Colin Forbes - Terminal

`Then I'll give you my affidavit about the events in the Juras last night and go…'

`I also need a statement from Dr Kennedy…'

`She is waiting downstairs. I insist on being present when you take her statement…'

`That I cannot permit…'

`Then you only get her statement in the presence of the most high-powered lawyer in Berne. Take your choice…'

`You give me one?' Beck spread his hands. 'You are in a ferocious mood, Bob. I will ask them to send Dr Kennedy up now and we will take both statements and get the damned paperwork out of the way. What frightens me is that you are going to do something independent – and highly dangerous…'

Their statements had been taken, signed and witnessed by Gisela. Beck had courteously asked Nancy whether he could have a few words in private with Newman and she had been taken to another room. It was Beck's turn to startle Newman. Opening a drawer he brought out a shoulder holster, a 7.65-mm. police automatic and six magazines which he pushed across the desk.

`Bob, I am not convinced Seidler was the target last night. I also believe you were earlier at Le Pont station when two hired gunmen were killed. No, please don't interrupt. I think you were the target. I recall you are familiar with the use of firearms?'

`What are you proposing?'

`Take this automatic for your protection…'

`So you can have me picked up, searched and found to be in possession of a deadly weapon? No thanks. I happen to know the Swiss penalties for carrying firearms…'

`Then for the protection of Dr Kennedy…'

Beck produced from the same drawer a permit to carry the weapon which he again pushed across the desk. Newman read the document upside down without touching it.

`I will sign the permit personally,' Beck continued, 'and Gisela – or a policeman chosen at random – will witness my signature. I am pleading with you. For old times' sake…'

Newman agreed to take the weapon.

The day was moving fast. It was 1 pm when Tweed, seated in a chair in the reception hall, saw Blanche Signer arrive with a case. He waited until she had registered, then stood up and strolled over to join her by the lift. He spoke only when the lift doors had closed, holding his brief-case in his left hand.

`Come to my room, Blanche. We have to talk…'

She slipped inside his room unseen by anyone and dropped her case on the floor. In her concise manner she explained why she had booked in at the hotel – that Newman needed her flat for a purpose unknown to her.

Tweed listened and nodded his head in approval. He should have thought of this precaution himself – Blanche would be safer inside the Bellevue until they had brought this matter to a successful conclusion – if that were possible. Taking a set of the accounts he had received from Dr Nagel and which he had put inside a sealed envelope, he handed the envelope to her.

`Can you get this into Newman's hands very urgently? And he must have no inkling as to where you obtained it…'

`I'm sure I can manage that. I'm just not sure when. He may be staying here but I don't want his fiancee to see me.'

Tweed smiled sympathetically. 'I understand. But as soon as possible. Any moment now everything may blow up in our faces…'

Newman had strapped on the shoulder holster, slipped the automatic inside it and dropped the magazines inside his coat pocket before he joined Nancy and they left the building. He made no mention of the weapon to her.

He insisted that they had a leisurely lunch in the Grill Room and, because he sensed she was jumpy, steered the conversation away from recent events. Occasionally he checked his watch.

`You're going to meet that last witness this afternoon,' she observed quietly, watching him over the rim of her glass. `Isn't that why you keep checking your watch?'

`I looked at it twice…'

`Three times…'

Oh, Jesus! he thought. He smiled. 'Yes, I am. It may take me a couple of hours – I can't tell. I'd appreciate it if you would stay inside the hotel…'

`After last night wild horses wouldn't drag me out…'

`You wanted to see me, Bruno?'

Kobler stood up behind his desk and closed the file he had been checking, the file on Jesse Kennedy. He walked round the desk and hesitated, unsure of his employer's reaction.

`If something is worrying you, Bruno, tell me. So far I have found your instinct for problems infallible. Do we have a problem?'

`It's Willy Schaub, the head porter. I saw him carrying on a long conversation with Dr Novak before he went off duty. And Schaub is greedy for money,' added Kobler who was paid an enormous salary.

`So?'

`It's Schaub's day off. He lives in the Matte district in Berne. I really think it might be worth checking him out.' `Do it,' said the Professor.

Lee Foley's plans for a quiet afternoon inside the hotel were changed by the phone call. Wasting no time, he put on his jeans and windcheater and left the hotel, carrying the holdall in his right hand.

Like Newman, he had also realized that the way to leave unseen was by descending in the lift to the lowest level, walking past the garderobe and emerging by the exit from the coffee shop. He crossed the road, went inside the cafe facing the Bellevue and ordered coffee. He was careful to pay as soon as the beverage was served. The Porsche was parked round the corner so there was nothing more he could do. Except to sip at his coffee and wait – and watch.

Newman drove a long way round to reach Gerberngasse 498, the home of Willy Schaub. Novak had made the appointment for three in the afternoon so he left the Bellevue in the Citroen half an hour earlier.

One of the great advantages of Berne, he reflected, was that it was not to difficult to throw off a tail. The place was such an intricate network of streets – and with a little audacious driving the trams could be exploited.

At 2.50 pm he was driving along the Aarstrasse with the river on his right. He drove on past the sluices, into the Schifflaube which brought him deep into Matte where everything was centuries-old. Continuing on into the Gerberngasse, he slowed down as he approached the Nydegg bridge and slid into an empty parking slot.

On both sides of the street ancient houses formed a continuous wall, a huddle of misshapen edifices – several storeys high – which protruded at intervals. The street was deserted in mid-afternoon and the mist, which had withdrawn earlier, was coming back. It was very silent in the canyon and Willy Schaub's place was on the left, overshadowed by the bridge high up. 2.55 pm. Newman peered up a covered wooden flight of steps which ran up to the bridge alongside it and went back to Schaub's house. He pressed the bell alongside Schaub's name and wriggled his shoulders. He was still very much aware of the automatic nestling inside the holster under his left armpit.

A short barrel-shaped man, late middle-aged and holding a bottle of beer in his left hand which, Newman reflected, explained his large belly, opened the creaking door and stared suspiciously at his visitor. Wisps of white hair stuck out from his turnip-like head and his only small feature was the wary eyes peering at Newman.

`Willy Schaub?'

`Who wants to know?' the man asked truculently in German.

`Robert Newman. You're expecting me. Three o'clock…' 'Got some identification?'

Newman sighed audibly. `It might not be too bright keeping me out here on view, you know.' He produced his passport, opening it at the page which showed his photograph, closing it again and holding up the cover which bore his name.

'You'd better come inside, I suppose.'

The interior was gloomy and strangely constructed, stepped up on different levels because it climbed the steep hillside on which it was built. Newman followed the wheezing barrel up three twisting staircases and the place had a musty smell. He wondered whether Schaub lived on his own and they entered a weird, box-like room with the far wall occupied almost entirely by a grimy window broken up into large panes of glass. A, decrepit roller blind ran across the top of the window.