Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  ‘As far as I know, I can’t see what Mr Scott would be doing in Freiburg, Mrs Scott.’ Ken Fowles looked at her attentively. ‘What makes you ask? I phoned him on Monday and he was still in Munich.’

  ‘And since then? When did you last speak to him, Ken?’

  ‘I haven’t had any reason to contact him since then.’

  ‘And who are we working with in Germany? Can you tell me that?’ The question made Ken Fowles tilt his head in puzzlement. He understood neither her interest nor her unusually friendly tone.

  ‘But we haven’t any permanent business connections in Germany. Not yet, that is. It’s no more than a couple of weeks since we started serious negotiations regarding the new gastric ulcer medicine. We’ve employed a sales representative recently who is to build up our domain in northern Europe.’

  ‘And who is this lucky man?’

  ‘Peter Manner from Gesellschaft Heinz W. Binken & Breumann. But they haven’t established themselves in Germany yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because Binken & Breumann is a Liechtenstein company and Peter Manner is as English as you or I and is currently in Portsmouth.’

  ‘I just have to do something for Bryan, Lizzie.’ said Laureen, striding past Mrs Shuster again. The air in Bryan’s massive office was heavy and sweetish. Bryan’s desk was his archive, and it was extensive. Every pile represented a success. In certain piles a lifetime of research lay ready to be revealed. This was the sorting station of the very best laboratory research. Mrs Shuster looked on disapprovingly from her office as she leaned uncomfortably over the sharp edge of her desk.

  All the drawers were locked. Laureen had no need to worry about them. None of the piles on the desk mentioned anything about Freiburg, let alone Germany. Bryan’s conservative tastes were in evidence on the walls above the room’s heavy furniture. Not even a calendar was allowed to disturb the office’s neatness. There were a few paintings, none of which were less than 200 years old, and brass light fixtures to illuminate them. Otherwise there was nothing. No bulletin boards, no appointments planners, no notes on the pad. Only a single small object was allowed to intrude on the efficient, slightly old-fashioned, diligent, executive office atmosphere – a little spike of the type used to skewer unpaid bills. The kind of small murderous weapon that Laureen hadn’t allowed Bryan to place on the desk at home, but now reared up between three telephones, not even a quarter-full of notes.

  Laureen knew that it was Bryan’s idea bank. A random thought, a bright colleague’s brainstorm, a vision – and each idea subsequently articulated with neat handwriting and impaled on that little spike. There wasn’t much there to get her hopes up at the moment – only five notes – but the one at the bottom aroused her interest. It read: ‘Keith Welles! £2,000 transferred to Commerzbank, Hamburg.’ Laureen stared at it for a moment and strode out to the secretary’s office.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie, would you be good enough to tell me what this is all about?’ She placed the note in front of the secretary, who screwed up her eyes and frowned at the note.

  ‘It’s in Mr Scott’s handwriting.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that quite well, Lizzie, but what does it mean?’

  ‘That he’s transferred £2,000 to Keith Welles, apparently.’

  ‘Who is this Keith Welles, Lizzie?’

  ‘I think Ken Fowles would be better able to answer that, but he’s just left.’

  ‘Then do your best, Lizzie dear. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘But he was only one of many. I seem to remember he was the last of the applicants whom Mr Scott and Mr Fowles interviewed about a month ago. Just let me look at Mr Scott’s appointments calendar.’

  Mrs Shuster had the habit of humming when she was given a task. Laureen didn’t understand how Bryan could stand it. He didn’t notice it, he said. ‘She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,’ Laureen thought, assessing the secretary’s other virtues.

  ‘Yes, here it is. Week 33. Mr Welles was indeed the last to be interviewed.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of the interview?’

  ‘To find new agents for the gastric ulcer medicine. But Keith Welles was not employed.’

  ‘Then why should he have £2,000?’

