trapped in the confined space. The phone rang in an astonishingly short time.
He snatched up the receiver. The same voice asked the question crisply.
'Is that…? Please confirm name of our mutual friend… 'Nagel. David Nagel…'
'Claire Hofer speaking…'
'Again do what I tell you without questioning my judgement – as fast as you can. Pay your bill at the Hotel Hecht – make up some plausible reason why you have to…'
'All right, I'm not stupid! What then?'
'Book in at another hotel in St. Gallen. Reserve a room for me. Warn them I'll arrive about one o'clock in the morning…'. 'You need parking space for a car?'
'No. I'm coming in by train…'
'I'll call back in minutes. I have to find accommodation and tell you where to come. Goodbye!'
Martel was left staring at a dead receiver. More precious time was being consumed. But she sounded good, damned good. He had to give her that. The whirlpool was gyrating faster. He felt he had been talking to a ghost. Claire Hofer had just been dragged out of the Limmat – according to Arnold…
Despite the growing heat inside the kiosk he inserted a cigarette into his holder, cursed, removed the cigarette and placed it between his lips minus holder. While talking he had turned round with his back to the coin box so he could watch the deserted concourse. He took several deep drags and the phone was ringing a second time. Her voice…
'Is that…? Good. Our mutual friend…'
'Nagel. Martel here…'
'I got lucky. Two twin-bedded rooms on the first floor. Hotel Metropol. Faces the station exit. Staring at you as you come out. I'll leave a note at the desk with just my room number inside the envelope.
O.K.?'
'Very…'
'Goodbye!'
In the next few minutes Martel moved very fast. He bought his rail ticket for St. Gallen. At the Hotel Schweizerhof he paid for the room he no longer needed. He did his best, to make the cancellation seem normal.
`I'm a consultant – medical – and I'm urgently needed in Basle by a patient…' Consultant was the word he had filled in on the 'occupation' section of the registration form when he had arrived. The term was impressive and totally vague.
He had not unpacked his bag a precaution he always took when arriving at a fresh destination – so all he had to do was to shove his shaving kit and toothbrush inside and snap the catches. Running down the stairs – the night clerk would see nothing odd now in his speedy departure – he hurried across to the first of the taxis waiting outside the station.
`I want you to take me to Paradeplatz. Can you then wait a few minutes by the tram stop while I deliver something? Then drive me straight back here?'
`Please get in…'
He was using up his last few minutes before the St. Gallen train departed but – knowing Zurich and the quietness of the streets at this hour-he believed he could just manage it. Because he had to check the state of Bahnhofstrasse where shots had been fired, blood spilt all over the sidewalk, and a bomb detonated against a bank.
He began chatting to the driver. All over the world cabbies are plugged in to a city's grapevine.
`Did you hear that terrific explosion not so long ago? Sounded like a bomb going off.'
'I heard it.' The driver paused as though picking his words with care. `Rumour is some fool of a tourist blew himself and his boat up on the lake…'
`It sounded closer…'
Martel left the query mark hanging in the air, wondering why the driver sounded so cautious. They were near Paradeplatz: soon all conversation would cease.
`Sounded closer to me,' the driver agreed. 'I was with a fare in Talstrasse and that was one hell of a bang. Now it could have come up the street from the lake…' He paused again. `Anyway, that's what the police told us.'
The police?'
'A patrol car stopped at the Hauptbahnhof rank. The driver got out to chat. He told us about this fool tourist blowing himself up on the lake.'
`Someone you knew? The policeman?' Martel asked
He snatched up the receiver. The same voice asked the question crisply.
'Is that…? Please confirm name of our mutual friend… 'Nagel. David Nagel…'
'Claire Hofer speaking…'
'Again do what I tell you without questioning my judgement – as fast as you can. Pay your bill at the Hotel Hecht – make up some plausible reason why you have to…'
'All right, I'm not stupid! What then?'
'Book in at another hotel in St. Gallen. Reserve a room for me. Warn them I'll arrive about one o'clock in the morning…'. 'You need parking space for a car?'
'No. I'm coming in by train…'
'I'll call back in minutes. I have to find accommodation and tell you where to come. Goodbye!'
Martel was left staring at a dead receiver. More precious time was being consumed. But she sounded good, damned good. He had to give her that. The whirlpool was gyrating faster. He felt he had been talking to a ghost. Claire Hofer had just been dragged out of the Limmat – according to Arnold…
Despite the growing heat inside the kiosk he inserted a cigarette into his holder, cursed, removed the cigarette and placed it between his lips minus holder. While talking he had turned round with his back to the coin box so he could watch the deserted concourse. He took several deep drags and the phone was ringing a second time. Her voice…
'Is that…? Good. Our mutual friend…'
'Nagel. Martel here…'
'I got lucky. Two twin-bedded rooms on the first floor. Hotel Metropol. Faces the station exit. Staring at you as you come out. I'll leave a note at the desk with just my room number inside the envelope.
O.K.?'
'Very…'
'Goodbye!'
In the next few minutes Martel moved very fast. He bought his rail ticket for St. Gallen. At the Hotel Schweizerhof he paid for the room he no longer needed. He did his best, to make the cancellation seem normal.
`I'm a consultant – medical – and I'm urgently needed in Basle by a patient…' Consultant was the word he had filled in on the 'occupation' section of the registration form when he had arrived. The term was impressive and totally vague.
He had not unpacked his bag a precaution he always took when arriving at a fresh destination – so all he had to do was to shove his shaving kit and toothbrush inside and snap the catches. Running down the stairs – the night clerk would see nothing odd now in his speedy departure – he hurried across to the first of the taxis waiting outside the station.
`I want you to take me to Paradeplatz. Can you then wait a few minutes by the tram stop while I deliver something? Then drive me straight back here?'
`Please get in…'
He was using up his last few minutes before the St. Gallen train departed but – knowing Zurich and the quietness of the streets at this hour-he believed he could just manage it. Because he had to check the state of Bahnhofstrasse where shots had been fired, blood spilt all over the sidewalk, and a bomb detonated against a bank.
He began chatting to the driver. All over the world cabbies are plugged in to a city's grapevine.
`Did you hear that terrific explosion not so long ago? Sounded like a bomb going off.'
'I heard it.' The driver paused as though picking his words with care. `Rumour is some fool of a tourist blew himself and his boat up on the lake…'
`It sounded closer…'
Martel left the query mark hanging in the air, wondering why the driver sounded so cautious. They were near Paradeplatz: soon all conversation would cease.
`Sounded closer to me,' the driver agreed. 'I was with a fare in Talstrasse and that was one hell of a bang. Now it could have come up the street from the lake…' He paused again. `Anyway, that's what the police told us.'
The police?'
'A patrol car stopped at the Hauptbahnhof rank. The driver got out to chat. He told us about this fool tourist blowing himself up on the lake.'
`Someone you knew? The policeman?' Martel asked
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