'I'm the bait,' she snapped. 'You hope I'll extract information from him about what goes on inside their Embassy.' She was furious. 'You're a cunning old fox.'

'I object to the word old,' Tweed said mildly.

'I'm right. Damn it! Tell me to my face. Am I right?'

He looked up, stared straight at her. 'You hit the bull's-eye.' His voice was serious. 'You don't ever have to meet Danvers for drinks if you don't want to. But his visit told us a lot. The Ambassador doesn't normally pry into a British organization. So he was asked to. By whom? I've no doubt the instigator of Danvers's visit came from the Vice-President pressuring the Ambassador before he flew to Europe. And why has Russell Straub flown to the Continent alone? Not just to show the flag. If that was the reason he could have taken a dozen bodyguards with him.'

'Pm sorry I blew my top,' Paula replied, then went to her desk. 'But I'm feeling sort of jittery from two days ago. It's silly, but I wish I could pinpoint what triggered it off.'

'Don't worry about it,' Tweed told her gently. 'We did have a lot of people and incidents of an unpleasant nature crammed into those two days.'

He sighed as the phone rang again. Monica answered it, then called across urgently to Tweed.

'Chief Inspector Arthur Beck of the Swiss Federal Police wants to talk to you. He sounded very serious and in a great rush. I think something has happened.'

14

'A third headless body has been found, at Montreux.'

Tweed had spent several minutes on the phone with his old friend Arthur Beck. He had asked the occasional question, which Paula had attempted without success to fit into a conversation. Now she was stunned by what Tweed had announced. Everyone in the office was silent. Paula was the first to break the heavy silence.

'In Switzerland now. First in Maine, then out at Bray. And now Switzerland. The geographical span is enormous. Whose body is it?'

'No identification yet. Beck was talking quickly so I only got a fragmented picture. I gather the body was found at the edge of the lake. Something about a pick-boat.'

'Could it have been pic-bot?' suggested Paula, who was fluent in French.

'Yes, it did sound like that.'

'Then I saw it once when I was in Montreux. It's like a large barge without a deck. It has sloping sides descending to the base. Two men were using it to claw out of the lake debris which had floated in. Branches of trees, leaves, all kinds of rubbish. They had tools like huge rakes to haul it aboard.'

'So the serial murderer is operating on different continents,' Newman commented.

'I'm sure,' Tweed said grimly, 'this is not the work of a random serial killer. There is a link between the victims.

And until the corpse is identified it may have nothing to do with Maine and Bray. Beck keeps up with worldwide crime, mentioned both Maine and Bray. He wants us to fly out today.' He looked at Monica. 'Could we catch a flight to Geneva this evening? Beck said he'd have a limo meet us, drive us to Montreux.'

'Yes you could.' Monica carried timetables in her head. 'But I'd have to get cracking now. So would you - packing. How many people?'

'Everyone in this room. The complete team. Travelling under their real names.' He looked round his office. 'It may be cold so pack warm clothes.'

'It's freezing,' Paula said. 'Winter has started early out there. Snow has fallen on the peaks. Very early indeed.'

'My case is packed, the one for emergencies such as this.' He gestured towards a large corner cupboard. 'What about yours, Paula?'

'Ready. In the same cupboard. So is yours, isn't it, Bob?'

'My skiing clothes are in my case, also in that cupboard, so I'll be OK.'

'I won't,' interjected Marler. 'I'll have to dash home. I wonder how long we've got?'

He waited while Monica continued to talk like a machine-gun to the girl at Heathrow. When she had completed her long conversation she held up one thumb, looked at Tweed.

'You're booked on an evening flight. All of you. Hadn't I better phone Beck to give him flight data if he's sending transport to meet you at Geneva?'

'That's the next thing to do.' He walked to her desk, gave her a slip of paper with Beck's number. 'How long have we?'

'Three hours to be back here and ready to go. I'll book cabs. Taking cars and parking at Heathrow in Long Stay will hold you up.'

'Three hours?' Marler repeated. 'I'm off.'

There was a flurry of people leaving to go and fetch warm clothing. Tweed said he was popping up to see Howard to keep him in the picture and vanished. Only Paula and Newman were left in the office with Monica, who was already calling Beck. Paula suddenly realized she no longer felt jittery. The prospect of action had rejuvenated her. She unlocked a drawer, took out Wylie's A History of Executions., packed it carefully in her briefcase. Bedtime reading, she said to herself. I don't think.

'Lord,' she said aloud. 'I have to phone Marienetta.'

'What for?' Newman asked.

'We were going to fix a date for dinner. I must tell her I'm not going to be available for a while.'

Newman shrugged. She was talking on the phone while he read the latest issue of the Herald Tribune. Not a word in it about the murder of Hank Foley. Tweed returned as Paula put down the phone and spoke.

'That's strange.'

'What is?' Tweed asked, heading for the cupboard to check his suitcase.

'I phoned Marienetta and her secretary said she had gone abroad a couple of days ago. So has Sophie. They never travel together, the secretary informed me after I prodded, suggesting I'd better speak to Mr Arbogast. Then the girl told me Mr Arbogast also was out of the country. They all left independently a couple of days ago.'

'Which,' Tweed remarked from behind his desk, 'was the same time Russell Straub disappeared into the wild blue yonder. A coincidence? I wonder.'

'Had you better phone Mrs Brucan to tell her you have to go off somewhere?' Paula suggested. 'It might save her a wasted journey - she doesn't seem to be able to keep away from here.'

'I suppose I'd better.'

Tweed looked up the number he had written down in his notebook. Picking up the phone, he called the number, waited. Thinking maybe he had misdialled, he tried again. He listened for a while, then gave it up.

'No reply. Just the ringing tone. All these people disappearing. It's like a massacre by absence. Howard is fully informed, will take over while I'm away. He was very shocked by my news. I told him it might be anyone.'

'Anyone?' queried Paula.

'The third headless corpse found in Montreux.'

'Let's hope to Heaven it's no one we know.'

15

The flight to Geneva was little more than an hour. This time they sat near the pilot's cabin. Again Paula was in a three-seater but she occupied the middle seat with Tweed by the window and Newman by the aisle. The plane was half-empty so they were able to talk with no risk of being overheard. Several rows behind them Butler sat with Nield. At the rear Marler sat alone. He liked to be able to keep an eye on everyone aboard.

Outside it was dark as Paula delved into her briefcase and brought out her cherished book. Slips of paper protruded where she had marked several pages. She glanced at Newman.

'This is pretty grisly. Hope you've got a strong stomach.'

'I'll be happy with this,' he replied, raising his glass of Scotch. 'Do your worst.'

'They were very methodical with their executions,' she began. 'Here's phase one - a condemned man mounting to the top of the scaffold, arms tied together.'

Tweed peered over to look at the picture drawn in what he suspected was charcoal. On the platform the executioner waited, a big tall brute with his head covered with a woollen helmet with eye-holes. Grim. In his right hand he held a long-handled axe. The victim was then laid on his back, his neck placed carefully on a wide curved block. The executioner raised the axe above his head.

The next drawing showed it descending. Then the blade slashed through the neck, the head rolled back, dropped onto a large piece of sacking. Black blood pooled down on all sides from the ragged stump of what remained of the neck.

'Good job it wasn't in colour,' Newman commented.

The executioner lifted the severed head by its hair to display it to the crowd below. It was then dropped into the sacking. The executioner gathered up the sack, wrapping it round the head, dropping it into a cart below.

'Now that is important,' Paula said.

'I guess it was important to the poor devil who had his head chopped off,' Newman remarked.

Paula nudged him hard in the ribs. 'Be serious. This is very serious.'

'What is?' Tweed asked.

She had turned back a page which showed the sack spread out behind the block, in front of the executioner standing waiting with his axe.

'The sacking,' Paula emphasized. 'The heads were missing from Hank Foley and Adam Holgate. I think it used sacking placed behind a makeshift execution block - then the head rolled free and fell on the sacking. That would give it something to carry away the head and put it inside some kind of container.'

'I'll have another Scotch,' Newman called out, summoning the steward.

Paula closed the book until the drink had been served and the steward had gone.

'So what kind of container would hold a human head?' asked Newman.

'I think Paula is right,' Tweed decided. 'We should have thought of that before now. I did once see a human head preserved in formalin after an autopsy. Stored in a huge laboratory glass with a glass lid on top. If I'm right what would it put a large laboratory glass in, to carry it away?'

'One of those wheeled suitcases people cart around these days when they're travelling,' she said.

'Must have been a lot of blood dripping from a head,' Newman pointed out.

'So it holds up the head by the hair until only dribbles of blood are dropping,' Paula explained.

'We really should have thought of that,' said Tweed. 'At Pinedale we should have searched further. There must have been an area where the ground had been soaked with blood. And at Bray.'

'Any more delicacies?' Newman enquired.

'There's the guillotine where you see the same system.' She turned to another marked page. 'You see, again behind the execution block there's sacking waiting to receive the head.'

'Look at the neck's stump,' Newman said. 'Now turn back to the earlier example of a portrait.'

She found the page immediately. Newman stared at the hideous drawing. He pointed.

'See? The neck stump again is ragged. Whereas Foley and Holgate had their necks severed neatly just below the chin. No raggedness.'

'It must have practised on something inert,' Tweed reflected. 'Maybe a dummy.'

'I'm not at all sure it would be a dummy,' Paula objected.

'What then?' Tweed asked.

'I don't know. I'll have to think about the problem. And we're descending.'

She wrapped up the book, placed it carefully back inside her briefcase. Then, to clear her mind of what they had been studying, she gazed out of the window.

The night was now cloud-free. As the descent continued she looked down on the Jura mountains rising up behind the vast pale blue smoothness which was Lake Geneva, or Lac Leman. There was snow on the peaks and the scene was one of great beauty as their machine swung out over the lake, like a giant flat plate, motionless in the moonlight. Then they were landing, wheels bumping gently on the tarmac.

Walking out onto the concourse at Cointrin Airport, Geneva, Tweed and Paula were surprised and pleased to see Arthur Beck, Chief of Federal Police, waiting for them. Behind him several uniformed police formed a protective circle. Beck ran forward, hugged Paula, shook hands with Tweed and Newman, led them to two waiting limos.

Beck was tall, fortyish, lean with greying hair and a trim moustache. His head was long with a well-shaped forehead, a Roman nose, a determined mouth and jaw. Tweed regarded his friend as the most efficient and energetic policeman on the Continent.

Beck was carrying Paula's suitcase although she had insisted on hanging on to her briefcase. The cold was icy but this was the sort of weather Tweed thrived on. Very quickly both Tweed and Paula were seated in luxurious seats in the middle section of the limo, behind the driver who had two policemen alongside him. Newman and Marler occupied the row behind them while Nield and Butler travelled together in a second limo. They were gliding beyond the station, heading east, when Beck, seated beside Tweed, spoke.

'I have negative news for you, I fear. After bringing you out here at such short notice.'

'You've lost the body?'

'Only temporarily, I'm sure. It was alongside the pic-bot when a storm blew in suddenly off the lake. So the body was washed further out. Not to worry - the storm is due to end tonight and then the body will be washed in again.'

'Was there time to get any idea of its appearance?'

'Only that it was headless. It was sealed inside a body bag - or body pouch, as the Americans call them. The bag was zipped up. One of the crew of two men reached down, unzipped the bag, saw what was inside, had an attack of sickness, the fool, so he let it go.'

'It wouldn't be a pleasant sight,' Paula said quietly.

'The other crew-member was made of sterner stuff. He moved fast, took one Polaroid photo, leaned over the side and zipped the bag shut just before it was swept away. I have the Polaroid.'

He glanced uncertainly at Paula. She knew exactly what his reaction was.

'Don't worry,' she assured him. 'I've seen headless bodies in Maine and out at Bray. I won't faint,' she said smiling.

'Here it is, then.'

He produced the colour print out of a transparent envelope taken from inside a leather case. He gave it to Paula while Newman leant over from behind them. Earlier, before saying a word, Beck had slid the glass partition shut so the driver and his companions could hear nothing.

'It's a good photo, even taken looking down on the stump of the neck,' Newman commented.