  ‘I don’t know. To cover his travelling expenses, I suppose. He flew over from Germany and spent the night at a hotel.’ Lizzie Shuster was not used to being cross-examined. Being bombarded with questions made her unsure of herself. The two women had never really hit it off since she’d joined the firm seven years ago. Even in everyday situations, when she merely had to put Laureen through to her husband, one could imagine icicles forming on the telephone line. Until now Laureen had never attempted a smile. When it finally came, it was much too radiant.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie. Please, won’t you give me Keith Welles’ phone number?’

  ‘Keith Welles’ number? I don’t know… I guess I can find it. But wouldn’t it be more natural if you phoned your husband in Munich and got it from him?’

  Again Laureen smiled, camouflaging her I’m-your-employer’s-wife look that could make even Ken Fowles do as he was told.

  Mrs Shuster received no thanks as Laureen folded the note and left the office without turning round.

  Keith Welles’ daughter spoke better English than his tired wife, who had taken the phone. No, her father wasn’t at home. He was in Munich, or else he was just about to leave. She didn’t really know. Laureen waited patiently as the telephone clicked regular signals indicating the expensive rate, until the girl finally returned with the number of Welles’ hotel.

  Two minutes later she’d asked the desk clerk the same question. He was very sorry. Mr Welles had unfortunately just left the reception counter. He could just make out the taxi as it was moving off.

  ‘I have a problem,’ Laureen said slowly, ‘and perhaps you can help me. Keith Welles has my husband’s telephone number in Freiburg. I’m quite sure he has phoned my husband several times from your hotel. My husband’s name is Bryan Underwood Scott. Can you help me? Isn’t there some kind of list of the calls made from the hotel?’

  ‘We have telephones with direct lines, madam. We don’t list the calls. But maybe our bartender knows something. Mr Welles spoke to him a few times, I think. Our bartender is also Canadian, you see. Just a moment, madam, I’ll ask him.’

  Laureen heard an almost inaudible murmur of voices in the background that were interrupted several times by metallic clinking and brief conversation. Apparently new guests were arriving. For a couple of minutes there was total silence apart from the ticking of the line. Bridget stood with her coat on, tripping impatiently beside Laureen as she pointed at her watch. From the street outside came the beeping of the taxi.

  Laureen waved deprecatingly with her free hand, staring at a point in space as she clutched the receiver. ‘Many thanks! That was very kind of you,’ she merely said, and smiled.

  A few hours later, when the taxi driver deposited their luggage outside Hotel Colombi in Rotteckring, the more fashionable part of Freiburg, Bridget looked self-consciously at the chalk-white facade, then the gleaming picture windows and the park across the street. Their tribulations since arriving at EuroAirport Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg, where they hadn’t received their hotel reservation confirmation until they’d taken the bus to Freiburg railway station, were already forgotten. She bent calmly over one of the numerous white flower boxes that decorated the hotel courtyard and carefully ran her finger along the edge, after which she inspected her fingertip. An ordinary housewife from Wales, in action.

  ‘Don’t you think they mine coal in this town, Laureen?’ she exclaimed.

  Chapter 34

  All the pent-up rage he’d been unable to come to terms with for years flowed through every breath Bryan took as he waited the entire morning in front of Kröner’s house. Sometimes when a car appeared he felt an uncontrollable urge to throw himself upon the occupants like a wild animal. But they were never the ones he was waiting for. At other anxious moments
he kept watch to see if Kröner’s domestic help had noticed he was still standing on the pavement opposite his house.

  The house seemed quite dead.

  His bitterness about Pock-Face having succeeded in living a comfortable, untroubled life all these years set off some crazy notions in his head. I’ll ruin him, he thought. I’ll strip him of everything: his house, his wife, his domestic help and his false name. I’ll haunt him until he begs me to stop! He must atone for his crime. He’ll come to regret what he’s done.

  But first he has to tell me about James!

  The car arrived noiselessly. Bryan saw no sign of movement behind the darkened windows. It was up the driveway in no time. Three men got out, laughing and arguing as they hitched up their trousers and straightened their clothes. Bryan didn’t manage to see their faces before they went inside, but he heard Kröner’s voice. Affable, deep and ingratiating, as always. Authoritative, masculine, hair-raisingly recognisable.

