Double Jeopardy

CHAPTER 52

Thursday May 28

Martel drove the hired Audi across the road bridge linking the mainland of Bavaria with the island of Lindau. He no longer wore the Tyrolean hat nor was he smoking the pipe used to disguise his appearance in Bregenz.

Hatless, his profile prominent with its strong Roman nose, ' the Englishman smoked a cigarette in his holder at a jaunty angle. It was as though he wished to draw attention to his arrival to any watchers who might be stationed in Lindau.

`What do you think you are doing?' Claire had demanded when he discarded his disguise as soon as they had crossed the – border into Germany.

`Showing the British flag,' replied Martel. 'If I had a Union Jack pennant I'd be flying it

`Delta will spot us soon enough…'

`Sooner, I hope.'

`You're setting yourself up as a target?' she protested. 'You must be mad – have you forgotten Zurich, St. 'Gallen…'

`The point is I have remembered them – and we're working to a time limit. You said the Bayerischer Hof is the top hotel on the island?'

`Yes, and it's next to the Hauptbahnhof

`Then we must rig it so it looks as though you've arrived on your own by train. We'll register separately, eat separately in the dining-room. We don't know each other. That way you can guard my back. And put on those dark glasses which transform your appearance… -

`Would sir like anything else?'

`Yes, guide me to the hotel,' he said. 'This place is a rabbit warren and I've forgotten the burrows. Use the map.'

They had a taste of the beauty of the island when they drove over the bridge and past a green park which ran to the lake edge. The mist had lifted temporarily and the sun was a luminous glow. She checked the map and gave directions. Within minutes she laid a hand on his arm.

`We're almost there. Better drop me here. Turn left at the end. The Bayerischer Hof is on your left, the Hauptbahnhof on your right, the harbour straight ahead. Where do we meet?'

`At the terrace elevated above the harbour, the Romerschanze – the place where a tourist looking through binoculars witnessed the killing of Warner without realising it…'

She left the vehicle, carrying her suitcase. Only two or three tourists were in this quiet section of the old street but she took no chances, calling out in German.

'Thank you so much for the lift. Now I shall catch my train.' `My pleasure…'

The pavement artist, Braun, spotted Martel as soon as he drove round the corner.

Today Braun's picture drawn in crayon on the flagstones was an impression of the amphitheatre at Verona. The small cardboard box for coins lay beside the picture. Again wearing a windcheater and jeans he was patrolling back and forth, hands clasped behind his back as though taking a rest from his labours.

He was actually watching the exit doors from the Hauptbahnhof. A main-line express from Switzerland was due. He turned round at the precise moment Keith Martel appeared and recognised him immediately. It was no great feat of observation.

Thick black hair, early thirties, tall, well-built, clean-shaven, prominent Semitic-like nose, habitually smokes cigarettes in holder at slanting angle…

The pavement artist was so thrown off-balance by Martel's sudden appearance, by the accuracy of the description provided, that he almost stopped in mid-stride – which would have been a blunder since it might have drawn the target's attention to himself. He strolled on as the Audi passed him and he heard it pull up. He sneaked a glance over his shoulder so he would be able to recognise the Englishman from behind.

'I wonder, you curious sod…'

Martel muttered the words to himself as he stared in his wing mirror, still seated behind the wheel. It had been a reflex action – to make one final check before he got out of the car with his suitcase. The swift glance of the pavement artist over his shoulder showed clearly in the mirror.

HS got out of the car and saw the mist beginning to roll in from the lake, invading the harbour. He walked inside the hotel's spacious, well-furnished reception hall and up a few steps to the desk. The girl behind the counter was helpful and brisk. Yes, they had an excellent double bedroom on the third floor overlooking the lake. Certainly it would be acceptable for him to pay for his room in advance as he might have to make a sudden departure on business.

'And if you would fill in the registration form, sir?'

The conversation had been carried on in English – Martel was booking in under his own name and nationality. Under the heading Occupation he wrote Consultant.

Escorted upstairs in the lift by the porter, he was shown into a huge room with a large bathroom. Martel liked to travel well and Erich Stoller was paying. As soon as he was alone he went to the side window which, as he expected, overlooked the Hauptbahnhof and hotel entrance. He saw Claire coming out of the station.

Her performance had been a model of skilled evasion. Wearing her dark glasses and a head-scarf, she had crossed the road immediately Martel had turned the corner. The pavement artist had not even seen her. He was not looking for a girl, only a man, Martel…

Once inside the Hauptbahnhof Claire had waited for someone else to walk out. A couple staying at the hotel had gone across to check the timetable board. Claire emerged with them, having heard a brief snatch of their conversation in German.

'I'm looking for the Bayerischer Hof,' she said to the elderly man who was beside her. It was his wife beyond who answered.

'My dear, it is just across the road. We're staying there ourselves. You'll find it an excellent hotel…'

'Let me have your case,' the German said and took it, grasping the handle.