Paula stared at it closely by the overhead light Beck had switched on. She turned it slowly this way and that to try and see something which would identify the body. It was hopeless. Just a nerve-racking mass of dried blood.

'I can't even see whether the cut is a neat slice or ragged. That's important.'

'Why?' asked Beck.

Tweed explained to him what they had discovered in both the Foley and Holgate beheadings: the clean way the blade had cut and the position and shape of the notch in the blade.

'I'll tell Dr Zeitzler. He's the pathologist I called to Montreux from Zurich. I persuaded him to stay on until we get our hands on the corpse.'

'Why is this Dr Zeitzler from Zurich?' Paula wondered. 'I would have thought a pathologist from Berne, the capital, would be called.'

'Ah!' Beck chuckled. 'I insist on using the absolute tops in every sphere of my operations. The best pathologist by far in the whole of Switzerland is Dr Zeitzler. Very dominant but he knows what he's talking about. Like him, you will spend the night at Le Montreux Palace. You and Paula have suites.'

'That's very generous,' said Paula. 'I remember Le Montreux Palace. It's by far the best hotel in the city.'

'I've booked Newman into an attic,' Beck remarked casually.

'Thanks a lot,' Newman growled from behind them.

'Just joking,' said Beck, so fluent in English. 'You do have a very nice room waiting for you . . .'

While they were talking the limo had made good progress along the wide autoroute leading to Montreux at the far end of Switzerland's largest lake. Paula looked out of the window on her side, revelling in the undulating crests of the Jura, tipped with the white of snow. Stretching across to the highway she saw in the moonlight the neat grids of the vineyards which would start to flourish later. Here and there neat little villages of stone were laid out in organized rectangles. Each had an onion-domed spire of a tiny church. So Swiss. So peaceful.

She looked the other way beyond Tweed and Beck, towards where she knew the lake stretched. In the distance, on the French side of the lake, grim mountain crags reared up. Sheets of rain like long slanted needles close together suddenly appeared, sweeping towards them. Beck pointed in their direction.

'We shall soon pass Ouchy, where the autoroute is close to the lake,' he remarked. 'The storm is building up at this end of Lac Leman. The forecast is for it to go away in the early morning. Then we hope the body will return to us.'

Paula felt sleepy. She moved so her head was on the rest. So comfortable. The limo purring quietly along on the superb highway. She fell fast asleep.

She was woken up by Tweed gently shaking her arm. Blinking, she sat up straight, aware of two things. The limo was slowing, then stopping. Her right hand still clasped the briefcase with the precious book on her lap.

'We have arrived in Montreux,' Tweed told her as the limo stopped.

She peered up out of the window. A yellow-gold colossus of a hotel which seemed to stretch along the Grand-Rue forever loomed above her. Many rooms had balconies but no one was using them tonight as the rain sheeted down. Smartly uniformed servants appeared holding huge umbrellas, opened their doors. Huddling under the umbrellas, Tweed and Paula hurried inside followed by Beck and the rest of their team.

At the reception area they produced their passports while Beck stood a distance away. The receptionist welcomed them warmly as he noted down details.

'You're not full at this time of the year, I imagine,' remarked Tweed.

'No, sir. But you have just missed being with us at the same time as another honoured guest.'

'Who was that?'

'The Vice-President of the United States.'

16

'Can't be helped,' Tweed said to the receptionist. 'I was talking to Russell Straub in London barely a week ago.'

Paula had trouble stifling a chuckle. Tweed certainly extracted mileage from the brief confrontation he'd had with the Vice-President at Sophie's birthday party.

'Really, sir,' the receptionist commented, impressed. 'He left here about an hour ago. After dark.'

'By train, I expect?'

'Oh no, sir. He drove himself off in a big Ford.'

'On his way to Berne, I suppose,' Tweed replied, choosing the first city which came into his head.

'I've really no idea where he was going. He was out of the hotel a lot, kept very much to himself.'

'We'd better get up to our rooms. Dinner is still being served?'

'Yes, indeed, it is.'

Paula was taken one way to her suite while Tweed, accompanied by Beck, was taken in another direction. His suite was spacious, had a balcony overlooking the lake. He turned to Beck after paying the porters.

'Can we see from this balcony where the body was discovered first?'

'If you don't mind risking getting a bit wet, although I see they have lowered the blind.' He led the way outside and pointed. 'You can hardly see it from here because of the evergreens. It was down there by the quai.'

'So now we can only hope,' Tweed said, going inside.

'I have sent out a large patrol boat with a huge scoop to see if they can find it. I'll be leaving now.' He picked up a hotel pad, scribbled down a number. 'I shall be at this number all night. It's the police HQ not far from the quai.'

After a quick wash Tweed went in search of Paula's suite. On the way he bumped into Newman on the same quest. The hotel was huge but eventually they found the room. Tweed knocked on the door.

'Who is it?' Paula called out cautiously.

'Tweed here.'

She unlocked the door and they walked into a suite on the scale of Tweed's. Paula had already changed for dinner into a sleeveless midnight-blue dress and a high collar. Tweed walked round, peered out of the window.

'This is pretty isolated,' he remarked.

'That's what I thought,' Paula agreed. 'If either of you needs me, knock four times on the door, pause briefly, then knock once. Repeat the code if I don't respond. After dinner I think I'm going to fall into a deep slumber. But now I am ravenous . . .'

Reaching the entrance to the restaurant Tweed paused, told the head waiter he'd like a moment to look round. Paula peered round him while Newman shuffled his feet impatiently. She let out a gasp.

'Oh, my God. I don't believe it.'

'What is it now?' Newman asked.

'Look at that table over there by the window, half hidden. Marienetta with Sophie. And with Black Jack Diamond. What the devil's happening?'

'Why don't you go over and see them?' Tweed suggested. 'Bob and I will grab a table over there, well away from them. I suggest you chat to Marienetta. You get on well with her.'

Paula made her way between the tables. She was only halfway there when Marienetta, wearing a strapless dress, spotted her, jumped up from her chair. She hugged Paula the moment she reached their table.

'Now I will have someone interesting to talk to. I'm so glad to see you.'

'What the devil are you doing in this part of the world?' Black Jack, lolling in his seat, called out.

'I might ask you the same question,' Paula rapped back.

'She's following us,' Sophie said unpleasantly.

'Since I'd no idea you were even in Switzerland that would have been a difficult achievement,' Paula replied amiably.

'They've been having another row,' Marienetta said, taking Paula by the arm. 'Let's go over by ourselves to the bar. I feel like a Cointreau.'

And I feel like food, Paula thought, but she allowed herself to be parked at the bar. She asked for a small glass of Chardonnay. Marienetta ordered her Cointreau, enthusiastically admired Paula's outfit.

'What are you doing here?' Paula enquired.

'Uncle has a very advanced plastics plant at Vevey just down the lake towards Ouchy. He came over unannounced to check progress. Expected me to come with him because he knows I'm better at administration. Sophie's baby, really. She is the scientist.'

'Roman is staying here?'

'He was. He drove off somewhere by himself a couple of hours ago. Don't ask me where to. He's so secretive. An early business experience gave almost a mania for secrecy. I saw police cars rushing down to the lake front before dinner.'

'What was that about?' Paula wondered.

'No idea. Before we left London, Roman introduced Sophie to the American millionaire he'd chosen to get her away from Black Jack. Apparently he was taking Sophie out for lunch in a cab. They arrived at the restaurant, the American found he had no English money, tried to borrow the fare from Sophie. That did it. She turfed him out, told the cabbie to take her back to ACTIL.'

'Doesn't take a lot to upset her, does it?'

'Not if she's in a mood. She found out we were flying out here and decided to fly out on her own, that is with Blackjack.'

'Why?'

'To pay back Uncle for trying to palm her off on the American. The slightest little thing can set her off. Uncle was livid when he saw Black Jack out here - refused to eat with them.'

'When did you all come out here?' Paula asked casually between munching pretzels. Anything to keep the demon hunger at bay.

'May I ask why you're out here with the formidable Tweed and the tough guy, Robert Newman?'

'We're heavily involved in these horrific murder cases. A third victim - another headless corpse - has been found floating in the lake. Still out there somewhere.'

'Oh, my God! That explains the flurry of police cars.' She paused. 'Whose body is this one?'

'We don't know. Hope you don't mind my mentioning it but I haven't eaten for weeks.'

'Oh Lord! You should have spoken earlier. Back to the table right now. You poor thing.'

Strange, Paula thought as they headed for the table, how everyone came out here two days ago. The Arbogast family and the Vice-President. Tweed would never believe that was a coincidence. Especially with a third murder.

17

Paula was consuming pasta avidly when Sophie took her over, speaking so sensibly and knowledgeably Paula could hardly credit it was the same woman. Sophie the scientist.

'We've got a plastics factory down the road which was my idea. I've invented - and patented - a new technique for plastic. It's going to make my father another fortune.'

'Tell me about it,' Paula said between mouthfuls.

'It's stronger and much more flexible than any existing form of plastic. I spent months working on the theory but now it's in production—'

'Let Paula eat her meal,' Marienetta interrupted. 'She is starving.'

'So,' Sophie continued, ignoring the hint, 'you can warm it then mould it into any shape you like with your hands. A lot of airlines have placed contracts. The flexibility can be adjusted - by hand or machine - to any strength or shape simply by moulding it, and when it's cool it keeps its form, solid as a rock. I read chemistry and physics at Durham University and came out with a double First.'

'Really?' Paula stopped eating and gazed into Sophie's intense eyes. She was impressed. The lady had a first-rate brain, something she had missed. 'Your father must be very admiring of your achievement.'

'Oh, I suppose he is.' Her expression had darkened. 'He goes to Vevey with Marienetta and they pore over the money side. Marienetta flies over without telling me so she can organize the administration. I invented the damned stuff and I'm not even a director. Both of them are.'

'Yes,' Black Jack interjected with a sneering smile, 'but you're a scientist. A balance sheet is hieroglyphics to your limited intellect.'

'Paula,' Sophie said quietly, picking up a fork, 'may I have a taste of your pasta?'

'Go ahead,' Paula urged her. 'There's far too much for me.'

Sophie piled her fork full of pasta, suddenly turned to her left and emptied the contents into Black Jack's lap.

'That's a messy way to eat,' a new voice commented nastily. Sam Snyder had appeared out of nowhere.

The hawk-faced reporter stood close to Diamond as he waved a hand at the other diners round the table. He was wearing a dinner jacket and looked very different from when he had walked in to the coffee shop in faraway London's King Street.

'Good evening, ladies.'

Black Jack stood up, stumbled, knocked over his chair. He glared at Snyder savagely. His left fist clenched and he snarled: 'I'm going to put you in hospital, you dirty little tyke.'

Here we go, Paula said to herself. Blackjack was going to beat up the reporter badly. His left fist moved back to give extra violence to the blow. It slammed forward, Snyder moved so swiftly Paula hardly saw what happened. Black Jack's left arm was gripped in an arm-lock, twisted round, turning its owner with it. Paula was surprised by Snyder's strength.

'Ouch!' yelled Black Jack. 'You're breaking my arm.'

'Breaking it yourself, mate, by moving. So just you keep quite still or you will be the one in hospital.'

For several moments both men stood motionless, like figures in a tableau. Other diners stared. Paula was struck by the grim look on the reporter's face. It occurred to her that Snyder was more than capable of carrying out his threat.

'Now, going to keep quiet, mate?' Snyder asked. 'If you are I can let you go. You do need to clean yourself up.'

'Release me,' Jack croaked. 'I'm heading for the bathroom.'

Snyder let go, Jack stood up slowly, his right hand clutching his left arm. Still slowly, he began to walk away. Then he paused, turned round and addressed the table.

'See you, folks,' he said in a parting attempt to express bravado. He brushed aside a waiter who had rushed forward with a napkin to help clean him up. Then he was gone.

'Sorry about that,' Snyder remarked. 'Seeing as there's an empty chair here I might as well sit in it. If that's OK by you.'

He didn't wait for an answer, seating himself in the chair vacated by Black Jack. The waiter placed a fresh glass before him. Marienetta poured red wine for him, clasped her hands together, the points of her fingers steepled under her chin, staring at him.

