Vorpal Blade (36 page)

Newman checked his watch. 'It's getting late. I'm feeling
sleepy. Time to go to bed. Who knows what tomorrow
will bring?'

'Lord knows. Off you go.'

Paula waited as they were leaving. She came up to Tweed and whispered. Newman, last to leave, turned at the door, looked at Paula.

'See you in the morning.'

'That's what I want to talk to you about,' Paula said
when she and Tweed were alone.

The phone rang. Tweed answered and it was Monica.
She spoke in coded language, realizing the call was going
through a switchboard. Tweed listened, thanked her,
looked at Paula as he put down the phone.

'That was Monica. She's traced two brothers who emi
grated from Italy about the same time as Roman moved to
London, and Vicenzo - Vincent - emigrated to the States.
A Silvio went to London, got married. A Mario went to
the States, he also married. This means there are probably
more offspring in Britain and the States. She hasn't any
names yet.'

'It's a step forward.' Paula paused, staring hard at
Tweed. 'You look worried. I can tell. That's very rare
for you.'

'Well, we move from A to B to C. Our arrivals are
punctuated by more murders. I think I can see
it,
but I can't put a face to the killer.'

'It's frustrating,' she sympathized. 'You know I'm good
at sensing what people are really like behind the masks they
wear in public. Earlier today when I was out with Newman
I went into a bookshop. In the window there was a book by Abraham Scale. Titled
Normal and Abnormal.
The bits I've
read so far are fascinating. I want you to let me go out on
my own and talk to all the people we've met - including
Sam Snyder. Without Newman tagging along. I know he's
protecting me - and I'm grateful. But he'd get in the way.
Please.'

'Well

'And I've got my Browning now,' she pressed.

'Perhaps you're right. Do it.'

'Thanks.'

She kissed him on both cheeks before she left the suite.
Once on his own Tweed immediately called Nield. He worded his request carefully.

'Pete, Paula wants to mooch around on her own - with
out Newman. Tomorrow morning. Can you discreetly fol
low her without her knowing? You'll have to be clever.'

'Easy. I'll be the Invisible Man.'

Inside the stone-walled flat he occupied in the Altstadt,
on the far side of the Limmat, Luigi Morati oiled his
Glock pistol, a deadly weapon. Earlier he had collected
the envelope his mysterious caller had left in the telephone
booth in Vigliano's Bar.

Inside the envelope he had found a hundred thousand
dollars in used notes, a photo of Paula Grey. As he
checked the weapon he kept glancing at the photo pinned
to the table he worked at. A handsome-looking woman. In
different circumstances he wouldn't have minded getting to know her.

He looked at his face in the mirror on the wall. Greasy
black hair, cold eyes, a crooked nose broken in a fight long
ago, a fight which had ended in his opponent ending up
with a broken skull smashed against a wall.
Finite.

He had considered using a silencer, had rejected the
notion. A silencer could jam a handgun. So the vital
decision was his escape route. He had long ago been
taught to think of this first, by an experienced hitman
during his days in Rome.

The solution came to him as he continued maintaining
the gun with loving care. His motorcycle, now chained up
inside an alley near the entrance to the old building where
he lived. His flat was not so far from police headquarters
on the opposite bank, an irony which amused him.

Satisfied with the state of the Glock, he stood up, aimed
the unloaded weapon at the photo. He pulled the trigger.

Small, but wiry and strong, able to kill with one blow
from his hand. If Paula Grey came out of the Baur
au Lac tomorrow she was dead meat. He had never
failed yet.

23

Without a warning forecast, the following morning the
temperature had dropped ten degrees Fahrenheit. As Paula
walked out through the entrance she was clad in a leather
outfit. She was by herself and it was early as she entered
Bahnhofstrasse, turned left up the street. She had already decided on her first objective.

A municipal cleaner was sweeping the gutters. His hands
were only protected by half-gloves, the tips of his fingers
exposed. They were blue with the intense cold. Men and
women hurrying to their jobs were huddled up. Shop
windows were coated with ice. A short distance further
up the street a police car was parked with two uniformed
officers inside.

In the rather scruffy park facing the entrance to the
Baur au Lac, Luigi Morati recognized her immediately and cursed. The presence of the police car meant action
at the moment was impossible. He wheeled his motorcycle
into the street, began pushing it.

Pete Nield, who had shopped earlier, stood on the far
side of the street. He wore an
overcoat she had never
seen and a hat he had purchased. Nield never wore a
hat. Hidden inside an alcove leading to a shop he watched her proceeding past the police car. A motorcyclist, smartly
dressed in leather and with a crash helmet on his head,
pushed his machine past him.

