Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  ‘I think I’ll fucking kill you,’ Stich whispered. Andrea shook her head. She took Stich’s hand warned him it would be too messy and noisy.

  A quite unnecessary risk.

  As she got down on her knees and stopped the bleeding with a plaster she gave Gerhart a cold look. ‘This is more for the sake of the carpet than for you!’ she muttered through clenched teeth. Then she took Gerhart under his arms and heaved him up onto the nearest chair. At a nod from her husband she gathered up the pills.

  Peter Stich looked at his watch and put on the safety latch before placing the gun in the pocket of his coat. This time the look he sent Gerhart was gentle. As he drew up a chair beside him, his victim doubled up instinctively. Stich patted him on the shoulder as if he’d been his own son.

  ‘You know you have to do what we tell you, Gerhart. Otherwise we get angry and punish you. That’s how it’s always been, has it not, little Gerhart? Then we beat you or force you in some other way, don’t we? Lankau, Kröner and I are always there, aren’t we? But you know that. We can make you do anything at all. Can’t you remember how we made you eat your own shit, Gerhart, dear?’ Stich put his head close to Gerhart’s cheek. ‘We’re not going to have any of that today, are we?’

  Andrea almost curtsied as she placed the pills in her husband’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Now take your pills, Gerhart,’ said Stich, clearing his throat. ‘Otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do with you this time.’

  Gerhart tried not to resist as Peter Stich forced his dry lips apart. His body was completely passive and drained of energy, burned out by dim thoughts.

  ‘Chew them, Gerhart. Or swallow them whole. I don’t care which, so long as they go down!’

  When, after the third slap on his neck, Gerhart Peuckert still made no attempt to swallow his pills, the old man got up resolutely and fetched the pistol. As he released the safety his wife took a couple of quick steps towards the sofa as though she’d seen her husband carry out threats like this before. Gerhart was breathing heavily and looking straight at Stich.

  ‘Wait, Peter, take the cushions!’ she advised. Sighing, the old man took one that she was holding out to him. He pressed it against Gerhart’s temple with the muzzle of the gun. ‘That’ll deaden the noise, all right,’ he said. The cushion felt cool. Andrea held the other cushion by the corners on the opposite side of Gerhart’s head. It felt warmer, as if someone had been leaning against it recently.

  ‘Now listen, you ape!’ Stich said, emphasizing his words by shoving the cushion harder against his cheek with the gun muzzle. ‘You’ve played out your role. When we’ve got rid of Petra, what will we need you for? The two of you kept each other under control, which was an excellent arrangement at the time. But what do we need you for without her around?’ Despite Stich’s firm grip, Gerhart managed to turn his head enough to look the henchman in the face. ‘It’s your last chance,’ the old man continued. ‘You can be back in your armchair at Saint-Ursula’s this evening if you swallow those pills now. And if you don’t, I don’t think we’ll have much problem explaining your disappearance. Swallow them! I’m counting to ten!’

  By now it was many hours since Gerhart had last had his pills. So much time had never elapsed before. A couple of minutes previously while he was down on all fours, being pistol-whipped on the kitchen floor and staring at the small white things scattered under the kitchen table, the main sensation he’d felt was one of astonishment.

  It was as if the room had grown longer than usual, and he had to keep on swallowing the saliva that had begun flowing unhindered. The sensation of his body growing and shrinking made him giddy. Andrea’s steps sounded like the tramping of an ox. All the words came to him as if through a megaphone.

  As the old man began to count, Gerhart felt defiance finally taking hold of him. The man’s face was in his way. It brought shadow into the room and coaxed disgust up to the surface. He smelled sourish and the stubble around his beard gave him a slovenly appearance.

  When he’d counted to five, Stich spat in his face, but there was still no reaction. The old man’s face had turned completely colourless with fury and he was frothing at the mouth. Andrea was watching him nervously. ‘I hate the noise and the mess!’ she cried. Then she leaned back precariously as far as she could to make sure the projectile wouldn’t hit her when it went through Gerhart’s head. The way she was sitting, a gust of wind could have toppled her off her seat.

