Terminal. Part 22

I'm so sorry to keep you waiting so long. I think I am now in a position to have a preliminary discussion as to how this unfortunate woman died ...'

Tweed came into Geneva on Flight SR 837 which landed him at Cointrin at 21.30 hours. He moved swiftly through Pa.s.sport Control and Customs, ran across the reception hall, clutching his small suitcase, and hailed a cab. He gave the driver a good tip and he was lucky. Green lights all the way along empty streets to Cornavin Gare.

He caught the 21.45 express by the skin of his teeth, panting as he sank into his first-cla.s.s seat and the train glided out of the station. His short legs were not built for such sprints.

Reaching Bern Bahnhof - or Berne Gare - at 23.34, he took another cab to the Bellevue Palace and registered.

'Take my bag up to the room for me,' he told the porter and turned back to the receptionist, speaking in French. am the executor of the estate of the late M. Bernard Mason who, you doubtless know, was drowned in the Aare. My London office phoned you about this...'

'Yes, sir, we have a note...'

'Thank G.o.d for that.' He paused. 'M. Mason was also one of my closest friends. Can I see any papers he left in the safety deposit? I don't want to take them away - you can watch me while I scan them briefly. Something to do with his estate...'

'M. Mason did not have a safety deposit box...'

I see.' Tweed looked nonplussed. 'Could I make a rather unusual request? I would like to look at the room he occupied. That is, if it is still vacant...'

'I do understand, sir. And it will be quite possible.' The receptionist produced a key. The room has been cleaned and all his personal effects impounded by the Federal Police...'

'Naturally. May I go up alone? Just to look...'

'Certainly, sir. The lift...'

'I know where the lift is. I have stayed here before on several occasions.'

Tweed took the lift to the fourth floor and stepped out. The mention of the Federal Police worried Tweed as he inserted the key, opened the bedroom door, went inside and closed and locked the door. That suggested Arthur Beck. Still, they had no reason to suspect Mason had been anything but the market researcher he had registered as under the heading Occupation Occupation.

He stood for a moment just beyond the threshold, a mark of respect, and then the inhuman emptiness of the room hit him and he muttered, 'Sentimental old fool...' The thing now was where would Mason have hidden his report?

Tweed had no doubt Mason had compiled a written report on Professor Armand Grange - for just the appalling eventuality which had overtaken him. Mason was a professional to his fingertips. Had been Had been, Tweed corrected his mental comment.

First, he checked the bathroom and the separate lavatory - without much hope. Chambermaids, especially Swiss chambermaids, were notoriously proficient in their cleanliness. He found nothing in either place.

So, that left the bedroom - and very little scope. Which was the same problem Mason must have faced. How had he solved it? Tweed climbed on a chair and searched behind the curtains at the top near the runners for an envelope attached with adhesive surgical tape. Nothing. Wardrobe empty.

He peered underneath two tables, getting down on his hands and knees. Standing up, he stood with his back to a wall and coolly surveyed the room. The only thing left was a small chest of drawers. He opened the top one. Lined with paper, it was impeccably clean - and empty. He ran his hand along the inner surface of the drawer. Zilch - awful word - as the Americans would say.

The notebook was attached with surgical tape to the lower surface of the third drawer down at the back. He found it when he was checking the bottom drawer. Even Swiss chambermaids could hardly be expected to dust this area.

It was a cheap, lined notebook measuring approximately three-and-a-half inches wide by five-and-a-half inches deep. Comparatively cheap. On the cover it still carried the tiny white sticker which gave the price. 2.20 francs. Also the shop where it had been purchased. Paputik Paputik. Am Waisenhausplatz Bern. Near Cantonal police headquarters. Which told Tweed nothing.

The neat script - a fine Italianate hand - inside the notebook, which was so familiar it gave him a pang, told him a great deal. The first page began, Professor Armand Grange, age: sixty Professor Armand Grange, age: sixty... Standing by the chest of drawers, Tweed rapidly read everything in the notebook and then placed it in an inside pocket.

