“And when a car does come, how will you take it?” She paused, then answered her own question.
“Oh, my God, you’re going to kill whoever’s driving it.”
He gripped her arm, her frightened chalk-white face inches away. He had to control her by fear, but not to the point where she might slip into hysterics. “If I have to I will, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Parking attendants bring the cars back here. Keys are usually left on the dashboard or under the seats. It’s just easier.”
Headlight beams shot out from the fork in the circular drive; a small coupé entered the lot, accelerating once into it, the mark of an attendant driver. The car came directly toward them, alarming Bourne until he saw the empty space nearby. But they were in the path of the headlights; they had been seen.
Reservations for the dining room. ... A restaurant. Jason made his decision; he would use the moment. The attendant got out of the coupé and placed the keys under the seat. As he walked to the rear of the car, he nodded at them, not without curiosity. Bourne spoke in French.
“Hey, young fellow! Maybe you can help us.”
“Sir?” The attendant approached them haltingly, cautiously, the events in the hotel obviously on his mind.
“I’m not feeling so well, too much of your excellent Swiss wine.”
“It will happen, sir.” The young man smiled, relieved.
“My wife thought it would be a good idea to get some air before we left for town.”
“A good idea, sir.”
“Is everything still crazy inside? I didn’t think the police officer would let us out until he saw that I might be sick all over his uniform.”
“Crazy, sir. They’re everywhere. ... We’ve been told not to discuss it.”
“Of course. But we’ve got a problem. An associate flew in this afternoon and we agreed to meet at a restaurant, only I’ve forgotten the name. I’ve been there but I just can’t remember where it is or what it’s called. I do remember that on the front there were three odd shapes ... a design of some sort, I think. Triangles. I believe.”
“That’s the Drei Alpenhäuser, sir. The ... Three Chalets. It’s in a sidestreet off the Falkenstrasse.”
“Yes, of course, that’s it! And to get there from here we ...” Bourne trailed off the words, a man with too much wine trying to concentrate.
“Just turn left out of the exit, sir. Stay on the Uto Quai for about one hundred meters, until you reach a large pier, then turn right. It will take you into the Falkenstrasse. Once you pass Seefeld, you can’t miss the street or the restaurant. There’s a sign on the corner.”
“Thank you. Will you be here a few hours from now, when we return?”
“I’m on duty until two this morning, sir.”
“Good. I’ll look for you and express my gratitude more concretely.”
“Thank you, sir. May I get your car for you?”
“You’ve done enough, thanks. A little more walking is required.” The attendant saluted and started for the front of the hotel. Jason led Marie St Jacques toward the coupé, limping beside her.
“Hurry up. The keys are under the seat.”
“If they stop us, what will you do? That attendant will see the car go out; he’ll know you’ve stolen it.”
“I doubt it. Not if we leave right away, the minute he’s back in that crowd.”
“Suppose he does?”
“Then I hope you’re a fast driver,” said Bourne pushing her toward the door. “Get in.” The attendant had turned the corner and suddenly hurried his pace. Jason took out the gun and limped rapidly around the hood of the coupé, supporting himself on it while pointing the pistol at the windshield. He opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her. “Goddamn it--I said get the keys!”
“All right ... I can’t think.”
“Try harder!”
“Oh, God ...” She reached below the seat, stabbing her hand around the carpet until she found the small leather case.
“Start the motor, but wait until I tell you to back out.” He watched for headlight beams to shine into the area from the circular drive; it would be a reason for the attendant to have suddenly broken into a near run; a car to be parked. They did not come; the reason could be something else. Two unknown people in the parking lot. “Go ahead. Quickly. I want to get out of here.” She threw the gear into reverse; seconds later they approached the exit into the lakeshore drive. “Slow down,” he commanded. A taxi was swinging into the curve in front of them.
Bourne held his breath and looked through the opposite window at the Carillon du Lads entrance; the scene under the canopy explained the attendant’s sudden decision to hurry. An argument had broken out between the police and a group of hotel guests. A line had formed, names checked off for those leaving the hotel, the resulting delays angering the innocent.
“Let’s go,” said Jason, wincing again, the pain shooting through his chest. “We’re clear.”
It was a numbing sensation, eerie and uncanny. The three triangles were as he had pictured them:
thick dark wood raised in bas-relief on white stone. Three equal triangles, abstract renditions of chalet roofs in a valley of snow so deep the lower stories were obscured. Above the three points was the restaurant’s name in Germanic letters: DREI ALPENHAUSER. Below the baseline of the center triangles was the entrance, double doors that together formed a cathedral arch, the hardware massive rings of iron common to an Alpine château.
The surrounding buildings on both sides of the narrow brick street were restored structures of a Zurich and a Europe long past. It was not a street for automobiles; instead one pictured elaborate coaches drawn by horses, drivers sitting high in mufflers and top hats, and gas lamps everywhere. It was a street filled with the sights and sounds of forgotten memories, thought the man who had no memory to forget.
Yet he had had one, vivid and disturbing. Three dark triangles, heavy beams and candlelight. He had been right; it was a memory of Zurich. But in another life.
“We’re here,” said the woman.
“I know.”
“Tell me what to do!” she cried. “We’re going past it.”
“Go to the next corner and turn left. Go around the block, then drive back through here.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew.”
“What?”
“Because I said so.” Someone was there ... at that restaurant. Why didn’t other images come? Another image.
A face.
They drove down the street past the restaurant twice more. Two separate couples and a foursome went inside; a single man came out, heading for the Falkenstrasse. To judge from the cars parked on the curb, there was a medium-sized crowd at the Drei Alpenhäuser. It would grow in number as the next two hours passed, most of Zurich preferring its evening meal nearer ten-thirty than eight. There was no point in delaying any longer; nothing further came to Bourne. He could only sit and watch and hope something would come. Something. For something had; a book of matches had evoked an image of reality. Within that reality there was a truth he had to discover.
“Pull over to your right, in front of the last car. We’ll walk back.” Silently, without comment or protest, the St. Jacques woman did as she was told. Jason looked at her, her reaction was too docile, inconsistent with her previous behavior. He understood. A lesson had to be taught. Regardless of what might happen inside the Drei Alpenhäuser, he needed her for a final contribution. She had to drive him out of Zurich.
The car came to a stop, tires scraping the curb. She turned off the motor and began to remove the keys, her movement slow, too slow. He reached over and held her wrist; she stared at him in the shadows without breathing. He slid his fingers over her hand until he felt the key case.