impulse, he decided to visit the elusive Mr Amberg.
Norton drove up a steep spiralling road which, again, the girl at the Bristol had marked for him on the map. Arriving at the summit, he saw the castle's high point was a massive keep.
Most people would have been overawed by the grandeur of the edifice. To Norton it was just the type of a monster of a building they'd erected in medieval times. A high wall surrounded the chateau and Norton scanned it swiftly before leaving his car and approaching on foot the tall wrought-iron gates which closed a gap in the wall.
He pressed the button below a speakphone with a metal grille embedded in the left-hand pillar. He'd have to hurry this up: he wanted to be out of the mountains before dusk descended on those hideous roads. A voice said something in German,
'I don't speak German,' Norton replied, muffling his American accent.
'Then kindly identify yourself,' the precise voice said in English.
'Tweed. Tweed…'
'Please be so good as to enter.'
There was the sound of a buzzer. Norton pushed at both gates. The left-hand one opened. He took out a matchbook, inserted it in the lock. He suspected the gates opened and closed automatically from controls inside the chateau. It was a trick he'd used before. And sure enough, as he walked across the paved courtyard and glanced back, the gate was closing.
As he hurried up the wide flight of stone steps leading to a massive porch he took out the Luger from his shoulder holster, held it by his side. The great wooden door swung inwards, a small portly man with black hair brushed back from his high forehead stood inside the entrance. He wore a black business suit and surprise, then alarm, appeared in his shrewd blue eyes:
'You're not Tweed.'
He was starting to swing the door shut when Norton showed him the Luger. He lapsed into his normal voice.
'Mr Amberg? Don't lie. I've a nervous trigger finger.'
'Yes, but…'
'Let's talk inside. You could catch a cold. You have two items I'm in the market for. You can make a lot of money, Mr Amberg. Let's negotiate.'
While he spoke Amberg backed inside and Norton followed still holding the Luger. He had the impression of a vast hall which was dimly lit by wall sconces.
'I have no idea of what you are talking about, Mr Tweed.'
Norton was puzzled by the emphasis the banker put on the name. His words echoed round the enormous hall. Norton, watching Amberg closely, was vaguely aware that a wide staircase climbed out of the hall to his left, climbed a considerable height. He also thought there was the silhouette of someone on the staircase.
The next moment Amberg took a handkerchief out of his pocket as though about to blow his nose. There was a click, an object landed at Norton's feet. Amberg was backing away. Grey vapour enveloped Norton and his vision swam. Swiftly holstering the Luger – Norton was no longer able to see clearly – he held his breath and grabbed for a handkerchief with his left hand. The tear-gas had reached his eyes just before he clamped the handkerchief over them. Amberg had covered his own face with his handkerchief.
Norton, able to see – but with blurred vision – turned round and headed back to the door. Removing the handkerchief, he turned the lock on the door and hauled the heavy slab open. Staggering out on to the porch, he grasped the round black iron handle, pulled the door shut, took in a deep breath.
Stumbling towards the gate, his vision was better with the cold air clearing his eyes. He'd only taken a small quantity of the stuff, mostly in his left eye. The matchbook had prevented the gate locking. In a hurry to get away, he still paused to retrieve the matchbook – he might want to use the same trick when he returned to the Chateau Noir.
He stood by his car, sucking in great breaths of the mountain air, then slid behind the wheel, closed the door quietly, turned on the ignition. The girl at the Bristol had marked an alternative route back via the D417 down the Col de la Schlucht. He'd go back that way.
He turned the car round, determined to check the second route Tweed might use to visit the Chateau Noir. His left eye was still watering as he drove carefully, expertly negotiating the bends in the road.
Norton was livid – and furious with himself. He had broken his golden rule – never act on impulse, always check out the target in advance, then send in the soldiers.
He had given in to the temptation to do the job on his own. Never again…
His great regret was that he'd not had the remotest idea what the figure which had stood on the stairs looked like. Who the hell could that have been, the figure which had fired the gas pistol? One thing was for sure – he was returning to the Chateau Noir with Mencken's complete team. Norton had observed a lot during his brief humiliation. There was a wire – presumably electrified – spanning the top of the wall which surrounded the stone monstrosity.
Norton had also noticed a stone-flagged path leading behind the chateau in the direction of the towering keep. One man on top of that with a machine-pistol could command all the exits and entrances.
He had turned on to the D417 a while back, a much more main highway. He reached a point where a large building carried the legend LA SCHLUCHT 1139. He was 1139 metres high, over three thousand feet. Norton drove on and it was then he encountered a hideous and endless spiral of hairpin bends.
At one point he stopped, marked the location on his map. To his left a sheer granite cliff rose vertically from the road. To his right the world dropped into another bottomless abyss. The cliff wall was covered with steel mesh to prevent it crumbling on to the road. A first-rate ambush point.
He was still well above the snow line as he drove on down and round icy spiral bends. Despite the risk he kept his foot on the accelerator – the light was fading. Dusk was beginning to fall over the Vosges.
Norton kept moving, meeting no traffic. He dropped below the snow line and rammed his foot down further. The lights were on in Colmar as he entered the town. He stopped outside the station, went inside to ask how to get to the Old Town, saw a huge wall map of Colmar.
He soon realized that the Old Town where the small hotels were situated was called Little Venice. Amazing how many Venices there were in Europe. The next thing to do when he'd found a room was to call the Bristol, ask to speak to a Mr Tweed. He felt sure that was where he'd hit the sack. When Tweed came on the line – if he did - he'd put down the receiver. That should twitch at his nerves. Mr Tweed didn't know it, but they'd bury him in Alsace.
31
'I expect the Vosges to be an area of maximum danger,' Tweed announced to the gathering in his bedroom at the Drei Konige.
Newman and Paula shared a couch, Butler and Nield sat in armchairs and Marler adopted his usual stance, leaning against a wall and smoking a king-size cigarette.
Marler, a member of the SIS and the deadliest marks man in Europe, had been summoned to fly from London to Basle when Tweed had phoned Monica. Of medium height and light build, he had fair hair, was in his early thirties and wore a smart check sports jacket and razor-creased slacks. He spoke in an upper crust drawl and was always crossing swords with Newman.
'Is this intuition on your part?' Marler asked. 'Or have you solid data to base your warning on?'
'Does it make any difference?' Newman snapped.
These two men were hardly mutual friends. But if it came to a firefight each knew they could rely on the other to the hilt.
'Yes, it does, old man,' Marler replied patronizingly. 'Is there any solid data?' he asked Tweed.
Since his arrival Tweed had brought Marler up to date on everything that had happened. Marler, with his fresh eye, might notice something significant they had missed.
'There is some data,' Tweed told them. 'Beck phoned me and reported that a man whose description sounds
