He straightened his spine as he saw Max Meyer appear at the doorway of the Café Henzi. With him was the man in the bright-blue suit, whose sense of humour was now restored for they were laughing together. The man said, “I go this way,” and he pointed south. “What about you?” Max must have nodded his agreement, for they turned south, walking away from Denning. Across the Square, a woman stepped out from the shadow of an arch, and signalled.
Max had only taken a few paces along the west arcade. He must have been alert for danger. As two men, tall powerful figures in dark coats, suddenly appeared from the car which was parked so peacefully south of the café, he veered from the sidewalk and started across the Square, leaving his companion to stand and stare after him.
And then a car, empty except for the driver, entered the Square from the northern Henzigasse, its engine roaring with its sudden acceleration. Meyer glanced over his shoulder and began to run. He almost reached the east arcade ahead of him, but the car swerved as it travelled so recklessly through the Square, and it struck him with all the weight of its speed. There was a wild high scream of brakes. The car skidded towards the arcade, swivelling completely round to a sudden halt almost against the arches themselves. And there it stood, motionless, pointing its headlights at the man it had murdered.
In the pink-shaded room of No. 10 Henziplatz, Le Brun started to his feet. “My God, what was that?” he asked, and he raced for the window. Keppler picked up the telephone. I knew it, I knew it, he thought bitterly, his anger rising against himself, as he dialled Detective Inspector Bohren’s private number. I knew it… Why didn’t I trust my own instincts, why, why?
That was always the question—afterwards.
8
THE RUNNING MEN
For a moment of helplessness, Denning stood still, his shout of warning frozen in his throat. Then, from the car that pointed towards Meyer’s crushed body, the driver slipped out, quickly, quietly, and dashed into the arcade near at hand.
Denning began running. As others were running: the couple who had been sauntering round the Square, the man in the bright-blue suit, two or three men from the shadows of the arcades. To run, to see what had happened, to help, that was the first impulse.
From the Café Henzi came Madame, a coat thrown over her shoulders; a waiter with a napkin still folded over his arm; one or two startled patrons, then three or four, then others to group at the doorway and stare across the Square. Upstairs, the singing and laughter had stopped. The only sound in the Square was the clatter of running feet. But from the parked car near the café, Denning heard the gentle sound of an engine being skilfully moved into low gear. The car started quietly forward, creeping slowly along the arcade towards the southern Henzigasse.
In his increasing sense of helplessness, Denning tried to shout a warning to one of Keppler’s men who must be somewhere in the Square. But his shout was only a gasp, the cobblestones had turned into a heavy bog sucking down his feet, and for a moment’s despair he thought he would never reach the group that had begun to gather round Max Meyer. At least, he thought as he joined them and stood regaining his breath, I have the escaping car’s number, for whatever that’s worth, I have its number.
But where was the man who had driven into Max? Was he hiding over in that arcade? Yet nothing moved there. Or he could have made for the street which led southward away from the Square—the street where the car that had withdrawn so tactfully could have picked him up. Or, foolhardy as it might seem, he could now be mingling with this little crowd. And yet that hardly seemed credible; except that someone would certainly stay here to verify their success. Who, then? Sharpened by failure, his eyes searched the gathering group.
“But what happened?” a woman kept saying. “Didn’t he see the car?”
“It must have skidded—”
“Out of control—the driver was going too fast.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Don’t move the poor fellow!” That was Madame protesting.
“That’s right,” Denning said harshly, and pushed aside a man who was about to bend over the body. “Are you a doctor? Stand back, then. This is my job.” His voice was grotesque to his own ears, angry, curt, hoarse with emotion. But it had an effect. The man looked up, startled.
“Let this doctor have a look,” Madame said quickly, taking Denning’s side—she had pride in her patrons—and she pulled the stranger away from the dead man.
