Colin Forbes - The Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Why Basle?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Announce yourselves. Your names. please.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Enter.'

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

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

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

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

'You are Theo Strebel?'

'The great detective himself. No impersonations here.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I need to locate her urgently.'

'First things first. Would you be so kind as to show me some identification? Your description may fit, but I am known as the most careful man in all Zurich.'

Tweed could have produced his driving licence. Weighing up Strebel, he produced instead his Special Branch folder, a document forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent – when it had existed. Strebel raised his thick eyebrows as he studied the folder, looked at Tweed while he handed back the document.

'Special Branch? I am honoured,' he said gravely. 'You are a new experience for me.'

'I realize I have no jurisdiction here,' Tweed commented quickly.

'I was not about to make that remark.' He clasped hands under his jaw again. 'Unprecedented movements of certain people are taking place in Zurich. I get a hint of why you are here. There could be danger for me.'

'Why do you say that?' Tweed asked.

'That I cannot tell you.'