`Because, Erika...' He wrapped an arm round her slim waist, 'he's such an independent bastard. No vested interest in the world can buy him once he gets his teeth into a story. No one can stop him.'

`You know this Newman?'

`Unfortunately, no. But I can reach him. You see it even says where he's staying. I'd better call him — but I'll use that public phone box just down the street...'

`You didn't want to be seen outside...'

`It's worth the risk. I have to do something. Newman might even be working on the Gold Club story. Terminal...'

`Manfred!' There was surprise, a hint of hurt in her voice. `When I told you about that you gave me the impression you'd never heard of either the Gold Club or Terminal.'

He looked uncomfortable. Taking the cup of coffee out of her hand he hauled her on to his lap. She really weighed nothing at all. He stared straight at her. He was about to break the habit of a lifetime — to trust another human being.

`It was for your own protection. That's God's truth. Don't ask me any more — knowledge can kill you when such ruthless and powerful forces are involved. Whatever happens, say nothing to Nagel, your boss...'

`I wouldn't dream of it. Can't you go to the police?' she asked for the third time, then desisted as she caught his look of fear, near-desperation. She saw the time by his watch and eased herself off his lap. 'I simply have to go, Manfred. My job...'

`Don't forget to deposit that case. In your own name.. `Only if you sign this card. I collected it yesterday. No argument, Manfred — or I won't take the case...'

`What is it?'

`A deposit receipt for a safety box. We both have to be able to get access to it. Those are the only terms on which I'll take that case.'

He sighed, signed it with his illegible but distinctive signature and gave back the card. When she had left the apartment he sat there for some time, amazed at his action. A year ago he'd have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that one day he would entrust half a million francs to a young girl. The nice thing was he felt quite contented now he had taken the plunge.

The real effort, he knew, would be to phone Newman.

They were waiting for him when Newman followed Nancy out of the Pavillon. Two men in plain clothes seated in the reception hall who stood up and walked straight over to him. A tall man with a long face, a shorter man, chubby and amiable.

`M. Newman?' the tall man enquired. 'Could you please accompany us.' It was a statement not a question. 'We are police officers...'

`Nancy, go up to our room while I sort this out,' Newman said briskly. He stared at the tall man. 'Accompany you where — and why?'

`To police headquarters...'

`Address,' Newman snapped.

`Twenty-four Boulevard Carl-Vogt...'

`Show me some identification, for Christ's sake.'

`Certainly, sir.' Ostrich, as Newman had already nicknamed the tall one, produced a folder which Newman examined carefully before handing it back. As far as he could tell it was kosher.

`You've told me where — now tell me why...'

`That will be explained by someone at headquarters.. Ostrich became a little less formal. 'Frankly, sir, I don't know the answer to that question. No, a coat isn't necessary. We have a heated car outside...'

`I'm going up to my room. I have to tell my wife where I'm going...'

He found Nancy waiting at the elevator, making no attempt to get inside. With his back to the two men, who had followed him to where they could watch from the end of the corridor, he took out his scratch pad, wrote down the address of police headquarters, and gave it to her.

`If I'm not back in an hour, call this number and set Geneva alight. That number under the address is the registration of the car they've got parked outside.'

`What is it all about, Bob? Are you worried? I am.. `Don't be. And no, I'm not worried. I'm blazing mad. I'll tear somebody's guts out for this …'

Hidden inside the alcove of the doorway, Julius Nagy watched as Newman climbed inside the back of the waiting car with one of the men while the shorter man took the wheel. He hurried to a waiting cab and climbed inside.

`That black Saab,' he told the driver. 'I want to know where they're taking my friend …'

Newman thought Chief Inspector Leon Tripet, as he introduced himself, was young for the job. He sat down as requested, lit a cigarette without asking permission, and looked round the room, his manner expressing a mixture of irritation and impatience. He carefully said nothing.

Tripet's second-floor office, overlooking the Boulevard Carl-Vogt, was the usual dreary rabbit hutch. Walls painted a pale green, illuminated by a harsh overhead neon rectangular tube. Very homely.

'I must apologize for any inconvenience we may be causing you,' Tripet began, sitting very erect in his chair. 'But it is a very serious matter we are concerned with...'

'You are concerned with. Not me,' Newman said aggressively.

'We all admired your handling of the Kruger case. I have met German colleagues who are full of praise for the way you trapped Kruger and exposed his links with the DDR...'

'You mean Soviet-occupied East Germany,' Newman commented. 'Also known as The Zone. What has this to do with my summons here?'

'Coffee, Mr Newman?' Tripet looked at the girl who had come in with a tray of cardboard cups. 'How do you like it?'

'I don't — not out of a cardboard cup. I can get that at British Rail buffets, which I don't patronize.'

'I read your book,' Tripet continued after dismissing the girl who left him one of the cardboard cups. 'One thing which really fascinated me was the way you were able to tap in to the terminal keyboard.

He paused to drink some coffee and Newman had the oddest feeling Tripet was watching him with all his concentration for some reaction. Reaction to what? He remained silent.

'I refer to the keyboard at Düsseldorf where the Germans house their giant computer which has so helped them track down hostile agents. You have come to Switzerland on holiday, Mr Newman?' he added casually.

Newman stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the clean ashtray, watching Tripet with a bleak look as he did so. He stood up, walked over to the window behind the Swiss policeman and stared down into the street. Tripet asked was there something wrong?

Newman didn't reply. He continued staring down, being careful not to disturb the heavy net curtain. Julius Nagy was standing in the entrance to the building opposite which Newman had observed when he had arrived. Bibliotèque Municipale. Public Library.

`Tripet,' he said, 'could you join me for a moment, please?' `Something is bothering you,' Tripet commented as he stood beside the Englishman.

`That man in the doorway over there. Julius Nagy. He's been following me since we arrived at Cointrin. A friend of yours?'

'I'll have him checked out,' Tripet said promptly and headed for the door out of his office. 'Give me a minute...'

`There's a phone on your desk,' Newman pointed out.

But Tripet was gone, closing the door behind him. Newman lit a fresh cigarette and waited while the comedy was played out. Within a short time he saw two policemen in their pale grey uniforms, automatic pistols sheathed in holsters on their right hips, walk briskly across the road.

There appeared to be a brief altercation, Nagy protesting as the policemen each took an arm and escorted him across the road out of sight into the building below. Newman grinned to himself and was seated in his chair when Tripet returned.

`We are questioning him,' he informed Newman. 'I have told them to concentrate on learning the identity of his employer.'

`Who do you think you're fooling?'

`Pardon?'

`Look here,' Newman rasped, leaning across the desk, 'this charade has gone on long enough...'

`Charade?'

`Charade, Tripet! There was a time not long ago when I was welcome in Switzerland. I helped over a certain matter which has not a damn thing to do with you. Ever since I came in this time I've been watched and harassed...'

`Harassed, Mr Newman?'

`Kindly listen and don't interrupt! I said harassed — and I meant harassed. You drag me over here for a meaningless conversation. You send two of your menials to pick me up publicly at the Hotel des Bergues like a common criminal. You don't even have the decency to phone me first...'

`We were not sure you would come...'

Newman rode over him 'Don't interrupt, I said! Then you pretend you don't know Nagy. You go out of the room to give an order instead of using the phone in front of you — so I won't hear the order you give. "Bring in Nagy. Make it look good — he's watching from my office window." Something like that, yes, no? Well, I've had it up to here. I'm communicating with Beck of the Federal Police in Berne. Arthur Beck, Assistant to the Chief of the Federal Police...'

`It was Beck who asked me to bring you here,' Tripet informed him quietly.

Newman insisted on returning to the Hotel des Bergues in a cab despite Tripet's efforts to provide an unmarked police car. On the way back across the river he sat thinking, his mind tangled with contradictory ideas. There was no peace for him when he'd paid off the cab and went upstairs to his room. Nancy opened the door and he knew something had happened. She grasped his arm and wrapped it round her waist.

`Bob, I thought you'd never come. Are you all right? What did they want? While you were out I had the weirdest phone call. Are you all right?' she repeated. 'Shall I get coffee? Room Service does have its uses.' All in a rush of words.

`Order three litres. No, sit down, I'll order it myself — and I'm fine. Tell me about the phone call when I've organized coffee.' He grinned. 'We have to get our priorities right.

He refused to let her talk until the coffee had arrived. He gave her an edited version of his visit to police headquarters, conveying the impression they were intrigued by the newspaper article and wanted to know what story he was working on. And, he reflected, that might just be the real motive behind his interview with Tripet.

`Now,' he began after she had swallowed half a cup, 'tell me in your own words about this phone call.' He grinned. 'I'm not sure, of course, who else's words you would use …'

`Stop kidding. I was jumpy at the time, but I'm better now. Anyone ever tell you you're a good psychologist?'

`Nancy, do get to the point,' he urged gently.

`The phone rang and a man's voice asked to speak to you. He spoke in English but I know he wasn't English — or American. He had a thick, Middle-European accent.

`Whatever that might be.'

`Bob! We do have a mixture of nationalities in the States. And I'm not bad on accents. Can I go on? Good. I told him that you weren't here, that you'd be back sometime, but I didn't know when. He was persistent. Did I have a number where he could reach you? It was urgent...'

`Urgent to him,' Newman interjected cynically.

`He sounded urgent,' she insisted. 'Almost close to panic. I asked him for a number where you could call him back, but he wouldn't play it that way. Eventually he said he'd call you later, but he asked me to give you a strange message, made me repeat it to make sure I'd got it...'

`What message?'

`He gave his name, too. Reluctantly and only when I said I was going to put down the receiver, that I didn't take messages from anonymous callers. A Manfred Seidler. I made him spell it. The message was that for a generous consideration he could tell you all about terminal...'

`He said what?'

`Not a terminal. I checked that. Just terminal …'

Newman sat staring into space. He was alone in the bedroom. Nancy had gone shopping to buy a stronger pair of boots. She'd observed that the smart girls in Geneva had a snappy line in boots, Newman suspected. She was not going to be left behind by the competition.

Terminal.

Newman was beginning to wonder whether his conversation with Chief Inspector Tripet had been as meaningless as he'd thought at the time. Correction. Beck's conversation with him by proxy via Tripet. What was it he'd said?

One thing which really fascinated me was the way you were able to tap into the terminal keyboard. And Tripet had emphasized the word terminal — and had watched Newman intently as he spoke.

Now this weirdo, Manfred Seidler, was offering to tell him all about — terminal. What the hell did the word signify? Tripet — Beck — had linked it to the operation of a highly sophisticated computer. Could there be any connection with the Kruger affair?

Kruger was serving a thirty-year sentence in Stuttgart for passing classified information to the East Germans. The Kruger case was over, fading into history. What signal was Beck sending him? Was he sending him any signal? More likely he was checking to see whether Newman's trip to Switzerland had anything to do with — terminal. Well, it hadn't. But maybe when he arrived in Berne he'd better contact his old friend, Arthur Beck, and tell him he was barking up the wrong tree. He had just reached that conclusion when the phone rang. He picked it up without thinking, assuming it was Nancy telling him she would be later than she'd expected.

`Mr Robert Newman? At last. Manfred Seidler speaking …'

Eleven

Bruno Kobler came into Geneva from Berne by express train. He paused in the booking hall, an impressive-looking man who wore an expensive dark business suit and a camel-hair overcoat. Hatless, his brown hair was streaked with grey. Clean-shaven, he had a strong nose, cold blue eyes which Lee Foley would have recognized immediately. A killer.

His right hand gripped a brief-case and he waited patiently for the two men who had travelled separately on the train from Berne. Hugo Munz, a lean man of thirty-two wearing jeans and a windcheater, approached him first.

`Hugo,' said Kobler, 'you take Cointrin. Go there at once and watch out for Newman. You've studied the newspaper photo so you will spot him easily. I doubt if he's flying anywhere but if he is, follow. Report back to Thun.' He looked directly at Munz. 'Don't lose him. Please.'

He watched Hugo walking briskly towards where the cabs parked. A moment later the second man, Emil Graf, wandered casually up to him. Graf was a very different type from Munz. Thirty-eight years old, small and stockily-built, he wore a sheepskin. A slouch hat covered most of his blond hair. Thin-lipped, he spoke on equal terms to Kobler.

`We've arrived. What do I do?'

`You wait here,' Kobler told him pleasantly. 'You also watch out for Newman. If he leaves Geneva, my guess is he'll go by train. In case I miss him, hang on to his tail. When you have news, report back to Thun.'

He watched Graf wander back inside the station, his right hand holding the carry-all bag which contained a Swiss Army repeater rifle. Kobler had made his dispositions carefully. Graf was more reliable, less impetuous than Munz. Typically, Kobler had saved for himself the most tricky assignment. He walked out of the station, got inside the back of a cab and spoke in his brisk, confident voice to the driver.

`Hotel des Bergues …'

Inside the cab as it proceeded on the short journey to the hotel Kobler dismissed both men from his mind. A first-rate business executive he was now concentrating on what lay ahead. Kobler had come a long way. The only man his chief trusted implicitly, millions of francs passed through Kobler's hands in the course of a year.

A commanding personality, a man attractive to women of all ages who sensed his dynamic energy, he could walk into the Clinic, the laboratory and the chemical works on the shores of Lake Zurich and issue any instruction. He would be obeyed as though the order had been transmitted by his chief. He was paid four hundred thousand Swiss francs a year.

Unmarried, he dedicated his life to his work. He had a string of girl friends in different cities — chosen for two qualities. Their ability to feed him confidential information about the companies they worked for — and their skill in bed. Life was good. He wouldn't have exchanged his position for that of any other man he had ever met.

He had served his obligatory military service with the Army. He was an expert marksman and was classified to act as a sniper when they came from the north-east. Not if. When the Red Army moved. Still, very soon they would be ready for them — really ready. He jerked his mind into total awareness of his immediate surroundings as the cab pulled up outside the Hotel des Bergues.

`I don't know any Manfred Seidler — just assuming that's your real name,' Newman snapped back on the phone. He was sliding automatically into his role of foreign correspondent. Always put an unknown quantity on the defensive.

`Seidler is my real name,' the voice continued in German, `and if you want to know about a very special consignment brought over an eastern border for KB then we should arrange a meeting. The information will cost a lot of money...'

`I don't deal in riddles, Seidler. Be more specific.. `I'm talking about Terminal...'

The word hung in the air. Alone in the bedroom, Newman was aware of a feeling of constriction in his stomach. This had to be handled carefully.

`How much is a lot?' he asked in a bored tone.

`Ten thousand francs...'

`You're joking, of course. I don't pay out sums like that...'

`People are dying, Newman,' Seidler continued more vehemently, 'dying in Switzerland. Men — and women. Don't you care any more? This thing is horrific.'

`Where are you speaking from?' Newman enquired after a pause.

`We're not playing it that way, Newman..

`Well, tell me, are you inside Switzerland. I'm not crossing any frontiers. And I'm short of time.'

`Inside Switzerland. The price is negotiable. It's urgent that we meet quickly. I decide the place...'

Newman had made up his mind, thinking swiftly while he asked questions. He was now convinced that Seidler, for some reason, was desperately anxious to meet him. He broke a golden rule — never give advance notice of future movements.

`Seidler, I'm just about to leave for Berne. I'll be staying at the Bellevue Palace. Phone me there and we'll talk some more.'

`To give you time to check me out? Come off it...'

`I'm impressed with what you've said.' Newman's voice was tight and he let the irritation show. 'The Bellevue Palace or nothing. Unless you will give me a phone number?'

`The Bellevue Palace then...'

Seidler broke the connection and Newman slowly replaced the receiver. His caller had managed to disturb him on two counts. The 'eastern border' reference. Which eastern border? Newman didn't think he'd been talking about the Swiss frontier. That conferred on Terminal potential international dangers.