'What brings you to Montreux?' Paula asked him.

'I followed Sophie and Black Jack, travelled in the rear of the same plane they took to Geneva. Then hired a taxi to follow the car waiting for them. Simple as that.'

'I don't think you've really answered my question,' Paula persisted.

'Murder brought me here.' Snyder tried the wine, looked at Marienetta. 'Thank you, this is excellent. Most kind of you.'

'Murder?' Paula was puzzled. 'You couldn't have heard of any murder in Montreux. It hadn't happened when you caught the flight at Heathrow two days ago.'

'True. It hadn't. I was referring to the murder of Adam Holgate at Bray. The Arbogasts have a mansion out there.

Abbey Grange. Now the Arbogasts are here and out on that lake another body is floating. So my hunch was right. My hunches are often on target.'

'I don't like your implication,' Marienetta said, her tone chilly.

'No implication, Marienetta.' Snyder gave her a smile, so warm and pleasant it surprised Paula. There was another side to this reporter. 'No implication at all,' Snyder continued. 'But I think a member of the Arbogast circle may have vital information without realizing it.'

Smooth too, Paula decided. Clever with using words.

'What so-called vital information?' Marienetta asked in the same cold voice.

'Well, in London at the Cone building Mr Roman Arbogast agreed to see me. Then I saw you and the result was a total negative. As though there's something important to hide. It ended up with your calling Broden to throw me out.' Snyder turned to Paula. 'Did you know Broden is here? At this moment he's sitting at the bar, watching us in the mirror behind it.'

'No, I didn't know he was here,' Paula replied. 'But that is the business of the Arbogasts.'

'Paula.' Marienetta leaned forward. 'Broden is here as a bodyguard. For Uncle. He flew to Switzerland with him.'

'But someone told me Roman left the hotel a few hours ago in his car, driving himself and on his own.'

'You're quite right. Uncle heard about the headless body in the lake and left Broden behind to look after us - Sophie and myself. He was worried.'

'So Broden has been here two days,' Paula remarked.

'That's right.'

'One thing I wanted to check,' Snyder said, looking at Marienetta. 'What exactly were Adam Holgate's duties at ACTIL? And did he snoop around at all?'

'Try minding your own business.' Marienetta's tone was freezing now.

'I can tell you,' piped up Sophie, annoyed at being left out of the conversation. 'Adam never stopped snooping. He was careful to wait until Broden was out of the way . . .'

'Sophie,' warned Marienetta.

A mistake, Paula said to herself, it will only egg Sophie on, and it did.

'I think Adam had made duplicate keys of cabinets containing top secret files. He probably learned that trick when he was working for you,' she said, looking at Paula. 'Once I caught him using a camera to photograph certain documents. Don't know what they were.'

'Intriguing,' commented Snyder.

'I think we should have coffee in the lounge,' suggested Marienetta, standing up, 'then the waiters can clear the table. Do take the bottle with you, Mr Snyder. I have heard reporters are partial to alcohol to stimulate their wild imaginations . . .'

Paula walked over to join Tweed and Newman, who were drinking coffee. She told Tweed everything that had been said, quoting dialogue from memory. Like Marienetta and Sophie, Snyder had left the dining room. Tweed lit one of his rare cigarettes, leaning back in his chair as he listened to Paula.

'That's it,' she said eventually. 'You've got the lot.'

'It was well worthwhile suggesting you joined them,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'That bit about Holgate photographing documents could be significant.'

'Broden is now watching us in that mirror,' Newman observed. 'There's something not right about the Arbogast set-up. Interesting that Sophie is much brighter than we'd thought.'

'That plastics factory could be a key factor,' Tweed remarked dreamily.

'In what way?' Paula asked.

'Time we moved,' he replied. 'Paula, I want you to help me play a trick on the receptionist, to divert his attention after I've asked him something.'

'I suppose I'll think something up.'

The receptionist was behind his counter when they strolled into the hall. Beyond the entrance doors a car had pulled up and new visitors were getting out. Tweed hurried to the desk.

'Excuse me,' he began, 'but when I registered I think I made a mistake with my address. Could I correct it, please.'

The receptionist opened the register, pushed it towards Tweed as guests began to enter. Paula asked the receptionist if she could have a train timetable. The receptionist gave her one and then was occupied with the new arrivals. Tweed's eyes scanned the whole page, starting with the top. Then he took out a pen and wrote again the same address over the one he had written earlier.

He went over to where Newman was chatting to Paula. He kept his voice low.

'Bob, that locksmith who came up from the mansion in Surrey taught you how to open doors. Could you manage a door here upstairs? You've seen your own door.'

'I guess I could. Why?'

'I saw in the hotel register someone arrived here two days ago. A Mr Mannix. Remember the name of the patient in the asylum near Pinedale? The mysterious one, in the prison room as Millie called it.'

'Mannix. It couldn't be the same one, could it?' wondered Paula.

The corridor on the third floor was deserted. Newman took very little time operating the instrument he always carried since his training session with the locksmith. Before unlocking the door he pressed the bell three times. No reaction.

Paula whispered to Tweed. 'I think Bob should stay outside. Then he can warn us if the chambermaid turns up. Three presses of the bell means trouble.'

'I heard that,' said Newman. 'I'll stand guard. In you go.'

Tweed went first, followed by Paula. If there was someone in the room he planned to say, 'The door was open. I know a Mr Mannix and thought you were him.'

Tweed explored the living area while Paula checked the bedroom. The sheets had been turned down on the bed and two wrapped chocolates were perched on the pillow. She started opening closets, found they were occupied by men's clothes. When she opened the next one she gave a little cry of fear. Tweed was alongside her in a flash.

'What is it?'

'Look in here. A long black coat and that wide-brimmed hat. It's just like the second shadow which stood behind me in that side street off Piccadilly at night. I told you. When I swung round the figure throwing the shadow had gone, probably down inside a dark alley.'

'Mr Mannix is tall and all his clothes seem new. Suggests he has a pile of money. I checked the bathroom, found a hairbrush but not a single hair in it. Something very odd here. Two empty brand-new suitcases parked in the living room.'

'Let's get out of here. We've seen what we can and it's creepy . . .'

Outside Newman closed the door, which automatically locked, and Paula made a suggestion.

'This is close to my suite. Wait while I rush along and check something.'

After a short absence she came running back. She spoke quietly.

'Just as I suspected. My bed isn't turned down yet. I don't think Mannix has slept in that bed.'

'We'll go down and have a word with the receptionist. . .'

Tweed approached the desk and now the night receptionist had taken over. Tweed stared at him as he explained what was bothering him.

'I have a friend, a Mr Mannix, staying here. I wanted to take him to the bar. He doesn't ever seem to be in.'

'No, sir, he does not. We have talked about it. Since I booked him in two nights ago no one has seen him. Not even in the restaurant.'

'Maybe I've got the wrong Mr Mannix. Could you describe him?'

'When he booked in we were very busy.' The receptionist frowned. 'I seem to recall a tall man in a long dark overcoat. He wore an unusual hat. A very wide brim and the brim was well pulled down. He also wore large dark glasses.'

'Doesn't matter,' Tweed said as though it wasn't important. 'Nabokov, the man who wrote Lolita, stayed here for fifteen years, the last years of his life.'

''Sixteen years,' the receptionist corrected him.

'Probably before your time,' Newman remarked wickedly as he moved away.

'He didn't like that,' Paula whispered. 'He can't be a day over thirty and Nabokov died in 1977.'

'I know. Maybe we ought to get to bed.'

'I'm dropping,' said Paula. 'If anything happens you'll wake me with the code - four knocks, a pause, then one knock.' She was thinking as they walked down the hall. 'I suppose the mysterious Mr Mannix couldn't be the body in the lake? Weird thought.'

Paula forced herself to have a shower, then flopped into bed. She fell fast asleep within minutes. She was confident she would enjoy the deepest sleep she'd experienced for a while. The nightmare invaded her mind suddenly.

She was by herself, searching the grassy ground close to the asylum at Pinedale. It was very quiet and clouds of mist floated towards her. She was looking for a lot of blood, where the head of Foley must have been held up by his hair. The asylum still existed, a vague shape as the mist swirled round it. Where were Tweed and Newman? She had no idea.

She heard a sound like the slow padding of heavy feet coming towards her. Her right hand dived into her looped handbag. Then she remembered, with a spasm of fear, they had brought no weapons with them to Maine. She did not have her .32 Browning. She looked round for a weapon, a heavy branch. Nothing. She turned in the direction of the approaching padding footsteps.

A shadowy figure moved in the mist. Something tall and wearing a long black coat. It wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down so she could not see the face - only a white blur. She tried to run but her legs wouldn't move, felt like they were made of lead.

The figure advanced closer, the long black coat swinging with its motion. Then she saw it more clearly and her throat choked up. There was still no wind but the hat was blown off, exposing the head. She wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound. Below where the hat had been was a horrific face, twisted in a grimace of hate, one eye twitching. The face of Roman Arbogast as Marienetta had painted it 'when he was in a rage'.

In his right hand he held a long-handled axe. He was lifting the axe as he came very close. Her feet were glued to the ground. He elevated the axe, the blunt end in front. He was going to smash her skull before he decapitated her. She screamed. Someone was hammering somewhere. She woke up, covered in perspiration. Her mind blurred, she threw back the bedclothes, hobbled to the door in her pyjamas. Her trembling fingers unlocked it. Tweed was outside clad in a dressing gown.

'You screamed,' he began. 'What happened? Are you all right?'

'I'm OK. I had a nightmare. I think it was triggered off by seeing those clothes in the Mannix room.'

'You're sure you're all right now? Drink a lot of water.'

'I will. Why are you here?'

'Just heard from Beck. They have the body. The patrol boat scooped it up on its huge shovel, then dropped it close to the pic-bot. Is that how you say it?'

'Your French is perfect. I need ten minutes.'

'So do I.'

She had another quick shower. Her pyjamas were soaking-wet. The shower woke her up and she was alert. She was ready when Tweed, half-dressed, returned with Newman. She let them in, hauled on her trousers and jacket. She'd checked the time. 7 a.m. It was dark outside and would be very cold.

Newman asked her, 'Recovered from the nightmare yet?'

'Completely. I'll tell you about it later. I'm ready.'

'Bring a torch,' Tweed advised.

'And my little camera,' she added.

There was no one about inside the hotel as they approached the exit. Newman had reconnoitred the route after dressing swiftly and throwing on his overcoat, then returned to the hotel. He led the way. The early morning air chilled her face as they crossed the Grand-Rue and descended a steep flight of steps to the promenade and the lakeside. On their way down the flight of steps Paula saw autumn leaves plastered to a stone wall. Some were orange, some blood-red. It had been quiet in the hotel but the atmosphere changed as they came close to the police tape.

Crowds jammed the promenade, men and women in dressing gowns and scarves with overcoats pulled over them. Over them TV lights glared above huge cameras. The bush telegraph had brought out the media in swarms. Three uniformed police barred their way, shaking their heads, pushing towards them with gloved hands. Beck appeared.

'Let these three people through,' he ordered in French.

The sightseeing crowd was silent. Paula heard the swish of small waves breaking against the front. The storm had gone away. Tweed noted that Beck was well organized.

Further along the quai a large truck carrying a hoist was backed to the edge. The hoist was lowering a stretcher. The body, Paula realized, had to be floating alongside the pic-bot. The strange vessel was as she remembered it, like a long metal barge with slanting sides sloping down to its capacious flat bottom. Its two crew-members were seated at one end, smoking. Their tools rested on the base - a long-handled rake for hauling in debris, a long-handled scoop for lifting the debris into the pic-bot.

'They thought they could help,' Beck explained. 'They can't, as you see now.'

The large stretcher hovered just above the lake's surface. Two divers were starting to lift a gleaming body bag into the stretcher.

'Now don't rush it,' a high-pitched voice shouted in French. 'Do not disturb the body bag in any way. Slowly! Treat it as though it were alive. You do hear me.'

A short plump man wearing a raincoat buttoned to his neck was responsible for shouting the orders. He couldn't keep still as he paced, never taking his eyes off what was being lifted and placed in the stretcher.