  On the count of seven Gerhart Peuckert raised his arm and dried the spit off his face with the back of his hand. Stich’s violent outbursts weren’t working as planned. The weaker they were, the greater the effect. Like when the old man had touched him gently on the shoulder. This had inadvertently aroused something in Gerhart that he found impossible to combat.

  The desire to feel.

  No jigsaw puzzle is complete without the final piece. Without the puzzle, no thoughts. Without thoughts, no feelings. And without feelings, no reactions. This entire sequence was set off by Stich’s one tender touch. The soft hands had aroused feelings. Hearing about Petra’s intended fate was the final piece. When Peter Stich’s tenderness vanished and his threats resumed, they brought Gerhart’s reaction with them.

  The puzzle was complete.

  On the count of nine he spat all the pills into his oppressor’s eyes with such force that the old man was temporarily blinded.

  A last, fatal mistake.

  The old man backed away in surprise. Andrea squealed like a stuck pig, waving the cushion as if it were a deadly weapon.

  Gerhart spat again, seized the old man’s wrist and pressed his nails into his leathery skin with all his might.

  Gerhart didn’t hear the metallic sound of the pistol falling to the floor until it was too late. Within a second everything was quiet. Andrea stood over Gerhart with outstretched arms. She had grabbed the pistol and was intent on using it. Stich’s eyes were mad with rage. His entire body shook with indignation. The white, congealing mixture of half-dissolved pills and saliva was still trickling down his cheek, but he didn’t notice.

  Gerhart turned away from him and looked at Andrea. He stretched out an arm towards her, tilting his head to one side. His eyelashes were glued together and his mouth quivered. ‘Andrea…’ he said. It was the first time he’d said her name. Feelings fused and separated again, making him laugh and cry.

  ‘But my dear friend, you seem so upset,’ came the measured voice from behind. The colour returned to Stich’s cheeks as he straightened up, and he became his usual controlled self again. ‘How you can splutter, little Gerhart. In a little while you’ll calm down again, I promise. Give me the pistol now, Andrea,’ he urged, stretching out his hand. ‘We must put an end to all this!’

  In a flash Gerhart reached out and snatched the gun. It happened so fast, one might have thought Andrea had handed it to him of her own free will. Neither Andrea nor her husband had time to react. Then Gerhart took hold of her arm and flung her backwards against the wall so hard that she fell to the floor and didn’t get up again.

  The hatred between the old man and Gerhart Peuckert finally erupted. Without a sound. Stich automatically made for Gerhart’s throat with his skeleton-like hands. But despite all his years of passivity, his intended victim danced out of the devilish grip and landed a sledgehammer blow to Stich’s jaw.

  This pacified the old man.

  ‘What do you want?’ Stich asked with difficulty, as Peuckert shoved him down into the chair. The belt strapped around his wrists obviously hurt. ‘What do you want from me?’ he repeated.

  Peuckert raised a hand to the clear fluid running from one of his nostrils. Calming down, he turned his eyes to the ceiling and let Stich clear his throat. The man studied him a long time, and just as he was about to speak again, Gerhart bent down and picked up the pistol that was lying on the floor between his legs.

  Gerhart sighed. Even if he’d tried, not a word could have passed his lips. He would have asked the old man to repeat the name. N
ot ‘Arno von der Leyen’, but the other one. The one that had made Stich laugh.

  And then it came to him by itself.

  Bryan Underwood Scott.

  Gerhart got up and without warning struck the old man such a hard blow with the pistol butt that he tumbled out of his chair. Then he sat down and tried counting the rosettes in the ceiling frieze. At every attempt the name came back more and more distinctly. Finally he looked down and thought awhile, whereupon he went into the kitchen and opened several of the drawers. When he found what he was looking for he carefully switched off the light and strode down to the far end of the hallway where he opened a narrow cupboard and rolled the tinfoil he had just found into a big ball.

