Colin Forbes - The Power

'Mr Strebel, I know you watched Rennweg 590. Could you tell me who called on Helen Frey recently – apart from Julius Amberg?'

'Ah! Julius…' The Swiss paused. 'I cannot reveal information confidential to clients of mine.'

'This is now a murder case – a particularly horrible one.'

'True, Mr Tweed. True. Let us say I observed someone from your country entering that door and leave it at that.'

'You won't even give me a hint?'

'I have already done that, Mr Tweed.'

'Thank you. Now I still need to locate Klara urgently.'

'That could take some time. Zurich is an intricate city. It has two Altstadts – the one you are now in and then another equally complex area on the other side of the River Limmat.'

'I haven't got the time, Strebel.'

'Obtaining information quickly is more expensive. My fee would be one thousand Swiss francs.'

Tweed produced his wallet. Extracting a 1,000 Swiss franc note, he laid it on the desk, his hand still resting on top of it. Strebel gave him his warm smile and included Paula in his hospitality. He was reaching into a drawer when Paula spoke for the first time.

'I've never seen such a tidy office. Not a single filing cabinet, no cupboards – just yourself and your desk.'

'Also my head.' He smiled at her again as he placed a notepad on his desk. He wrote something on the top sheet with care in a neat legible script. 'My files are stored in a bank vault. I respect my clients' confidences. Also I carry a secret filing cabinet in my head.' Strebel tore off the sheet, folded it, handed it across the desk to Tweed.

'That is the new address of Klara. She is in this Altstadt. Not five minutes' walk from the front door to this building.'

Tweed smiled, pushed the banknote across the desk. The Swiss picked it up, inserted it carefully inside a slim wallet.

'So,' Paula teased him, 'you knew all the time?'

'In my profession I charge for providing the information a client requires. Mr Tweed is paying for what I know.'

'I've said this before, Paula,' Tweed reminded her. 'It is not always what you know, it's where to find it.'

'Were you once a police detective?' Strebel asked.

A perceptive man, Tweed thought. It was the first time he'd ever been asked the question in that form.

'I was with the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard once,' he said.

'And he was the youngest superintendent the Yard had ever had up to that time,' Paula told Strebel.

'No need to go into details,' Tweed snapped.

'I can well believe it,' Strebel told Paula. 'Mr Tweed, maybe before you leave Zurich you would join me for a drink. We could exchange experiences – I mean from when you were at the Yard,' he added hastily.

' It would be my pleasure.'

Strebel accompanied them to the door after pressing a button underneath his desk. He shook hands formally with both of them and when Paula glanced back as they reached the outer door he smiled again, bowed his head.

'What a nice man,' Paula said as Tweed closed the outer door. 'I always picture private detectives as nasty little men in shabby raincoats.'

'I suspect Strebel was once a member of the Swiss police. He may well know Beck.'

Newman was waiting for them at the end of the dark corridor. He spoke to Tweed immediately.

'Someone started to come in downstairs, opened the door. I think they saw me and changed their minds. Didn't get a glimpse of who it was.'

'People calling on private investigators are often shy of being seen. We've got Klara's new address…'

Outside on the uneven pavement which, like the buildings, looked as though it had been there for centuries, Paula consulted her map. She looked to the end of the deserted square from the edge where they stood. The square was surrounded with six-storey buildings as old as time.

'Klara is living at the far side of the square. No. 10.'

The entrance hall was similar to the one they had just left. As they entered a door opened on the ground floor. A hook-nosed woman with beady eyes and dressed in a black dress peered at them.

'You want the girl who's just moved in upstairs?' Her thin lips curled. 'Some people don't care how they make their money. Mixed doubles this time, is it?'

She slammed the door before Tweed could retort. Newman led the way up the old iron-railed stone staircase. Close to the only door on this landing he stopped. Tweed and Paula stared past him The door was open a few inches.

Newman had his Smith amp; Wesson in his hand as he moved silently to the door, paused to listen, pushed the door open wider with his left hand, took a step inside, froze. He called over his shoulder.

'Paula, for God's sake don't come in here…'

It was a replay of the grim tragedy in Helen Prey's apartment. Klara, fully dressed, lay back in an armchair, her head flopped at an unnatural angle. A dark crimson sickle gash curved round her throat, disappearing round the back of her neck.

'He's been here,' Paula said quietly.

Despite Newman's warning she had followed Tweed into the apartment. She pulled on her surgical gloves as Tweed walked slowly round the back of the chair. Again the head was almost severed from the neck. Someone favoured garrotting.

Paula stood sniffing the air. She frowned, began prowling round the apartment, careful not to disturb anything.

'What is it?' Tweed asked Paula sharply.

'Cigar smoke…' She continued walking slowly, weaving her way among armchairs, passing a large couch. 'Got you,' she called out.

She was extracting a specimen wallet from her shoulder-bag when Newman stood alongside her. On top of a small piecrust table, hidden by the arm of the couch, stood an ashtray. Inside it rested a thick roll of cigar ash. Tweed joined them as she lifted the container with her gloved hand, skilfully tipped the ash roll inside the wallet. Sealing it, she wrote the date, the second of March, and a name. Klara.

'She had a customer at nine thirty a.m. according to her desk diary,' Newman said.

He took them over to a table where a new diary lay open.

9.30a.m. Edwin Allenspach. Tweed and Paula stared down at the entry.

'Strange she underlined the initials of each name,' Paula remarked.

'Could have been any reason,' Newman reacted dismissively. 'Maybe it was a new client and she was reminding herself to check up on him.' He glanced at Paula. 'Or maybe he had certain tastes she catered to,' he suggested, phrasing it carefully.

'You mean kinky,' Paula suggested. 'Somehow I don't think Klara went in for that sort of thing. And nine thirty in the morning seems rather early for… although I suppose some men…'

She trailed off as she saw Newman watching her. She grimaced at him.

'You know what I mean.'

'I wonder whether either of you are right,' said Tweed.

He was still gazing at the entry. He made no attempt to explain what had crossed his mind. Standing in the centre of the apartment he scanned it swiftly, taking in everything.

'Again no sign that the place has been ransacked, searched in any way.' Paula realized he was talking to himself as he continued: 'So, whoever is the murderer came for that specific purpose. Murder. He's systematically exterminating everyone who might provide vital information.'

'Maybe it's just become a habit with him,' Newman said, attempting to lighten the traumatic atmosphere with a little black humour. 'Could be a psychopath, I suppose.'

'I think not,' Tweed objected. 'But yes, systematically exterminating all potential witnesses,' he repeated.

'Well, the bastard's doing a damn good job,' Newman remarked.

Tweed was strolling round the apartment. Paula, watching him, saw him suddenly clap a hand to his forehead. He grunted. He stiffened.

'On our way out, I'll try out my German again on Old Nosy downstairs. I did understand the dirty remark she made. She may have seen him arrive or leave. She has the mind of a concierge who can't abide not knowing what people are doing. I also suspect she's greedy.'