He felt slightly sick. He had a vivid memory flash of Julius Nagy being pinned against the wooden door by Foley's walking stick. The reaction was swiftly replaced by an emotion of cold fury. He sat working out what must have been the sequence of events after Nagy had walked away down the Finstergasschen.
The little man must have caught a tram – maybe even splashed out on a cab fare-to the Bahnhof. Quite possibly he had scribbled his message – Newman had had difficulty deciphering some of the words – in this very buffet. He must have then hurried to the luggage lockers, slipped the envelope inside, put the key into the second envelope with the shorter note also scribbled in the buffet – or wherever – and shoved it inside his coat pocket. The mystery was why Nagy had then hurried back to the Munstergasse.
Newman calculated the little man could have carried out these actions by 6.30 pm if he had hustled. By the time he arrived back at the Munstergasse someone had been waiting for him. Who lived in that district? The only person he could think of was Blanche Signer-which reminded him it might be worthwhile calling her.
He was inside one of the station phone booths when it occurred to him maybe he should first call Nancy. He dialled the Bellevue Palace with a certain reluctance. He had to wait several minutes before they located her. It was not a pleasant conversation.
`It's a bloody good job I didn't wait for you for dinner,' she greeted him. 'Where are you, for Christ's sake?'
`In a phone booth..
`I suppose you expect me to believe that…'
`Nancy…' His tone changed. `… I came to Berne to help you find out what was happening to Jesse. The whole evening has been spent with that very objective. I have not enjoyed it overmuch.'
`Well, that makes two of us. I waited so long for dinner I was beyond enjoying it when I eventually decided I'd better eat something. May I expect to see you sometime tonight? Or will your investigations keep you out till morning?'
`Expect me when you see me…'
He put down the phone and dialled Blanche's number. She answered almost at once. When she heard his voice she sounded excited.
`Bob! I'm so glad you phoned – I've got those photos for you. My friend stayed late to develop and print them. Considering the poor light they've come out very well. All three of them. Are you coming over?'
`I'll be there in ten minutes…'
On his second visit to the apartment in the Junkerngasse she showed him straight into the sitting room, a small, comfortably-furnished place lit only by table lamps. On a low table by a large sofa two glasses stood on place mats.
Blanche was dressed in a pleated skirt and a black cashmere sweater which showed her figure without making her look tarty. It had a cowl neck, which she knew he liked. Her long mane of titian hair glistened in the half-light.
`I may have traced Manfred Seidler,' she announced, tut more of that later. Have you eaten? I'll get the Montrachet from the fridge…'
`No food, thank you. I can't stay long…'
She vanished into the kitchen. Newman wandered over to look at a silver-framed photograph of a serious-faced officer. in Swiss Army uniform. He was staring at it when she returned and filled their glasses from an opened bottle.
`Your stepfather?'
`Yes. I hardly ever see him. We're simply not on the same waveband. Cheers!'
She sat alongside him on the sofa, crossing her long shapely legs encased in sheer black nylon. Clasped under one arm was a large, cardboard-backed envelope she tucked between herself and a cushion. Newman reflected that this was only the second time in the whole ferocious day he had felt relaxed. On the first occasion they had been in another room in this same apartment.
`Manfred Seidler may be in Basle,' she said, putting down her glass on the table. 'I've been on the phone almost the whole time since you left – except for rushing out to get the photos. I'd almost given up when I phoned a girl friend in Basle who is in banking. There's a girl called Erika Stahel who works in the same bank. Erika has let drop occasional rueful hints that she only sees her boy friend, Manfred, when he's in town, which isn't often. This Manfred moves about a lot…'
`Manfred is a fairly common name…'
`He's quite a bit older than Erika. Recently he brought her back a present from Vienna. An owl in silver crystal. That's how my girl friend heard of the trip. She showed the owl to her friend she was so pleased with it. Erika has a very good job,' Blanche remarked.
`What's a good job?'
`Personal assistant to Dr Max Nagel. He's chairman of the bank.'
Newman had trouble holding his glass steady. He hastily had another drink. Blanche was watching him. She tucked her legs underneath herself like a contented cat. Reaching for the envelope, she spoke again.
`It's probably the wrong Manfred. But apparently Erika is very careful not to mention his second name. Mind you, that could simply mean he's married. That could be the reason this Erika is so mysterious about his background and his job. I've got Erika Stahel's phone number if you want it.'
`How did you get that?'
`I asked my friend to look it up in the directory while we were talking, of course. Here it is on this piece of paper, plus her address. She has an apartment near the Munsterplatz. I must have phoned thirty people before I came across anyone who knew someone with the name Manfred. Want to see the pics?'
`Blanche, you have done so well. I'm very grateful. God, you move…'
`You have to if you're operating a tracing service. People like quick results. They recommend you to other clients – which is the way to build up any business. The pics…'
Newman looked at the first glossy print. The rear of a Mercedes, the registration number clearly visible. The number of the car which had almost driven them under the blade of the snowplough on the motorway. Poor little Nagy might yet pay back his killers from the grave. He kept his face expressionless as he looked at the second print. Bruno Kobler. No doubt about it.
`These prints are invaluable,' he told her.
`Service with a smile – of all kinds,' she said mischievously. `The third one any good?'
Newman felt as though he had just been hit in the solar plexus. He gazed at the last print with a funny feeling at the pit of his stomach. He recognized the building in the background. Bruno Kobler had again proved very photogenic. It was the man he was talking to who shook Newman and made his brain spin, made him start looking at everything from a new, brutally disturbing angle. The man was Arthur Beck.
Sixteen
Newman met – collided with – 'Tommy' Mason when he entered the bar at the Bellevue Palace on his way back from Blanche. It was precisely 10 pm. Mason turned away from the bar holding a tumbler of whisky which he spilt down Newman's jacket. Newman grinned and shrugged.
`I say, I'm frightfully sorry. Waiter, a damp cloth. Quick!' `I wouldn't lose any sleep over it…'
`Jolly careless of me. Look, the least I can do is buy you a drink. Double Scotch – or whatever…'
`You called it…'
Newman took his glass and led the way to the same corner table where he had talked with Blanche. The place was crowded. He sat with his back to the wall, raised his glass and drank as his companion eased his way on to the banquette.
`Captain Tommy Mason,' he introduced himself. 'The "Tommy" is purely honorary. They tacked it on when I was in the Army and the damn name stuck…'