Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ came the quiet response from the floor. ‘Speak English, James. Talk to me.’

  Gerhart stood for a while, regarding the figure beneath him.

  ‘Get up!’ he then said slowly, in English. Lankau was overcome with horror. At once it dawned on him how fatally he’d misjudged the situation and had been making the wrong decisions all day.

  Arno von der Leyen looked up immediately. Lankau noted that Peuckert’s eyes were still evil-looking and cold as he watched the bound man. If there were any ties between them, it was a mystery to him.

  ‘James!’ was all that came from the man on the floor.

  ‘Get up!’ The Kenju lay firmly in Peuckert’s hand. He took a deep breath. Lankau noted his excitement with unease. ‘You’re going to get something for me from the kitchen. I’ll untie one of your hands.’ He stepped to the side and slugged Lankau on the back. ‘Don’t get any bright ideas, you hear?’

  Even though Lankau didn’t doubt Peuckert would carry out his threat, he chose to ignore the warning. He’d got a good grip on the table in front of him. All his strength was mobilized.

  Arno von der Leyen scrambled to his knees. He didn’t seem to understand what Gerhart wanted him to do. The wounds in his side and back seemed to be plaguing him intensely. Peuckert made no move to help him.

  The clamminess on Lankau’s back began to cool.

  ‘You’re to fetch the caustic soda from the kitchen cupboard. It’s labelled ‘Ätzmittel’. Bring it along with a glass of water, you understand? And don’t try anything smart. You won’t get away with it.’ Arno von der Leyen got to his feet and tried to straighten himself up. Leaning painfully to one side, he again glanced at Peuckert’s impassive face. ‘Perhaps I’ll give you a more merciful death if you do as I say. The woman, too.’

  ‘Death?’ Arno von der Leyen looked as if he were trying to shake off the alcoholic fog. ‘What are you talking about, James?’

  ‘Save yourself the trouble, you drunken swine!’ Lankau heard himself say. ‘He’s raving mad!’

  Von der Leyen leaned his face against Peuckert’s chest. ‘James, it’s me, Bryan! I came to find you. Listen to me.’ His confused eyes were begging. Peuckert didn’t react. Suddenly von der Leyen drew himself up, making his wounds burst open again and trace dark shadows on the side of his pullover. ‘We’re friends, James!’ he pleaded. ‘You’re coming home now. To Canterbury. Petra can come too, if you like.’ He shook his head in bewilderment.

  He couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

  Peuckert turned to face Lankau. ‘He refuses to prepare the caustic soda that you’re to drink.’

  ‘That, I understand.’ The mockery in Lankau’s voice suppressed his desperation. His grip on the table was now perfect.

  ‘And you don’t think I can make him do it?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Are you going to write?’

  ‘No, I’ll be damned if I am!’

  Gerhart pushed von der Leyen over as he went over to the woman. She trembled as he looked at her, trying awkwardly to back away. The dark smudges of make-up around her eyes ran slowly down her face. ‘So I’ll have to find another method! I’ll hit her if you don’t help me,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Caustic soda?’ Arno von der Leyen said tonelessly. ‘Why that?’ He flinched when Peuckert struck her. The woman began to sob.

  ‘You still won’t?’

  Von der Leyen shook his head and flinched again at the next blow.

  ‘Do what he tells you, Bryan!’ the woman suddenly spat out. Her outburst made Lankau’s blood run cold. ‘Do it!’ Von der Leyen looked down at her. She was leaning on her side, gasping for breath. Peuckert had hit her in the chest.

  Arno von der Leyen straightened up slowly.

  Lankau tried to stay composed. A steadily increasing pain in his midriff pulsated with every breath. He already had the table resting its full weight on his palms and hairy lower arms. He looked up when the two men stood before him. ‘Aren’t you going to untie your friend?’ he said, addressing Gerhart with a quiet smile. ‘Then we’ll see if he’s capable of holding a glass.’

  Peuckert’s alert blue eyes scrutinized Lankau for a moment. It took some time for him to loosen the knot in the belt with the gun in one hand. Leaning back, Lankau took up a position whereby he could concentrate every muscle fibre on sending the table precisely in von der Leyen and Peuckert’s direction.

