura of tension which seemed to originate from Barton Ives. She thought she now understood it – Ives probably hadn't relaxed for a second since leaving the States. Now he was finding it difficult to adjust to the pleasant and secure surroundings. Other tables were full but the restaurant wasn't noisy. Just a gentle chatter and the occasional chuckle of pure enjoyment.
'I wonder who those guys were standing about outside in the rain,'Ives said suddenly.
'Doesn't matter now,' Tweed told him. 'They've all gone, I heard. Chased away by the police.'
The police?'
'That was what I heard at reception.'
'You think those characters knew I'd arrived here?'
'I very much doubt it,' Tweed reassured him. 'I expect they were looking for me. Oh, by the way, have you taken a room here in your own name?'
'Had to, didn't I?' Ives flared up. 'I told you – I'm not carrying any phoney papers.'
'I check details,' Tweed told him quietly. 'Our job is to protect you. How is Dillon? And how did you happen to meet him here in Zurich?'
'Jesus Christ! One question at a time.' Ives quietened down. 'Cord is restless, jumps at his own shadow. I met him by accident in Sprungli. He didn't immediately know who I was when I sat opposite him. I was wearing tinted glasses. Damned near fell off his chair when he realized it 'was me.'
'How did you two first meet?' Tweed went on. 'The Deputy Director of the CIA doesn't normally have contact with the FBI. The CIA isn't supposed to operate inside the United States.'
'But they do when it suits them. I found the head man of a sabotage ring Cord was looking for. He was always grateful for that.'
'He would be…'
Their meal arrived and no one spoke as they consumed the excellent food. Paula, who ate quickly, as usual finished first. She watched Ives handling his lavish helping of lobster. When they had all finished Ives reached into his pocket.
'Goddamnit, I've left my cigarettes in my room. Won't belong.'
Newman offered his pack of Silk Cut.
'Thanks,' Ives said, 'but I only smoke Lucky Strike…'
'Seems very edgy,' Newman commented after Ives had gone.
'You can understand it – after what he's been through,' Paula countered. 'Who wouldn't be?'
'We'll wait for coffee until he gets back,' Tweed said and checked his watch.
Ten minutes later Tweed suddenly stood up. He put his hand on Paula's shoulder to keep her in her chair.
'Bob, I want to make an urgent call. Your room is much closer than mine. Could I borrow your key?'
He was absent for longer than Paula had expected. When he came back into the restaurant he asked the waiter for the bill, scribbled his room number and signature. Hurrying to the table, he remained standing, leaning forward and keeping his voice down.
'Did Ives return?'
'No, he didn't,' Paula said, alarmed. 'Is something the matter?'
'You could say that. I've phoned police headquarters -luckily Beck had flown in from Berne to check the situation after my first phone call. He's on his way over with a team of specialists.'
'Specialists?' Newman queried. 'What kind?'
'His top man with a machine-pistol. And a chemist with his equipment. Plus a bomb squad team.'
'What on earth for…'Paula began.
'Beck is in the entrance now,' Newman told Tweed.
They walked over to where the Swiss police chief waited, fresh as paint in his business suit, calm in a crisis.
'I have this Barton Ives' room number from reception and a master key,' Beck said as he ushered them out of the restaurant.
'I could be wrong about this,'Tweed warned.
'Never known your instinct to be wrong yet. I have armed guards at either end of the corridor where his room is. And I'd like to have your room key for the chemist and the bomb squad. Thank you…'
Mystified, Paula and Newman stood with Tweed and
Beck as the lift ascended. Beck stepped out first, looked in both directions, waved for them to follow him out. He was striding ahead of them when Newman asked Tweed what the devil was going on.
'For one thing, my room lock has been tampered with since we came down to dinner. I was careful not to turn the key, let alone go inside. Also the so-called Barton Ives had the wrong answers to quite a few questions.'
'So called?' Paula repeated.
