Colin Forbes - The Power

'This is our chemical specialist, Dr Brand.'

'After what I found, Beck,' the gnome said, 'you might be interested to take them into the bathroom.'

Tweed stood with Beck just inside the bathroom doorway. Paula peered over Tweed's shoulder.

'Now have a good look round,' Beck suggested to Tweed. 'You're exceptionally observant. Notice anything not the way you left it before dinner?'

Tweed stared slowly round. His eyes lingered on items from his spongebag he'd placed on a glass shelf over the basin. He shook his head.

'It appears to be the same. I can't see anything unusual.'

'When do you use the mouthwash?' Beck enquired, pointing to a bottle.

'First thing every morning. It freshens me up for the day.'

'In that case,' Beck said cheerfully, 'you had only a few hours to live. Come back into the bedroom.' He looked at the gnome. 'My friend here uses the mouth-wash every morning when he gets up.'

'I gargle with it,' Tweed added.

'Then maybe you would sniff this,' Dr Brand suggested and unscrewed the cap on the small thick glass container. He held it a moment before handing it to Tweed. 'Be very careful. It contains a small quantity of the mouthwash and a certain solvent I tested it with.'

Tweed raised the container, took a cautious sniff. Paula saw his facial muscles stiffen for a second. He handed it back to Brand, who immediately screwed on the cap.

'A faint aroma of bitter almonds,' Tweed said slowly.

'That's right,' Brand said agreeably. 'Prussic acid. I calculate you'd have gargled for two seconds. I placed the mouthwash bottle back exactly as I found it after I tested.'

'So did someone else,' Beck said grimly, 'after he used a pick lock to get into your room.'

'Prussic acid. Oh, my God,' Paula said half to herself.

She had a sudden vivid picture of Amberg at Tresillian Manor in Cornwall, his face destroyed with acid.

Beck and his team had left as Tweed sat with Newman and Paula in the bedroom. Before leaving he'd reported to Tweed that not a single fingerprint had been found in the room occupied by the man who'd registered as Barton Ives.

'Probably wore surgical gloves before he even entered the room,' he commented. 'And all the glasses and cutlery he used at dinner has been washed. His case also has disappeared. It's as though he'd never been here. And Brand has taken the mouthwash bottle with him. Take care…'

Newman had ordered a double Scotch from room service when they were alone while Paula decided she needed a glass of white wine. Tweed stayed with mineral water.

'God! That has shaken me,' Paula said. 'How on earth did you spot that it wasn't Barton Ives?'

'An accumulation of things,' Tweed told them. 'First the phone call from a hoarse-voiced man asking if Barton Ives could come. He opened up with "Cord here" – something like that. Unlike many Americans, Dillon is very formal, always introduces himself by his surname. Not conclusive.'

'Why phone at all?'Paula asked.

'To make sure the real Barton Ives hadn't already come to see us. After he'd arrived he kept referring to Dillon as Cord, which increased my suspicion. From his own made-up story about how they met, he was only an acquaintance. Still not conclusive

'So what was – conclusive?' Paula persisted.

'An accumulation of implausible things, as I just said. The real giveaway was no reference on his part to pursuing the serial murderer – and that information came from Dillon, so has to be true. Then I bring up the subject over dinner – and he dismisses it in two or three sentences! A gory long-drawn-out case like that. Then there was the story he'd thought up as to why he had fled the States. Why should Galloway send over an army to kill "Ives" when he'd admitted he had no evidence that would be accepted in court? A rubbish story. Then at dinner he kept checking every customer who entered the restaurant.'

'What was the significance of that?' Paula enquired.

'Link it with his nervousness about the men who'd been watching the hotel…'

'Yes,' Newman intervened, 'he was obsessed with them. While you were away he kept peering out to see if they had gone away.'

'No,' Tweed contradicted. 'To make sure they were still there! '

'Don't follow that,' Paula commented, frowning.

'You're usually quicker,' he gently chided her. The men outside were Norton's. Placed there in case the real Barton Ives arrived and tried to enter the hotel. That would have been a disaster for Norton, impersonating Ives. His men were there to take care of the real Ives for good if he showed up.'

'So when you came back from phoning Beck…' Paula began.

'My story,' Tweed interjected. 'Yes, it was my remark -invented – that reception had told me the police had removed the watchers which told Norton he was in trouble. Again, the real Ives could have walked in on us. Hence his exit to his room, supposedly for cigarettes.'

'And to your room,' she reminded him.

'Well, that's why he came here – to kill me. But for Beck bringing Dr Brand he'd have succeeded. I find the method he chose interesting.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Good thinking, boss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You need to shut your trap…'

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

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