The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  Stack held his breath and edged himself along the face of the opened door. He saw a man’s figure moving towards the bed. Stack moved slowly forward. The intruder flashed a torchlight on the figure in the bed.

  Stack stepped back. The beam came to rest on Lehna’s face, where it remained, momentarily, and was then extinguished. The man edged himself away from the bed, back to the open doorway.

  Stack took a deep breath. When the man was in the doorway, Stack made his move. With all the force he could muster, he slammed the door into the man’s back. There was an anguished groan as the door collided with its object and forced the man against the door jamb.

  Stack pulled the door open, saw the bent figure of the man, and lunged on top of him. Together, they collapsed on to the unpolished landing. There was an instant cry of an excited voice and the landing lights came on.

  Stack picked himself up and grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket. He swung him around and crashed him into the bedroom wall. He felt a rain of blows on his back and heard a woman’s voice. In front of him he saw a frightened face and two eyes staring at him. He brought his arm back to lash at the face in front of him. Somebody held his arm back.

  ‘No!’

  It was the proprietress. Stack pulled his arm free.

  ‘No!’ the proprietress cried again.

  Stack saw Lehna in the doorway. There was a worried look on her face. He let his arm go limp. There was an excited gabble of abuse from the proprietress.

  Stack turned and saw her gesticulating, angrily, at him. He turned his attention back to the figure he still held pinned against the wall. It was a dark-faced, wide-eyed man. His face was bleeding and he smelled of perfume. The perfume of pimps. Stack looked at the man’s fancy clothes. The man was a pimp, he thought, or some other guttersnipe of the back streets.

  He let go of the man’s jacket and the man sank slowly to the floor. Again there came a rain of abuse from the proprietress, who only interrupted her flow of local adjectives to reply to some irate guests from the floor below.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Lehna asked anxiously.

  Stack looked at her. She was standing with a gown wrapped around her.

  ‘Yes. He will be all right,’ he said.

  He picked the man up.

  ‘Mercy,’ the man cried in English.

  ‘I’m not going to touch you,’ Stack replied. He carried the man into the bedroom. The proprietress followed them. Stack looked at her. She returned the look defiantly, daring him to ask her to leave. Stack closed the door.

  Lehna went and sat on the bed and watched. Stack picked up the water basin, filled it from the pitcher, and threw the towel to the proprietress.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Help your friend. I want some answers before he leaves.’

  The proprietress scowled openly as she accepted the towel. She wet it and wiped the man’s face. Presently the man was able to do it himself. He doused himself and fastened his tie. He brought out a comb and straightened his sleek black hair. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he turned to Stack and said in English, ‘A little too rough, I think.’

  ‘I don’t like intruders in the night,’ Stack replied.

  ‘I didn’t intend to disturb you,’ the man said apologetically. He had an effeminate voice, and his eyes blinked incessantly. Stack was relieved when the man collected a pair of sunglasses, and his trilby hat, from the proprietress, and put them both on.

  ‘Why did you come?’ Stack asked.

  The man shrugged. ‘It was a possibility,’ he said.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘That the girl was someone I was looking for.’

  ‘And is she?’

  The man opened his hands, shrugged his shoulders regretfully, and sighed, ‘I regret to say, no.’

  ‘Perhaps, if you tell us who you are looking for, we might be able to help you,’ Stack said.

  The man gave a resigned gesture. ‘That is not possible, Monsieur,’ he said.

  Stack moved pointedly towards him. The proprietress, and Lehna, gave an anxious start.

  ‘Even if you attack me again, Monsieur,’ the man said hurriedly, ‘I would still not tell you. Even I have my honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ Stack asked.

  ‘Does that surprise you, Monsieur?’

  ‘What are you?’ Stack asked. ‘A thief? Crook? Smuggler? Procurer?’

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ the man replied, without offence. ‘I am a private investigator. In America they call us private eyes. In your country, a private detective.’

  ‘Private detective!’ Stack exclaimed incredulously.

  The proprietress and the man exchanged a quick burst of conversation.

  ‘She wants to know if you are on the run,’ the man said. He looked apologetic. ‘She reads so many books,’ he added. ‘You understand?’

