the heavy door and, reluctantly, it swung inward.
'Good morning, Mr Tweed. Don't just stand there. My greetings to you, Fraulein.'
A very fat man dressed in a black suit sat behind a desk. His hair was dark and brushed back over his high forehead without a parting. Below a short pugnacious nose he sported a trim dark moustache. The door closed automatically behind them as they walked inside the office. Paula heard the lock click shut, felt trapped.
'You are Mr Tweed. You fit Mrs Amberg's description. Do sit down, both of you. Now, what exactly can I do for my latest client?'
'You are Theo Strebel?'
'The great detective himself. No impersonations here.'
As Paula followed Tweed's example, seating herself in the other hard-backed chair facing the Swiss, she found she rather liked Strebel. He radiated energy and the good humour often associated with fat men. He leaned both elbows on the desk, clasped his surprisingly small hands under his jowly chin and smiled.
'The ball is in your court, Mr Tweed.'
'I am trying to locate the new address of a brunette who lived in the apartment opposite Helen Frey
'Whose ghastly murder is written about at length in the newspaper. So?'
'I have just said what I wish you to find out. Where Helen Prey's friend went to. I only know her first name. Klara.'
'And have you any clue as to her profession? Clues are my lifeblood, Mr Tweed.'
'She was a high-class call-girl. Like Helen Frey.'
'I appreciate the description. Everyone has to earn a living. That profession can be highly dangerous – as the latest news indicates. They are entitled to charge the high fees they do for their services. Danger money, Mr Tweed.'
'I need to locate her urgently.'
'First things first. Would you be so kind as to show me some identification? Your description may fit, but I am known as the most careful man in all Zurich.'
Tweed could have produced his driving licence. Weighing up Strebel, he produced instead his Special Branch folder, a document forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent – when it had existed. Strebel raised his thick eyebrows as he studied the folder, looked at Tweed while he handed back the document.
'Special Branch? I am honoured,' he said gravely. 'You are a new experience for me.'
'I realize I have no jurisdiction here,' Tweed commented quickly.
'I was not about to make that remark.' He clasped hands under his jaw again. 'Unprecedented movements of certain people are taking place in Zurich. I get a hint of why you are here. There could be danger for me.'
'Why do you say that?' Tweed asked.
'That I cannot tell you.'
'Mr Strebel, I know you watched Rennweg 590. Could you tell me who called on Helen Frey recently – apart from Julius Amberg?'
'Ah! Julius…' The Swiss paused. 'I cannot reveal information confidential to clients of mine.'
'This is now a murder case – a particularly horrible one.'
'True, Mr Tweed. True. Let us say I observed someone from your country entering that door and leave it at that.'
'You won't even give me a hint?'
'I have already done that, Mr Tweed.'
'Thank you. Now I still need to locate Klara urgently.'
'That could take some time. Zurich is an intricate city. It has two Altstadts – the one you are now in and then another equally complex area on the other side of the River Limmat.'
'I haven't got the time, Strebel.'
'Obtaining information quickly is more expensive. My fee would be one thousand Swiss francs.'
Tweed produced his wallet. Extracting a 1,000 Swiss franc note, he laid it on the desk, his hand still resting on top of it. Strebel gave him his warm smile and included Paula in his hospitality. He was reaching into a drawer when Paula spoke for the first time.
'I've never seen such a tidy office. Not a single filing cabinet, no cupboards – just yourself and your desk.'
'Also my head.' He smiled at her again as he placed a notepad on his desk. He wrote something on the top sheet with care in a neat legible script. 'My files are stored in a bank vault. I respect my clients' confidences. Also I carry a secret filing cabinet in my head.' Strebel tore off the sheet, folded it, handed it across the desk to Tweed.
'That is the new address of Klara. She is in this Altstadt. Not five minutes' walk from the front door to this building.'
Tweed smiled, pushed the banknote across the desk. The Swiss picked it up, inserted it carefully inside a slim wallet.
'So,' Paula teased him, 'you knew all the time?'
'In my profession I charge for providing the information a client requires. Mr Tweed is paying for what I know.'
'I've said this before, Paula,' Tweed reminded her. 'It is not always what you know, it's where to find it.'
'Were you once a police detective?' Strebel asked.
A perceptive man, Tweed thought. It was the first time he'd ever been asked the question in that form.
'I was with the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard once,' he said.
'And he was the youngest superintendent the Yard had ever had up to that time,' Paula told Strebel.
'No need to go into details,' Tweed snapped.
'I can well believe it,' Strebel told Paula. 'Mr Tweed, maybe before you leave Zurich you would join me for a drink. We could exchange experiences – I mean from when you were at the Yard,' he added hastily.
' It would be my pleasure.'
Strebel accompanied them to the door after pressing a button underneath his desk. He shook hands formally with both of them and when Paula glanced back as they reached the outer door he smiled again, bowed his head.
'What a nice man,' Paula said as Tweed closed the outer door. 'I always picture private detectives as nasty little men in shabby raincoats.'
'I suspect Strebel was once a member of the Swiss police. He may well know Beck.'
Newman was waiting for them at the end of the dark corridor. He spoke to Tweed immediately.
'Someone started to come in downstairs, opened the door. I think they saw me and changed their minds. Didn't get a glimpse of who it was.'
'People calling on private investigators are often shy of being seen. We've got Klara's new address…'
Outside on the uneven pavement which, like the buildings, looked as though it had been there for centuries, Paula consulted her map. She looked to the end of the deserted square from the edge where they stood. The square was surrounded with six-storey buildings as old as time.
'Klara is living at the far side of the square. No. 10.'
The entrance hall was similar to the one they had just left. As they entered a door opened on the ground floor. A hook-nosed woman with beady eyes and dressed in a black dress peered at them.
'You want the girl who's just moved in upstairs?' Her thin lips curled. 'Some people don't care how they make their money. Mixed doubles this time, is it?'
She slammed the door before Tweed could retort. Newman led the way up the old iron-railed stone staircase. Close to the only door on this landing he stopped. Tweed and Paula stared past him The door was open a few inches.
Newman had his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand as he moved silently to the door, paused to listen, pushed the door open wider with his left hand, took a step inside, froze. He called over his shoulder.
'Paula, for God's sake don't come in here…'
