Vorpal Blade (40 page)

'What did you think of his vague description of someone
he suggested could have been the killer?' she asked.

'Vague is the word.'

'I'm developing a new theory from the way he dragged
that in when he needn't have done. Sam Snyder was in
the right place at the right moment. Earlier he could have
walked down the promenade on the opposite bank from where he made his sketches. He
could be it - the killer we're tracking.'

25

'Hello,' said Tweed, answering the phone in his suite.

'Ed Danvers here.' Voice abrupt. 'Mr Straub wishes to
see you. We're in suite . . .'

'And I'm in suite . . .'

'We know where you are. The Vice-President wishes to
see you immediately.'

'Then he will be very welcome to come down and see
me. I will be waiting for him.'

Tweed broke the connection. He went over to the well-
stocked drinks cupboard. Yes, he had whiskey, what the Americans preferred to drink. If anyone came down to see
him. They did. A heavy hammering on the door, nonstop.
Tweed opened the door and Straub pushed his way in.

He now wore a white two-piece suit, a pink shirt, a
tie with the emblems of the American flag. The colours
clashed horribly but you couldn't miss him. Refusing
Tweed's offer to sit down he stormed round the suite.
The expression he wore did not go with his clothes - his
long lean face was twisted into fury.

'I
am
the Vice-President, in case you'd forgotten. People
come to see me when summoned.'

'I'm not people.'

'You won't hold your job for long when I return to Washington.'

'So when are you going home?' Tweed enquired in the
same calm tone.

'Not yet.' He suddenly calmed down, saw the whiskey
bottle. 'I'll have some of that,' he snapped, sitting in an
armchair.

'My pleasure. You are a very worried man, Mr Straub,'
Tweed observed as he poured whiskey into two glasses. Then
he sat down facing his guest, raised his glass. 'Cheers!'

'What makes you think I'm worried?' Straub asked.

'You are noted for never stopping smiling. You face any
audience and answer the most hostile questions amiably.
Yet you came in here as though your ship was going
down. Is it?'

'A strange simile.' Straub stared hard at Tweed. 'These serial murders are hitting the headlines in the States. And over here. They always mention my presence.'

'Because you always happen to be in the vicinity when it hits again? And I must disagree with you. The words
"serial murders" suggest random killings. I believe they
are
all linked.'

'Linked?' Straub's normally ruddy face paled. A pause
before he responded. 'What on earth do you damned well mean?'

'I mean that when we identify it we'll find a personal
motive behind these atrocities.'

'That's so implausible as to be ludicrous,' Straub said
savagely.

'Your reaction suggests this is what is worrying you. Were you in Pinedale, staying at your mansion near the
asylum when it was burned to the ground?'

'I did
not
come here to be interrogated.'

'No, you came here to discover how far my investigation
has progressed. Well, I will tell you. Since arriving here in
Zurich I'm beginning to link up the elements in the chain.
The appearance, once more, of the Arbogast family is very
significant. I believe you know them.'

'You believe wrongly. And I could do with another
drink.'

Tweed did the honours. He watched as Straub lifted
his glass again. His hand was shaking. He steadied it
by pressing the glass against his lips, swallowing half the
contents of the stiff one Tweed had poured.

'If you were in court, and I was a barrister, I would
next ask you about your visit to Roman Arbogast at the
Cone in London. I would produce evidence to back up
my question.'

Tweed, his voice still calm, was bearing down hard on
his guest. He produced an envelope he'd slipped down the
side of a cushion before Straub had arrived. He selected a
photo showing Straub mounting the steps to the entrance
to the Cone. He placed it on the table in front of the
Vice-President.

Straub stared down at the picture which also included
the limo by the kerb which had brought him there. He
spent too long gazing at the picture before looking up at Tweed.

'Naturally I have a distant acquaintance with Roman
Arbogast. He has a plant employing several thousand
workers in Boston.' He attempted a smile. 'Politicians
have to think of voters.'

Straub, like some Americans, spoke very rapidly.
Watching him on TV, addressing an American audience,
Tweed had sometimes found it difficult to catch what
he'd said.

'And Pinedale?' Tweed said quietly.

'I never knew Hank Foley—'

He stopped suddenly. It was obvious he regretted reply
ing so quickly. He drank the rest of his whiskey, gripping
the glass tightly.