Tweed had exceptional powers of concentration - and total recall. In future, if it should be necessary, he would be able to recite Mason's last will and testament - because for Tweed that was what it amounted to - word for word.

He left the bedroom, locked the door and went down in the lift to the ground floor. He handed back the key and pushed his way through the revolving doors. He hardly noticed the cold night air as he turned right, hands thrust inside the pockets of his worn, patched sheepskin.

He covered the ground at surprising speed, his legs moving like stubby pistons. Crossing the road in front of the Casino, he walked on down the right-hand arcade of the Munsterga.s.se, deep in thought. Another part of his brain kept an eye on the tunnel of the arcade ahead, the arcade across the street.

Reaching the large square in front of the Munster, he walked round rather than across it. A car could drive you down crossing wide open s.p.a.ces. He entered the Plattform through the open gateway and between the bare trees the wind scoured his face as his feet crunched gravel.

He walked on to the low wall and stopped, staring down at the Aare far below. Tweed didn't realize at the time, but he was standing at almost the exact point where Julius Nagy had been tipped into the depths. Nor was he making a pilgrimage to look down where Mason had died. Such an idea would have made the dead man snort.

Tweed was trying to work out how they had killed him. It was the work of a professional, of course. A trained a.s.sa.s.sin, a commando-type soldier - or a policeman. No one else could have got close enough to Mason to do the job. His eyes scanned the river from the Dalmazi bridge to the Kirchenfeld.

Wiley, 'commercial attache' at the British Emba.s.sy, had given him sufficient details when he phoned him in London for Tweed to work it out. He started from the premise as to how he would have planned the killing.

Dropping the body into the river so it would be battered by one of the sluices had been deliberate, he felt sure. It was a brutal warning, an intended deterrent. No good pushing Mason over the railings lining the Aarstra.s.se below - the body might easily have simply drifted into the backwater near the Primarschule in the Matte district.

The Kirchenfeld bridge was out - too great a danger of traffic. No, it must have been the small and much lower Dalmazi bridge he decided. A body - Mason must have been unconscious because he was a strong swimmer - dropped from the centre of that bridge would inevitably be carried by the river's natural flow until it was hurled against one of the sluices.

Satisfied that he knew now how it had been done, Tweed walked back to the exit from the Plattform and continued along the Munsterga.s.se. It was very quiet. No sound except his own footsteps. He walked on into the Junkernga.s.se and the pavement was sloping downwards now. He paused just before he reached his destination, listening. He was very concerned to protect her.

He resumed his walk a short distance and stopped outside a doorway with three bell-pushes. He approved the sight of the newly-installed speak-phone. He pressed the bell-push alongside the name, B. Signer. B. Signer.

'Who is it?' Blanche's voice tw.a.n.ged through the metal grille.

'Tweed...'

'Come on up ...'

Twenty-Three.

Anna Kleist pulled up a chair to the table and sat down facing Nancy. The two doctors, Newman had already noticed, were on the same waveband. Kleist removed her tinted spectacles, clasped her hands on the table and began speaking.

'Now, this could be important to me, Dr Kennedy. I was told by Mr Beck you were the first person to examine the body of the unfortunate woman who was brought here. You may like to know I have phoned Dr Kobler of the Berne Clinic. He informs me the patient was called Holly Laird from Houston, Texas. According to his version she was suffering from a state of mental imbalance. She overpowered one of the staff, a woman called Astrid, stole her keys to their poisons cupboard and made off with a quant.i.ty of pota.s.sium cyanide. Although outwardly calm, I detected in Kobler a state of agitation. He qualified every statement he made. "Subject to further verification", was the phrase he used. Could you please tell me your impression after you examined Mrs Laird?'

'It was not a proper diagnosis, of course,' Nancy replied promptly. 'It was carried out under the least ideal conditions. I was surrounded with not only policemen but also armed soldiers. It was dark. I used a torch borrowed from one of the police. You understand?'

'Perfectly...'

