about a foot. A chain with huge links was still holding the door so no one could enter. A woman's voice spoke in French.
'Who is it?'
'We have come all the way from Dorset in England to see Mr Marchat.' said Paula, believing she had a better chance of persuading another woman to open the door at night.
'You must have the wrong address. There is no one here with that name.'
'I am Paula Grey. I have a friend with me, Mr Philip Cardon. We are both English. My friend saw Sterndale Manor burning with the old General and his son, Richard, inside it. Your husband escaped death only because he was at a public house in Wareham, having a drink.'
There was a pause. They couldn't see the woman because there appeared to be no light on in the place. Paula felt sure there was someone else close to the woman.
'This means nothing to me.' the woman eventually said.
Oh, Lord, Paula thought. Did I make a mistake assuming she is his wife? She ploughed on.
'The man responsible for setting fire to the manor was Leopold Brazil. He has his own house near Sterndale Manor. It is called Grenville Grange.' More silence. Paula was becoming desperate. 'We have come to warn Mr Marchat that the man who killed Partridge, thinking he was murdering Mr Marchat, is in Sion. He is called The Motorman.'
'Let them in, Karin.' a man's voice called out.
Paula puffed out her lips with silent relief as Karin removed the huge chain, opened the door, told them to come in. They walked into the dark slowly, checking with their feet for invisible steps, but there were none. The door was closed, a light came on, a lantern suspended from a chain in the middle of the small room. Karin locked the door, refastened the chain.
Philip blinked in the light. In a rocking-chair sat a small man, his face the image of the photo they had studied. He wore a green jacket and heavy dark brown trousers and his clean white shirt was open, revealing a strong neck. The lids were half-closed over the eyes as he gazed at each of them, then they opened wide. His voice was soft.
'Please sit down. Those two chairs are comfortable. Karin, bring our guests some wine, please. The wines of the Valais are very fine.' he told Paula.
'You will want to see proof of our identity.' Philip said, taking out his SIS folder.
Marchat waved the folder aside. He smiled, a slow smile.
'I heard every word you said. Your information is more convincing than any identity card – those things can so easily be forged. Years ago, I earned good money forging them myself.'
Philip would have waited but Paula plunged in so he looked round the room. Everything was made of wood. A table laid for breakfast. Karin was a methodical housewife. The chairs, carved and stable-looking, were made of wood. The floor, covered here and there with rugs, designed in tasteful colours, was made of wooden planks. He felt he had been transported back to the beginning of the century. But the room was cosy – a pleasant warmth glowed from an old stove in the centre of the room with a round metal pipe rising vertically and disappearing through a hole in the wooden ceiling.
'You won't have heard, but there has been a disaster all over the worldRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET' Paula began.
'Excuse my interrupting, but I have heard.' Marchat indicated an old radio, made of wood, of the type popular in the nineteen-thirties. 'A communications blackout. That is Brazil?'
'That is Brazil's work.' Paula agreed. 'But there is far worse to come – unless we can destroy the ground station he has built on the Kellerhorn. You know about what he calls a weather station?'
'I have seen it. But first I drink to your health.' He lifted an old-fashioned wineglass. Paula raised hers along with Philip and Karin who, having served the drinks, sat close to her husband. 'Karin is my wife of many years.'
Marchat said, putting down his glass. 'I met General Sterndale by chance, he said I looked a good worker and offered me the job at his manor. He paid me very well in cash. It will help us during our old age. And that weather station is something far more sinister. He has great scientists from all over the world working for him. He pays them a fortune.'
'They are there voluntarily?' Philip asked, continuing to speak French.
'Oh, yes. They make more money in one month than they could make in a year in the countries he has brought them from. He was clever. He said he would arrange luxurious housing for their wives or girl friends to keep them happy. Inside the fence built round the main buildings was an abandoned village…'
'Abandoned?' queried Paula.
'Oh, yes. Up in the mountains there are a number of such places. The young people do not wish to endure such a hard life. They leave the Valais and go off to well-paid jobs in Montreux and Geneva. The Valais is dying.'
'Sorry, I interrupted you,' Paula said.
'Yes, he had the Italian architects who built the complex convert those apparently unused houses into small palaces. Occasionally the wives are taken with their men to a dinner in a private room at one of the big hotels on Lake Geneva.'
'What worries us,' Philip intervened, 'is how to destroy the fake weather station, which is where Brazil is using his system to annihilate world communications. When Paula and I were up there this morning I noticed the slope above the buildings looked unstable.'
'It is very unstable. One day it will slide down when it is disturbed. That will be the end of Brazil's evil plan. The Italian architects he employed told him it was perfectly safe. They wanted the job of designing the place. He got them in the end.'
'How do you mean?' asked Paula.
'The project is completed, Brazil puts them in an air-conditioned bus to take them to the railway station. He hands out bottles of excellent wine. The bus starts off. Halfway down the brakes fail, it goes over a precipice. No one can talk about what they have built.'
'Can I ask how you know all this?' queried Philip.
'Because I lived here then. Just after the so-called accident to the bus I met General Sterndale and went to England. Earlier I used to walk up the mountain, taking a pack on my back with sleeping bag and food.'
'You walked up!'
Paula was astounded. She couldn't prevent herself glancing at Marchat's stocky legs, bulging against his trousers.
'I took my time. I made friends with one of the workmen, a man from Slovenia who spoke French. He told me what was going on. I went up dressed like one of the workmen so the guards would not notice me. So many workmen.'
'I think we've taken up enough of your time,' Paula said. 'The information you have given us is invaluable.'
'Use it to wreck that man.' Marchat growled.
'Thank you for the wine.' Paula had turned to Karin who, slim and calm, had listened. 'It really was very good.'
'I made it myself,' Karin admitted and flushed with pleasure.
Marchat reached out a gnarled hand, grasped his wife by the wrist affectionately, squeezed it.
'One thing before we go,' Philip warned as he stood up. 'Under no circumstances let any stranger into this house – whatever yarn he spins you. Just keep the door shut.' He deliberately held Marchat's gaze. 'We know The Motorman is in town…'
Newman listened to their report of the visit to Anton and Karin Marchat when they had returned to his room at the Elite.
They sound a nice couple.' he said when they had finished. 'And, without realizing it, Marchat has confirmed our plan will work. So, let the morning come quickly.'
'Bob.' Philip said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair, 'I think we should give them a guard. Butler – or Nield