'That's Dr Zeitzler, the pathologist from Zurich,' Beck explained. 'He's very fussy that nothing should be disturbed until he's conducted his autopsy. He's right, of course.'

The stretcher now contained the rubberized body bag. The hoist lifted it very slowly, swung it away from the lake, carefully lowered it on to the promenade near an ambulance backed to the kerb.

'It might just be someone we know,' Paula said quietly. 'If you want an immediate identification.'

'The three of you come with me,' Beck said, grasping Paula by the arm.

'Dr Zeitzler,' Beck said in English and a commanding voice, 'we have someone here who might be able to identify the body. And I need identification at the earliest possible moment to pursue my investigation.'

'I am only prepared to open the bag a few inches,' Zeitzler replied in English. 'She'll probably faint anyway if the corpse is indeed headless.'

'No, I won't,' Paula snapped back.

The pathologist put latex gloves on. While he was doing this he walked all round the body bag. Then, giving her a grim look, he bent down, very slowly and carefully taking hold of the zip, pulled it gently down several inches.

A very powerful TV light perched on a truck was suddenly switched on, illuminating the scene. Beck cupped both hands and shouted an order in French. 'Put that bloody light out now or I'll have it put out.'

The glare remained. Beck whispered some instructions to a policeman who held a carbine. The officer raised his carbine, took very careful aim, fired once. The glare light was shattered. There was the faint sound of tinkling glass.

'They don't muck about here,' Tweed commented to Paula. 'I wish we had their police in Britain. The crime rate would plummet.'

Paula steeled herself. The body was headless. Then she saw the once stiffened, now limp, points of an old-fashioned collar. She gave a gasp. She put a hand to her throat so she would speak clearly.

'That is - was - Dr Abraham Scale, the well-known criminologist. We met him in London.'

'I urgently need a safe phone,' Tweed said.

'Come with me to the police station,' Beck suggested. 'I have to go there myself. It's only a short walk.'

The ambulance carrying Dr Abraham Scale to Zurich had left. Dr Zeitzler travelled with the corpse, clearly anxious to watch over it until he had performed his autopsy.

Beck led the way followed by Tweed, Paula and Newman. Water dripped from the profusion of trees. Paula remembered Montreux as a lush oasis of peace. Not this time. Tweed was telling Beck all he knew about Seale as they hurried uphill. Once inside the police station Beck gave them a room on their own with a phone. Tweed sat down, pressed the number for Park Crescent.

'Monica, I'm going to speak quickly. At the moment we are in Montreux. Your favourite hobby is tracing family trees, I know . . .'

'Yes, it is. I spent a lot of time tracing my own family roots. Took me all over the world. Then I found we were descended from a notorious pirate, right-hand man to Sir Henry Morgan. I gave up then - not sure what I might find if I persisted.'

'The Arbogast family. I want you to trace their family tree if you can.'

'I can. I kept all my contacts when I was checking my own origins.'

'Thank Heaven. I think this is very important. Arbogasts originated in Italy. I can tell you that much. Their name then was Arbogastini. Shall I spell it?'

'No, I've got it. And one of my contacts is in Rome. She is an expert on documentation. I'll start there.'

'You know anyone in the States? You do. One of the family emigrated to America, I heard. Could be several generations ago. I think his name was Vicenzo - may have changed it to Vincent. How long will it take you? A week? I understand. When it's ready send it to me by courier. I'll keep you in touch with my movements . . .'

Paula had been sitting, listening, watching. She was fascinated by the change in Tweed's personality. It had become positively electric.

'You sounded so determined, almost excited,' she commented when he had ended the call.

'We may have had a big break. May have. You remember we last saw Abraham Scale sitting on the steps of the ACTIL building? He was working on a family tree. He remarked it could be dangerous. Why? What had he stumbled on? Whatever it was may have led to his murder.'

Beck walked in, stern and businesslike. 'I've traced where Seale was staying. Got lucky with my second shot. Tried the Montreux Palace first. No good. Then the Eurotel, a big modern place further along the Grand-Rue, perched on the edge of the lake. He arrived there two days ago and spent a lot of time away from the hotel.'

'Two days again,' Paula mused. 'Everyone arrived here two days ago. It must mean something.'

'I've sent men to the Eurotel,' Beck continued. 'They'll search his room, bring his things back here. We may find something.'

'You may not, Arthur.' Tweed stood up. 'Thanks for the use of your phone. I think we'll get back to our hotel. I'm sure Paula is gasping for breakfast.'

'So is Newman,' said Newman. 'Breakfast, coffee and some water.'

'I'll be leaving for Zurich,' Beck told them. 'Zeitzler should have his autopsy report by tomorrow. What about you?'

'I'll come if I can. That autopsy report will be very important. Can I use your phone again? I want to call Professor Saafeld, the pathologist who autopsied the body of Adam Holgate. He has films and photographs. Also he's received films and photos of the body of Hank Foley, found in Maine, because he knows the medical examiner in Boston. If you give me your address at that police headquarters in Zurich I'll have them sent to you by courier . . .'

As they were leaving Beck ran after them. 'One detail before I leave for Zurich. You may see two men in white coats examining the promenade. Zeitzler left them behind in the hope they'd find traces of blood - and where Seale was executed. Here's my card in case you want to question them. I've scribbled a note on the back.'

'Can you hold out a bit longer?' Tweed asked Paula. 'Then we can check on what the white coats have discovered. If anything.'

'If I must.'

As they descended to the promenade the dawn sun was rising, a hazy blur in the mist. The lake was calm, a smooth stretch of grey water disappearing towards the French shore on the far side. It was very quiet now the crowds had dispersed. When shown Beck's card a policeman lifted the tape for them.

Paula thought how beautiful - and tragic - it was. Along the promenade there were trees and shrubs, the gentle sound of the lake lapping against the wall. It was like heaven but hell had intruded. They found the two white coats walking slowly, using powerful torches to examine the promenade's surface, pausing to check the area. Tweed showed them Beck's card, asked them in French, 'Have you found any blood?'

'Only by the pic-bot. It must have taken great strength to insert the corpse inside the rubberized body bag.'

'And to chop off the head,' Newman added.

'Do you mind?' Paula snapped, ravening with hunger.

Her last glimpse of the lake was the pinkish glow of the sun colouring the mist. It was like a dream, like a Monet painting, a radiance of colour. Then she remembered her dream, the nightmare she had experienced. So when they entered the hall she received a shock. The tall figure of Roman Arbogast, wearing a smart black suit, stood as though waiting for them, hands clasped behind his back.

'I thought you had left Montreux,' Tweed said.

'Oh, but I did.' Roman was at his most amiable, gave a twisted smile. T have been visiting my plastics factory at Vevey.' He glanced round. 'Sophie wouldn't like that. She thinks it is her factory. I found she has a room there - no windows, and with two locks on a strong door. She is the only one allowed inside it. She has her quirks. Maybe you would like to join us after breakfast for a spectacular trip.'

'Where to?'

'By train to the summit of Rochers de Naye. Six thousand feet up. It has a fantastic view of the lake below.'

'Yes, we would,' Tweed decided. 'Thank you for inviting us.'

His decision had been influenced by his conviction that Paula was in a state of semi-shock. First the nightmare, then the discovery of Professor Seale. The trip would take her mind off what she had experienced.

In the dining room Paula, sitting with Tweed and Newman, had invited Marler, Butler and Nield to join them. They had been rather left out of what had been going on. She consumed two eggs and bacon, four croissants and three cups of coffee. Then she felt alive, alert and ready for anything. Tweed noticed the colour had returned to her face and she was having a lively conversation with Marler, Butler and Nield.

'Although out of sight,' Marler drawled, 'we have heard about that business down on the quai. A topic banned for the moment,' he added as Tweed frowned at him. 'We have been prowling around Montreux. You know the Vice-President has reappeared?'

'No, I didn't.' Tweed was surprised and disturbed. 'Where has he been, then? How do you know this?'

'I'm observant,' Marler said with a smile. 'He was driving his own Mercedes all by himself and slipped back into the hotel very early this morning. Well before dawn. You know I'm an early riser. Went straight up to his suite, wherever that is in this palatial hunk of masonry. He was carrying a large suitcase.'

'So he'd been off somewhere?'

'Can you think of any other reason why he would be carrying the suitcase?'

'When he's campaigning he's everywhere. But on his own he's like a man who moves in the shadows. Normal and abnormal.'

Paula glanced up quickly when she heard the last three words. Tweed gazed back at her with a warm smile. He switched his gaze to a large table nearby, the Arbogast table. Roman was smiling a lot and Tweed's sharp ears heard him congratulating Sophie on her great achievement in Vevey. He was tactfully not mentioning the mysterious locked room. Sophie sat up straighter, modestly concealing her pleasure. Marienetta, next to her, gave her a kiss. Black Jack was tucking into his large breakfast as though there was no tomorrow. Unusually for him he was not saying a word. Tweed thought he looked tired, as though he'd had an exhausting night.

Tweed told his guests of the invitation to join the party going by train up to Rochers de Naye and said he'd like everyone to come. Newman frowned. He was wondering what Tweed's reason was for taking them all up the mountain.

Paula had just finished joking with Pete Nield when a tall athletic man appeared, walked over to their table. She was stunned. It was Ed Danvers, the FBI man attached to the London Embassy who had visited them at Park Crescent.

'Am I interrupting you guys?' he said pleasantly. 'If so I'll vanish in the proverbial cloud of smoke. It's quite a trick.'

'Of course not,' Paula piped up. 'There's space for you next to me. The waiter overheard and he's bringing a chair.'

Danvers sat down between Paula and Tweed. Dressed in an American sports jacket and jeans, he smiled briefly. He looked healthy and athletic but then his expression became one of acute exasperation. He accepted coffee, drank some.

'You're the last person on earth I expected to see here,' remarked Paula.

'It happened quickly. I was ordered to accompany the Vice-President everywhere he went,' he explained, speaking very quietly. 'Two days ago we fly to Geneva, travel in the waiting limo to this place. Straub goes up to his suite, tells me to enjoy myself. I protest and he shuts the door in my face. I haven't seen him since until he rolls back here early this morning. I've spent two days patrolling Montreux, looking for him. He's nowhere to be seen. When I check with the concierge his key is on the hook, which means he's no longer here. Until he gets back this morning. Why am I telling you this? Because your pal Cord Dillon, Mr Tweed, is my pal. He gave you both a glowing testimonial. So I trust you when I need someone to groan to.'

'Why does Straub behave like this?' Tweed asked softly.

'Damned if I know. Says he's on a confidential diplomatic mission. Let slip - or pretended to - that he visited Paris. So why didn't we fly there first? Don't ask me. I'm just the messenger boy. With no messages.'

'We're going up to Rochers de Naye after breakfast,' Paula told him.

'So is Straub. Maybe Roman Arbogast asked him. I wouldn't know. I wish I were back at Grosvenor Square.'

'Roman is waving to us,' Tweed reported. 'I think the trip is about to start.'

'Well, nothing can happen on top of a mountain,' Danvers said.

Limos, organized by Roman, took the large party to the station, although they could have walked there. The station for Rochers de Naye was across from the main-line station and separate from it. The train was a surprise. Streamlined, it was like a toy version of France's TGV, very modern and like a bullet. Locals, carrying shopping, piled into the front coach, leaving the rear coach empty for Arbogast's party.

There was plenty of room. Tweed and Newman occupied a seat at the rear while Paula sat by herself opposite and across the aisle. Newman nudged Tweed, nodded towards the front seat some distance away. Russell Straub had appeared out of nowhere and had parked a bag next to him. This had compelled Danvers to sit behind him.

The Arbogast party was scattered in different seats. As the doors closed automatically and the train glided forward Paula whispered to Tweed.

'Black Jack must have run himself into the ground last night. He's already fallen asleep.'

'Trawling the bars.' Tweed paused. 'Or something.'

'I wonder how Dr Scale found his way to Montreux.'

'We may never know.'

'Why is the Arbogast family tree so important? You were very intense when talking to Monica.'

'Just a hunch.'