  ‘No, I am not on the run,’ Stack said forcibly, ‘but tell her that she shouldn’t allow you to have free access to her rooms.’

  The man smiled and winced. ‘Oh, she’s not alone,’ he said. ‘It is my profession. She would have received a percentage of my reward if your friend had been the person I was looking for.’

  Stack grunted. ‘Well, she isn’t,’ he growled, ‘and you can both clear out.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur,’ the man smiled. ‘Let me give you my card, just in case I can ever be of assistance to you.’ He withdrew a card from his inside pocket and politely handed it to Stack. ‘One must always look for business,’ he added, and turned to Lehna. ‘I am indeed sorry you are not the person I am looking for,’ he sighed. ‘It would have saved so much time — and money.’

  He moved to the door. Stack studied the card. M. Henri Gallon, he read, Private Investigator, 112 Rue de Sorbon, Marseilles.

  ‘One moment,’ he called out.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur?’

  The man hesitated in the doorway.

  ‘How far do your connections stretch?’ Stack asked.

  ‘That depends on how much is being paid,’ the man replied hurriedly.

  ‘Let’s say as far as Barcelona,’ Stack suggested.

  The man shrugged. ‘Telephone calls can mount up, but I have an arrangement with a friend in Barcelona.’

  ‘How long would it take you to find out something about a man who left Barcelona yesterday and arrived in Marseilles this evening?’ Stack asked.

  ‘If the man should have arrived on the Fleur de Lyon,’ Gallon said airily, ‘it would make it a simple matter.’

  Stack grunted. ‘You’re on, Henri, old boy,’ he said brightly. ‘Have you got another card?’

  The Frenchman produced another card.

  Again the proprietress gesticulated with him.

  ‘She says that you will not pay me,’ the man said sadly.

  Stack looked pointedly at the woman, who dropped her eyes. He went to his jacket and opened his wallet. ‘Here are three hundred francs as initial expenses,’ he said. He handed the money over to Gallon. ‘There is more if you can get me the facts about these people.’ He gave Gallon back his card. On the reverse side he had written three names.

  The Frenchman looked at the names and the instructions. ‘Come to my office, at, say, ten tomorrow evening,’ he said confidently. ‘I will have something for you.’

  ‘Your office?’

  ‘It is on the card. It is above the Café Beyeux.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Stack said.

  The Frenchman smiled. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur,’ he said, and turned to Lehna. ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle. It is such a pity you were not the person I was looking for.’ He held his trilby above his head, and left the room followed by the proprietress.

  ‘He is lucky to be alive,’ Lehna said coldly when they were alone, ‘after the way you attacked him.’

  Stack frowned. He had let loose on the Frenchman because the man had come uninvited into their bedroom. No one did that to Stack and got away with it.

  ‘He came into our room uninvited,’ he snapped.

  �
��Yes. He was in the wrong, but there was no need to treat him like that.’

  Stack growled his disgust, put out the light, and returned to his divan.

  ‘Whose names did you give him?’ Lehna asked in the darkness.

  ‘Mine,’ Stack replied, ‘and Doctor Lorenzo’s.’

  ‘And mine?’

  ‘Would it bother you?’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ Lehna snapped. ‘I am in a hurry to get to Berlin, and I know all about myself and Doctor Lorenzo.’

  ‘But I don’t know all about myself,’ Stack replied evenly, ‘and we can still get to Berlin tomorrow night.’

  Lehna muttered her disapproval.

  Stack made himself comfortable. He had lashed out at the man in his hotel room in Barcelona as well as the Frenchman, he thought. Was he aggressive by nature, he wondered? Or was it frustration that was causing it? He shuffled about in his bed and forgot about it. Instead he thought about the Frenchman. If his contacts were as good as he boasted, then Stack might just find something out about himself — and about Lorenzo and the girl.

  Stack slept fitfully. His mind kept reminding him of the need to find out why Gunter had been on the plane that had crashed.

  He awoke to see the sun streaming through the window and Lehna missing. He got out of bed and felt drowsy, his head thick and heavy. But he knew where he was and what had taken place. His mind quickly explored the past and stopped at the same impasse — the blank weeks after Gunter had taken over.