  Bryan gave himself an additional two hours. If Kröner hadn’t shown himself by then, he would go straight up to the house and ring the bell.

  But that didn’t prove necessary.

  Yet another car drew up to the house. It was somewhat smaller than Kröner’s. After a moment’s hesitation a little face popped out by the rear door. The boy was almost white-haired. His short legs stepped very gingerly onto the gravel path. A slim, young woman staggered behind him, heavily laden with plastic bags. The boy laughed as his mother nudged him with her knee.

  After a few minutes the men who had arrived first left the villa again. Standing in the driveway, they said a cheerful goodbye to the young woman who’d come to the doorway, holding the boy by the hand.

  Kröner came last. He picked the boy up and pulled him close. The youngster sat on his arm for a moment, hugging Kröner’s face like a little monkey. These mutual embraces took Bryan’s breath away. Then Kröner kissed the young woman in a very non-fatherly fashion and put his hat on.

  Before Bryan managed to take stock of the situation, all the men had driven off in Kröner’s Audi. It all happened so suddenly that Bryan never managed to consider how to react. The long waiting time had made him stiff all over. The Audi had reached the bottom of the road before Bryan climbed into his Jaguar.

  And by then much too much time had elapsed.

  They slipped out of sight at the very first traffic light. A pedestrian shook his fist threateningly as Bryan’s tyres burned rubber and sent pigeons’ wings flapping. Most of the streets were thick with traffic. The week was drawing to a close and many families were heading to the countryside for the weekend.

  He drove around the area aimlessly, and half an hour later miraculously caught sight of the car again.

  It was parked less than five yards away on the other side of the street. Kröner and one of the men from that morning had returned to the car and were standing beside it, talking cordially.

  Several passers-by smiled at Kröner, and each time he raised his hat and nodded almost imperceptibly. He was obviously well liked and respected.

  The man standing beside Kröner was a prototype of the well-mannered type who is usually destined for a high position in the civil service. He was better looking than Kröner, but it was Kröner who stole the picture despite his pockmarked face and much too amiable smile. He was full of life and extremely conscious of it. In the hospital Bryan had never quite been able to determine his age. Now it was easier. He was certainly less than sixty, but could even have passed for someone of fifty.

  He still had many good years left.

  Suddenly Kröner turned and stared straight over towards him. So suddenly that Bryan couldn’t manage to look down. Pock-Face spread his arms and clapped his hands enthusiastically, whereupon he laid one hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed out the source of his enthusiasm with descriptive gestures. Bryan pressed himself back into his seat so his face was behind the window frame.

  It was Bryan’s Jaguar that had caught Kröner’s fancy. He looked as if he might come over for a closer look as soon as there was a pause in the traffic. Bryan glanced feverishly over his shoulder. As soon as the stream of cars abated, he immediately pulled out onto the street and disappeared before their eyes. In the rearview mirror he could see the two men standing in the middle of the road, shaking their heads.

  He saw the Volkswagen as soon as he got to Bertoldstrasse. It had obviously once been decorated with a full spectrum of psychedelic colours. Faint motifs could still be seen. Now it was more or less black, having been hastily painted over. The paint job wasn’t shiny.

  The message in the back window was clear enough. A reasonable price and a very long telephone number. It was parked in front of a low, yellowish building with a flat roof. The name ‘Roxy’ was extravagantly displayed on a sign on the otherwise bare facade. The bodega’s windows consisted of transparent bricks. Had it not been for the dark door and the signs advertising Lasser Bier and Bitburger Pils, the dirty glass blocks would have covered the entire front of the building. This authentic horror of a bierstube had survived the ruthless trend towards so-called urban harmonisation.

  The room was surprisingly light inside. The car’s owner was easy to spot. Among the quiet hangovers and fleshy, red-veined faces a single antiquated hippie stood out from the rest. He was the only one who noticed Bryan enter. Bryan nodded in the direction of the crocheted waistcoat’s orgy of colours and the tie-dyed, too-tight T-shirt.