And then there had been the mention of 'KB', which Newman had deliberately not queried over the phone. KB. Klinik Bern? The talk about people dying he had dismissed as window-dressing to arouse his curiosity. Strangely enough, as he walked round the bedroom, smoking a cigarette, the words began to bother him more and more.

When the conversation opened, Newman had put Seidler in the category of a peddler of information — reporters were always being approached by these types — but later he had detected fear in Seidler's attitude, stark fear. There had been a hint of a terrible urgency — a man on the run.

`What have I walked into?' he wondered aloud.

`Tell me. Do...'

He swung round and Nancy was leaning with her back against the door she had opened and closed with extraordinary lack of noise. She moved like a cat — he'd found that out on more than one occasion.

`Seidler phoned while you were out,' he said.

`And he's worried you. What is going on, Bob?'

`He was trying to sell me a pup. Happens all the time.' He spoke in a light-hearted, dismissive tone. 'I'm glad you're back — we're catching the eleven fifty-six train to Berne. An express — non-stop...'

`I must dash out again.' She checked her watch. 'I saw some perfume. I'm packed. I have time. Be back in ten minutes...'

`You'll have to move. You're like a bloody grasshopper. In and out. Nancy, I don't want to miss that train...'

`So you can use the time settling up the bill. See you …'

`M. Kobler,' the concierge greeted the man who had just walked into the Hotel des Bergues. 'Good to see you again, sir.'

`You haven't seen me. Robert Newman is staying here.' `He's upstairs in his room. You wish me to call him?' `Not at the moment...'

Kobler glanced quickly inside the Pavillon before walking into the restaurant. He chose a table which gave him a good view through the glass-panelled door of the reception hall, ordered a pot of coffee, paid for it, and settled down to wait.

The cab he had travelled in from the station was parked outside. He had paid the driver a generous tip with instructions to wait for him. A titian-haired beauty wearing a short fur over her jeans tucked inside knee-length boots walked in and he stared at her.

Their eyes met and a flicker of interest showed in hers as she passed his table and chose a seat facing the reception hall. It was nice, Kobler reflected, to know that you hadn't lost your touch. She had, of course, in that long glance assessed his income group. Not a pro. Just a woman.

Half an hour later he saw a porter carrying luggage out of the reception hall, followed by an attractive woman, followed by Newman. He stood up, put on his coat and walked out of the revolving doors in time to see Newman's back disappearing inside the rear of a cab. He glanced along the pavement to his left and stiffened. Kobler missed one development as he climbed inside his own cab and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.

The titian-haired girl he had admired came out of the door leading direct on to the street. Running round the corner, she climbed on to the scooter she had left parked there, kicked the starter and followed Kobler's taxi.

Cornavin Gare, Geneva's main station, was quiet on a Tuesday in mid-February near lunchtime. Kobler paid off his cab and followed Newman and the expensively-dressed woman with him into the concourse. Standing to one side, he watched Emil Graf go into action, joining the ticket queue behind Newman. Only two people were ahead of the Englishman, so Emil, after purchasing his own tickets, soon came over to Kobler.

`He bought a one-way ticket to Berne, two tickets actually. I've bought tickets for both of us — in case you wish...'

`I do wish. Tickets to where?'

`Zurich. The eleven fifty-six goes through, of course.'

Kobler congratulated himself on his choice of Graf for the station. He took the ticket Graf handed him and put it inside his crocodile wallet.

`Why to Zurich, Emil — when Newman booked seats for Berne?'

`These foreign correspondents are tricky. His real destination could be Zurich..

`Excellent, Emil. You see that little man with the absurd Tyrolean hat, the one buying his own ticket? That's Nagy. He is scum. The police once threw him out of Berne. He followed Newman in a cab from the hotel.' Kobler checked his watch. `Your next job is Julius Nagy. Hang on to his tail. Wait your opportunity. Get him in the train lavatory — or some alley when he gets off. Find out who he is working for. Break a few arms, legs, if necessary. Scare the hell out of him Then put him on our payroll. Tell him to continue following Newman, to report all his movements and contacts to you.'

`It's done.'

Kobler picked up his brief-case and watched Graf trotting away with his holdall. The contents might come in useful to persuade Nagy where survival lay. Kobler checked the departure board and headed for the platform where the Zurich Express was due to leave in five minutes.

In the far corner of the station Lee Foley watched all these developments with interest from behind the newspaper he held in front of his face. He had left the Hotel des Bergues only five minutes ahead of Newman and Nancy, anticipating this would give him a ringside seat. After buying a one-way first-class ticket to Berne he had taken up his discreet viewing point where he could watch all the ticket windows. As Kobler disappeared he folded the paper, tucked it inside the pocket of his coat, picked up his bag and made his own way towards the same platform.

The passenger everyone — including Foley — missed noticing was a titian-haired girl. A porter carried her scooter inside the luggage van. She boarded the next coach and the express bound for Berne and Zurich glided out of the station.

Twelve

Berne! A city unique not only in Switzerland but also in the whole of Western Europe. Its topography alone is weird. Wrapped inside a serpentine bend of the river Aare, it extends eastward as a long peninsula — its length stretching from the main station and the University to the distant Nydeggbrucke, the bridge where it finally crosses the Aare.

Its width is a quarter of its length. At many points you can walk across the peninsula, leaving the river behind, only to find in less than ten minutes, the far bend of the river barring your way.

Berne is a fortress. Built on a gigantic escarpment, it rears above the surrounding countryside. Below the Terrasse behind the Parliament building, the ground slopes steeply away. Below the Plattform at the side of the Munster the massive wall ramparts drop like a precipice one hundred and fifty feet to the Badgasse. Beyond, the noose of the Aare flows past from distant Lake Thun.

The escarpment is at its peak near Parliament and the station. As the parallel streets wind their way east they descend towards the Nydeggbrucke.

Berne is old, very old. The Munster goes back to 1421. And because it is centuries since it endured the curse of war, it has remained old. It is a city for human moles. The streets are lined with a labyrinth of huddled arcades like burrows. People can walk through these arcades in the worst of weathers, secure from snow and rain.

When night falls—even during heavily overcast days—there is a sinister aspect to the city. Few walk down the stone arcades of the Munstergasse, which continues east as the Junkerngasse until it reaches the Nydeggbrucke. All streets end at the bridge.

Backwards and forwards across its waist, a network of narrow alleys thread their way, alleys where you rarely meet another human being. And when the mist rolls in across the Aare, smoky coils drift down the arcades, increasing the atmosphere of menace.

Yet here in Berne are located — principally in buildings close to the Bellevue Palace — centres of power which do not always see eye to eye with the bankers. Swiss Military Intelligence, the Federal Police of which Arthur Beck is a key figure — are housed either next door to or within minutes' walk of one of the greatest hotels in Europe.

At the station a keen observer sees that Berne is where German Switzerland meets its French counterpart. The station is BahnhofGare. At the foot of the steps leading to pairs of platforms the left-hand platform is Voie, the right-hand Gleis. The express from Geneva arrived on time at precisely 1.58 pm.

During the journey from Geneva Newman, facing Nancy in her own window seat, had not moved. Gazing out of the window while the express sped from Geneva towards Lausanne he watched the fields covered in snow. The sun shone and frequently he had to turn away from the harshness of the sun glare.

`It's not non-stop as I thought,' he told Nancy. 'Lausanne, Fribourg and then Berne...'

`You look very serious, very concentrated. Too many things happened in Geneva?'

`Keep your voice down.' He leaned forward. 'Police headquarters for a start, then our friend on the phone. A lot to open the day...'

He was careful not to tell her he had seen Julius Nagy board the second-class coach immediately behind them. Who was Nagy really working for? The problem bothered him. At least they were heading for Berne. At the first opportunity he would go and talk to Arthur Beck. If anyone could — would — tell him what was going on, that man was Beck.

Several seats behind him Bruno Kobler sat facing Nancy, his brief-case perched on the seat beside him to keep it unoccupied. Kobler had also observed Nagy boarding the express. He hoped that Graf had accomplished his mission of persuading — forcing — the little creep to switch his allegiance.

Kobler was dressed so perfectly as the Swiss businessman that neither Newman nor Nancy had noticed him. But someone else had observed Kobler's interest in them, someone Kobler himself had overlooked.

Lee Foley had taken a seat in the non-smoking section of the coach, a section separated from the smokers by a door with a glass panel in the upper half. Twice, on the way to Lausanne, Foley had stood up and taken time extracting a magazine from the suitcase he had perched on the rack.

Foley was the only man who saw it all. Through the panel he observed Newman's grim expression as he stared out at the countryside. He also caught the fleeting glances of the Swiss business type behind the correspondent — glances always at Newman and the woman seated opposite. He would remember that hard face.

He observed more. At the far end of the smoking section Nagy appeared and looked inside. Only for a moment. A small, stocky man appeared beside him. Foley saw Nagy's startled expression. Both men disappeared inside the lavatory. Foley reacted at once.

Walking into the smoking section, staring straight ahead, he slid aside the end door, waited for it to shut automatically, and listened outside the lavatory. He heard choking noises. He reached out a hand to rattle the handle and then withdrew it. He could not afford to advertise his presence on the express. He went back to his own seat.

Inside the lavatory Graf had one hand round Nagy's throat as he extracted the Army rifle from the holdall with the other hand. Bending the little man back over the wash-basin, he put the rifle muzzle under his chin. Nagy's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with stark terror.

`Now,' said Graf, 'you can end up being tossed off this train. People do fall off expresses. Or you can tell me — first time please, there will be no second chance — who you are working for. We know you're following Newman...'

`You can't get away with this,' Nagy gasped.

`I said first time...'

Nagy heard a click, guessed it was the safety catch coming off. He nearly filled his pants. The remote, glassy look on his attacker's face was almost more frightening than the rifle.

`Can't speak...' The vicious grip of the hand on his throat relaxed. A little. `Tripet,' he said. 'I am following Newman. For Tripet...'

`Who the hell is Tripet?' Graf asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Nagy's.

`Chief Inspector Tripet. Sûreté. Geneva. I've worked for him before. I'm his snout...'

Nagy, almost universally despised, a man you used, had guts. He was determined not to give away Pierre Jaccard of the Journal de Genêve. There was more money there. And Jaccard had always kept his word. In Nagy's world trust was credit beyond price.

`So,' Graf told him, 'you forget this Tripet. From now on you work for me. No, shut up and listen. You carry on doing what you're doing — following Newman. You call me at this number...' Graf tucked a folded piece of paper inside Nagy's coat pocket. 'Whoever answers,' give your name immediately, tell them about Newman's movements, who he meets, where he goes. You will be paid...' He tucked several folded banknotes in the same pocket. 'First, wherever Newman gets off, find out where he's staying, get a place to stay yourself. Report to the number at once where you're staying and the phone number...'

`Understood...' Nagy replied hoarsely, feeling his damaged throat when Graf removed the hand and the rifle, still aiming the muzz1e point-blank. 'I'll do what you say...'

`You might be tempted to change your mind — when you think things over,' Graf went on in the same casual tone which Nagy found so disturbing. Christ! The swine had almost murdered him. 'Don't,' Graf warned. 'One of my associates will always be close to you. You won't see him. He'll simply be there. He's impetuous. Very rough. Any hint you're going independent and he'll chop you. You do understand, Nagy, I hope?'

`I understand …'

It was the contemptuous affront to his dignity which roused Nagy. He had been savagely assaulted in a lavatory. Graf, who would never have understood his victim's reaction, had added one further insult to intimidate the little man. Prior to leaving him in the lavatory he had stuffed a tablet of toilet soap inside Nagy's mouth.

Seated inside the second-class coach as the express left Lausanne and swung north away from the lake towards Fribourg, Nagy could still taste the soap. He was going to pay back these new employers, whoever they might be. Obstinately, he was determined about that.

The snow lay deeper on the fields — the express was climbing as it sped north. Newman was still silent, deep in thought as the train stopped at Fribourg and then proceeded on the last lap to Berne. When he stood up to lift their bags down from the rack as they pulled into Berne station Kobler had already left the coach and was waiting by the exit door. He was almost the first passenger to step down off the express.

One coach behind, Julius Nagy hurried off the train, his hat crumpled inside his coat, the coat folded over his arm. He was no longer immediately recognizable. His eyes gleamed with deep resentment as he followed Emil Graf along the platform. In his right hand he held the small Voigtlander camera he always carried.

Ahead of Graf walked Kobler, very erect and brisk, briefcase in right hand. He ran down the steps with Graf trotting behind. Outside the station where a 450 SEL Mercedes was waiting for him with a chauffeur he paused, turning up his collar against the cold. Graf caught up with him and looked around as though searching for a taxi.

`He's tamed,' he reported to Kobler. 'He's ours... `You're sure?'

`Certain. Scared shitless...'

Only one person noticed the brief exchange. Nagy raised his small camera and clicked it once as Kobler turned his head to catch what Graf said. Kobler walked to the Mercedes where the chauffeur held the rear door open. Nagy's camera clicked again. He then used the piece of paper Graf had stuffed in his pocket to write down the registration number. He had faded back inside the station when Graf turned round and the Mercedes was driven off.

The two plain clothes men watching the platform exit for the Zurich express missed spotting Lee Foley. The American walked past them wearing a very British-looking check overcoat he had bought in London. His distinctive white hair was concealed beneath a peaked golfing cap pulled well down. The horn-rimmed glasses he wore (with plain glass lenses) gave him a professorial appearance.

Foley walked out of the station among a crowd of passengers who had come off the same train. Ignoring the taxi rank, his case in his left hand, he continued walking down the narrow Neuengasse. Pausing to glance into a shop window in an arcade, he used the plate glass as a mirror to check the street.

Satisfied that no one was following, he resumed the short walk to the Savoy Hotel and turned inside the entrance quickly. The lobby and a sitting area were all of apiece. The girl at the reception counter looked up and Foley was already filling in the obligatory registration form in triplicate — one copy for the police who would collect it later.

`You have a room. I reserved it by phone from Geneva.' `Room 230. It's a double...'

The girl looked round for a companion. Foley showed his passport and then pocketed it. He picked up his bag.

`I'll get a porter...'

`Don't bother. That's the elevator?' He went up inside the cage, found his room, dumped his bag on the bed and sat by the phone, waiting for the call.

Arthur Beck sat behind his desk eating the last of the English-style ham sandwiches his secretary had prepared for him. As far as Beck was concerned, the Earl of Sandwich was one of the great historical figures Britain had produced. He had acquired this liking during a stint spent with Scotland Yard in London. He was drinking coffee when the phone rang. His caller spoke in German.

`Leupin here, sir. Reporting from the station. Newman came in on the thirteen fifty-eight express from Geneva. He was accompanied by a woman American I would guess from her clothes. Marbot tailed them to the Bellevue Palace where they booked in ten minutes ago.'

`What about Lee Foley?'

`No sign of anyone answering his description. We both watched the passengers arriving off the train..

`Thank you, Leupin. Continue watching all trains from Geneva.'

`Marbot is on his way back here...'

Beck put down the receiver and ate the last sandwich while he thought. He had been right about one thing — that Newman would turn up in Berne. What bothered him was the earlier call from Chief Inspector Tripet. Newman, apparently, had shown no reaction to the casual reference to Terminal. Was it possible that the Englishman was working on an entirely different story?

Of one thing Beck was convinced — knowing Newman the way he did. The foreign correspondent wasn't visiting Berne just for a holiday. Newman was a workaholic: he never stopped looking for a fresh story.

But what really worried Beck was the non-appearance of Foley. Or should he say disappearance? If Lee Foley had slipped past the net Beck had a dangerous wolf stalking the streets of his city. He decided to call New York.

Lee Foley picked up the receiver on the second ring. Holding the phone to his ear he waited. The voice which spoke at the other end sounded impatient.

`Is that Mr Lee Foley?'

