looked at him he seemed to be finally aware of her existence.
'Bristol's just down the way. You'll know where to find me. In the bar. Of course…'
The rear of the BMW was swallowed up in the mist which had now become a fog. Glancing in the mirror, Gaunt's last sight of her was a vague silhouette standing by the kerb.
At the Bristol Tweed had chosen the Brasserie for a belated lunch. After their arrival he'd spent a long time alone in his bedroom studying a map of the Vosges, checking the different routes to the Chateau Noir.
There was a more upmarket restaurant at the hotel, entered, from the reservation lobby. The waiter who met Tweed as he led Paula and Newman wore formal black jacket and trousers. His manner, as he attempted to guide them to a table, was that he was conferring an honour on them.
'I'm looking for the Brasserie,' Tweed told him in English.
'Really, sir?' The waiter's tone conveyed that he'd misjudged the quality of the client. 'Through that door, then turn left and left again.'
'This is more like it,' Tweed remarked. 'More homely. That other place you could wait an hour for the first course with a lot of chichi nonsense, removing the covers from the plate and all that rubbish.'
Paula agreed the atmosphere was more welcoming. And in contrast to the restaurant, where the guests had sat like waxworks, the few customers here were locals having an aperitif, eating a main meal.
In the main dining area a waitress led them to, the panelled walls were painted a bright ochre. The cloths on the table were a cheerful pink, Paula noted with approval. The Brasserie faced the railway station across a wide road. Tweed had chosen well.
'I think I'll have a glass of wine,' Tweed announced to her surprise when they were seated. 'We're in Riesling country. A beautiful wine.'
The waitresses, bustling about, wore white blouses, black skirts and short white aprons. Tweed ordered a bottle of Riesling when the others agreed enthusiastically.
This is when you say it's a good year,' Newman chaffed him, when a bottle of 1989 vintage arrived.
'Let's hope it is. I've no idea. Have you heard of the Chateau Noir?' he asked the waitress in French.
'Yes. Up in the mountains above the Black Lake. A bad place. It is fated.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Its strange history, sir. It was built by an American millionaire years ago. Built of granite from plans of a medieval fortress. It cost many millions of francs. He committed suicide.'
'Who did?' Tweed asked.
'The American millionaire. He jumped from the chateau into the Black Lake. No one knows why. It remained empty for years. Who would buy such a place?'
'I heard that someone did. A Swiss banker.'
'Of course. He bought it for a song. Mr Julius Amberg from Zurich. Maybe he was not superstitious. He did not think he would become dead before his time. Good luck to him. He is a nice man.'
Paula was watching Tweed, wondering whether he was going to tell her that Amberg was no longer alive. Tweed simply looked interested, asked the waitress another question.
'You said he is a nice man. You have met him?'
'Many times. When he comes to Colmar he always comes in here – to the Brasserie. For an aperitif, for a main meal.' She lowered her voice. 'He said the restaurant is for snobs, that the food here is much better and you get it quickly. I must go now…'
'Has Mr Amberg been here recently?' Tweed asked before she could rush off.
'No, not for some time. Yet when it was clear this afternoon just before dusk we saw lights in the chateau. Maybe a ghost walks there. You have decided what you would like to eat? I can come back.'
'The veal escalope panee for me, with saute potatoes.'
Tweed looked at Paula. 'What do you fancy?'
'The same for me, please,' Paula said, looking at the waitress.
'Make that three,' Newman requested.
The waitress darted away. Paula, who was facing the rear of the Brasserie, stared at a huge mural painted in oils above the door leading to the kitchen. It depicted a small lake sunk in the grim heights of the Vosges. Tweed followed her gaze.
'I wonder if that's Lac Noir,' she mused. 'If, so, it looks pretty forbidding. And what a strange story she told us about Chateau Noir. Obviously Walter Amberg doesn't patronize the Brasserie.'
'Walter,' Newman commented, 'from what I've seen of him, would patronize the restaurant, silver-plate covers and all that jazz.'
'From what we've gathered,' Tweed pointed out, 'Amberg has only been at the chateau for two or three days. It was interesting to hear that the place is occupied. The lights the waitress mentioned.'
'We are going up there to beard him in his den, aren't we?' Paula enquired.
'It's one reason why we came here. Incidentally, I don't want to spoil your meal, but I think the opposition has already arrived. As we walked through the restaurant I noticed six men sitting at a quiet table in a corner. I also caught a snatch of conversation – with an American accent. They're not pleasant-looking characters.'
'But why here, for Pete's sake?' Paula asked.
'In Zurich there is a whole number of first-class hotels. In Basle there are only two, the Drei Konige and the Hilton – if you prefer that. Here the only major hotel is the Bristol. It's logical some of them would choose to stay here. They may even have detected its strategic position.'
'Strategic in what way?' Paula wanted to know.
'If their objective is also the Chateau Noir then we are on the right side of the town. From here we can drive straight into the outskirts across the railway and up into the Vosges. We practically bypass Colmar.'
'There's a heavy fog drifting in,' Newman remarked.
Twisting round in her seat, Paula looked at the windows fronting on the street and hung with net curtains. For customers coming in off the street there were double doors leading into the Brasserie.
Newman was right. As she watched the fog seemed to grow denser every minute. The blurred headlights of crawling cars appeared, disappeared in the milky haze. And the temperature had dropped swiftly. A man came in through the entrance and briefly a current of ice-cold air drifted into the Brasserie.
A waiter, wearing a white shirt, black trousers and a long apron tied round his waist, went to push the door shut quickly. Outside stooped silhouettes of people hurrying home as fast as they dared passed beyond the windows.
'I like this wine,' Tweed said, finishing off his glass. 'It really is a very good Riesling.'
Out of the corner of her eye Paula saw Newman refilling his glass. She turned round, picked up a bottle of Perrier the waitress had brought, topped up Tweed's water glass.
'You'll end up floating,' she teased him.
'Riesling is my favourite wine. It helps me to think. I'm going to order another bottle.'
'Any excuse is better than none,' she teased him.
She twisted round again. The ghostly tableau of cars and people beyond the window fascinated her. Then she stiffened. A woman had hauled open the door, came inside looking frightened to death. Jennie Blade. She spotted Tweed, ran to his table. 'I've been followed again,' she burst out. 'By the man with the wide-brimmed hat.'
Her blonde hair glistened with fog vapour. Her eyes were wild. Tweed stood up, walked round the table, pulled out a chair for her which faced his. Returning to his seat he sat down, gazed at her as he spoke.
'When did this happen?'
'Just now. He damn near caught up with me. Thank God this place was so close. The same man – following me with his bloody wide-brimmed black hat, turned down so I couldn't see his face. I'm scared to death, Tweed.'
35
'I need a drink,' said Jennie as she took off her coat, draped it over the back of a nearby chair. 'Brandy.'
'No spirits at the moment,' Tweed advised. 'You are in a state of shock. Try a glass of this Riesling.'
