Colin Forbes - Terminal

`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. Surete. 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…'