`Speaking. I'm in position. Listen, the first move is yours. You need to visit the place in question. Find out what the situation is. Could you please report back to me as soon as you can? No, please listen. Check out the security at the place in question. Any small item may be vital. When I'm armed with facts I can go into action. If it comes to it, I'll raise hell. I do have a talent for that, as you well know …'

Foley broke the connection and wandered over to the window of his bedroom which looked down a small alley. That was the place an experienced watcher would choose to observe the Savoy. The alley was empty.

Newman put down the phone as Nancy came into the small hallway, shut the door and entered the bedroom. She had a pensive look.

`Bob, who were you calling?'

`Your beloved Room Service for a large bottle of mineral water. You know my thirst, especially at night. They must be busy — I'll call again in a minute. Incidentally, you never showed me that Gucci perfume you rushed out to buy just before we left the Hotel des Bergues.'

`Voilà!' She produced the bottle from her handbag. 'You should have noticed I was wearing it on the express. Isn't this a lovely room?'

They had been allocated Room 428. A bathroom led off the entrance hall. There was a separate toilet. But the room itself was the cherry on the cake. Very large with a couple of comfortable armchairs, a desk in front of the spacious windows where Newman could work. Two generous single beds had been placed alongside each other to form a double. Nancy bounced her backside on one of the beds.

`Bob, this is marvellous. We could live here for weeks...' 'Maybe we will. Come and look at the view. The porter made a big fuss about it and rightly so.'

They stood with his arm wrapped round her and she made cooing noises of sheer delight. Newman opened the first set of windows and then the outer ones a foot beyond. Chill air floated into the room which had the temperature of a sauna bath.

`That hill beyond the river with the snow is the Bantiger,' he explained. 'If this overcast clears over there to the left you'll get the most fantastic panorama of the Bernese Oberland range. Now,' he became businesslike, 'this afternoon I'm hiring a car from Hertz next door. We're driving to the Berne Clinic at Thun...'

`Just like that?' Her professional instincts surfaced. 'We should phone for an appointment to see Jesse...'

`We do nothing of the sort. We arrive unannounced. You're not only a relative, you're a doctor. With me accompanying you we can bulldoze our way in, maybe catch them on the hop..

`You really think that's a good idea?'

`It's what we're going to do. After a quick lunch...'

`Bob, they have three separate restaurants. One gorgeous room overlooking the terrace down there. The Grill Room. And the coffee shop...'

`The coffee shop. It will be quick. We have to move before our arrival is reported. Don't forget that bloody newspaper article.'

`Let me just fix myself.' She left him and sat down in front of the dressing table. 'Did you notice that Englishman who was registering while you waited? I was sitting on a sofa and I saw him look back and stare at you.'

`He'd probably seen my picture in that paper...'

Newman spoke in an off-hand manner, dismissing the incident from her mind. But he knew the guest she was talking about. He even knew the man's name, but he had detected no significance in the guest until Nancy's remark.

He had waited patiently while the other Englishman filled in the registration form, ignoring the receptionist's attempt to do the job for him. A slim, erect man with a trim moustache, he wore a short camel-hair coat and would be in his early thirties.

`The porter will take your bag to your room, Mr Mason,' the receptionist had informed him, returning his passport.

`Thank you,' Mason had replied, accepting the small hotel booklet with his passport and turning away to where the porter waited.

Now he remembered Mason had glanced over his shoulder at Newman before leaving the counter. A swift, appraising glance. He frowned to himself and Nancy watched him as she combed her hair.

`That man at the reception desk. You know him?'

`Never seen him before in my life. Are you ready? It will have to he a very quick meal. I have to hire the car and it's a half hour's drive to Thun along the motorway.'

`How did you locate it so quickly?'

`By asking the concierge when you wandered off into that huge reception hall. They have a fashion show this afternoon...'

`And a medical congress reception in a few days' time.. `So what?' he asked, catching a certain inflection in her tone.

`Nothing,' she answered. 'Let's go eat …'

Mason sat on the bed in his room, dialling the number which would put him straight through to Tweed's extension. He never ceased to be impressed with how swiftly the continental phone system worked — providing you were in Sweden, Germany or Switzerland.

`Yes,' said Tweed's voice. 'Who is it?'

`Mason. How is the weather there? We have eight degrees here...'

`Nine in London...' That established not only their identities, but also told Mason that Tweed was alone in his office — that Howard wasn't leaning over his shoulder, listening in.

`I've just booked in at the Bellevue Palace,' Mason said crisply. 'I stopped over in Zurich to gather a little information. Grange.' He said the name quickly.

`Do use the Queen's English,' Tweed complained. 'You stayed on in Zurich. Continue...'

`I've built up a dossier on the subject in question. Not easy. Swiss doctors close down like a shutter falling when you mention his name. I found an American doctor working in Zurich who opened up. God, the subject carries some clout. He's a real power in the land. Right at the top of the tree. You'd like a quick run-down?'

`Not over the phone,' Tweed said quickly, aware the call had to be passing through the hotel switchboard. 'I'm coming out there soon myself. Keep making discreet enquiries. Don't go near the British Embassy...'

`One more thing,' Mason added. 'Don't imagine it means anything. Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent, booked in here after me. He had his wife with him. I didn't know he was married...'

`He probably isn't. You know the bohemian life those correspondents lead...' Tweed sounded dreamy. 'Keep digging. And stay in Berne...'

Tweed put down the phone and looked at Monica who was sorting files. 'That was Mason calling from the Bellevue Palace. He has data on Professor Armand Grange of the Berne Clinic. Anything on the computer? Just supposing the damned thing is working...'

`It is working. I did check. Not a thing. I tried Medical and came up with zero. So then I tried Industrialists — because of his chemical works. Zero again. I even tried Bankers. Zero. The man is a shadow. I even wondered whether he really exists.'

`Well, at least that has decided me.' Tweed was polishing his glasses again on the worn silk handkerchief. Monica watched him. He was always fingering the lenses. 'I'm going to Berne,' Tweed told her. `It's just a question of timing. Book me on Swissair flights for Zurich non-stop. As I miss one flight, book me on the next one. When I do leave it will be at a moment's notice.'

`What are you waiting for?' Monica asked.

`A development. A blunder on the part of the opposition. It has to come. No one is foolproof. Not even a shadow …'

Thirteen

The coffee shop at the Bellevue Palace is a large glass box-like restaurant perched above the pavement on the side overlooking the Hertz car hire office. Newman gobbled down his steak as Nancy ate her grilled sole. Swallowing his coffee in two gulps, Newman wiped his mouth with a napkin and signed the bill.

`You're going to hire the car now?' Nancy asked. 'I'll dash up to the room and get my gloves. Meet you over there?' `Do that.'

Newman waited at the exit until she had disappeared and then retraced his steps to one of the phone booths near the garderobe, the cloakroom where guests left their coats. It took him one minute to make the call and then he ran back to the exit, along the pavement and into the Hertz office. Slamming down his driving licence and passport he told the girl what he wanted.

`They have a Citroen. Automatic,' he told Nancy when she came inside. 'This chap is going to take us to the car. It's on Level Three...'

In less than five minutes he was driving the car round the sharp curves up to street level. Nancy put on her wool-lined leather gloves, fastened her seat belt and relaxed. An expert driver, she still preferred to travel as a passenger.

The sky was a heavy pall hovering close to the city as they crossed one of the bridges and within a short time Newman was on the four-lane motorway which runs all the way to Lucerne via Thun. Inside forty minutes they should have arrived at the Berne Clinic.

Lee Foley paid a very generous sum in Swiss francs to borrow the red Porsche from his Berne contact. He needed a fast car although normally its conspicuousness would have worried him. But this was an emergency.

He drove just inside the speed limit through the suburbs of Berne, but as soon as he turned on to the motorway he pushed his foot down. The highway was quiet, very little other traffic in mid-afternoon. His cold blue eyes flickered from side to side as he increased speed.

`Watch it on that motorway,' his contact had informed him as he handed over the Porsche which he had brought to the Savoy. 'It's a favourite place for the police to set up speed-traps...'

Foley had driven away from the Savoy so fixed on getting to his destination in time that he for once omitted to check that no one was following him. So he completely missed noticing the helmeted figure who jumped on a scooter parked further along the pavement. The scooter was still with him, little more than a dot behind the Porsche, when he spotted the Citroen ahead.

He kept up his speed, pulling closer to the Citroen until he had a good view of the two occupants. Newman behind the wheel, his woman seated alongside him. Foley breathed a sigh of relief and reduced speed, widening the distance between the two vehicles. Behind him the scooter rider—going flat-out — also slowed down.

Foley drove under a large destination indicator board, one of several at regular intervals. The board carried the legend THUN — NORD.

Inside the Citroen the warmth from the heater had dispelled the bitter cold and Nancy removed her gloves. Her right hand played with the fingers of one glove in her lap. The motorway was in superb condition, its surface clear of snow. But as they left Berne behind, passed the turn-off to Belp, the snow in the fields on both sides lay deeper. Here and there an occasional naked tree stretched gnarled branches towards the dark grey pall overhead. The atmosphere was sullen, unwelcoming. Newman glanced at her restless hand.

`Nervous? Now we're so close?'

`Yes, I am, Bob. I keep thinking about Jesse. And I'm not at all sure they're going to let us in, just dropping on them like this...'

`Leave me to do the talking when we arrive. You're a close relative. I'm a foreign correspondent. A lethal combination for a clinic which wants to preserve its reputation. There's no publicity like bad publicity...'

`What are you going to do?' She sounded worried.

`I'm going to get inside that clinic. Now, have one of your rare cigarettes, stop fiddling with that glove, here's the pack.'

They passed under a fresh sign which indicated two different destinations. THUN — SUD, THUN — NORD. Newman signalled to the huge trailer truck coming up behind him and swung up the turn-off to Thun—Nord. Nancy lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Now they were crossing the motorway which was below them and from this extra elevation she had a view of grim, saw-toothed mountains to the south, mountains only dimly seen in a veil of mist so for a moment she wasn't sure whether she was watching a mirage.

`Those must be pretty high,' she observed.

`They rise to the far side of Thun, to the south and the east. One of them is the Stockhorn. Probably that big brute towering above the rest...'

They were climbing a gradual but continually-ascending slope up a hillside between more fields. An isolated farm here and there, a glimpse of neatly-stacked and huge bales of hay inside barns with steep roofs. The lowering sky created an ominous sense of desolation. Over to the east a great castle perched on a hilltop with turrets capped with what looked like witches' hats.

`That's the famous Thun Schloss,' Newman remarked. `The town is below it, out of sight...'

`You do know the way?'

`We turn off this road somewhere higher up according to that helpful concierge at the Bellevue. Check it on the map I put in the glove compartment if you like — he marked the route...'

`It's creepy up here, Bob...'

`It's just a lousy afternoon.'

But there was something in her remark. They were very close to the snow-line. Earlier sun had melted the snow blanket on the lower fields facing south. Beyond the snow line houses were dotted at intervals towards Thun. Near the top of the ridge a dense forest of dark firs huddled like an army waiting to march. Then they reached the snow-line and here no ploughs had cleared the road. Newman reduced speed, slowed even more as he saw a sign-post. The sign read Klinik Bern. He swung right on to a narrower road, corrected a rear-wheel skid, drove on.

`Do you think that's it?' Nancy asked.

`I imagine so...'

A large, two-storey mansion with a verandah running round the ground floor was perched in an isolated position on the wide plateau which extended to the group of private houses several kilometres to the east. The grounds, which looked extensive, were surrounded by a wire fence and ahead Newman saw a gatehouse. Close behind the mansion the forest stood, a solid wall of firs mantled with snow. He pulled up in front of the stone, single-storey gatehouse beside double wire gates which were closed. Before he could alight from the car large, black dogs appeared and came leaping towards the gate.

`Dobermans,' Newman commented. 'Charming...'

A heavy wooden door leading from the gatehouse direct on to the road opened. A lean man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a windcheater, walked out towards the Citroen. Glancing over his shoulder he called out a curt order in German. The dogs stopped barking, backed away reluctantly and disappeared.

`This is private property,' the lean man began in German.

`Not where I'm standing, it isn't,' Newman snapped back. `This is the public highway. My passenger is Nancy Kennedy. She's here to visit her grandfather, Jesse Kennedy...'

`You have an appointment?'

`She has flown from America for the precise purpose of visiting her grandfather...'

`No admittance without an appointment...'

`You're the boss here?' Newman's tone dripped sarcasm. `You look like paid help to me. Get on the phone and tell the Clinic we're here. And tell them I'm a newspaper man — it would make a very good story, don't you think'? Granddaughter flies all the way from America and is refused admission to see her sick grandfather. What are you running here — a concentration camp? That's the impression I'm getting — a wire fence and Dobermans...'

And you are?'

`Robert Newman. I'm getting pretty chilled standing here yacking to you. I'll give you two minutes — then we'll drive back to Berne and I'll file my story...'

`Wait!'

'For two minutes...'

Newman made an elaborate pantomime of looking at his watch and went back to the car. The lean man disappeared inside the gatehouse while Newman settled behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. Nancy took the pack and lit one for herself.

`It might have been better to make an appointment,' she said.

`Now I've seen the set-up I think not. This place smells very peculiar. While I was talking to Lanky I saw another man peer through that open doorway, a man wearing a uniform which looked very much like the Swiss Army...'

Bob, that's crazy! You must have been mistaken...'

`I'm only telling you what I saw. The whole goddamned place is laid out like a military encampment. Surprise, surprise — here comes Lanky, looking even more sour than before...'

`You may go up to the Clinic. Someone will meet you there...'

The lean man spoke curtly, then walked away before there was time for a reply. Newman guessed that someone inside the gatehouse had pressed a button — the double gates opened inward automatically. Remembering the dogs, he closed his window before he drove forward and up the long curving drive to the distant building. No sign of a Doberman. They had been locked inside the gatehouse until the Citroen was clear.

He drove slowly, taking in the wintry landscape, and realized the grounds were even more vast than he had first thought. The wire fence at the front ran away across the white world, disappearing down a dip in the hillside. As he approached the Clinic the whole place seemed deserted. He could now see the verandah was glassed in and six steps led up to the entrance door.

Parking the car facing the exit drive, he locked it when Nancy had alighted and they went up the steps together. Grasping the handle of the door, he opened it and they went inside on to the verandah. It stretched away in both directions, the floor tiled and spotless, a few pots with plants at intervals. The inner door led into a large tiled lobby. The smell of antiseptic hit Newman and he wrinkled his nostrils. Nancy noticed his reaction and her lips tightened.

At the back of the large lobby was a heavy, highly-polished wooden counter and behind this, sitting on a high stool with an adjustable back, was a large, fat middle-aged woman, dark hair tied at the back in a bun and with small, darting eyes. She put down the pencil she had been writing with on a printed form, clasped her pudgy hands and stared at them.

`You know who we are,' Newman said in German, 'and I want to see the man in charge of this place..'

`Please to fill in the forms,' she replied in English, her tone of voice flat as she pushed a pad across the counter.

`Maybe, after I've seen your superior. We've come to see Jesse Kennedy. You know that already from the lackey on the gate...'

`I am very much afraid that without an appointment that will not be possible...' The man who had appeared from a side door spoke quietly but firmly in excellent English. Something in the tone of voice made Newman turn quickly to study the speaker. He had an impression of authority, supreme self-confidence, a human dynamo. 'We have to consider the patient,' the voice continued. 'I also should tell you that at the moment Mr Kennedy is under sedation.'

A man almost his own height, Newman estimated. More heavily-built. A man of about forty with dark brown hair streaked with grey shafts. The eyes stared at Newman and expressed force of character. Eyes which assessed his visitor, weighing up a possible opponent. A very self-controlled, formidable man.

`I am Dr Bruno Kobler,' he added.