They were starting to climb. Montreux faded behind them. Paula, who had come across to converse with Tweed, went back to her seat. The view out of the window was more interesting. Small Swiss villages stood just beyond platforms where the train stopped. From the front coach women carrying shopping alighted. Newman realized they used the train to commute down into Montreux to buy necessities. Paula admired the neatness of the houses, the creepers trained over white walls. They stopped at many villages, then the incline of the track began to go up steeply. The villages, the frequent stops were left behind. Rocky, less fertile ground appeared as the slowing train climbed and climbed at an ever steeper angle. Ahead through the windows Paula could see the line swinging round an endless succession of hairpin bends, like two metal snakes. She felt they were heading for the roof of the world.

Tweed leaned close to Newman, spoke clearly even though his voice was little more than a whisper.

'This is a direct order. When we alight at the top you will stay with Paula every second. Whatever happens.'

'Understood.'

'Bob,' Paula called across the aisle, 'do you mind changing places with me? I'm being selfish but the view now on your side is much more dramatic.'

'Be my guest . . .'

Tweed gave her his window seat. As they swung round another sharp bend, still climbing, an immense peak appeared higher up. A huge menacing knob of rock. Tweed pointed to it.

'That is the ultimate summit of Rochers de Naye. You can't get on top of that. Only an expert mountain climber would attempt it.'

'It's another world,' she said.

'And I'm wondering why Roman Arbogast organized this trip. It's out of character.'

He said nothing more and Paula watched as dense clouds of mist shrouded the peak. It simply disappeared. Near the front of the coach Black Jack had woken up, rubbed his hands through his thick dark hair, stretched his arms as though limbering up for some difficult physical task. Behind him Roman Arbogast, sitting by himself, sat up straighter. The last station was close.

'With that mist it will be cold,' Tweed remarked. Taking off his light waterproof topcoat, he wrapped it round Paula's shoulders like a long cloak. 'That will keep you warm.'

He stood up before she could protest. As she stood up as well Arbogast glanced round, his right eye twitching. Tweed was now convinced the twitching indicated he was under tension. Why? What was bothering him now? Or was he steeling himself for something?

The train glided into the final station, the doors opened automatically, the passengers were piling out onto the small platform. Tweed tried to see who was going where but it was hopeless. Paula had tucked her long hair under a peaked baseball cap. Newman took her arm as she alighted.

'I need company,' he said. 'Don't like heights. Let's stick together.'

'I never knew you suffered from vertigo.'

'It's six thousand feet up here. That's a lot of feet.'

Tweed walked by himself up the rocky slope leading towards the edge. In places he could see clearly several yards ahead. Then the mist would roll in and he sensed the right direction by instinct. The rest of the party had vanished as he plodded on and upwards. He was moving slowly through the dense mist, then speeding up when a clear patch appeared. He stopped once or twice to listen. The silence was complete, almost ominous. He was confident he knew the way to the edge. Years before he had been here on a clear sunlit day, had stood at the edge. He was determined to repeat the experience. He took off the heavy coat which was hampering him, threw it over his shoulders like a cloak.

He was moving more slowly now, not sure of where he was. The mist ahead of him cleared suddenly. He had paused and through the wide 'window' provided by the sunlight he saw he was a dozen yards or so from the edge. Beyond the sun glittered on the lake far below, on a fantastic panorama of the Vallee, way down, as seen from a plane. He walked to within a few feet of the brink and stared down the immense abyss, as he had done once before long ago. The abyss was dropping vertically, sheer, falling, falling, falling.

Suddenly the mist rolled round him, blotting out the view. He was encircled by cloud, could see nothing of the view, the drop. He was beginning to get confused about direction. Stand perfectly still until the mist clears again, he told himself. Then he felt the knuckled hand in his back, perfectly positioned in the centre of his spine. Perfectly positioned to give one shove and he'd go over, down and down the abyss. He had only a millisecond to react. He spun round to his left, backing away from the precipice. His left hand clenched in a fist and he struck out with all his force. The thrust sailed into mist, hit nothing solid. He backed slowly down the slope, away from eternity. The mist cleared and a corridor of clarity revealed the station well down the slope. His hands were clammy, and not from the mist.

19

The mist continued to disperse. As he trudged down the slope Tweed observed where everyone was. Over to his right Roman Arbogast was padding down slowly. To his left, a long way down, Black Jack was jogging at a deliberate pace. Nearer, also to his left, Marienetta was strolling down alongside Sophie. He saw her clasp Sophie's hand. Sophie snatched her hand free, walked briskly, her head raised, her brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Her attitude expressed both frustration and anger.

Lower down still Newman walked next to Paula, carrying out Tweed's command. Tweed sucked in his breath, glanced down at the overcoat thrown over his shoulders like a cape. Its colour was very similar to the raincoat he had given Paula and which she still wore over her shoulders. Like a cape.

Oh, my God, he thought. I wasn't the target at the brink of the precipice. Seen as a blurred shape in the mist my back view would look like Paula's. She was the target. Shall I tell her? She's gone through so much. The horror at Bray, the second horror in Maine, her experience down on the quai when she recognized Abraham Scale. Her nightmares. I'll talk it over with Newman first.

Then he saw someone he could hardly believe he was seeing. Sam Snyder striding down the slope. He hadn't seen him on the train, but the coach had been crammed. And Snyder could have been hunched down in his seat.

Coming closer to the platform he saw Pete Nield standing at one end of the train, Harry Butler at the other end. They had stayed behind to make sure the train wasn't sabotaged. They rarely missed a trick.

'Didn't know you were with the party, Sam,' he said, catching up with Snyder.

'I'm everywhere.' The hawk-like faced creased into its peculiar grin. 'That's my job. I've got some good shots looking down that fearsome drop.' He patted the compact camera slung by his side. 'And one earlier which is worth a packet if syndicated.'

'Which one is that?'

'A perfect shot of Professor Seale, headless in the body bag. Just before a policeman shot out that TV light. It really is a beaut.'

'Charming.'

'We're occupying the front coach going down,' Arbogast called out in his throaty voice. 'It's cost enough to get up here. Any shopping women who come aboard can use the rear coach.'

'In that case,' said Paula as Tweed caught up with them, 'I'm grabbing the front seat. Straub may be Vice-President but he can't hog the best seat every time.'

She dived into the front coach the moment the doors opened. As she did so Russell Straub came off the mountain. On the platform Ed Danvers stood, hands on his hips, not pleased. Tweed and Newman were close when Danvers voiced his complaint.

'Goddamnit, sir, I lost you in the mist. Couldn't see you anywhere.'

'Ed,' Straub gave his famous facing-the-audience smile, 'I had better remind you. The cabin boy doesn't hang on to the skipper's tail night and day. And someone's in my seat.'

'Choose another one,' Danvers snapped, apparently extremely annoyed.

With everyone aboard, the train started its slow descent. Paula was delighted to see beyond the driver's window an uninterrupted view of the spiralling line ahead as the train driver kept down its speed. Tweed had guided Newman into a seat with no one behind or in front of them. He quietly told him what had happened, the similarity between what he had been wearing and Paula's garb.

'Tell her,' Newman said firmly when Tweed had finished.

'I'm not so sure . . .'

'Tell her. She's become very tough. It's your duty to warn her.'

'I'm not sure. If you say so.'

'I do say so.'

As Tweed and Newman got out of the limo outside Le Montreux Palace a figure grabbed Tweed by the arm led him along the promenade away from the emerging crowd. Arthur Beck, Chief of Police.

'Heard where you'd gone. Waited for you to get back. We've searched Abraham Scale's room at the Eurotel. Inside a case we found this collection of cartridge papers. As you'll see they're perforated near the top.'

Tweed recognized the paper Scale had been working on as he had sat on the steps leading up to the ACTIL building in London. They had been leaving when Tweed had spotted Scale, had stopped to have a word with him. He told Beck about the incident. A dangerous place to indulge in such an activity.

He quoted Scale's words to Beck, said that Scale had explained his hobby was genealogy, the creation of family trees. Beck handed him the sheaf of cartridge papers for him to examine. Tweed held up the sheaf, looked closely at the top sheet. The sun was shining brilliantly even though it was a cold morning.

'I can see a complex diagram of straight lines,' he mused. 'Scale would have pressed hard to draw the diagram of the Arbogast family tree he was creating. But someone has torn off the top sheet which would have the names. You can see the rough edge. Pity we can't see the names.'

'I noticed that,' Beck agreed. 'The Arbogast family? So it looks as though a member of that family is involved. Abraham Seale is now in an ambulance, should soon reach Zurich for the autopsy. You tell me Seale used the word "dangerous". Now he is headless. He used the right word.'

'Yes, he did,' Tweed said, handing the sheaf back. 'And you might like to know that Blackjack Diamond is a cousin of the Arbogasts.'

Tweed went inside the hotel and straight up to Paula's suite. When he knocked on the door it was opened by Newman who winked at him. He was taking Tweed's order to guard Paula very seriously.

'I'm on my way,' Newman said and left.

Paula was standing in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. She gave him a big smile as she put down the brush and turned round. She gestured towards a chair but Tweed preferred to remain standing as he took off the overcoat from his shoulders.

'I have something to tell you that happened up at Rochers de Naye.'

'Oh, what was that?' she asked as she sat in a hard-backed chair.

He told her everything, starting with his searching for the brink of the precipice. She frowned, stood up as he completed his story. Her reaction took him completely off guard. She rushed at him.

'You bloody fool! Taking such a risk. Standing at the edge of that precipice! Why? Just because that's what you did years ago. A bloody repeat performance. I know your theory that it could have been me. But for God's sake, it could have been you\ After what happened to Foley, to Holgate. And now to Seale. You could now be a battered hunk of smashed bones six thousand feet down. How could you?'

She was thumping him on the chest with her clenched fist. Then she burst into tears, sobbing nonstop. He put his arms round her. She buried her head in his chest, sobbing her heart out. He stroked her hair, used soothing words. She had her hands round his neck. He had a large handkerchief ready when she suddenly recovered. She took it, mouthed, 'Thanks,' began wiping her eyes, her face.

Then she stood back, glanced in a wall mirror. She dabbed her face again with the handkerchief. She managed a smile. From a carafe he poured her a glass of water. She drank the lot. He refilled the glass and she sat down. She managed another smile, a more normal one.

'I wish you'd sit down,' she said. 'You're standing there like a sentry. I'll be back in a minute.'

She went into the bathroom to wash her face. Tweed sat down. He was upset because he had so upset her. He felt guilty. It had not been a good idea. But he'd had to tell her, to warn her. When she came back she was wearing a blouse and skirt.

'Those trousers were too hot in here,' she explained. 'I'd turned down the heating but it takes a while to work.' She went to the drinks cupboard, took out a balloon glass, poured brandy, took it to him. 'You look so miserable. Drink this. It will buck you up.'

She sat in an armchair close to him as he took a sip, then another one. She was right. She was always right. He began to feel better. Her voice was calm, normal, when she spoke.

'I'm so sorry I broke down. I've never done that before. Not like that anyway. I'm OK now. You were right to tell me I was the target. Absolutely right. I'm very grateful to you. We can always trust each other.'

'True.' He hoped his voice was normal. Talk about something else. 'Beck grabbed me as I got out of the car. On his way to Zurich now.'

He told her about what Beck had found at the Eurotel. She nodded as he explained in detail his conversation with the police chief. She crossed her very good legs, perched one elbow on them, placed a finger at the side of her face, not saying a word until he had finished.

'Maybe there'll be information from Monica at the police station in Zurich. You did ask Monica to leave a message with Beck.'

'I know. I think the next thing we do is we all travel by train to Zurich.'

'I'd say that was the best idea.'

'Just remind me,' he suggested, 'how many people we know have travelled to America. We have heard a bit of that data here and there.'

He was so relieved they were talking normally again. He also realized how very fond of Paula he was. What surprised him was that the affection seemed to be reciprocated. She used her fingers to count off who had travelled to America.

