The Power (32 page)

20

Paula sat on the edge of the bed in Tweed's room at the
Gotthard. Her feet were pressed hard on the floor to
prevent them from trembling. She was suffering from
delayed shock brought on by the events in Bahnhofstrasse.
Also in the room, seated in chairs, were Newman and Cardon. Paula's mood was not helped by Tweed's - she
sensed he was puzzled by something. His first words didn't
help her to detect what was bothering him.

'Let's sum up what happened. While we were in the bar
at the Baur-en-Ville that villainous-looking type - I'm
going to nickname him the Skull - spotted Paula and
myself and then hurried back into the hotel.'

'I don't see what you're getting at,' Paula said, forcing
herself to speak in a calm voice.

'Have patience. We didn't spend long over lunch but
when we left to walk to Helen Prey's place in Rennweg the
fake cripple was waiting for us, presumably already armed
with his grenade. The speed with which the Skull and his
associates move is incredible. Professionals of the top
rank, Hear.'

'I still don't really see what you're driving at.'

'Communications. I feel sure the wheelchair man also
had a mobile phone under the lap rug which concealed his
grenade. He could have used that phone without Cardon
seeing him. I'm worried about Helen Frey.'

'What on earth for?' Newman intervened.

'Because the cripple must have used the phone to report
we were nearing that tram-stop. Hence that man with the
Uzi you dealt with was waiting for us.'

'I see that,' Paula agreed, 'but why this anxiety about
Helen Frey?'

'The cripple could have reported our visit to her to the
Skull. She could be in danger. Time for me to call her.'

'She has a 4.30 p.m. appointment with an Emil Voser,'
Newman recalled. 'I noticed it in her desk diary. So she
may be busy.'

'Then she'll indicate that on the phone.'

While Tweed was checking Frey's number in the direc
tory Paula began talking to Cardon. She kept her voice
down as Tweed dialled the number.

'Philip, I still can't understand how you were able to
catch that grenade in time and lob it back. Or, Bob, how you spotted the second assassin.'

'Easy.' Cardon grinned. 'First I'm good at cricket as a
bowler. But mainly it was Butler's training me on a course
down at the Send manor in Surrey. In the grounds he'd
throw me a live grenade with the pin out -I had to lob it
over the other side of a brick wall before it detonated. He tested me first with a cricket ball. Just one of the many contingency attack situations he trained me in. So, easy.'

'You make it sound so simple,' Paula remarked, her
hands pressed against the bed. 'What about you,
Bob?'

'Oh, I'm getting the measure of this mob. Organized up
to the hilt. It occurred to me the grenade thrower might
well have back-up, so I checked all round, saw this charac
ter with a violin case. Rather old-fashioned technique - a
method used by Chicago gangsters at one time, carrying a sub-machine-gun in a violin case.'

He stopped talking as Tweed put down the phone. His
expression was serious. He began to put on his overcoat.

'I don't like it. I called Prey's number. No reply for a
number of rings, then the phone was lifted, no one spoke,
the phone was put down again. I just asked to speak to
Helen Frey, gave no name. We're going back to Rennweg.
I'm really worried now...'

It was dark as they approached Rennweg 590 for the
second time. Again Paula and Newman walked with
Tweed while Cardon trailed behind them. On opposite
sides of the street Butler and Nield strolled along, pausing
to gaze into shops. The caf
é
opposite the entrance to No.
590 was still open and Cardon slipped inside it.

Tweed was about to press the speakphone button when
he stiffened. The door was not closed properly - its auto
matic lock had failed to work. Glancing up and down the
street, he pushed gently and the door swung inward. No
light on the staircase. Odd. He stepped inside, produced a
pencil torch, shielded it with his hand so it gave just enough
illumination to see the stair treads.

'I'd better go up first,' Newman whispered, the Smith &
Wesson in his hand.

He squeezed past Tweed who gave him the flash. Their
rubber-soled shoes made no sound as they slowly mounted
the staircase. Paula, who had quietly closed the front door,
brought up the rear. The atmosphere of the dark staircase
was eerie: she felt as though the walls were closing in on
her. The closed front door shut out all sounds from the
outside world. A stair tread creaked loudly as Newman
stepped on it. He climbed higher, shone the torch back to
illuminate the giveaway tread. Tweed and Paula stepped
over it.

Arriving at the landing, Newman first pressed gently
against Klara's door. It held firm. He walked over to
Helen's door, saw that it was open half an inch or so.
Someone had left in a hurry - so why hadn't she secured it
afterwards?

