Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  And yet, there was life in it.

  Standing just outside the wrought-iron gate in the middle of the drive, Bryan was totally conspicuous. Sixty feet away an elderly man had just left Kröner’s front door and was on his way over to him. Bryan could either walk by or remain where he was and play the game that had already begun. Looking in his direction, the elderly man stopped for a moment as if trying to remember whether he’d locked the door behind him. Then he took another step forward, collected himself and looked straight at Bryan. He smiled and threw open his arms, almost as if they’d met before. ‘Suchen Sie etwas?’ he asked, stopping a couple of paces away to clear his throat.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The words popped mechanically out of Bryan’s mouth. It was the old man he had seen together with Kröner at Kuranstalt Saint-Ursula. The one he had subsequently followed to the house on Luisenstrasse. For a moment the old man seemed puzzled by the foreign language and switched over to English with a smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘I asked if you were looking for someone.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I am, actually,’ said Bryan, looking him straight in the face. ‘I’m looking for Herr Hans Schmidt.’

  ‘I see. I wish I could help you, Herr…?’

  ‘Bryan Underwood Scott.’ Bryan took the old man’s outstretched hand, noticing its thin, ice-cold skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, but he and his family have gone away for a couple of days, Herr Scott. I’ve just been watering their flowers. That has to be done too, doesn’t it?’ Then he smiled with a twinkle in his eye, friendly and familiarly. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  Behind the mask with the white beard was a face that was pricking at Bryan’s subconscious. The voice was foreign and unfamiliar, but the features made him feel uneasy without knowing why. ‘I don’t know, really,’ he said, hesitating. He wasn’t going to get another chance like this. ‘Actually it’s not Herr Schmidt I want to talk to, even though it would be interesting, but one of his acquaintances.’

  ‘I see. But I may be able to help you nevertheless. I know most of the people in Hans Schmidt’s circle as well as he does. Who are you looking for, if I may be so bold?’

  ‘A mutual friend from many years ago. You’re hardly likely to know him. His name is Gerhart Peuckert.’

  The old man scrutinized him for a moment. Then he pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed as he thought. ‘You know what?’ he began finally, raising his eyebrows. ‘I do believe I remember the man. He was ill, wasn’t he?’

  This was one development Bryan hadn’t expected. He stared at the old man, tongue-tied for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose he was,’ he said at length.

  ‘I think I remember him. Perhaps it’s not even so long ago that I heard Hans mention him. Could that be so?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Well, I can try and find out. My wife is blessed with an excellent memory. I’m sure she can help us. Are you very busy? Do you live here in town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would do us the honour of dining with us. What would you say to half past eight? Would that suit you? In the meantime we’ll try and find out where this Gerhart Peuckert can possibly be found. What do you say?’

  ‘It sounds fantastic.’ The prospects were dizzying. The old man’s eyes were kind. ‘I certainly can’t say no to that. It’s extremely kind of you.’

  ‘Then it’s settled. Half past eight.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be anything special, you understand. We’re not so young, my wife and I. We live at 14 Längenhardstrasse. It’s not difficult to find. I suggest you cut through Stadtgarten. Do you know Stadtgarten, Herr Scott?’

  Bryan swallowed with difficulty. He knew the old man lived on Luisenstrasse. Now he’d just said something different. Avoiding the old man’s eyes, Bryan attempted a smile. It was a bad sign to be confronted with a lie just as hope was in sight. Bryan’s stomach contracted. An urge to move his bowels took him unawares.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Then you can’t go wrong. From Leopoldring walk straight through the park around the back of the lake and you’ll come out at Mozartstrasse. The second turn on the right and you’re there. Längenhardstrasse. Number 14, remember that. It says Wunderlich on the door.’ The old man smiled and they shook hands again. Before he finally disappeared around the corner he’d turned around and waved several times.

  Chapter 50

  One of the more difficult jobs, Kröner was thinking. For years there had been so many opportunities for getting rid of Petra Wagner that it was quite painful to think of now.

  All this trouble! At the moment he didn’t even know where she was.

