“Then I can tell him I’m lost and he’ll find mom.”
“Tell who?” Hedge asked distractedly.
The boy stared. “Santa Claus, of course.”
“Father Christmas. Yes, I see.” Hedge found the grotto where Father Christmas was doling out presents and dandling small children on his knee, speaking to them in German. Father Christmas looked genuinely old, scarcely needed the disguise of the beard, though of course a beard was statutory. Hedge briefly caught the eye of Father Christmas and was jolted by a sudden memory from the past. Though he saw nothing familiar in the bearded, fake bearded, face he was electrified when the old man spoke to the child next in line for his attentions. Hedge had always prided himself on his ability to remember and recognise a voice.
He had no doubts as to this one.
Father Christmas was Logan.
6
The day became a fraught one. The boy was a frightful encumbrance and remained so until Hedge had reached the Consulate-General and handed him over to a minor official with instructions to contact his parents. The boy had not after all sought the assistance of Father Christmas in locating mom, perhaps thinking him more of a nutter than Hedge, or perhaps just over-awed by the beard and the sheer age. Logan, of course, would be very old now, eightyish.
Hedge spoke to the Consul-General, Rufus Bland. Bland was naturally in the picture as to Logan and the reasons for Hedge having been foisted onto him. Bland, though polite, considered Hedge an old woman, no adornment to the FO at all. Hedge told him with much excitement that he had seen Logan.
“You can’t have,” Bland said.
“But I tell you —”
“It’s known positively that Logan was seen in Magdeburg. Is it likely — I ask you, Hedge — that he’d come back to West Germany, West Berlin in particular, and set up his face in public as Father Christmas of all things? He’s in no need of a job, I imagine —”
Hedge said patiently, “I admit a degree of unlikelihood. But people are unpredictable. I’m quite certain I recognised the voice. Quite certain.”
“I can’t really accept that as evidence, Hedge. Did you not physically recognise the man?”
“No, I didn’t. He’d naturally have altered — much aged since I was last — er — in contact with him. But the voice … I’m asking you to contact my man Shard, get him back here immediately.”
“All right, now look, Hedge.” Rufus Bland sat forward in his chair, elbows on the desk in front of him, “if you’re so certain — bear in mind that he may have recognised you —”
“Oh no. I’m positive he did not. There was no reaction at all.”
“But if he did, he’s likely to scarper — if it’s really Logan. I suggest the man’s investigated, even brought in if you like, before he has a chance to vanish again. We’ll probably be made to look prize idiots to the German authorities, but I suppose I can’t disregard what you think you’ve seen.”
Hedge said, “I prefer Shard to deal with this. It’s his job.”
“But Shard’s not here.”
“I’m aware of that, Bland. I’ve already asked you to contact him and order him back.” Hedge added, “I’d do so myself only I don’t know where he can be contacted — I do know he’s gone to somewhere in Rinteln but that’s all.”
“Then how do you expect me to find him, for heaven’s sake?”
Hedge said, “You people have your avenues. I’m unaccustomed to — to Germany and its ways. And I say again, there’s to be no arrest until Shard gets here.”
The Consul-General shook his head, utterly baffled by Hedge.
*
Hedge was in a fair way to baffling himself, his mind in a whirl. He was feeling his age. He had been precipitate in reporting his sighting of Logan to that fool Bland, whom he regarded as an upstart. Rufus Bland was not of the old school, not of a public school. For years now the FO had been recruiting from the wrong sort, the wrong class. Bland dressed badly, his clothes far too casual, like his manner, no respect for his elders. A gentleman would have done up his collar button when speaking to anyone like Hedge, tightened his tie, which in Bland’s case was a revolting one of lurid stripes. But much more importantly, Hedge had blundered. His sense of duty had made him report what he believed to be the face of Logan, but he should have for his own sake refrained, and probably would have done had he not feared that it might have come out if Logan was captured and then said he had recognised Hedge, though in fact Hedge was quite certain he had not.
But so much the better if he’d kept quiet and just tried to contact Shard. He might have been able to work things out with Shard.
