The Janus Man

Twelve

`Champagne?' Franck lifted an opened bottle from a table and hoisted it like a flag. Diana had produced four tulip glasses. She sat in her chair, legs crossed, her expression wary.

`Bit early,' Newman replied in German.

'Never too early for champagne! Sit down everyone. Think of a toast…'

Newman sensed Diana disliked her unexpected visitor, the man who had provided a glass of water when she spilt drink on her dress outside the Jensen. Franck, self-assured as the devil, had taken over the cruiser. Without waiting for Tweed to react he poured four glasses. Tweed sat next to Diana with his back to the sun where he could observe the German. Franck raised his glass and gazed at Newman who sat down and reached for his glass.

'I have thought of a toast.'

`Well, come on then! We want to drink…'

'A toast to the swift hunting down of the maniac who killed Helena Andersen…'

Franck froze, his glass in mid-air. His heavy face seemed to grow heavier as his ice-blue eyes stared at Newman. There was a sudden atmosphere of tension aboard the Sudwind.

'I find that a macabre toast…'

'It was a macabre murder. Cheers!' Newman winked at Diana. 'Down the hatch.'

`I'll drink to that,' she said.

'Of course…' Franck sat down and splayed his powerful legs. 'You are a newspaper reporter, so you spend your life grubbing for the dirt…'

`Franck!' Diana said sharply.

`That's OK,' Newman said easily. 'The killing of that Swedish girl was a pretty dirty business.'

`But doesn't your conscience ever prick you?' Franck persisted. 'Poking your nose into people's private lives…'

'It certainly wouldn't bother me if I were investigating you,' Newman told him cheerfully. 'What do you do for a living, anyway? Unless the answer is embarrassing.'

`And why should it be embarrassing?' An ugly note had crept into the German's tone.

`Tell me what you do and we'll know the answer.'

'I'm a security consultant. I protect people's privacy – instead of invading it.'

`That's an interesting job.' Newman sipped a little more champagne, frowned and put down his glass. 'What company?' 'I work independently. Freelance…'

'He chauffeurs rich old ladies,' Diana said with a hint of a dry smile.

'Is that so?' Newman commented. 'Sounds a profitable…' occupation. Some rich dowagers like a handsome young chap at their beck and call…'

`What exactly does that mean?' Franck's left fist clenched on the arm of his chair and his tone was savage.

`Now, now,' Tweed intervened. He leaned forward towards Franck. `I'm having difficulty placing what part of Germany you come from.' He waited, a look of cheerful anticipation on his face.

`Why do you want to know that?'

`I make a hobby of locating local accents. Just a foolish hobby of mine.' He smiled genially. `You don't mind my asking?' `Now we're getting personal,' Franck replied brusquely. `I'd have said Saxony,' Newman interjected.

Franck pushed back his chair, stood up and loomed over Newman. The Englishman placed his glass on the table, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

`I find your manner obnoxious,' Franck announced. `And you don't seem to appreciate the champagne..

`Obnoxious? I thought we were having a friendly conversation. As to the champagne, it's lukewarm and a rather inferior brand, now that you bring the subject up…'

`Bollinger? An inferior brand?'

`I'm afraid they saw you coming. The bottle may be Bollinger, the contents most certainly are not. Were you thinking of leaving us?'

`You and I will meet again, Newman.'

`Anytime.' Newman gave a broad grin. `Anytime at all…'

Franck turned on his heel, and strode off the cruiser. The gang-plank trembled under his weight, under the heavy thud of his feet. He disappeared amid the tangle of masts in the direction of the Priwall ferry.

`Well,' said Newman, 'that saved him answering the question where he comes from. I must have said something that disagreed with him.'

`I find him creepy,' said Diana. 'And I don't want any more of his bloody champers.' She hurled the bottle over the side. `He used the fact that he'd given me that glass of water at the Jensen to come aboard the other day. Thinks he's a real charmer. That women will queue up to spend the night with him. I simply love the type. A real lady-killer…'

`Maybe you're nearer the truth than you realize,' Newman told her grimly.

`Munzel has reported contact with Tweed,' Wolf told Lysenko as they wandered through the stark streets between the concrete blocks of rebuilt Leipzig. That means he is close to making his move to liquidate him.'

`How recent is the report?'

`Within the past few hours. His contact with Tweed was late this morning at one of the marinas at Travemunde.'

`How does Munzel safely make such a report?' Lysenko demanded. 'I emphasize "safely".'

`We have perfected our communications systems over the years.' Wolf was irked by this constant questioning of his organization. 'Specifically, in this case, Munzel phoned a West Berlin number from Travemunde. A lawyer who specializes in handling any legal problems between families in West Germany with relatives in the East. Bonn trusts him implicitly.'

`So you say. So far the message from Munzel has reached West Berlin. What then?'

`The lawyer has his office within five minutes' walk of Checkpoint Charlie. After receiving the call from Munzel he carries the message in his head and crosses into East Berlin. From there he uses a direct line to me here in Leipzig.'

`I suppose it is foolproof,' Lysenko said grudgingly.

`You'll just have to. take my word that it is. Munzel says he has no doubt he can accomplish his mission within days. At the first opportunity, and those were his very words.'

`So, we are in the hands of The Cripple…'

`He succeeded in Hamburg brilliantly. Fergusson and Palewska were dealt with. Both executions have been accepted as accidents, as I told you earlier.'

`The sooner the better. The General Secretary will be calling for a progress report any moment. I can feel it in my bones.' `So, you will be able to report mission accomplished.'

