“Would the gentleman have a seat?” The chemist gestured to the leather armchairs before he vanished behind a screen of shelves, each with its neat arrangement of tightly packed apothecary jars.
And that might be a good idea, thought Mathison, choosing the chair that was cornered near the half-curtained window. Sitting down, he was hidden from any curious eyes on the sidewalk. The man who was following him might even be forced to enter and make sure that Mathison wasn’t meeting someone inside this quiet, dimly lighted room. A man in his profession must always suffer from inflamed suspicion and a ruptured faith in the innocence of other men. Would he rise to the bait? Why not? Mathison in those last crucial moments on the sidewalk had tried to look as devious a character as ever dodged inside a doorway. Within five minutes, thought Mathison, I’ll know whether I’ve flubbed the whole deal. Why the hell did I have to be so god-damned clever and tell Miss Freytag to get the detectives to stay just inside the hallway next door? Yet, if they had been out on the sidewalk or even standing down at the corner, the man would have noticed them and taken flight.
So Mathison waited, sitting quite motionless, his eyes on the closed door. All he needed was a man hesitating on the threshold.
The door opened. Mathison was half-way to his feet, but it was only a little old lady in a black sealskin coat who walked to the counter and collected the small white package. The chemist was already out of his hiding place, bowing and smiling and making pleasant talk about the concert last night. For Madame’s taste, the violins had been too heavily
muted. And then, Mathison became aware that someone was standing outside the open door. The man, trying to look into the shop without actually stepping inside? Or another customer? The curtain at Mathison’s elbow was opaque linen and blocked any view of the square. If it was the man in the grey raincoat out there, Mathison thought, he is as much on edge as I am. More so, perhaps; he isn’t even sure now that I am still here. If only the old girl doesn’t nod to me graciously on her way out...
But she didn’t. And the chemist, with one last bow over his clasped hands, was retreating behind his screen. Mathison heard her voice saying acidly, “Excuse me.” There was a slight shuffle of feet as the man stepped aside. Mathison moved.
He was at the door, his left arm thrown in a strong grip around the man’s shoulder, his right hand tightly on a wrist he forced back. “Why, Bobby old buddy, good to see you!” he said clearly, genially, as he applied quick pressure on the wrist and twisted it behind Grey Raincoat. Surprise had given Mathison a moment’s advantage, speed did the rest. He jerked the man inside the next doorway, saying, “This way, buddy boy,” and swung him into the dark hallway. It was empty.
She didn’t telephone, Mathison had just time to think before he had a real scrap on his hands trying to keep the struggling man’s hand out of the raincoat’s pocket. He was shorter than Mathison, but agile. He twisted around, used his knee. Mathison dodged back so that the savage thrust only grazed him, but even that doubled him up and loosened his grip. The man slipped free. A small automatic came out of his pocket.
“That’s enough!” a voice called, and a janitor came running down the hallway from some service stairs at its rear.
Thank God, thought Mathison, and then stared at the running man. He was fixing a silencer to the revolver he carried in one hand. Mathison straightened up, and his unspoken question was answered as the janitor said crisply, “Get him moving, Hans! Take him out the back door. Let’s leave no mess in the hall.”
Hans prodded Mathison’s spine with his automatic. From somewhere overhead, perhaps on the landing above, there was a soft movement of light heels.
The janitor looked quickly up at the staircase beside the elevator and then back to Mathison. “Move, you!”
I’m damned if I move, thought Mathison. What I do is shout and drop flat on the floor and hope, all at the same time. He took a deep breath, ready to yell. And at that moment the long menacing silencer stopped pointing. The janitor turned and ran.
Hans whirled around to see what had scared off his friend and hadn’t even the chance to use his automatic. Three men had moved quietly in from the square outside and were already within gripping distance.
Two handcuffed him while the third came over to Mathison. He had grey hair cut short, a dark moustache, high colour, worried grey eyes. And his shoes were not only brightly polished, but small and neat. Gustav Keller, thought Mathison, and sat down on the stairs, feeling like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He eased his legs, rubbed the inside of his thigh. “I’m all right,” he assured Keller’s raised eyebrows. “And where did you spring from?”