  The main problem was that it was Saturday, which meant he couldn’t get hold of anyone in the staff room or the office. If he called people at home they were always out on some errand or other. He simply couldn’t get an answer to his question.

  Where was Petra Wagner?

  And even if it had been an ordinary weekday, whom could he have asked? Sooner or later someone would be bound to wonder about his curiosity. Especially if she were to disappear immediately afterwards.

  What Kröner felt most like doing was turning the car around and driving to Titisee, where his wife and son had probably already been devouring sage biscuits at Hotel Schwarzwald all day. He clutched the steering wheel as he approached the traffic light. The road leading to the suburbs on the right looked tempting. But his destination lay straight ahead on the left. When the light changed he slowly put his foot on the accelerator and drove quickly past the housing blocks towards Petra Wagner’s small flat.

  Her block of flats was just as deserted as the street. Neither the street door nor the door to her flat was a problem. A quick, firm shove with his body in the right place was enough to sufficiently loosen the doorframe.

  Newspapers lay strewn about the entrance. The flat had been deserted some hours ago.

  Kröner had never been there before. Both rooms were filled with the pungent scent of a middle-aged woman. The flat was neat, yet depressing.

  All but one of the desk drawers was unlocked and strangely empty. A few files stuck out of the bottom shelf of the bookcase and attracted Kröner’s attention until several recipes fell out of them. Kröner left the clippings lying on the carpet where they had fallen. In the middle of the bookcase a shelf had been taken out and replaced with an array of framed photographs. They were presumably Petra’s family and friends. In the biggest frame in the middle stood a younger edition of Petra in uniform – a blue-and-white striped blouse and an old-fashioned white nurse’s skirt. Her smile looked more relaxed than Kröner had seen before. In the chair in front of her sat Gerhart Peuckert, staring straight into the camera with a smile so fleeting and feathery that it almost seemed to have been retouched off his face.

  In the adjacent room her bed was still unmade. Underwear and what she’d been wearing the day before had been flung at random over the dressing table. Another row of photos was pinned up on the wall over the bed. None of these persons had any connection with the part of her life Kröner knew about.

  He looked at the locked drawer again, rummaged around in his pocket and took out his penknife. A sharp jab straight at the catch followed by a careful twist, and the drawer gave way instantly.

  Amongst a pile of papers lay several more pictures of Gerhart and her. He carefully took everything out of the drawer and placed it on the writing desk. Nothing was more than a few years old. Petra Wagner’s souvenirs from the occasional vacation bore witness to her modesty and lack of imagination. Apparently her lifestyle hadn’t been enriched much by the money they’d committed themselves to paying her.

  Kröner replaced everything, pushed in the drawer and slowly withdrew the knife until he heard a click. Then he took the wastepaper basket out from under the desk and rummaged through it. As he pushed the basket into place again his eye caught the recipes lying on the floor. Sighing, he knelt down and gathered up the small pi
le. As he was replacing them in the file on the shelf, a yellowish slip of paper caught his attention.

  It was obvious that it didn’t belong there.

  Even before he had unfolded it, he knew Petra had finally lost her hold on Gerhart’s and her own life. He hastily read the short sentences that he remembered word for word, even though it was ages ago since he’d last seen them. He and Stich and Lankau had been worried about that piece of paper for most of their adult lives.

  Kröner gave a little smile, then folded the document neatly, stuck it in his inner pocket and stared for a moment at the telephone dial before lifting the receiver. It took almost a minute before a breathless female voice answered his call.

  ‘Good afternoon, Frau Billinger, this is Hans Schmidt.’ Folding the penknife with one hand, he replaced it carefully in his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me if Petra Wagner has turned up today?’ he asked. Frau Billinger was one of the nurses who they’d had in their employment longest at Kuranstalt Saint-Ursula. As a rule, when she wasn’t sitting in her office she had gone down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of peppermint tea and thereafter padded further to the dayroom in the A-wing. The television set there was the newest, and the chairs were covered with plastic so the upholstery wouldn’t stink of urine. Whenever she sat down and let herself be carried away by a TV series, she often forgot she had a place of her own to go home to.