`And I am Dr Nancy Kennedy,' Nancy interjected. 'The fact that my grandfather is sedated makes no difference. I wish to see him immediately.'

`Without a doctor in attendance that would be irregular...'

`You're a doctor,' Newman snapped. 'You just told us...'

`I am the chief administrator. I have no medical qualification.'

`You're telling us,' Newman persisted, 'that at this moment you have no medical practitioner available on the premises? Is that the way you run this clinic?'

`I didn't say that.' There was an edge to Kobler's voice. 'I indicated no one was available to accompany you...'

`Then we'll drive straight back to the American Embassy,'

Newman decided. 'Dr Kennedy is an American citizen. So is Jesse Kennedy. Kobler, we're going to raise hell...'

`There is no need to get excited. Bearing in mind that your companion is a doctor, I think we might make an exception. We may be able to call on Dr Novak — he is the physician in charge of Jesse Kennedy …'

He turned to the woman behind the counter and clicked his fingers as though summoning a waiter. 'See if you can locate Dr Novak, Astrid. Ask him to come here at once.'

`How is my grandfather?' Nancy enquired.

Kobler turned to her, spread his hands and gave her his whole attention, staring straight into her eyes. His manner became conciliatory but for at least half a minute he delayed his reply. She had the impression he was looking inside her.

She remained silent, sensing he was hoping to make her say more.

`I am afraid I cannot answer your question, Dr Kennedy. Unlike yourself, I am not a medical doctor. My job is to administer the Clinic. I would prefer that you ask Dr Novak. I think you will find him sympathetic. You see, he is one of your countrymen.'

`Dr Novak is an American?'

`Indeed he is. A very clever man, which is why he was asked to come here. The Clinic, as you doubtless know, has a world-wide reputation...'

`I'd also like to see Professor Armand Grange.'

Kobler shook his head regretfully. 'That, I regret to say, will not be possible. He only sees visitors strictly by appointment.'

`He's on the premises at this moment?' Nancy demanded. `I really have no idea...'

Kobler glanced over his shoulder, his attention caught by the sound of the front door opening. Newman had stepped out on to the verandah. Closing the door he walked along to his left past chairs of basketwork with cushions; presumably when the weather was good patients sat here. It was very quiet, the central heating was turned up so the enclosed corridor had the atmosphere of a hothouse.

Alongside the inner wall he passed windows at intervals, all of them with frosted glass so he could not see into the rooms beyond. At the end of the corridor he tried the door on the inner wall and found it locked. He stood gazing across the ground to the east. In a bowl stood a modern complex of single-storey buildings with tall, slim windows. The place reminded him of a chemical laboratory. A covered way, windowless, extended from the direction of the Clinic to the complex. He returned to the reception hall as Nancy was being introduced by Kobler to a tall, fair-haired man in his early thirties. He wore a white coat and a stethoscope dangled from his left hand. Kobler turned to Newman.

`This is Dr Novak, Mr Newman. I expect you will not mind sitting in the waiting room while Dr Kennedy sees her...'

`Bob is coming with me,' Nancy interrupted brusquely. `He's my fiancé...'

Novak glanced at Kobler, as though waiting for his reaction. Kobler bent his head towards Nancy and smiled. 'Who am I to dispute the wishes of a beautiful woman? Of course Mr Newman may accompany you.'

`Waldo Novak,' the American said and held out his hand to shake Newman's. 'I've heard a lot about you. The Kruger case man. Boy, did you do a job in Germany.

`Just a story.' Newman turned to Kobler as he shook hands with Novak. 'Why the Dobermans?' he asked abruptly. 'Plus uniformed guards and the fence. This place is like Dartmoor.'

Kobler's head, turned to one side, swivelled to Newman and his smile remained fixed. Again he took his time about replying while he studied Newman. Like Nancy, Newman said nothing, gazing back at Kobler.

`Vandals,' Kobler replied eventually. 'Even in Switzerland we have young people who have too much energy, too little respect for private property. One of my duties is to ensure that the patients endure no disturbance from the outside world. And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you in Dr Novak's capable hands.' He spoke to Novak in a brief aside. have explained the patient is under sedation. Goodbye, Mr Newman. I'm sure we shall meet again...'

`You can count on it.'

`Dr Kennedy.. Kobler bowed and left them, disappearing behind the side door he had used earlier. Newman heard the click of an automatic lock. Novak produced a computer card and ushered Nancy towards a door at the rear of the reception hall. He inserted the card in a slot and the door slid open. Newman estimated it was one-inch thick steel. The door closed behind them as the fat woman, Astrid, brought up the rear.

`You speak German fluently, Mr Newman?' Astrid enquired in a thick, throaty voice.

`No, I don't,' he lied. 'When they start to talk fast I lose it...'

He left it at that as he followed Nancy and Novak along a wide corridor which was spotless and deserted. They passed closed doors with porthole windows. Again the glass was frosted so it was impossible to see inside. He noticed that near the end of the corridor the smooth surface began to slope downwards, then vanished round a corner. The same smell of disinfectant he associated with hospitals and so disliked pervaded the place. Novak stopped outside a door in the right-hand wall, another door with a frosted glass porthole. He had extracted another computer card from his coat pocket.

`Dr Kennedy,' he said, 'you're accustomed to seeing patients, of course. But in my experience it's different when the patient is a relative. He won't be able to talk with you...'

'I understand.'

Inserting the card inside the slot, Novak waited while the door slid open and gestured for them to walk inside. Newman followed Nancy who stopped suddenly as Novak and Astrid joined them and the door slid shut. He took her by the arm.

`Easy does it, old girl..

`It's not that,' she whispered. 'He's awake!'

In a single bed centred with its head against the far wall lay a gaunt-faced man with a hooked nose, wispy white hair, a high forehead, a firm mouth and a prominent jaw. His complexion was ruddy. For a brief moment his eyes had flickered open as Nancy walked in, then closed again like a shutter closing over a lens. Newman doubted whether either Novak or Astrid had seen the eyes open — they had been masked by his own bulk.

`You see,' Novak said gently, 'he sleeps well. He is a very strong man, a tough constitution. I was going to add, for his age — but he's one of nature's survivors..

`You think he will survive then?' Nancy asked quietly.

`He is very sick man,' Astrid broke in. 'Very, very sick man.'

Newman stood back from the rest of them, hands in his pockets as he watched. He had the distinct impression Novak was glad to see the two visitors. Glad? No, relieved. And not because one of his own kind — Nancy — had arrived. Astrid stood with tight lips and looked at her watch.

`Five minutes. Your visit. No more...'

Newman turned on her, raising his voice. 'Dr Novak, I want this woman out of the room. Who the hell is she to dictate the length of our stay? You're in charge of Jesse Kennedy's case — Dr Kobler said so in front of me. Kindly assert your authority.'

`You will see that the visit is five minutes and not one second more...' Astrid was speaking German like a machine-gun. 'I will report this outrage to Professor Grange unless you do as I say...'

`Tell her to fuck off,' Newman snapped. 'Or has this fat old bag got you by the short and curlies? Novak! Are you — or are you not — the physician in charge here?'

Waldo Novak flushed. He spoke to Astrid over his shoulder, also in rapid German. 'I suspect that the last thing Grange would be pleased to hear is that you were responsible for a scene. If these people storm out of the Clinic have you any idea of the potential consequences? Newman is a foreign correspondent of international repute, for God's sake. Kindly leave us alone...'

She was mouthing protests as he extracted the computer card key and inserted it in the slot. The door slid open. She bit her lip and shuffled out into the corridor. The closing door shut out her enraged face. Novak looked at Newman and Nancy apologetically.

`Every institution has one of them. The faithful servant who is tolerated because she has been on the staff since the dinosaurs.'

`She's a bit of an old dinosaur herself,' Nancy commented.

She had her handbag open and was using a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. Newman noticed that Jesse's gnarled hand was now lying outside the sheet. When they had entered it had been underneath. His eyes were still closed. Nancy pulled up a chair close to the bed, sat down and took his hand in hers.

`He doesn't know you're here,' Novak told her.

`What sedative are you using, Dr Novak?' she asked.

He hesitated. 'It's not normal to discuss treatment.. he began and then stopped speaking. Newman noticed he had glanced towards a porthole-shaped mirror let into the side wall. Above it was a coat-hook. Of course! The window in the door was of frosted glass. Every hospital or clinic had some technique for observing seriously ill patients.

I bet that next room is empty, he said to himself. And I bet that corpulent old pig is standing on the other side of that fake mirror. That is what is worrying Novak. He took off his jacket, walked over to the mirror and hung the jacket over it.

`Dr Novak.. !' Nancy's tone was sharp-edged.

`Keep your voice down, Nancy,' Newman whispered. 'All the time.'

He looked round the room carefully, searching for a hidden microphone. Then he took a chair and placed it alongside Nancy's and gestured to Novak to sit down. The American sank into the chair and stared at Nancy who started speaking again, this time very quietly.

`I'm a doctor. I'm entitled to know the treatment... `Sodium Amytal,' Novak said promptly. 'He's a very vigorous man and must be kept in bed.'

He looked up over his shoulder at Newman who had rested a hand on the shoulder. Jesse's eyes flickered open, stared straight at Newman and frowned, his head jerked in a brief gesture. Get Novak away from me and Nancy.

`Novak,' said Newman, 'let's leave her with him. He is her grandfather. Come over with me by the window...' He waited until Novak joined him. The window, which presumably looked on the outside world from the daylight showing through, was also frosted. Which was another peculiarity of the Clinic.

What is it?' Novak enquired, his back to the bed.

`You and I have to meet outside. Very fast. You live on the premises?'

`Yes, I do. Why?'

`I guessed as much. This place smells of a closed community — a community locked away from the normal world. I suppose they do let you out,' he continued with a trace of sarcasm.

`During my off-duty hours I do what I like...'

`Don't sound indignant. But so far we haven't exactly felt welcome inside this place. I repeat. I insist on meeting you — so suggest somewhere. Thun would be closest?'

`I suppose it would be.' Novak sounded dubious. `I don't see why I have to meet you anywhere..

`Don't you?' Newman, observing what was happening behind Novak's back, kept talking fast. `You're not compelled to, I agree. But then I could start writing articles about this place — naming you as my informant...'

`For Christ's sake, no...'

`No smart lawyer will get me for libel. I'm an expert at hinting at things and I know just how far I can go. Be honest with yourself, Novak — you're desperate to talk to someone. I sensed it within minutes of meeting you...'

The Hotel Freienhof...' The words tumbled out. `... in Thun on the Freienhofgasse... it overlooks the Inner Aare... a stretch of the river flowing in from the lake... the cheaper restaurant... do you know the place?'

`I'll find it. Tomorrow suit you?'

`Day after tomorrow. Thursday. Seven in the evening. It will be dark then …'

While Newman distracted Novak's attention Nancy had been talking to her grandfather, who suddenly woke up, his eyes fierce and alert. She leaned close to him so they could whisper and he spoke without any trace of being drugged.

`What are they doing to you here, Jesse?'

`It's what they're doing to the others. I never wanted to come to this place. That bastard Dr Chase shot me full of some drug in Tucson after I fell off the horse. I was hustled aboard a Lear jet and flown here.

`What do you mean — what they're doing to the others?'

`The patients. It's got to be stopped. They're carrying out some kind of experiments. I keep my ears open and they talk when they think I'm doped out of my mind. The patients don't survive the experiments. A lot of them are dying anyway — but that's no reason for murdering them...'

`Are you sure, Jesse? How are you feeling?'

`I'm OK. As long as I'm inside here you've got a pipeline into this place. Don't worry about me...'

`I do,' she whispered.

`Nancy.' Newman had left the window and was walking round the bed. 'Maybe it would be better if we came back another day when your grandfather isn't sedated …'

She looked up at him and saw him stop suddenly. Her expression was a mixture of pathos, anxiety and puzzlement. Newman put a finger to his lips to hush both Novak and Nancy. Jesse lay inert in the bed, his eyes closed. Newman bent down close to the head of the bed and listened. No, he had not been mistaken. He had caught the sound of a whirring noise, of machinery working.

Lee Foley had followed Newman at a discreet distance until he rounded a bend on the snowbound hillside in time to see Newman turn off along the narrow road leading to the Berne Clinic. He drove the Porsche straight past the turn-off and continued up the slope towards the fir forest.

As he ascended higher and higher he looked down on the buildings of the Clinic. He continued climbing until he reached the forest where he swung off the road, wheels skidding dangerously, heading for a narrow opening between the towering black firs. Always take the high ground.

Turning the Porsche through a hundred and eighty degrees — ready for a quick departure — he switched off the engine. On the floor of the empty seat behind him lay a pair of powerful binoculars in a leather case. He extracted them from the case, climbed out of the car and stood half-behind the erect trunk of an immensely tall tree.

Lifting the binoculars he adjusted the focus and slowly swept the lenses across the view far below. Within half an hour he had memorized the entire layout of the Clinic, the weird covered tunnel connecting it to the laboratory complex, and the laboratory itself. Then, ignoring the bitter east wind which scoured his craggy face, he settled down to wait, taking a nip of whisky from his hip flask.

Lee Foley was not the only watcher who took an interest in the Berne Clinic that wintry afternoon in mid-February. The rider on the scooter who had — by driving the machine to the limit — kept up with Foley, took a different route.

The scooter proceeded up the hillside to the point where the sign indicated the turn-off to the Clinic. Here it swung right, following the road taken earlier by Newman. Instead of stopping at the gatehouse, it went on past full tilt, so fast that the Dobermans, again released, had no time to reach the gate.

The rider headed towards Thun, then turned off along a side track leading up the far side of the plateau. The surface of the track was diabolical but the rider continued upwards with great skill until, a snow-covered knoll to the left and close to the track obscured the grounds of the Clinic. The rider stopped, perched the machine against a pile of logs and used both hands to remove the helmet.

A cascade of titian hair fell down her back in a waterfall, was caught in the wind and streamed behind her. The girl opened the carrying satchel and took out a camera with a telescopic lens. She strode up the side of the knoll, her black leather pants sheathing her long, agile legs. At the summit she peered over. The entire, huge estate comprising the grounds and the buildings of the Berne Clinic spread out below.

Crouching down, she raised the view-finder to her eyes, scanning the laboratory complex, the igloo-like tunnel linking it to the side of the Clinic, the main building of the Clinic itself. Deftly, she began taking pictures, swivelling the lens, clicking almost continuously.

Inside Jesse Kennedy's room Newman, who had acute hearing, remained stooped as he searched for the source of the continuous whirring sound. Then he saw the metal, louvred grille set low down in the wall. It looked like an air-conditioning grille.

He knelt on the floor, pressing his ear against the louvres. The sound was much louder — a whirring noise with an occasional click at regular intervals. Putting a finger to his lips again to keep them quiet, he stood up. Facing Nancy and Novak, he gestured towards the grille and mouthed the words. Tape recorder.

Walking a few feet away from the grille, he started talking, raising his voice. His manner was aggressive, his target Novak.

`Now listen to me, Dr Novak — and listen well. We're leaving total responsibility for Jesse Kennedy's welfare in the hands of the Berne Clinic. You understand that clearly? Answer me!'

`That has always been the situation,' Novak replied, playing along with Newman. 'Nothing will be changed by your visit — and you can rest assured Mr Kennedy will continue to receive every care and attention...'

`He'd better.' Newman stabbed a finger into Novak's chest. `I don't know whether you're aware of the fact, but in a few days' time a major international medical congress is being held — including a reception at the Bellevue Palace. If anything happened to Jesse I'll shout my head off at that reception. We haven't exactly had the red carpet rolled out for us since we arrived at this place...'

`I do assure you...' Novak began.

`You'd better talk to Kohler and Grange and get their assurances, too. I blew the Kruger case wide open and I'm a man who can make a lot of noise. We're leaving now. Nancy...'