  The shock effect when he sprang up with the table resting on his lower arms was amazing. Instinctively Peuckert released the safety catch and fired the gun twice, but it was already too late. The table absorbed the shots as it flew forward. Its massive weight flung the two men backwards and they landed beneath it on the floor. The Shiki Kenju flipped out of Gerhart’s hand and ended in the doorway to the entrance hall. Lankau was already on his feet before the men could begin struggling free of their heavy burden.

  He roared triumphantly and jumped around the table to take possession of the pistol. There were still three bullets left. He wouldn’t hesitate using every last one. One for each of them. The dogs would get more to eat than they could manage.

  And then his world collapsed. Once and for all.

  ‘Stop,’ was all she needed to say.

  Facing him stood Petra.

  There was no mistaking the expression in her eyes. The weapon already lay snugly in her hand.

  ‘Let me do it, Gerhart! I know where the bottle is.’ She looked authoritatively at the tall man and gave him back the pistol.

  Lankau felt the pain intensify in his stomach and breathed more and more heavily. This time they placed him at the end of the table, right up against the wall.

  The bound woman sitting in the chair was still trembling with shock. Petra looked neither at her, nor Arno von der Leyen, who was again crouched at the woman’s feet.

  ‘You leave the woman alone, Gerhart! I’ll do what needs to be done.’

  ‘I told you to stay away until the whole thing was over.’ Gerhart Peuckert was white in the face.

  ‘I know you did. But we’re going to do it my way, Gerhart.’

  A little plop could be heard a moment or two after Petra had gone out to the kitchen, like the discharge of a vacuum. Lankau looked at the poster on the wall. Cordillera de la Paz. A world of adventure that was fast receding from him. The distance was becoming insurmountable.

  He grabbed the pen and began to write. ‘…oversturmbannführer in the SS Wehrmacht, alias Hans Schmidt…’ When he’d completed the sentence he looked at them. ‘Is that all?’ he asked defiantly.

  Gerhart Peuckert looked at him calmly and dictated the conclusion. ‘I beg my family’s forgiveness. The pressure from the others was too great. I had no choice.’

  Lankau looked back at him. He raised his eyebrows and put down the pen. These words were to be his last to the outside world. They were going to take his life, no matter what he did.

  He closed his eyes and let himself be carried away by the smell of coffee beans, dry earth and the breeze from the primeval forest’s valleys. The cacao tree provided him with shade. The sounds from the Indians’ huts reached him like an incarnation of reality. Then he felt the pressure in his chest again, this time higher up. His skin grew cold. They dared not use the caustic soda, he knew that. ‘Write it yourself, you louse!’ he screamed, opening his eyes as he tried in vain to push back his chair. The shot came instantly and bored deep into the beam above him. Gerhart Peuckert hadn’t hesitated a second.

  Horst Lankau looked towards the door where Petra stood with the glass in her hand. ‘No one’s going to believe someone would commit suicide with caustic soda!’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Gerhart turned towards the woman in the doorway. ‘Come here, Petra,’ he said.

  Lankau sat still for a while, pulling at the corners of his mouth. The glass was now resting heavily in Gerhart’s hand. Lankau breathed deeply between his teeth.

  Then he seized the pen again and wrot
e. When he put it down his expression was vacant.

  Gerhart Peuckert looked over his shoulder. It took him some time to read the few sentences. Then Lankau noticed his nod.

  ‘Get it over with!’ Lankau hissed, the words’ intended vehemence hampered by the pains in his stomach and heart. He shifted to one side as Gerhart pressed the muzzle of the Kenju into his ear. ‘Now I’ve kept my end of the bargain!’

  ‘So you thought you could escape, you dog,’ Gerhart Peuckert said, controlling himself. ‘Can you remember what you always used to say? “It only starts to get interesting when the victim is softened up by fear.” That’s what you said.’ He pressed the weapon harder. Lankau constricted his nostrils so he didn’t have to inhale the smell from the glass.

  ‘Why should I drink this?’ Lankau felt the sweat trickling again. ‘Shoot me. You won’t get me to drink!’

  ‘Then I’ll pour it over you!’

  Lankau looked up at him with a hateful expression and took a deep breath. The nauseating, pungent odour failed to materialize. Lankau sniffed the glass again. Petra stood beside him, looking away. Then Lankau threw back his head and began to laugh. No longer noticing the cold steel in his ear, the roars grew louder. Behind him, the woman in the chair began whimpering again.