  He wondered where Lehna had gone and how long she had been away. He also wondered why Lorenzo had been so enthusiastic for her to accompany him. Why they hadn’t joined each other in Berlin.

  He washed and shaved, and was packing his bag when Lehna returned.

  ‘Just been exploring,’ she explained cheerfully. She had changed into a colourful dress that made her look even more youthful than before. ‘There is a café close by,’ she said eagerly, ‘where we can have breakfast.’

  ‘Go and pay the bill,’ Stack ordered. ‘Then we will get away from here.’

  ‘Away? Why?’

  Stack stopped packing his bag. ‘Look,’ he said sternly. ‘Dear Henri, last night, just happened to know which ship I had come from. It might just be the case that others will also know.’

  ‘Others?’ Lehna asked, frowning. ‘Why should there be others?’

  Because a gunman came into my hotel bedroom in Barcelona, Stack thought, and two men were looking for him in the mountains, but he didn’t say that. Instead he asked, ‘Did Lorenzo tell you that the Spanish police are looking for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, we are still close enough to the Spanish border for me to be concerned. I have no love for the Spanish police, or their jails.’

  Lehna shrugged. She didn’t agree with him and it showed, but she went and paid the bill.

  They left the hotel and Stack hurried her through the back streets into the adjoining district. When he was satisfied that they were not being followed, he took her to a small hotel that he had used before. It was on a busy thoroughfare close to the docks, but it was an improvement on their previous hotel. They took a room on the third floor with a view of the waterfront.

  ‘And what do we do here?’ Lehna asked irritably, when they were alone in the room.

  ‘I am going to sit and enjoy the view,’ Stack replied calmly, ‘until it is time to visit dear old Henri. As for you…’ He shook his head sadly, with mock concern. ‘Now let me see. There is a sun terrace on the roof,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘and a restaurant on the ground floor. Which do you prefer?’

  She snorted her dislike of the situation and left the room. Stack wasn’t perturbed. He was more concerned about getting out of Marseilles in one piece than Lehna’s tantrums. He ordered some breakfast, and made himself comfortable where he could watch what was happening in the street below. If he was going to have any unwelcome visitors, he would be ready to receive them.

  But Stack was not disturbed. The day passed without incident. It would also have passed slowly for him, if it hadn’t been for Lehna. She soon lost her annoyance at being delayed, and provided him with some welcome relief from his vigil. She talked long and earnestly about her life as a teacher in the Kibbutz, and of her plans for the future. He enjoyed her company and was again impressed by her sincerity.

  Shortly before ten p.m., they left the hotel and went in search of Henri Gallon. They picked up a taxi outside the hotel, and Stack told the driver to drive slowly past the Café Beyeux in the Rue de Sorbon.

  There was a lot of traffic about; the cafés and bars were busy, the pavement tables occupied. The Rue de Sorbon also had its shops, bars and colourful neon signs. They approached the Café Beyeux. Stack saw the café front and the busy tables on the pavement. He looked for Gallon’s office. Gallon had said it was above the café. There was no light shining from the windows, only the red neon sign on the wall above the café.

  Puzzled, Stack told the driver to stop at the far end of the street. They drove past the café. Stack looked up at the darkened windows and became suspicious. Gallon had said ten p.m. and it was then a minute after.

  The taxi driver stopped the car.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Lehna asked.

  ‘I have an appointment with our friend, Henri,’ Stack replied. ‘I’m going to keep it.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Lehna said.

  ‘No,’ Stack replied firmly. ‘I’m going in the back way. You remain with the taxi.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Give me exactly fifteen minutes, then drive up to the café and wait. I will either signal you from the office window to join me, or I will join you.’

  He got out of the taxi before she had time to argue and walked quickly along the narrow lane that ran behind the Rue de Sorbon. It was dark, but he found the rear entrance of the café by stumbling into a number of foul-smelling dustbins.

  He entered a small yard and saw the brightly lit kitchen. Without hesitation, he entered the building and smiled politely at a woman who looked up at him questioningly. He picked his way through the kitchen tables, and felt the surprised eyes of the woman following him.