It was perfect cover for anyone wilt) might be watching. Claire appeared to belong to the couple who had gone to the Hauptbahnhof to meet her. The pavement artist never even noticed her as the trio vanished inside the hotel entrance.

From the open third floor window in his bedroom Martel stared at the sidewalk immediately below where his car was still parked. The pavement artist held a tiny notepad in the palm of his hand and he was noting down the vehicle's registration number.

Seen from street level, the pavement artist's action was carried out with such skill no one noticed what he was doing. He never gave a thought to the possibility that he might be observed from above.

`Got you, you bastard…'

Martel muttered the words as he ran to his case, snapped open the locks and pulled out from under neatly folded clothes a small instrument. He shoved it inside his jacket pocket, left the room and descended in the waiting lift.

At ground floor level he ignored Claire who was completing the registration form after reserving a single room with bath. Walking to the exit, Martel peered out and strolled into the street. As he expected, the pavement artist was casually crossing the road on his way to the Hauptbahnhof.

The watcher had to have some quick means of communication with his employers – what could be more convenient than the public telephone booths he would undoubtedly find inside? The double doors closed in Martel's face as the pavement artist entered ahead of him. The Englishman pushed a door open slowly and walked into a large booking-hall. The row of phone booths was to his left.

The pavement artist had entered a booth in the middle of the row, the only one now occupied. Martel paused. Shoving his hand into his jacket pocket he waited until his quarry picked up the receiver and commenced dialling. Then Martel entered the booth to the right and slammed the door shut.

The noise attracted the pavement artist's attention. Out of the corner of his eyes, his head bent over a notebook he appeared to be consulting, Martel sensed the man's shocked disbelief. For the next few seconds he held his breath. It was a question of psychology.

The pavement artist turned his back on Martel and continued making his call. It was the reaction Martel had prayed for. The man was not a top-flight professional. Had Martel been in his place he would have continued dialling the first' figures which came into his head, listened for a moment as though getting the wrong signal, slammed down the receiver and left the booth.

He knew exactly what had happened instead. Startled to find his target in the next booth, the man had experienced seconds of indecision. But because he had started dialling – and because he was certain Martel could not possibly suspect him – he continued what he had been doing.

Martel raised his own receiver with one hand while the other performed a quite different action. Extracting the instrument taken from his suitcase, he pressed the rubber sucker at waist- level on the glass window separating his booth from the next one. He then inserted the hearing-aid in place, using his upper left forearm to conceal the wire from the sucker to the earpiece.

The Englishman was gambling on the second-rate calibre of the pavement artist – that he would keep his back to Martel to hide his features. The instrument was working perfectly. Every word of the conversation in the next booth was transmitted to him with great clarity.

`Is that Stuttgart…?'

Martel memorised the number, although unable to hear the other end of the conversation.

`Edgar Braun speaking,' the pavement artist said formally. 'Is that Klara

'Cretin! You have already made two mistakes!' the girl told him venomously. No number or name at this end to be transmitted. You want someone to keep an appointment with you?'

`S-orry…' Braun mumbled the words. He has been badly thrown off balance by Martel's sudden appearance in the next booth. His fervent wish now was that he had broken off the call -but he dare not do that at this stage because Klara would guess something was wrong, that he had blundered. The only thing was to press on.

`The second consignment you were expecting has arrived,' Braun continued. It has been delivered safely to the Hotel Bayerischer Hof a few minutes ago…'

'Where exactly is that?' Klara demanded, her tone icy.

`Facing both Hauptbahnhof and harbour. The following car registration number is linked with the consignment… I stay on duty?'

'Yes! We shall react at once. And I shall have to report your indiscretion…'

'Please…'

But the Stuttgart connection had gone dead. Behind Braun's back Martel had pulled the rubber sucker from the glass, hauled the earpiece free and thrust the whole contraption in his jacket pocket. The change in Braun's tone had warned him the conversation was ending.

Martel performed a pantomime as Braun sneaked out of the booth without a glance in his direction. He spoke loudly in English about nothing into the receiver. When Braun disappeared through the exit he left the booth. He now had solid data for Stoller to check.

Inside the luxurious tenth-floor apartment in a building less than a mile from the headquarters of Dietrich GmbH, Klara Beck slammed down the receiver. Tearing open a fresh pack with nails painted like red talons she lit her forty-first cigarette of the day.

`Braun must be losing his marbles,' she said to herself.

The cigarette was necessary to calm her nerves – and her voice – before she phoned Reinhard Dietrich. Although sexually attractive she knew it was her outward coolness which most appealed to the Bavarian millionaire, which made her his mistress. Her apparent calm in all situations was such a contrast to Dietrich's choleric temperament – and to that of his whining wife.

Taking several deep drags, she expelled smoke from her lungs, her bosom heaving with the relaxation afforded by the nicotine. It was time to make the call. She dialled the number of ' the schloss. Dietrich himself answered.