  ‘That’s a good one! There’s no damned caustic soda in that glass! You couldn’t do it, could you, Petra?’ He stared triumphantly at his assailant. ‘Did the two of you plan that one, too, little Gerhart? I wonder what you poured in the glass? Bath salts?’ As he laughed, he glanced at Petra, who was biting her lip.

  ‘Ha!’ Lankau stuck out his tongue and thrust it teasingly down towards the glass. ‘She couldn’t do it, Gerhart, dear! The little chick would never be able to do something like that.’ At that moment the pistol muzzle was removed from his ear. Gerhart Peuckert’s eyes were feverish and wavering, aimlessly inspecting everything in the room. Finally they met Petra’s gaze.

  She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Don’t do it, Gerhart! For my sake!’

  For a moment Gerhart Peuckert stood perfectly still, staring at the glass in perplexity. Then he calmed down. ‘In that case, do it,’ he commanded. ‘Stick your tongue right in!’

  Lankau smiled up at him and confidently put his mouth to the glass. Teasingly and extremely slowly, he pointed his tongue at the surface of the liquid. When it finally reached the surface it gave a violent jerk by reflex. Lankau’s face changed immediately. ‘What the hell?’ he yelped. His face went blood-red as he waved his tongue, pulled it back in his mouth and began spitting and swallowing. The pain bore into his flesh and made his mouth burn. He began salivating uncontrollably. A moment later he started to groan, gasping quicker and quicker for breath.

  Gerhart’s laughter reached the surface slowly, as though he’d forgotten how. It was hollow and deep and accompanied Lankau’s increasingly laboured breathing. ‘So she wouldn’t dare, would she? I was almost beginning to wonder. Are you thirsty, Lankau?’ he howled. ‘I think we have a nice Rhine wine out in the shed. Wasn’t that what you were going to offer me? Or perhaps you’d prefer to drink the contents of this glass? Maybe you don’t think it smells as it usually does, but never mind. As long as it works, as they say!’

  Chapter 65

  Petra looked at Gerhart in horror and shrank away from him. He stopped the instant he noticed her expression. His jaw muscles pulsated visibly until he got hold of himself. Then he handed her the glass with the deadly liquid.

  Lankau followed Gerhart’s movements from his seat. He was still short of breath. Gerhart fixed his eyes on the windowsill as he paced around Petra. ‘Enough of that!’ he said, picking up the remains of Lankau’s apple as carefully as if it were a tiny living creature. ‘You’re right,’ he continued. ‘No one would believe anybody could consider committing suicide with caustic soda. Not even someone like you!’ He looked straight at Lankau. ‘Shall we try and think back, Lankau? Can you remember the nights in the hospital when you talked about how to kill people with ordinary, everyday objects? Knitting needles, hammers and wet clothes among other things, as I recall. Do you remember how you and Kröner laughed? How you tried to outdo each other with your repulsive methods? Your imagination knew no bounds.’ He clutched the apple and stared into space. Petra stood stock-still, listening. She’d never imagined hearing so many words pass his lips. His voice was beautiful, but the moment was ugly.

  And she could have done without the coldness in his eyes.

  ‘When I think back, it was the simplest methods that made the greatest impression on me.’ He tossed the apple into the air and caught it a couple of times in front of his victim’s eyes. ‘I’ll bet you know what I’m thinking of now.’ He smiled. Lankau’s face darkened. Even though his breathing came in laboured wheezes, his eyes were alert. ‘Wasn’t it actually Kröner who thought the method up? I’m sure you know better than I. All I can remember is that vivid description of the victim who got a piece of apple forced down his throat. It takes a while, but it’s pretty simple. And no one suspects anything. It can happen to anyone. Not murder, not suicide. Just so long as it looks natural, right?’

  The simplicity of the question was frightening. Gerhart was obviously capable of carrying out his threat. Petra felt paralyzed. When Gerhart released her from the wine press he assured her she needn’t fear Stich or Kröner any longer. Her feeling of relief had been so restorative.

  Now that feeling was gone.

