“Heinz, it’s me and it’s late,” replied George Bernoulli.
“We’ve already got something. A guy that might fit. He’s just in the process of being booked on suspicion of theft—for another job.”
“Where?”
“At the Lohnhof.” This was the city’s central jail, a converted medieval convent.
“All right, get back to your fellows, Heinz. Tell them two things. First, put the fellow into an empty cell but one with two beds. Second, tell them you’ll be bringing another one along in about a half hour. They should book me on suspicion of forgery with no other questions asked. Right? And then have me put in the same cell with this guy. And for God’s sake, don’t tell anybody, either the police or the jail people, who I really am. Use the name Salzmann for me. O.K.?”
“Agreed.”
“Heinz,” yelled Bernoulli. “What’s the man’s name?”
“Bechot. Sammy Bechot,” came the answer.
“I’ll be right over,” Bernoulli said and hung up.
He dressed quickly and left the hotel by the back stairs. It took him a quarter of an hour by foot to reach police headquarters. Bernoulli, like most Swiss, liked to walk. It’s supposed to be healthy. Kommissar Bucher was waiting for him outside. The jail was immediately adjacent to the police building.
The lockup proceedings were rather dreary. Tie, cuff links, watch, wallet went into a brown package. He signed his agreement that everything was duly there. Then down the corridor, through two doors of steel bars, and into a small room. He was ordered to strip. Disease check. Redressed more or less, he was handed over to a new warden and led up the stairs and then to the left. Ghastly place. Just a line of steel doors, all painted yellow. Why yellow? The door to cell 15 was closed. Bernoulli was handed two woolen blankets, two sheets, one rather worn towel, a mini bar of soap, and motioned in. The man inside had been sleeping. He barely took notice of the intruders. Bernoulli was instructed to pull down his bed, which was firmly hinged to the wall, make it, get in, and shut up. It was late.
Within fifteen minutes Bernoulli was asleep. This was not exactly the Euler, but a bed was a bed.
8
THE church bells bonged. Six-thirty. A few minutes later the light in the cell was turned on from somewhere, the door opened, and a warden shoved in a broom. Door closed and locked. Bernoulli’s cellmate began unwinding himself from the narrow bed, looked over to Bernoulli, and grinned.
“Bonjour!”
“Guete Tag,” replied Bernoulli in the local Swiss dialect.
“Aha. Un Bâlois,” said his roommate, who then continued in heavily accented, though excellent, German. “My name is Sammy Bechot. You new here?”
“Right. I’m George Salzmann,” replied Bernoulli, “and this is the first time I’ve had the privilege of enjoying the hospitality of the Lohnhof.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sammy, “I’ve been here before. You plan to be here long?”
Bernoulli just shrugged.
“Don’t worry,” repeated Sammy. “It’s not bad here. But we had better get up. That’s the rule here at six-thirty.”
They took turns washing—one basin, cold water—and got dressed. Following Sammy’s example, Bernoulli folded together his bedding and swung the cot back up against the wall. The only other furnishings in the cell were a very small wooden table, matched by a wooden bench, both firmly attached to floor and wall. At seven the door was unlocked and opened again. Two breakfasts were handed in: café au lait in huge metal cups and two pieces of black bread for each. Door closed and locked. Twenty minutes later the same ritual with the door. This time the cups were handed out, and the broom. Shortly before, Sammy had made exactly three perfunctory swipes at the floor with it.
Then silence.
Half an hour later the door was once again swung open. The chief warden on his daily tour of inspection, continental style. For he also appeared to be chief order taker, and Sammy was ready to order: one transistor radio, shaving cream, three sausages, two large beers, 100 grams of powdered coffee, pickles. He assured the chief warden that sufficient funds were available, even though they had been forceably and unconstitutionally removed from his pockets the evening before.
Twenty minutes later the action continued. This time it was one of the trustees who arrived with a catalogue from the prison library. An extremely pleasant type. Apparently an American from his peculiar accent. Sammy wrote out a list of thirty books: 50 percent crime stories, the other half Westerns.
Thus far the two men in cell 15 had exchanged nothing further than their original introductions. Bernoulli was calculating how he could get things moving, when for the sixth time the steel door clanked open.
“Salzmann?”
“That’s me.”
“Kommissar wants you.”
“Why?”
“How should I know. Come on, let’s go.”
Ten minutes later Bernoulli found himself in Kommissar Bucher’s office.
“Take a chair, George, and tell me what’s really going on here,” said Bucher. “We had all of two or three minutes on the phone last night, and I did what you asked. But it seems to me that you are going about all this quite the wrong way. You know as well as I do that anything you get out of Bechot in this manner will never be admitted before court.”
“I know that, Heinz. That’s not my objective.”
“Well, what is, if I may be so free as to ask?”
“I can’t tell you. So there’s no use to any further questions along this line.”
“Fine. If that’s the way it is, all right.” Bucher obviously did not think it was so fine, but he had learned long ago to stick to the book when something out of the ordinary was going on.
“Where do we go from here?”
“First of all, why do you feel so strongly that Bechot might be our man?” asked Bernoulli.
“For a number of reasons. He’s a pro—one of the best in the field, with a record a kilometre long. And it seems that he has recently developed some kind of a new way of getting into safes without wrecking them, right on the spot too. He used to leave them so full of holes you would hardly have believed it. But last night another safe was taken, also in a private house—on the outskirts of the city. It was the same story as you told me. No marks, no nothing on the safe. This time it was completely cleaned out and once again closed. The victim was an Englishman, a scientist, connected with the chemical industry. Among other things he lost a stack of five-pound notes. He reported the theft around six in the evening yesterday—at the local station. I got the report shortly after you called from the Euler and immediately put out a general signal to pick up any of the professionals known to us, and in the vicinity. Sammy was the first to show. And although he had nothing more than a couple of hundred francs on him, shortly before we picked him up he had apparently paid for his drinks with a five-pound note in one of those bars in the Rhine harbour area.”
“Have you any reason to believe he did the other job, too?”
“None whatsoever. But I think that even you can perhaps detect that there just might be some grounds for suspecting so.”
“Thanks,” replied Bernoulli. “When do you plan to put him through the wringer?”
“Just as soon as you would like. But let me warn you. We’ve had Bechot here before. A couple of years ago. He won’t talk. Not a chance. He’s a two-time loser, and he knows that if we can nail him again, the court will put him away for five years, at least.”
“Right. Well, Heinz, then I’d appreciate it very much if you could give me a couple of days to try it my way. I’m here under instructions from Bern.”
“I know. I know.”
“So just leave him alone for the time being. O.K.? And I’d appreciate it if you could come and get me tomorrow—same time.”