'In no particular order, Marienetta, now and again. Sophie flies out more frequently. Roman has been there. Aboard the Gulfstream, the one they keep hidden away at Heathrow, I imagine. Black Jack darts off there, probably when the whim strikes him. You can visualize him lighting up New York - or Boston. We know Sam Snyder goes there. Poor Abraham Seale went there a lot on lecture tours. Russell Straub, of course, is over there most of the time. Now he's over here, has been for days. No one seems to know why.'

'And he evades his bodyguard, Ed Danvers, a lot. Why, I wonder?'

'No idea.' She frowned. 'Could Danvers travel back to the States every now and again?'

'No idea.'

'Did you know Broden, Roman's security chief, was on the mountain?'

'I most certainly didn't. Are you sure?'

'Certain. He travelled somewhere on the train wearing a heavy fur coat, a fur hat and huge dark glasses. He was the last one to come down. I saw him emerge from the mist. Recognized him because of the way he walked. Body language. That awful phrase.'

'Was he anywhere near Roman?'

'No. Broden came down a long time after Roman was near the station. So he wasn't acting as bodyguard to his boss. Just like Ed Danvers wasn't. Are we getting anywhere?'

'I'm waiting for a signal, maybe an observation, which will pinpoint someone. As we go along we learn more and more.'

'Well, no more murders, I hope.'

'Don't count on it.'

20

Zurich, the powerhouse of Switzerland. They would soon be landing. In Montreux Tweed had changed his mind about using the train, which involved changing expresses. Checking an air timetable he calculated they could be driven back to Geneva by hotel limos, have time for lunch at Cointrin Airport, then take an internal Swissair flight to Zurich. Marler was in the seat next to him while Paula and Newman occupied the seats behind them. At one stage aboard the plane she had tapped Tweed on the shoulder.

'Look out of the window. I thought I saw Rochers de Naye.'

'No, you wouldn't,' Tweed replied, staring out of his window.

To the south reared the majestic range of the highest mountains in Europe, the Bernese Oberland. Their crests were snow-tipped at high altitude. He saw the Jungfrau, pointed it out to Paula. The Bernese Oberland loomed like a giant mountain wall, which is what it was. The sun sparkled on the snow. Paula thought it one of the most awesome sights she had ever seen.

'Rochers de Naye,' Tweed explained over his shoulder, 'is a southern projection of that massive range. And in any case not high enough to be seen from here.'

'Thank God there wasn't snow on Rochers de Naye,' Paula said under her breath, thinking of Tweed perched on the edge.

They lost more and more height. As the machine canted to the left prior to landing he had a clear view of Kloten Airport. He leaned over Marler and stared. Paula gripped his shoulder, kept her voice down.

'What is it?'

'At an isolated spot near the outside of the airport I saw a big Gulfstream plane. It could be Arbogast's. If so, what is he doing here?'

'Will Beck have arrived yet?' she wondered.

'He will,' Marler replied. 'He took off in a chopper to get here. I saw something curious while you were way up on the mountain. A photograph taken by Newman's pal, Sam Snyder.'

'No pal of mine,' Newman growled from behind.

'You don't know how to handle Snyder,' Marler told him. 'With me Snyder knows I'll stand no nonsense, so he doesn't try it on.'

'What was the photograph?' Paula asked.

Marler took a stiffened envelope from his coat pocket, handed it back. Paula opened it, took out a cellophane envelope and the photograph inside it. She gazed at it in astonishment.

'Where was this taken? Looks like somewhere near the quai in Montreux.'

'It is. Let Tweed see it.'

Tweed took the photo, was if anything more taken aback than Paula had been. He studied the picture of the woman who was smiling grimly, as though she'd had the satisfaction of being proved right. The picture of Mrs Elena Brucan.

It was a colour print and she was wearing the same pale green overcoat, the same green fut hat that she had when she visited Tweed in his office at Park Crescent. Marler had been in the room at the time, he recalled.

'Why do you think Snyder took this picture?' Tweed wondered. 'I get the impression she was in a crowd, looking down at the body of Abraham Scale.'

'She was,' Marler confirmed. 'Snyder was struck by her unusual appearance, thought it made a good shot, which it does. He introduced himself and she said she was Elena Brucan. She said she was following a murderer. He thought she was batty. You all went back to the Montreux Palace and I brought up the rear. Ahead of me -I hadn't seen the photo then - and as you went to your rooms, I saw someone ahead of me, entering the hotel. Mrs Elena Brucan.'

'She was staying at the hotel then?' Tweed asked.

'No.'

'Marler,' Paula said impatiently, 'you're talking far more than you usually do. I get the feeling something else happened. Do get on with it.'

'Patience, my dear. I was curious. I lingered in the hall, pretended to be looking at a brochure. The receptionist was holding two air tickets. He called out to one of the staff to take these tickets from Geneva to Zurich to Mile Sophie Arbogast's room. If she wasn't in take them to M. Diamond's room. And it was very urgent.'

'So they were flying together to Zurich, just as they flew out here together,' said Tweed thoughtfully.

'There's more,' Marler continued. 'While this was going on Mrs Brucan was pretending to study a picture on the wall. She was actually eavesdropping. When the chap with the air tickets had gone she turned round, saw me. I went over to her and she recognized me, so I introduced myself, said maybe we could go for a walk. She was pleased, said she was on her way back to her hotel. It was the Eurotel.'

'Where Abraham Scale was staying,' Tweed recalled.

'Is there a connection?' Paula speculated.

'Time will tell.'

'Haven't finished yet,' Marler drawled. 'In the reception hall I offered her coffee. She pointed out where I should go, then hovered by reception. I left her, stayed just inside the entrance to the lounge. I heard her ask the receptionist to book her on the next flight from Geneva to Zurich. She then dashed up to her room, ditching me.'

'She was in a rush to pack and get to Geneva,' Paula said.

'I'm sure she was,' Marler agreed.

'Food for deep thought,' Tweed mused. 'She was following a murderer. Her exact words to Snyder.'

'So,' Newman decided, 'it looks to be either Sophie or Black Jack.'

'Maybe yes. Maybe no,' Tweed replied. 'Perhaps she was tracking the Arbogast clan.'

The plane touched down, an exceptionally smooth landing. As they waited for the lights Butler and Nield, who had sat well behind them, came up the aisle. Tweed looked up at them, spoke in a clear whisper.

'First, we get cabs from the airport straight to Beck at his police headquarters here. After that, on to the Baur au Lac - I booked rooms for all of us before we left Montreux.'

Paula loved Zurich. She gazed out of the window as they were driven into the ancient city, across the bridge over the River Limmat which divided the city. Large modern blue one-decker trams trundled past, traffic sped when it could.

Nield and Butler preferred to wait outside the large stone building which is police headquarters. Beck was waiting for them in his usual office with its windows looking out across the river to the massive University building on the opposite bank.

'Welcome,' he said with a warm smile and again hugged Paula. 'My favourite Englishwoman. Anna,' he said to a uniformed girl, 'coffee for everyone. Cream for Robert Newman here.'

'I left Nield and Butler outside,' Tweed remarked.

'I'll see them afterwards,' Anna responded, smiling seductively at Tweed.

'Anna likes you,' Beck said when she had gone. 'I think she is after you. Now to work. Sit down, please. Saafeld has reacted quickly. A courier arrived from him this morning.' He handed a thick envelope to Tweed. 'Addressed to you. Feels as though it's stuffed with films and photos.'

Beck had a new table. Oblong and large, its surface was covered with a sheet of glass hinged in the middle. The edges were rounded so no one could get hurt. As Tweed carefully opened the well-wrapped package, Beck, seated, tapped the table top with the palm of one hand.

'This cost a fortune. I can lift half of it and place it on the other half. Easy to place material under the glass. The accountant in Berne nearly went mad when he had the invoice. I should care.'

Tweed had extracted latex gloves from his pocket, put them on before he took out films and photos. Saafeld had sent films and photos not only of Adam Holgate - he had also included the material sent to him by his medical examiner friend in Boston, the films and photos of Hank Foley, late caretaker at the asylum in Pinedale. Beck added photos, X-rays from Zeitzler's autopsy.

Marler had also produced latex gloves, was wearing them as he extracted from a pocket a jeweller's glass which had been wrapped in velvet. Beck was most approving.

'Ah! We have a professional!'

Swiftly Marler selected photos and films of the necks of the three murdered men. Pressing the glass into his eye he examined them closely one by one. He grunted, removed the glass from his eye.

'It's the same killer,' he announced. 'The notch in the axe used is apparent in all three cases. We are hunting a serial murderer.'

'But not a random killer, I'm convinced,' Tweed said firmly. 'There is a link between all three victims.'

'All the way from Maine to London to Switzerland?' Beck queried.

'Yes,' Tweed repeated in the same firm tone. 'All we have to do is to trace the link. It's buried somewhere.'

They were driven to the Hotel Baur au Lac in two unmarked police cars. The drivers were in plain clothes. In the front vehicle Paula sat next to Tweed in the rear compartment, while Marler, perched on a flat seat, faced them. Newman was travelling in the car behind them with Butler and Nield.

Paula was fascinated because most of the journey took them down Bahnhofstrasse, the most famous, the richest street in the world. Banks alternated with expensive shops and the legend was the street was paved with gold. Actually the bank vaults where the gold was stored were beneath Bahnhofstrasse. Smart elegant women strolled along the pavements.

'So now we know the same killer murdered Foley in Maine, Holgate at Bray and Scale in Montreux,' Paula pondered aloud. 'It's a frightening thought.'

'Very frightening,' Tweed agreed.

'Why did you choose the Baur au Lac?'

'Because if the Arbogast family is coming to Zurich that is the type of hotel they're likely to use. To say nothing of the other players in this hideous drama. Like Black Jack.'

'He is an Arbogast,' she reminded him. 'A cousin.'

Ahead of them in the near distance they could see light reflections on the Zurichsee, Lake Zurich. They had now moved from French-speaking Switzerland to the large German-speaking area in the north. Their car turned right off Bahnhofstrasse, crossed another street and passed through the wide entrance to the ultra-luxurious Baur au Lac. They got out, entered, leaving the driver to hand their luggage to a flock of impeccably dressed waiting porters. Paula nudged Tweed before they turned right to reception. They had a view into a spacious lounge.

'You were right,' she said.

Seated well back by himself in the lounge was Roman Arbogast, a drink on the table before him. He was staring straight at them.

'Looks like a good place to start,' Tweed agreed.

He had just spoken when, from the direction of the lift, Marienetta appeared. She was wearing a green two-piece suit and her golden hair was loose. She came to them with a warm smile, tall, her movements elegant. She's like a goddess, Paula thought.

'Welcome to Zurich now,' Marienetta greeted them. When Tweed kissed her on both cheeks he caught a faint whiff of perfume as she squeezed his arm. Turning to Paula she kissed her. 'I'm so bored with the people here. Thank Heaven you have arrived. You will join me for tea in the lounge, Paula. I won't take no for an answer.'

'I could do with some refreshment. Let me go up to my room and I'll join you.'

'I'll grab a quiet table.'

'The pace is beginning to accelerate,' Tweed commented as they headed for registration. 'There always comes a stage when this happens.'

'Don't understand you.'

As Tweed was registering the young man behind the counter started chatting.

'We have another honoured guest, Mr Tweed. Mr Russell Straub, Vice-President of the United States, is staying with us.'

'Really? When did he arrive?'

'At lunchtime. It is really rather funny. He has a bodyguard with him. A Mr Danvers. Mr Straub refuses to allow him to accompany him. He has been out all afternoon on his own.'

'Have you been here long?' Tweed enquired with a smile. It was unheard of for staff here to be so indiscreet, giving out information about another guest.

'No, sir. I'm only temporary. I shall be leaving within a week. I've obtained a post at a hotel in Geneva.'

Both Paula and Tweed found they had good rooms overlooking the entrance where a Rolls-Royce was parked. Tweed had just opened his case when the phone rang. It was the police driver who had brought them there.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir. My employer, with whom you were talking recently, would like to see you again urgently. Provided it is convenient. I could drive you back when you are available.'

'I'm available now.'

The driver had been the soul of discretion. No names mentioned. It must be important for Beck to want to see him so soon again, Tweed knew. He tapped on Paula's door. She opened it with a towel wrapped round her.

'Beck wants to see me again. Back at police headquarters. No idea why. In any case you'll be having Marienetta for company.'