  He tossed his long hair behind his back at least twenty times as they negotiated. The price was reasonable but the hippie insisted on pointless pissing about. After this had gone on long enough, Bryan slammed the money down on the table and asked for the car’s registration papers. He would see to all the formalities later. If he kept the car at all.

  And if he didn’t, he would park it where it was now, with the key in the ignition and the papers in the glove compartment. If that happened, the guy could just have it back.

  Thus Bryan parked his new, anonymous find opposite Kröner’s villa at precisely one in the afternoon, when most people in the neighbourhood had presumably returned home for lunch. This time less than five minutes elapsed before Kröner stepped out of his villa. Looking serious and concentrated, he was preparing for the second part of his working day.

  During the next few hours Bryan got a good impression of Kröner’s activities and numerous enterprises. Six visits to various addresses. All in the best part of town and all accomplished in less than ten minutes. Every time Kröner left, he was holding a small stack of letters. By now, Bryan knew the procedure.

  He too had many enterprises that needed attending to.

  Everywhere he went, Kröner appeared relaxed and at home. He shopped at the supermarket, visited Sparda Bank and the post office, and occasionally stopped his car to exchange greetings with passers-by through his rolled-down window.

  Apparently he knew everyone in town and everyone knew him.

  In one of the more outlying districts Pock-Face stopped in front of a large villa covered with Boston ivy. He straightened his clothes and disappeared into the house at a leisurely pace that distinguished this call from the others. Despite the Volkswagen’s protests, Bryan put the car into a grinding reverse gear and backed past the villa’s column-flanked driveway.

  The cracked enamel plate was almost impossible to read, its ornate Gothic letters half eroded by the march of time. But it was no ordinary sign. It read: Kuranstalt St. Ursula des Landgebietes Freiburg im Breisgau.

  A chaos of theories flashed through Bryan’s mind as he waited for Pock-Face outside this compact mausoleum in all its pompous, crumbling lavishness.

  There could be countless reasons why Kröner was visiting a sanatorium. He could have relatives there. He could be ill himself, even though he didn’t look it. His visit could be of a local political nature. But there might just as well be other reasons that weren’t quite so straightforward.

  Bryan hardly dared think this thought through to the end. On the opposite
side of the road stood a building, its brass-ornamented door garlanded by a couple of shrubs in earthenware pots. It turned out to be a cross between a beer hall and an upper-class restaurant. Except from over in the corner by the telephone cubicles, the view of the clinic was fairly good.

  Bryan’s first call made him wonder. Even if Laureen was not at home to take the call herself, it should have been possible to leave a message with their housekeeper, Mrs Armstrong. And if she wasn’t there, why couldn’t he at least leave a message on the answering machine? Bryan cursed. It was Laureen herself who had insisted on buying this electronic wonder that she’d irreverently placed atop a noble heirloom she derisively termed ‘the most expensive bit of walnut ever to stand on English soil’. If it had to stand there, why didn’t she use it at least? My God, he thought, and phoned again. Laureen could be unpredictable when they weren’t quite on the same wavelength. Maybe she had accompanied Bridget back to Cardiff.

  The third call was more rewarding. Keith Welles was there, precisely as arranged. He’d been patiently waiting to hear from Bryan.

  ‘I don’t expect it’s anything in particular,’ he began without enthusiasm, ‘but in fact there is a Gerhart Peuckert in a nursing home in Haguenau.’

  ‘Good Lord, Keith! Where’s Haguenau?’ Bryan drummed his fingers on the shelf in the telephone cubicle. Another of the guests was standing behind him impatiently. Bryan turned around and shook his head. He wasn’t giving up his place to anyone.

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ Welles continued reluctantly. ‘Haguenau is just twenty or thirty miles from Baden-Baden, where I am now. But…’

  ‘Then go there!’

  ‘But, you see, it’s just that Haguenau is in France.’