which lay on top of his neatly folded clothes. He gave the canvas holdalls to Sava, who took them and began to accumulate what Marler had ordered. He packed them carefully away.
Two friends of yours called here yesterday.' Sava remarked with a smile.
'I know.'
Twiddling a king-size between his fingers but not lighting it, Marler noted Sava had not mentioned one of them had been a woman. A very discreet man. Sava placed a tin ashtray on the table.
'You may smoke. Please do. I will not be very much longer.'
Every item was carefully wrapped in polythene, stacked so nothing would move. Which was important, Marler thought – considering some of the items he'd ordered.
'I seem to remember there's a taxi rank at the end of the street.' Marler recalled. 'Near the Brasserie.'
'That is so. You will be heavily weighed down.'
'One bag over each shoulder and I can carry the suitcase in my hand. Give me the Walther and a hip holster. I'll want that where I can get at it easily.'
'You are a wise man.'
Marler stripped off overcoat and jacket, fastened on the hip holster, checked the Walther's action briefly, slid a magazine Sava handed him in the butt, then slid the gun inside the holster.
Sava told him how much it would all be with a generous discount and Marler took a fat envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket, counted out thousand-franc notes.
'Take care of yourself,' Sava said as he helped Marler on with his overcoat.
Hoisting each of the holdalls on to a shoulder by the straps, Marler picked up his bag as Sava went to the door and started dismantling the fortress.
'And you take care of yourself,' Marler told him. 'I won't forget the two large brandies.'
It was a remark he was later to recall bitterly.
The man inside the darkened arcade on the opposite side of the street stayed in the shadows until Marler had disappeared. He then crossed the street, stood in front of the heavy door set back in an alcove. He glanced up and down the street. A few vague silhouettes trudging off to work in the distance. He reached up inside the alcove on his right, pulled at a small metal box which had been attached to the stone wall by suckers. When it came free he pushed aside the hood covering his head, held the box close to his ear, pressed the button which would activate the listening device.
We are closed…
Not to me. It's Marler. Marler…
The words came out clearly, quietly. He shoved the box inside the pocket of his overcoat, took a deep breath, then pressed the bell. A glaring light came on.
He had a long wait. He was used to waiting. Then the Judas window opened.
'Who is it? We are closed.'
'Marler sent me back. Marler needs something else.' the voice said in French, the language which had been used in the recording. The glaring light was extinguished.
Another wait while locks were unfastened, bolts drawn. The door swung inwards and the visitor stepped inside cautiously. Sava closed the door, switched on the light.
His visitor appeared to be of medium height, shoulders stooped. He looked fat, the buttons on his overcoat straining at the threads. He wore a scarf over the lower half of his face, a hat pulled well down over his forehead. He stood very still.
'Well?' Sava asked, an uncertain tone in his voice. 'I thought I had supplied everything.'
'A Smith and Wesson. 38.'
'He wants a second one?' Sava asked.
'Yes, he does.'
'Odd.' Sava stood hesitantly. 'He's never forgotten anything before.'
'A gun like that one over there.'
The visitor pointed. It was a reflex action on Sava's part to look behind him, although his brain told him there was no weapon on view.
As he turned round, the visitor moved swiftly. One powerful arm locked itself round Sava's neck. The other fell on his victim's left shoulder, holding him still. The visitor's arm performed a certain movement. Sava sagged in his arms, his neck broken. He was lowered to the floor on his back, a corpse in seconds. Whoever found him would see his neck turned at a grotesque angle, his eyes open, seeing nothing any more.
The visitor removed his thick motoring gloves, exposing hands wearing surgical gloves. He swiftly fiddled with the security on the door, opened it a short distance, peered out. No one about. He pulled the door almost shut behind him after putting on his motoring gloves and shuffled off down the street. He didn't want too long to elapse before the body was discovered. After all, he was entitled to his fee.
24
'I'm asking you, Craig, why did you want those descriptions I gave you of Paula Grey, Bob Newman, and Philip Cardon – to say nothing of Bill Franklin?' demanded Eve.
She was in her own room at the villa in Berne, had met Craig on the stairs, and, flashing him an inviting smile, had asked him into her room. Craig, misunderstanding her completely – as she had intended he should – had gone into her room like a lamb to the slaughter.
Now she was raving and ranting at him. He was completely thrown off balance. That a mere woman should talk to him like that was beyond his comprehension. He glared at her and attempted to quell her verbally.
'What the hell do you mean, addressing me in that tone?'
'You haven't answered by question, you piece of rubbish!' she shouted at him, standing with her hands on her hips.
'And I'm bloody well not answering your question.'
'You bloody well are,' she stormed. 'I heard you on the phone in your office last night, giving those descriptions to someone on the line. Before you rushed off to catch a plane from Belp. Does Mr Brazil know who you were phoning? That you did make that call?'
Craig's aggressiveness faded like ice melting under a strong sun. He was appalled and his expression gave him away. Eve understood the expression and knew she had him just where she wanted him. With his back up against a wall.
'That was confidential,' he said, almost bleated. 'I have duties to perform and the boss gives me wide latitude…'
'So Brazil does not know about that phone call,' she hissed at him triumphantly. 'Who the devil were you calling?'
Inwardly Craig was fearful. He had never suspected what a hellcat this woman could be. Obviously she had listened at his door, had quietly opened it a fraction while he was making the call on his private line. It was impossible for him to reveal who he had called.
He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers, gave her an oily smile. She waited, her expression ugly, her hands still on her hips. She was enjoying herself – to see this thug who had always ignored her, crawling to her. She was controlling the situation now.
'I'm sure you have expensive tastes.' he began. 'So maybe a little personal bonus just between us would be a help.'
'Don't like the word little.'
He took out his wallet, peeled off two thousand-franc notes and held them out.
Tut them on the table.' she ordered.
He did so, hating her for the humiliation she was imposing on him, treating him like a servant. Glancing at the