`The question is,' Tweed said to Newman as they finished their dinner at the Jensen, 'who is telling the truth? Ann Grayle, who calls Diana promiscuous – or Diana herself, who says the Grayle woman is a bitch?'

`Does it matter?' asked Newman.

The restaurant was quiet at 10.30 p.m. and night had fallen outside. They had stayed late at Travemunde, crossing by the ferry to Priwall Island. Diana had pointed out the mansion where Dr Berlin lived. The high wrought-iron gates had been closed with few signs of activity in the grounds beyond.

Two rough-looking individuals had stood close to the gates, gazing at them as they passed. 'A couple of the security guards,' Diana had explained. 'Dr Berlin has a fetish about his privacy.'

They had walked on down the Mecklenburger-strasse – ruler-straight as Diana had described it. Various residences on their right, interspersed with the occasional cafe. To their left the forest spread away towards the channel with a network of footpaths running through it. It was very peaceful, the only sound the distant siren of a ship. They approached a section with six police cars parked by the forest.

`Is this the spot?' Newman asked.

`Yes, this is where Helena Andersen was murdered,' Diana said and shivered.

The police had cordoned off a large area with ropes strung from poles. Newman caught a glimpse through the trees of a line of policemen advancing slowly, beating the undergrowth.

`It's horrid. Let's go back,' Diana had suggested at this point.

Newman finished his coffee. 'Did you get anything from your recce of Priwall Island?'

`Nothing that helps. We'll see what happens at the party tomorrow. And now I do have an idea. You know that area behind the hotel we walked round the other day. I fancy a breath of fresh air…'

`I'll come with you. And I can see you have something special in mind.'

`I'm going out alone – for a stroll past the church.' `Not on…'

`Wait. You follow at a discreet distance. Keep out of sight. We need someone we can question – hand over to Kuhlmann if necessary.'

`It's dangerous. That area in the old town is a labyrinth.' `We must try something, flush them out. I'm leaving now.' Tweed paused on the steps leading down into the street.

People still sat at the tables, drinking, chatting, joking. It was a warm night, the air humid and oppressive. He wiped moisture from his forehead, walked out and turned left along the An der Obertrave, the street running alongside the river on the far side.

Despite the heat, Tweed wore his shabby, lightweight Burberry raincoat. His right hand felt the rubber-cased cosh inside his pocket once given to him by a friend in Special Branch. Normally Tweed would never have dreamt of carrying a weapon, but he had the feeling this trip was dangerous. He was still being led on a rope paid out to him length by length.

He passed the medieval salt warehouses on the opposite bank, their steep gables silhouetted against the Prussian blue of the night sky. Then he turned left again up a side street leading to the church. Lubeck climbed the side of a hill from the Trave river, the ascent was steep, the street little more than a wide cobbled alleyway and quite deserted. Now he had left the river a sudden sinister silence pressed down. No more voices from the holidaymakers. It was as though a door had closed on the outside world.

Tweed trudged slowly up the uneven pavement and for a moment he thought he was entirely alone. Then he heard the sound behind him. Faint at first, it gradually grew louder, coming closer.

Tap… tap… tap…!

He paused, took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, glanced over his shoulder. It was only a blind man. The tapping sound was the tip of his white stick following the edge of, the ancient stone kerb. He passed under the blurred glow of a lamp at the entrance to one of the alleys leading off the street.

A bulky figure, trilby hat jammed low over his forehead, a pair of wrap-around, tinted glasses concealing his eyes and the upper part of his face. A bulky figure which walked with a stoop, his suit old and baggy.

Tweed resumed his walk up the incline. His hearing was acute and something was bothering him. The tapping of the stick was more like a series of quick thuds. As though instead of a rubber tip the end of the stick was heavily weighted…'

Only a blind man. Tweed swore inwardly at his own stupidity. The man following him steadily up the deserted street was a cripple. The Cripple had at long last made his appearance – the man Harry Masterson had warned him against.

Tweed felt the palms of his hands grow moist. His mouth tightened. He resisted the temptation to hurry up to the top of the street. At least his ruse had worked. But, oh God, this was the first time he had walked alone since landing at Hamburg Airport. It gave a terrifying insight into the closeness with which he had been watched by the opposition. And Lubeck was so near the border.

Get a grip on yourself. Your people in the field live like this all the time. Never free from fear. You've worked in the field yourself for years. What the hell is wrong with you? Too much time spent behind a cosy desk back at Park Crescent?

Suddenly he felt cold. The expression on his face had not changed but the nervousness was gone. He wiped his right hand dry inside his Burberry pocket. Then he conducted a difficult manoeuvre, still walking. Concealing most of the cosh inside his hand, he whipped off the Burberry and folded it loosely over his arm. Like a cloak.

He had reached the top of the street, a T-junction. He turned into an equally dark street called Kolk, just below the tower of the church which loomed above a vertical wall. Kolk was a short street. Leading into the maze of the old town. Tweed paused outside the entrance to a bar. Over the entrance was the legend Alt Lubeck. A small bar furnished with dark wood, stools by the counter, dim lighting. He dismissed the temptation to seek sanctuary and walked on.

Tap… tap… tap! Very close now. The blind man had turned the corner into Kolk, had increased the length of his stride, was very close now. Then the tapping stopped. Tweed turned round. The huge silhouette in the shadows had hoisted the loaded stick, was bringing it down in a wide arc.

