The experience which greeted Tweed's arrival at the hotel was hardly the peace and quiet he had anticipated before meeting Brazil. As he walked into the lobby with Newman, a tall man in a dark suit with greying hair, grey eyes, a neat grey moustache, and a face with a grim expression jumped up, came forward. Arthur Beck of the Federal Police.
'Tweed, I have to talk to you now. You, too, Newman. I have reserved a room where we will be quiet. This way.'
'I hope you're paying for the room,' Tweed said quizzically.
'No charge to the police.' Beck snapped as they entered an elevator and he pressed the button.
'We should have registered.' Tweed remarked.
The concierge knows you well.'
'Damn it!' snapped Newman, irked by Beck's abrupt manner. 'We've had no lunch and I'm hungry.'
'That will have to wait.'
Beck had a key in his hand. Leaving the lift he went to a door, unlocked it, waited until they had walked past him inside.
'You may sit. Perhaps you'd better.'
'I was going to anyway.' Tweed observed after taking off his coat and settling in an armchair. He looked at Newman. 'Make yourself at home. Nice of Arthur to arrange all these comforts for us.'
Beck took a dining chair from under a table, placed it in front of Tweed and Newman, who had also occupied an armchair. He straddled his long legs over the seat, perched his elbows on the top of the back, gazed at them, and said nothing.
Tweed and Newman, who knew this police tactic, refrained from saying a word. Eventually Beck spoke, his eyes on Tweed.
'You had some of your team in Berne this morning?'
'Not to my knowledge.' Tweed answered truthfully. 'Why?'
'You know a thug called Marco? Handy with a knife.'
'No.'
'I had an anonymous call from a man at my HQ in Berne. He informed me that he was walking down an alley off the Munstergasse when he came across a man sprawled in the snow. The man reached for a knife so the caller kicked him in the head. The victim was Marco. Am I ringing any bells?'
'Did you hear a bell ringing?' Tweed asked Newman.
'Look.' Beck said aggressively, 'Marco is all right. He was discharged after we took him to out-patients. But I don't appreciate violence on my doorstep.'
'Move your doorstep, then.' Newman joked.
'There's nothing funny about the present situation.' Beck snapped. 'Switzerland is supposed to be a peaceful country. We have a murderous shoot-out last night in Geneva. Six bodies in the morgue now. Plus another strange murder just reported – also from Geneva.'
'What strange murder is that?' Tweed asked.
'An unsavoury arms dealer was killed in Geneva also. A man called Rico Sava.' He paused. 'He had his neck broken.'
'The Motorman?' Tweed asked quietly.
'It has all his trademarks. That makes seven corpses. Now this thug, Marco, in Berne.' He smiled. 'Now I've done it.'
'Done what?' Newman demanded.
'Given you both a dressing down, covered myself. Just in case someone influential – a friend of Brazil's -asks me about you.'
Beck's whole manner had changed. He stood up, swivelled his chair round, sat in his normal manner.
'There's a development you ought to know about. I can't prove they're employed by Leopold Brazil, but I know they are.'
'Who?' asked Tweed quietly.
'A whole army of tough-looking thugs disguised as skiers came into Geneva from France. They broke up into groups and boarded several different expresses heading east towards the Valais. God knows what there is for them in that canton. The season is almost over – the slopes are dangerous and there's the risk of avalanches. Yet they've flooded in like a small invasion.'
Beck stood up, extended his hand. He shook hands warmly with both Tweed and Newman.
'Why not go and have a good lunch? At least Zurich is quiet. Incidentally, I'll be based for the next few days at Zurich Police HQ. You know where it is – close to this hotel, overlooking the River Limmat.' He paused. 'Have a care. We now know The Motorman is back.'
26
Tweed and Newman had finished an excellent lunch in the comfortable surroundings of the dining room on the first floor of the Schweizerhof. As always, whenever he visited the city, Tweed had spoiled himself by ordering escalope Zurichoise.
'Let's go for a walk,' Newman suggested. 'A quiet stroll will be welcome after the earlier part of our encounter with Beck.'
'He has his problems,' Tweed replied as he turned down a side-street off Bahnhofplatz. 'Which doesn't help us. Every time we've been here before he's been able to give us his full backing. We'll just have to cope on our own.'
They were passing a side door which led into the Hummer Bar, one of the restaurants in the Hotel Gotthard. Newman paused.
'I could pop in and see if they've arrived. Marler and Butler and Meld,'
'We know Butler and Nield have arrived,' Tweed pointed out, continuing to walk. 'They came on our flight. Marler has to get here from Geneva.'
'I know. I hadn't forgotten Butler and Meld. But we don't want them wandering round, checking out the city before you've met Brazil. At least you don't want that.'
'No, I don't
It had stopped snowing while they were eating lunch and they turned along another street into Bahnhofstrasse, the section which was car-free because of the trams. As they re-entered Bahnhofplatz Newman stopped, grasped Tweed's arm.
'Look. Paula and Philip have just arrived on foot -they're going into the Schweizerhof. Incidentally, was it wise to mention the hotel's name over the phone to Paula when you spoke to her at the Hotel des Bergues from London? That line would pass through the hotel's switchboard.'
'There are several Schweizerhofs in Switzerland,' Tweed reminded him. 'A big one in Beme, for example. And I did not mention Zurich – Paula knew what I was talking about. What is it now?'
Newman had again grabbed Tweed's arm. They stood still as Newman gazed across the far side of Bahnhofplatz in front of the main station.
'That large Volvo. Craig is sitting in the passenger seat at the front. There are three other yobbos in the car. You still feel no need of protection?'
They were standing close to the pavement edge with Newman on the outside. The Volvo continued its slow glide round the platz, cruised slowly past the entrance to the Schweizerhof. Craig was now seated next to the pavement. The car almost stopped alongside Newman.
Craig grinned, suddenly swung the door open to send Newman flying. Newman grabbed the handle, shoved the door shut with all his strength. He saw Craig's face crumple into an expression of pain. The closing door had struck Craig's elbow. He glared with hatred at Newman, then the car moved on.
'I don't care what you say.' Newman snapped, taking over control, 'I'm going back to the Gotthard to have a word with our people.'
Before Tweed could protest he was gone.
