The Janus Man tac-4

by Colin Forbes

  She sat in her canvas chair on deck by the side of Ben Tolliver, the owner of a small cruiser who looked after the sloop. A man in his mid-sixties, sinewy and tall, his skin had a leathery look and he stared at the German from under white bushy eyebrows. Kuhlmann came aboard with a slim documents case tucked under his arm.

  `Coffee, Mr Kuhlmann?' Grayle asked in her most upper crust voice. 'Black? No sugar?'

  `That would be welcome,' he replied in English.

  `Ben, please oblige.'

  Tolliver heaved himself out of his chair and disappeared down the companionway leading to the living quarters. She patted the vacated chair and Kuhlmann sat down, glancing briefly at her crossed legs. An attractive woman. Was Tolliver, retired plantation owner from Ceylon – Sri Lanka these days – her lover? He doubted it. She could do better.

  `You're sure that tall blond man you saw on Miss Chadwick's cruiser…'

  `Dr Berlin's,' she corrected.

  `As you say. Was that blond man the same as the hiker with the backpack you saw later on the waterfront here?'

  `Quite certain.' Her tone had a whiplash quality. 'I don't make mistakes. I'm trained to remember people's faces, their names. In the Diplomatic Service you can't afford to forget. You do meet the most objectionable people and they're always the touchy ones. Have you got the Identikit picture from the description I gave your artist in the local police station?'

  Kuhlmann produced a printed poster from the documents case and handed it to her. She stared at the picture, at the wording in German. Kurt Franck. Wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Iris Hansen.

  `It's better than the artist's sketch,' she decided.

  `It's recognizable as Franck? That poster is now outside every police station in North Germany. Including the one here on the corner of the waterfront and St-Lorenz-strasse.'

  `A perfect likeness.' She handed back the poster as Tolliver appeared with a tray containing a coffee pot and three cups and saucers, milk and sugar. The chinaware was Meissen. Only the best for Ann Grayle. Tolliver poured the coffee.

  `The odd thing,' Kuhlmann commented as Tolliver dragged forward another chair and joined them, 'is the absence of more murders…'

  `Then clearly the murderer is absent,' she told him. 'Find out who was here then and isn't here now. Make a list. The killer may be on it.'

  `Very shrewd, but a long job. Any candidates?'

  `You want me to play guessing games?'

  `You know the waterfront visitors far better than I ever will,' Kuhlmann coaxed. 'And you're a very observant woman. You don't miss much.'

  `Cream for the cat? And does it have to be a transient? One of the visitors?'

  `But you'll think about it?'

  `She's just told you she doesn't know,' barked Tolliver.

  `I'll leave you to think,' Kuhlmann said, ignoring the other man, whom he disliked. A bully, the type who had spent years in Kenya bossing the natives. He was amused at the way Grayle had him eating out of her hand. Serve the old curmudgeon right.

  `Ben!' Grayle's tone was commanding. 'Go and get me some of that nice German sausage for lunch. You know the type I like. No substitutes, mind you.'

  `You mean now?'

  'Of course I do. Surely you know I have early luncheon.' Tolliver climbed out of his chair, checked his wallet in his back pocket for money, walked off without a word.

  `He shouldn't have been rude to you. Silly old sod.'

  `He helps you crew this sloop – when you go south back to the Mediterranean?'

  `No, he has his own scuttle boat, the engine's tied together with hits of wire. He has two sons. They help me crew. You'd be surprised, Mr Kuhlmann. I can practically sail this vessel myself. Need a bit of help with the sails sometimes to keep going. Now, I sent Ben off so we could talk.'

  `While I remember, if we catch this Kurt Franck would you be willing to identify him?'

  `Like a shot. He doesn't frighten me. I know the type. He probably lives off women. What we used to call a gigolo.' `And I think there was something you wanted to say to me?' `Yes. You said no more murders. I suggested the murderer was temporarily absent. Dr Berlin has vanished again.' `So?'

  `A vicious character. Arrogant, too. Not at all the philanthropist he pretends to be. I was once waiting at a road crossing over there. The lights were about to change in the traffic's favour. His Mercedes had pulled up. He had the rear window down and I saw those eyes of his, watching from behind his dark glasses, staring straight at me. I quite distinctly heard him say in German to his chauffeur, "Drive on." The swine damn near knocked me down.'