`He stumbled in the dark, missed the edge of the kerb, caught his skull against the stone paving, smashed it like an eggshell. There was drink on his breath…'

The wording of the police report recording his death flashed across Tweed's brain. He pressed himself against the wall, protecting his back, timed it carefully, grabbed at the descending stick with his right hand, felt the stinging pain. He grasped the stick with both hands.

His attacker held on, shoved forward with the end of the stick, aiming it at Tweed's belly. Tweed's powerful wrists took the strain, and they wrestled for the weapon. Tweed knew he was at a disadvantage. His attacker had a strong grip on the handle of the stick. It was only a matter of seconds before Tweed lost his grip, then the second attack would come, a flailing blow again aimed at his skull.

Newman hit the attacker from behind with a Rugby tackle, the full force of his rush knocking the assailant sprawling in the cobbled street. Newman sprawled with him. His opponent bent his right leg at the knee, rammed his foot forward. Newman felt the steel-tipped boot hit his jaw. He was stunned.

Tweed was handicapped by Newman's sprawled body. He was stepping over it when the killer leapt to his feet, using one gloved hand to give himself extra impetus. He tore off down the street and vanished. A police car's siren sounded, came round the corner, jammed on its brakes as its headlights beamed on Newman.

`Where is he?' Kuhlmann roared.

The Federal policeman had jumped out of the front passenger seat. He addressed the question to Tweed who was standing while Newman still lay in the street.

`That direction…' Tweed pointed. 'Heaven knows where after that. It's like Hampton Court Maze…'

`Description?' Kuhlmann half-turned to the uniformed driver. 'Give me that mike.' Tweed noticed the radio car had a very high aerial.

`Six foot tall,' he said quickly. 'About a hundred and eighty pounds. Trilby pulled low over head. Shabby dark suit. Tinted wrap-round glasses – discarded by now, I'm sure…'

`And blond hair,' Newman added, climbing slowly to his feet.

`Could you see his hair?' Kuhlmann queried. 'With the hat?' `Blond hair,' Newman persisted.

Kuhlmann spoke rapidly into the microphone, spelling out the description. 'Blond hair,' he ended. 'Probably – that is, the hair colour. Seal off the island now,' he continued in staccato tone. 'Close all the bridges. Road-blocks. Check all cars…'

`And motor-bikes,' Tweed added. 'I thought I heard one start up.'

Kuhlmann included motor-bikes, handed back the mike, then he lit a cigar before he rasped, 'What do you think you were up to, Tweed? Walking the streets – at night, too, for God's sake – by yourself.

'He wasn't by himself,' Newman contradicted. 'I was following him. And we nearly got him..

`And he nearly got Tweed…'

`Are you all right?' Tweed asked Newman.

`Bruised shoulder. The most minor memento I could have expected.' He bent down and picked up the weighted stick.

`I'll take that.' Kuhlmann held out his hand. 'And careful how you handle it. Fingerprints…'

`Don't waste your time,' Tweed advised. 'He wore gloves.' `You had a pretty rough few minutes,' Newman said to Tweed as he brushed dust off his jacket.

`Oh, I don't know. A bit of excitement gets the adrenalin stirring.' He looked at Kuhlmann. 'How did you happen to be in this area?'

`I persuaded the state police to watch you. Unfortunately they waited for me to drive from the local police station to the patrol car which had you under surveillance…'

`You want to know where you might find the owner of that walking stick?' Newman suggested.

`What do you think?'

`Hotel Movenpick. Name of Kurt Franck. No guarantee that he's your man. We never got a good look at his face…'

I'm on my way. Call you later at the Jensen…'

Balkan was on the move. 11.30 p.m. on the beach at Travemunde Strand. He stared straight ahead, like a sleep-walker. His feet made a slushing sound as they trudged through the sand. Lights glowed in the distant multi-storey Maritim Hotel. Most holidaymakers were indoors, drinking in the bars, dining late.

There was only one other person on the long beach. A blonde girl, clad in a two-piece bathing costume, soaking up the peace, the last warmth of the day. Iris Hansen had a date with her new German boy friend. They'd arranged to meet on the beach at midnight and then go dancing.

Iris, her long blonde hair trailing like a waterfall down her nude back, lay stretched out on a towel, leaning on one elbow.

She listened to the gentle lapping of the Baltic on the edge of the shore. Dreamy. A long way off the sound of laughter, the drumming beat of pop music. All night long. That was what he'd promised. They'd dance all night long.

She'd spent three weeks in Travemunde, three glorious baking weeks. To hell with Copenhagen. This was the life. Better than she'd ever hoped for. She just wanted it to go on and on. She heard the slushing sound of feet treading the sand, looked up.

`Oh, it's you. Hello, there…'

He stood over her, one foot on either side of her prone body. She raised an eyebrow, then dropped her eyes. Why not here? Now the only sounds were the lapping water, distant laughter and music. She looked up and her eyes widened in horror. Oh, God. No!

He held the broad-bladed knife in his right hand. Held it high above his head. She opened her mouth to scream and he planted a naked foot over her mouth, stifling the scream. Then the blade descended in a wide arc. It entered just above her breasts. And ripped down. And down. And down…'

`Kuhlmann here…'

Listening to the phone in his bedroom, Tweed detected a note of disappointment. He sat down in his dressing gown and identified himself.

`Your Kurt Franck wasn't at the Movenpick,' Kuhlmann informed him. 'Yes, he's registered here. He came into the bar for a quick drink just before he left. Time 20.00 hours. Half an hour before you walked out of the Jensen. No go…'

`Why not?' Tweed asked.