  Ahead of him were two doors. One opened and a waiter came through, shouting an order to the cook. He looked at Stack. Stack side-stepped him and took the other door. It brought him into a darkened passageway. He saw a staircase and the café tables on the pavement.

  He climbed the staircase. Gallon’s office was on the first-floor landing. In the red glow from the neon sign, Stack read Gallon’s name on the glass-panelled door. He turned the door handle — it responded.

  The door opened and Stack saw Gallon sitting at his desk. But it was a still, rigid Gallon. His eyes were wide open, his head hung to one side. He was dead! There was a neat hole in the middle of his temple where a bullet had killed him!

  Stack’s inside turned over and froze. Grimly he stood rooted to the spot, staring at the slim, still figure in the fancy suit. Gallon looked like a painted dummy; a puppet that had been propped into a chair.

  Stack stopped himself from lashing out at the furniture. Henri Gallon was dead because he had mistakenly come into Stack’s bedroom looking for a missing girl. Gallon was dead because of Stack. Because Stack had asked him to seek out some information about Stack’s movements. Stack was again to blame!

  For several seconds Stack stood cursing himself and everyone. It was like a picture from hell. The red glow from the neon sign illuminating the room; the furniture and papers lying scattered on the floor, and Gallon’s wide eyes staring — just staring.

  Stack went over to the desk. It had been stripped bare. The drawers were empty and so were Gallon’s pockets. Somebody had gone to a lot of bother to make sure that Stack didn’t get to know anything. He heard a car drive up and stop outside the café. He went to the window and saw that it was the taxi. He also saw the figures sitting at the tables on the pavement, and wondered if Gallon’s murderer was amongst them. He turned away and hurried out of
the room and down the stairs.

  As he picked his way through the tables to the taxi, Lehna opened the car door for him.

  ‘Airport!’ Stack shouted loudly, and got into the taxi.

  The driver quickly pulled away. Stack sank into the seat. Lehna looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Gallon was there all right,’ Stack whispered, ‘but someone got to him first.’

  ‘No!’ Lehna gasped hoarsely.

  ‘He is dead,’ Stack explained quietly. ‘Shot in the head.’

  ‘Oh! My God!’ Lehna exclaimed.

  Stack gripped her hand. She was shaking.

  ‘I’m going to tell the driver to take us to the railway station,’ he said.

  ‘The railway station? But I thought we were going to the airport.’

  ‘So does everyone else,’ Stack growled. ‘Just in case, I think we will take the sleeper to Paris.’

  He spoke to the driver, who shrugged his confusion and muttered under his breath. Lehna turned to Stack and looked at him appealingly.

  ‘It must have been in connection with his other business,’ Stack said encouragingly.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Lehna asked hesitantly. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Sure,’ Stack lied. ‘There can be no other reason. Don’t you worry yourself. We will soon be in Berlin and everything will work out okay.’

  He squeezed her hand affectionately. The sooner they got to Berlin the better, he thought. In Berlin, he existed. He had status there that helped to protect him. He wasn’t the nobody that he was in Marseilles. He also had his Control. If they knew of his dilemma they would give him a cover. He had to get a message to them through Roberts.

  CHAPTER 8

  Stack and Lehna arrived at Tempelhof Airport, Berlin, in the afternoon following their night trip to Paris. Their journey from Marseilles had been tedious and uneventful, but nevertheless, Stack knew that the situation hadn’t changed. The dangers were the same, only the ground and spectators were now going to be more to his liking. In Berlin, Stack felt the odds were not so heavily loaded against him.

  When the passengers disembarked from the aircraft, Stack and Lehna parted company, to make their way independently to a hotel in Charlottenburg where Stack was known. Stack had put this suggestion to Lehna on the grounds that he wanted to be free to be approached by any of Lorenzo’s contacts without her becoming involved. Fortunately, she had agreed without argument. His real reason for wanting to be on his own was to try and divorce Lehna from his own involvement, because of the danger of spill-off. For the same reason, he had decided against using his apartment in Kurfiersten Strasse, despite the advantages of being in familiar surroundings.