  Then he screwed one of the fuses out of the electricity metre, switched off the main switch, and switched it on again after quickly replacing the fuse with the tinfoil.

  The old man was still lying on the floor when Gerhart heaved the cord of his desk lamp out of its socket. Then he separated the two uninsulated wires and replaced the plug in the socket. The old man groaned a little as he was lifted back into his chair. The two looked into each other’s eyes for some time. Stich’s were just as red as the time he’d stood wide-eyed under the hospital shower.

  But they registered no fear.

  Peter Stich looked intently at the pistol and then at the wires Gerhart had stretched towards him. He shook his head and looked away. After a couple more blows to the chest he was too weak to resist. Gerhart pressed the exposed ends of the electric wires into each of his soft palms. Then he stretched the toe of his shoe over towards the switch on the wall. It crackled faintly as Gerhart kicked it on. The old man dropped the wires the instant he received the shock, so Gerhart switched off the current, stuck the wires more firmly into Stich’s fists and repeated the procedure. After the fifth jolt the old man’s throat began to rattle and he fell to the floor, unconscious, his breath irregular.

  The belt had left practically no marks on his wrists. Gerhart Peuckert removed it carefully and replaced it around the old man’s waist.

  The carpet had been pushed so far up against the wall behind Andrea that it almost covered her. Crumpled curtains and overturned potted plants were strewn on top of the carpet so that only Andrea’s ankles and shoes stuck out. She still made no sound when Gerhart dragged her over to her husband. He placed them hand in hand, face to face, as though they’d lain down to rest.

  The spittle in the corners of Stich’s mouth was almost dry when Gerhart opened it and inserted the ends of the wires. Then he stroked Andrea gently on the back of her hand and her cheek. Having looked at her expressionless face one last time he flipped the switch down. The instant the shock wave reached her, Andrea opened her eyes, horror-struck. The resulting muscle spasms caused her to clutch her husband’s hand tighter. He stood for a while, regarding his tormentors’ final twitches, until there was a slight smell of burnt flesh. A faint metallic clank from Stich’s watchband could be heard as his hand fell to the floor. The hands of the watch continued resolutely on their rounds. It was precisely seven o’clock.

  Gerhart went over to the corner and rearranged the curtain and carpet. For a moment he stood looking passively at the plants lying up against the wall, whereupon he brushed the loose earth under the carpet and put the plants back on the windowsill. Finally he went into the hallway, removed the clump of tinfoil and replaced the fuse. The moment he pressed down the main switch, the fuse sprang with a bang.

  Not until he was sitting in the dark living room and everything was quiet did he begin to cry. The combined impression had been too massive, too varied. He had let himself go to such an extent that the immediacy of actions and words was beginning to paralyze him. Then, just as his thoughts were again starting to spin with a centrifugal force, the telephone rang.

  Gerhart lifted the receiver. It was Kröner.

  ‘Yes…?’ he mouthed hesitantly in German.

  ‘I found your note, Peter. You needn’t worry, I’m prepared. On the other hand, I haven’t been able to find Petra. I’ve searched everywhere. She’s not at home or at the sanatorium. I’ve told Frau Billinger to phone me as soon as she turns up there. I’m at home now.’

  Gerhart breathed deeply. It was far from over. He formed the words slowly before uttering them.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he finally said, replacing the receiver.

  Chapter 52

  Even though Petra felt like screaming with frustration, she didn’t. For the most part, the tall woman by her side had been quiet and pale, but composed. Their search on Schlossberg had been without result. The sun had slowly set as they searched around the colonnade in hopes of finding some clue that might indicate the outcome of the afternoon’s meeting. Petra stood for a while in the reddish glow that accentuated the contrasts and contours of the town beneath her, trying quietly to understand and sum up her impressions of the past couple of hours.

  ‘If your husband is English, then what was he doing in Freiburg during the war?’ she asked at length.

  ‘All I know is that he was a pilot and was shot down over Germany together with one of his friends,’ came Laureen’s quiet reply. Suddenly it was so simple and comprehensible. There were so many things that had become easy to explain, it made Petra dizzy. At that moment she could have screamed. In the wake of this revelation new questions were bound to arise.