`Said to the barman he was going out to meet a new girl friend. I checked his dress. He was wearing jeans and a white polo-necked sweater. No shabby two-piece suit. And then I checked the parking lot. He doesn't have a motor-bike. Travels around in a hired BMW. Yellow job..

Did you say yellow?'

`I did. Why?'

`Nothing. I didn't catch the word first time…'

'So it looks like he's out on the town – maybe for the whole night. Not our boy, I'd say. At least today is ending quietly. Be in touch. If anything develops…'

Thirteen

The phone began ringing in Tweed's bedroom. He swore in the bathroom, his face covered in lather, put down the old- fashioned razor he'd used for years, grabbed a towel and ran into the bedroom. Always when he was shaving. The bloody phone. He lifted the receiver.

`Hugh Grey here. Not too early for you, I'm sure. Bright as the proverbial lark, eh, Tweed?'

Grey sounded horribly buoyant and Tweed could just imagine his plump face, the ruddy flush of his skin, the eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. It was a bit much, first thing in the morning.

`What can I do for you?' Tweed asked, wiping soap off his chin.

`I've heard about last night. A nasty experience for you. Not what you're used to…' A reference to the fact that Tweed's place was behind his desk. 'Can I send in the troops?' Grey went on energetically, 'I like to be supportive. Some back-up. OK?'

'No,' said Tweed. 'Thank you, but no,' he said emphatically. `And I'm quite all right, thank you. Leave things the way they are. Anything to tell me?'

'Not over the phone. Business is very active. Results expected shortly. I'll keep London informed. Don't forget – you need anything, call HQ at Frankfurt. Keep chipper. 'Bye for now. My three minutes is nearly up…'

Tweed put down the phone and sighed. The jargon got on his nerves. Can I send in the troops? What did Grey think he was? A bloody field marshal commanding an army? He went back into the bathroom to finish his shave.

He knew the real purpose of the call. To inform Tweed that he was on the ball. Grey must have an informant inside Lubeck – maybe even inside police HQ at Lubeck-Sud. He'd heard about the scuffle in Kolk damned fast. But Lubeck was on the border – an obvious place to watch closely.

He told Newman about the call over breakfast at an isolated table. The reporter finished chewing a piece of roll before he commented.

`How did Grey know you were here?'

`Oh, they all know. I'd much sooner the two of us handled the problem on our own – but I had to let Howard know where they could contact me. New boys, only six months as sector chiefs – I have to be available if something tricky crops up. Hugh Grey is just so bouncy first thing…'

`You have to admit he's efficient. This is his sector. The fact that he knows what's going on so quickly is a tribute to his organization…'

`You're right, of course. Well, we have something positive to look forward to this afternoon. Dr Berlin's party. Diana is late for breakfast.'

`She told me she was sleeping on the Sudwind last night. It saves her driving back and forth. We get there a bit early and pick her up off the cruiser before crossing to Priwall. She's going to introduce us to people at the famous party. I'd like to get there really early,' Newman went on, 'if that's OK by you. I want to interview Ann Grayle at greater length. That lady talks…'

`Endlessly. And we have company. Kuhlmann has just walked in. Something tells me we have a busy day coming up…'

The breakfast room at the Jensen was at the back of the hotel. You helped yourself from a buffet. Kuhlmann took a plate, piled on four rolls, a quantity of butter, three canisters of marmalade and sat down.

`I've been up all night,' he announced. There was a pause as he broke a roll in two, plastered it with butter and marmalade, consumed it rapidly and ordered coffee. 'A litre of it…' He looked fresh and alert, his thick black hair was neatly combed, but his chin was a black stubble. It reminded Tweed of Harry Masterson who, by midday, had a blued chin, the five o'clock shadow at noon, as Masterson called it. 'I should grow a beard,' he often joked, 'but then anyone could pick me out a mile off…'

Kuhlmann devoured his roll, swallowed a whole cup of coffee, refilled it. Newman lit a cigarette, studying the German. His sixth sense told him Kuhlmann had news.

`Why up all night?' he asked. 'Get anywhere with Franck?' `Forget Franck. Another blonde has been carved up and raped. Sometime round midnight…'

`On Priwall Island again?' Tweed asked quietly.

'No. On the beach at Travemunde Strand. Incredible. That he was able to get away with such butchery on an exposed beach…'

`Who was the victim?'

`An Iris Hansen. A Dane from Copenhagen. Personal assistant to a senior civil servant. So now Bonn has the lines buzzing between there and Copenhagen – and the calls are still coming in from Stockholm about Helena Andersen. The poor devil of a pathologist had just finished putting Andersen's remains together when we presented him with another parcel of meat. His phrase. He worked through the night. Out at Travemunde panic has turned to frenzy. Men are going out buying hunting knives, rolling pins, anything that can be used as a weapon…'

`Two murders,' Newman mused. 'Both blondes…'

`Three,' Kuhlmann amended. 'The Dutch girl at Frankfurt six months ago. It's the same killer. He proceeds with his grisly work in the same way. Don't ask me to go into details until I've settled my breakfast. You should have seen the Hansen girl lying on the beach. She, too, must have been attractive…'

`Must have been? Past tense,' Newman queried.

`He slashes their faces, cuts off… Never mind. You can always go and see her in the hospital for yourself if you're thinking of following up the story. Want me to sign a chit?'

`Not just now. Thanks all the same. Is there any connection between the three killings?'

`The connection I need is who was in Frankfurt six months ago and is here now.' He looked at Tweed. 'The two names the computer has come up with so far are you and Newman.'

