by A. B. Decker
“Do you think his mother’s death might have something to do with his disappearance?” she asked. Ellen was at least grateful that Marthe was no longer persisting with the idea that Frank had left her. But the idea that he might have been upset by his mother’s death in such dramatic fashion seemed far-fetched at best.
“I should not really tell you this, Ellen,” Marthe continued. “In fact, I should not even know it myself. Urs has made a great mistake when he told it to me. But he was worried, and I think he needed advice.”
Ellen remained in Marthe’s loose embrace. But said nothing.
“I think you should know that when Frank was first found and admitted to the clinic, he has said something very disturbing. He said that he killed his mother.”
Ellen instantly freed herself from Marthe’s arms and stared at her.
“That’s ridiculous,” she protested. “He was speaking metaphorically.”
Marthe’s words put her in mind of Beth. But her sister was simply being spiteful when she asked the same question. Ellen knew that Marthe was genuinely concerned. Yet the suggestion implicit in those words did nothing to allay her disquiet.
Suddenly a blue light flashed through the window onto the ceiling above them.
“What’s that?” Ellen asked.
“It’s only an ambulance,” Marthe reassured her. She got out of bed and walked over to the window. Ellen watched the silhouette of her breasts as she drew the curtains to and sensed a rekindling of her pleasure at the sight of Marthe’s body. But her enjoyment was interrupted by a sharp squeal of brakes outside.
“What’s going on, Marthe?”
“The ambulance had to stop suddenly for someone crossing the road. He looks as if he’s had too much to drink.” And she got back into bed.
Ellen fell asleep in her arms, thinking about Frank, knowing that – like the drunk crossing the road – he was also out there somewhere.
Chapter 18
The firearm weighed reassuringly heavy in Frank’s coat pocket. Cradling the cold iron of the chamber in his hand as if it held the key to his existence, he took the precaution of walking a circuitous route into town rather than pick up the train further down the line. So it was well past midnight by the time he reached the city centre. The streets were already fast asleep. The Kolping house held no magnetism for his tired aching feet, especially since Lutz now knew he had a room there. And he did not trust Lutz as far as he could throw him. But he was in desperate need of somewhere to sleep.
So, keen to absorb what he could of Patricia’s life, Frank made his way to her flat. The iron in his pocket invested him with the confidence to cope with any trouble, should Lutz’s advice prove to be well-founded.
The street had impressed itself firmly on his memory when he first saw Patricia open the door that led to the privacy of her flat – a privacy which he had envied so deeply for its intimacy with her and which he had wanted so much to be a part of. Now it looked empty and abandoned in the early hours of this cold morning. He had been captivated by the street because it was Patricia’s, but now that he could sense she was not here, its emptiness saddened him.
Ever since she had made a copy of her door key for him and sent it so invitingly with a note wishing him ‘Bon voyage’, he had been burning with impatience to use it. Uncertain what might be waiting for him inside, his pulse quickened as he inserted it into the lock. The emptiness he felt when the door opened hit him with a quiet brutality. It came as no surprise, since he was not expecting her back for at least two weeks. Yet it draped a leaden chill over his mood.
The room had been left immaculately tidy, as only a woman with Patricia’s style could leave it. On the table stood the telling vase of roses, now multiplied to three. Three flowers of evil, wilted in the intervening weeks and its petals fallen. Frank refused to contemplate the favours they might have involved. Drew a protective shield down against any thoughts in that direction. It was a stratagem made so much easier by the table companion of that vase.
There, on the gramophone beside the vase, lay These Foolish Things. Instantly a warm flutter coursed through every muscle of his heart. He smiled at the thought of her laying the record on the turntable for him before she left. Had it not been for this and the books on a corner shelf, the room would have given the air of permanence about her departure. All but two of the books were heavy tomes on the Renaissance, Romanticism, Symbolism and other periods of art that meant little to him. These two books piqued his curiosity for the clues they gave to the private side of Patricia. One was by Lou Salomé, Ruth, which instantly put him in mind of his conversation with Achim – and gnawed at his conscience for cravenly abandoning the mission he had taken on. The other book in this otherwise dry and dusty collection, which appeared to be annotated in the margins, was a dog-eared paperback of Les fleurs du mal by Baudelaire.
It was plain that this had been often and passionately read. This paperback gave him an uncomfortable feeling because, not only did its association with the flowers in the vase leap out at him, but there was also something about the dog-eared copy of the book that did not fit with what he knew of Patricia. And this drove home to him just how little he did know about her, and how much more privileged others were in this respect. When he opened the book, he saw at once a deeper reason for him to feel so unsettled. Like the other works on the shelf, it was heavily annotated. But by a different hand. Plainly not
hers. The scrawl was that of a bold male hand. And it boasted an intimacy with her which Frank was still far from achieving. The page he was looking at appeared to be a particularly important one to judge by the natural ease with which the book opened there. Certain lines of verse showed pencil marks. He suspected they had been made by Patricia, since they bore such a strong similarity to the style of markings in her books on art. Frank wondered why they might be so important to her.