  Questions of such a nature that they had to remain unanswered for the time being.

  ‘And this friend, could he be Gerhart Peuckert?’ she asked, nonetheless. That was just one of the questions.

  Laureen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows?’ she said. Apparently she only had thoughts for her husband.

  Petra looked up at Schlossberg and a flock of black, robust birds that were all trying to land in the same treetop. Suddenly she realised how critical the situation really was. The three men who had been playing with her and Gerhart’s lives for years stood between the two women and the answers. The first step towards finding the truth inevitably involved a confrontation with them. If there had ever been any doubt about that in Petra’s mind, it was gone now. Laureen’s husband must be in grave danger. That is, if he wasn’t dead already. Petra had to keep this realisation to herself for the time being.

  And that, too, made her feel like screaming.

  The receptionist at Bryan’s hotel was practically friendly. ‘No, Mr Scott has not checked out yet. We definitely expect him to stay until tomorrow.’ The next question made him rack his memory in vain. ‘As far as I can remember, Mr Scott has not shown up all day. But I could phone and ask my colleague who was on duty before me,’ he added without interest, but kindly. ‘What do you ladies say to that?’

  Petra shook her head.

  ‘May I borrow your telephone?’ she asked, following the clerk’s indifferent wave towards the pay phone behind them.

  It was a long time before anyone answered.

  ‘Kuranstalt Saint-Ursula. Frau Billinger speaking,’ came the voice.

  ‘Good evening, Frau Billinger. This is Petra Wagner.’

  ‘Yes…?’

  ‘I’m a bit late today; perhaps Erich Blumenfeld is worried. Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, why ever not? Indeed, he is. Oh – apart from the fact that he misses you, of course.’ Frau Billinger sounded strangely animated. Almost as if she’d just been given another bottle of port by the grateful relative of a patient.

  ‘Hasn’t Erich had any visitors today?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Have neither Hans Schmidt, Hermann Müller nor Alex Faber been there yet?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve not been here the whole day, but I don’t think so.’

  Petra hesitated a moment. ‘And there hasn’t been an English-speaking gentleman to see him, either?’ she continued.

  ‘An English-speaking gentleman? No, I’m sure there hasn’t. But we did have a visitor today who spoke English, now that you mention it. But I believe he was Frau Rehmann’s guest, and that
was several hours ago.’

  ‘You don’t remember his name by any chance, Frau Billinger?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I don’t even think I heard it mentioned. When are you coming, Fraülein Wagner?’

  ‘I’ll be there soon. Just tell Erich that.’

  Occasionally the three men and Gerhart were together on Saturdays when they’d go for a drive. Sometimes they even drove as far as Karlsruhe or out to one of the villages near Kaiserstuhl to have a drink at the local inn and sing lieder. In these situations Gerhart would sit in their merry company for hours without moving a muscle.

  Petra was relieved to hear that wasn’t the case today. As long as Gerhart was at the sanatorium she could concentrate on helping Laureen and thereby possibly herself.

  ‘What did you ask her, Petra?’ Laureen spoke even before Petra had replaced the receiver. Petra looked at her. It was the first time she’d called her by her first name.

  ‘I simply asked how Gerhart Peuckert was. He’s all right. But I found out something I can’t quite understand.’

  ‘And that is…?’

  ‘I think your husband was at the sanatorium at some point today.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If he has already found this Gerhart Peuckert at the sanatorium – this man he’s been trying so hard to find – and Peuckert’s still there, then where has he been the whole time? Where is my husband now, if not there?’

  ‘I don’t know, Laureen.’ She took the tall woman’s hands and squeezed them. They were cold. ‘Are you sure your husband doesn’t want to hurt Gerhart?’

  ‘Mmm…’ Laureen didn’t seem to hear the question. ‘Tell me, couldn’t we go to my hotel now?’

  ‘Do you think he could be there?’