down by the lake. The bullet holes in the windscreen and windows attracted their attention. There was blood on the rear seat. Do you have to take such risks?'
'Zurich seems to be the battlefield. So perhaps you'll be relieved to hear I'm flying to Basle tomorrow.'
'There will be plain-clothes men watching you all the time. Good night. Stay in your hotel until you're leaving…'
Tweed put down the phone. He looked at Newman.
'Bob, I doubt if that girl at the Zurcher Kredit you seem to get on with is still there, but try. I'd like to be quite sure Amberg is still in Basle…'
Newman dialled the number of the Zurcher Kredit. The same girl answered immediately. The Swiss worked late.
'Bob Newman here again. Sorry to keep bothering you.'
'That's all right. I'm catching up on finding things out. I am new here, after all.'
'I wanted to double-check that Mr Amberg is still in Basle. In case I have to call him in the morning at an early hour.'
'Yes, he's definitely there. Will be for a few days. And someone else wanted to know – besides the man with the growly voice who phoned earlier. This time before I told the new caller I asked for a name and looked at the client file. He is a client of the bank. I think he wanted to see Mr Amberg urgently.'
'Could you possibly give me that name?' Newman coaxed.
'I suppose I shouldn't, but you're always so polite, unlike a lot of the clients.'
'So the name was?'
'Joel Dyson.'
27
The express train from Zurich to Basle thundered across northern Switzerland. Tweed sat in a first-class compartment with his case on the seat beside him while Paula sat opposite. Across the central aisle Newman occupied the seat next to the aisle while Cardon sat in the next two seats by himself. Cardon was in a corner, facing Tweed so he had a good view of him diagonally.
'We are not flying to Basle,' Tweed had announced in his hotel room before they left. 'Philip has been over to the Hauptbahnhof and bought return tickets for all of us to Basle.'
'Why the train?' Paula had asked.
'Because it's quicker for a start. Driving out to the airport, waiting to board a flight, taking a cab from Basle Airport, which is half an hour's journey – it all takes longer. Also, we can slip away more easily with the station just across the way.'
'But you told Beck you were flying there,' she reminded him.
'So I did.' He had smiled. 'I don't want to be hemmed in by his protectors. In any case, I have my own. I'll call him from the hotel in Basle…'
Paula sat looking round the sparsely populated compartment, alternately gazing out of the window. So far there were few mountains on this trip. They were travelling through industrial Switzerland, where many factories stood close to the railway line.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone approaching their compartment. She glanced in the direction of the automatic door. A tall monk had entered. He wore a dark robe, his waist spanned with a rope girdle. A hood was pulled over his head and he had a pair of hornrimmed glasses perched on his nose. She slid her hand inside her shoulder bag, gripped the butt of the Browning.
The train was swaying round a bend as the monk, carrying a case in his left hand, made his slow progress towards them. Newman had seen Paula's reaction. He glanced quickly in a mirror, saw the monk coming, slipped his hand inside his jacket, rested his hand on the Smith amp; Wesson.
Tweed, apparently absorbed in writing names on a pad, linking them with different permutations, sensed the tension. He glanced up as the monk arrived alongside him. At that moment the express lurched again as it roared round a curve.
'The monk's case hit Tweed's, toppled it over on the seat. Tweed stared at the face under the hood. Cord Dillon.
The uniformed conductor who had checked their tickets a few minutes earlier left another first-class compartment which had been empty. Not many people travelling at this time of year. It was early March.
Out of a lavatory where the door had been open a few inches a tall heavily built man stepped into the deserted corridor. At this point no other passengers were visible.
'Ticket, sir,' the conductor requested.
'Sure, buddy. Got it here somewhere…'
The American glanced in both directions. No other passengers in sight. The train swayed again. The conductor, accustomed to the movement, stood quite still, feet splayed.
The American, as tall as the conductor, appeared to lose his balance. He lurched against the conductor. The flick knife concealed behind him appeared, was rammed swiftly up through the open jacket and between the ribs of the conductor. As he grunted, sagged, the American grabbed him and hauled the body inside the lavatory, used an elbow to close the door. He lowered the body on to the seat, locked the door. Checking the neck pulse he felt nothing.
Swiftly he began the awkward task of removing the conductor's uniform – jacket, trousers and peaked cap. As he stripped off his own suit, folded it roughly, shoved it inside a plastic carrier, the eyes of his victim stared at him.
Tucking the carrier behind the seat, the American took out a penknife. He opened the door a few inches, saw no one. From the outside he used the penknife to move the small notice which indicated that the lavatory was occupied.
Straightening his cap, he checked his watch. Only a few minutes left before the train stopped at Baden. Mencken had a car with a driver waiting there to take him back to Zurich. He checked the Luger tucked inside his shoulder holster to make sure he could whip it out quickly from under the jacket, felt the handle of the second flick knife tucked inside his belt. The jacket, buttoned up, was a little tight across the midriff, but who notices a conductor? Holding the instrument used to clip tickets in his left hand he made his way back to the first-class compartment where Tweed was sitting. He'd be able to kill him and any guards in seconds…
Three things happened at once as the 'monk' toppled Tweed's suitcase. Newman rammed his revolver into Cord Dillon's back. Paula's Browning appeared in her hand. Tweed held up a hand to indicate all was well.
'My apologies,' Dillon whispered to Tweed, relieved when the gun muzzle was withdrawn from his back. 'The train lurched…'
As he spoke he dropped a card with writing on it in Tweed's lap. The message was terse, clear.
Barton Ives is aboard the train. Where can he meet you? Not on this train.
'No need to apologize,' Tweed said in a low tone. 'You can both contact me at Hotel Drei Konige – the Three Kings – in Basle. Sooner speak to you first.'
'Thank you, sir,' said Dillon.
He proceeded on through the compartment, carrying his bag. The last Tweed saw of him was when he disappeared beyond the compartment door. Paula leaned forward.
'What was all that about? I nearly shot him.'
'That was Cord Dillon. He did take a chance, but he's on the run still, obviously. On the train that outfit is a perfect disguise.' He folded the card, tucked it inside his wallet without showing it. 'He had an urgent message for me. We could take a mighty leap forward at Basle.'
'How in Heaven's name did he know you were on the train?'
'Because he's a trained observer, one of the best in the world. I can only guess – I imagine he saw us leaving the Gotthard for the Schweizerhof. He could have been up all night watching the hotel exit from the station across the Bahnhofplatz. That station never goes to sleep.'
Tweed,' Paula persisted, speaking loud enough for Newman to hear her, 'there must be danger aboard this