`Except that you know both of us were in the middle of Lubeck at 10.45 p.m. I thought you said Iris Hansen was killed round midnight…'

'I did. We parted company about 11 o'clock. At that hour it is a fast drive to Travemunde. No traffic. Twenty minutes and you're in Travemunde Strand.'

`So both of us are suspects?'

'I have to report all the facts to Wiesbaden.' Kuhlmann took his time demolishing the last roll, then his wide mouth broke into a cynical grin. 'But the night man here on reception told me when I came in this morning you both went to your rooms at 11.10. He happened to check the clock. No one can get out of this place without passing him. You both have watertight alibis…'

'How very fortunate,' Tweed replied coolly. 'And now you've had your fun, maybe I could ask a favour? I need a totally safe phone to make several calls.'

`Police HQ, Lubeck-Sud,' Kuhlmann said promptly. 'It's outside town. There's a room there with a scrambler phone. I'll drive you there now. And you've got that look on your face.'

'What look might that be?'

'A very worried man. Something disturbing has struck you.'

Lubeck-Sud. Not at all what Newman had expected. A huge modern fourteen-storey complex of buildings, joined together and with a black central tower. All perched on top of a small hill, looking down on slopes of trim green lawns decorated with rose beds.

Kuhlmann drove off the main highway past a one-word sign. POLIZEI. He parked the car outside, led the way into the entrance hall and showed his folder to a police officer in shirt-sleeves inside a glass box to the left. They exchanged a few words and the officer handed Kuhlmann a key.

Kuhlmann took them by elevator to the tenth floor. Half way down a long corridor he handed Tweed the key in front of a closed door which, unlike all the others, had no number.

'Newman and I will find some coffee in the canteen at the end of the corridor. Come and join us when you're finished. That phone inside there is one of the safest in the whole Federal Republic. It's used by the BND,' he ended, referring to counter-espionage.

Inside Tweed found a small bare room, walls lined with steel filing cabinets, a table, two chairs. A white telephone sat on the table. He pulled out one of the chairs, made himself comfortable and dialled a Frankfurt number from memory. A girl answered immediately, repeating the number he had dialled and adding the digit nine.

`Hadrian calling,' Tweed said. 'The Hadrian Corporation. I'd like to speak with Mr Hugh Grey.'

They were using Roman emperors this month for the call-sign – Howard's idea, of course.

`I'm afraid he's away negotiating a deal for a few days,' the girl responded.

`When might I get him?'

`He didn't say. I don't think he knew himself.'

`Thank you…'

Tweed broke the connection. Grey could have called him from anywhere in West Germany- Munich, Stuttgart, Cologne. Anywhere. And it was strictly against the rules to ask for a contact number. A rule Tweed himself had laid down when he had tightened security six months earlier.

He next dialled Harry Masterson in Vienna. The same reaction. Masterson was out of town. No, they had no idea when he'd be back. Patiently, Tweed went on. He dialled Bern, to speak to Guy Dalby. A third negative. He sighed. The last one now – Copenhagen.

The girl answered in perfect English, which was just as well. Tweed spoke no Danish.

`He is not here at present. If you would care to leave a message?'

`No message…'

Tweed stared at the phone. Zero out of four. There was nothing strange about it. He had personally trained all four to get out of their offices, into the field, to keep close personal contact with their agents. In a way it was a good sign. So why was he so disturbed?

He found Kuhlmann and Newman sitting at a table in an empty canteen. The German said would he like some coffee? Tweed shook his head and sat down as Kuhlmann continued what he had been saying to Newman.

`… So a team of psychiatrists is on the way from Wiesbaden. I could do without those gentlemen. Most of them are nut cases.'

Their reports – the bits you can understand – read like the ravings of madmen. Which doesn't help – considering we're all hunting someone who has to be stark raving mad…'

`Or a sadist,' said Tweed.

`Which comes to the same thing. They draw up a profile – a portrait of the personality of the killer…'

`I'm beginning to build up my own profile of him,' Tweed remarked. 'How can we most easily get to Travemunde from here?'

`By using me as a chauffeur. I'm on my way there myself.'

`Oh, thank God you've come, Tweedy. I rang the Jensen but they said you'd gone out. Isn't it too horrible… another girl… and a blonde again… I'm blonde…'

Diana Chadwick was shaking as Tweed arrived on board the Sudwind. She ran forward as he stepped off the gangplank, threw her arms round him and sank her golden head into his chest. He patted her back, squeezed her, realized for the first time how slim she was. She cried a little. Tears of relief. Then she released him, dabbed at her eyes with an absurdly small lace handkerchief, and drew herself erect.

`I'm making a perfect fool of myself. Do forgive me. Let's have something to drink. Coffee? Something stronger?'

`Why not coffee. Under the circumstances?'

`You're so right. Alcohol will make me go to pieces again. Come down into the galley with me while I make the coffee. I don't like being alone for a second at the moment…'

He followed her down the companionway into the galley, perched on a narrow leather couch and looked around while she busied herself with the percolator.

'I was actually on deck here when that girl was killed,' she said.

`How do you know that? You heard something?'

`Oh, nothing horrible – like screams. But it's all over the town. The fact that she was killed about midnight. I was sitting watching the lights, waiting to feel sleepy.' She turned to face him, leaning against the counter while she waited for the coffee to be ready. Her face looked whiter than ever.

`Actually, Tweedy, I did hear something about a quarter past midnight. I didn't think much of it at the time…'

`And what was that?'

