very urgent.'
'Put him on.'
'Dillon here. We have to take a decision-'
'Operator!' Tweed interrupted suddenly. 'This is a bad connection. I can't hear the caller…'
He waited. For the hotel operator to answer. For the click which would betray the fact she had been listening in. Nothing.
'Sorry, Dillon. It's all right. Go ahead.'
'Barton is in town. But so is the opposition. Believe me. Barton won't come to see you in Basle.'
'Cord, first give me a description of him. Detailed, if you please. I need to be able to recognize him.'
There was a pause. Tweed was taking no more chances -not after the fake Barton Ives, whom he was convinced had been Norton, had turned up at the Gotthard. Dillon spoke tersely.
'Six feet tall, slim build, wiry, black hair, now has a small black moustache, a small scar over his right eye – where a scumbag caught him with a knife. Speaks very deliberately. Economical in movement. Except in a crisis. Then he moves like a rocket taking off from Cape Canaveral. That enough? It had better be.'
'Enough. Today or tomorrow latest we move to the Hotel Bristol, Colmar, in Alsace. A thirty-minute train ride. He contacts me there. And so do you. In person. I'll meet you both in Colmar – together or separately. I don't give a damn. The alternative? Forget it.'
'Look, Tweed, when you're on the run…'
'By now I know at least as much as you do – maybe more – about being on the run. Time to stop running, to face the swine who don't care what methods they use. Ives must see me in Colmar. So must you. I have to go now…'
Tweed, his mood cold as ice, put down the phone. He had meant it. No more being driven from place to place by the opposition. Time to lay a huge trap for them. Probably in the Vosges mountains.
Tweed apologized to Eve as he rejoined her. She was smoking, waved her ivory cigarette holder.
'Please, say no more. I've been enjoying myself now I'm away from Zurich. Awful thing to say, but I'll always associate that city with Julius. Does that sound too too dreadful?'
Tweed noticed she must have drunk about three glasses of the Sancerre during his absence. Some of these women had heads like rocks. She showed no sign of being even slightly inebriated. He refilled her glass.
'No, it doesn't. If he gave you a bad time. The lines to London were busy. Hence my neglecting you.'
'Nonsense. As regards Julius, all those women. Ah, here is the waiter…'
They both ordered grilled sole. Tweed remembered from a previous visit that sole was particularly good at the Drei Konige. When they were alone again Eve leaned towards him, her greenish eyes holding his.
'You've changed since you made that call. You're like a pulsating dynamo now. Like a man about to do battle. I can sense the change.'
Tweed became aware that he was sitting very erect in his chair, that as he spoke he'd been making vigorous gestures. It was uncanny the way Eve had hit the nail on the head. He felt rejuvenated at the prospect of meeting Barton Ives, a man he was convinced knew a great deal about why the world was exploding about them.
He chatted to Eve about Switzerland in general until the main course arrived. They ate in silence, devouring the excellent fish. He began probing again when they had ordered their dessert. But first he refilled her glass. So far he had consumed one glass of wine and a lot of mineral water.
'How did you get here? By car?'
'Lord, no! The traffic is terrible. I flew from Zurich. It's only a half-hour flight. For some stupid reason I got to the airport at the last minute, boarded the plane and it took off.' She toyed with her half-empty glass. 'Are you still investigating the horrible murder of that woman – what washer name? Helen Frey.'
'I have other fish to fry – pardon the unintended pun. Could there be a link with her murder and the fact that she… knew Julius?'
'Why on earth should there be?'
'Just a thought. When are you leaving for Colmar?'
'Haven't made up my mind.'
'Where is Squire Gaunt at this moment?'
'No idea.' She emptied her glass. 'He comes and goes. I'm not his keeper- if I can put it that way.' She played with his sleeve. 'He's just an acquaintance – if you were thinking some thing else.'
'Never crossed my mind,' Tweed lied.
The orange mousse with Grand Marnier they had chosen was as mouth-watering as their grilled sole. Tweed was puzzled. Eve seemed so poised and interested in him. When she had finished her mousse she carefully wiped her full lips with a tissue and swung round in her chair to face him. Her jacket was open and the movement drew attention to her well-shaped breasts protruding against the white blouse. She plucked at his sleeve again.
'Why don't we have coffee upstairs in my room? It will be quieter there. And I would like to hear how you got on with Julius. He was, after all, my husband.. Please excuse me for a moment. The powder room …'
As she left the restaurant Tweed glanced across at the table where Paula sat with Newman. Paula was watching him with a half-smile, roguish. She beckoned to him, got up to meet him.
'Something fascinating you must see. There's a really weird ferry which keeps crossing the Rhine.' She led him to an end window. 'It's like a gondola. Bob says it's controlled by a wire running from the ferry to a cable which spans the river. There it is…'
In some ways the very small ferry did resemble a gondola. The stern half was roofed over with the for'ard part open to the elements. A strong current was running as it made its slow way across from the opposite bank. The craft was swaying in a brisk breeze and inwardly Tweed winced. His mind flashed back to the ferry from Padstow to Rock, the large powerboat. which had attempted to overturn them, Cardon lobbing his grenade. They watched it until it reached the side.
It carried a single passenger. A large man with his back to them. He wore a deerstalker.
'A curious contraption, that ferry,' Tweed commented.
'Your lady friend awaits,' Paula mocked him.
'I've just had a message that I have to go somewhere,' Tweed explained to Eve as they left the dining- room.
She looked at her watch, glanced at the reception clock.
'My watch is fifteen minutes slow. No wonder I nearly missed my flight at Zurich. There you go. A Swiss watch. It must have been slow for days…' She hesitated. Tweed thought she'd been going to say more, had changed her mind. 'Oh…' she said.
She was staring at the revolving entrance doors. A man in a deerstalker had just entered the lobby from outside.
'Ah! So we meet again,' a familiar voice boomed. 'What about drinks in the bar? My round…'
Squire Gaunt had arrived.
Marvin Mencken, his expression unpleasant – because he had failed again – hurried out of the Hilton Hotel in Basle to call Norton from a phone box in the station. He only had a number – a Basle phone number. Norton never gave him an address, the cunning bastard.
A bitter east wind blew through the large Bahnhof as he found the nearest phone. He took a deep breath, dialled.
'Who is it?' the abrasive voice at the other end demanded.
'Mencken here. The large team which flew with me from Zurich is in place. We've hired transport…'
'And botched up everything on the train. I saw them unloading the useless cargo. You really must get your act together this time,' Norton said in a dangerously soft tone.
'Sure thing…'
There don't seem to be any sure things. Listen. Tweed is at the Drei Konige down by the river. The profile of him says he likes fresh air, taking a walk. So this time you eliminate the competition. Or your head is on the block. Shut up and listen, damn you! This is what you do…'
This conversation, which involved the killing of Tweed, took place while the target was finishing lunch at the Drei Konige.
'Thank you,' Tweed said to Gaunt, 'but we have an urgent appointment.' He looked round at Paula and Newman who came closer, then lowered his voice to speak to Eve. 'I appreciate your invitation to join you for