  `Interesting.' Kuhlmann stood up. 'Thank you for the coffee. I must be going.'

  He had reached the gangplank, was just about to walk across it, when she called out to him.

  `Mr Kuhlmann, next time you come, do smoke a cigar if you feel like it.'

  `Why do you say that? I thought you disliked them.' `Because you're a gentleman. Not too many of them about these days.'

  Kuhlmann made his way back along the landing-stage. He would never understand the English. Perhaps it was because they were surrounded by all that water.

  `One of those three guards in that watchtower cracked,' Wolf informed Lysenko. 'Hoped to get off more lightly than his two fellow-conspirators, which is what my interrogators played on.'

  `And?'

  `They were bribed. With gold. No description of the enemy agent who did the job. He wore one of those ski-helmets. Tall and thin. They let one of the BND's agents through. Could have been Newman – his picture has been reprinted and circulated.'

  `So, we have done all we can?'

  `I haven't.' Wolf was going at full power, like a tracker dog which has picked up the scent. 'I've switched the interrogation team to the Border Police on duty in that area at night. Every man will be subjected to a very tough grilling.'

  Karl Schneider of the Border Police, stationed at Wernigerode, was in a filthy temper. The object of his annoyance was his wife, Alma. She never stopped going on at him. He sat up in bed in the tiny flat housed in the huge concrete apartment block.

  `Why wake me? I've been on duty all night, you cow… `Don't call me a cow. You should report meeting those two men in the forest at once. At once! Do you hear me?'

  `How can I help it? They'll hear you the far side of the block.

  Now I'll never get back to sleep…'

  He climbed out of bed, felt the stubble on his unshaven chin and started towards the toilet. She blocked his path, a scrawny-faced woman of forty with claw-like hands. He stopped, stared at her.

  `You are not going to the lavatory until you've phoned and reported what happened.'

  `My bladder is bursting.'

  `Let it burst – for all the use it is to me. You have to get your report in first. Someone else may have already caught them.'

  `What is there to catch? He was River Police. He showed me his folder…'

  `River Police! There's no river for miles round that part of the border. Don't you ever think? You'll lose your pension, you will. And where shall I be – if you're knocked down by one of those big coaches? Penniless. You never think of me. Only of yourself. You'll report those two men now or make your own breakfast. And dinner And supper.

  I…'

  `All right. Get out of my way, woman.'

  Karl Schneider took two decisions as he shuffled in his pyjamas to the phone in the cramped living-cum-dining-room-cum-kitchen. He would report the incident to his superior to shut up Alma – and at the first opportunity he'd respond to the advances made to him by that full-breasted, red-lipped typist in the barracks administrative block.

  `Soon. Not yet, but soon…'

  Erwin Munzel, alias Kurt Franck, spoke the words aloud although he was alone inside the loft of the barn on Fehmarn Island. He was gazing at his image in a hand mirror. The blond moustache he had grown covered his upper lip, flowed down to the corners of his mouth. The blond beard masked his jaw.

  At the back of his head hi
s hair draped his neck. He had almost the appearance of a hippie, but not quite. That would be an error of judgement. The West German police did not look favourably on hippie types.

  The steep-roofed barn stood in the fields, half a kilometre outside the hamlet of Burg, the largest collection of dwellings on the lonely island at the edge of the Baltic. Munzel had not gone near the cottage in Burg he had used during his earlier visit. The barn, also owned by Martin Vollmer as part of the small farm, was far more isolated. Even the inhabitants of Burg never came near the place.

  During the two weeks Munzel had waited for his moustache and beard to grow, he had lived rough, feeding off canned meat and drinking coffee he boiled on a spirit kettle in the loft. The floor was covered with a thick layer of straw, he had a sleeping bag for nights, and the only access to the loft was a tall ladder he had hauled up behind him when he first entered his hiding-place.