`The sound of a dinghy crossing the channel from the beach on this side to Priwall Island..

`Diana…' Tweed was leaning forward, watching her intently, his eyes alert with interest behind his glasses. `… exactly what do you mean? A dinghy doesn't make any noise.'

`I'm not explaining this very well.' She brushed a lock of hair back over her finely-shaped forehead. `I mean a dinghy equipped with an outboard motor. I even saw its wake – quite a distance beyond the marina. It disappeared behind a headland on Priwall Island. I thought it was a bit late for someone to be going home and then it went out of my mind – until I heard the news this morning.'

`Have you told the police?'

`God, no! They never stop questioning you.' She was leaning back so the curve of her hips showed clearly against the close- fitting white dress she wore. 'Coffee's ready,' she said and poured two cups. They went back up on deck.

`It's so claustrophobic down in that galley,' she said.

Tweed recognized the symptoms. She couldn't stay in one place for long. The symptoms of shock. They sat in the chairs on deck, the sun shone down, and she had no protection to shade her face. Badly shaken, Tweed said to himself. Understandable. But why this intense degree of shock?

`Will Dr Berlin be cancelling his party this afternoon?' Tweed wondered aloud. 'In view of what has happened?'

`Oh, no, I'm sure he won't. He's a wonderful man, but he is hardly aware of what is going on outside his own private orbit. I noticed that when I first met him in Kenya.'

`How did you first come to know him?'

`I must have been no more than eighteen. Everyone worshipped him – the work he was doing to help the natives. He had a hospital in the bush. Today everyone thinks of him as a second Dr Albert Schweitzer. He was a bit out of touch with the real world from what I've read. I drove a truck with medical supplies into the hospital in the bush. I was very idealistic in those days.'

`And now?'

`I suppose I've seen too much of men to be idealistic any more. It can be a curse being a blonde. They all think… well, you know. Dr Berlin isn't like that though. He's only interested in his work, his work for the refugees now..

`But surely the refugees who fled from East Prussia and the other territories after the war are settled, have made a life for themselves?'

'On the surface, yes. Underneath, it can be very difficult. Divided families on both sides of the border. He negotiates with the East Germans at times. They accept him as a neutral, probably because his parents were born in Leipzig.' She gave Tweed a fresh cup of coffee.

`That's enough about me – and Dr Berlin. Why is Bob Newman hobnobbing with Ann Grayle? I saw him over there walking on to her landing stage…'

`You know these reporters. Always love talking to people, hoping for something they can turn into a story…'

`I spent the morning, Mr Newman, going through my bags looking for my gun,' Ann Grayle said as they sat on the deck of the sloop, drinking gin and tonic.

`And did you find it?'

`Look.' She reached down for her handbag, opened it and handed something to Newman, leaning forward so he caught the faintest whiff of perfume. She really was a very attractive woman he thought to himself.

Resting on the open palm of his hand was a Browning automatic. 32 calibre. He recognized the weapon. Manufactured at Herstal, Belgium.

`Careful, it's loaded,' she warned.

`You have the experience to use it?'

`I was a crack shot back in the old Nairobi days. A woman left alone while her husband was working needed some protection. The natives could turn on you without warning.'

`And if someone crept aboard this sloop after dark?'

`I'd shoot him point-blank.'

There was a crisp, whiplash in her tone. As he handed back the gun Newman had no doubt she'd do just what she said. She slipped the Browning back inside her handbag and crossed her shapely legs, watching him as she spoke.

`I see your friend, Tweed, is being entertained by Goldenlegs. Is he a widower? He'd better watch it.'

`Goldenlegs?'

`A bit crude perhaps, but it sums up her best assets – and how she uses them…'

`I don't imagine Dr Berlin has much interest in women,' Newman said, changing the subject.

`Your imagination would be wildly wrong. I know he poses as the great Father Figure, the second Albert Schweitzer. But take my word for it, he likes attractive girls. You'll see some of them at his party. He has them carefully vetted before they're admitted into the august presence.'

`Vetted? You're joking…'

`I'm not used to being contradicted. Vetted is what I said. His chief assistant, Danny Warning, checks their backgrounds before any girl is allowed near Dr Berlin. They're on the lookout for reporters slipping through the security. I can't imagine why you've been invited…'

`Maybe because I did once interview him. You've kept your friendship with Dr Berlin since those long ago days in Kenya?'

`Since Nairobi I haven't exchanged a word with him – nor have the rest of the old crowd. He keeps us very much out of his new life.'

`Why?'

`I've no idea. He wasn't sociable back in Kenya. But then the bush hospital took up most of his time in those days.'

`You said none of the old crowd knows him any more. What about Diana Chadwick?'

`Goldenlegs is the one exception. She helped him with the hospital years ago. I suppose they struck up some kind of relationship that has lasted. Mind you, in case you think I'm the perfect bitch, I'm sure her friendship with Dr Berlin is purely platonic, as they used to say.' She stood up. 'And now I'm going to throw you off the sloop. I have my hair to wash – that beastly atrocity last night has upset me. And I see Tweed has torn himself away from Diana and is coming over to see you. Have a good time at the party. It will be an eye- opener…'

Fourteen

The ferry to Priwall Island was like a barge with steel walls and a raised ramp fore and aft. It was crammed with passengers and carried about half-a-dozen cars. One of the crew was chatting to Tweed while Newman and Diana stood near the prow.

`That tall building over there is the Maritim Hotel,' the crewman told Tweed. 'There's a flashing light at the top after dark to mark the entrance to the channel. You can see the old lighthouse – that red structure this side..