  ‘Petra Wagner? No, but why should she be here? You drove Erich Blumenfeld home to Hermann Müller, as far as I know. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Yes, but Petra Wagner doesn’t know that.’

  ‘I see.’ Kröner could visualize her thoughtful, shining face. ‘In that case it’s a bit odd, isn’t it? It’s past six o’clock. She should have been here by now. But why do you ask? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all, I just had a proposal to make to her.’

  ‘A proposal? But what kind of proposal, Herr Schmidt? If you think you can get her to work here for us, you’re making a mistake. She’s much better paid with the job she has.’

  ‘No doubt, Frau Billinger, no doubt. I’d be thankful if you would just ask her to phone me at home as soon as she comes. Will you do that, Frau Billinger?’ The silence at the other end of the line was usually a sign of Frau Billinger’s acquiescence.

  ‘And one thing more, Frau Billinger. We’d prefer she didn’t leave again when she finds out that Erich Blumenfeld is gone for the weekend. Get one of the orderlies to fetch some pastry. I’ll reimburse you. Give her a cup of tea and we’ll hurry over in the meantime. Just as long as you remember to phone as soon as she comes.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Frau Billinger’s delight was almost audible on the telephone. ‘It sounds exciting. I love pastry and I love secrets!’

  Chapter 51

  The conversation, if you could call it that, took place in a hurry. Gerhart raised his head cautiously, stopped counting and looked into the living room. Andrea was standing there, grimacing. It was a rare sight. Clearly she’d been taken by surprise. In her younger days she probably would have been more on her guard. She swore out loud. Gerhart shrunk back in his chair.

  There might be hell to pay.

  ‘Goddamn bitch!’ she hissed. Then it came again. ‘Goddamn little bitch!’

  Then everything was quiet and Gerhart resumed counting the stucco rosettes. A moment later she came shuffling calmly into the room in her slippers, took Gerhart’s arm and led him into the kitchen.

  There he sat, quiet as a mouse, listening to her mumbled complaints until her husband returned. Gerhart’s eyes glided out of focus. He tried to let the words pass through him without registering them.

  ‘I’ve seen him. Arno von der Leyen!’ Stich almost shouted. ‘It was fantastic. He spoke English, just as Lankau said. Fantastic! I nearly fell over when he presented himself as Bryan Underwood Scott, exactly as Kröner said! Not even Lankau knows that. What a name!’ Stich tried to laugh, but was forced to clear his throat instead. ‘The fool! Nothing less would do. “Bryan Underwood Scott”!’ Stich stopped abruptly, then continued in a hushed, theatrical voice. ‘We spoke to each other. “Excuse me,” he said in English, not realising who I was.’ He pinched his wife gently on the cheek. ‘He didn’t know who I was, Andrea! God bless you for getting me to change my appearance. Oh, you just should have heard him!’ He sat down heavily and cleared his throat again, snorting from the excitement and the exertion of the quick march back to the flat and up the stairs. ‘We arranged to meet two hours from now, Andrea.’ He smiled at her. ‘He thinks he’s coming to dinner. At half past eight at 14 Längenhardstrasse. God knows who lives there.’ Then he laughed and pulled off one of his boots. ‘Arno von der Leyen will never get a chance to find that out either. We two will see to that, won’t we Andrea? I recommended he cut through Stadtgarten.’

  ‘She phoned.’ Andrea spoke the words cautiously, shifting her chair slightly so that Gerhart Peuckert came to be sitting between her and her husband. Peter Stich dropped the other boot and looked straight at her.

  ‘Petra Wagner?’

  Gerhart opened his eyes and looked around confusedly until he caught sight of the dots on Andrea’s apron. Starting under the front pocket, he began meticulously counting the spots, bottom up, left to right. Andrea got up quietly. Gerhart’s gaze followed her, dot by dot.

  ‘Yes, she phoned ten minutes ago and asked to speak to you.’

  ‘And…?

  ‘She slammed the receiver down when I said you weren’t in.’

