Part 8 (1/2)

'I'm getting to the bottom of this thing whatever happens,' Beck had replied.

'You can't fight the system...'

'You want to bet? Sir?'

Tripet came on the line and they exchanged brief courtesies. Beck then told the Geneva chief inspector what he wanted, how to handle it with finesse finesse. As the conversation proceeded he detected a note of worry in Tripet's manner. He's unsure of his position, Beck judged.

'Between you and me, Tripet, this comes right from the top. And that's just between you and me. I just hope you can pick him up before he leaves town. You know where he's staying. Call him, send over a car right away if you'd sooner handle it that way. I leave it to you, but do it, Tripet...'

Beck replaced the receiver and picked up the paper, studying the photograph. He was going to need all the help he could muster - even unorthodox help. If it came to the crunch the press was one thing they couldn't muzzle. Yes, he needed allies. His face tightened. Christ! He wasn't going to let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get away with it just because they had half the money in the western world.

Basle. Erika Stahel closed her apartment door and leaned her back against it for a moment, clutching the armful of newspapers. Seidler guessed she had been running as he looked up from the table. Her face was flushed an even higher colour than usual.

'We've time for another cup of coffee before I go to work,' she told him.

'That would be nice...'

She placed the papers in a neat pile on the table. She was such a tidy, orderly girl, he reflected. It would be marvellous to settle down with her for ever. She danced off into the kitchen, expressing her joy that he was back. He could hear her humming a small tune while she prepared the coffee. He opened the first paper.

'You cleared the table for me,' she called out. 'Thank you, Manfred. You're getting quite domesticated. Do you mind?'

'It could become a habit...'

'Why not?' she responded gaily.

The moment she returned to the living-room she sensed a major change in the atmosphere. Sitting in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, Seidler was staring at the front page of the Journal de Geneve Journal de Geneve. She placed his cup of black coffee within reach - he never took sugar or milk and drank litres of the stuff, another indication that he was living on his nerves. She stood close to his shoulder, peering over it.

'Something wrong?'

'My lifeline. Maybe...'

He took the gold, felt-tipped pen she had given him and used it to circle the box headed Sommaire Sommaire. She was so generous - G.o.d knew how much of her month's salary she had squandered on the pen. He'd have liked to go out and buy her something. He had the money. But it meant going out ....'

'Robert Newman,' she read out and sipped coffee. 'The Kruger case. Newman was the reporter who tracked his bank account to Basle. We still don't know how he managed that. Why is he so important?'

'Because, Erika...' He wrapped an arm round her slim waist, 'he's such an independent b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No vested interest in the world can buy him once he gets his teeth into a story. No one can stop him.'

'You know this Newman?'

'Unfortunately, no. But I can reach him. You see it even says where he's staying. I'd better call him - but I'll use that public phone box just down the street...'

'You didn't want to be seen outside...'

'It's worth the risk. I have to do something. Newman might even be working on the Gold Club story. Terminal...'

'Manfred!' There was surprise, a hint of hurt in her voice. 'When I told you about that you gave me the impression you'd never heard of either the Gold Club or Terminal.'

He looked uncomfortable. Taking the cup of coffee out of her hand he hauled her on to his lap. She really weighed nothing at all. He stared straight at her. He was about to break the habit of a lifetime - to trust trust another human being. another human being.

'It was for your own protection. That's G.o.d's truth. Don't ask me any more - knowledge can kill you when such ruthless and powerful forces are involved. Whatever happens, say nothing to Nagel, your boss...'

'I wouldn't dream of it. Can't you go to the police?' she asked for the third time, then desisted as she caught his look of fear, near-desperation. She saw the time by his watch and eased herself off his lap. 'I simply have to go, Manfred. My job...'

'Don't forget to deposit that case. In your own name.. 'Only if you sign this card. I collected it yesterday. No argument, Manfred - or I won't take the case...'

'What is it?'

'A deposit receipt for a safety box. We both have to be able to get access to it. Those are the only terms on which I'll take that case.'

He sighed, signed it with his illegible but distinctive signature and gave back the card. When she had left the apartment he sat there for some time, amazed at his action. A year ago he'd have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that one day he would entrust half a million francs to a young girl. The nice thing was he felt quite contented now he had taken the plunge.

The real effort, he knew, would be to phone Newman.

They were waiting for him when Newman followed Nancy out of the Pavillon. Two men in plain clothes seated in the reception hall who stood up and walked straight over to him. A tall man with a long face, a shorter man, chubby and amiable.

'M. Newman?' the tall man enquired. 'Could you please accompany us.' It was a statement not a question. 'We are police officers...'

'Nancy, go up to our room while I sort this out,' Newman said briskly. He stared at the tall man. 'Accompany you where - and why?'

'To police headquarters...'

'Address,' Newman snapped.

'Twenty-four Boulevard Carl-Vogt...'

'Show me some identification, for Christ's sake.'

'Certainly, sir.' Ostrich, as Newman had already nicknamed the tall one, produced a folder which Newman examined carefully before handing it back. As far as he could tell it was kosher.

'You've told me where - now tell me why...'

'That will be explained by someone at headquarters.. Ostrich became a little less formal. 'Frankly, sir, I don't know the answer to that question. No, a coat isn't necessary. We have a heated car outside...'

'I'm going up to my room. I have to tell my wife where I'm going...'

He found Nancy waiting at the elevator, making no attempt to get inside. With his back to the two men, who had followed him to where they could watch from the end of the corridor, he took out his scratch pad, wrote down the address of police headquarters, and gave it to her.

'If I'm not back in an hour, call this number and set Geneva alight. That number under the address is the registration of the car they've got parked outside.'

'What is it all about, Bob? Are you worried? I am.. 'Don't be. And no, I'm not worried. I'm blazing mad. I'll tear somebody's guts out for this ...'

Hidden inside the alcove of the doorway, Julius Nagy watched as Newman climbed inside the back of the waiting car with one of the men while the shorter man took the wheel. He hurried to a waiting cab and climbed inside.

'That black Saab,' he told the driver. 'I want to know where they're taking my friend ...'

Newman thought Chief Inspector Leon Tripet, as he introduced himself, was young for the job. He sat down as requested, lit a cigarette without asking permission, and looked round the room, his manner expressing a mixture of irritation and impatience. He carefully said nothing.

Tripet's second-floor office, overlooking the Boulevard Carl-Vogt, was the usual dreary rabbit hutch. Walls painted a pale green, illuminated by a harsh overhead neon rectangular tube. Very homely.