He was nearly half-way towards the Munsterplatz when he passed a narrow alley leading through to the street beyond. The Finstergasschen. A spooky alley with only a single lamp which emphasized the shadows of the narrow walk. He continued towards the Munster, his right hand stiffened for a chopping blow.
`Newman! Come back here! Quick…!'
A hoarse, whispering call. He swung round on his heel. Two figures were struggling at the entrance to the Finstergasschen. One tall, heavily-built, wearing a cap. The second much smaller. He walked back quickly as they vanished inside the alley, slowed down near its entrance, peered round the corner.
Lee Foley had his arm round the neck of the smaller man. The American was dressed in an English check suit, a checked cap. A walking stick held in his free hand completed the outer trappings of an Englishman. The small man he held in a vice-like grip was Julius Nagy.
`This little creep has been tracking you all over town,' Foley said. 'Time we found out who his employer is, wouldn't you agree?'
Before Newman could react Foley thrust Nagy inside the alcove formed by a doorway. Shoving him back against the heavy wooden door, he suddenly lifted the stick, held it horizontally and pressed it against Nagy's throat. The little man's eyes bulged out of his head. He was terrified.
`Who is your paymaster?' rasped Foley.
`Tripet..' Nagy gasped as Foley relaxed the stick slightly. `Who?' Foley rasped again.
`Chief Inspector Tripet. Surete. Geneva…'
`That came too easily,' Foley growled. 'Geneva? This happens to be Berne. You're lying. One more chance. After a little more persuasion…'
`Watch it,' Newman warned. 'You'll crush his Adam's apple.'
`That is exactly what I'm going to do if he doesn't come across.'
Nagy made a horrible choking sound. He beat his small, clenched fists against Foley's body. He might as well have hammered at the hide of an elephant. Newman glanced down the alley. Still empty. By the glow of the lamp he saw Nagy was turning purple. Foley pressed the stick harder. Feebly, Nagy's heels pattered against the base of the wooden door, making no more noise than the scutter of a mouse. Newman began to feel sick.
Foley eased the pressure of the stick. He pushed his cold face within inches of Nagy's ashen skin, his ice-blue eyes watching the little man's without pity, without any particular expression. He waited as Nagy sucked in great draughts of cold night air. It was the only sound in the stillness of the night.
`Let's start all over,' Foley suggested. 'One more chance – I simply don't have the time for lies. Who is your employer?'
`Coat pocket… phone number… car registration… Bahnhof…'
`What the hell is the jerk talking about?' Foley asked in a remote voice as though thinking aloud.
`Wait! Wait!' Newman urged.
He plunged a hand inside Nagy's shabby coat pocket, scrabbled around. His fingers felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out urgently – Foley was not a man who bluffed. He stepped back a few paces and examined the paper under the lamp.
`There is a phone number,' he told Foley. 'And what looks like a car registration number. It is a car registration… Newman had recognized the car registration. The figures were engraved on his memory. The letters too. 'Let him talk,' he told Foley. 'Ease up on him. What was that reference he made to the Bahnhof?'
`Your employer,' Foley said to Nagy. 'This time we want the truth – not some crap about the Geneva police…'
`The other coat pocket…' Nagy was looking at Newman. `Inside it you'll find a camera. I took a shot of a man getting into that Mercedes – outside the Bahnhof. He came in off the one fifty-eight pm express from Geneva..
Foley held the walking stick an inch from the little man's throat while Newman scrabbled around inside the other pocket. His hand came out holding a small, slim camera. A Voigtlander. Three shots had been taken. He looked up and caught Nagy's expression as the little man stared straight at him over the bar of the walking stick.
`I only took two shots,' Nagy croaked. 'The man getting into the car – and the Mercedes itself.' He switched his gaze to Foley. 'I think that man is the boss, my employer – and somebody important. There was a chauffeur with the car.'
`Mind if I take out the film?' Newman asked. 'I'll pay for it…'
`Jesus Christ!' Foley exploded. 'Take the film. Why pay this shit?'
Newman broke open the camera after winding the film through. Extracting the film, he dropped it inside his coat pocket, shut the camera, took a banknote from his wallet and replaced camera with banknote inside Nagy's pocket.
`I'll get it developed and printed,' he told Foley. 'Now let our friend go…'
`Break an arm- just to teach him not to follow people…'
`No!' Newman's tone was tough and he took a step towards the American. `He was following me, so I decide. I said let him go…'
With a grimace of disgust the American released Nagy who felt his injured throat, swallowed and then straightened his rumpled tie. He seemed oddly reluctant to leave and kept eyeing Newman as though trying to transmit some message. Foley gave him a shove and he shuffled off down the alley, glancing back once and again it was Newman he stared at.
`You and I have to talk,' Foley said. It was a statement. 'I want to know what's on that film – and on that piece of paper..
`Not now. I'm late for an appointment. Thanks for spotting my shadow, but you play pretty rough. Sometimes you get more if you coax..
`I coax with the barrel of a gun, Newman. I'll call you at the Bellevue. Then we meet. Inside twenty-four hours. You owe me.
`Agreed…'
Newman walked rapidly away down the Munstergasse and continued along the Junkerngasse, which is also arcaded, but without shops. Crossing the cobbled street which was now running downhill, he looked back. No sign of Foley, but that didn't surprise him. The American was too fly to follow him. He reached the closed door with three bell-pushes, a recently- installed speak-phone, a name alongside each bell-push. He pressed the one lettered B. Signer.
Blanche had taken his advice or, woman-like, she had hoped – expected – he would turn up. Her quiet voice came to him through the speak-phone grille clearly when he announced himself.
`I thought it was you, Bob. Push the door when the buzzer buzzes…'
Beyond the heavy wooden door, which closed automatically behind him on the powerful sprung-hinge, a dim light showed him the way up a flight of ancient stone steps, well-worn in the middle. On the first floor landing he noticed another new addition in the door to her apartment. A fish-eye spyhole. The door opened inward and Blanche stood there, wearing only a white bathrobe.
He sensed she had nothing on underneath as she stood aside and the bathrobe, loosely corded round her waist, parted to expose a bare, slim leg to her thigh. She closed the door, fixed the special security lock and put on the thick chain.
`Blanche, I have another film for you to develop and print.' He handed the spool to her. 'Only three shots – the third one intrigues me. The party who gave it to me said there were only two…'
`Because someone else was present? Tomorrow you have prints and negatives along with my own contribution. No, don't sit there. In here…'
Here was a tidily-furnished bedroom with one large single bed. He paused and swung round to face her. She had closed the door and stood facing him, brushing the cascade of titian hair slowly, her face expressionless.
`No, Blanche,' he said. 'I've come to tell you to forget all about the Berne Clinic. Too many pretty tough characters keep turning up. You could get hurt – that I won't risk…'
`You'll hurt me if you don't…'
She pushed him suddenly, a hard shove. The edge of the bed acted as a fulcrum against the back of his legs and he sprawled on the white duvet. She flicked the cord round her waist free, dropped the bathrobe and he had guessed right about her lack of attire. She was on top of him before he could move.