Much earlier still, Marler had left Colmar, driving his red Mercedes down the autoroute. His instructions from Tweed had been clear and decisive.
'We are approaching a major crisis – a climax to this whole business might be a better phrase. I'm assuming that in some way Norton will have discovered that Ouchy is our destination. He's discovered everything else we planned to do.'
'I'll drive like the wind – strictly within speed limits, of course,' Marler drawled. 'And when I reach Ouchy?'
'In your own individual way – you can pass for a Frenchman and Ouchy is in French-speaking Switzerland – you check all the hotels which are open at this time of the year. You're looking for recently arrived Americans.
When I say "recently", I mean today. When I arrive you should know the location of the opposition, if they have arrived. We are going over on to the offensive.'
'It's Switzerland,' Marler said thoughtfully, 'so gunshots are liable to bring the local police running. If a shop is still open when I reach Basle I'll buy some Swiss Army knives. Useful little tools, Swiss Army knives – for silent kills.'
'In this situation you have a free hand. Come to think of it, you usually have one anyway.'
'You did use the word offensive,' Marler reminded Tweed.
The express took about forty minutes to reach Basle from Colmar. During the journey Barton Ives began talking, hoping to Heaven that Tweed would believe him.
'Several years ago, Mr Tweed, I was stationed at FBI headquarters in Memphis, Tennessee. I'd been promoted to senior agent, responsible only to Humphries, the local director. There was a hideous murder in that state soon after I'd settled there. An attractive woman driving a Cadillac across lonely country was somehow persuaded to stop her car after dark. I'd gotten to know the local medical examiner – what you call a. pathologist. He told me the details of the autopsy. Got a strong stomach, Mr Tweed?'
'Reasonably so. Try me.'
'The woman – from a wealthy family – had been savagely raped. Then her throat had been cut. The instrument used was a knife with a serrated blade. Most probably a kitchen knife, the ME said. She had then been sadistically mutilated in a way which suggested the murderer was a psychopath. Quite horrendous. After viewing the body I can tell you I didn't eat much that evening. The mutilation puzzled the ME. He told me it was exactly how he'd commence an autopsy.'
'Someone with medical knowledge?' Tweed queried.
The ME didn't think so. But he thought the sadist who'd inflicted the wounds may once have witnessed an autopsy being performed. That was the first case.'
'You were investigating it?' Tweed asked, puzzled.
'No. The local police handled the case, never even came up with a suspect. As I think you've realized, the FBI only enters the scene when a criminal crosses a state line. I came into the picture when the second rape and murder occurred six months later.'
'Why were you able to do so then?'
'The second victim – again a wealthy woman driving home in the dark – was attacked in another Southern state. I heard about it, checked the details – the same gory procedure had been carried out as in the first case. That strongly suggested the same rapist and killer was in business again – and he'd crossed a state line. Which brought in the FBI and I was given the investigation.'
'Was any evidence left behind in either case?' Tweed enquired.
Tweed was recalling cases he had solved years before -in the days when he had held a high rank while working for the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard. So often chance had fingered the guilty party.
'Not yet.' Ives sighed. 'It was a frustrating time. Then after six months I heard the details of the third case. This time in a different Southern state. By now we were thinking in terms of a serial killer. So the data from case three was fed to me almost at once. After the autopsy. Again the victim was a wealthy woman driving home in the dark by herself in an expensive car across a lonely area. After viewing the corpse – like the others, she had been physically attractive – I began to think, to ask questions of myself.'
'What sort of person would these women stop for in the middle of nowhere in the dark?' Tweed suggested quietly.
'Yes.' Ives sounded surprised. 'That was my main question. I saw you once at a security conference in Washington and friends who knew you said you were good. Very good…'
Tweed said nothing. He noticed that Paula was gazing into the night and he looked in the same direction. In the moonlight the snowbound summits and saddlebacks of the Vosges showed up clearly. There were pinpoints of light in remote villages. From her expression he guessed that Paula was contrasting the beauty of the scene with the terror they had experienced among the spiralling roads, the Siberian cold and icy ravines. Ives was talking again as the express began to lose speed.
'Then there were three more similar cases – so similar it was uncanny. In three more different Southern states. He never struck in Tennessee again. Always a wealthy woman by herself and driving across a lonely area in the dark. And he used the same hideous technique in every case. He was a serial killer – six cases.'
'And never a clue?' Tweed probed. 'Remarkable. They usually slip up once.'
'He did. In the last case. He left a clear thumbprint under the handle of the car which stopped, a Lincoln Continental. I'd heard rumours that Humphries, my old chief was going to be recalled, replaced by someone new from Washington. Some sixth sense made me hide the Lincoln Continental in an old barn in the wilderness. It's still there, I'm sure. And I've got a replica of that thumbprint…'
Newman had stood up, was leaning against the end of his seat, his windcheater unzipped so he could swiftly grab hold of his Smith amp; Wesson. The express was approaching Basle Bahnhof. If anyone was going to make an attempt on Tweed it would be soon – as soon as they could jump out of the train at the station after they'd pulled the trigger. Tweed knew exactly what he was doing. He stood up to put on his coat as he spoke to Ives.
'Have to continue this conversation a little later,' he suggested. 'Cardon is strolling towards us. He'll be guarding you. And maybe you'd watch over Amberg.'
'We should be OK now we've returned to Switzerland.'
'Just how OK were you when you were dodging from one hotel to another in Zurich?' Tweed reminded him.
Tweed and Newman left the express together, walking side by side. Close behind them Paula followed with Eve Amberg. Cardon brought up the rear, a step behind Barton Ives, who escorted the Swiss banker.
French Customs and Passport Control were deserted. As they passed through the Swiss checkpoints Tweed's fears were doubly confirmed. Standing in civilian clothes behind uniformed Passport officers he saw Arthur Beck. The Swiss police chief took no notice of him. As they walked on, heading for the first-class restaurant, Harry Butler appeared. He fell into step on the other side of Tweed.
'I'm amazed you made it here so quickly,' Tweed commented. 'Mind you, the express did stop a while for no reason soon after we left Colmar.'
'We put our feet down,' Butler said tersely. 'Auto-routes help. Do you really want to go into the first-class dining-room? Pete Nield is waiting there – he's watching a member of the opposition who followed us. Head like a skull. Saw him giving orders back at the Bristol…'
49
Leaving Colmar on his way to Basle in the Renault, Marvin Mencken had been lucky. Butler and Nield, however, had been unlucky.
After killing his subordinate – who had failed in his mission to liquidate Tweed – Mencken had headed for the autoroute. He had only moved a short distance from the Bristol when he saw a gas station. At that same moment his engine coughed and spluttered.
Pulling into the petrol station, Mencken asked a mechanic to check his ignition when his tank was refilled. He was about to drive on when he saw two familiar vehicles pass – a grey Espace and a station wagon. Mencken grinned, followed them.