In the meantime he might manage some sleuthing of his own. When the store closed, he might be able to tail Father Christmas. Yes, that would really be the thing to do. It would not come amiss to have a private word with Logan, try to sort out some of the past. There would be pressures that could be put on Logan — Logan himself wasn’t the only one who could put on pressures — Logan wouldn’t want to be apprehended by the British authorities. A deal might be struck. Mightn’t it?
Risky, of course. But other things were risky too. Hedge had a need now to act positively.
This he would do. Back in his office he looked at his watch. Plenty of time before the store closed. As he sat drumming his fingers on his desk, his telephone burred. It was Rufus Bland’s sidekick: Shard had not been contacted yet, but the military in Rinteln, when asked if by any chance he had been picked up by army transport at Hanover, confirmed that he had. They also reported that he had called in at BMH and had had an interview with Major Bruce, who had refused any further information. All this conveyed nothing at all to Hedge.
*
Shard, who already had the address of Wolfgang Brosak’s laboratory from Gerda Schmidt, walked through lying snow from the hospital into Rinteln proper. It was a longish walk, over a bridge crossing the Weser and into the town centre. In the town centre, outside a grim-looking church, Shard enquired the way. Another ten minutes’ walk brought him into a small industrial area of factories and store sheds, nothing spectacular.
Here he found Brosak’s laboratory.
This, too, was fairly small-scale. There were barred windows and a heavy door. Shard peered in through the bars, saw two or three men working at benches, clad in dirty white overalls. Other men and a woman moved about. The place was brightly lit; the day was dull with the snow, which had begun to fall again. Shard went to the door, found a bell-push. His ring was answered after a short wait. One of the white-overalled men came to the door.
“Yes?” the man asked.
“Herr Brosak?”
“Herr Brosak sees people by appointment only. You have such an appointment, Herr —?”
“Harris,” Shard said smoothly. “No, I’ve no appointment. But I had business at the British military hospital, and I’ve been referred on to Herr Brosak. I understand he has been helpful to the British doctors.”
“Ja. Your business?”
Shard waved a bunch of papers given him by Major Bruce, the bumph from the Ministry as he’d called it. “I’m from London. The Department of Health.” He went into his spiel; Herr Brosak, he said, was regarded as an authority on rats. He would appreciate his help if he could spare the time.
“Wait,” the German said.
The heavy door was shut in Shard’s face. He waited, huddling into the upturned collar of his thick anorak against the falling snow. It was bitterly cold now, the snow driven by an icy wind that was causing heavy drifting. After some five minutes the man came back. Herr Harris could enter; Herr Brosak had consented to see him but could not spare much time. “Come,” the man said. He stepped back, holding the door open. Shard stepped into welcome warmth. Inside the doorway there was a hardboard partition that shut the working section of the laboratory off from view. He was led along a passage and up a steep flight of narrow stairs at the end. There was a curious smell on the air, light but pervasive. And unpleasant. Shard was unable to identify it. Ano
ther passage led from the head of the stairway, with a number of doors on either side. The guide stopped at one, and knocked. A harsh voice responded, and the man opened the door.
Shard went in.
A short, thickset man was seated at a desk smoking a very large cigar. A box on the desk indicated that the cigar was named Adenauer after an earlier Bundeskauzler of the German Federal Republic. The man half rose, then subsided again. He waved the cigar towards a chair at the left of his desk.
“Sit, Herr Harris.” He spoke in English. “Kindly state your business quickly. I am busy, you will understand?”
“Of course, Herr Brosak. I am sorry to bother you —”
He was cut short by a coarse, unpleasant laugh. “Always you British seek my advice — me, a German. Oh, I am flattered, yes, I am flattered! But it is to a German hospital that I would prefer to be called for my assistance. And now London comes to me for my help! Well, Herr Harris, what do you wish to know?”
Shard, who on sitting down had noted that the white-overalled man had remained inside the room, spoke of rats and the problems they were causing in Great Britain. He had, he said, spoken to Major Bruce at the hospital about this.
“Major Bruce, yes. The hydrophobia man.”
“I understand you were of great help to him.”
“That is so, Herr Harris.”
Shard said, “It’s occurred to me that there may be some connection between this hydrophobia and rats.”
“You asked this of Major Bruce?”
“No, I didn’t, Herr Brosak. It occurred to me only after —”
“What, precisely, has occurred to you?”