Denning knelt, and raised Meyer’s eyelids gently, felt for a pulse that no longer beat, bent his head over a silent heart. Max stared back at him with unseeing eyes, one hand folded purposefully. Denning felt the pulse of that wrist, too. The hand was hiding a pack of cigarettes. Then Denning looked up at the questioning faces around him. Only the man who wanted to be helpful had no question in his eyes: they watched Denning coldly. Denning shook his head. “What about the car?” he demanded, and even the watching man’s eyes turned towards the headlights for a moment. Denning rose to his feet, the pack of cigarettes now hidden in his own hand.
He looked down at Max Meyer for a brief last moment— that was all the time Max would have allowed him. And the feeling of the cigarettes in his hand was no comfort at all, even though Max would have approved of it. He restrained the impulse to slip his hands into his pockets at once. Instead, he turned away, his hands by his side for anyone to see.
Someone tugged at his sleeve. “Better take a look at this one, too. The driver looks dead, but you never can tell. Proper smash-up, wasn’t it?”
“The driver?” Denning asked, startled for a moment.
Behind him, Madame said crossly, “Oh, can’t you leave that poor fellow alone? The doctor said it was hopeless.”
Denning looked back to see the same man who had bent over Max now kneeling beside him. “But he didn’t feel the heart properly,” the man was saying in hard flat German, as he slipped his hand inside Max’s jacket.
Denning walked away towards the murder car, grim-faced, his jaw set, his fist clenched. If Max could speak, he’d be saying, with his sardonic smile, “That’s right, you ghoul, search all the other pockets too.”
He reached the car and stared down at the man who had been pulled into the driver’s seat, a little man in a cheap smart suit with an evil gash across his forehead. A cheap grey suit, too tight for him, wrinkled over his heavy body. His shoes were elaborate, with pointed toes dangling from short stiff legs. His satin tie hung loose from a striped silk shirt. Even in death, he was a very frightened little man.
The police had arrived, with three cars and an ambulance.
“Weren’t they quick?” someone said with native pride.
Denning stood aside, listening to the questioning voice of authority. In any language, it sounded the same. And the other voices eager to answer it were the same everywhere— voices explaining, recounting, conscious of taking a small, but fortunately safe, part in a passing tragedy. He was still disguising the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Somehow, at this moment, he distrusted pockets. And he was still watching, from a little distance, the man who liked to feel hearts properly: a tall powerful man with reddish hair closely cut under a dark felt hat. His coat was dark, too, broad in the shoulders with a military look, and long-skirted. The kind of coat worn by the two men who had advanced on Max under the arcade. So one of them had driven away; and the other had come running along with the innocent people. Yes, even from this distance, the silhouette became recognisable.
Denning moved over to the group that was giving information to a tall, solemn man in uniform. A strange little group: the man in the bright-blue suit, pink-faced with importance; the woman of the sauntering couple, whose tongue clacked as loudly as her high heels under the arcade; a heavy blonde in a dressing-gown, suddenly conscious of her hair curlers; a man with striped pyjamas under his raincoat; some of the customers of the Café Henzi. Near them was Madame herself, trying to get back to her cash desk—if the police had any questions to ask, they’d find her there. Facing her stood anot
her obvious policeman, even if he was in ordinary clothes, a man of some authority, trying to pacify Madame. What was he—a detective, an inspector?
Denning said clearly, “This lady did not see the actual accident. I can vouch for that.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Madame, and with several bows all around fluttered back to her café.
“Did you see it?” the inspector demanded.
Denning pointed to the northern Henzigasse, as if he were explaining. “I was up there—” he began. Then he dropped his voice, “Get that tall man in the dark coat who’s walking south. He went through the dead man’s pockets.”
The inspector looked southward. “Yes, yes,” he said to Denning, then moved away as if to supervise the police photographers.
“I suppose no one can tell very much,” the man in pyjamas said. “Happened too quickly. Must have been drunk, both of them.”
“I feel terrible about it,” said the heavy blonde. “Right under my window it was.” She giggled nervously. “I do look a fright, don’t I?” She covered her curlers with her hands.
