“Your name, please?”
Simon had grown a little wary lately of the hazards of his reputation. In Switzerland, the traditional land of peace and neutrality, he had decided to make an attempt to reduce those risks when he registered at his hotel.
‘Tombs,” he said. “Sebastian Tombs.”
“Where are you staying here?”
“At the National.”
The policeman wrote down the information in a notebook.
For the first time, now, there were more people walking towards them along the quai. It was late, but presently there would be the inevitable crowd.
Kleinhaus said something else to the policeman, and the policeman seemed to agree. Kleinhaus took Simon by the arm and steered him away.
“We’ll phone the station to send him some help,” he said. “We can do it from your hotel. Could you identify those two thugs?”
“After a fashion,” Simon described them as best he could, as they walked through the gardens to the back entrance of the hotel. “I suppose the detectives will want to know that, for what it’s worth.”