The shower was still running in the bathroom. Marty could not have heard the telephone ring. Eusden debated with himself what to do. The message could be a trick, devised to lure him or Marty outside, but Straub would surely not have given up his only set of keys. If his ‘hired heavy’ was the caller, he was probably equipped to let himself in. Besides, he could have waylaid Eusden when he arrived if he had wanted to. And they would have to leave sooner or later anyway. Eusden headed for the door.
His confidence had ebbed somewhat by the time he reached the ground floor. Through the window beside the main door he could see nothing beyond an empty stretch of paving, the light of the porch lamp leaching away beyond that into velvety shadows. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. By rights he should be at home in Chiswick, sleeping soundly after an undemanding day in Whitehall. Instead he was in Hamburg, behaving like a Cold War spy making a pick-up from a dead-letter drop in the middle of the night.
He finally tired of his own apprehensiveness and yanked the door open. Nothing moved on the street. No shadow in human form loomed into view. The mailboxes were only a few steps away. He reckoned the smallest key on the bunch would fit the lock on Frau Straub’s box. And so it proved.
Inside was a thickly filled brown envelope. He lifted it out, closed the box and retreated indoors. There was neither name nor address written on the envelope. It had clearly been delivered by hand. It had also been left unsealed. Eusden pulled back the flap. A chunky wad of banknotes met his surprised gaze. The topmost note was €100. So were the next few. He gasped, shoved the envelope into his pocket and started up the stairs.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ demanded Marty when Eusden walked back into the flat. ‘I come out of the shower and you’ve vanished into thin air.’ He cut a bizarre figure in white shirt, hound’s-tooth-patterned sweater and twill trousers that finished an inch or two above his trainers. He had a beer in one hand and a hunk of cheese in the other. His hair was still wet and he had a towel looped round his neck to catch the drips. ‘Plus you switched the lights off. Are you trying to spook me?’
‘We had a phone call. Announcing a special delivery.’ Eusden took the envelope out of his pocket. ‘I’ve just been down to collect it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Money. Rather a lot, by the look of it.’ Eusden dropped the envelope on to the coffee table. ‘See for yourself.’
Marty sat down in the armchair and plonked the bottle of beer on the table. He put the cheese in his mouth and devoured it as he fanned the wad of notes, then counted them. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said when he had finished. ‘There’s ten thousand here. What did the caller say?’
‘“Check the mailbox.” Nothing else.’
‘It has to be from Werner.’
‘You think so?’
‘No one else owes me a cent, Richard. This is my pay-off. A pittance compared with the profit he’s hoping to make. But enough, he’s calculated, to persuade me to give up and go home.’
‘And will you?’
Marty took a swig of beer and sat back in the chair. ‘It’d make the time I’ve got left more comfortable than it’s likely to be otherwise. And it’d make my landlord a happy man.’
‘But it wouldn’t pay the Swiss specialist’s bill, would it? Not from-’ Eusden stopped. The incomprehension on Marty’s face told him what he should already have guessed. ‘There is no clinic in Lausanne offering a revolutionary treatment, is there?’
‘’Fraid not. Nice idea, but… no.’
‘Straub said that’s what you needed the money for that you were going to make from selling the contents of the case.’
‘Just as well he was lying, then. Since this is all the money I’m likely to see now.’
‘Are you saying you’ll settle for that?’
‘It’d be the smart move, I guess. What he put me through here was the stick. This is the carrot.’
‘You’re going to let him get away with it?’
‘Sit down, Richard. You look like a man with a mission. It doesn’t suit you.’
Eusden sat down. ‘You promised me an explanation, Marty.’
‘Yeah, but this money… changes everything.’
‘How?’
‘It means I don’t have to go away empty-handed. Terminal illness alters your perspective on life, take my word for it. I could have my own fortnight in the sun now. Several fortnights, in fact.’
‘And that’s enough?’