`Dr Novak, we'll be back — and very soon,' Nancy said firmly as Novak produced his key card.

Newman was close to the door when it slid back and he was looking beyond it.. Two men in white coats walked past the opening, pushing a long trolley. Something lay on the trolley, something covered with a sheet which protruded upwards at the rear end — at the end where a patient's head would be. The silhouette was very large and shaped like a cage. From underneath the sheet a hand projected, a hand which moved in a grasping movement.

`Excuse me...'

Newman pushed in front of Nancy and Novak and turned right, away from the exit. The man behind the trolley glanced over his shoulder and the trolley began to move faster on its well-oiled wheels. Newman quickened his pace. As he had passed the door leading into the room with the mirror in the wall the door opened and behind him he heard Astrid call out. He ignored her and quickened his pace further. The two men with the trolley were almost running and had reached the point where the corridor became a downward sloping ramp. The trolley increased its momentum and Newman started running.

Reaching the corner where the corridor curved he saw ahead a steel door lifting. The trolley passed under it and the door began to descend. He arrived just as the steel plate closed with a hydraulic purr. Beyond he had caught a glimpse of the ramp descending steeply into the distance. To his right, set into the wall, was another of those infernal computer- operated slots. He heard a shuffling tread and turned to face Astrid.

`You have no business here, Mr Newman. I shall have to report this act of trespass...'

`Do that. What are you trying to hide? Report that remark too...'

He walked past her and retraced his steps rapidly along the corridor to where Nancy and Novak stood waiting for him. The American looked worried and took a step forward to speak in a whisper before Astrid reached them.

I should leave here quickly if I were you...'

`It will be a pleasure...'

`First,' Astrid demanded, 'you must fill in the visiting forms at reception. It is the regulation...'

`It will be a pleasure,' Newman repeated.

The chill air of darkening night swept across the exposed plateau as they stood at the top of the steps outside the glassed-in verandah. But it was still daylight as Newman pulled on his gloves and Nancy shivered beside him. Novak had not come out to see them off, presumably to avoid any impression of intimacy.

`Cold?' Newman asked.

`This place gives me the creeps. My first impression — as soon as I saw the place — was right. There's something abnormal about the Clinic, Bob...'

`We'll talk about it in the car. With a bit of luck we should be back in Berne just before night...'

He drove down the curving drive slowly, again looking round to check the layout. A pallid light glowed over the stark and grim mountains on the far side of Thun. Nancy huddled herself inside her coat and turned up the heater. She looked out on both sides and then back through the rear window.

`There never seems to be anyone about — and yet I get the uncanny feeling unseen eyes are watching our every move. I'm not usually like this. Look — that's the sort of thing I mean...'

As they approached the gatehouse there were no signs of life but the gates opened. Newman drove between them, turned right and headed down the narrow road to the wider road where they had placed the sign to the Berne Clinic. She glanced at his profile.

`You've changed recently,' she remarked. date it from when we'd been a few hours in Geneva.'

`Changed? In what way?'

`You used to be so light-hearted, always smiling and cracking jokes. You look so terribly serious and determined. And why did you go running after that trolley when we left Jesse's room? Novak thought you'd taken leave of your senses.'

`What do you think was lying under that sheet?'

`Some unfortunate soul who'd just passed away..

`Do corpses normally waggle their hand? Whatever was under that sheet did just that.'

`Oh, my God. The sheet was pulled right over the body...'

`And that's only done when the patient is dead. That one was very much alive. My guess is that whoever was spread out under the sheet heard us and was trying to signal. Now you know why I ran after them. They beat me to a door which closed in my face — an automatic door, of course. That damned place is more like a giant computer than a clinic.'

`You mean they were running from you? I thought the trolley's brakes weren't working — that the momentum was carrying it down that ramp. Where does that corridor lead to?'

`A good question. There's a complex of new buildings further down the slope. I think they have a covered tunnel leading there. The corridor runs into the tunnel.'

`What kind of complex?'

`That, my dear Nancy, is one of the things I plan to ask our friend Dr Novak when I meet him in Thun on Thursday night.

`He agreed to meet you! That's strange. Where are you seeing him? I can come, can't I?'

`The rendezvous is immaterial. It is strange that he agreed. And no, you can't come...'

Bastard! Why do you think he did agree?' she asked as they came close to the bridge over the motorway and the slip road leading down on to the highway.

`I got the impression he's scared witless about something. I also think he's been waiting for the chance to contact someone outside that claustrophobic prison he can trust, he can confide in. And why are you so bothered about the Berne Clinic?'

`Did you notice the absence of something from Jesse's room?'

`I don't think so. I was too busy talking to Novak — to cover the fact you were talking to Jesse. What did I miss?'

`I'll tell you later,' she said, 'when we're back at the hotel. Do you think Jesse is safe in that place?'

Tor the next few days, yes. Didn't you get the point of my shouting the odds about the medical reception at the Bellevue? They have a tape recorder behind that grille...'

`It really is creepy...'

`My strategy,' he continued, 'was to frighten them to ensure they don't harm him. They'll be very careful with Jesse until that medical congress is over. By then we may know what's going on at the Berne Clinic. I was buying time...'

They had turned down the slip road and were now speeding along the deserted motorway back towards Berne. It was so overcast Newman had his lights on and they were approaching the point where another slip road entered the motorway beyond a bridge. In his rear view mirror Newman saw a black Mercedes coming fast behind him. It signalled and swung out into the fast lane prior to overtaking. Then all hell broke loose on the motorway.

A helmeted figure appeared behind Newman on a scooter, sounding the horn in urgent, non-stop blasts. The Mercedes had not yet drawn alongside. Newman frowned, his eyes moving from side to side. At the exit to the slip road ahead a giant orange-coloured snowplough was moving slowly forward, its huge blade raised to its highest arc. The scooter horn continued its blasting sound.

`What's the matter with that man?' Nancy asked.

She was speaking when Newman signalled — signalled that he was turning out into the fast lane ahead of the oncoming Mercedes. The snowplough emerged from the slip road like some monstrous robot, moving straight into the path of the slow lane. Newman rammed his foot down, swinging to his left. The Mercedes began sounding its own horn. He ignored it. 'Hang on!' he warned Nancy. 'Oh, Christ!' she muttered. The snowplough was almost on top of them. Like a guillotine the massive steel blade descended. Nancy saw it coming down. She froze with horror. It was going to slice them in two. The Citroen was now moving at manic speed, way above the limit. The blade flashed past Nancy's window, missed hitting the Citroen by inches. She flinched. The Mercedes jammed on its brakes to avoid the coming collision. In the fast lane Newman accelerated. The scooter passed the Mercedes, still speeding in the slow lane, weaving past the now stationary snowplough.

Behind the wheel of the Mercedes Hugo Munz swore foully to his passenger, Emil Graf. He reduced speed, checking in his mirror for any sign of a police patrol car. The motorway was still deserted.

`You should have hit him,' said Graf.

`You're crazy! I could have bounced off, hit the steel barrier and we both end up dead. That scooter warned him...'

`So,' Graf replied in his toneless voice, 'he's better organized than we gave him credit for. We'll have to try something else.

Fourteen

Blanche Signer sat waiting at a corner table in the bar of the Bellevue Palace while Newman fetched the drinks. She had paid a brief visit to the cloakroom to comb her titian hair, to get her centre parting straight, to freshen up generally for the Englishman after her dangerous ride back along the motorway on the scooter.

Thirty years old, the daughter of a colonel in the Swiss Army, she ran the most efficient service for tracing missing persons in western Europe. She was the girl who had secretly helped Newman to trace Kruger when the German had gone underground. She was determined to take Newman away from Nancy Kennedy.

`A double Scotch,' Newman said as he placed the glass before her and sat down alongside her on the banquette. There was not a lot of space and his legs touched hers. 'You've earned this. Cheers!'

`You know, Blanche,' he went on after swallowing half his drink, 'you took one hell of a risk back there on the motorway. I was scared stiff for you...'

`That's nice of you, Bob. Any risk of Nancy finding us here?'

`She's taking a bath. If she walks in you tried to pick me up. I think we have half an hour. What happened?'

I waited at the Savoy as arranged. Lee Foley did follow you to the Clinic, then drove on past the turn-off and went on higher up the hill. I suspect he was doing what I did — checking out the layout of that place. It's peculiar. I've got a host of photos for you...' She squeezed her handbag. 'The film is in here. I can get it developed and printed overnight. I know someone who will do that for me. I'll get them to you tomorrow somehow...'

`Leave them in a sealed envelope addressed to me with the concierge. Now, what did happen? You probably saved my life.'

`It was simple, really, Bob. I took the photos, got on the scooter and started back to a place where I could wait to pick up Foley if he followed you back. I saw this car leaving the Clinic and decided to follow that. Pure hunch. The driver, a nasty-looking piece of work, knew what he was doing. He drove to where a snowplough was clearing a slip road. He got out, walked up to the snowplough operator and pointed something in his face. I'm sure it was a hair spray. The man grabbed for his eyes and Nasty hit him. It was pretty brutal. The poor devil's head came into contact with a steel bar — my guess is his skull is cracked. The driver from the clinic then put on the snowplough man's overalls and guided the machine down to the end of the slip road — just before it turns on to the motorway.'

`Waiting for me,' Newman commented. 'It was a fair assumption that when we left the Clinic I'd drive back the way I came from Berne. I blundered. I thought someone inside that place was at risk. Instead they decided to wipe me out first. But they have blundered too. Now I know something is wrong with that place. I'm not sure you ought to help me any more on this one..

`Bob...' She took his hand and squeezed it affectionately. `We make a good team. We did before. Remember. You don't get rid of me as easily as that. When are you coming to see me at my apartment? It's only a five-minute walk from here along the Munstergasse and into the Junkerngasse..

`I'm involved with Nancy..

`Officially?' she pressed.

`Well, no, not yet...'

`So you come and see me...'

`You're blackmailing my emotions...'

`And I'll go on doing it,' she assured him in her soft, appealing voice.

He studied her while he finished his drink. Her blue eyes stared back at him steadily. She had beautiful bone structure, Newman reflected. A lot of character — you could see that in her chin and high cheekbones. To say nothing of her figure which was something to knock any man out.

`What do I do next for you?' she asked.

`Go home. Relax...' He saw the look in her eyes. 'Oh, hell, Blanche, all right. You still go home and rest. Get some warmer clothes and maintain the watch on Lee Foley.' He leaned forward and grasped her upper arm. 'But you be very careful. Foley is dangerous.'

`I can handle him Incidentally, when he's lying low at the Savoy he eats at a Hungarian place a few doors down the Neuengasse. The street is arcaded — so I can keep under cover. And it's perfect for parking the scooter. Anything else?'

She made it sound so everyday, Newman marvelled. Blanche was always very cool. She watched him over the rim of her glass; she couldn't take her eyes off him.

`There might be something else,' he decided. 'You've built up that register of people with unusual occupations. Check it and see if you have anything on a Manfred Seidler...'

`Will do. Maybe I'd better go before your pseudo-fiancée turns up. If I get something on this Seidler I'll type out a report and include it in the envelope with the photos. I'll head it MS. If there's an emergency I'll call your room number, let the phone ring three times, then disconnect. You call me back when you can. OK, Mr Newman?'

`OK, Miss Signer...'

She leaned forward, kissed him full on the mouth, stood up and walked away, her handbag looped over her shoulder. The bar at the Bellevue Palace is dimly lit, very much like many American bars. But as she walked erectly across the room men's heads turned to watch her. She stared straight ahead, apparently unaware of the impression she was creating. At the exit she passed Nancy Kennedy who was just entering.

Newman had moved Blanche's lipsticked glass on to the next table as she left. He stood up to greet Nancy. As she came closer he saw by her expression that something had disturbed her.

`That man phoned again,' she said as she sat down on the banquette. 'The same one I took the call from in Geneva. Seidler? Wasn't that his name? I told him you'd be back much later in the evening. He sounded very agitated. He put the phone down on me when I tried to get a message.'

`That's my strategy now, Nancy. Agitation. All round. By the time I talk to him he'll be going up the wall, which will make him more pliable. Same thing with the Berne Clinic. Agitation. Although there,' he said ruefully, 'it seems to have acted with a vengeance. They tried to kill us on that motorway...'

`Us?'

`You as well as me is my guess.' Newman's manner was forbidding. 'I'm giving it to you straight so you'll take care. You make no trips to Thun without me. Now, in the car you mentioned something missing from Jesse's room. What was it?'

`You have a good memory...'

`It's my main asset. Answer the bloody question.'

`You are in a mood. Something to tell the time by. No clock on his bedside table. No wristwatch. Jesse has no way of keeping track of the time. It's a disorientation technique. I know that from my psychiatric studies.'

`Trick-cyclists drive me round the bend...'

`You're hostile to everything medical,' she flared. 'When we were at the Clinic I saw you wrinkling your nose at the smell. They do have to keep those places hygienic. To do that they use disinfectant...'

`OK,' he said irritably. 'No clock. I've got the point. I agree it's odd.'

`And Novak told the truth when he said they used sodium amytal to sedate Jesse.' She reached into her handbag, produced a blue capsule from a zipped pocket and handed it to him. 'You can't see in here but it's a sixty-milligramme dose coded F23. Jesse slipped it to me while you were talking to Novak. That's why Jesse was still awake.'

`Maybe I'm dim, but I don't follow what you've just said.'

`Jesse has become expert at palming a capsule when he's given one to swallow. He pretends to swallow it and hides it in the palm of his hand.'

`How does he get rid of it?'

`He drops it inside that metal grille where they've hidden the tape recorder...'

`That's a laugh,' Newman commented. 'It's also clever. It doesn't suggest a sick man who's lost most of his marbles. And one absent thing I did notice. There wasn't a single mention of the fact that Jesse is supposed to be suffering from leukaemia.'

`Soon you'll be as good as me,' she said smugly. Then her expression drooped. 'But they are sedating him heavily. He showed me the fleshy part of his arm — it's riddled with punctures. The sods are pumping him full of the stuff with a hypodermic. We were just lucky it was capsule day. Can't you find out what's really going on when you meet Novak in Thun on Thursday night?'

`I intend to. If he turns up. He's getting very shaky about the situation there, so let's hope Kobler and Co. don't notice. I want you to stay inside this hotel the whole time I'm away at Thun. If you get any calls saying I've had an accident, ignore them. Anything that tempts you out of the Bellevue. You'll do that, won't you?'

`You have changed. You're getting very bossy...'

`I'm not asking you. I'm telling you.' His tone was bleak. 'I can no longer keep wondering what you're doing, looking over my shoulder.'

`You could ask me more nicely...'

She broke off as a waiter came to their table. He handed to Newman a folded sheet of paper. Inside was a sealed envelope. Taking the envelope, Newman looked at the waiter.

`Who gave you this?'

`A rather shabbily dressed individual, sir. He pointed you out and said would I be sure to hand this to you personally. I have never seen him before.'

`Thanks...'

Newman tore open the envelope and extracted a second, smaller sheet of folded paper which bore no clue as to its origins. The message was brief.

Can you come to see me at seven o'clock this evening. A crisis situation. Beck.

Newman checked his watch. 6.15 pm. He put the folded sheet back inside the envelope and slipped the envelope inside his wallet. Nancy stirred restlessly.

`What is it?'

`Things are hotting up. I have to go out. Expect me when you see me. If you're hungry start dinner without me. Choose whichever restaurant you fancy.'

`Is that all?'

`Yes. It is. Remember — stay inside this hotel …'

As he walked through the night Berne was deserted. The workers had gone home, the bright sparks hadn't come in for an evening on the town yet. He crossed over by the Casino and walked into the right-hand arcade of the Munstergasse, an arched stone tunnel with a paved walk, shop windows lit up and closed.