“We were in a car across the square. I am sorry there was a little delay, but I had to alert my men at the back of this building.”
“Lucky you were there.” The feeling of complete futility returned briefly as he remembered forcing Hans into a hall without a policeman in sight. He took a long deep breath. “Miss Freytag said she’d call the men upstairs,” he explained, shaking his head over women in general.
“She did better than that. She telephoned headquarters and asked to speak with the man investigating Eric Yates’s death.”
Mathison stared incredulously, and then began to laugh. “That would get action.”
Keller’s normal smile came back to his round, genial face. “We had a front seat for the performance, you might say. You puzzled us for a bit. That apothecary’s shop—” His smile broadened. “Pity you could not see this fellow being gradually drawn towards it.” He looked over at Hans, his amusement fading. “He will talk, that one,” he predicted. “And now we have two of them. A nice bonus.”
I hope, thought Mathison worriedly. The other man was a tougher specimen than the disconsolate Hans.
Keller’s relaxed mood ended abruptly as a shot sounded from somewhere outside at the back of the building. Lightly, he ran towards the rear door. Mathison’s worry deepened even if that shot had not been fired with a silencer. The man must have made an effort to escape, if shooting had been necessary. Had he managed it? Mathison glanced over at Hans, who may have had the same thought; he had brightened visibly. And then his face grew tense, even frightened. Keller was returning, quite unperturbed.
“Tried to escape,” Keller said. “He was shot in the leg. Painful but efficacious.” He nodded to his men. “Get that one out of here. His friend has already been taken away.” He
looked grimly at Hans. “You won’t be alone when you stand trial for Yates’s murder.”
Hans stared at him, his white face turning to look over his shoulder as he was firmly led towards the back of the hall. Then he shouted, “I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I never—” He was pulled out of sight, protesting.
“I’d put my money on the other man,” Mathison said, remembering Hans’s relief when he thought his friend might have escaped. “Murder? Was that bluff or—”
Keller’s hand went out for silence. He looked up the staircase in annoyance. A small crowd had been gathering on the landing overhead, and now the more inquisitive were pushing the others ahead of them down the steps. “No cause for alarm,” he called up to them crisply. “Get back there, all of you! Go on with your work!”
“Wasn’t that a shot we heard?” someone asked.
“Backfire. No one is in any danger.”
“I told you it was only a motor-bicycle,” another voice announced, and the group of people receded to their own hall.
“Where are your two men?” Mathison asked. They hadn’t appeared on the stairs.
“They had orders to guard Yates’s room, no matter what disturbance was created. We’ve been expecting something. But not exactly this.” Keller took a seat on the stairs, too. “Now would you tell me why that man was tailing you?”
“I suppose he was interested in anyone who seemed to have a close enough connection with Yates. I identified his body.”
“Miss Freytag was with you?”
“Yes. She recognised the man. He had followed her earlier this week. So he was definitely interested in Yates. But there
was something else I wanted to tell you.” Mathison frowned, trying to remember. “Oh, yes—photographs. Miss Freytag sneaked a few snapshots of Yates when he went sailing last year with a young woman. She was apparently a pretty good friend of Yates. But you’ll have to ask Miss Freytag very delicately about all that.” He tried a small joke. “She’s quite a girl, Miss Freytag. Duty, stern daughter of the voice of God... That’s your best approach.”
Keller studied Bill Mathison with something that might have been sympathetic tolerance. “Indeed.”
“Was Yates murdered? Can you make that charge stick?”
“I think so, once that frightened little man starts talking. Yates was dead, you know, before he was jammed into an overturned boat. We learned that only half an hour ago. But in any case, we are arresting these men on a weapons charge. And that other fellow—he faces more than that. We shall have to find out what he has done with the janitor, the real janitor, who is German, now a naturalised Swiss citizen. Did he use force or threats to remove the man so that he could take his place? And for what reason?” Life, at this moment, seemed extremely interesting to Inspector Gustav Keller. His eyes actually sparkled with the problems confronting him. “We could have charged them, of course, with your attempted murder. They did threaten you, didn’t they?”
