“Ursula Bergman,” I added.
“Yes,” she answered, the smile radiating from her lovely face. “How nice of you to come along, just to aid an old friend in distress.”
“You had brown hair in Bonn,” I said. “Short, brown hair. And brown eyes.”
“This is my real hair,” she said, touching the flaxen-colored strands. “And the eyes were contact lenses.”
Ursula laughed a melodic laugh. We had worked together for about a week in Bonn and Hamburg last year to gather information on a left-wing German named Karl Groning who was suspected of passing West German military information to certain persons in East Berlin. Ursula had been on special assignment in that case. Her regular work was with a division of West German intelligence that concerned itself solely with the tracking down and apprehension of ex-Nazis who had committed war crimes. That was all AXE had told me about her, and I had had little opportunity to learn more.
“I didn’t keep up with the Groning case after I was called back to Washington,” I said. “Did the courts in Bonn find him guilty as charged?”
She nodded smugly. “He is presently whiling away his time in a German prison.”
“Good. You like to hear some happy endings to these cases occasionally. What are you doing in Switzerland, Ursula, or shouldn’t I ask?”
She shrugged her lovely shoulders. “The same old thing.”
“I see.”
“And what are you doing in Switzerland?”
I grinned. “The same old thing.”
We both laughed. It was pleasant seeing each other again. “What’s wrong with the Lotus?”
“I’m afraid the fan belt is kaput, Nick. Do you think I can beg a ride into town?”
“It would be my pleasure,” I answered.
We got into the Mercedes, and I backed out onto the road and headed for town. After I had gotten into high gear, I looked over at her as she continued talking about Karl Groning, and I saw how her breasts pushed against the jersey blouse and how the miniskirt hiked up high on her long full thighs. Ursula had blossomed since I knew her in Bonn, and the result was impressive.
“Are you stopping in Lausanne?” Ursula asked as I shifted onto a winding downgrade. The panorama of Lausanne was appearing before us, the town nestled in the hills with patches of snow from the recent winter’s snowfalls above it.
“Just tonight,” I said. “Maybe we could get together for a drink in some discreet little rathskeller.”
“Oh, I would enjoy that very much. But I’m busy this evening, and I must leave tomorrow morning.”
“Do you think your car will be ready by then?”
“I go by train in the morning,” she said.
There was only one train leaving Lausanne the next morning, and that was the Orient Express, my train. “How interesting,” I commented. “I leave by train tomorrow morning, too.”
She looked over at me with her clear blue eyes. We were both assessing the significance of this coincidence. If we had not worked together, if we were not familiar with each other’s employers, both of us would have been suspicious. But I had seen Ursula Bergman at work, and I trusted my judgment that she was no double agent.
She had already made her decision. Her eyes flashed genuine friendliness. “Why, that’s very nice, Nick. We’ll be able to have a drink together on board.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” I smiled.
When we got into town, I dropped Ursula off at the Hotel de la Paix on the Avenue B. Constant, in the heart of town, and then I drove to an innocuous little pension in the Place St. François.
When I got to my room, I opened up my luggage and started to get ready for my meeting. I was going to make myself up to look like Henri Depeu, and I had to do it from memory.
I got out the case that the Special Effects and Editing boys had given me. It was a disguise kit, an imaginative one at that. Hawk himself had put a lot of it together — he had been a disguise expert in his day. The kit included strips of plastic “skin” and various colored contact lenses, wigs and toupees, and a lot of different shades of make-up. There were even plastic scars that could be affixed to any portion of the face or body.
I set the kit up in front of the dressing-table mirror. I applied the plastic “skin” first, building up layers to thicken the bridge of my nose and lengthen the tip. Then I built up my cheekbones to make my cheeks look sunken below the build-up. After I lengthened my earlobes and chin, my face began to resemble Depeu’s. Then I put on make-up that matched his coloring, inserted brown contact lenses, and chose a light brown wig. I looked at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t really pass for Depeu if anyone looked too closely, but I might fool Pfaff momentarily.
At eleven-thirty I drove across the Pont Besseres on Rue de la Caroline to the Gasthaus Lucerne. When I entered, I was sorry to see that there were a half dozen customers in the place.
I had no way of knowing what Klaus Pfaff looked like. I could only hope that I had beaten him there and that when he arrived, he would recognize my pseudo-Depeu face.
Twelve o’clock came, the time of the appointment, and nothing happened. A young student couple had come in and taken a table at the front, I had asked for one near the back of the room, facing the door. Five after came, and then ten after. I was beginning to think that Pfaff was not going to show or that he was already there. There was only one man alone, and he was a barrel-bellied German type. I did not think he could be Pfaff. A whole new group of customers came in, and the place was humming. I did not have the slightest idea how I would handle Pfaff under these circumstances. Quarter after twelve arrived, and I was forced to order a sandwich and beer. Just after the waiter had brought my order, the door opened, and a short, thin man entered. There appeared to be a bulge under his suit jacket. He stopped just inside the door and looked around. When his eyes found me, he started right for my table. This had to be Klaus Pfaff.
He stopped at my table and looked around the room again before seating himself. He was a nervous man, with slicked-down blondish hair and a thin scar across his left ear. “Bonjour, Klaus,” I said to him.
He seated himself across from me. “Sorry to be late,” he said. “And please speak English. You know the rules.”
He had not really looked squarely at me yet, and I was grateful. The waiter returned and took an order of knockwurst and sauerkraut from Pfaff. While that was going on, I eased Wilhelmina out of my jacket pocket and trained the Luger on Pfaff. Nobody had seen the gun yet.
The waiter was gone. Pfaff glanced at me and then peered over his shoulder. “All right. What happened in Paris?”
The idea had occurred to me when I was preparing for this meeting that Pfaff might just be the head of Topcon, the one who was to carry the stolen goods. But now that I saw him before me, I knew that he could not be the leader.
“Quite a lot happened in Paris,” I said.
My voice startled him. He focused on my face for the first time, and his eyes narrowed. I saw them size me up. Then his face changed as he gazed at my face again.
“No, I am not Henri Depeu,” I said.
Anger and fear showed plainly on his narrow face. “What is this?” he asked in a low voice.
“Where I come from, we call it truth or consequences.”
“Who are you? Where is Henri?”
“Henri is dead,” I said. “And I killed him.”
His eyes slitted down even further and his mouth twitched slightly at the corner. “I don’t know whether you are telling the truth or not. I am leaving. My meeting was with Depeu.”
He started to rise, but I stopped him.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I warned.
He hesitated, still in his chair. His eyes flicked to my right arm, which held the Luger under the table.