Newman wondered why he had been so abrupt with Nancy. A man has a habit of comparing one woman with another. Had the fact that he had been talking with Blanche so amiably before Nancy arrived influenced his attitude? Not a pleasant conclusion. But Beck's summons had decided him. With half his mind he heard the footsteps behind which synchronized with his own. He crossed the lonely street into the opposite arcade without looking back.

Yes, he had made up his mind. Before he saw Beck he was going to see Blanche — to tell her she was out of the whole business. Crisis was the word Beck had used. Beck didn't use words like that lightly. He was going to pull Blanche out of the firing line.

The footsteps synchronized with his own, the click-clack of a second pair of feet on the stones had followed him across the street. They were now following him down the same arcade. He didn't look back. It was an old trick — to mask your own footfall by pacing it with the man you were following.

He was nearly half-way towards the Munsterplatz when he passed a narrow alley leading through to the street beyond. The Finstergasschen. A spooky alley with only a single lamp which emphasized the shadows of the narrow walk. He continued towards the Munster, his right hand stiffened for a chopping blow.

`Newman! Come back here! Quick...!'

A hoarse, whispering call. He swung round on his heel. Two figures were struggling at the entrance to the Finstergasschen. One tall, heavily-built, wearing a cap. The second much smaller. He walked back quickly as they vanished inside the alley, slowed down near its entrance, peered round the corner.

Lee Foley had his arm round the neck of the smaller man. The American was dressed in an English check suit, a checked cap. A walking stick held in his free hand completed the outer trappings of an Englishman. The small man he held in a vice-like grip was Julius Nagy.

`This little creep has been tracking you all over town,' Foley said. 'Time we found out who his employer is, wouldn't you agree?'

Before Newman could react Foley thrust Nagy inside the alcove formed by a doorway. Shoving him back against the heavy wooden door, he suddenly lifted the stick, held it horizontally and pressed it against Nagy's throat. The little man's eyes bulged out of his head. He was terrified.

`Who is your paymaster?' rasped Foley.

`Tripet..' Nagy gasped as Foley relaxed the stick slightly. `Who?' Foley rasped again.

`Chief Inspector Tripet. Sûreté. Geneva...'

`That came too easily,' Foley growled. 'Geneva? This happens to be Berne. You're lying. One more chance. After a little more persuasion...'

`Watch it,' Newman warned. 'You'll crush his Adam's apple.'

`That is exactly what I'm going to do if he doesn't come across.'

Nagy made a horrible choking sound. He beat his small, clenched fists against Foley's body. He might as well have hammered at the hide of an elephant. Newman glanced down the alley. Still empty. By the glow of the lamp he saw Nagy was turning purple. Foley pressed the stick harder. Feebly, Nagy's heels pattered against the base of the wooden door, making no more noise than the scutter of a mouse. Newman began to feel sick.

Foley eased the pressure of the stick. He pushed his cold face within inches of Nagy's ashen skin, his ice-blue eyes watching the little man's without pity, without any particular expression. He waited as Nagy sucked in great draughts of cold night air. It was the only sound in the stillness of the night.

`Let's start all over,' Foley suggested. 'One more chance — I simply don't have the time for lies. Who is your employer?'

`Coat pocket... phone number... car registration... Bahnhof...'

`What the hell is the jerk talking about?' Foley asked in a remote voice as though thinking aloud.

`Wait! Wait!' Newman urged.

He plunged a hand inside Nagy's shabby coat pocket, scrabbled around. His fingers felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out urgently — Foley was not a man who bluffed. He stepped back a few paces and examined the paper under the lamp.

`There is a phone number,' he told Foley. 'And what looks like a car registration number. It is a car registration... Newman had recognized the car registration. The figures were engraved on his memory. The letters too. 'Let him talk,' he told Foley. 'Ease up on him. What was that reference he made to the Bahnhof ?'

`Your employer,' Foley said to Nagy. 'This time we want the truth — not some crap about the Geneva police...'

`The other coat pocket...' Nagy was looking at Newman. `Inside it you'll find a camera. I took a shot of a man getting into that Mercedes — outside the Bahnhof. He came in off the one fifty-eight pm express from Geneva..

Foley held the walking stick an inch from the little man's throat while Newman scrabbled around inside the other pocket. His hand came out holding a small, slim camera. A Voigtlander. Three shots had been taken. He looked up and caught Nagy's expression as the little man stared straight at him over the bar of the walking stick.

`I only took two shots,' Nagy croaked. 'The man getting into the car — and the Mercedes itself.' He switched his gaze to Foley. 'I think that man is the boss, my employer — and somebody important. There was a chauffeur with the car.'

`Mind if I take out the film?' Newman asked. 'I'll pay for it...'

`Jesus Christ!' Foley exploded. 'Take the film. Why pay this shit?'

Newman broke open the camera after winding the film through. Extracting the film, he dropped it inside his coat pocket, shut the camera, took a banknote from his wallet and replaced camera with banknote inside Nagy's pocket.

`I'll get it developed and printed,' he told Foley. 'Now let our friend go...'

`Break an arm— just to teach him not to follow people...'

`No!' Newman's tone was tough and he took a step towards the American. `He was following me, so I decide. I said let him go...'

With a grimace of disgust the American released Nagy who felt his injured throat, swallowed and then straightened his rumpled tie. He seemed oddly reluctant to leave and kept eyeing Newman as though trying to transmit some message. Foley gave him a shove and he shuffled off down the alley, glancing back once and again it was Newman he stared at.

`You and I have to talk,' Foley said. It was a statement. 'I want to know what's on that film — and on that piece of paper..

`Not now. I'm late for an appointment. Thanks for spotting my shadow, but you play pretty rough. Sometimes you get more if you coax..

`I coax with the barrel of a gun, Newman. I'll call you at the Bellevue. Then we meet. Inside twenty-four hours. You owe me.

`Agreed...'

Newman walked rapidly away down the Munstergasse and continued along the Junkerngasse, which is also arcaded, but without shops. Crossing the cobbled street which was now running downhill, he looked back. No sign of Foley, but that didn't surprise him. The American was too fly to follow him. He reached the closed door with three bell-pushes, a recently- installed speak-phone, a name alongside each bell-push. He pressed the one lettered B. Signer.

Blanche had taken his advice or, woman-like, she had hoped — expected — he would turn up. Her quiet voice came to him through the speak-phone grille clearly when he announced himself.

`I thought it was you, Bob. Push the door when the buzzer buzzes...'

Beyond the heavy wooden door, which closed automatically behind him on the powerful sprung-hinge, a dim light showed him the way up a flight of ancient stone steps, well-worn in the middle. On the first floor landing he noticed another new addition in the door to her apartment. A fish-eye spyhole. The door opened inward and Blanche stood there, wearing only a white bathrobe.

He sensed she had nothing on underneath as she stood aside and the bathrobe, loosely corded round her waist, parted to expose a bare, slim leg to her thigh. She closed the door, fixed the special security lock and put on the thick chain.

`Blanche, I have another film for you to develop and print.' He handed the spool to her. 'Only three shots — the third one intrigues me. The party who gave it to me said there were only two...'

`Because someone else was present? Tomorrow you have prints and negatives along with my own contribution. No, don't sit there. In here...'

Here was a tidily-furnished bedroom with one large single bed. He paused and swung round to face her. She had closed the door and stood facing him, brushing the cascade of titian hair slowly, her face expressionless.

`No, Blanche,' he said. 'I've come to tell you to forget all about the Berne Clinic. Too many pretty tough characters keep turning up. You could get hurt — that I won't risk...'

`You'll hurt me if you don't...'

She pushed him suddenly, a hard shove. The edge of the bed acted as a fulcrum against the back of his legs and he sprawled on the white duvet. She flicked the cord round her waist free, dropped the bathrobe and he had guessed right about her lack of attire. She was on top of him before he could move.

`I'm engaged,' Newman protested as she spread herself. `Of course you are — engaged in battle...'

She giggled as her slim hands industriously burrowed, whipping open the buttons of his coat, the buttons of his jacket underneath, unfastening his tie, his shirt buttons. He had never known a woman's hand operate with such skill and agility. He sighed. When it's inevitable... relax... enjoy …

Julius Nagy was livid with rage and resentment. He shuffled back along the deserted Finstergasschen. They never expected you to come back the same way. This was twice he had been subjected to violent abuse. First the obscene experience with that thug in the lavatory aboard the express to Zurich. Now the same thing had happened again at the end of this alley.

The injury to Nagy's dignity hurt him even more than the injury to his throat. Only the Englishman, Newman, had treated him like a fellow human being. Well, he would get his revenge. He emerged from the end of the alley and peered cautiously both ways along the Munstergasse. No one in sight anywhere. Pulling up the collar of his shabby coat against the bitter cold, he turned left towards the Munster.

`Make a sound and I'll blow your spine in half...'

The violent threat, spoken in German, was accompanied by the equally violent ramming of something hard against his back. A gun barrel. Nagy froze with sheer fright, standing quite still.

`Keep walking,' the voice ordered. 'Don't look round. That would be the last mistake you'd made. Cross the street. Head for the Munsterplatz...'

There was still no one else about. It was still the interval between the workers going home and the night revellers appearing. Nagy crossed the street, the gun muzzle glued against his back, and walked down under the other arcade, praying a patrol car would drive down the street.

`Now walk round the Munsterplatz — on the pavement...'

The gunman knew what he was doing, Nagy realized with growing terror. Following this route they stayed within the dark shadows. On the far side of the square the huge bulk of the front façade of the Munster sheered up. The great tower was enclosed inside a series of builder's boards — like tiers in a theatre. Above that speared the immense spire, all knobbly and spiky.

Nagy began to suspect what was their ultimate destination — the Plattform. The large garden square alongside the Munster which overlooked the river Aare. He was pushed and prodded through the gateway and guided across the square towards the far wall. The naked trees in the garden were vague skeletal silhouettes, the only sound the crunch of two pairs of feet on the gravel. Nagy, sweat streaming down his face despite the cold, was trying to look ahead to predict the next move. His mind wouldn't function.

`I need information,' the voice growled. 'Here we can talk undisturbed...'

So that was it. The raw wind beat across the exposed heights of the Plattform, sliced at his face. No one would come out here on such a night. His attacker had worked it out well. And this was the third time! A hint of fury welled up, faded into fear again. His feet walked with leaden step. Then they reached the wall near the corner furthest from the lift which descended to the Badgasse. Nagy was pressed against the wall.

`Now I will tell you what we want to know. Then you will tell me the answers to the questions I put to you...'

Nagy stared out beyond the wall which was thigh-high, stared out at the lights of houses twinkling in the chilling night on the Bantiger, the hill which rises from the far bank of the Aare. The gun had been removed from his back. Suddenly Nagy felt two hands like steel handcuffs grasp his ankles. He was elevated bodily and projected forward over the wall. He screamed. His hands thrust out into space. The earth, one hundred and fifty feet below, rushed up to meet him. The scream faded into a wail. Then it ceased. There was a distant thud. Steps retraced their path across the gravel.

Fifteen

Newman took the devious route to the Taubenhalde (the Pigeon Hill) which houses Federal Police Headquarters in Berne.

He was becoming almost neurotically wary of shadows — and not only the shadows which cloaked the arcades. He had heard Nagy's footsteps but he had missed Lee Foley's cat-like tread. So, when he walked back up the Munstergasse from Blanche's apartment, made his way back past the Casino and crossed to the Kochergasse, he quickened his pace.

He proceeded on past the entrance to the Bellevue Palace, stopped to light a cigarette while he glanced back, checked the far pavement, and disappeared down an alley leading to the Terrasse in front of the Parliament. At that hour the elevated walk was deserted. Beyond the walk the ground fell away, sloping steeply towards the Aare. Ahead he saw the funicular — the Marzilibahn — which travels down the slope almost to river level. The small red car had just reached the top of the slanting rails. He broke into a run.

Sixty centimes bought him a ticket from the attendant inside the small building at the top of the funicular. The car, very new and toy-like, was empty and the door slid shut as soon as he stepped inside. It began its steeply-angled descent down a pair of ruler-straight rails.

Newman stood at the front, surrounded by windows, his hands on a rail. In the dark the lights across the river were sharp as diamonds. The descent continued and Newman felt exposed inside the illuminated car. He realized his hands were gripping the rail tightly.

The lower station came up to meet him. The car slowed, slipped inside, stopped. The moment the door opened he stepped out and left the cover of the base station. The wind blasted along the river and hit him in the face. He kept walking as he turned up his coat collar. There appeared to be no one about.

He passed one of the original wooden cars, preserved as a monument and perched on a tiny hill. The Taubenhalde was still some distance when he entered a modern building and presented his passport to the receptionist.

`I have an appointment with Arthur Beck,' he said. 'Seven o'clock...'

Seated behind his counter, the receptionist examined the passport, stared at Newman and then at the photo. He opened a file and took out a glossy print which Newman recognized as a photograph of himself taken the previous year during the Kruger affair. They were careful inside this place.

`You know the way to the Taubenhalde, M. Newman?' the receptionist asked as he returned the passport. 'It is a little complex …'

`I know the way. I've been here before..

From this building a long subterranean passage leads to Pigeon Building. Newman walked along it while behind him the receptionist picked up the phone and spoke rapidly. At the end of the passage a travelator — an 80-metre-long moving staircase — ascends to the main entrance hall to the Taubenhalde. Newman stood quite still, working out what he would tell Beck, as the travelator carried him upwards.

He had come a long way round to reach this entrance hall — by doing so he avoided being recognized by any watcher checking who entered the building through the main doors. The moment Newman entered the hall he knew something was wrong. Arthur Beck was waiting for him by the reception counter where normally all visitors filled in a detailed form.

`I will deal with the formalities,' Beck told the receptionist curtly and pocketed a pad of forms. He walked to the lift without even greeting Newman. Inside the lift the policeman pressed the button for Floor 10 and stood in silence as the lift ascended. Reaching 10, the lift door remained closed until Beck inserted a key into a slot and turned it. The security inside the place, Newman recalled, was formidable.

Beck still said nothing as he unlocked the door of his office and stood aside for Newman to enter. It was unnerving — especially the business downstairs about not filling in any form. Beck explained that as he went round to the far side of his desk, sat down, and gestured for Newman to occupy the chair opposite.

`Officially, you may never have been here. We shall see..'

Beck was plump-cheeked, his most arresting feature was his alert grey eyes under thick brows. His manner was normally recessive, observant. He moved his hands and feet quickly and his complexion was ruddy. He was one of the cleverest policemen in western Europe.

Dressed in a navy blue business suit, blue-striped shirt, a blue tie which carried a kingfisher emblem woven into the fabric, he fiddled with a pencil, watching Newman. No welcoming words, nothing to indicate that they were old friends. Suddenly he threw down the pencil. His voice was abrupt.

`Can you tell me where you were this evening between six fifteen and seven o'clock?'

`Why?' Newman demanded.

`I'm asking you if you have an alibi for those forty-five minutes?'

`Alibi?' Newman's tone expressed astonishment, irritation. `What the hell are you talking about?'

`You haven't answered the question.'

`Is this something to do with the crisis you mentioned in your note dragging me over here?' Newman realized his mistake. 'It can't be — I got that note earlier...'

`It is my duty to put the question to you once more formally. Think before you reply...'

Newman was thinking. There was no way he could tell Beck where he had been. That would mean dragging in Blanche. He wasn't going to do that. Not because of the possible publicity. Not because of Nancy. Because of Blanche. He was surprised by the strength of his own decision.

`I'm not prepared to answer the question until I know exactly what this is all about.'

`Very well.' Beck stood up stiffly. 'I will show you what it is all about. I think you had better wear some different clothes — to avoid the chance of recognition...'

Newman carefully said nothing as Beck opened a cupboard, took out a dark blue overcoat and handed it to Newman. 'Put that on. Leave your sheepskin here. We shall be coming back afterwards.'