The sun was shining brilliantly but without warmth.

Paula realized the pavement had to be watched. There
were patches of ice. She wasn't worried. She was wearing rubber-soled knee-length boots. A blue tram rumbled past, sounding like a tank going in to attack.

She crossed Bahnhofstrasse just before Parade-platz, a
zone where trams changed direction. Several were stopped
behind each other as passengers flooded off while others
waited to board. The Swiss went to work early and Zurich was alive with activity.

The entrance to the bar of the Baur en Ville is sep
arate from the main reception area of the hotel. Semi
circular steps lead up to tall glass doors which open automatically. As soon as she entered Paula realized she
was lucky.

As she had hoped, Sam Snyder was seated at a table
by himself on the lower level, eating breakfast. He waved
to her with his fork, used the other hand to beckon for
her to join him. She was concentrating on him as she
sat down, so she didn't notice a man in a camel-hair
coat and a Swiss hat walk slowly past, hunched up, and
climb the stairs at the back to the upper level. Nield
now wore tinted glasses and settled himself in at a table
at the back. It gave him a good view, looking down,
of Paula.

'What an unexpected pleasure.' The hawk-faced reporter
greeted her with a warm smile. 'I do like company when
I'm having a meal.'

A waitress appeared immediately. 'I needed coffee to
warm me up,' Paula explained after ordering.

'I like the cold. But I don't expect everyone to agree with me.'

'Who did it, Sam?'

She threw the question at him without warning. He
helped himself to the rest of his omelette before replying.
She could hear the wheels churning round.

'Who did what?' he eventually enquired.

'Oh, come off it. You investigated the murder of Hank Foley at Pinedale in Maine. Then Adam Holgate at Bray.
You were in Montreux when another hideous murder took place. Here, Elena Brucan.'

'She was a nice lady.'

'You knew her?'

'She approached a lot of people. Had the type of personality to do that. She trapped me down on the
quai
at
Montreux when I'd taken pics of the late Dr Abraham
Scale. Asked me if I'd known him.'

'Had you?'

'No.'

Paula caught the hesitation before he replied. He drank
more coffee and his dark eyes bored into hers. He hadn't
liked the question. His mouth twisted into a sneer. Friend
ship time was over. She persisted.

'Get some good pics of Elena Brucan?'

'Who sent you to interrogate me? Tweed? Newman?'

He was leaning back, openly assessing her. Hostile now.
She had extracted all she'd get. His suggestion irked her.
She slammed her cup down.

'No one sent me, as you so politely put it. I came here
all on my own. I'm not manipulated at the end of a string.
Get that into your thick skull.'

'My, the lady has spirit. I like that. Why don't you come
up to my room? We could continue the conversation in
peace and quiet.'

He was smiling. But the twist still existed. He didn't earn
top marks for self-control. She gestured to the waitress,
paid her bill.

'You're not walking out on me, are you? Women don't
do that to me.'

She was staring straight at him, studying his expression.
So she didn't notice the man in the camel-hair coat
descend slowly from the steps to the upper level, dragging
his feet as though walking was a problem. Nield paused
by the door, adjusting his coat collar, making sure she was
leaving.

'Maybe your choice of women isn't very sophisticated,'
she rapped back.

The smile vanished. He leaned towards her, his right
hand clenching and unclenching. His eyes seemed darker
than ever.
Normal and Abnormal.
The latter was disturbing.
Get out of here, she said to herself. Your time wasn't
wasted.

She was standing up when he reached over, clasped her
right arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. His hawk-face
was inches from hers. She spoke calmly.

'If you don't take your hand off me I'm going to call the
manager.'

'If I have offended you I apologize.' His expression was
normal and his smile seemed genuine. He sat down as
though to reassure her. 'To prove I am not your enemy
let me warm you. On the grapevine I have heard you are
in great danger. You have been targeted.'

'Really? Who by?'

'A top-flight professional. Identity unknown.'

'That seems unlikely.'

She walked to the automatic doors which opened for
her. She slowly descended the
steps, cautious about the
ice. Now she was safe.

Luigi Morati had positioned himself in the middle of the
Parade-platz. He was hidden amid the endless convoys of
trams which arrived and left endlessly. He was smoking
a cigarette, leaning against his motorbike. Dropping the
cigarette, he watched her coming down the steps. He
moved his machine, dipped his hand into the pannier
for the Clock. One swift shot at this range and the job
was done.