“That a proliferation in the rat population in Britain could assist the spread of rabies perhaps.”
“But there is no rabies in your country.”
“No,” Shard agreed, “but we’re concerned about the opening of frontiers, easier access, and the suggested abandonment of many of the quarantine laws, under the EEC —”
“Because of the rats?”
“Not just because of the rats, Herr Brosak, although if they’re still a problem when the quarantine laws are done away with, then —”
“Yes, I understand, Herr Harris. I think you need not worry. Not, that is, about your rats. The whole of the British race, Herr Harris, is composed of rats.” Suddenly, like a striking snake, Brosak’s right arm shot out almost horizontally. “Heil Hitler,” he said in a frenzied voice. From behind Shard, the salutation was repeated.
Suddenly, Shard felt a sense of danger, a cold feeling that all was not as it should be. He looked from one man to the other. The man in the white overall was standing stiffly at attention, almost as if on parade in the days of the Third Reich, staring over Brosak’s head as though he were facing the physical presence of his long dead Führer. Or perhaps he saw Brosak as his Führer now. A moment later there was a nod from Brosak and the man by the door brought his hand sharply down and across his body. A revolver came out and was held steadily aimed at Shard’s head.
Brosak gave his harsh laugh again. “Not Herr Harris, I think, but Herr Detective Shard from London.” Rising to his feet he gave an ironic bow towards Shard. “I am most gratified that you have delivered yourself into my hands. Bloodlessly — though that is something that will not long endure, Herr Shard. I think you have been too trusting, like so many of the stupid British.”
Shard gave himself a shake mentally. He had been caught right off guard by Brosak’s sudden change of tune. It was quite inconceivable, of course, that Major Bruce should be in any way involved, likewise Trudi Palmer.
“Gerda Schmidt,” he said bitterly.
“Yes, Gerda Schmidt, a loyal Nazi.”
Brosak went on to say that Gerda Schmidt’s part was not played out. More than this, he refused to say. But he indicated that there were matters on which he wished to be fully informed and that the vehicle for this information would be Herr Shard. The Party, he said, had always been very expert in extracting information. Those who had lived under Herr Hitler and Dr Goebbels had lost none of their touch.
*
Hedge had made some enquiries and had established that Father Christmas packed up and went home by way of a beer cellar at 5.30 each day except Saturdays when he remained on duty for the benefit of the children of working parents until 8.00 p.m.
Today was Saturday.
A long time to wait. Hedge didn’t like waiting. At a little after four o’clock he went along to the stores and lurked in the vicinity of Father Christmas’s grotto as the children, happy, anticipatory or just plain fearful, queued and went in. He heard the vociferous Germanic complaints when the undesired present was handed over by Father Christmas. This he heard from round the other side by the grotto exit, where he remained, as he hoped, unseen by Father Christmas himself.
He was not unseen by other persons. He was observed by a keen-eyed female assistant in the leather goods sector of the store, situated not far from the grotto’s exit; and this good woman hastened to make a report to her departmental chief.
“An old man, lurking, Herr Forster.”
“Ah. For shoplifting, Frau Spellman?”
“No, I do not think so, Herr Forster.” She lowered her voice, looked around carefully, about to speak of things that were better not said too loudly. “The Father Christmas,” she said obliquely in Herr Forster’s ear.
“The Father Christmas, Frau Spellman?”
“The little children, Herr Forster! The old man is regarding them as they emerge from the Father Christmas.” Frau Spellman’s tone was heavy with accusation; a very full bosom heaved with indignation. “Such people!”
“I shall look for myself, Frau Spellman.”
The departmental manager moved across the floor towards the exit from the grotto. He came up behind Hedge, who was staring at the children as they came through, having nothing better to do for the time being.
“Your pardon, mein herr.”
Hedge started, giving quite a jump. He turned. “Yes, what is it?”
“Ah. You are English.”
“Yes, of course I am. Who are you, if I may ask?”
Forster identified his function in the store. “Perhaps you have a grandchild, visiting Father Christmas?”
“No, I haven’t,” Hedge answered irritably.
“No child at all?”
