'You know we have a tail,' Nield warned Butler over his walkie-talkie as they proceeded along the autoroute.
'The Renault,' Butler replied. 'Can't do a damn thing about it. We've been told to get into Switzerland at the earliest possible moment. Just keep driving. Leave the problem until later…'
Reaching Basle Bahnhof, they parked their cars, walked into the first-class restaurant as two separate individuals, sat at different tables, ordered coffee. A skeletal-faced character in a trench coat walked in after them, chose a table by the wall some distance away, ordered a drink.
'I could score one off Norton,' Mencken said to himself. 'They could be waiting for the rest of their gang…'
He wasn't in the least worried that he was delaying his arrival in Ouchy. Plenty of his men were on their way to the Swiss resort. Mencken had, with his usual efficiency, arranged for Louis Sheen, the courier with the suitcase containing a huge fortune, to be driven under guard to Ouchy. That, apparently, was where the vital exchange would take place. He frowned when, some time later, Butler stood up and wandered out of the place.
Pete Nield had remained sitting at his own table. Mencken glanced at the slim man with the trim moustache who was, apparently, watching a blonde girl at a distant table.
Mencken decided his opponents had made a mistake. He'd wait until he could get Moustache on his own in a less public place. Mencken had no doubt he could make Moustache spill his guts.
'When you saw this American giving orders,' Tweed said to Butler as he continued walking slowly towards the restaurant, 'did you get the impression he carried a lot of authority?'
'One of Norton's top brass, would be my guess. I saw where he's parked his Renault just outside,' Butler added.
'First, point him out to me from the entrance. Second, you then take Ives, Paula, Eve, Amberg and Cardon to the Espace. Third, you fix our American friend's Renault.'
'What are you going to do?' asked Butler, alarmed.
'It's time Bob and I had a word with the opposition face to face. ..'
Tweed had decided it was time to stop running. He'd said in Colmar they were going on to the offensive. This seemed like a good moment to start. Butler indicated Mencken to Tweed from the door, although Tweed now recognized him instantly – the same man had walked into the bar at the Baur-en-Ville in Zurich, had stared up at Paula and himself before retreating back into the hotel. At that moment the American was watching Nield,
Hands deep inside his trench coat pockets, Tweed headed straight for Mencken's table with Newman beside him. He took out one hand, pulled back a chair at the table for four, sat facing the skeletal-faced man, who stiffened. Newman sat alongside Mencken, used his left hand to stop the American pushing his chair back from the table. His right hand was slipped inside his windcheater, gripping his Smith amp; Wesson.
'Relax,' Newman advised him. 'Take it easy, as you never stop saying in New York.'
'What's New York got to do with anything?' Mencken sneered.
He reached inside his own trench coat. Newman's right hand closed over his wrist.
'Be careful what you take out,' he advised again.
'Your nerves all shot to hell?' Mencken sneered again.
He withdrew his hand slowly. It was holding a pack of Marlboro and a lighter. Lighting a cigarette, he blew the smoke in Tweed's direction. Tweed waved it away before he spoke.
'Maybe my friend should have said Washington,' he remarked.
'Don't give me no smoke,' Mencken snapped, his manner nervy at the reference to Washington.
'I hope you don't mind our joining you,' Tweed went on, 'but you've been keeping us company for a long time. Maybe you would tell me why?'
'What the shit does that mean?'
'Manners,' Newman interjected. 'You ought to wash out your mouth more often. It means you've been stumbling over us all the way from Zurich. My friend would like to know why. He just asked you.'
'I don't have to talk to you guys, whoever you are…'
'I wouldn't think about leaving.' The suggestion had come from Nield who was now sitting at the next table, his chair twisted round so he faced the American. 'Ever felt the walls closing in on you?' he enquired.
This is a free country. We're in Switzerland.'
Mencken's aggressive manner was fading. Minutes ago he had been confident he would get Nield on his own. Now he was the one on his own. He cursed the fact that he'd sent all his men rushing down to Ouchy. He suddenly realized that the blonde girl had left the restaurant, that it was empty except for himself and his interrogators. Even the staff seemed to have vanished. The time of the year – March – and the time of day.
'Is America such a free country these days?' Tweed asked him. 'Considering the people in power? Talking about power, how is my old acquaintance, Mr Norton?'
'Look…' Mencken was talking fast as though making a desperate attempt to convince Tweed he didn't know what he was talking about. 'Look, I'm an executive of a company selling machine tools. Business is lousy…'
'You sell a lot of machine tools in the Vosges mountains?'Newman demanded.
'If you guys don't get off my back I'm going to want some police…'
The strain was showing in Mencken's shifting eyes, in the way he smoked his cigarette, being very careful to keep smoke away from Tweed, in the way his shoulders kept jerking under his trench coat. Marvin Mencken was coming apart at the seams.
'You can have the police,' Newman assured him. 'Right out of the top drawer. The Chief of Federal Police happens to be here in this station. Want me to go and fetch him? Just say the word.'
'Look, you guys, I didn't expect this. I've had a long day. Nothing but pressure.' He turned to Newman. 'You know? That's what gets to you when you're away from home. Pressure. What's all this stuff about, anyway?'
'Maybe we could start with your name?' Tweed suggested.
'Sure. Why not? I'm Marvin Mencken…'
'What company do you work for?' Tweed pressed on.
'An outfit based in the Middle West. I guess you mixed me with someone else. Right?'
'Not right.' Tweed shook his head, his attitude still cool, almost offhand. 'You could spend Lord knows how many years in a Swiss gaol. Not comfortable places, Swiss gaols. Over here they believe in punishment for criminal offences.'
'What criminal offence?' Mencken stubbed out his cigarette, immediately lit a fresh one. 'Like I said, you're all mixed up…'
'The bomb thrown in Bahnhofstrasse by the pseudo-cripple,' Tweed went on remorselessly. 'The Chief of Police, Beck, is handling that case himself. A hard man.'
'Don't know nothin' about a bomb,' Mencken protested.
He was sweating. Beads of moisture had formed on his low forehead. Newman passed him a handkerchief.
'Use this. Clean yourself up.'
Mencken took the handkerchief. Afraid to show fear, to take out his own handkerchief, he mopped himself dry, returned the handkerchief.
'See the state you guys have got me into? What is this? The third degree? I don't have to take this…'
'Then there was the mass murder down in Cornwall, England. Eight people just shot down in cold blood by a masked gunman.'
'Mass murder? In England?' Mencken had jerked himself upright. 'You guys are crazy. Cornwall, you said? So where's that? I ain't never been to the place. This is screwy. You have got the wrong guy.'
Tweed had been watching the American closely, listening to him intently. For the first time there was vehemence in his tone, the vehemence of a man telling the truth.
Nield had been keeping one eye on the entrance to the restaurant. Now he saw Butler appear briefly, giving a thumbs-up signal. He had dealt with Mencken's Renault. Nield nodded twice to Tweed as Butler disappeared. Tweed sighed, checked his watch, pushed back his chair, stood up, both hands in his pockets as he addressed Mencken.