“The gentleman who was killed was certainly not drunk,” the man in the bright-blue suit joined in righteously. “Most certainly not. Let me tell you exactly how it all happened.” And so he began his story, for the seventh time at least.
As Denning stood with the listening group, he watched the south end of the Square. The man hurrying through the shadows had almost reached the entrance to the Henzigasse. I’ve failed, Denning thought, he’s vanishing into the darkness. We’ll never find him there. but even as his fear was becoming a certainty, a policeman set out running. Now was the test.
The hurrying man didn’t hear the sharp call to halt, seemingly. Yet his pace quickened. And then, abruptly, as he reached the dark street, he broke into a run. A car, standing near the ambulance, switched on its full headlights and shot forward towards the Henzigasse.
He can’t escape now, Denning thought, turning away. Strangely, he felt no triumph. Only a sense of chill and emptiness. Only exhaustion.
But the inspector was back again, taking charge, calming new speculation from the curious crowd. There was a look of brisk satisfaction on his face. “Are you the doctor?” he asked Denning. “You’re wanted over at the ambulance, right away.” And then he turned to the others. “Routine, routine,” he said, dispersing them with both his calm tone of voice and his casual wave of the hand.
“Wonder what they want you for?” the heavy blonde said, clattering along behind Denning in her loose slippers. But the inspector caught up with her. “This way, gnädiges Fräulein,” he said, guiding her towards a policeman with a note-book. “Your name and address as a witness.” That scared her homeward. It scared most of the others too.
People were straggling over the Square as Denning approached the ambulance. It seemed to him as if it were about to leave. He hesitated, wondering what he was supposed to do anyway. “In here!” a voice said from the small blue car he was passing. Its door was open. He saw Keppler lean forward for a moment. “Quick!” He got into the back seat beside Keppler. A man sitting beside the driver closed the door as the car started forward. They moved slowly through the Square, following the ambulance. Keppler’s hand pressed gently on his arm, persuading him to sit well back in his corner. He obeyed. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out even the last glimpse of the Henziplatz.
“I have a lot to tell you,” he said, searching his memory. “A lot…”
“Later,” said Keppler. “Relax, relax.” He had seen this too often: waiting and worrying; sudden action, quick and violent; personal loss and a sense of failure; then—once the strain was all over—the nerves snapped and there was nothing but blankness and despair.
“Now!” Denning insisted. “There was a black car parked near the Café Henzi. It moved away, down here.” For they were now travelling through the south part of the Henzigasse. “Its number—” But he couldn’t remember the number.
“It was observed,” Keppler said soothingly. “The car stopped and picked up a passenger.”
“The man who drove the car that killed—that killed—” He couldn’t say “Max Meyer”. And, fantastically, he now remembered the number of the car.
“You saw him?”
“Yes—as he slipped out of the driver’s seat and ran for the south arcade.”
Keppler sat quite still for a second. Then he leaned over to the front seat and tapped the shoulder of the man sitting beside the driver. “Did you hear all of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep listening.” Keppler turned to Denning. “What else?”
“That red-haired man with the long black coat—he was waiting outside the café near the parked car. He and another man. Together.”
“And after the murder, he joined the crowd?”
Denning nodded. “He searched Meyer’s pocket. Inside. Over the heart.”
“The police caught him,” said Keppler with grim satisfaction. “Now, we’ll—”
“And there was a woman,” Denning went on, his voice flat and unemotional, “who gave the signal when—when Meyer stepped out of the café.”
“She could identify Meyer?” Keppler was astounded.
“It was that maid—Eva. Eva. Yes, she made contact with Max in the café. Then she came out. And gave the signal.”
“Have you got all that?” Keppler asked the man in the front seat again. “Then we’ll drop you off at the police station.”
“There’s something else,” Denning said. He closed his eyes again, he tightened his hands with the effort to remember. The car was stopping. The man in the front seat was leaving them.
