Rhinoceros

CHAPTER 18

Lisa was dressed to kill, Newman thought. She was wearing a close-fitting green dress which went perfectly with her flaming red hair. She was smiling as she approached Tweed, who paused briefly on his way to the elevator.

'Mr Tweed, I have important information for you…'

'Not now. I have an urgent phone call to make.'

The elevator door was open. He walked inside, followed by Paula and Newman, who smiled back at Lisa. Just before the doors closed Lisa slipped into the elevator with them. No one spoke. As the elevator doors opened at the third floor Tweed marched out, holding his room key which he had taken with him. He opened the door of his suite without a glance back. Paula followed him. Newman hesitated and Lisa walked past him into the suite. Tweed, still in his coat, stared at her.

'I can't see you tonight.'

'Not very nice of you,' she said softly. 'I have been paid to spy on you…'

'Tell me about it in the morning. I must ask you to leave now.'

'All right, be bloody-minded.' She was flaring up again. Tweed had returned to the door, was waiting to open it for her to go. 'I was asked to phone a number from the main station.' As she spoke she was delving in her handbag. She dropped a sheet of paper on a couch. 'That ruddy note, you oaf. While that suggestion was being made to me over the phone – by a voice I didn't recognize – a scruffy type pushed this envelope into my hand. My fee for spying on you.' She threw a bulky envelope on the couch. 'One hundred thousand deutschmarks. Give it to your favourite charity – probably yourself…'

She smiled at Newman, glared at Paula, walked out through the door Tweed opened for her. Pursing his lips, Tweed locked the door, rushed over to the phone after checking the directory on the desk for the number he needed. Police. Paula had opened the unsealed envelope, quickly counted the banknotes inside. She called out to Tweed.

'Lisa was right. There is a hundred thousand deutschmarks in the envelope. It's a fortune…'

'She's clever, damnit,' he responded as he began pressing numbers. 'A confidence-building tactic…'

'For heaven's sake,' Paula protested.

She was going to say more but Tweed held up a hand. She kept quiet.

'Polizei?' Tweed began.

'Who is calling? And why?' a gruff but faintly familiar voice demanded in German.

'My name is Tweed…'

'Hell! I thought it was you,' the voice of Otto Kuhlmann, chief of Federal Police, answered in English. 'I was about to phone you – just tracked you to the Four Seasons.'

'What on earth are you doing in Hamburg, Otto? I'm calling to report a murder…'

'I'm in Hamburg on another matter. Who has been murdered?'

'A Dr Kefler. At No. 23…'

'I've just come back from there. Were you there at roughly 2300 hours?'

'Yes, which is why I'm phoning…'

'Anyone with you?'

'Paula and Bob Newman…'

'Fits the description I have here, I'm coming to see you immediately.'

'It might be better if we came to see you,' Tweed suggested. 'If it's not too far away.'

'Five-minute walk. I'm speaking from the 12th District – Polizeirevier 12 is on the sign outside, under a white star. It's in a section of the Rathaus. From where you'll come it's on the far side, an entrance you can easily miss.'

'We're on our way…'

It was a little cooler but still humid. They were walking past the Jungfernstieg landing stage when Paula made her comment.

'You were pretty rough on Lisa.'

'Have you forgotten my earlier warning? On this trip we trust no one, absolutely no one.'

Paula let it go for the moment. Back in the suite Tweed had said 'Damnit' twice. He was a man who rarely swore, even mildly. She suspected Lisa had rattled him, something very few people could do. They crossed the bridge over the canal which led from the Binnenalster and eventually reached the Elbe. Then across an eerily deserted square alongside the great Rathaus, its highly decorated towers rising up towards the moon. She was thankful for the moonlight. They walked round the far side of the building.

'What do we tell Otto?' Paula asked.

'The truth, but only as much as we have to. Not one single word about Rhinoceros…'

Kuhlmann was right – it was easy to walk past the entrance but Tweed spotted it. An arched opening wide enough for one car to pass through and, beyond, the large interior square hemmed in by the inner walls of the Rathaus. The large white star and the wording were on the left-hand wall and as they entered the opening Kuhlmann appeared, as usual wearing a civilian suit.