With his gun still in his right hand, he used his left to push
the door wider open, waited, listened. He had switched off
the torch. He was listening for sounds of breathing, any sound. Nothing. He switched on the torch again, shone it
slowly round, then held it motionless. With a swift move
ment he shone it towards the window: the curtains were
still closed. He spoke over his shoulder.

'Paula, I wouldn't come in if I were you.'

That was just the sort of remark which made her determined to go inside. She followed Tweed, who took two steps inside and stopped. She saw him reach inside his
jacket pocket under his raincoat, produce a pair of surgical
gloves and put them on his hands. She extracted her own
pair from her shoulder-bag. Newman stood very still inside
the room, his torch beam held steady. He had pushed the
door open with his knuckles. No fingerprints.

Tweed reached for the wall switch he'd noticed on their earlier visit, pressed it down. The pink wall-sconce lights
came on and Paula saw what Newman had been staring at.

'Oh, no!'

Helen Frey, clad only in underclothes, lay sprawled back
in an armchair. The front of her white slip was drenched with dark red blood. Her head flopped against the back of the chair at an unnatural angle. A savage crescent moon, blood red, circled her throat. She had been garrotted.

Tweed went close to the armchair followed by Paula. He
guessed that a strong sharp wire had been used. The head
had been almost severed from the body. She looked hideous with her lipsticked mouth open and her tongue
protruding. The weird angle of the head was now
explained. Very little
remained to attach it to the body.

'Emil Voser. 4.30 p.m.,' said Paula, recalling Newman
telling them about the desk diary.

'Which is probably not his real name,' Tweed com
mented, his eyes scanning the apartment. 'I don't think
that we ought to linger here. What is it, Paula?'

She was crouched near the side of the chair. She used her
index finger to point and Tweed crouched beside her. On
the carpet lay a blood-stained pearl, pierced at either end
as though it belonged to a string.

'Bring it with us,' Tweed ordered.

'Which means we are tampering with evidence.'

'Which means exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'But we
know more about these people than anyone.'

Paula was already extracting a Cellophane specimen
wallet from her shoulder-bag. She fumbled in her bag
again and her right hand came out holding a pair of
tweezers. She used them to tease the pearl, split along one
side, into the wallet and sealed it. With a pen she wrote on the attached tab the date and
Rennweg590,
and slipped the wallet inside her bag. She was sniffing the air as she stood
up. She began prowling round the apartment.

'Can't you smell the faint whiff?' she said to Tweed. 'I
caught it as soon as we came in - someone has been
smoking a cigar. Got you . ..'

From a low table concealed by the arm of the couch
Paula lifted up a large glass ashtray. Inside nestled an intact
roll of cigar ash. Extracting another wallet, she carefully
tipped the roll of ash into the second wallet. Sealing it, she
wrote only
Cigar ash specimen No.
2, and put this wallet
into her bag.

'I missed that. Good work,' Tweed told her.

Newman was standing by the desk near the curtained
window. He was staring down at the open desk diary.

'She had no other appointments today. Only this Voser.'

'We'll go now,' Tweed decided. 'I'll leave the door, half an inch open as we found it. Move silently - mind that
creaking stair. We don't want to attract Klara's
attention

They stepped into a quiet street, Tweed leaving last to
pull the door almost closed, his hands now wearing leather
gloves. Again Cardon signalled to them from the window in the café. This time Newman went inside, then turned to
beckon Tweed and Paula to follow him. Tweed understood
his motive when he saw Klara sitting by herself at a side table with a cup of coffee in front of her.

'I'm going to talk to Klara,' Newman said. 'She might have information.'

'Good idea,' Tweed agreed after a moment's hesitation.

'So you've come back again for a frolic?' Klara greeted
Newman.

Tweed smiled as they sat at her table. He ordered coffee
from the waitress for himself and Newman after Paula
shook her head. Her stomach was queasy. Like Tweed, she
kept quiet while Newman and Klara talked.

'I'm afraid I haven't,' Newman began. 'Maybe you
ought to put that cup down. I have some rather shocking
news for you. Just about as shocking as you can get.'

'I've got strong nerves,' Klara told him, her expression
serious. 'You need them in my business. Some of the men who come to see you.'

'That's really the tragedy in Helen Prey's case.'

Tragedy?' Klara looked down as she slowly drummed
the pink-varnished nails of her right hand on the table. She
looked up again direct at Newman. 'I'm tough - so don't
treat me like a kid. Just tell me what's happened to Helen.'

'We came back a few minutes ago to ask her some
questions we'd overlooked earlier. The front door was
open, her door was open a bit. We found her inside.
Murdered.'