`After what?' Newman enquired. 'And this coat is pretty floppy. You're fatter than I am...'

`It will do. You look fine. Now try on this hat...'

Beck slipped on a fawn raincoat he took from the cupboard as Newman put on the hat. The police chief slammed the cupboard door shut, picked up the phone and spoke rapidly.

`Be sure the car is ready. We're coming down now...'

`The hat is too big,' Newman commented. 'Your head is fatter than mine...'

!You look fine. Put on these dark glasses. Please do not argue. It is very important that you are not recognized — and God knows there will be enough people hanging around …'

`Hanging around where? I want to know where you're taking me before I move from this office.'

`Not far, Bob. This is just as unpleasant and unsettling for me as well as for you. It blew up in my face very recently. I ask you to say nothing, to talk to no one but me. If you don't do as I request you may well regret it...'

`Request— that's a bit more like it. Try and push me around and we won't be cooperating on anything ever again. You do know that, I hope, Beck?'

`I know that. Time is precious. The car is waiting. We have only a very short distance to go. Not five minutes' walk from the Bellevue Palace. Something terrible has happened …'

Seated in the back of an unmarked police car neither Beck nor Newman said a single word during the short journey. Newman peered out of the window and realized they were driving along the Aarstrasse in the direction of the Nydeggbrucke. In the darkness lights across the river reflected in the water.

A tram was crossing the Kirchenfeld bridge high above them just before they passed under its span. Very little traffic at that hour. Then, ahead, he saw a line of parked police cars, their blue lamps flashing on the roofs. The car slowed down at a barrier which had been erected at the entrance to the Badgasse, the street which runs immediately below the Munster Plattform.

Beck opened the window as a uniformed policeman approached and showed his identity card without saying a word. The barrier was raised and they passed up a narrow street into the ancient Badgasse. Here there was frenetic activity.

More police cars, more winking blue lamps. Flash-bulbs lighting the street in brief blazes of brilliance. Newman was reminded of the strobe lights in a disco. They drove slowly to a point near the far end of the Plattform wall on their right which faced old houses on their left. A high canvas screen had been erected around something. The car stopped. Beck grasped the door handle.

`This is pretty nasty,' he warned.

Newman stepped out of the warmth of the car into the raw chill of the night. He felt slightly ridiculous in Beck's blue overcoat and the ill-fitting hat. Fortunately the glasses he wore were only lightly tinted. Police milled around. A grim- faced man in plain clothes pushed his way through to Beck.

`This is Chief Inspector Pauli of Homicide, Cantonal Police,' Beck remarked without introducing Newman. 'Pauli, would you kindly repeat the message you received over the phone?'

`The caller was anonymous,' Pauli reported in a clipped voice. 'He said we'd find a body in the Badgasse. He also said that a Robert Newman had been seen arguing with the deceased earlier this evening in the Munstergasse.

`Pauli is from Hauptwache — police headquarters on the Waisenhausplatz,' Beck commented. `He came at once and this is what he found...'

Behind the canvas shield a Ford station wagon was parked at a right angle to the base of the wall, facing outwards ready to be driven away. The hideous mess which was the remains of Julius Nagy lay spread all over the roof, his head twisted at an impossible angle, one eye staring at Newman like the eye of a dead fish in the beam of a searchlight mounted on top of a police car.

Newman recognized the mangled corpse as Nagy by the Tyrolean hat rammed slantwise across the crushed skull, a hat with a tiny blood-red feather. But it was not really the colour of blood — the real colour, much darker and coagulated, smeared the Ford's windscreen in snake-like streaks.

A man in civilian clothes, carrying a black bag, climbed down a ladder which had been perched against the far side of the car. Removing a pair of rubber gloves, he shook his head as he gazed at Beck.

`Dr Moser,' Beck said briefly. 'Cantonal police pathologist.'

`I'd say every other bone in his body is broken,' Moser commented. can tell you more later — or will you be taking over?'

`I will be taking over,' Beck informed him.

`In that case, it's a pleasant night's work for Dr Kleist — and better her than me. I'll send over my written report...'

`Any suggestion — an educated guess — as to how it happened?' Beck enquired.

`I never guess.' Moser stared upwards at the wall towering above them. 'Of course, he'd hit the car like a cannon-ball from that height. Obviously it was either murder, suicide or an accident.' Moser paused. 'There are pleasanter ways of ending it all. And I managed to extract this envelope he had in his overcoat pocket.' He handed a crumpled envelope to Beck and glanced at Newman. 'I'll be off to start work on my report. Another late night — and my wife is already beginning to wonder why I get home so late...'

Beck produced a cellophane packet, held the envelope by one corner and slipped it inside the packet. 'Probably useless for fingerprints but one goes through the motions. What idea are you playing with now in that fertile brain of yours, Newman?'

The Englishman was staring up into the night where the massive wall sheered up. At intervals huge flying buttresses projected. It was vertiginous — even gazing up the terrifying drop. He looked at Beck as they stood alone with the pathetic and horrifying crumpled form which had once been a living, breathing man. At that moment Moser returned briefly.

`One suggestion, Beck. I'd cover the top of the Ford with a waterproof sheet and have it driven slowly to the morgue. Kleist will find she has to scrape some of the remains clear of the car. He's practically glued to the roof. Enjoy yourself...'

I think,' Newman said after Moser had gone, 'it might be an idea to go up to the Plattform by the lift at the corner. If I remember rightly it doesn't stop working until eight thirty pm.'

`You have a remarkable memory for details about the Plattform.'

It's up to you...'

`I'll get the car to drive round and meet us at the exit... `No. Near the top of the Munstergasse...'

`If you say so...'

They emerged from the canvas shelter into hectic activity in the Badgasse. Uniformed police in leather greatcoats, 7.65-mm. automatics holstered on their right hips, walking up and down to no apparent purpose that Newman could see. Beck spoke briefly to his car driver and followed Newman who was striding to the distant corner of the wall.

The ancient lift is a small cage which ascends vertically inside an open metal shaft to the top of the Plattform. Newman had bought two 60-rappen tickets from the old boy who attended the lift when Beck arrived. They stood in silence as it made its slow ascent.

On a seat was perched a piece of newspaper with the remains of a sandwich and the interior of the lift smelt of salami. The old boy had moved from the entrance door to the exit door at the opposite end of the cage. Beck watched Newman as he stared out of the window overlooking the Aare, then switched his gaze to the facing window where he could see the slope terraced into kitchen gardens, the continuous walls of houses along the Munstergasse running into the Junkerngasse. In one of those houses Blanche would be in her apartment, probably phoning the man who would develop and print the films. At all costs he had to keep her name out of this horror.

The lift door was opened by the attendant after it reached the tiny shed at the corner of the Plattform. Newman did not make any move to get out. He spoke casually.

- 'You won't have many passengers at this time of night. Can you recall anyone who used the lift at about six thirty pm? Maybe six forty-five?'

Tor sixty rappen you want me to answer foolish questions?'

Beck said nothing. He produced his identity folder and showed it to the attendant, his face expressionless. Returning it to his pocket he stared out of the open doorway.

`I am sorry..' The attendant seemed confused. did not know. That awful business of the man who fell...'

`That's what I'm talking about,' Newman said amiably. 'We think he may have had a friend — or friends — who could identify him. Someone who was so shaken they took your lift down after the tragedy. Take your time. Think...'

`There was a big man by himself.' The attendant screwed up his face in his effort to concentrate. 'I didn't take all that notice of him. He carried a walking stick...'

`How was he dressed?' Beck interjected.

`I was eating my supper. I can't remember. A lot of people use this lift …'

`Not at this time of night,' Newman pointed out gently. 'I imagine you can remember the time?'

`Seven o'clock I would say. No earlier. The lift was at the bottom — he called it up — and I heard a clock chime...'

Beck walked out of the cage and Newman followed. In the distance, almost at the end of the thigh-high stone wall protecting them from the drop, uniformed policemen with torches searched the ground. A section was cordoned off by means of poles with ropes. The point, Newman guessed, where Nagy had gone over.

`Nothing, sir — at least as yet,' one of the policemen reported to Beck who shrugged.

`They're looking for signs of a struggle,' Beck remarked. `God, the wind cuts you in two up here. And it wasn't an accident,' he continued. 'There's no ice on the stones he could have slipped on...'

Newman placed both hands on the top of the wall close to the roped-off section and peered over. Vertigo. The great wall fell into the abyss. He studied the area, looking along the wall in both directions. His hands were frozen.

`Interesting,' he commented.

`What is?' Beck asked sharply.

`Look for yourself. This is the one place where there are no buttresses to break his fall. He'd still have been seriously injured— but he might just have survived. He went over at the very place where it was certain he'd be killed...'

He looked round the great Plattform which was divided up into four large grassy beds. Stark, closely trimmed trees reared up in the night which was now lit by the moon. Behind them the huge menacing spire of the Munster stabbed at the sky. Newman thrust his hands into his pockets and began walking towards the exit he knew led into the Munsterplatz. Beck followed without comment.

Emerging from the gateway, Newman stood for a moment, staring round the cobbled square and across at the Munstergasse. The arcade on the far side was a deserted tunnel of light and shadow. He walked diagonally across the square and inside the arcade. He continued walking until he reached the Finstergasschen, the narrow alley leading towards the Marktgasse, one of the main streets of Berne. He checked his watch. Five minutes. That was the time it had taken for him to walk from the place where Nagy had died to the Finstergasschen.

The patrol car Beck had sent on ahead was parked by the kerb. Newman climbed into the rear seat without a word as Beck settled himself beside him He gave the driver a brief instruction.

`Not the front entrance. We'll take the long way round to my office.'

`Why?' asked Newman when the policeman had closed the partition dividing them from the driver.

`Because the front entrance may well be watched. I rushed you into the car on the way out but I don't want anyone to see you come back — even in those togs...'

Togs. Newman smiled to himself. During his stint in London Beck had picked up a number of English colloquialisms. He left the talking to Beck who continued immediately.

`Do you know that pathetic crumpled wreck back there?'

`Julius Nagy,' Newman replied promptly. 'The Tyrolean hat. He was wearing it when he followed me about in Geneva..

He had to admit that much. He had no doubt Beck had contacted Chief Inspector Tripet of the Sfirete in Geneva. Beck turned to face the Englishman.

`But how did you identify him in Geneva?'

`Because when I was last here I used him. He deserved a better death than that. He was born to a poor family, he hadn't enough brains to get far, but he was persistent and he earned his living supplying people like me with information. He had underworld contacts.'

`Here in Berne, you mean?'

`Yes. That was why I was surprised he had moved his sphere of operations to Geneva...'

`That was me,' Beck replied. 'I had him thrown out of the Berne canton as a public nuisance, an undesirable. I too felt sorry for him. Why did he risk coming back is what I would like to know...'

Again Newman refused to be drawn into conversation. They were approaching the building close to the base of the Marzilibahn when Beck made the remark, still watching Newman.

`I am probably one of the very few people in Switzerland who knows that what you have just seen is the second murder in the past few weeks.'

`Who else knows?'

`The murderers …'

The atmosphere changed the moment they entered Beck's office from the hostility which had lingered in the air during Newman's earlier visit. A small, wiry woman whose age Newman guessed as fifty-five, a spinster from her lack of rings, followed them inside with a tray. A percolator of coffee, two Meissen cups and saucers, two balloon-shaped glasses and a bottle of Remy Martin.

`This is Gisela, my assistant,' Beck introduced. 'Also she is my closest confidante. In my absence you can pass any message to her safe in the knowledge it will reach my ears only.'

`You're looking after us well,' Newman said in German and shook hands as soon as she had placed the tray on the desk.

`It is my pleasure, Mr Newman. I will be in my office if you need me,' she told Beck.

`She works all hours,' Beck commented as he poured the coffee. 'Black, if I recall? And it is a swine of a night — on more accounts than one. So, we will treat ourselves to some cognac. I welcome you to Berne and drink your health, my friend. You must excuse my earlier reception.'

`Which was about what?'

`That bloody anonymous phone call to Pauli reporting you were seen in the vicinity. Someone wants you off the streets. We have procedures — and my immediate purpose was to close off the cantonal police. I can now tell Pauli I cross-examined you and am fully satisfied you had nothing to do with the death of our late lamented Julius Nagy. He minutes the file — sends it over to me and I lock it away for good.'

He wheeled his swivel chair round the desk to sit alongside Newman. They drank coffee and sipped their cognac in silence until Beck started talking, the words pouring out in a Niagara.

`Bob, in the last twelve hours there have been no less than five incidents all of which worry me greatly. They form no clear pattern but I am convinced all these incidents are linked. First, a mortar was stolen from the military base at Lerchenfeld near Thun-Sud. The second mortar stolen within a month...'

`Did they take any ammo. — any bombs?'

`No, which in itself is peculiar. Just the weapon. The second incident also concerns the theft of a weapon. You know that all Swiss have to serve military service up to the age of forty-five, that each man keeps at his home an Army rifle and twenty-four rounds of ammunition. A house was broken into while the owner was at work and his wife was out shopping. A rifle — plus the twenty-four rounds— has disappeared. Also the sniper-scope. He was a marksman...'

`Which area? Or can I guess?'

`Thun-Sud. Late this afternoon the third incident occurred on a motorway. The driver of a snowplough was viciously attacked and his machine later found on the motorway. You want to guess the area?'

`Somewhere near Thun?'

`Precisely. Always Thun! The fourth incident you know about. The murder of Julius Nagy...'

`And Number Five?'

Tee Foley, alleged ex-CIA man, has disappeared today from the hotel we traced him to. The Savoy in the Neuengasse. Bob, this American is one of the most dangerous men in the west. I rang a friend in Washington — woke him up, but he's done the same to me. I wanted to know whether Foley really has left the CIA and he said he had. I'm still not totally convinced. If the job was big enough Foley could get cover right to the top. He's a member — a senior partner — in the Continental International Detective Agency in New York, so I'm told...'

`For argument's sake,' Newman suggested, 'let's suppose for a moment that is true. What then?'

`It does nothing to ease my anxiety. Foley is a skilled and highly-trained killer. That poses two questions. Who has the money to pay a man like that?'

`The Americans …'

`Or the Swiss,' Beck said quietly.

`What are you hinting at?'

Beck glanced at Newman and said nothing. He took out of his jacket pocket a short pipe with a thick stem and a large bowl. Newman recognized the pipe and watched as the police chief extracted tobacco from a packet labelled Amphora. He began packing tobacco into the bowl.

`Still wedded to the same old pipe,' Newman remarked.

`You are very observant, my friend. It's made by Cogolet, a firm near St Tropez. And the tobacco is the same — red Amphora. The second question Foley's presence poses is Who is the target? Identify his paymaster and that may point to who he has come to kill...'

`You're convinced that is why he is really here?'

`It is his trade,' Beck observed. 'Why have you come to Berne?'

So typical of Beck. To throw the loaded question just when you least expected it. He had his pipe alight and sat puffing at it while he watched Newman with a quizzical expression. The Englishman, who knew Beck well, realized the Swiss was in a mood he had never seen him display before. A state of fearful indecision.

`I'm here with my fiancée, Nancy Kennedy, who wanted to visit her grandfather.' Newman paused, staring straight at Beck behind the blue haze of smoke. 'He's in the Berne Clinic.'

`Ah! The Berne Clinic!' Beck sat up erect in his chair. His eyes became animated and Newman sensed a release of tension in the Swiss. 'Now everything begins to come together. You are the ally I have been seeking …'

Beck had poured more coffee, had freshened up their glasses of cognac. All traces of irresolution had vanished: he was the old, energetic, determined Beck Newman remembered from his last visit to Berne.

`I noticed something strange when we were at the Clinic this afternoon,' Newman said. 'Is that place by any chance guarded by Swiss troops?'