Once again the police chief, short, wide-shouldered, heavily built and with a large head and a wide mouth, reminded her of Edward G. Robinson, seen in repeats of old films. He threw his arms round Paula, hugged her, stared at Tweed.

'This time you could be in big trouble,' he rasped.

'I like you too,' Tweed replied.

'Come in. Bob, you look younger,' he said to Newman.

'Softening me up from the very start.' He waved a hand. 'I think that remark should have been intended for Paula.'

'But she always looks younger…'

He escorted them into a bleak room with a metal table in the middle. Four tall upholstered chairs were placed on different sides of the table. Tweed suspected this was the interrogation room – except for the chairs. During normal interrogations the suspect would be seated in an uncomfortable metal chair. A policewoman in uniform brought in a tray with a coffee pot, a jug of cream and cups and saucers. She offered to serve, but Kuhlmann waved her away. He poured coffee as his guests sat down, let them add their own cream, sat down himself.

'I've seen Dr Kefler,' he began, 'laid out on his back with a bullet – explosive – in his head. What's left of it. I knew him, liked him. Now the stage is yours, Tweed,' he concluded, folding his arms.

Tweed started with Keith Kent in London – without naming him – and then explained what had happened inside the house. How they had then returned to the Four Seasons so he could phone the police.

'What about the second body?' Kuhlmann asked, gazing at the ceiling.

'Which second body?'

If he possibly could, Tweed was determined to keep Butler out of it. Otherwise Harry could be kept in Hamburg for weeks – interrogated and Lord knew what else.

'You're saying you didn't see it?' the German asked, now looking straight at Tweed.

'Where was it?'

'Inside the enclosed docks area. At the foot of a large crane. Shot once. That was enough. I suspect he was the man who murdered Kefler. Ballistics will confirm that – we have his rifle. My reconstruction is that the killer – from the Balkans, I'd say – fired from the control cabin. We found imprints of his boots inside that cabin. Perfect view of No. 23. Where was Kefler when he was killed?'

'Standing in front of a window behind net curtains -with the light on behind him.'

'Then I'm right. The Balkan thug, I'm sure, had left his cabin, was climbing down the ladder, when he noticed someone below. He was still gripping an automatic when he was shot. Since the back of his skull was smashed in he must still have been pretty high up. Marksman's work. Is Marler with you?' he asked casually.

Paula had already realized that Kuhlmann was still the experienced, shrewd policeman, the way he had worked out the sequence of events. His question worried her.

'Oh, yes,' Tweed said agreeably, 'Marler is with us – but he wasn't when we went to see Dr Kefler. He'd had a hard day and we left him fast asleep in his room at the hotel.'

'Tweed, why did you go to see Kefler? I know you have told me but I think there's something else.'

'He gave me some papers.'

'Can I see them?'

'No.'

Kuhlmann drank more coffee. Then he folded his hands behind his neck.

'I could get a warrant for them, you know.'

'Yes, I do know. But if you took them from me you might well hinder my investigation – which could affect your investigation.'

'Which investigation?'

'The other matter you referred to on the phone – the one that brought you to Hamburg.'

'Oh, that one.'

'Yes,' said Tweed firmly. 'And I doubt that you're going to tell me what that investigation is about.'

The German grinned, broke out into peals of laughter. Then he looked at Paula.

'You know something, Paula? Talking to your chief is like getting lost in Hampton Court maze. Or playing verbal chess. Why do I always lose?'

'Well, are you going to tell him about the other matter?' she asked with a smile.

Kuhlmann pushed his chair back. He then paced slowly round the table. He looked at none of his guests and his large hands were clasped behind his back. Returning to his chair he drank more coffee, refilled his cup, looked round but they all shook their heads.

'Something very strange is happening is Germany,' he began in a quiet voice. 'A team of our special forces – like your SAS, if you like – is being assembled secretly in certain suburbs of this city.'

'More riots?' suggested Paula.