Tweed estimated the hotel was well over twenty storeys – far and away the tallest building in Travemunde or Lubeck. The Baltic was choppy with wavelets under the burning sun, but the crossing took less than five minutes.

`Looks like we have a maniac on the loose,' the crewman continued. 'Two girls raped and slashed up in less than twenty-four hours. It's going to affect the season if we're not careful.

I heard a number of holidaymakers have paid their bills and left.'

`How do you know they were raped?' Tweed enquired.

`It's all round the town. People talk of nothing else. I'll have to go now…'

The ferry slowed, bumped against the shore, the forward ramp was lowered and cars and passengers on foot began disembarking. Tweed was about to follow when the voice spoke in his ear.

`Interesting that Dr Berlin doesn't allow anything to disturb his arrangements. A couple of girls carved up,' Kuhlmann went on, 'a trivial incident.'

`You are coming to the party?' Tweed asked as they walked off and started down the Mecklenburger-strasse. He was again struck by the peace of the island, the abundance of trees.

`I may put in an appearance later. Take a good look at the security. God takes good care of himself. Have fun…'

It started immediately at the entrance to the mansion. Tweed was startled to see Newman holding up his arms while two guards patted his body, checking for weapons presumably. Another guard was checking Diana's handbag. Tweed joined the queue and heard Newman's comment loud and clear.

`Hell's bells. You think we're boarding an aircraft? Where are the metal detectors? And if you've got the American President here your security is lousy. Where are the dogs?'

There was confusion. The queue froze. A short, heavily-built man with a bald head which gleamed in the sun hurried up to the guards. He addressed Newman.

`I am Danny Warning, chief of security. Who are you?' `Newman. Robert Newman. And I was invited to this San Quentin circus you're running..

`You said something about dogs,' Warning said nastily.

`To sniff us for explosives. Do the job properly or not at all,' Newman went on sarcastically.

Warning turned to another guard who held a clipboard and a pen. 'Robert Newman,' he snapped.

`Yes, sir. He's on the list…'

`You have some form of identification?' Warning demanded as he turned to face Newman again. 'Driving licence? Passport?' `In a pig's eye…'

A tall thin man came running across the vast expanse of lawn. Tweed realized Newman's voice must have carried clear to the distant mansion looming in front of more trees. The thin man grasped Warning's arm.

`It's all right. I recognize him. No fuss…'

`I have my job to do,' Warning snapped again.

`Dr Berlin sent me to tell you. No fuss,' he repeated. `You may proceed,' Warning said.

Newman looked over his shoulder to where Diana stood watching him with a quirky smile. He beckoned her forward and shouted at the top of his voice.

`Come on! Don't worry. If Danny Warning tries to search you I'll kick his teeth in…'

What the hell do you think you're doing, Tweed wondered at the back of the crowd of waiting people. He watched Diana stroll forward, Newman take her arm and lead her across the lawn. When Tweed reached the open gateway he stopped and waited for the guards to check him. For the first time he noticed the thin man had a walkie-talkie. As Warning stepped forward the thin man again laid a hand on his arm.

`Let Mr Tweed through. He is an honoured guest.' `Thank you,' said Tweed.

Warning's dark eyes, blank of all expression, scanned Tweed, then he snapped his fingers. One of a dozen waiters touring the lawn with trays of glasses came forward.

`Champagne here, sir.' He indicated a line of glasses. 'Or Chablis or Beaujolais…'

`Champagne, I think. Thank you,' Tweed said again and wandered towards the large mansion perched on a slight eminence. It was probably built before the First World War, he guessed. The trim lawn was crowded with groups of chattering guests. Newman and Diana came up to him.

'And what was all that about, Bob?' Tweed asked coldly. 'We didn't come here to be conspicuous.'

'A test. First, I don't like being pawed by Dr Berlin's goons. But mainly to see how much he would take. How badly he wanted us to attend his shindig…'

`You're brighter than I'd thought,' Tweed admitted. 'And His Highness is up there, I think…'

They had their first view of Dr Berlin.

In front of the three-storey mansion – running along its full width – was a raised terrace. A broad flight of stone steps led up to it from the lawn. At the foot of the steps stood a group of men in civilian clothes who were obviously guards, barring the way.

A large oblong table covered with a white cloth stood in the very centre of the terrace. A dozen people sat at the table, nine men and three attractive girls, two brunettes and a redhead. At the far side of the table in a central position sat a bulky figure with a black beard.

He sat very still, a grey beret pulled down over his head. A cloak of the same colour was thrown over his shoulders and draped over his body despite the torrid heat. But the looming hulk of the mansion behind threw a shadow over the terrace.

Dr Berlin wore large tinted glasses and he was holding up a pair of binoculars aimed at the entrance gateway. Tweed sipped at his champagne as he studied his host from a distance of about fifty metres. Newman smiled cynically before he spoke.

`One thing I'll give him – he's well-organized.'

`What makes you say that?' asked Diana.

`That sudden switch of attitude on the part of bully-boy Danny Warning puzzled me. I see what happened now. From his elevated position Berlin can see through those field-glasses clear to the gate. He recognized me. And by his left hand on the table is a walkie-talkie. He can issue instructions to every guard on the premises through that. How did you manage, Tweed?'

`Received as an honoured guest…'

`You can see why now. He saw you through the binoculars – and for my money this is a damned weird set-up.'

`I can see the "how",' Tweed said slowly. 'What I don't see is the "why" – why he should be so interested in inviting me here so he can see me…'

`Or so you can see him,' Diana interjected flippantly.