“Easy now, take it easy now,” Keppler said. “You can tell me all the rest when we reach my place.” Then he looked down in surprise at the pack of cigarettes which Denning held out in the palm of his hand.
“Something else,” Denning said with sudden bitterness and he dropped the cigarettes as though they were burning him.
Keppler stared at the packet in his lap. It was unopened. An ordinary pack of American cigarettes.
“They were in Meyer’s hand,” Denning told him.
To the driver, Keppler gave quick instructions, seemingly a change in direction, for the car swung suddenly away from the entrance to the Kirchenfeld Bridge and travelled farther west to pass the Federal Palace and the wide, open squares that lay around it. “We’ll go to my place later,” Keppler was saying. “And there you can tell me everything, exactly as it happened. But now”—and he pocketed the cigarettes—“first things first.”
Empty streets, empty squares, Denning was thinking. Quiet squares, without murder or violence. He stared at them blankly. Then he looked quickly back.
“Yes?” asked Keppler, noticing Denning’s sudden interest, and he too looked back at the Victoria Hotel. He saw three people walking smartly towards a battered little Renault, which looked somewhat forlorn against such a background of grandeur. Two women, young. A man, tall and bearded.
“Paula Waysmith,” Denning said, and he shook his head in wonder. “She was there, in the Café Henzi, tonight, with that other girl. Francesca.”
“Who’s the man?”
“A stranger to me.” A tall powerful man, with a beard. I wish to God Andy would turn up soon and tie that wife of his to a nice hot stove. Or a good soft bed, he thought. Women always had a naive sense for adventure, a kind of innocent trust that nothing would turn ugly, a kind of schoolgirl approach to—“Which reminds me,” he said, interrupting his thoughts. “I must tell you about Emily. Don’t let me forget about Emily.” His face relaxed. He almost smiled.
“Of course not.” But Keppler looked at him anxiously.
“I’m all right now,” Denning said irritably, and he lit a cigarette. “I’m not even asking annoying questions about where we’re going,” he added, and tried to smile, as the car entered a large courtyard and drew up at one side which lay deep in shadows.
They entered a grubby litt
le room, barely furnished, partitioned off from a larger room.
“I call this my office whenever I visit Bern,” Keppler said as they entered. “But of course you understand that my work as a freelance reporter keeps me moving around a good deal.”
“A reporter?” Denning nodded. It was a cover that was common enough.
“Yes, a crime reporter.”
“That’s a bit more original.”
“Helpful, too. My relations with Inspector Bohren are most amicable. You saw him down at the Henziplatz, I think. A capable man. And a good friend.”
“The police are now on the job, then?”
“As far as tonight’s car smash is concerned, certainly. It was a clever murder in some ways—no guns, no knives, nothing to alarm the quiet town of Bern. just a simple accident with a drunken driver. You smelled the gin in that car?”
“Too decidedly.”
“Yes. One small splash of spilled gin goes quite far in effect. They forgot that. They forgot several things. Tonight’s murder was worse than a crime: it was a blunder.” As he talked, Keppler had been clearing the desk, adjusting the lights, producing a sharp knife and a powerful magnifying glass. “Now!” he said, placing the pack of cigarettes on the table, and taking a chair. Then he looked up at Denning. “This is always the moment when I feel sick with nervousness. I always hope for so much. And too often I am disappointed. See how I’m wasting time, talking, talking… Subconsciously, I don’t want to open the pack of cigarettes. In case I find nothing.”
He picked up the pack and examined it. His powerful hands became light and delicate. “If it isn’t too important a message,” he was saying, “we’ll find something simple, like a piece of paper stuck inside. Perhaps microfilm. Or a message in a special ink.” He began easing the folds of the pack open, top and bottom. “You see,” he went on, “before I start having some scientific friends awakened at this early hour of the morning, I want to know just what expert help we may need. We’ll open the pack—so—” He slit its sides gently and the pack became a flat piece of paper. Carefully, he kept the twenty cigarettes still in their triple row of seven, six, seven.
Pray for a Brave Heart Page 10