  Munzel had retreated to his refuge after making his phone call from Hamburg to Vollmer in Altona. Again he had followed the training of his instructor. Double back on your tracks. The police would never dream he would take a train from Hamburg back to Lubeck and on to Puttgarden.

  Munzel was not at all sure they had his description. It all depended on whether Newman or Tweed had recognized him when he'd made his abortive attempt to kill Tweed in the Kolk. Never take a chance on recognition. He viewed himself from different angles in the mirror. Another few days and he'd be unrecognizable. Then he could move out into the open, call Vollmer for the latest news.

  When he'd phoned Vollmer from Hamburg his Altona contact passed him a message from Wolf. 'The Captain will return. Then you can meet him again…'

  The Captain was the codeword for Tweed. God knew why Wolf was so confident Tweed would return. But Wolf, Munzel knew, had made a special study of the Englishman, had built up a bulky file recording his appearance, his habits, his likes and dislikes. Some of the data had amazed Munzel when shown the file before crossing into the West. Almost as though Wolf had someone who saw Tweed frequently in London …'

  Munzel put the idea out of his mind. It was too dangerous even to contemplate. He put down the mirror, raised a hand to smooth down the long hair over the nape of his neck. Just a few more days…'

  `Now, as always, we assume the worst,' Falken announced.

  `Why do you say that at this moment?' Newman asked.

  Falken had driven him with Gerda to the strangest of places to rest up before they proceeded to Leipzig. They had covered a long distance in the Chaika, some of it in broad daylight. Then Falken had turned off a main elevated highway down a track leading alongside a small canal. They had stopped the car and got out at a lock-keeper's cottage, a square, ugly, brick-built building, one storey high and next to an ancient pair of lock-gates.

  Beyond the old heavy wooden door, which Falken opened with a large key, a musty damp smell assailed Newman. They walked straight into the living-room which was sparsely furnished with cheap wooden chairs, a wooden table in the centre and framed pictures on the walls of various canals.

  `We must conceal the car at once,' Gerda said. 'It is all right, Mr Thorn,' she remarked, addressing Newman. 'Josef and I will deal with it. Maybe you would light the fire?'

  Then they were gone and he heard the car start up. Newman picked up a Leipzig newspaper thrown down on a couch which was losing its stuffing at one end. Dated a week ago he noted as he separated several sheets, screwed them up loosely and stuffed them under the pile of logs and twigs inside a smoke-blackened brick fireplace. He used the stubby lighter made in Karlmarxstadt, the place where he was supposed to have been born, to set light to the paper. He had to use a poker to coax the twigs to burst into flames and lick round the logs, and began a quick exploration.

  Below the window the manually-operated lock-gates stood closed. The dark water was fresh, no sign of scum on its surface. There was an old-fashioned kitchen leading off the sitting-room, equipped with an ancient iron range for a cooker. All mod cons were conspicuous by their absence.

  Through this window, partially obscured by condensation, he had a clear view across fields of some crop to the elevated highway in the distance. Another door led to a bedroom with a large double bed and a dark oak headboard. The place was depressing, but he noticed signs of recent habitation – the crushed stub of a cigar in an ash-smeared bowl.

  He walked back into the sitting-room and Gerda was removing her head-scarf while Falken fiddled with the fire. Her hair was reddish-brown and soft, her blue eyes stared back at him with a hint of challenge. She wore no makeup but was more attractive than he had realized. They both moved very silently – he hadn't heard them return.

  `Want to see how we've hidden the car, Mr Thorn? Come to the door…'

  At the end of a track a few hundred metres from the cottage a great hump stood, a hump covered with an enormous sheet of canvas. Open at the end facing the highway, the front of a tractor was exposed.

  `The Chaika is behind the tractor,' Gerda explained. 'Anyone spotting it from the highway will assume it is a large farm tractor.'

  `Clever.'

  `Mr Thorn, we have to be careful of everything – from the moment we wake until we sleep. And then only one sleeps – the other stays awake on guard. We can never relax. For this work you have to be strong. Up here.'

  She tapped her well-shaped forehead and led the way back into the cottage. She was carrying the windcheater tucked under her arm. Newman gestured towards it.

  `You have the Uzi with you.'

  `Yes, see.'