‘What d’you want me to say? At heart, I’ve always been a hedonist. It makes no sense to put you in the picture if we’re not going to do anything about it.’
‘We?’
‘I can’t go on alone, that’s for sure. All in all, it’s probably best to end it here. Take the air fare back to London out of this lot. You’ll be behind your desk again by Wednesday morning, sipping a coffee freshly brewed by your curvaceous PA, glad your excursion to Hamburg is just a brief, bad memory. Then, in a few weeks, if you feel like it, come over to Amsterdam and we’ll spend some of Werner’s dosh on a pub crawl.’
‘You seem to have forgotten you owe me most of this in bail money.’
‘Ouch.’ Marty’s expression suggested he really had forgotten. ‘OK. It’s a fair cop. You have first call on it, no argument. Help yourself. Don’t worry about me. Dying penniless is a piece of cake.’
‘I’m not interested in the money, Marty. I’m interested in the truth. You surely don’t think you can get away with stonewalling me like this, do you?’
‘Why not? You’re not planning to tie me up again, are you?’
‘I knew Clem almost as well as you did. What did he have that a creep like Straub could sell now for a small fortune?’
‘Not so small, in all likelihood.’ Marty smiled wryly. ‘Sorry. It really is best if I say nothing.’
‘How did you meet Straub?’
‘Our research interests… coincided.’
‘Research into what?’
Marty’s smile assumed a pained fixity. He did not reply.
‘Clem came to Hamburg once, didn’t he?’
‘Did he?’
‘You know he did. While I was on the train, I remembered him talking about it. One of his hush-hush Special Branch missions, some time after the War. We used to think he made them up. I’m guessing he didn’t make this one up.’
‘Guessing? You certainly are.’
‘Tell me I’m wrong, then.’
More silence. Marty’s smile faded into blankness.
‘Why did you come to this flat on Sunday evening?’
‘Werner said there was something here that might interest me. He was lying, naturally.’
‘But why were you taken in?’
‘I’m a gullible guy.’
‘Come on, Marty. You thought it was likely to be true. Why? Something to do with Straub’s father, maybe? What did he do for a living?’
‘Journalist. Worked on the local daily. The Hamburger Abendblatt.’
‘At the time of Clem’s visit?’
‘Probably. If there was a visit.’
‘What was in the case?’
‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Oh God.’ Marty rubbed his face and took another gulp of beer. He gave Eusden a long, studious stare. ‘You’ll regret getting involved in this, y’know, you really will.’
‘I’m already involved.’
‘No. Affected by it. But not involved. There’s a big difference. I’m not chasing a quick buck, as Werner seems to think. I’m chasing… meaning, I suppose. When the doc told me I was on the way out, I considered how I ought to spend the small amount of time I have left. More of the same in Amsterdam. Or something… different. That’s when I remembered Clem’s attaché case.’ (Marty had always referred to his grandfather as Clem, making him seem more of an old friend than a relative.) ‘It ended up with Aunt Lily after he died. When I eventually got round to visiting her, she said I ought to have it. She
thought I’d be able to make sense of the contents. I took a look. I couldn’t work out what they amounted to. So, I… asked her to hold on to the case for me. She made a point of locking it and giving me the key. She had an inkling, I think, that it was… important. I couldn’t see how at the time, but I do now. So does Werner.’
‘What did it contain?’
‘It’s a long story. And I’m dog-tired. Neither of us is thinking straight. There might be a way, if you help me, to get at the truth, despite losing the case. I’m just not sure. The Foreign Office would have to do without you for a while, though. You’d have to… make a commitment. So, sleep on it. There’s a single bed in the spare room. As the invalid, I’m claiming old Mother Straub’s double. Let’s get a few hours’ kip. Then, in the morning, if you still feel the same way I’ll tell you everything.’ Marty summoned a weary grin. ‘Every last incredible detail.’
