Colin Forbes - Terminal

`We'll sit here and talk,' Schaub announced. `Beer?'

`Not just now, thank you,' Newman replied, noticing the grubby glass on the table.

It was only when he walked over to the window and gazed up the slope of terraced garden that he realized he was inside one of the old houses he had looked down on with Nancy the previous Thursday when he had walked her to the Nydegg bridge and told her this was the Matte district. When he turned round Schaub was seated at the table in the middle of the room, guzzling beer from the upturned bottle. He reached up and pulled the roller blind down to cover the upper half of the window.

`What you do that for?' Schaub demanded. 'I like to look at the view…'

`This room is very exposed.' Newman took a folded five- hundred franc note from his pocket and placed it on the table. `That's for answering questions about the Berne Clinic. You've worked there long enough – you have to know just about everything that goes on there…'

`Novak said you'd pay more…'

Newman produced a second five-hundred franc note and sat down alongside Schaub, facing the window. The porter was wearing a baggy pair of stained corduroy trousers, an open-necked shirt and shoes which hadn't seen polish in months. He shook his head at the second note.

`More…'

`This is the lot. No more haggling…' Newman produced a third note and placed it with the others. 'What goes on inside that laboratory for starters…'

`More…'

`Forget it!' Newman reached slowly for the notes but Schaub beat him to it, grabbing all three in one scoop and thrusting them inside his trouser pocket. 'All right, answer the question…'

`Never been inside the lab…'

The bullet shattered a pane in the window and blew the beer bottle Schaub had left on the table into small pieces. Newman put his hand against Schaub's shoulder and shoved the porter's considerable weight off the chair, toppling him onto the wooden planks of the uneven floor.

`Keep down you fat slob or they'll kill you!' he yelled.

Newman had dropped to the floor as he shouted. His shout synchronized with the second bullet which shattered two more panes and thudded into the rear wall. Newman could never recall how the automatic found its way into his right hand but he realized he was holding it as he scrambled low down across the floor to the window – just in time to see the muzzle of a rifle disappearing over the top of the wall on the street leading to the bridge.

`Get behind that cupboard! Stay behind it! I'll be back in a minute…'

He rushed, stumbled, half-fell down the bloody staircases, threw open the front door, the automatic inside his pocket now. Running along the empty street, he turned up the covered steps leading to the bridge. There were a hell of a lot of steps, treads worn in the centre by the feet of ages. Why do people always walk straight up the middle? The useless question flashed through his mind as, panting, he reached the top and came out on to the street.

He glanced in both directions. Nothing. Not even a pedestrian. He walked a few paces towards the centre of Berne, then scooped up off the pavement an ejected cartridge which he pocketed. No sign of the other one. The killer must have collected one and departed in a hurry.

Newman leaned over the wall at the point where the cartridge had fallen and stared down direct into Schaub's living-room. If he hadn't lowered the blind the porter would now be a bloated corpse. He looked towards the city centre again and saw a man standing outside a shop who was watching him.

`Thought I heard something,' Newman remarked in German as he joined the portly man who wore no overcoat. `Sounded like a shot, two shots…'

`Or a couple of backfires.' Newman smiled. 'I arranged to meet a girl at the top of the staircase. A brunette – a slim girl in a pant suit, maybe wearing a windcheater. I wondered whether you'd seen her?'

`That description fits half the girls in Berne. I only came out to check this window I'm dressing. No, I haven't seen your girl. All I saw after the backfires was the red car…'

`Red.? What make? A Porsche? A Mercedes?'

`Couldn't say – I just saw the flash of red as it roared out of sight across the bridge. Exceeding the speed limit, too…'

Returning to the house, Newman found Schaub still crouched behind the cupboard, a shivering jelly of a man. He looked up, his beady little eyes terrified.

`Have they gone?'

`Yes. I'll give you two minutes to pack a small bag – just your pyjamas and shaving kit. I'm taking you where no one will dream of looking for you. Hurry it up…'

`But my job at the Clinic…'

Newman looked at him with a stare of sheer amazement. 'I thought you'd have grasped it by now. The people at your Clinic are out to kill you…'

Newman drove the Citroen up to Schaub's front door and the porter did what he had been told to do. Running in a crouch, he dived inside the rear of the car through the door Newman had opened, hauled the door shut and pressed his bulk close to the floor. To all outward appearances the Citroen was occupied only by the driver.

In the centre of Berne Leupin, behind the wheel of a Fiat, a car Newman had not seen in the Juras, followed one car behind the Citroen. Marbot sat alongside him.

`I wish we could have got closer to that house in Gerberngasse,' Leupin remarked.

`Then he would have spotted us. We'll have to find out who lives there,' Marbot replied. 'Beck will want to know that – but first let's find out where Newman is going. He seems to be leading us round the houses…'

`My thought, too…'

Newman glanced in his rear-view mirror again. The Fiat was still there. He timed it carefully, slowing down as he came up to the intersection. The tram which had stopped in the main street to his right began to move forward again. Newman accelerated, sweeping forward and missing the nose of the on-coming tram by inches. The tram made a rude noise. Behind him Leupin jammed on the brakes.

`The clever bastard! We've lost him…'

Five minutes later Newman led Schaub inside Blanche's flat and showed him how to operate the special security lock. He also gave the porter a lecture on keeping the place clean, although to be fair, despite his clothes, Schaub had the appearance of a man who bathed regularly and his jowly chin was well-shaven.

`Now,' Newman said, 'you stay here until I come for you. No answering the door or the phone. No calls to anyone – it could be the last call you, ever made. There's food in the fridge – to go on living, stay here. And I have fifteen minutes before I must go. For starters, what goes on inside that laboratory? Talk…'

Schaub talked.

Nancy took trouble over her battle gear for the Medical Congress reception. Coming out of the bathroom, swearing at having to wear a dinner jacket, Newman stopped and stared. She was clad in a long, form-fitting dress of red taffeta. Round her slim neck glittered a pearl choker.

`Well, will I do?' she enquired. 'I'm out to kill the competition…'

`You'll slay them. You look terrific. And isn't that the outfit you were wearing that first night we met in London – when by chance I was also at Bewick's?'

'By chance?' She was amused. 'Half London knew you took your latest fling to that place. It's seven – shouldn't we be getting downstairs? I am completely ready and rarin' to go.

`Give me a minute to fix this bloody tie. You're nervous, aren't you? I can tell.'

`So are a lot of doctors before a tricky case – if they're not they're probably no good. But I can tell you one thing, Bob. When I walk into that reception I'll go cold as ice. I don't care how much clout Grange carries – he's going to hear from me…'

`Pioneer stock,' Newman joked as he finished fixing the tie. `There's still some of it left in Arizona. I'm ready. Are you?'