  She whipped the folded windcheater open and took hold of the automatic weapon, pointing the muzzle at the wall. He reached for the gun and she hesitated.

  `You are familiar with the Uzi? It fires at a tremendous rate per second. You have to exert the most sensitive control.' `I've trained with it.'

  He balanced the weapon in his hands and she produced three metallic objects he recognized from the pockets of the windcheater. Spare magazines. He emptied the weapon he was holding, then rammed the magazine back into place, held the gun and aimed it at the wall.

  `Yes,' she decided, 'you know it. That is good. You might have to use it. But only when there is no other option. We rely on secrecy, on moving about without the Vopos realizing we exist..

  `Come here, my friend,' called out Falken who was sitting at the table. 'We have much to do.'

  `I will make coffee and some food,' Gerda said, laying the Uzi wrapped inside the windcheater on the floor. She took an ancient cushion from the single arm chair and put it beside the windcheater.

  'Isn't that dangerous – leaving the gun on the floor?' Newman asked.

  `In an emergency,' she told him, 'it is the last place that intruders would expect to find a weapon.' She produced several packages from the capacious pockets of her green corduroy hunting jacket. 'Coffee,' she repeated, 'but we will have to make do with powdered milk. Liquids are tricky -they can leak.'

  `Take the binoculars,' Falken said, handing her the pair he had unlooped from round his neck. 'Watch that road while you see to our stomachs.'

  `Aren't field-glasses suspicious things to have if you're stopped?' Newman enquired as he joined Falken, sitting down at the table.

  `Why! I am a member of the Bird Sanctuary Conservation Service. What is my job's first requirement? Binoculars – to observe birds and fowl from a distance.'

  `Of course.'

  `As I said earlier, we must assume the worst. Have you the extra photos of yourself Toll said he would supply?'

  `In the sole of my right shoe…'

  `Let me have it.'

  `What is the worst we are assuming?' Newman asked as he handed him the shoe.

  `That Schneider has reported encountering us in the forest last night. He may not have, but we cannot take the risk. If he has, they will be looking for Albert Thorn of the River Police. So! I am a magician.' He grinned engagingly. 'You now become Emil Clasen. Of the Border Police.'

  `Border Police?' Newman's tone was incre
dulous.

  `A double bluff. Whatever they expect you to be, it will not be a member of the Border Police. Also there is another reason which I will explain later.'

  Falken had a chamois pouch he had unrolled, exposing its contents, a collection of delicate metal instruments. He held in one hand a pair of tweezers, in the other the shoe which he held up to the light. think I see them. Very expertly concealed.'

  He inserted the tweezers gently inside a slit in the thick sole of Newman's shoe, withdrew them holding the edges of three small photographs of Newman. He studied the photos.

  `What are the tweezers for?' Newman asked.

  `Part of my job. Essential equipment – like the field-glasses. I use them for extracting a thorn – any impediment – which may have lodged in the foot, say, of one of my sanctuary birds or fowl. I last used this on a rare goose.'

  `And who does this cottage belong to?'

  `The lock-keeper. Let us call him Norbert. An old man who is nearly seventy. He was anti-Nazi during the war. Afterwards he was anti-Communist. He says there is no difference. Both have their secret police. Both brain-wash the young, continue the process with youth movements. Both have concentration camps for non-believers. The Russians call it the Gulag. For some men the world is never right. Such a man is Norbert who looks after the lock.'

  `Where is he now?'

  `Probably in his flat in one of those monstrous blocks. This canal is still used occasionally for transporting coal aboard small barges. He has a schedule. He is here to open the lock-gates two days a week. We have forty-eight hours here and then we must leave – before Norbert returns. I have an arrangement with him…'

  `This Norbert, he smokes cigars?'

  `You have a keen eye. Yes, he does. Now, these photos. Taken I suspect before your appearance was altered?'

  `Yes…'

  `Do not tell me how your appearance was altered. In case. I am caught and interrogated after you have left us and before you reach freedom.' He glanced at Newman, then back at the photos. 'It does not matter. These prints are blurred – deliberately, I suspect. They will pass for you. Too good a likeness is always something which draws attention to you under inspection.'