`It could become a habit…'
`Why not?' she responded gaily.
The moment she returned to the living-room she sensed a major change in the atmosphere. Sitting in his shirt-sleeves, Seidler was staring at the front page of the Journal de Geneve. She placed his cup of black coffee within reach – he never took sugar or milk and drank litres of the stuff, another indication that he was living on his nerves. She stood close to his shoulder, peering over it.
`Something wrong?'
`My lifeline. Maybe…'
He took the gold, felt-tipped pen she had given him and used it to circle the box headed Sommaire. She was so generous – God knew how much of her month's salary she had squandered on the pen. He'd have liked to go out and buy her something. He had the money. But it meant going out…'
`Robert Newman,' she read out and sipped coffee. 'The Kruger case. Newman was the reporter who tracked his bank account to Basle. We still don't know how he managed that. Why is he so important?'
`Because, Erika…' He wrapped an arm round her slim waist, 'he's such an independent bastard. No vested interest in the world can buy him once he gets his teeth into a story. No one can stop him.'
`You know this Newman?'
`Unfortunately, no. But I can reach him. You see it even says where he's staying. I'd better call him – but I'll use that public phone box just down the street…'
`You didn't want to be seen outside…'
`It's worth the risk. I have to do something. Newman might even be working on the Gold Club story. Terminal…'
`Manfred!' There was surprise, a hint of hurt in her voice. `When I told you about that you gave me the impression you'd never heard of either the Gold Club or Terminal.'
He looked uncomfortable. Taking the cup of coffee out of her hand he hauled her on to his lap. She really weighed nothing at all. He stared straight at her. He was about to break the habit of a lifetime – to trust another human being.
`It was for your own protection. That's God's truth. Don't ask me any more – knowledge can kill you when such ruthless and powerful forces are involved. Whatever happens, say nothing to Nagel, your boss…'
`I wouldn't dream of it. Can't you go to the police?' she asked for the third time, then desisted as she caught his look of fear, near-desperation. She saw the time by his watch and eased herself off his lap. 'I simply have to go, Manfred. My job…'
`Don't forget to deposit that case. In your own name.. `Only if you sign this card. I collected it yesterday. No argument, Manfred – or I won't take the case…'
`What is it?'
`A deposit receipt for a safety box. We both have to be able to get access to it. Those are the only terms on which I'll take that case.'
He sighed, signed it with his illegible but distinctive signature and gave back the card. When she had left the apartment he sat there for some time, amazed at his action. A year ago he'd have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that one day he would entrust half a million francs to a young girl. The nice thing was he felt quite contented now he had taken the plunge.
The real effort, he knew, would be to phone Newman.
They were waiting for him when Newman followed Nancy out of the Pavillon. Two men in plain clothes seated in the reception hall who stood up and walked straight over to him. A tall man with a long face, a shorter man, chubby and amiable.
`M. Newman?' the tall man enquired. 'Could you please accompany us.' It was a statement not a question. 'We are police officers…'
`Nancy, go up to our room while I sort this out,' Newman said briskly. He stared at the tall man. 'Accompany you where – and why?'
`To police headquarters…'
`Address,' Newman snapped.
`Twenty-four Boulevard Carl-Vogt…'
`Show me some identification, for Christ's sake.'
`Certainly, sir.' Ostrich, as Newman had already nicknamed the tall one, produced a folder which Newman examined carefully before handing it back. As far as he could tell it was kosher.
`You've told me where – now tell me why…'
`That will be explained by someone at headquarters.. Ostrich became a little less formal. 'Frankly, sir, I don't know the answer to that question. No, a coat isn't necessary. We have a heated car outside…'
`I'm going up to my room. I have to tell my wife where I'm going…'
He found Nancy waiting at the elevator, making no attempt to get inside. With his back to the two men, who had followed him to where they could watch from the end of the corridor, he took out his scratch pad, wrote down the address of police headquarters, and gave it to her.
`If I'm not back in an hour, call this number and set Geneva alight. That number under the address is the registration of the car they've got parked outside.'
`What is it all about, Bob? Are you worried? I am.. `Don't be. And no, I'm not worried. I'm blazing mad. I'll tear somebody's guts out for this…'
Hidden inside the alcove of the doorway, Julius Nagy watched as Newman climbed inside the back of the waiting car with one of the men while the shorter man took the wheel. He hurried to a waiting cab and climbed inside.
`That black Saab,' he told the driver. 'I want to know where they're taking my friend…'
Newman thought Chief Inspector Leon Tripet, as he introduced himself, was young for the job. He sat down as requested, lit a cigarette without asking permission, and looked round the room, his manner expressing a mixture of irritation and impatience. He carefully said nothing.
Tripet's second-floor office, overlooking the Boulevard Carl-Vogt, was the usual dreary rabbit hutch. Walls painted a pale green, illuminated by a harsh overhead neon rectangular tube. Very homely.
'I must apologize for any inconvenience we may be causing you,' Tripet began, sitting very erect in his chair. 'But it is a very serious matter we are concerned with…'
'You are concerned with. Not me,' Newman said aggressively.
'We all admired your handling of the Kruger case. I have met German colleagues who are full of praise for the way you trapped Kruger and exposed his links with the DDR…'
'You mean Soviet-occupied East Germany,' Newman commented. 'Also known as The Zone. What has this to do with my summons here?'
'Coffee, Mr Newman?' Tripet looked at the girl who had come in with a tray of cardboard cups. 'How do you like it?'
'I don't – not out of a cardboard cup. I can get that at British Rail buffets, which I don't patronize.'
'I read your book,' Tripet continued after dismissing the girl who left him one of the cardboard cups. 'One thing which really fascinated me was the way you were able to tap in to the terminal keyboard.
He paused to drink some coffee and Newman had the oddest feeling Tripet was watching him with all his concentration for some reaction. Reaction to what? He remained silent.
'I refer to the keyboard at Dusseldorf where the Germans house their giant computer which has so helped them track down hostile agents. You have come to Switzerland on holiday, Mr Newman?' he added casually.
Newman stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the clean ashtray, watching Tripet with a bleak look as he did so. He stood up, walked over to the window behind the Swiss policeman and stared down into the street. Tripet asked was there something wrong?
Newman didn't reply. He continued staring down, being careful not to disturb the heavy net curtain. Julius Nagy was standing in the entrance to the building opposite which Newman had observed when he had arrived. Biblioteque Municipale. Public Library.
`Tripet,' he said, 'could you join me for a moment, please?' `Something is bothering you,' Tripet commented as he stood beside the Englishman.
`That man in the doorway over there. Julius Nagy. He's been following me since we arrived at Cointrin. A friend of yours?'
'I'll have him checked out,' Tripet said promptly and headed for the door out of his office. 'Give me a minute…'