The Power (38 page)

'Not the word I'd have used,' she remarked. 'But using
acid does make me wonder if Norton was the fake postman
who committed the massacre at Tresillian Manor.'

'I was going to say interesting because it's a measure of
the ruthlessness of the man - and his determination. He
was worried stiff Ives himself might turn up but he still
went ahead and tried to murder me.'

'What is the programme for tomorrow?' Newman asked
impatiently.

'I have a ten o'clock appointment with that detective of
Eve Amberg's, Theo Strebel,' Tweed reminded
him. 'I'm
hoping he'll lead me to wherever Klara, Helen Prey's
friend, has moved to. I want to talk to her again. I have an
idea she knows more than she realizes. Then in the evening
it's drinks with Gaunt's girl friend, Jennie Blade, at 6 p.m.
downstairs in the Hummer Bar.'

'I wonder how Squire Gaunt fits into all this,' Paula
mused.

'He was in Cornwall at the time of the massacre,' Tweed
reminded her.'He could be a key figure.'

While it was dark and drizzling in Zurich, it was still
daylight in Washington. 'A kinda daylight,' March
reflected as he gazed out of the window. It was snowing heavily. The traffic down on Pennsylvania Avenue was
already getting snarled up. He pressed a button on his
intercom.

'Sara, get hold of the shit-kicker who's supposed to send
out snow ploughs. I want them on Pennsylvania Avenue in
ten minutes. When the machines get moving let the press
know I gave the order.'

'Good thinking, boss

'Sure is. Let the folks know their President is lookin'
after them.'

'There's a call, long distance, on your private phone.
The caller won't give a name. Said you might be interested
in a couple of items you were searching for ...'

'Put them through. And put a trace on the call...'

'They're leery, boss. They rang off, said they'd call again
shortly. I'll try a trace . . . Hold it, I think they're back on
the line
...'

'Who is this?' March barked when the connection was
made.

'No names. Got a pad and pen? Good. . .'The voice was
husky. 'I have a film and a tape recording for sale. The
price is still twenty million dollars

'A courier is on the way to Zurich with the pay-off. I
need first to be sure
...'

'You need to shut your trap . ..'

March's mouth became ugly. You didn't talk to the President of the United States that way.

The voice went on: 'I know you're trying to trace this call. Write this down. The three possible rendezvous for
the exchange - money for film and tape. On the Zur
ichberg, Orelli-strasse by the hotel. I'll spell it
...
Next
possible place, airfield at Hausen am Albis. Here's that spelling.. . Third is Regensburg, outside Zurich . . . I'll be
in touch again with specific details

The connection was broken. March was puzzled by the
voice. Husky, yes. Growly, yes - very growly. But twice it
had become high-pitched, sounded like a woman. Sara
came on the internal line a few minutes later.

'No luck, boss. Trace took us to Zurich in Switzerland.
Couldn't get the number in Zurich . . .'

'Hell! Don't know why we bought that trace
equipment. . .'

March slammed down the phone. He'd pass this info, over to Norton when he next came through.

In Zurich the woman who had called March smiled at the
man who had listened. She had disguised her voice by
speaking from the bottom of her throat.
'March would never recognize your voice even if he ever
met you,' the man said, wrapping his arm round her.

'I growled.
That's the trick. Twenty million dollars. That
should enable us to live in style.'

'You were great. What about going to bed to celebrate?'

'Why did I think you had that in mind?'

The following morning Tweed had breakfast with Paula
and Newman in the first-floor dining-room, La Soupi
é
re,
at the Hotel Schweizerhof. Butler, Cardon and Nield sat by themselves at separate tables. The
previous evening
Butler and Nield had visited the hotel, entered all six
rooms and rumpled the bedclothes.

'Since Norton knows we're staying at the Gotthard,'
Paula suggested, 'is there any point in us remaining there?'

'None at all,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're
moving our things back here after breakfast. I've already
paid our bill at the Gotthard, told Harry, Pete and Philip to
do the same thing.'

'What is the next move?' Newman asked. 'I'd like to get
to grips with Norton and Co.'

'If he
is
the real enemy,' Tweed remarked. 'Nothing is
certain. I'm now convinced few of the people we've met
here - and in Cornwall - are what they seem.'

'That's reassuring,' Paula said ironically. 'Anyone in particular you're after?'

'I need more data before I can plan an elaborate trap.
Elaborate because someone is masterminding a complex
plot. I only realized that after we arrived here.'

