'Never.'
'Ever see him in Zurich?'
'No. Always here in Basle.'
'How many times have you seen him?'
'Five. Six. No more.'
'Within what space of time?'
'Couple of days.'
'Is his surveillance on you getting more frequent?'
'Yes, it is, Tweed. What the hell am I going to do?'
'You're staying at the Bankverein apartment with Gaunt?'
'Yes. He's not always there. As I told you.'
'You're going back there now. I'll get a taxi for you. Stay inside until Gaunt returns. Tell him about the Shadow Man.'
'You have to be joking. He'd say it was a figment of my imagination.'
'I'll get that taxi…'
The concierge, who had just returned on duty, phoned and a taxi arrived in five minutes. Tweed accompanied Jennie outside into the icy cold – it seemed even more Siberian. She kissed him on the cheek before leaping inside.
'We must see each other again,' were her last words.
Tweed remained standing outside on the pavement for a short time. He wanted to be sure no one was following Jennie. He was also beginning to think she was telling the truth. Her story about the Shadow Man bothered him. He was turning to go inside when a white BMW appeared, pulled up in front of the hotel with a jerk and screeching brakes.
Gaunt jumped out. He handed the car keys to a porter who had come out through the revolving doors.
'Park my car for me. I'm staying here. Gaunt is the name.' He clapped Tweed on the shoulder.'What a splendid welcome. You guessed I was coming! Brrr! It's cold out here. Forward march to the bar. The drinks are on me…
Two double Scotches,' he told the barman when they were comfortably seated in an otherwise deserted bar. 'And hurry them up. Need some internal central heating, my good man.'
'No Scotch for me,' Tweed said firmly. 'Mineral water.'
'Can't cope with alcohol, eh? A man of your experience. Shame on you, sir.'
'You ought to take more care of Jennie,' Tweed told him bluntly. 'She's scared out of her wits – someone is following her, someone I don't like the sound of.'
He waited while Gaunt doled out money to the barman and added a meagre tip. Gaunt raised his glass.
'Here's to survival of the fittest. Down the hatch.'
'I said Jennie is being followed by an unknown man. He's tracking her, prior to something pretty unpleasant happening, I fear.'
'Stuff and nonsense! She gets these fancies. She's an attractive-looking filly. Of course men notice her, try to get to know her.'
'Gaunt!' Tweed hammered his glass down on the tabletop. 'Keep quiet and listen. In Zurich a girl called Klara was foully murdered – her head was damned near severed from her neck. Garrotted. Someone saw the murderer leaving. Their brief description fits the man following Jennie. Don't you care a fig?'
He watched Gaunt closely. His visitor had worn a camel-hair coat which now lay thrown across a chair. He was clad in a check sports jacket, a cravat with a design of horses' heads, corduroy trousers and hand-made leather shoes. His sandy hair was windblown. His grey eyes above a strong nose stared back at Tweed. His mood had suddenly become serious and his firm mouth was tightly closed. Tweed thought he glimpsed the ex-Military Intelligence officer.
'Think I read something about that murder in the paper. Before I left Zurich. Can there really be a link-up between that murder and this man who is supposed to be following Jennie?'
'Who is following Jennie.'
'How do you know all this?' Gaunt asked brusquely. 'Has Jennie phoned you?'
'She's been here. Was telling me about it not five minutes before you turned up. Hadn't you better get back to your apartment near Bankverein? Make sure she's all right? Now, I suggest,' Tweed said emphatically.
'She'll be safe.' Gaunt stared hard at Tweed. 'We leave early tomorrow morning for Colmar in Alsace. We'll be out of Basle by daybreak.'
'Why Colmar?' Tweed asked quietly.
'Because that's where Amberg's gone to. Place called the Chateau Noir. Up in the Vosges. I've just come from a brief visit to Mrs Kahn, his assistant at the Zurcher Kredit here in Basle. Had to put a bit of pressure on her to get that information. Thought maybe you'd like to know. Amberg must know something about his twin brother's last visit to Tresillian Manor. No one kills a guest in my house and gets away with it. I'm going now. Remember what I said. Survival of the fittest.'
Gaunt stood up, shoved his arms into his coat, walked out. Tweed sat thinking before returning to his room. Gaunt didn't strike him as a man who ladled out information without a purpose. And had there been a hint of a threat in his last remark?
32
'Norton here,' the American reported when he was connected with the President. He gave him the phone number of the Hotel Bristol. 'When you want tq contact me get Sara to leave a coded message. I'll come back to you as soon as I can…'
'Like hell you will. I need the number I can reach you at pronto. There's been a development.'
That's my best offer,' Norton snapped.
'OK, if that's the way it has to be,' March agreed in a deceptively amiable tone. 'Now pin your ears back. I've had a fresh message from the man with the growly voice. About the exchange. The big bucks for the film and the tape. Where are you? Basle?'
'No, Colmar, France. On the edge of the Vosges mountains.'
'Ever heard of a dump called Kaysersberg? I'll spell that to you. ..'
'No need. I was driving through it an hour ago.'
'Really? Department of Sinister Coincidence.'
'I don't get that… Mr President.'
'Say it was a joke. There's some crappy hotel in this Kaysersberg. L'Arbre Vert. I'll spell that. Sara says it means the Green Tree…'
'No need to spell it out. I noticed it, passing through.'
'You take a room there. Under the name of Tweed
'You can't mean it.'
'Growly Voice says you do. You wait for a call. You have the big bucks where you can lay your hands on them? The call may come tomorrow morning. It's up to you to get the film, the tape – and Growly Voice. In a box. Laid out nice and neat. You're running out of days. I said you had a deadline. Time is flying. I'm counting on you, Norton…'
'You can rely on me, Mr President…'
He was speaking into the air. March had gone off the line. Norton swore to himself as he left the phone cubicle in Colmar railway station. He'd deliberately given the Bristol number – where he'd never spend a night. He could call for messages. No way was he going to give the number of his small hotel at the edge of a stream in Little Venice.
He climbed in behind the wheel of his parked blue Renault. Switching on the ignition, he turned up the heaters. He didn't like the arrangement March had agreed one little bit. Registering as Tweed, goddamnit! Why? The blackmailer with the film and the tape had to be someone who knew Tweed, knew he was in the area.