“No.” Hedge began to see the way the wind was blowing; he had not forgotten the vile accusation of the NATO supremo’s son that same morning. He reddened. He said, “I don’t know why I’m being subjected to a kind of — of interrogation. I’m here to observe you Germans in your natural habitat. You’re of interest to us British. Especially at Christmas time, don’t you know?”
“No, I do not know. I am told you have been here for quite some time. This is not welcome, for the good name of the store. I must ask you to leave immediately, mein herr.”
“I most certainly shall not,” Hedge snapped, his colour rising further. “I have every right to be here, and I —”
The departmental manager cut him short. Stiffly he said, “I have made my request. If you do not do as I ask, you will be removed forcibly from the store, and the police will be called.”
Hedge was furious, both at the imputation against his character and at the wretched German’s act in baulking him of his mission. He was about to give the man a piece of his mind when he became aware of something going on behind him. He turned round. Father Christmas’s rear view could be seen departing, moving away through the store, yet the emergence of the children was continuing unabated. Hedge ticked over: Father Christmas alias Logan had been relieved by another man. Perhaps that happened only on Saturdays, the late-opening day. Or perhaps it occurred every day, and at specified intervals. In which case he now had no idea at all which Father Christmas was Logan. In the meantime the departmental chief was waiting and was becoming impatient. Hedge glowered, knew he was beaten on all counts. “Oh, God damn and blast all you foreigners! None of you has any savvy at all.”
He swung savagely and bounced away through the store, in the wake of Father Christmas, the one who just might be his quarry. He saw the red-clad figure vanish through what seemed to be a staff doorway. He really had no idea what to do now. He dithered, then made up his mind. There would be a staff exit somewhere on the ground floor, or perhaps from the basement. He would find it. He trundled down the stairs, glad enough to put room between himself and the wretched shopman. He was totally unaware that a young woman who had been examining handbags in the leather section was following at a discreet distance behind him.
He emerged into the street, into the snow and the wind. Shivering and very angry he pulled up the collar of his dark blue greatcoat and sunk his face down into it. Moving around outside the store, he identified what he believed was the staff exit. He waited, keeping the exit in view as he perambulated up and down to keep his circulation going. He pondered on Shard; this sort of thing was Shard’s job, and Shard should have been here in West Berlin to do it. He wondered what Shard was up to; wasting his time probably. Policemen were very inclined to do just that. They had routine minds, were unable to see the wood for the trees. Basically, their minds were untrained.
He hadn’t long to wait.
One or two persons, store workers possibly on shifts like Father Christmas, began to emerge. After some half-dozen had come out, Hedge believed he had pinpointed Logan. A man of similar build to the Father Christmas he had moved past with the American boy, now without the beard. It was true he didn’t look, facially, like the Logan Hedge remembered, but so very many years had passed and very old persons, Hedge had found, tended to look alike, like Chinamen, all similarly pinched and grey with their geriatricity.
Then came the clincher.
The man hailed a taxi. The voice, again, was Logan’s. Hedge was convinced of that. And a taxi! Father Christmases, genuine ones, didn’t take taxis to and from their work, they were poor people, scraping the bottom of the financial barrel in order to get together some cash for their Christmas cheer. Which made the whole thing even more alarming. As that fellow Rufus Bland had said, Logan could hardly be a poor man. He had made his millions in the past and he could scarcely have got through the lot. Obviously, he had some nefarious reason for what he was doing. Hedge hailed another taxi and told the driver to follow the first one. Behind Hedge, the young woman acted in similar fashion. The convoy moved off into the traffic flow. Hedge, sitting on the edge of his seat and peering anxiously ahead past his driver, wondered what Logan’s purpose could possibly be. Then he remembered, once again, his own morning sojourn with the son of the General Officer Commanding the NATO forces, an important man. Within the alliance a very important man indeed. More kidnap, more pressure to further Logan’s mad schemes? Well, it was possible, even though that boy had turned up quite fortuitously without his mother. Logan could have been spying out the lie of the land, as it were, guessing that a small boy would be only too likely to be taken to see Father Christmas. Assessing the possibilities, that sort of thing. And, of course, there were other important persons, British and American, in West Berlin and some of them had children with them, all probably kidnappable. Rufus Bland was one; there would be others in the Consulate-General.
The Logan File Page 7