NINE
Eusden woke with a start. Dawn had broken, grey and grudging. Its dusty light revealed the anonymous furnishings of a room he did not immediately recognize. For a moment, he could not even have said where he was. Then the events of the previous day avalanched back into his mind. And the prevailing silence expanded ominously.
He threw on his clothes, calling Marty’s name as he did so. But the call went unanswered. The flat was small. It took only a few seconds to confirm he was alone.
Then he noticed the envelope full of money still lying on the coffee table in the lounge. If Marty had taken any of it, he had certainly not taken much. Was that, Eusden wondered, his idea of an honourable parting? A debt settled. But a secret kept. He could only repeat what he had said when his friend had jumped bail, forfeiting his surety. ‘Fuck you, Marty.’
‘Nice greeting,’ said Marty, coming through the front door just as Eusden spoke. ‘A simple “Good morning” would have sufficed.’ He was wearing a parka and carrying a travel bag. Though pale, gaunt and unshaven, he looked absurdly cheerful and was munching a pretzel. ‘You didn’t think I’d run out on you, did you?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Eusden responded defensively.
‘What it is to have a reputation.’ Marty hung up his coat and strolled into the lounge.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘The hotel I was supposed to check out of yesterday morning. Werner had paid my bill, considerate fellow that he is, and had them pack my stuff to await collection. So why don’t you make coffee while I put some of my own clothes on? After breakfast you can take second turns with my toothbrush and shaver. Can I say fairer than that?’
A mug of black coffee was ready and waiting for Marty when he entered the kitchen five minutes later, in clean sweatshirt and jeans and eagerly peeling the cellophane off a pack of Camel cigarettes. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, catching Eusden’s wince. ‘I’m not going to die of lung cancer, am I?’ He lit up, sat down at the formica-topped table and took a sip of coffee. ‘Why can’t I smell bacon frying?’
‘Because there’s none to fry. The menu’s cornflakes – without milk.’
‘OK. We’ll breakfast out. Meanwhile-’
‘Meanwhile you’ve got some talking to do.’ Eusden sat down at the other end of the table, theatrically fanning away the cigarette smoke as he blew on his coffee.
‘Does that mean you’re in?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I’m looking for something more definite than that, Richard.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Phone the office and say you’re taking the rest of the week off. Personal emergency. Compassionate leave. Your budgie’s died. Whatever. Tell the FO to FO.’
‘There won’t be anybody in yet. They’re an hour behind, remember.’
‘Leave a recorded message. All the better. No need to explain.’
‘I’ll have to explain eventually.’ Somewhere deep in Eusden’s brain, a series of calculations was under way. He had to find out what Clem Hewitson’s secret was. He knew himself well enough to understand that he would regret failing to do so for a long time, possibly for ever. Too much of his own past was tied to his memory of the old man for him simply to walk away. He was also aware that part of him had been excited by the intrigue and uncertainty of the previous twenty-four hours. He had felt more alive during them than he had in months – if not years. Creeping back timidly to his desk in Whitehall was in truth not even an option. ‘OK. I’ll make the call.’ He rose and headed for the spare bedroom. ‘My phone’s in my bag.’
‘No.’ Marty grabbed his arm as he passed. ‘Use the land line.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Turn your mobile off and leave it that way. We need to be untraceable from now on.’
Eusden looked at his friend disbelievingly. ‘Come off it, Marty. It can’t be-’
‘But it is.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘Or bad. Oh, yes. It is. One of those. Or both. You can be the judge.’
‘Lorraine, this is Richard. More apologies for you to make on my behalf, I’m afraid. I’m dealing with a… family crisis. I’m going to be away until the end of the week. I have unused leave, so it should be no problem. I’ll call you when the situation’s clearer. ’Bye.’ Eusden put the phone down and returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s done,’ he announced.
‘Unused leave? That sounds sad.’
‘Can we get on with it?’
‘Actually, no. This flat gives me the creeps. I’ve spent far too long staring at its puce-coloured walls. Why don’t we pack up and clear out? There’s a café round the corner that was just opening when I went past in the taxi. We can get some breakfast there and much better coffee than this stuff you scraped out of a jar.’