When he had gone Paula, who moved quickly, had had a wash and was removing crushable items from her case. She changed into her blue two-piece suit and wondered what Beck wanted to see Tweed about. Sounded like an emergency.

As she walked into the uncrowded lounge she saw Roman Arbogast get up from his table, padding off somewhere. At another table a good distance from where Marienetta sat Sophie was having tea by herself. Odd, she thought.

'I have ordered tea for you,' Marienetta said as Paula sat facing her. 'I do like that suit.'

'And I like yours. Very chic.'

'Oh dear!' Marienetta chuckled. 'We're turning into a mutual admiration society. This might be a good opportunity to compare notes. We did agree to collaborate.'

'A good idea.'

A man walked into the lounge. Russell Straub, wearing a different suit, smart, biscuit-coloured. His tie was cinnamon, a perfect choice over a freshly starched white shirt. The Vice-President had good dress sense. He walked with a purposeful stride, about to pass close to their table, staring straight ahead.

'Hi, cousin,' Marienetta called out to him.

He stopped, stood stock-still for several seconds. Glancing at Marienetta he glared at her, his intense dark eyes vicious. The same look he had given Tweed during their brief confrontation at Sophie's birthday dinner in London. Then, without a word, he walked on, disappeared.

'So, what did I say?' Marienetta said to Paula. 'Brits do refer to our American cousins. I have a friend at the Foreign Office who often uses the phrase.'

'I think he must have a volatile temperament,' Paula replied.

'Weird. At Sophie's birthday party I chatted to him over drinks before we started dinner. He must have had a disappointing afternoon. Now, these terrible murders. Have you come to some conclusion about the killer's identity?'

'After you. I'm concentrating on food. Ravenous. But I can listen.'

'Well, first there's that strange reporter, Sam Snyder. I remember when he first came to see Roman. He showed him a critical article he'd written on ACTIL as a global giant. Roman didn't like it at all. He offered Snyder the use of our Gulfstream to travel to the States when it was available. On condition he toned the article down.

The article never appeared. Roman is wily,' Marienetta chuckled.

'So did Snyder use your Gulfstream to fly back and forth to the States? I mean, the other way round.'

'Yes, he did. It was a dream offer. If something big happened in the States, Snyder could beat his British rivals, get there first. I find it intriguing that his profession is that of crime reporter.'

'I see what you mean. Incidentally, why is Sophie having tea so very much on her own?'

'She's avoiding me.' Marienetta smiled wrily. 'We have these spats - or rather she does. Occasionally, especially when my sculpture isn't going well, I have dinner with Black Jack. Don't trust him but he's lively. I try to make sure Sophie never knows. But if she finds out she goes wild with rage. She could kill me.'

'You're speaking rhetorically?'

Marienetta paused. 'Of course I am,' she said after a few moments. 'She just gets these moods. Sometimes she decides she's going to marry Jack. Then, thank Heaven, she goes off him. It's a muddled relationship. But I digress. I wondered about Abraham Scale. Such a strange character. But now the poor man has fallen victim to the deadly blade. So I'm not getting far yet. What about you?'

Her cat's eyes gazed straight at Paula. Was she hoping her collaborator had better luck?

'I do think a lot about it starting in Maine. When did you first meet Russell Straub?'

'In New York. At a party. He was all over me then, wanted me to fly to California with him. I didn't.'

'Is Straub married? I should know but I don't.'

'He was but his wife divorced him. It was kept quiet.'

'Why did she take that decision?'

'She told me she was fed up with the Potomac running through her living room. She meant politics. Said he was a fanatic, that he'd do anything to become President. Which is going to happen. He has key figures and groups lined up behind him.'

'Fanatic?' Paula repeated.

'That was the word his wife used.'

They talked some more and then Paula saw Tweed returning, heading for the lift. She thanked Marienetta for the tea and they agreed to meet later.

Paula was going to collect the coat she had left with the concierge - she had thought Marienetta might suggest a walk after tea. Pausing, she saw Roman, wearing a heavy black overcoat, leaving the hotel.

Grabbing her coat she put it on as she left the hotel. It was dark outside now. Night falls early at this time of the year. Hurrying along the wide drive and out of the entrance she was just in time to see Arbogast turn left up Bahnhofstrasse. He was carrying a large executive case which looked weighty.

Reaching Bahnhofstrasse she saw his heavily built figure padding rapidly up the main street. She walked after him, aware that the street was otherwise deserted. She was thankful for the powerful street lights at intervals. Behind her she heard rapid footsteps. She glanced back as Newman caught up with her.

'What the devil do you think you're doing? Going out in the dark by yourself?'

'I'm following someone. That's Roman Arbogast in front of us. Please don't tell Tweed.'

'I'll think about it.'

Suddenly Roman disappeared. He had turned down the first side street to the left. Where on earth could he be going to? At this time of night? Newman gripped her arm, swung her round.

'Back to the hotel. There's no one about . . .'

Inside the hotel Newman left her as she entered the lift.

She dashed to her room, took off her coat, hung it in the wardrobe, went back to Tweed's room. She tapped on the door. His expression was grim when he opened it.

'What's the matter?' she asked, sitting down in a chair.

'Beck called me back because Monica had called him, wanted to speak to me urgently on a safe phone. I got through to her immediately.'

'And why was she calling you?'

'Monica, I'm sure, hasn't slept for over twenty-four hours. She has been calling the world to build up the Arbogast family tree. She hasn't completed it yet by any manner of means, but she has given me invaluable data.'

'Can I get a big pad? I want to make notes. There, ready.'

'The Arbogasts originated in Italy. Their real name was Arbogastini. Three generations back there were two brothers - Benito and Vicenzo. They were born in Rome. When they grew up they moved to Milan. They probably couldn't make it there, so Benito moved to London while Vicenzo moved to New York. They had children. Vicenzo changed the family name to Arbogast - to avoid sounding like Mafia. He became a key figure in a Democrat political machine in Memphis, Tennessee, controlled by Boss Crump. I've heard of him by reading American history.'

'We're coming close to this generation,' she said.

'We are. Vicenzo had also changed his Christian name, to Vincent. This is where the political element came in. Vincent's eldest son changed the name again - to Straub so there was no possible hint of Mafia. His Christian name he changed to Russell. He was brought up in a highly political atmosphere.'

'So in America we have reached the present?'

'As you know Russell Straub is staying in this hotel. But Vincent had other children. Names as yet unknown. Meanwhile Benito in London became Alfred Arbogast. Then we come to the second generation. The eldest son was Roman. I suppose there was a desire not to sever all links with Italy. This branch of the family never entered politics. They moved from one trade to another. It was Roman who had the idea of building the ACTIL empire, a global system. He succeeded, had a daughter, Sophie. Both in the States and here there were other brothers who produced families. So far we know nothing about them.' Tweed stood up, began pacing. 'At long last a vague pattern is emerging. I have a theory but nothing to base it on. When I have I'll tell you. Of one thing I'm now convinced. These horrific murders concern power, power., POWER

'I'm not sure I've grasped this,' Paula said, staring at the scribbles on her pad.

'Simplify it. Work it backwards. Today we have the older generation, represented by Roman Arbogast. Roman has a daughter, Sophie. He also has a niece, Marienetta - who must be the offspring of a brother of his who also came to Britain. We haven't traced the brother yet.'

'I'm quite clear now on the sequence.'

'In the States Russell, the son of Vincent Arbogast, changed his name to Straub. His father was involved in Boss Crump's political machine in Memphis. Which is why Russell became a politician and ultimately Vice-President.'

'Soon to be President once the present occupant of the Oval Office retires. And the existing President is backing Russell to be his successor.'

'You've got the picture. A significant factor I suspect in these horrible murders. Hence my emphasis on power. I do believe Russell Straub would go to almost any lengths to make sure nothing blocked his ambition.'

'You're making me think,' Paula told him.

'That was my purpose. To make your realize what we are investigating has the world's future security at stake.'

'Then we could be up against colossal forces,' she said.

'We are. This explains the intervention of Nathan Morgan and Special Branch. They are doing everything they can to stop our investigation. I'm sure the President has asked our Prime Minister for a favour. The PM wants to keep in the good graces of Washington. Hence the pressure we are facing. I must not discover the great secret.'

'You think the PM knows what it is?'

'I don't think for a moment he does. I also doubt whether the President knows what it is.'

'So,' she suggested, 'you find it strange that Russell Straub keeps turning up?'

'Very strange.'

'I haven't told you about my conversation with Marienetta over tea.'

Tweed had been pacing as he explained what he had learnt from Monica. Now he sat down, facing Paula, his expression alert, preparing to concentrate.

'Oh, before I start, it did strike me as possibly significant that all the victims so far have been men.'

'I had pondered that. Now, it sounds as though you found out something interesting from Marienetta.'

'I did . . .'

She stopped speaking as someone hammered urgently on the door of the suite. Tweed jumped up, opened the door on the chain, then released it. Beck walked in.

'There's been another murder. Close to this hotel.'

21

It was very chilly in the night as Tweed and Paula were led by Beck out of the main entrance where he immediately turned left up the street running parallel to Bahnhofstrasse. Two plainclothes detectives, escorting their chief, kept their distance.

'Have you identified the victim?' Paula asked quietly.

'Not yet. I'm waiting for Dr Zeitzler to arrive. He insists nothing is touched until he's made a quick examination. He's right, of course. Ah, there is his car . . .'

They turned left again and Paula realized they were walking along an extension of the street she had seen Roman Arbogast disappear down from Bahnhofstrasse. That seemed ages ago now.

'At the end of this street is the River Sihl,' Beck explained. 'It's an offshoot from the Limmat and not far down from here it enters the lake.'

The street was narrow and a tunnel of darkness apart from the occasional street lamp. As they drew closer to where it ended Paula saw the glow of police lights perched on tripods, a lot of police cars parked, a police tape across the end of the street.

'Does Roman Arbogast have an office around here?' she asked.

'There.' Beck pointed to a building they were about to pass on the opposite side of the street. On the second floor a light glowed behind a closed blind. 'That is his headquarters for running his plants in Switzerland and certain surrounding countries. It has a big staff.'

'And we're now approaching this little river, the Sihl?' she enquired.

'You'll see it any moment now. Boat owners moor their craft here for winter. Some very expensive.' He stopped suddenly, turned to Paula and Tweed. 'This is pretty grim. I'm not sure Paula should see it. I don't doubt her courage but this is pretty eerie and horrific.'

'I have seen worse things,' she snapped obstinately.

Beck raise both hands in a gesture of resignation. As they came to the corner she saw the narrow River Sihl, almost black in the darkness except where the police lights reflected off it. Dr Zeitzler suddenly appeared. When he saw her he took her arm, spoke in English, no longer abrupt in manner. His tone was gentle and sympathetic.

'Fraulein Grey, I beg of you not to proceed one step further. This is an escalation -I trust that is the right word - in horror.'

'I appreciate your sentiments, Dr Zeitzler. But I have seen beheaded bodies before. Please do not stand in my way.'

Zeitzler looked at Beck. He made a gesture. I have done as much as I can.

She walked round the corner. Boats covered with green canvas to protect them against the winter were moored at intervals. Policemen who had been chattering went quiet when they saw her. A ghastly silence descended on the promenade running along the side of the Sihl. One powerful police light was focused on a boat where the green canvas had been rolled back. At the stern there was a seat with a canopy and it was occupied.

A woman sat in the seat, propped up by the back rest. Her green fur cap was tilted to one side. Her eyes were open. Paula stopped, stood quite still, unable to take her gaze away from the occupant.

'Oh God, no!' she gasped, muffling her outburst with her hand which she clamped to her mouth. She stiffened her legs, steeled herself. 'Oh, dear God, no,' she said behind her hand.

The figure sitting so still in the boat was that of Elena Brucan. Apart from her extreme immobility she appeared normal, as if taking a rest. Throwing off Zeitzler's hand, which had again grasped her arm, Paula advanced slowly along the narrow walk. Tweed was now beside her, Newman, who had rushed from the hotel, behind her.

'At least it didn't decapitate her,' she said in a steady tone of voice.