'One factor I had to take into consideration was exposure. It was a bitterly cold night. The temperature was sub-zero. Mrs Laird was wearing only a pair of pyjamas and a thick dressing-gown. She may have run quite some distance before she reached the road.'

'Death due to exposure?' Kleist asked. 'That was what you concluded?'

'No!' Nancy began talking more rapidly. 'I had the strong impression she died from some form of asphyxiation. And the complexion of the face showed distinct traces of cyanosis. Her mouth was twisted in the most horrible grimace - a grimace consistent with cyanosis.'

'May I ask, Anna,' Beck intervened, 'what is your reaction to Dr Kennedy's on the spot conclusions?'

When she sat at the table Kleist had taken a scratch pad from a pocket of her pale green gown and she now produced a ball-point pen and began doodling on the pad. Newman guessed it helped to concentrate her thinking. She continued her doodling as she replied in her soft voice.

'My examination so far confirms precisely Dr Kennedy's impression. We have taken blood samples and they, in time, may tell us more...'

'How much time?' Newman demanded. 'That may be a commodity we are very short of - time.'

'A week. Possibly only a few days. Another pathologist is dealing with that aspect. I have requested that he give the matter the most urgent priority...'

'So we just have to wait,' Newman commented.

'I did find something else, something which puzzles me greatly,' Kleist went on. 'There are unexplained lacerations round the neck and over the crown of the skull...'

'You mean she could have been strangled?' Beck probed.

'Nothing like that. It is almost as though her neck and head had been bound in cloth straps...' She was still drawing something on her notepad. 'One explanation - although it seems bizarre to say the least - is that shortly before she died she was wearing some kind of headgear...'

'Some kind of mask?' Beck queried.

'Possibly,' she agreed, with no certainty in her tone. '1 can only be positive at this stage about the asphyxiation...'

'An oxygen mask?' Beck persisted. 'That would fit in with the equipment you'd expect to be available in a clinic. Maybe the oxygen supply was turned off, causing asphyxiation?'

Kleist shook her head. 'No. You have forgotten - she was seen running some considerable distance according to what you told me. It is the agent agent which caused death we have to isolate and identify. There we have to wait for the results of the blood tests.' She frowned. 'It is those lacerations which 1 find so strange. Still, I am probably saying far too much at this early stage. After all, I have not yet completed the examination.' which caused death we have to isolate and identify. There we have to wait for the results of the blood tests.' She frowned. 'It is those lacerations which 1 find so strange. Still, I am probably saying far too much at this early stage. After all, I have not yet completed the examination.'

'You said she was a Mrs Holly Laird from Houston,' Newman remarked. Did you get any further information from Kobler about this woman's background? How old was she, by the way?'

'Fifty-five. And yes, I did press Kobler for more details. He was reluctant to say much but also, I sensed, wary of not appearing to cooperate fully. Mrs Laird is the nominal head of a very large oil combine. She was brought to the Berne Clinic by her step-daughter in one of the company's executive jets...'

'Any information on her husband?' Newman said quickly.

'He's dead. I couldn't obtain any further details.' She glanced at Beck. 'I had to use your name to get that much out of him...'

'Another similar case,' Newman commented.

'And what might that mean?' Beck enquired.

'I'll tell you later.' Newman stood up. 'And now I think we have taken up more than enough of Dr Kleist's time. I appreciate her frankness at this early stage...'

'My pleasure...' Kleist hesitated, staring at Newman. 'It is just possible I may be able to tell you more by morning.'

'You're working through the night?' Newman asked with a note of incredulity.

'This man...' Kleist also stood up and linked her arm in Beck's, '... is the most unfeeling taskmaster in Switzerland. You do realize that, Arthur?' she added mischievously.

Beck shrugged and smiled. 'You would do the job, anyway, but I appreciate your dedication. And I have the same premonition as Newman - time is what we don't have...'

'Dr Kleist,' Newman said as they were about to leave, wonder if you would mind if I took your doodle? I collect them...'

