Behind them Newman, running, was about halfway to the old stone tower. His right foot slipped on a large stone and he sprawled full length. He, took the worst of the impact on his forearms. When he began to get up he realized his right ankle was hurting. He sat up in the road, pushed down his socks, examined it. Wiggling his foot, he was relieved to realize he had neither broken nor sprained it. The only sign of his minor accident was a faint bruise.
He stood up, tested the foot. When he glanced back up the hill the others were tiny figures approaching the bend below the station. He was glad they hadn't seen him fall and he found he could move at a brisk pace back to St Ursanne.
Tap… tap… tap…
Juliette Leroy frowned as she heard the strange sound corning closer and closer, mounting the steps outside. She went to the door and opened it. A man with very dark glasses, holding a white stick, stood motionless.
'I am sorry to disturb you,' he said, his accent American. 'I am very thirsty. I have walked a long way. Could you give me a glass of water?'
'Of course. Please come in.'
Juliette was disappointed. She had just found a pair of gloves on a chair. She had hoped it was one of her new friends returning to collect them. At the same time she felt sorry for the blind man. He had looked so lonely. It must be awful to go through life like that.
Tap… tap… tap…
She turned and saw her visitor coming across the room, his stick guiding him between the tables. She remembered reading somewhere that the blind developed a keen sense of hearing. He must have picked up the sound of her footsteps walking across the floor to the kitchen.
With her back to him, she took a clean glass from a cupboard. She wiped it carefully on a clean cloth although it had been washed recently. Juliette was a stickler for all forms of hygiene. She turned off the tap when the glass was three-quarters full.
Behind her, Leo moved swiftly. Reversing his stick, he held it close to the tip. Elevating it, he hooked the flexible handle round her neck and throat, pressing a button which tightened the grip remorselessly. Juliette dropped the glass, tried to scream. Her air supply was cut off and she managed no more than a gurgle. The rubberized handle tightened. She reached up with both hands, trying to insert her fingers inside it. This was the moment when Leo jerked her backwards.
She toppled, hit the side of her head on the edge of a wooden working surface, sagged to the floor. Leo pressed the button again, releasing the grip of the handle. Bending over her unconscious form he checked her pulse. It beat steadily. He swore foully.
He glanced round, saw the heavy framed pictures hanging from the wall. Moving with great speed, he lifted one of the pictures, surprised at its weight. But that meant the hook left on the wall as he propped the picture against a cupboard was more than strong enough for his purpose.
From his pocket he pulled out a coil of thin strong rope – as strong as wire. Holding on to one end, which had a small wooden handle, pencil-thin, he whipped out the rope. The other end had a curved hook firmly attached. Bending down, he fashioned the first end into a loop with a hangman's knot. Slipping the loop over the unconscious woman's neck with the knot at the back, he used one strong arm to lift her. When he had her pushed close to the wall he slid the curved hook over the hook high up on the wall which had held the picture. Then he let go.
He had calculated the length of the rope perfectly. She was hanging with her feet well clear of the floor. That was when consciousness briefly returned to her. Leo stood back as her eyes opened, her heels thudded against the wall, then the rope tightened round her neck. The thudding of her heels ceased. Her eyes stared out of her head. She hung motionless.
Leo grabbed his stick, twisted a band round it, closed it with a telescopic motion, thrust it down inside a pocket. He opened the door slowly, peered out. No one anywhere.
He ran down the steps, along the street. Reaching the archway exit he paused, looked round. it. He saw Newman running towards him, then collapse, stretched out in the road. He waited. He chose the moment when Newman glanced back up the road to dart across the arch, then down a side street opposite La Ruelle.
Above this part of St Ursanne a steep slope climbed behind the buildings. Its crest was topped with a dense palisade of leafless trees. The helicopter which had brought Leo had landed on a wide secluded plateau. From there he had found a way into a large garden of a house which, appeared unoccupied. He knew he must not go back the same way. At the end of the street he found a footpath climbing up. It should not be difficult to find the plateau where the chopper was waiting to take him back to Basel airport.
26
Paula had the train door open. Newman hurtled up the ramp into the station, dived inside the coach, Paula shut the door as the train started moving. Newman, streams of sweat pouring down his face, sank into a corner seat, stared round. They were now all aboard.
Tweed sat opposite him, next to Marler. Butler and Nield were in seats on the other side of the central corridor. Once again they had the coach to themselves. Gradually Newman's breathing became normal. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his face and the handkerchief was sodden.
He had never run so fast in his life. Not even for the marathon. And all the way it had been uphill. Everyone was staring at him. He didn't like it. He'd sooner have been alone. Paula was the first to speak to him. Quietly.
'I see you got your gloves back.'
He looked down. His right hand was still clutching the motoring gloves he had picked up. He had forgotten about them. He wasn't really in the train carriage at all. In his mind he was back at the Hotel d'Or in St Ursanne. He had been suspicious when he saw the door was half open. He had crept silently up the steps, his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. When he had walked in, seen what was there, he had automatically closed the door behind him.
He could see it now vividly. Juliette's body hanging from the picture hook like a side of beef. Her body limp, her eyes wide open, lifeless. His training had asserted itself. He had forced himself to search the place first, checking to see if the killer was still there. Then, futilely, he had reached up and checked her neck pulse. She was dead. Dead as anybody could be. He remembered thinking he should have checked her pulse first.
Holstering his gun; he had reached up again, one hand round her body, the other lifting off the hook. He was surprised at how light she had felt. Tenderly, he had placed her on a couch. Finding a knife in a kitchen drawer, he had carefully cut through the hangman's knot, removed the rope from round her neck, which was already swelling up.
He had thought of calling the local police. He had rejected the idea quickly. He could be held there for days. As a witness – more probably as a suspect. And there was work to do in Basel. Tweed needed him. That was when he had seen something lying on the floor under a table. He had picked it up, examined it for only a moment. Then he had known who the brutal killer was.
He had gone back briefly to the couch where she lay. He put a hand on her face. It had felt so cold. Then he had moved like a robot, using his handkerchief to wipe his prints off the handle of the knife, to open the door to the outside world, his gun by his side in his left hand. He hadn't thought he would see the murderer in the street but he had looked anyway. Nothing. Nobody.
He had checked his watch. He would never make the train. He had walked to the _arch, had taken a deep breath, had begun running up the road beyond non-stop. His brain had dulled, all his concentration on running. Now the shock was receding, he was thinking clearly.
'Let's change seats, Paula,' he said in a normal voice. `You like to look out of the window.'
They had changed seats but she hadn't looked out of the window. She was looking at him. Newman didn't realize that his complexion was ashen. Except for Tweed, the others were now being careful not to look at him. They were giving him time.
'You look washed out, Bob,' Tweed said casually. 'Has something happened?'
'You could say that.'
'I'd like to hear about it. When you're ready.'