'I'm surprised,' Tweed observed, 'that you remember
the name of a caretaker. And that photo was taken by Elena
Brucan, whose body was discovered yesterday evening
close to
this hotel.' He was speaking slowly and very
deliberately. 'I refer to poor Elena Brucan, whose head
was severed from her body and then - a really foul touch
- placed back on the severed neck.'

'Never heard of her.'

Again he stopped. Again he had regretted reacting to
the name so fast.

'As a politician don't you read the newspapers?'

'Of course I do. But I don't understand German.'

'I don't remember saying that the newspaper report was
in German.'

Straub had slipped up again. For an experienced politi
cian to make so many mistakes so quickly told Tweed he
had underestimated the pressure Straub was under.

The Vice-President settled back in his chair in a clear
attempt to relax. To regain complete control. He used
the technique he always fell back on when faced with a
dangerous opponent. He attacked.

'Tweed, I came here to suggest you dropped this inves
tigation. It is crazy. Why not go home and leave it to the
Swiss?'

'Because I am cooperating with the Swiss. Two of these
awful murders - so similar to the ones in Britain and the
States - have taken place on Swiss territory.'

'You mean you won't go along with my suggestion?'

'No. I will not.'

Straub jumped up from his chair. He strode to the door,
opened it, then turned before he left. His usual bland
expression was transformed into a glare of pure hatred,
reminding Tweed of the painting of Roman shown to
him by Marienetta when Roman was 'in a bad temper'.
Straub's voice was a snarl.

' Sonofabitch.
'

He slammed the door shut behind him.

26

The reception hall was crowded when Paula entered
with Newman. Several guests were waiting to consult
the concierge. Three more heading towards registration.
Behind the counter the temporary clerk was in a flap.
He caught sight of Paula, waved to her holding a fat
envelope. Puzzled, she took it and then the clerk was
immersed in guests. With Newman she took it over to a
couch facing the entrance to the lounge. She assumed it
was something Tweed had ordered. The flap was tucked
inside, not sealed.

With Newman seated beside her she took out a large
sheaf of rail tickets. First class.
Dated the next day. Depar
ture time of express 13.07. Zurich HB Lugano. Smoking
compartments. Four tickets. She frowned, looked at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to Herr Roman
Arbogast. The idiot clerk had given her Roman's envelope.
She looked at Newman who had watched as she checked the tickets.

'Now we know,' he whispered. He raised his voice to
catch a waiter. 'What are you drinking, Paula?'

'Coffee and a bottle of still mineral water. I must get rid
of this . . .'

The clerk was having a rough time with a guest who was
complaining about his bill. Two other guests stood impa
tiently waiting for the dispute to be settled. Paula eased her
way to one side, dropped the envelope on the counter.

'This isn't for me. Look at the front of the envelope.'

The clerk pushed the envelope to one side. He continued his conversation with the guest who was not in a good tem
per. She walked back and sat by Newman. Refreshments
had arrived. Newman's drink was a double Scotch. As she
sipped her water she looked into the lounge.

Seated by himself at a table near the entrance was a typical banker type. The usual black suit, white shirt, executive case, a number of A4 sheets in his hand. Youngish, he had been gazing at her through his gold-rimmed spectacles. He
looked away immediately. Damned sauce, she thought, he
can see I'm with someone.

'Four tickets,' Newman whispered.. 'Roman, Marienetta,
Sophie and Broden.'

'Or Black Jack. As soon as you've finished your drink
we'll go up and let Tweed know what we've found out.
No hurry.'

'Zurich to Lugano tomorrow,' Newman remarked. 'The
13.07 express from the Hauptbahnhof. So—'

He stopped speaking suddenly. Paula glanced at him. What had disturbed him? He finished his drink quickly.
They made their way to the lift, which was waiting,
empty. Once the doors had closed and it began ascending
Newman spoke.

'Did you notice that banker type sitting by himself?'

'Yes, he seemed interested in me. Probably my imagi
nation.'

'He can lip-read. He probably digested the data I spoke
of.'

'Does it matter?' she said dismissively as they stepped
out.

She knew Newman had been on a course at the Surrey mansion which had included spotting a lip-reader. Their eyes widened. They stared at their target with a certain intensity. Now she thought it was Newman's imagination. Tweed opened the door, ushered them into his suite.