Je pense à mon grand cygne, avec ses gestes fous,
Comme les exilés, ridicule et sublime,
Et rongé d’un, désir sans trêve! et puis à vous3
His French was adequate to grasp the meaning of the words, but what was their significance? What was it in her life that warranted giving them such importance? Was it Léandre? Or could it be him the words referred to, Frank wondered in his vanity. It was already one o’clock in the morning. He had committed robbery with violence, and dragged his aching body endless miles through strange territory. He was too exhausted to cope with these questions, however much they intrigued him and teased his vanity. So he took Baudelaire onto the bed with him, where this troubling verse carried him off to sleep with his coat and shoes still keeping him warm.
When he woke, the light was already shining confidently through the garret window. The poet lay on the floor staring up at him like a sad old bitch waiting for its morning walk. Still fully clothed and with stubble on his chin, Frank was aware of the staleness and dirt of his body. He recalled the last time he had woken here and watched the light break through the window. The cool white cubit of her arm thrown carelessly across his chest in her sleep, like an ivory bracelet half open at the clasp. It had reminded him of a bracelet which his father had brought home from India for his mother and which had always lain half open on the dresser, never worn, almost as a symbol of their relationship. It irritated Frank that his memory of Patricia triggered this association. On two counts now he felt that he was sullying the purity of what little intimacy there was between them.
Tucking the secrets of Baudelaire safely away in the coat pocket that was not already occupied by the gun, he got up to wash. The washbasin held no soap. And no towel hung from the rail. So, after splashing his face with some cold water to freshen up, he looked into the cooking niche for evidence of food or drink while his face dried in the chill of the unheated room. He had hoped at least for a trace of stale coffee beans, but there was nothing.
From above, through the garret window, the street looked quiet and harmless; an elderly woman sweeping out her doorway on the opposite si
de of the narrow, cobbled road; a group of children, satchels strapped to their backs, on their way to school. Only the hint of rain in the clouds that hung over the rooftops gave any suggestion of menace in the air. Frank decided to call Lutz’s bluff again and risk the streets by daylight.
It was a short walk past the Spalentor, across the park and down the steps that tapered like a long funnel into the market place. No sinister figures lurked in the doorways. No strange faces crossed his path, except for the occasional woman dutifully heaving the day’s shopping home from the market. The square itself was peacefully attending to the routine of the city’s housewives under the watchful presence of the mediaeval town hall that dominated the area with the same heavy sandstone of the cathedral. Apart from the stallholders or the chestnut seller on the corner, few men were to be seen at that time. Those who were took no part in the business of the day, but shuffled through their morning in retirement, a stick in one hand and cigar stump in the mouth. He found it hard to imagine the violence that was taking place on the fringes of this ordinary humdrum world, although he had witnessed it himself. Even had a part in it. Would the women buying their cauliflowers and carrots believe him if he interrupted their transactions to tell them of the slaughter he had seen and the putrefying cadavers that lay at that very moment just a short tram-ride from where they stood? More likely they would think him completely mad, he told himself.
The everyday normality of the scene in the market place had the curious effect of heightening his unease and sharpening his sense of menace. So, having purchased the essentials he needed to get him through the next few days, he made his way cautiously back over the river to tie up the loose ends that remained hanging in his room at the Kolping house. With the added security of the gun in his pocket, he was ready for most eventualities, but the welcome waiting for him was one for which he was not prepared.
Having taken the precaution of using the back street to the building, he was stopped in his tracks by a disagreeably familiar figure: the ugly face of the cloth-capped man, leaning on the railings, his concentration seemingly focused on the newspaper that he held in front of him. Frank cautiously retraced his steps and walked around the building to the front of the house. It appeared to be clear.
The fist that drove itself viciously into his solar plexus as he turned into the doorway told him otherwise.
“We’ve been looking for you, runt.”
He knew the American accent instantly. It went with the fist. But above all it was the way the man pinned him to the wall before he could see straight or even take air that told him it was Silverstone. He had been here before.
“You got some explaining to do, friend. So why don’t we take a walk?”
Putting Frank’s left arm in the vice of a grip that Frank had got to know when Silverstone dragged him off to Achim’s all those lifetimes ago, the American marched him back out of the building and down to the promenade beside the river. The cloth cap was still lurking. And when he saw the two walking down to the river in what must have looked a rather comical tandem, he discarded the newspaper and let a smile open up like a deep scar across his face as he approached them. It was the first time Frank had seen any light of humanity in the man’s expression, but it seemed fitting that it should shine so darkly. The man said nothing, and his silence disturbed Frank. It was a dumb kind of muteness that suggested he had no power of speech. As if to compensate for the affliction, he hissed slightly through his bearded smile when Silverstone spoke.
“I found him. Says he was just stepping out for some fresh air and why don’t we join him. I call that real neighbourly. What do you think, Bert?”
The cloth cap now had a name, and the cicatricial grin looked ready to split his face wide open in response. But still he remained mute and just followed Silverstone, who guided Frank with the brachial force of his grip along the river promenade. In the half-light of the archway beneath the bridge was the inconspicuous door to a public convenience. Frank had never noticed it before. And he recalled with a sense of irony all the times he had searched in vain for a place to relieve himself in this vicinity, as Silverstone kicked open the door and bundled him inside. Bert, the cloth cap, stood back in the doorway. Frank caught him in the corner of his eye grinning with perverse pleasure at the sight of Silverstone pushing him back against the porcelain so that he was forced to stand as best he could in the slippery glazed gutter of the urinal.