He was keeping his thoughts all to himself once again,
Paula said to herself. She tried another tack.

'Well, we're staying in Zurich, then.'

'No, we aren't,' Tweed told her. Tomorrow we catch an
express train from the Hauptbahnhof to Basle.'

'Why Basle?'

'I phoned the Zurcher Kredit before breakfast to speak
to Amberg. Luckily I got Amberg's personal assistant. She
told me he had left suddenly for Basle in a great rush.'

'I remember - Zurcher Kredit has a branch in Basle. But why are we following him there?' Paula asked.

'Maybe you've forgotten. Amberg told us Julius had
moved the film and tape Dyson delivered to the bank vault
in Basle.' He checked his watch. 'I'll have to leave soon for
my appointment with Theo Strebel.'

'Well, at least we know now what Norton looks like - the
man who up to last night no one had ever seen.'

'I wouldn't count on that,' Tweed replied.

Inside the apartment he had rented, Norton returned to
the bathroom. Thirty minutes earlier he had rubbed grey
colourant into his normally light brown hair. Now he
rinsed off the surplus with water and examined the result in
the mirror.

His appearance was changing already. He'd forget his weekly visit to a barber, and let his hair grow longer. It
grew very rapidly. Satisfied with its progress, he put on his
jacket, checked the time.

Timing was everything. He had his whole day planned
out with the precision of a general preparing for a major battle. He was whistling a tune as he left the apartment.

Tweed was accompanied by Paula when he climbed
ancient stone steps inside the old building in the Altstadt
which housed Strebel's office. Newman followed a few
paces behind, waited in the corridor as Tweed opened a
door with a frosted-glass window in the upper half. Etched
into the glass was a simple legend.
theo strebel.
No indication of his profession.

They walked into an empty ante-room. A solid oak door
in the opposite wall with a glass spyhole. Paula was
suddenly nervous - the atmosphere on the old stone
staircase had been eerie, the smell of a musty building
barely occupied for years had assailed her nostrils.

Here the atmosphere was even more sinister. A heavy
silence filled the room which was furnished only with an old
empty desk. She was sure no one had occupied the room
for ages. She slipped her hand inside her shoulder-bag,
gripped her Browning automatic.

'Announce yourselves. Your names .please.'

The disembodied voice seemed to come out of nowhere.
Tweed pointed to an ancient cone-shaped
speaker fixed to a corner high up. The voice had spoken in English.

'Is that you, Mr Strebel?' demanded Tweed.

'I said announce yourselves. Your names and business.'

'I have an appointment with Theo Strebel. For 10 a.m.
Eve Amberg said she would phone you. My assistant, a woman, is with me.'

'Tell her to say something,' the disembodied voice com
manded. 'Anything. Apples are green.'

'Only when they are not normally ripe,' Paula called
back.

'Enter.'

There was a sound like the buzzer Helen Frey had
operated on the front door in Rennweg. Tweed pushed at the heavy door and, reluctantly, it swung inward.

'Good morning, Mr Tweed. Don't just stand there. My
greetings to you, Fraulein.'

A very fat man dressed in a black suit sat behind a desk.
His hair was dark and brushed back over his high forehead
without a parting. Below a short pugnacious nose he
sported a trim dark moustache. The door closed auto
matically behind them as they walked inside the office. Paula heard the lock click shut, felt trapped.

'You are Mr Tweed. You fit Mrs Amberg's description.
Do sit down, both of you. Now, what exactly can I do for
my latest client?'

'You are Theo Strebel?'

'The great detective himself. No impersonations here.'

As Paula followed Tweed's example, seating herself in
the other hard-backed chair facing the Swiss, she found she rather liked Strebel. He radiated energy and the good humour often associated with fat men. He leaned both
elbows on the desk, clasped his surprisingly small hands
under his jowly chin and smiled.

'The ball is in your court, Mr Tweed.'

'I am trying to locate the new address of a brunette who
lived in the apartment opposite Helen Frey

'Whose ghastly murder is written about at length in the
newspaper. So?'

'I have just said what I wish you to find out. Where
Helen Prey's friend went to. I only know her first name.
Klara.'

'And have you any clue as to her profession? Clues are
my lifeblood, Mr Tweed.'

'She was a high-class call-girl. Like Helen Frey.'

'I appreciate the description. Everyone has to earn a
living. That profession can be highly dangerous - as the
latest news indicates. They are entitled to charge the high
fees they do for their services. Danger money, Mr
Tweed.'