‘When are you going to stop stringing me along, Marty?’
‘When I’ve lit my first postprandial cigarette. Which, if you shift yourself, won’t be long.’
Eusden washed and shaved in short order. When it came down to it, he had no more wish to linger in the flat than Marty. They made no effort to clear up after themselves. (‘That’s Werner’s problem,’ declared Marty. ‘He’s got a week or more before Mutter gets back from Majorca.’) They slammed the door behind them and strode away without a backward glance, studiously avoiding eye contact with a neighbour walking her dog.
There was a broad, paved square a few minutes away. The Café Sizilien stood in one corner. Assorted Hamburgers bound for work were bracing themselves for the experience with coffee and croissants and certainly the morning was cold enough to warrant a good deal of bracing. Marty opted for two boiled eggs and several thickly jammed and buttered bread rolls. Eusden joined him, surprised by how hungry he felt. The coffee, as Marty had promised, was a vast improvement on Frau Straub’s instant.
‘No sign of Werner’s heavy,’ said Marty, scanning the customers from their window table as he licked raspberry jam off his fingers. ‘He’s betting I’ll take the money and run.’
‘Instead of which… you’re just taking the money.’
‘You’ll get your share.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No, I guess not. Sorry.’ Marty lit his second Camel of the day. ‘So, where to begin?’
‘How about the beginning?’
‘Easier said than done. But I’ll try.’ Marty pulled out his wallet and fished something small and flimsy from its depths. He laid it in front of Eusden. ‘What do you make of that?’
It was a fragment of an envelope with two stamps stuck to it. The smaller had a king’s head on it beneath the word DANMARK. The larger depicted a ploughman struggling to control his horse as a plane flew overhead. Beneath the ploughman appeared the words DANMARK LUFTPOST. A single postmark covered both: KØBENHAVN LUFTPOST 17.5.27.
‘What am I supposed to make of it?’ Eusden queried.
‘Danish, right?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Twenty-five øre King Christian the Tenth with twenty-five øre airmail supplement. Part o
f my dad’s collection. I never actually looked through it until he died. I mean, philately? Do me a favour. But ask yourself: where’d he get it from?’
‘No idea.’
‘Yes, you have. Who would a stamp-mad schoolboy cadge something like that off?’
‘His father?’
‘Exactly. Clem.’
‘So, Clem had a letter from Denmark.’
‘Yes. Which he must have hung on to, since Dad was only six years old in 1927. He didn’t get into stamp collecting until his early teens.’
‘OK. But-’
‘Did you know Clem spoke Danish?’
‘What?’
‘Well, spoke might be an exaggeration. But he certainly read it.’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘No. You asked me what’s in the attaché case. The answer is a collection of letters, written to Clem over a period of ten years or more in the nineteen twenties and thirties. In Danish. Now you can see why I couldn’t make head or tail of the contents of the case.’
‘Who were the letters from?’
‘A guy called Hakon Nydahl. Captain – or Kaptajn – Nydahl, as he signed himself. Ever remember Clem mentioning the name?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. What about Copenhagen? Did he ever admit to going there?’
‘Not sure. There weren’t many European cities he didn’t claim to have visited at some point.’
‘True. But we know he was corresponding with someone in Copenhagen, so it seems a good bet, doesn’t it? As to what they were corresponding about, you’d need a Danish translator to tell you that. Werner’s probably contacting one even as we speak.’
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘Ah, that brings us to Werner’s father: Otto Straub. Thanks to him we know Clem came to Hamburg in the spring of 1960. It’s not something I ever remember my parents talking about. Maybe he didn’t tell them where he was going, or even that he was going. But yes. Clem was here. And why? To testify in a court case Otto was covering for his paper. Clem let us believe he came just after the War, if you remember, before he retired from the police. But that was eyewash. He’d have been seventy-three in 1960.’
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