  ‘You idiot!’ he yelled, seizing the boot he had just taken off. ‘You incredible idiot!’ The edge of the kitchen table cut into Andrea’s thigh as she hastily tried to push herself backwards, thereby deforming Gerhart’s dotted landscape. Stich’s aim could be painfully precise. When his eyes met his wife’s, he froze and lowered his arm. ‘You know Kröner’s looking for her, you fool!’

  Even if Gerhart had been fully alert, he would never have been able to ward off the blow. The boot was rather old and had been resoled many times. It was heavy and his temple was bare. For a moment he blacked out. When he came to, the figure standing over him was still hitting him.

  ‘It’s your fault, all of it!’ Stich screamed, striking him again. ‘You and your bloody English bloodhound. “Excuse me” this and “excuse me” that! He’s sure as hell not coming here, causing trouble. We’ve got enough of that with you, already.’

  After the final blow he dropped the boot and left the kitchen. Over in her corner Andrea gathered up a couple of cups and went into the living room as if nothing had happened. Gerhart lay motionless with his neck resting against one of the cupboard doors. He didn’t touch the numb side of his face. He wriggled first one ankle and then the other. Next he slowly tensed all the muscles in his body, one by one. When Andrea returned to fetch the coffee she mumbled something he couldn’t understand and kicked his shin in irritation as she passed by. The moment the pain planted itself in his consciousness, he looked up at her with an expression of surprise.

  For some time afterwards they left him in peace. He tried to count again in a vain attempt to calm his chaotic thoughts. Sudden whims and strange feelings kept replacing one another, churning him up inside. First, there were the impressions he’d had. Everyone around him seemed excited and irritable. Kröner had gone off to do away with Petra. Then there were the names: Arno von der Leyen, Bryan Underwood Scott, and again – Petra.

  Peter Stich’s blows had rained down on him twice that day, but that wasn’t what had him aroused. It was the echo of the alien sounds that had come from Stich’s mouth.

  Then Gerhart Peuckert got up and stood quietly under the humming neon kitchen lights. The words ‘excuse me’ had been like a kiss that awakened him from a magic spell.

  Peter Stich continued screaming at his wife, but he quickly stopped again, as usual.

  There was still some light in the living room, but scarcely enough for what Peter Stich and Andrea were doing. The old man was bent over the desk in
concentration. Gerhart glided out of the darkness of the hallway, dimly aware of what was happening. The desk flap was down and half-covered with small pieces of metal. Gerhart had seen if before. Soon the old man would have assembled his pistol, and he would switch on the ceiling light in order to admire his work, well polished and ready for action. Then Andrea would sigh with pleasure, finally able to see what she was crocheting.

  The three men had lived and laughed in these rooms all these years, in spite of the misery they’d inflicted on their surroundings.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Without turning around or looking up, the old man had sensed Gerhart’s presence. ‘Get back to the kitchen, you freak!’ he snapped, when he finally turned round.

  ‘Watch out for the furniture, Peter!’ Andrea looked up from her crocheting. Gerhart Peuckert was still standing motionless in the doorway leading to the hallway. He looked disobediently at Stich and made no attempt to obey. Stich got up slowly.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, you idiot?’ The old man turned threateningly towards the figure in the doorway, poised and threatening like an old, insolent, snarling dog. Peuckert didn’t budge, even when the gun was pointed at him. ‘Has he had his pills, Andrea?’

  ‘Yes, I put them on the dining room table when you went out. They’re gone now.’

  Stich approached him with measured steps. Gerhart moved slightly. Neither Stich nor his wife noticed his hand, from which a sudden cascade of pills scattered like stardust. The effect was pretty impressive.

  Andrea was the first to react. ‘God damn it!’ was all she said. The old man’s jaw dropped. Then, arm raised, he plunged forward and struck Gerhart with the pistol butt even before their bodies collided.

  The gash in Gerhart Peuckert’s cheek was still dry. It had not yet managed to bleed. Gerhart felt the oncoming confusion and nausea and remained on the floor on all fours like an animal, while the blows from the butt of the pistol rained down on his head and neck. ‘Now, you eat them, you scum!’ Stich shrieked, until he had to sit down, exhausted by his emotional and physical outburst. But Gerhart left the pills lying on the floor as they’d fallen.