“Guten Tag.”
“Guten Tag. Haben sie ein Zimmer fur eine Nacht?”
“Ja. Wie mochten Sie bezahlen?”
“Mil Kreditkarte.” The black and white credit card that General Hilliard had given him. Robert asked for a map of Switzerland, and was escorted to a comfortable room in the new wing of the hotel. It had a small balcony that overlooked the lake. Robert stood there, breathing in the crisp, autumn air, thinking about the task that lay ahead of him.
He had nothing to go on. Not one damned thing. All the factors in the equation of his assignment were completely unknown. The name of the tour bus company. The number of passengers. Their names and whereabouts. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland? That’s our problem. We have no idea where they are or who they are. And it wasn’t enough to find some of the witnesses. You must find every one of them. The only information he had was the date: Sunday, October 14th, and the place: Uetendorf.
He needed a handle, something to grab onto.
If he remembered correctly, all-day tour buses left from only two major cities. Zurich and Geneva. Robert opened a desk drawer and took out the bulky Telefonbuch. I should look under M, for miracle, Robert thought. There were more than half a dozen tour companies listed. SUNSHINE TOURS, SWISSTOUR, TOUR SERVICE, TOURALPINO, TOURISM A REISEN … He would have to check each of them. He copied down the addresses of all the companies and drove to the offices of the nearest one listed: Tour Service.
There were two clerks behind the counter, taking care of tourists. When one of them was free, Robert said, “Excuse me. My wife was on one of your tours last Sunday and she left her purse on the bus. I think she got excited because of seeing that weather balloon that crashed near Uetendorf.”
The clerk frowned, “Es tut mir viel leid. You must be mistaken. Our tours do not go near Uetendorf.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Strike one.
The next stop promised to be more fruitful.
“Do your tours go to Uetendorf?”
“Oh, ja.” The clerk smiled. “Our tours go everywhere in Switzerland. They are the most scenic. We have a tour to Zermatt, the Tell Special. There is also the Glacier Express and the Palm Express. The Great Circle Tour leaves in fifteen …”
“Did you have a tour Sunday that stopped to watch that weather balloon that crashed? I know my wife was late getting back to the hotel and …”
The clerk behind the counter said, indignantly, “We take great pride in the fact that our tours are never late. We make no unscheduled stops.”
“Then one of your buses didn’t stop to look at that weather balloon?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Thank you.” Strike two.
The third office Robert visited was located at Bahnhofplatz, and the sign outside said SUNSHINE TOURS. Robert walked up to the counter. “Good afternoon. I wanted to ask you about one of your tour buses. I heard that a weather balloon crashed near Uetendorf and that your driver stopped for half an hour so the passengers could look at it.”
“No, no. He only stopped for fifteen minutes. We have very strict schedules.”
Home run!
“What was your interest in this, did you say?”
Robert pulled out one of the identification cards that had been given him. “I’m a reporter,” Robert said earnestly, “and I’m doing a story for Travel & Leisure magazine on how efficient the buses in Switzerland are, compared with other countries. I wonder if I might interview your driver?”
“That would make a very interesting article. Very interesting, indeed. We Swiss pride ourselves on our efficiency.”
“And that pride is well deserved,” Robert assured him.
“Would the name of our company be mentioned?”
“Prominently.”
The clerk smiled. “Well, then I see no harm.”
“Could I speak with him now?”
“This is his day off.” He wrote a name on a piece of paper.
Robert Bellamy read it upside down. Hans Beckerman.
The clerk added an address. “He lives in Kappel. That’s a small village about forty kilometres from Zurich. You should be able to find him at home now.”
Robert Bellamy took the paper. “Thank you very much. By the way,” Robert said, “just so we have all the facts for the story, do you have a record of how many tickets you sold for that particular tour?”
“Of course. We keep records of all our tours. Just a moment.” He picked up a ledger underneath the counter and flipped a page. “Ah, here we are. Sunday. Hans Beckerman. There were seven passengers. He drove the Iveco that day, the small bus.”
Seven unknown passengers and the driver. Robert took a stab in the dark. “Would you happen to have the names of those passengers?”
“Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don’t ask for identification.”
Wonderful. “Thank you again.” Robert started toward the door.
The clerk called out, “I hope you will send us a copy of the article.”
“Absolutely,” Robert said.
The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and Robert drove to Talstrasse where the buses departed, as though it might reveal some hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small enough to traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen passengers. Who were the seven, and where had they disappeared to? Robert got back in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took Lavessneralle out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps, toward the village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the small hills that surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent mountain chain of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and Hausen, and nameless hamlets with chalets and colourful picture-postcard scenery, until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little village consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and a dozen houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car and walked into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near the door.