“Slightly.”
“But it would be much safer for you if we kept your name out of this whole affair. I don’t think,” Keller added slowly, “that any other member of this group was watching the square. They seem to be slightly understaffed. As far as we have been able to find out, they are only a handful of people.”
Mathison looked at him quickly. “Nazis?”
“Possibly. We have had our suspicions for some time, but they have been careful to avoid all trouble—until this week. I wonder what goaded them into action?”
Finstersee? Mathison stayed silent.
“At least, we now have something to—” Keller stopped short, once more glared up the staircase. “Does no one use the elevator any more?” he demanded angrily, rising quickly to his feet.
Mathison’s head turned. He rose, too, looking with surprise and a good deal of pleasure at the girl who stood half a flight above him. She was slender and long-legged, auburn-haired and blue-eyed. Even from this distance, the bright colour of her eyes was quite definite and most remarkable. Now, thought Mathison, that’s the kind of secretary to have. She must work with the interior decorator on the floor above Newhart and Morris; she certainly didn’t belong in the firm, or else he would have seen her last week and his few days in Zürich might have been less work and more fun. “Excuse me, please,” he said in German. “I am in your way.”
“Not at all. I always step around people on staircases.” Her German was extremely correct. “It’s a pity to disturb them. A stone step is such a warm and comfortable place. But I am so sorry I scared off your friend.”
Mathison, dusting off the seat of his coat, looked around for Keller. He had slipped away.
“I did want to tell him that the elevator is not working. Someone has probably left the door open.” She passed him, head high—she obviously did not like to think of herself as an unwelcome intruder—as she walked to the elevator to investigate. Behind her trailed a vague cloud of delicate rose and jasmine.
“Let me,” Mathison said, coming to life, following quickly. The door had indeed been left ajar. He closed it. He tried to think of something to say in German, but at the moment all fine phrases had left him. “Do you speak English?”
“With an American accent.” She was smiling at last, and her voice was friendly.
“Suits me,” he said with relief.
Her blue eyes widened. “You aren’t a Swiss policeman?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” She seemed to be leaving, so he walked along the hall with her.
“They seemed to be everywhere. You know, that was the
third
time I tried to get down those stairs. On the first try, I heard a German voice saying, ‘Let’s leave no mess in the hall,’ which rather intrigued me, I must say.”
“For my part,” Mathison said with a grin, “I don’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”
“It couldn’t have been much fun for you at the time,” she agreed. They had reached the doorway, and she was studying him curiously. Then she saw he was watching her with just as much interest, so she looked quickly away at the placid trees and neat flower beds. She plunged on quickly, “I glanced over the banister and saw a man with a gun. Sorry, pistol, isn’t it? I always get these things wrong. Anyway, he was aiming it at your back. So I got ready to scream.”
“I’m glad you decided you were on my side.”
“It was purely instinctive.”
“Still nicer.”
She laughed and said, “I played coward. I saw three more men slip into the hall just at that moment, and they all had guns—pistols.”
“I never thought the difference mattered very much: they have the same effect.”
“So instead of screaming—my throat seemed to get stuck—I turned and ran and tried to get two policemen upstairs to go down and investigate. But they wouldn’t leave their post. You know, they looked at me as if I might be some kind of accomplice. It was all crazy. Completely crazy. Then the shot was fired—and it
was
a shot; I know motor-cycles—and I tried to get downstairs again. But by that time your friend was very much in command. He is a policeman, isn’t he?”
“Something like that. But why did you want to know?”
“I’m trying to piece everything together, I suppose. It was a rather bewildering morning, you must admit. I never thought Zürich could be like this,” she added lightly. And I’ve never talked so much to a stranger either, she thought in rising embarrassment. “All that long explanation was really an apology. I feel I almost let you get shot.”
“I don’t see what else you could have done. Unless you wanted to have two bodies mess up the hall.”
“Most untidy. The Swiss would never approve.” Then she looked at him quickly. “We
are
joking, aren’t we?”
“I hope so,” he said and managed to look reassuring.