As they entered the room, both Grau and Sherman gaped at Cade, then Grau sprung to his feet.
“He’s bleeding!” he exclaimed.
Cade tore off his windcheater, stained with the guard’s blood.
“Give me a drink, damn you!” he said furiously to Baumann. “Don’t gape at me... get me a drink!”
Baumann, unnerved, poured drinks.
“Are you hurt?” he asked Cade as he gave him a stiff whisky.
Cade drank, sighed, finished the drink, then pushing by Baumann poured another drink.
“I’m all right. I had a fight with one of the guards... I had to knife him.”
There was a sudden silence as the three men stared at Cade.
“You knifed him?” Baumann’s voice rose. “You... Good God! You didn’t kill him?”
Cade looked at the blood on his fingers. Shuddering, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers clean.
“I don’t know. He would have killed me if I hadn’t had the knife.” He was now recovering. The blessed calming effect of the alcohol seeping through him minimised his panic “We have to get these photos to the American Consul, Baumann! They are dynamite! Come on... we have to get to Geneva fast!”
“What do you mean... dynamite?” Baumann shouted. “Don’t you realise, you fool, I don’t know what the hell’s been happening? What is all this?”
Cade blinked, then pulled himself together.
“Sorry. This is big. The biggest There’s been a meeting between General Erich Hardenburg and Boris Duslowski. They were on the terrace, examining maps together and I have photos of them.”
Baumann stared at Cade as if he thought he had gone mad.
“Duslowski? Are you crazy? Duslowski killed himself ten years ago! What are you yammering about?”
“That’s what I thought but he’s alive. Why do you imagine they have all those armed guards? They’re Hardenburg’s men!”
“Duslowski?” Baumann continued to stare at Cade. “You’re drunk! He’s dead! What are you talking about?”
“He’s alive! He and Hardenburg!” Cade said, banging his fist on the table. “I have pictures to prove it!”
“If this is true...!” Baumann stared at Cade’s white face and saw by the expression in his eyes it was true. “Give me the films! I’ll fly them to S.B. right away!”
Cade shook his head.
“No, you won’t He’s not having them. These pictures are far too important to give to Braddock. They are going direct to the American Consul at Geneva!”
Baumann’s face hardened.
“You’re under contract to S.B. What pictures you take are his property. Give them to me!”
“The Consul gets them, Baumann, and no one else!”
Baumann’s face darkened with rage.
“This is what comes of working with a drunk!” he exploded. He turned to Sherman. “Do you go along with him, Ben?”
“You bet I don’t,” Sherman said. “S.B. gets the photographs! It’s up to him what he does with them!”
“That’s it,” Baumann said and held out his hand. “Let’s have the films, Cade. It’s three to one... we’ll get rough if we have to!”
“Will you?”
Cade backed away. He wished he had more guts. He wished he wasn’t a drunk. He was frightened of Baumann, but something behind his fear stiffened his morale, making him determined not to give the films to this stocky Swiss.
He snatched up a glass ash-tray: a despairing gesture of the weak against the strong.
“You start something and this goes through the window,” he said.
Baumann sneered at him.
“What’s a broken window between friends?” he said. “Come on, Cade, you can’t be all that drunk. Give me those films!”
Sherman and Grau began to move towards Cade, then they paused and stiffened as a loud knock sounded on the door.
Sudden alarm in his eyes, Baumann said, “Who is it?”
A voice snapped: “Police! Open please!”
Suddenly white-faced, Baumann turned on Cade.
“Give me those films, you drunken fool!”
As Cade continued to back away, the door leading into his bedroom opened and a tall, powerfully built man, wearing the grey uniform of the Swiss Police strode into the room.
“Remain as you are!” he barked, his hand on the butt of the gun at his hip.
A short, stocky man in a black raincoat and wearing a blade slouch hat moved in behind the policeman. He walked across the room, turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Two other men who Cade recognised as Hardenburg’s guards came in, their hands in their raincoat pockets, their faces stony as they took up position around the room.
Baumann faced the Swiss policeman.
“What does this mean?” he blustered. “What do you want?”
“Your passports please” the policeman said. “you haven’t registered in this hotel... that is an offence.”
Baumann drew in a long breath of relief.
“I’m sorry. We have been busy. We forgot. Here is my passport. My friends have theirs.”
Watching, Cade wasn’t fooled by this by-play. If the policeman had come on his own, he would have accepted the situation, but with Hardenburg’s men in the room, he knew it would only be a matter of minutes before they were all arrested and searched.
Both Sherman and Grau took out their passports and handed them to the policeman.
“Mine’s in my bedroom,” Cade said casually. “I’ll get it.” He began walking slowly towards his bedroom, his body stiff with fear, his heart thumping.
“Hey, you! Wait!” the policeman snapped.
His body cringing, Cade continued into his room. He heard footsteps behind him. He caught hold of the door and slammed it shut in the face of the advancing guards. He turned the key as a shoulder slammed against the door which creaked, but held. He jumped across the room, flung open the door that led into the corridor, hesitated, then stepped back behind the door, pulling it against him, wedging himself between the door and the wall.
He heard the door from the sitting-room burst open.
“He’s getting away!” he heard a man shout. “Quick!”
He then heard two men dart into the corridor and start running towards the elevator. He remained where he was, his heart hammering.
From the sitting-room, he heard the policeman say, “You are under arrest.”
He listened to Baumann’s excited protests, then came the sounds of a scuffle. He heard Sherman curse.
Then: “All right... all right.” This from Baumann. “We’ll come... cut it out!”
Crouching against the wall, Cade listened to the tramp of feet as the policeman and the two other men with Baumann, Grau and Sherman moved past his open door and on down the corridor.
He waited until he heard the whine of the elevator, then he moved out from behind the door. He snatched up the wool-lined motoring coat he had worn on the way up to Villars, struggled into it, then ran to the french windows. He opened them and stepped out onto the snow-covered balcony. He closed the windows behind him.
Looking down onto the courtyard of the hotel, he saw three parked cars and two Swiss Policemen standing by them. Immediately below him was another balcony. Without hesitation, he swung himself over the balustrade and dropped onto the balcony below. The fall shook him, but he was far too frightened to care. The french windows leading into the room were dark. He tried the latch: it gave and he moved into the darkened room. He paused to listen, then hearing nothing, he pulled the drapes across the windows and groped his way across the room, found the light switch and turned it on.
His blood froze when he saw a girl in the bed close to him. She was beginning to sit up as he threw himself on her, his hand clamping down on her mouth, the weight of his body crushing her.
He was aware of two terrified blue eyes as he lay flat on her. She tried to struggle, but she was helpless under his weight.