The atmosphere inside the bare, green-walled office illuminated by overhead neon strips changed again. Beck gazed at his cognac, swirling the liquid gently. He took a sip without looking at his guest.

`Why do you say that?' he asked eventually.

`Because I saw a man inside the gatehouse wearing the uniform of a Swiss soldier.'

`You had better address that question to Military Intelligence. You know where to go...'

Beck had withdrawn into his shell again. Newman was aware of a sense of rising frustration. What the hell was wrong with Beck? He allowed his irritation to show.

`If you want my cooperation — you mentioned the word "ally" — I need to know what I'm getting into. And how much freedom to act has the Chief of Federal Police given you? Refuse to answer that question and I'm walking away from the whole damned business.'

`Plenipotentiary power,' Beck replied promptly. 'Incorporated in a signed directive in that locked cabinet.'

`Then what are you worrying about?'

`The Gold Club...'

Newman drank the rest of his cognac slowly to hide the shock Beck had given him. He placed the empty glass carefully back on the desk top and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief.

`You have heard of the Gold Club? Not many have.. commented Beck.

`A group of top bankers headed by the Zürcher Kredit Bank. Its base is in Zurich. The only other group capable of standing up to them are the Basle bankers. Where does the Gold Club fit in with the Berne Clinic?'

`A director on the board of the Zürcher Kredit Bank is Professor Armand Grange who, as you doubtless know, controls the Berne Clinic. He also has a chemical works on the shores of Lake Zurich near Horgen. I am under extreme pressure to drop my investigation of a project code-named Terminal...'

`Which is?'

`I have no idea,' Beck admitted. 'But there are rumours — unpleasant rumours which have even reached the ears of certain foreign embassies. Incidentally, a fellow-countryman of yours who is also staying at the Bellevue Palace is making enquiries about Professor Grange. A dangerous pastime — especially as news of his activities has already started circulating. Switzerland is a small country...'

`This fellow-countryman of mine — he has a name?'

`A Mr Mason. He flew in via Zurich. That is where he started his investigation — and that is where news of what he was doing leaked out. Now, as I have told you, he is here in Berne.'

`Anything else I should know?'

`Have you ever heard of a man called Manfred Seidler?' 'No, I haven't,' Newman lied. 'Where does he fit into the picture?'

Beck's pipe made bubbling noises. He was a wet smoker. He stirred in his chair restlessly as though bracing himself for a major decision.

`Everything about our conversation is confidential, classified. Now we are coming to the guts of the whole crisis. I have been asked by Military Intelligence to put out a dragnet for Manfred Seidler. They say he stole something vital from the chemical works at Horgen. Once I find him I am supposed to hand him over to Military Intelligence. Immediately! No questioning.'

`You don't like it?'

`I am not going to put up with it. I shall grill Seidler when we find him until I find out what is going on. There is a split between two power blocs on military policy. One group, the Gold Club, believe we should adopt more extreme measures to protect the country against the menace from the East. They even suggest we should organize guerrilla forces — that teams specially trained in sabotage should be positioned outside our borders. Specifically in Bavaria. That is a complete reversal of our policy of neutrality.'

`Beck, I'm not following this. Why should a group of bankers concern themselves with military strategy?'

`Because, my friend, a number of those bank directors are also officers in the Swiss Army. Not regulars. Captains, colonels. They carry a lot of clout inside the Army where the policy dispute is raging. The Gold Club, which advocates total ruthlessness, is beginning to get the upper hand. The whole thing scares me stiff. And these are the people who are trying to stop my investigation into the Berne Clinic..

`You said the killing of Nagy was4he second murder. What was the first?'

Beck walked round his desk, unlocked a drawer and brought out a file. He handed it to Newman. The file had been stamped Classification One on the cover. Newman opened it and read the heading at the top of the first typed page. Case of Hannah Stuart, American citizen. Klinik Bern.

`Who is Hannah Stuart?'

`She was an American patient at the Berne Clinic. She died at the end of last month — as you will see recorded in the file. I have a witness, a farm worker who was cycling home late near the grounds of the Clinic. He states he saw a woman running towards the fence surrounding the grounds, a woman screaming, a woman pursued by dogs...'

`They do have Dobermans prowling the place...'

`I know. That was the night Hannah Stuart died...'

`Haven't you confronted the people at the Clinic with your witness?' Newman asked.

`It would be useless — and would show my hand. The witness has a history of mental instability.' Beck leaned forward and spoke vehemently. 'But he is completely recovered. I personally interviewed him and I am convinced he is telling the truth. He had the sense to come to police headquarters in Berne with his story. Pauli phoned me and I took over the case. That woman was murdered in some way.'

`It says here she died of a heart attack. The death certificate is signed by Dr Waldo Novak...'

`Who is also American. A curious coincidence...'

`What about getting an order for an autopsy?' Newman suggested.

`The body was cremated. And that is where the trouble really started. I had an official from the American Embassy here who complained. Apparently Hannah Stuart was very wealthy — from Philadelphia. Her heirs, a son and his wife, were furious. In her original will she had made the inheritance conditional on her body being buried in Philadelphia...'

`Then how the devil was the Clinic able to get away with cremation?'

`Dr Bruno Kobler, the chief administrator, produced a document signed by Hannah Stuart stating she wished to be cremated. You'll find a photocopy at the end of the file. I had the signature checked by hand-writing experts and they say it's genuine.'

`Which blocked you off. Neat, very neat...'

He broke off as someone knocked on the door. Beck called out come in, a small, myopic-looking man wearing thick glasses and a civilian suit entered. He was carrying a cellophane envelope.

`We have obtained some fingerprints,' the man informed Beck. 'All of them the same person. Probably the deceased's — but we shall only know that when the pathologist has released the body.'

`Thank you, Erich...' Beck waited until the man had gone and then handed the envelope to Newman. 'Inside is the envelope — still sealed — which Moser found inside Nagy's coat pocket...'

Newman extracted the crumpled, cheap white envelope and saw it carried a few words. For M. Robert Newman, Bellevue Palace. He opened it and inside there was a scrap of paper torn from a pad and a key. In the same semi-literate script as the wording on the envelope were written the words M. Newman — Bahnhof. He replaced the contents inside the envelope and slipped it into his wallet.

`It was addressed to you,' Beck said, 'so I gave strict orders it was not to be opened. Don't I get to see it?'

`No. Not until you tell me what you want me to do — and maybe not then.'

`I need someone I can fully trust who has access to the Berne Clinic. I have no reason to go there myself — and I don't want to tip my hand. I have not a shred of evidence — even in the case of Hannah Stuart. Only the gravest suspicions. I need to know exactly what is going on inside that place...'

`I would have thought it was the chemical works at Horgen you needed to investigate. Especially in view of this story about tracing this Seidler...'

`Hannah Stuart died at Thun,' Beck replied sombrely. `Now, that envelope …'

`I work on my own or not at all. I'll keep the envelope for the moment...'

`I have to warn you you are up against men with unlimited power. One more thing. I have found out that the Gold Club people have secretly allocated the enormous sum of two hundred million Swiss francs for Terminal.' He held up a hand. 'Don't ask me how I discovered that fact, but the Americans are not the only ones who go in for what they call creative book-keeping.'

`Who controls that money?' Newman asked.

`Professor Armand Grange. Every franc of it...'

`And Grange is also a part-time member of the Swiss Army — another of those officers you mentioned?'

`At one time, yes. Not any more. You must take great care, Bob. I know you are a lone wolf, but on this one you may need help.'

`Is there anyone powerful enough, any individual, who can stand up to Grange and his fellow-bankers?'

`Only one man I know of. Dr Max Nagel, the Basle banker. He is also on the board of the Bank for International Settlements, so he has world-wide connections. Nagel is the main opponent of the Gold Club...'

`This Manfred Seidler — you are really looking for him?'

`I am trying to find him before the counter-espionage lot get to him. All the cantonal police forces have been alerted. I think that man could be in great danger...'

`From counter-espionage?' There was incredulity in New- man's tone. 'You really mean that?'

`I didn't say exactly that aloud...'

`And this Englishman, Mason, who is checking on Grange. Where does he come in?'

`Frankly I have no idea who he is working for. I am not sure yet who is working for who. But I also believe Mason could be at risk. Remember, we have lost track of Lee Foley, and he is a killer. Never forget, you are walking in a minefield …'

It was nine o'clock at night when Newman reached the luggage locker section at the Bahnhof. He had walked through the silent city from, the Taubenhalde, doubling back through the network of arcades until he was certain no one was following him As-he had guessed, the key from Nagy's envelope fitted the numbered locker which corresponded to the number engraved on the key.

Unlocking the compartment, he stooped to see what was inside. Another envelope. Again addressed to himself at the Bellevue Palace in the scrawly hand-writing which was becoming familiar. Pocketing the envelope, he walked to the station self-service buffet. He was thirsty and famished.

He chose a corner table in the large eating place and sat with his back to the wall. As he devoured the two rolls and swallowed coffee, he watched the passengers who came in through the entrance. No one took any notice of him He took out the envelope and opened it.

M. Newman. I don't know I can last much longer. The first two photos I took outside the Bahnhof. Chief Inspector Tripet (Geneva) told me follow you. That was when I came off the Zurich train. I was beat up inside a lavatory on the train. The thug gave me money and told me follow you. The phone number on the bit of paper you took off me in the alley is the number I had to call to tell them what you was doing. The car number was a Mercedes waiting outside the Bahnhof. The man I think is the thug's boss got into the car. That's the first two photos. The third photo is the same man who got into the Mercedes. I saw him back here in Berne just before dark. Don't know the man he's talking to. I saw the first man by chance near the Bellevue Palace. Which is why I took the photo. These are very tough people M. Newman

He felt slightly sick. He had a vivid memory flash of Julius Nagy being pinned against the wooden door by Foley's walking stick. The reaction was swiftly replaced by an emotion of cold fury. He sat working out what must have been the sequence of events after Nagy had walked away down the Finstergasschen.

The little man must have caught a tram — maybe even splashed out on a cab fare—to the Bahnhof. Quite possibly he had scribbled his message — Newman had had difficulty deciphering some of the words — in this very buffet. He must have then hurried to the luggage lockers, slipped the envelope inside, put the key into the second envelope with the shorter note also scribbled in the buffet — or wherever — and shoved it inside his coat pocket. The mystery was why Nagy had then hurried back to the Munstergasse.

Newman calculated the little man could have carried out these actions by 6.30 pm if he had hustled. By the time he arrived back at the Munstergasse someone had been waiting for him. Who lived in that district? The only person he could think of was Blanche Signer—which reminded him it might be worthwhile calling her.

He was inside one of the station phone booths when it occurred to him maybe he should first call Nancy. He dialled the Bellevue Palace with a certain reluctance. He had to wait several minutes before they located her. It was not a pleasant conversation.

`It's a bloody good job I didn't wait for you for dinner,' she greeted him. 'Where are you, for Christ's sake?'

`In a phone booth..

`I suppose you expect me to believe that...'

`Nancy...' His tone changed. `... I came to Berne to help you find out what was happening to Jesse. The whole evening has been spent with that very objective. I have not enjoyed it overmuch.'

`Well, that makes two of us. I waited so long for dinner I was beyond enjoying it when I eventually decided I'd better eat something. May I expect to see you sometime tonight? Or will your investigations keep you out till morning?'

`Expect me when you see me...'

He put down the phone and dialled Blanche's number. She answered almost at once. When she heard his voice she sounded excited.

`Bob! I'm so glad you phoned — I've got those photos for you. My friend stayed late to develop and print them. Considering the poor light they've come out very well. All three of them. Are you coming over?'

`I'll be there in ten minutes...'

On his second visit to the apartment in the Junkerngasse she showed him straight into the sitting room, a small, comfortably-furnished place lit only by table lamps. On a low table by a large sofa two glasses stood on place mats.

Blanche was dressed in a pleated skirt and a black cashmere sweater which showed her figure without making her look tarty. It had a cowl neck, which she knew he liked. Her long mane of titian hair glistened in the half-light.

`I may have traced Manfred Seidler,' she announced, tut more of that later. Have you eaten? I'll get the Montrachet from the fridge...'

`No food, thank you. I can't stay long...'

She vanished into the kitchen. Newman wandered over to look at a silver-framed photograph of a serious-faced officer. in Swiss Army uniform. He was staring at it when she returned and filled their glasses from an opened bottle.

`Your stepfather?'

`Yes. I hardly ever see him. We're simply not on the same waveband. Cheers!'

She sat alongside him on the sofa, crossing her long shapely legs encased in sheer black nylon. Clasped under one arm was a large, cardboard-backed envelope she tucked between herself and a cushion. Newman reflected that this was only the second time in the whole ferocious day he had felt relaxed. On the first occasion they had been in another room in this same apartment.

`Manfred Seidler may be in Basle,' she said, putting down her glass on the table. 'I've been on the phone almost the whole time since you left — except for rushing out to get the photos. I'd almost given up when I phoned a girl friend in Basle who is in banking. There's a girl called Erika Stahel who works in the same bank. Erika has let drop occasional rueful hints that she only sees her boy friend, Manfred, when he's in town, which isn't often. This Manfred moves about a lot...'

`Manfred is a fairly common name...'

`He's quite a bit older than Erika. Recently he brought her back a present from Vienna. An owl in silver crystal. That's how my girl friend heard of the trip. She showed the owl to her friend she was so pleased with it. Erika has a very good job,' Blanche remarked.

`What's a good job?'

`Personal assistant to Dr Max Nagel. He's chairman of the bank.'

Newman had trouble holding his glass steady. He hastily had another drink. Blanche was watching him. She tucked her legs underneath herself like a contented cat. Reaching for the envelope, she spoke again.

`It's probably the wrong Manfred. But apparently Erika is very careful not to mention his second name. Mind you, that could simply mean he's married. That could be the reason this Erika is so mysterious about his background and his job. I've got Erika Stahel's phone number if you want it.'

`How did you get that?'

`I asked my friend to look it up in the directory while we were talking, of course. Here it is on this piece of paper, plus her address. She has an apartment near the Munsterplatz. I must have phoned thirty people before I came across anyone who knew someone with the name Manfred. Want to see the pics?'

`Blanche, you have done so well. I'm very grateful. God, you move...'

`You have to if you're operating a tracing service. People like quick results. They recommend you to other clients — which is the way to build up any business. The pics...'

Newman looked at the first glossy print. The rear of a Mercedes, the registration number clearly visible. The number of the car which had almost driven them under the blade of the snowplough on the motorway. Poor little Nagy might yet pay back his killers from the grave. He kept his face expressionless as he looked at the second print. Bruno Kobler. No doubt about it.

`These prints are invaluable,' he told her.

`Service with a smile — of all kinds,' she said mischievously. `The third one any good?'

Newman felt as though he had just been hit in the solar plexus. He gazed at the last print with a funny feeling at the pit of his stomach. He recognized the building in the background. Bruno Kobler had again proved very photogenic. It was the man he was talking to who shook Newman and made his brain spin, made him start looking at everything from a new, brutally disturbing angle. The man was Arthur Beck.

Sixteen

Newman met - collided with - 'Tommy' Mason when he entered the bar at the Bellevue Palace on his way back from Blanche. It was precisely 10 pm. Mason turned away from the bar holding a tumbler of whisky which he spilt down Newman's jacket. Newman grinned and shrugged.

`I say, I'm frightfully sorry. Waiter, a damp cloth. Quick!' `I wouldn't lose any sleep over it...'

`Jolly careless of me. Look, the least I can do is buy you a drink. Double Scotch - or whatever...'

`You called it...'

Newman took his glass and led the way to the same corner table where he had talked with Blanche. The place was crowded. He sat with his back to the wall, raised his glass and drank as his companion eased his way on to the banquette.