“She won’t be at Vallorbe for three or four hours,” Baumann said. “You should be sober by then. From now on, Cade, you stop drinking. You have a job to do. You’ll find I am rough if I don’t get my own way.”
Cade looked at the stocky, powerful figure.
“Is that right?” he said. “Here, carry my bag. I’m Cade. Your moronic boss wouldn’t have bought my contract if he didn’t think I could give him what he wanted. Park your chatter. You bore me.”
Baumann took the bag. The two men walked out into the cold, crisp sunshine to where Baumann’s E-type Jaguar was waiting.
As soon as Cade settled himself in the bucket seat, he went to sleep. Baumann regarded him thoughtfully, his light blue eyes icy, then he drove out of Geneva, heading for Vallorbe.
At Vallorbe, Baumann drove to the Customs post and pulled up outside the small hotel that was within twenty metres of the frontier. By this time Cade was half awake and half sober. The two men got out of the car and walked into the hotel where Baumann had a room reserved. Baumann ordered a litre of black coffee to be sent up to their room. He then led the way up the stairs and into the large bedroom, the windows of which overlooked the frontier post.
Cade slumped down on the bed, holding his head in his hands.
“I want a double Scotch and ice,” he said. “Hurry it up. I have to have a drink!”
Baumann took off his heavy windcheater which he tossed on a chair. The room was stifflingly hot. He crossed to the window and opened it. There was now a hint of snow in the sky that had become overcast and the air was sharp and cold.
“Shut that goddamn window,” Cade said.
Baumann walked over to him.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
Cade took his hands from his face and peered up at Baumann.
“You heard me. I said shut that window.”
Baumann slapped Cade’s face. Four lightning backhand slaps that flattened Cade on the bed. He lay there, stunned, staring up at the stocky Swiss. Then he struggled upright, trying to get to his feet Baumann slapped him again, sending him once more flat on his back on the bed.
Cade lay still. He put his hand to his burning face, his eyes now in focus, suddenly sober and hating Baumann as he had hated Ron Mitchell of Eastonville.
“I can keep that up for hours,” Baumann said softly. “You and I have to work together. I said no drinking, and that means no drinking? Get it?”
Cade braced himself, then he came off the bed in a rush, his fist wildly seeking Baumann’s dead-pan face. Baumann shifted his head avoided Cade’s blow with humiliating ease and banged his fist with all his weight and strength in a devastating punch that landed just below Cade’s heart.
Cade dropped to his knees, gasping.
Baumann grabbed Cade by his hair, dragged him half upright and then slapped his already bruising face three more times with a vicious violence that stunned Cade into helplessness.
Leaving Cade on the floor, Baumann walked across the room and opened the door. He took the coffee from the porter, winked and put the tray on the dressing-table. He turned in time as Cade, gathering his remaining strength and self respect, struggled off the floor and came staggering towards him. Brushing aside Cade’s weak lead, Baumann slammed another punch into Cade’s body, bringing him with thudding violence to the floor.
Baumann sat on the bed, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit a cigarette.
Cade lay on the floor, then he stirred and dragged himself to a sitting position. He stared at Baumann, his eyes hating him.
“You’re quite a bastard, aren’t you?” he said.
Baumann smiled.
“That’s just what I am. Now we have that behind us, have some coffee.”
He got up and poured coffee into a cup.
“Sugar?”
“No.”
Baumann handed Cade the cup and then sat on the bed again.
Cade remained on the floor. His body ached from the two heavy punches he had taken. His mind had become clear. He suddenly realised how he must look to a man like Baumann, sitting there on the floor, a lush with a bruised face, his clothes crumpled and his defeat showing so plainly. His tiny spark of self respect asserted itself. He got painfully to his feet, drank the scalding coffee, crossed the room and poured more coffee.
“Cigarette?” Baumann asked, offering his pack of Marrocaine.
“Thanks,” Cade said and lit the cigarette. He drank more coffee, then putting: down the cup, he went into the bathroom and bathed his aching face. Feeling clearer in mind than he had felt since he left New York, he came back to the bedroom and went over to the open window and looked across at the Frontier Post, breathing in the cold, crisp air.
“She should be arriving in about three hours. We have plenty of time,” Baumann said. “Feel like eating?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. If you want anything, ring. They won’t serve you with any alcohol, so don’t try that one on.” He went to the door. “See you,” he said and left.
Cade drank another cup of coffee, then sat down in a lounging chair.
After a while he got bored with his depressing thoughts, and getting up, he went down to the lobby. Taking his overcoat off the peg, he walked across to the Boutique shop. The Magnum-sized bottles of Scotch whisky made him stare, but he resisted the urge to buy one. Instead, he bought a packet of wine gums and seeing Baumann had come out of the hotel, he joined him.
“Feel like something to eat now?” Baumann asked. “They have some pretty good steaks. You should eat something.”
“I guess,” Cade said. He wasn’t hungry, and his ribs still ached, but he had the impulse to become normal again.
When he had finished a very late lunch, Baumann paid the check, and the two men went out into the growing dusk and sat in the Jaguar, facing away from the frontier post.
Anita Strelik arrived at the frontier post at 17.50 hours: an hour ahead of Baumann’s estimated time. By now it was dark, but Baumann spotted her red Aston Martin as it pulled up under the bright lights of the frontier post.
“Here she comes,” he said. “She won’t be more than five minutes passing through the customs. We’ll get moving.” He started the engine and headed towards the Lausanne road.
Turning in his seat, Cade looked through the rear window. He caught a glimpse of a tall woman, wearing ski-ing trousers, a white windcheater and a white helmet that concealed her hair. She was standing by the Aston Martin, talking to one of the grey-uniformed frontier guards. Then he lost sight of her.
He felt suddenly excited: a feeling that hadn’t come to him for many months.
“We’ll let her pass,” Baumann said.
A few minutes later, the impatient note of a horn made Baumann pull to his near side and the Aston Martin stormed past, travelling at over a hundred kilometres an hour.
“That’s the way to get yourself killed on these narrow roads,” Baumann said, slightly accelerating.
He switched on the short wave receiving set on the dashboard and picking up the microphone, said, “Horst calling YR. Come in, YR.”
A man’s voice came through the loudspeaker, “Listening in, Horst.”
“Our party is heading for Lausanne. Where are you?”
“By Grand Pont.”
“She’ll come that way. Follow from in front, but watch it. She’s moving fast.”
“Roger.”
They didn’t see the Aston Martin again until they had reached the outskirts of Lausanne. Baumann who knew the road from Vallorbe like the back of his hand, had driven with tremendous bursts of speed when the road was straight, and with carefully controlled speed on the bends. He knew he couldn’t be much more than three minutes behind the Aston Martin, but he was relieved when he caught sight of the red car now slowed down in the heavy traffic entering Lausanne.