'Of course.'

She tore off the sheet, folded it and handed it to him. He slipped it inside his wallet and she watched him with a quirkish smile.

Beck drove them back to the Bellevue Palace in a police car and in silence. Nancy had the impression the experiences of the night had exhausted everyone. She waited until they were inside their bedroom before she asked the question.

'What is on that sheet of paper you took off her?'

'Exhibit A. When they doodle, clever people sometimes reveal what is in their subconscious. Prepare yourself for a shock. The Kleist is very clever. Here you are...'

'Oh, my G.o.d!'

Nancy sank on to the bed as she stared at the doodle the Swiss pathologist had drawn while she talked. It showed a picture of a sinister-looking gas-mask.

Twenty-Four.

Tweed sat down on the sofa and Blanche Signer arranged a cushion behind him, treating him like a favourite uncle. She was very fond of Tweed. He was a nice man, a kindly man. He watched her as she disappeared inside the kitchen, walking with agile grace.

Settling himself against the cushion, he looked round the sitting-room to see if anything had changed since his previous visit. Then he spotted the silver-framed portrait of a late middle-aged man in the uniform of a colonel in the Swiss Army. He blinked, got up and moved swiftly across to examine it more closely.

'That's my stepfather,' Blanche called out as she returned and flourished a bottle behind his back. 'He adopted me when my mother - who died recently - remarried.'

'I don't think I've ever seen him before,' Tweed remarked slowly. 'He's a handsome-looking man.' He made a great effort to speak casually.

'Look!' she said exuberantly. 'Montrachet. Especially for you, this one. See!' She held out the bottle for his inspection, so he could note the year. He felt it and the bottle was as chilled as the waters of the Aare. was going to ask for coffee...'

'No,' she told him firmly, 'you've had a beastly journey. All the way from Geneva - from London, in fact. And it's well after midnight. You need something relaxing.'

'I'm sorry to be so late...'

'But you phoned me first...' She was pouring wine into the two elegant gla.s.ses already waiting on a low table. '... and like you, I'm an owl, a creature who prefers the night, who perches on branches and hoots a mournful sound!'

I think I'd have trouble getting up a tree these days,' he observed. 'Cheers! And this is very welcome. Do you see your stepfather often?'

'Hardly ever. We don't see eye to eye on anything. He goes his way, I go mine. He doesn't even know what I do to earn my living - at least I don't think so. He is the sort of man who seems to know about almost everything that's happening in Switzerland. He's not regular Army.'

'I see,' said Tweed, and left it at that. imagine it's far too early for you to have found out anything about the man whose name I gave you?'

Shoeless, she was wearing her black leather pants with a white blouse which, even in the dim light of shaded table lamps, displayed in all its glory her cascade of t.i.tian hair. She had perched herself next to him on the arm of the sofa, her long legs crossed. He suspected she was capable of teasing him and for a moment wished he had such a daughter, a lively, mischievous girl you could carry on an intelligent conversation with for hours.

'I do already have some possible information about Manfred Seidler,' she said. 'The trouble is ethics are involved - and you were cryptic on the phone. Could I trace a man who had flown in from Vienna very recently on a private Swiss jet. And could I also get any info. on this Seidler type. Are they the same person?'

'Frankly, I don't know,' Tweed replied evasively. 'The man who flew in from Vienna is important. Seidler is purely an inspired guess on my part. I know a lot about him and his activities. Always close to the borderline of legality and, sometimes, probably over the edge.' He drank more of his wine and she refilled his gla.s.s. 'This is really excellent. What's your problem about ethics? Not another client?'

'You cunning old serpent..' She ruffled his hair. He couldn't remember when he had last let a woman do that to him but Blanche made it seem the most natural, affectionate gesture in the world. 'Yes, another client,' she said.

'It's important - to my country,' he said, gazing at the photo. 'So probably to yours. We're all in the same boat.'

'You know, I'd hate to be interrogated by you. You're too d.a.m.ned persuasive by half.'