`And this is as close as we get,' Newman remarked.

Across the lawn was strung a thick rope slung from poles rammed into the grass. The area beyond was empty of guests and more guards in civilian clothes patrolled up and down behind the rope.

`You know what I think they were checking me for?' Newman remarked to Diana as they strolled back into the crowd. 'A camera. You said he didn't like his picture being taken. Now I wonder why?'

`He's just naturally shy. Hates publicity. There are very few photographs of him in existence. He wouldn't even let me snap him. We've lost Tweed,' she said suddenly.

Tweed was still standing where they had left him, taking polite sips at his glass while he apparently admired the mansion. But all the time he was studying Dr Berlin. His host swivelled the field-glasses and the twin lenses focused directly on Tweed. Aware of the scrutiny, Tweed held his ground, staring back.

Apart from manipulating the binoculars the man rarely moved. Others at his table chatted away to each other, drank and refilled their glasses, ate from plates piled with some kind of edibles and seemed to be enjoying themselves. Dr Berlin put the binoculars down on the table, still staring at Tweed through the tinted glasses, his hands hidden behind two large coffee pots.

Difficult to see his expression at that distance. The beard didn't help. The sheer lack of motion in the man fascinated Tweed, who stood equally still. There was no one else near him as he remained staring at the terrace, one hand in the pocket of his safari jacket, the other holding his glass.

He felt a soft hand grip his forearm and he knew without looking round it was Diana. She tugged gently, urging him to join her. He waited a moment longer, gazing at the terrace. The side of her face touched his. He felt the soft outline of her breast against his upper arm. 'Come on, Tweedy,' she whispered.

He let her lead him away, into the crowds, weaving her way until they reached Newman who was standing alone, his expression grim. He looked relieved as they came up to him.

`There,' Diana said, 'I've rescued him. He's safe now.' `Safe? What on earth are you talking about?' Tweed asked. Newman replied. `Do you realize that standing out there in the middle of the lawn on your own you made the perfect target?'

`Stuff and nonsense…'

The hot, airless afternoon drifted past. Waiters brought an endless supply of trays stacked with food, with more glasses of wine. Tweed studied the other guests. Smartly-dressed men and women. Middle class. But Germany these days was almost one great middle class. Local businessmen and merchants with their wives. Doubtless a few marzipan kings. Lubeck was famous for its marzipan.

Some faces he recognized from his prowls round the marinas. The sailing buffs. But no one he could see from the old Kenya brigade.

Tun, isn't it?' Diana said. 'Hove parties…'

`Must have cost him a mint of money,' Tweed replied. 'Where does Dr Berlin get his money from?'

`Various organizations which support his activities to help the refugees. Most of the guests here will have contributed to one association or another. They feel they are all right, so they give something to help the less fortunate…'

'I wonder if anyone audits his books?'

`Cynic!'

The party broke up suddenly in a riot of confusion at exactly six o'clock.

The three of them were standing near the entrance gates – which had been closed – when the fleet of cars pulled in at the kerb. Kuhlmann himself pushed open the right-hand 'gate, followed by a team of men in plain clothes.

Danny Warning tried to stop him. Kuhlmann shoved his identity folder in the stocky security chief's face. He pushed him aside roughly, shouting orders to his companions.

`This is private property,' Warning rasped.

`And this…' Kuhlmann shoved a piece of paper in his face, 'is a warrant to search the grounds and the premises. Get out of my way or you're arrested…'

A sudden hush fell over the crowd of guests. A sea of faces turned as Kuhlmann marched across the lawn towards the mansion. With a gesture he summoned Tweed, Newman and Diana to follow him. The team of men with him spread out, taking guests' names.

They broke out beyond the crowd and Tweed stopped as Kuhlmann wrenched up the rope with a savage jerk. Tweed grasped both Newman and Diana by the arm as Kuhlmann moved across the open lawn.

'Look,' said Tweed. 'The terrace…'

Dr Berlin's special guests still sat at the oblong table, all faces turned towards Kuhlmann. But there was a gap in the centre. Dr Berlin's chair was empty.

'Diana,' Tweed said urgently, 'is there any other way out of this place?'

'Only the drive alongside the lawn…'

As she spoke Tweed heard the sound of a car's engine driving past them down the drive concealed behind trees towards the Mecklenburger-strasse. He turned and began running for the gates. Diana was amazed at how fast he could move. Newman ran after him and Diana followed.

Tweed reached the gate as a black Mercedes with tinted windows swung out of the drive and past the gates heading for the ferry. He ran after the vehicle, thanked God he was wearing the safari jacket Diana had persuaded him to buy. He kept on running and in the distance he saw the ferry was about to leave. He paced himself, running more steadily, covering a lot of ground.

He was in time to see the Mercedes – which had a tinted rear window – driving aboard the ferry. He kept on running. The silhouette of a man sitting in the rear turned and looked back. Tweed had a vague impression of a head wearing a beret, a black beard. Dr Berlin gave him a little wave and then the ramp was raised and the ferry departed for Travemunde.

Tweed stopped running, swore aloud, stood panting to regain his breath as Newman and Diana caught up with him. `He got away,' said Tweed, wiping sweat off his brow. `You look furious,' Diana said. 'Why?'

`The bastard waved at me. But it's not that. I know that man. I've seen him before. Talked to him. I'm sure of it.'

`That's impossible,' Newman objected.

`I know him,' Tweed repeated. 'That little wave he gave me. Give me time. I'll remember…'