'No. I hear rumours from influential contacts…' He paused. 'This is strictly between ourselves. For no other ears. Rumours of a coming highly secret meeting between certain top international figures to be held soon and never announced afterwards.'

'London, Washington and Paris,' Tweed said, as though talking to himself.

'And one other capital in a certain country, an important country.'

'A meeting on a remote island in the Bahamas.'

Paula was startled. She was careful to remain expressionless. Tweed was really going overboard in a big way. She was careful not to look at Newman, remembering he had suggested the Bahamas when they were back in London.

'I've heard that rumour,' Kuhlmann said slowly. 'Systematically spread among key members of the press and security organs. A very clever smokescreen – to conceal the real meeting place. Someone is acting as liaison between the men who will attend that meeting. Someone I can't identify. Of course there had to be liaison lower down to start with. A risky role, that one.'

'Jason Schulz, Jeremy Mordaunt, Louis Lospin,' said Tweed.

'I did say risky,' Kuhlmann ruminated, studying the ceiling again. 'And now they're dead. They knew too much.'

'But how could this link up with the riots?' Paula wondered aloud.

'Shrewd lady.' Kuhlmann went silent for a short time. No one interrupted the silence. 'I have a theory. It is nothing more. Supposing there was a second wave of riots – far more frightening and widespread than the earlier ones. What would the public reaction be in the West?'

'Well…' Paula wondered whether she was talking too much. Oh, hell – in for a penny, in for a pound. 'The public in all the countries suffering them would want a fierce clampdown. A drastic resurgence of law and order.'

'Shrewd lady,' the German repeated. 'I mustn't keep you up all night.' He paused, stared at Tweed. 'Have you heard of the island of Sylt – in the far north of Schleswig Holstein, well north of Hamburg?'

'Yes,' Tweed replied. 'You can only reach it by rail across a large dyke. Cars can also go there – aboard the special wagons.'

'So why, I ask myself,' Kuhlmann said dreamily, 'are some of the inhabitants of large houses on Sylt being asked to leave their houses for a month. Which they are doing – due to the huge sums in compensation they have been promised.'

Kuhlmann stood up, stretched his arms. The conference was over. As they all stood up he went to Paula, gave her another bear hug.

'It's about power, isn't it?' she said.

'Shrewd lady,' Kuhlmann said for the third time. He looked at Tweed who had moved near the exit door. 'I wish I had her on my staff.'

'Go on wishing,' said Tweed.

They walked back across the Rathaus Square. Leading the way, Paula decided she'd like to stroll on the platform close to the landing stage to get a good view of the lake at night. A small launch drifted a few feet away with a single man aboard, fishing.

'Liaison,' said Paula. 'A word used more than once. It almost sounds like Lisa.'

'Now you're being fanciful,' Tweed told her.

The rifle report echoed in the night. The bullet hit the water. Where it had vanished was a pool of swirls. Tweed grabbed hold of Paula, hauled her across the platform, sat her down under cover of the ticket building. Newman stayed in the open, revolver in his hand, scanning the buildings across the road. The bullet had missed Paula by about ten feet. The lone fisherman used a paddle to bring his craft up against the landing stage. He was waving an envelope. Newman ran across the platform, bent down, tore the envelope from his hand, opened it.

'Who gave you this?' he shouted.

It was too late. The fisherman had used a boathook to push his launch beyond reach. He started an engine, guided the craft towards the middle of the Alster. Livid, Newman handed the note, typed on a blank sheet of paper, to Tweed. Reading it once, Tweed stuffed the sheet into his pocket. Its message was clear, brutal.

Go home. Get out of Germany within 24 hours. The next bullet will blow Paula's skull to smithereens. That one was a deliberate miss.

Tweed took hold of Paula, lifted her up, hustled her off the platform down into the street. Newman stayed on the platform, his revolver swinging slowly across the buildings opposite, searching for any sign of movement. Then he joined Tweed and Paula, so she was sandwiched between them as they hurried back to the hotel.

'What was in that note?' Paula asked.

'A threat. They have declared war. So, as from tomorrow, we will give them war in all its hell.'

She had never known him so angry, so forceful, wearing such a ruthless look.