Precipice

'Another write-off. For the same reason.'

'That doesn't disturb you? The thought of all those high-flying scientists perishing with their wives?'

'Not really,' Marler responded. 'After all, they created the system which caused world chaos – and knew what they were doing. And, I'm sure, were being paid huge fortunes to work for Brazil. World could be a quieter place without them.'

'An interesting point of view.' Tweed mused.

'I'm glad we're staying on in Sion,' Newman said, standing up and putting his coat on.

'Where are you off to?' Tweed snapped.

'To the Hotel Elite to get some sleep. It was your suggestion. I need to be fresh for tonight. I think now we should all stay at the Elite. They'll have a decent room for you, Tweed. And you're looking a bit flaked out, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'I do mind!' Tweed reared up. 'I've just been sitting on my backside while everyone else was up on the Keller-horn.'

'Worrying yourself sick as you watched through those binoculars I see beside you. And, talking of sleep – when did you last get some?'

A blank look came on Tweed's face. He realized he could not remember the answer to that question.

'I thought so,' said Newman, reading his expression. I recommend a meal for you as soon as we get back – if you can face one. Then straight to bed for you, Mr Tweed.'

'And I had a strange idea I was in charge of this outfit.' Tweed said ruefully.

'We all dwell under our illusions.' commented Marler, poker-faced.

'Anyone else care to comment on the state of my health?' Tweed enquired, looking round.

'Yes.' said Philip, who had sat quietly so far, not saying anything. 'You look terrible.'

'You're taking after Paula.' Tweed replied.

'I'm leaving for the Elite now.' Newman said with a return of his normal vigour. 'I'll take Philip and Pete Nield with me. Marler can bring you later when you've rested here a bit longer. You do look terrible!'

'Bob!' Tweed called out as Philip, putting on his coat opened the door, disappeared. Newman paused at the open door. 'Why did you say earlier.' Tweed went on, 'that you needed to be fresh for tonight?'

'Because The Motorman is in Sion. I want to kill him before he kills someone else…'

Tweed blinked, trying to keep his eyes open. He stood up, hurried to the open door.

'Bob.' he shouted. 'I know who The Motorman is.'

His words were lost as Philip, behind the wheel, started the engine of the four-wheel-drive and Newman dived into the seat beside him.

45

Darkness had fallen on Sion when Philip, wakened by his alarm, compelled himself to get up, stumbled across to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and sluiced his face, hands, and arms. It seemed very quiet in his room as he dressed quickly for bitter weather. He still hated silence when he was alone – it brought back memories of Jean.

He decided it wasn't worth putting on the radio, which had become his friend. He left his room, went downstairs and out into the Siberian night. He was going to visit the Marchats – he felt it was the least he could do, to tell them what had happened. After all, the information they had given him had helped the success of the operation on the Kellerhorn.

The night seemed even colder than it had been when with Paula he had visited the Marchats. Frequently, he stopped suddenly, looking back down a dark tunnel of a street, anxious in case he led The Motorman to two more possible victims. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The heavy silence of a windless night pressed down on him. The moon was obscured by clouds.

His feet made no sound on the hard rocklike snow as he finally turned the corner leading to the colony of old houses. In his hand he held his Walther, a precaution he had taken the moment he left the Elite he had moved to.

Again no lights showed in the ancient house where the Marchats lived, set back from the houses on either side. No light shed even a gleam from the closed shutters. Taking one last look behind him, standing close to another house's wall, he walked up to the heavy front door. Stopped.

The door was open a few inches. No chain across it. By now Philip's eyes had become well accustomed to seeing in the dark. The cold had penetrated his coat earlier, but now he was chilled to the bone. Chilled with dread.

He eased the door open inch by inch in case it creaked. It didn't. Karin Marchat kept the hinges well oiled. He stepped inside, a torch in his left hand, listened, listened for the breathing of another human being. Not another sound, except his own suppressed breathing.

Crouching down, to make a smaller target, he switched on the torch. The beam shone on Anton Marchat, lying at the foot of his favourite rocking-chair, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle, his eyes staring into eternity. Philip, who hardly ever used foul language, swore foully to himself. He advanced into the room.

The door to what he presumed was the kitchen was open. Again no light. He approached it cautiously, saw nothing he would bump into, switched off his torch which made him a perfect target. Reaching the open door, he listened again for another man's breathing. Heard nothing.

He stood to one side of the open door, switched on his torch. It nearly jumped in his hand. Karin was lying with the upper half of her body sprawled over the working surface, her head inside the enamel sink full of water, her head twisted in a weird way beneath the water, which gave the angle of her neck an even more grotesque appearance.

As if he had witnessed the murder, Philip saw what had happened. Karin had run screaming into the kitchen, followed by Hie Motorman who had dealt with Anton. Her screaming had annoyed him, so he had turned on both taps, filling the sink swiftly, then he had forced her head under the water to shut her up. She was probably half-drowning when his hands had done their devilish work, breaking her neck. Water was slopped all over the tiled floor.

Philip left the house of death, ran back to the Elite to tell Newman.

Newman had woken out of a deep sleep, had washed, dressed, combed his hair, when the phone rang.

'Yes, who is it?'

'You can recognize my voice, I am sure.'

Archie's. Soft and calm as usual. Little more than a whisper.

'Yes, I can.'

'I am going up the huge rock which rises up behind Marchat's house. There is only one pathway. The beginning is behind his house. The Motorman is out. I am going to lead him up to the top. This time you can get him – the pathway is the only way back…'

'Archie!' In his desperation Newman let out the name. The phone had gone dead.

He was reaching for his overcoat when someone rapped on his door. Despite his anxiety to leave at once Newman had the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand when he unlocked the door, opened it a few inches, then flung it wide open. Philip, ashen faced, walked in, closed the door.

'I've just come back from the Marchats' home. I was going to tell them what had happened, to thank them for their help.'

'I've got to leave."

'I found both Anton and Karin murdered, their necks broken. Karin had been half-drowned in a sink full of water before he broke her neck …'

'I've had a call from Archie.' Newman was putting on his coat, picking up his gloves. 'He's going up that hunk of rock behind their house. The Motorman is still there. Archie is using himself as bait. I'm off…'

I'll come with you.'

They ran through the night. They ran, keeping pace with each other like racers in a marathon approaching the finishing post. Again the streets were deserted, but this was the middle of the night. It was not snowing and the ground was still paved with hard-packed snow, so there was no ice to trip them up. And the moon was shining brilliantly.

The looming mass of the great rock came into view. Philip took the lead, knowing the way to the Marchats' home. He went behind the house, explored swiftly, found the start of a steep, narrow path protected on one side by a drystone wall. They paused to catch their breath and Newman put out his hand.