She was walking closer to the boat as she spoke. Behind her back Zeitzler glanced at Beck with an alarmed expression. The police chief made a gesture of resignation. No point in stopping her now. She'd just have to see it.

The first thing Paula noticed with puzzlement and then a shock of growing presentiment was a large brownish pool on the walkway alongside the boat. In the middle was a clear area, an area shaped like the oblong she had seen imprinted into the grass near the asylum at Pinedale. The site of an execution block. She went closer to the still figure of Elena Brucan, propped against the headrest at the stern. A few inches below the chin a brownish rim of encrusted blood encircled the neck.

'She has been beheaded,' she said in a low voice. 'That is why her hat is tilted at the wrong angle.'

'And then,' Tweed said, 'it lifted the head by the hair from where it had fallen and perched it back on the severed neck.'

'It's obscene!' she shouted. 'I'm going to locate it and when I do I'm going to kill it. . .'

She was shaking as Tweed, gripping her by the arm, led her back to the hotel. Both he and Newman thought it was the appalling shock of what she had seen which was making her tremble. They were wrong. She was shaking with fury.

'She was such a nice lady,' she said eventually as they approached the entrance to the hotel. Her voice was trembling now with sorrow. 'She meant no harm to anyone. Why?'

'Probably because she spoke to the wrong person,' Tweed told her. 'It realized Elena suspected it.'

'Can we pause here for a moment?' Paula asked.

They waited while she took in deep breaths of the ice-cold air. Her figure stiffened and she turned to Tweed and spoke.

'I'm OK now. I've got control of the anger. Let's not say anything to anyone we meet.'

As they walked into the hotel Marienetta rushed out of the lift. She stared at Paula, came forward with an expression of concern.

'You've lost all your colour. Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. I tripped up as we were coming back from a walk. Sprawled full length. Knocked the breath out of me.'

'You'd better go upstairs and lie down.'

Paula was looking past her into the lounge. In a chair near to the entrance Sophie, wearing an overcoat, was gazing at her. She had the most peculiar look on her face, a strange smile as though she had just achieved something which delighted her.

'Not feeling so good, Paula,' she called out.

'I was wondering why you're looking so pleased with yourself.'

'She gets like that sometimes,' Marienetta remarked.

'Marienetta thinks she's so clever,' Sophie sneered.

'That's enough of that,' Marienetta rapped back.

'She thinks she's the Queen of ACTIL,' Sophie sneered again, standing up. 'She should have been an actress,' she ploughed on. 'She tried to be once in the provinces and the producer threw her out, told her to get a job as a typist.'

Marienetta swung round. Her manner was calm as she walked to Sophie.. Her right hand swung up and gave Sophie a ferocious slap on the side of her face, a slap which caused her to sway and almost fall.

'Nearly took her head off her shoulders,' Newman whispered. 'Sorry, just realized what I said. Let's get upstairs. We can do without this.'

He had just spoken when Blackjack, clad in an overcoat, came in from outside. He was carrying a large leather bag. Paula thought he was drunk as he grinned at everyone, buoyantly shouted at the top of his voice.

'I'll take the first lift. Damned well freezing out there. A hot shower is next on the programme for me. Sure you won't mind.'

Newman had never seen him in such a joyous mood. A man who was so pleased with an achievement he had pulled off. He blocked Black Jack taking another step. He was in a mood to knock him down.

'The lift is booked for us. And there's no room for you. It's warm enough in here.'

'Don't like your tone of voice, old man.'

Tve never been over the moon about yours.'

Tweed was escorting Paula to the lift, waiting with its doors open. Behind them Newman and Black Jack glared at each other face to face. It was Black Jack who backed down. He called across to Marienetta still standing close to Sophie.

'I don't think either of you should have anything to do with that thug. He's only a cheap reporter.'

'I rather like him—' said Sophie.

They didn't hear the rest of her sentence because the lift doors had closed and it was ascending.

* * *

'A small brandy for you, Paula,' Newman said once they were inside Tweed's suite.

'Not brandy,' Tweed said sharply. 'A glass of water. Then maybe another.'

'Yes, please.'

Paula had collapsed into an armchair after throwing off her coat. She swallowed the water in the glass Tweed handed her, gave it back to him for a refill. She sat with her knees close together, her hands on the arms of the chair. Staring into the distance she said nothing for a few minutes. Tweed put a finger to his lips, warning Newman not to speak. She had three glasses of water before she relaxed and spoke.

'That was quite something to come back to downstairs. Sophie and Marienetta at each other's throats.'

'Sophie asked for it,' Newman commented, sitting opposite to her.

'Then the strange arrival of Black Jack who seems so anxious to get away from us.'

'The Arbogast family in action,' Tweed remarked. 'Except for Roman.'

'I saw Roman leaving the building - I was with Bob - well over half an hour ago. I think he was in his headquarters near the Sihl where it happened. There was a light in one window on the second floor, the blind drawn.' She frowned. 'That doesn't mean there was anyone in the room. Whoever had gone up there could have drawn the blind, switched on the light - and left.'

'Your brain's whirling round,' Tweed said.

'It could be staying at this hotel,' she went on as though her mind were far away. 'It. Whoever committed that foul atrocity. The indignity of it. Why didn't it take the head away as it did with the others?'

There was a knock on the door. Newman opened it and Arthur Beck walked in. His expression was grimmer than Tweed had ever seen it. Paula looked up, stared at him.

'Why didn't it take the head away this time?'

'I think . . .' Beck paused and studied Paula to assess what state she was in. He was surprised by her normality. 'I have thought about that,' he started again. 'My theory is that as it took place in the middle of a big city, whoever is responsible thought it would be too risky to take away the head. At Montreux no one would be on the front for several hours - it was still night. I presume similar isolated conditions prevailed at Bray in Britain, at Pinedale in Maine.'

'They did,' Tweed confirmed.

'Now all hell is going to break loose in Switzerland,' Beck's tone was grim. 'Two Europeans beheaded within days. The press will go mad. The horror of the way they were killed will add to the panic. Zeitzler is working through the night on this, his second autopsy. Results will be ready in the morning. We have the data - films and photos - of the murders abroad for comparison. I'll let you know, Tweed. Now I must dash.'

As Beck left the suite Marler slipped into the room and took off his raincoat. Tweed stared at it.

'You've been outside, prowling around?'

'To some profit.' Marler stood against a wall, produced a cigarette, lit it. 'Did any of you know Sam Snyder is here in Zurich?'

'No, we didn't,' Tweed replied.

'Odd how he keeps popping up whenever there's one of these beastly murders,' Paula said quietly.

'Snyder,' Marler continued, 'is staying just up Bahnhofstrasse. At the Baur en Ville. I strolled into their bar, which you can enter directly from the street, and there he was, having a drink.'

'You asked him why he was here?' Newman demanded. 'What the devil he was doing?'

'Not quite in those terms,' Marler drawled. 'He'd have closed up like the proverbial clam. Had a drink with him.

'Why didn't it take the head away this time?'

'I think . . .' Beck paused and studied Paula to assess what state she was in. He was surprised by her normality. 'I have thought about that,' he started again. 'My theory is that as it took place in the middle of a big city, whoever is responsible thought it would be too risky to take away the head. At Montreux no one would be on the front for several hours - it was still night. I presume similar isolated conditions prevailed at Bray in Britain, at Pinedale in Maine.'

'They did,' Tweed confirmed.

'Now all hell is going to break loose in Switzerland,' Beck's tone was grim. 'Two Europeans beheaded within days. The press will go mad. The horror of the way they were killed will add to the panic. Zeitzler is working through the night on this, his second autopsy. Results will be ready in the morning. We have the data - films and photos - of the murders abroad for comparison. I'll let you know, Tweed. Now I must dash.'

As Beck left the suite Marler slipped into the room and took off his raincoat. Tweed stared at it.

'You've been outside, prowling around?'

'To some profit.' Marler stood against a wall, produced a cigarette, lit it. 'Did any of you know Sam Snyder is here in Zurich?'

'No, we didn't,' Tweed replied.

'Odd how he keeps popping up whenever there's one of these beastly murders,' Paula said quietly.

'Snyder,' Marler continued, 'is staying just up Bahnhofstrasse. At the Baur en Ville. I strolled into their bar, which you can enter directly from the street, and there he was, having a drink.'

'You asked him why he was here?' Newman demanded. 'What the devil he was doing?'

'Not quite in those terms,' Marler drawled. 'He'd have closed up like the proverbial clam. Had a drink with him.

Listened. He's pursuing the Arbogast family. Tracked Sophie and Black Jack to Zurich, slipped aboard the same plane. The way he traced them from Heathrow.'

'He'd have loved,' Paula began, 'to get a picture of poor Mrs Elena Brucan in that boat.' He voice was tinged with rage.

'How was Snyder dressed when you found him in the bar?' Tweed asked Marler.

'Wearing a fur-lined coat as though he'd just come in from outside. Under the table was a leather camera case.'

'So maybe he did get pictures,' Newman commented. 'He could have walked down the narrow promenade alongside the Sihl from the other direction. That would be the quick route from the Baur en Ville.'

'If that leather case was for the purpose of transporting his camera,' Paula observed.

'Now,' said Tweed, anxious to change the subject, T think Paula is ready for a small brandy - if you'd do the honours, Bob. And you were going to tell me, Paula, about your chat with Marienetta over tea.'

With her perfect memory Paula recalled every word of her conversation. What she had said, what Marienetta had said. She also remembered to describe the brief confrontation Marienetta had with Russell Straub when the Vice-President entered the lounge. Tweed listened, his eyes never leaving her, recording every detail in his memory. She took a sip of brandy, spread a hand.

'That's it. Don't think I've left out anything.' 'And,' Tweed checked, 'Straub looked furious when she called him cousin.'

'Looked as though he could have killed her.' 'And Marienetta quoted Straub's ex-wife as calling him a fanatic? That was the exact word used?' 'It was. She confirmed it twice.'

'A wife should know, even if she was on the verge of throwing him overboard. Gives us an interesting view of Russell Straub.'

'I could have told you that anyway,' Newman said dismissively. 'Any politician with a load of money and party-machine support is not going to be too fussy about how he gets to be President.'

'I'm rather intrigued by the word "fanatic",' Marler said.

'Then there's the axe,' Paula said vehemently. 'The killing weapon. We haven't thought enough about that. If - and it looks pretty definite - the same axe was used across the Atlantic in Maine how was it transported over here?'

'It could have been taken over from Europe in a case wrapped in fibreglass,' Newman suggested. 'The case travels in the cargo hold.'

'So how was it brought back for committing three more hideous murders?' Paula wanted to know. 'Heathrow Customs can order anyone to open a case. The killer would never take that risk.'

'Then I don't know the answer,' Newman admitted.

'Paula, list those people who we know have travelled to America,' Tweed requested.

'Here we go again. Marienetta, Sophie, Roman Arbogast, Black Jack Diamond . . .'

'And why does he fly out there?' Tweed persisted.

'From what we've heard to enjoy himself, tour the clubs, I'd imagine, look for girl friends. It's his style.'

'And who else do we know has gone?'

'Sam Snyder, who from his arrangement with Roman, has the use of the Gulfstream when it's available. I'm running out of names.'

'You're forgetting someone because they're so obvious,' Marler interjected. 'The Vice-President, Russell Straub. A man like that can move anywhere without interrogation.'

'There is one more,' Newman added. 'Broden, security chief for ACTIL. He's in this hotel, presumably watching over Roman. With his authority he could move anywhere he liked.'

Tweed had been sitting in a hard-backed chair. He was leaning forward, hands clasped in front of his lap. They were suddenly aware he hadn't spoken for a while. He was looking into space. He spoke now very deliberately.

'I could narrow that list down. A big piece is missing from the picture slowly forming in my mind. Paula, how are you feeling?'

'Normal,' she replied immediately, 'as poor Abraham Seale used to say. Ready for anything.'

'Then could you go downstairs and see if Sophie is still in the lounge? She was when we came in, and had a coat on. I'd like you to talk to her on her own. Providing Marienetta is not there. Most people will be having dinner. We'll have ours after you've talked with her. It's important.'