“I thought we had a deal, Eigenmann. So what went wrong?”
Silverstone thrust his face into Frank’s. It was the first time he had noticed a thin line on the American’s upper lip masquerading as a moustache.
“I agreed to do a favour for my old friend, Achim,” Frank said, tightening his grip on the gun in his pocket. “I don’t recall making any deals with you.”
“Achim. Yes, of course. Your friend Achim.” There was a menacing mockery in his tone now. “That brings me to the other little matter we need to talk about.”
As if taking out a pen to make a note in his diary, he drew a knife from his inside pocket and flicked it open in Frank’s face. The cloth cap looked on, still beaming his inane smile from the doorway – until it was wiped from his primitive face by the gun that Frank pushed into Silverstone’s belly.
“Just drop the knife and back off.”
His speech contorted to the most threatening growl he could muster as his lips were palsied by agitation. But the delivery was immaterial. It was the message that counted. This was a refreshing new experience for Frank, and he enjoyed every inch of the authority this simple instrument suddenly invested in him. A curious expression found a place in Silverstone’s eyes. His top lip curled to show the crude untidiness of his large teeth as he stepped back towards the cubicle door. It was the first time Frank had seen him looking so unsure of himself. He was getting a taste for this new power.
“Bert.” Frank spoke with growing self-assurance. He sensed his agitation lifting. “Keep your hat on, go join your friend, and get undressed.”
Meek as a lamb, the cloth cap complied, only the slightest trace of a snarl where his smile had been.
“And you, Silverstone. Clothes off. Lay your coats on the floor and throw everything on top. Everything,” Frank repeated, moving back to the door and wedging his foot against it to discourage any visitors following the call of nature. The sight of them finally removing their underpants made him almost feel sorry for them in the shrivelled despair of their manhood, their bodies pale, flabby and slightly deformed. The pigeon chest of Silverstone especially surprised him: the American had always looked so burly in his coat.
“What exactly do you do at your Nazi-friendly bank?” Frank asked. He was savouring the thought of what his colleagues at work would make of him now. “Okay. Now tie them up with the arms of the coat to make a bundle, then step back into the cubicle and lock the door.”
As soon as the lock clicked into place, Frank moved over to the two bundles of clothes and was just picking them up when the door to the street swung open. A tall man in a trench coat and hat filled the doorway, concern written in his eyes. He guided in a little boy with the desperate, inconsolable face of someone who was having the greatest difficulty adopting anything remotely like a normal walk. Frank smiled sympathetically at what he assumed to be the father of this poor little wretch and heaved the two bundles out through the door with as much discretion as he could muster.
To see those two bundles floating downstream from the bridge brought him a malicious kind of pleasure he had not known since the time he watched Heinz Wassermann being carried off to hospital, his face lacerated and bleeding from Volker’s revenge.
But the enjoyment of the moment could not smooth away the questions that still gnawed at his newfound confidence. The cloth cap and Silverstone made an unlikely alliance and cast a further layer of mystery over the role of the American. Frank kicked himself for being so ready to cut and run without grilling them when he had the chance. All at once, he pictured Silverstone as an
associate of Breitner’s, maybe even the chief architect behind the betrayal of Achim and the carnage of his family. These thoughts chipped away at his conscience all the way back to Patricia’s flat.
The signs of intrusion initially escaped him when he opened the door. It was not until he had washed, shaved and rinsed away the last vestiges of the urinal that he noticed it. The shelf where the weighty tomes on the history of art had stood was now empty. And no amount of searching brought them to light. They had evidently been removed. A warm thrill coursed through his body at the thought that she might have already returned – but he had overlooked the piece of paper which lay under the table, presumably swept onto the floor as he blustered into the room still heady with the acrid reek of ammonia on his coat.
“You are most unwise to ignore my advice. But perhaps you will listen to Mademoiselle Roche. She wishes to see you.”
These words leapt off the page at Frank. Set his heart racing with a frenzy that had him overlook the disquieting fact that Lutz appeared to know his every move. Although unsigned, it was plainly his hand behind the note, which continued with fussily detailed instructions to explain where Frank should be at ten o’clock the following morning. Since Lutz was for once the bearer of good tidings, Frank told himself the murkier side of his involvement could be happily ignored. And for the rest of the day, he warmed himself on the glow of knowing she was back and wanted to see him.
It was already five to ten when he stepped off the tram at the end of the line in a village on the outskirts of town. But rather than draw attention to himself by racing too fast, he walked slowly in the direction instructed. He was halfway up the hill leading out of the village, when the black, low-slung chassis of a black Citroen pulled up beside him. The sight of Lutz behind the wheel took him by surprise. He had not imagined Lutz as a driver. To see him now in charge of a fashionable new 7S Traction Avant gave a new dimension to the man. Lutz leaned over and opened the door.