`Yes!'

Just the single, curt word.

`Klara calling. It is convenient to talk?'

`Yes! You received the emerald ring? Good!'

They had performed the ritual of positive identification. During alternate calls Dietrich would refer to sending her a fur or some item of jewellery – which secretly infuriated her since few of these desirable gifts were ever given to her. She hurried on.

`The second consignment has been delivered. I have just heard – it has arrived at the Hotel Bayerischer Hof in Lindau

`Meet me there this evening!' Dietrich responded instantly. 'Get the executive jet to fly you to the airstrip nearest Lindau. Then take a hired car. A room will be reserved for you. Your help may be needed …'

`There is a car registration number. Here it is…'

Dietrich repeated the number and broke the connection without a goodbye. Klara Beck replaced the receiver slowly, preserving her self-control. Despite her annoyance she was impressed. She had just told Dietrich in an oblique manner that Keith Martel – the man they had scoured Switzerland, Austria and Bavaria to track down – had been located. Dietrich had reacted decisively to the news, taking only seconds to plan his next move.

One phrase intrigued her. Your help may be needed It conjured up one possibility – Dietrich was considering asking her to seduce Martel. She went into the bedroom, slipped out of her dress, the only item of clothing she was wearing in the clammy atmosphere, and studied her full-bodied nude form in a full-length mirror.

It could be fun – playing with the Englishman. Before – at the appropriate moment – she rammed the needle between his ribs and pressed the button which released the lethal injection.

At the schloss Dietrich had ordered Oscar to bring one of his packed suitcases for an overnight stay. A series of cases were packed and unpacked daily by the attentive Oscar.

There were cases for a short trip, cases for more prolonged journeys, cases for hot climates and cases for countries like Norway in the depths of winter. The system meant Dietrich was ready for departure anywhere at a moment's notice. On the intercom he summoned Erwin Vinz who had recently returned with his team from Bregenz. He did not mince his words.

'Someone else has done the job for you! A woman at that! I am leaving at once for the Bayerischer Hof in Lindau – Martel has just arrived there. Choose your best men, follow me and book in at the same hotel…'

`This time we should get him…' Vinz began.

'This time you will get him, for God's sake! Before morning- he will be tired after his recent activities…'

'Peter has the car waiting,' reported Oscar who had returned with a Gucci suitcase.

Wearing a suit of Savile Row country tweeds Dietrich left the library, crossed the large hall and Oscar held open one of the two huge entrance doors. Dietrich ran down the steps and climbed into the rear of a black, six-seater Mercedes. The uniformed chauffeur closed the door as his master pressed a button and lowered the window to give the order.

`Lindau. Drive like hell…!'

Inside Lindau Hauptbahnhof Martel paused outside the phone booth, inserted a cigarette into his holder and lit it. Braun had vanished through the exit doors but Martel waited to see whether the German was smarter than he appeared to be – whether he would dodge back into the station to check up on the Englishman. He did not reappear.

Martel strolled towards the exit doors, opened one a fraction and peered out. On the sidewalk outside the Bayerischer Hof, Braun was on his knees with his back towards Martel, adding to his drawing. The Englishman walked out and got inside one of the taxis waiting under a huge tree.

'The Post Office,' he said. 'Quickly, please – before it closes.' 'It is no distance…'

`So you get a good tip for taking me there…'

At the post office Martel explained he wanted to call London and gave the girl behind the counter the Park Crescent number. He was gambling that Tweed was waiting for his call. Within two minutes the girl directed him to a booth.

'Thursday calling,' he said quickly as Tweed came on the line. 'Two-Eight here…' the familiar voice replied.

Martel began pouring out data to be fed into the recording machine.

'Warner seen in Bregenz. visited cemetery, grave of Alois Stohr. headstone 1930-1953 •. • references to time of French occupation… expensively dressed woman, identity unknown, visits grave each Wednesday morning… Warner contacted her… Delta active everywhere… two men in car in Bregenz

'Did they see either of you?' Tweed interrupted urgently.

'We sighted them…no reverse sighting… now staying Bayerischer Hof Lindau… Delta watcher pavement artist Braun sighted and reported me – repeat me… Stoller should check Stuttgart phone number… Stuttgart contact woman named Klara… closing down.

'Wait! Wait! Damn! He's rung off…'

Tweed replaced the receiver and stared at McNeil who switched off the recording machine. A very thrifty, Scots type, McNeil. Tweed was certain she had never taken a taxi in her whole life. Buses and the Underground were her sole means of transportation.

`The maniac is setting himself up as bait to flush Delta into the open,' he snapped. know him…'

'He's a loner. He gets results,' McNeil said placidly.

`He's in the zone of maximum danger,' Tweed replied grimly. 'Get me Stoller on the phone. Quickly, please. I sense an emergency.'