  Lankau’s eyes slowly clouded over. It was the first time Petra noticed how aged they were. The cornea was matt, the whites, yellowed. Gerhart took a bite of the apple. The broad-faced man flopped backwards and stared in disbelief at the piece of apple Gerhart had spat into his hand. Then Lankau’s neck muscles twitched and his arms struck out wildly. He took a deep, wheezing breath and threw his head to the side as Gerhart determinedly guided the piece of apple towards his mouth. He tried to say something and raised his arm. His eyes seemed feverish.

  Before Gerhart could try forcing his lips apart, Lankau jerked one last time. Then, with a look of astonishment on his face, his head dropped slowly forward until his chin lolled on his chest.

  For a moment Gerhart was at a loss. He pushed at the drooping cheek and saw how passively the head followed the movement.

  Lankau was already dead before Gerhart had carried out his revenge.

  Petra refused to believe what she had just seen. She was overwhelmed by a mixture of doubt, helplessness, relief and sorrow.

  When Gerhart realised what had happened, he turned towards the other man, who was also trying to fathom what he’d just seen. He leapt at the man without warning, hitting him repeatedly and roaring in frustration like a wounded animal.

  Because of the vodka, von der Leyen had no idea where the blows were coming from. He was too weak to defend himself and fell against Laureen, who was shaking her head hysterically from side to side.

  ‘Stop it, Gerhart!’ Petra screamed, but it wasn’t until she grabbed his arm that he seemed to understand what she meant. He stepped back, crouching, his knuckles white and his agitation fed by deep breathing. The gun was still in his hand. He was unable to compose himself.

  Despite her continued pleas, he took a firm hold on von der Leyen’s neck and dragged him out on to the garden terrace.

  Petra turned immediately to Laureen, who was about to lose consciousness. Then she made for the kitchen. The knife she found was intended for skinning rabbits. The bonds around Laureen’s ankles and wrists fell away like sewing thread.

  ‘I think he’s gone mad,’ she whispered to Laureen, trying not to cry. ‘You’ve got to help me!’

  Laureen tried to get up. All her limbs were numb. Petra knelt in front of her and rubbed her legs. ‘Come on, Laureen!’

  * * *

  The blow that sent Bryan face down on the terrace at the edge of the pool was swallowed up in the vodka haze. James’ tugs on his neck forced him up to his knees. Bryan smiled and shook his head. The effect of the alcohol swept over him in waves
. He didn’t even notice the pistol pointed at him. He still had a nasty taste in his mouth. He coughed and leaned back. The dampness of the night and the breeze were doing wonders to clear his brain. Bryan turned his head to face his assailant. He understood nothing. His friend’s profile was blurred.

  ‘Is it you, James?’ he said. ‘Help me get out of this,’ he said, wriggling his left arm. He smiled.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ said the voice above him, muffled and subdued. And in English.

  ‘James…’ Bryan whispered, trying to focus. Never before had his voice been so gentle. Then he leaned on his side and rested his chin against his friend’s leg. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered.

  ‘You two stay over there!’ came James’ sharp retort. From far away Bryan could hear Laureen shout his name. He tried to turn towards the sound and took a deep breath. The two indistinct figures over by the house stood still. ‘If you come any closer I’ll push him into the water. Don’t move, understand?’

  James stepped aside and Bryan nearly fell. The outline of the object James was holding slowly came into focus. It was a gun. Bryan tried to grasp the situation. He couldn’t. ‘Why don’t you untie me, James?’ he asked again.

  James knelt in front of him. ‘Arno von der Leyen? Bryan?’ he barked. ‘Who is this person who’s asking me this?’ His eyes looked cursed. ‘Did you help me? Did you free me, by any chance?’

  Bryan raised his eyebrows, preparing to answer.

  ‘Don’t you dare open your mouth!’ James got up, the gun still trained on his prisoner. ‘You deserted me, sick and tormented! I could have lain there forever, couldn’t I? Like discarded rubbish!’ The movement came suddenly and violently. James ripped Bryan’s sleeve off with a single jerk, making him feel sick all over again. ‘You’ve still got it!’ he said, looking at the faint remains of the tattoo in Bryan’s armpit. ‘That surprises me.’ Bryan vomited a couple of times, letting the slime remain hanging from the corners of his mouth. ‘You’ve been going around with that for a long time, Bryan. Wouldn’t it have been better to remove it entirely? Like the memories?’ James let Bryan’s arm fall.