The Janus Man

Twenty-Six

`Did you get through to Peter Toll?' Tweed asked as he shut his office door. 'And I'm short of time. We've just got back from Masterson's place. I've left Diana at Newman's flat. We are going on to talk with Erich Lindemann.'

`I got through,' Monica said quietly. 'I think you'd better speak to him yourself. Shall I get him?'

`Do that. Please.'

He kept the folded Burberry over his arm as he wandered over to the wall map and again studied the border area. Monica's reply had an ominous ring.

`He's on the line,' she called out.

`Tweed here. Is that Peter Toll? At last. I've had a devil of a job reaching you. I want to know the whereabouts of the man who accompanied me to Germany. No names. Yes, I know we're on scrambler.'

`I have no idea…'

`Toll.' Tweed was at his most formal. 'Don't muck me about. I have Walther Prat under lock and key.'

`I wondered…'

`You wondered what had happened to him. Why he hadn't flown back to Munich. Now you know. And you know what I know. We could arrange an exchange possibly,' he went on sarcastically. 'My man for yours…'

`That's ridiculous. We cooperate…'

`Like you cooperated recently? You went ahead without saying a word to me. I want him back. Quickly.'

`Two weeks…'

`Like hell. Four days. Send out an alert. My next call is to your chief.'

`The situation is delicate. One week…'

`Four days,' Tweed repeated. 'No result by then, I call your chief.'

`There is no need to be hasty.. Toll sounded worried. `I've said my last word on the matter. If anything should go wrong I'll fly to Munich myself. You're on probation.' `That's not for you to say..

`I just said it. And, by God, I meant it. That's all.' `What about Walther Prohl?'

`He stays here until I get my man back.'

Tweed slammed down the phone, his expression grim. Again he glanced towards the wall map. Then he shook his head and folded the Burberry more tidily over his arm.

`You were pretty rough on him,' Monica observed. 'And I take it you were referring to Newman's disappearance.'

`Yes to both statements. I know now he has sent Bob into The Zone – without telling his chief. I'm worried stiff about it. Trouble is, Toll wants to do it all by himself, prove himself – because I happen to know he is on probation in his new post.'

`You do that yourself sometimes,' she reminded him gently. `Do things without letting Howard know. You know the reason why you're so furious?'

`I suppose you'll tell me.'

`Peter Toll is a younger version of yourself.'

Tweed paused near the door. 'You could be right.' `And what about Newman? Will he be all right?'

`I hope to God he will. He speaks fluent German. He will if he continues to think for himself. Now, time to go and have a friendly chat with Lindemann.'

`What was the verdict on Harry Masterson?'

`Inconclusive.'

`That's a bit of luck,' said Tweed and drove the Cortina into a vacant parking slot. 'That's where Lindemann lives,' he went on, pointing out to Diana who sat alongside him an old one-storey lodge at the entrance to a mews south of the Fulham Road.

`Looks cosy. He certainly takes care of the place,' she remarked as she got out of the car.

Which was true, Tweed thought as he attended to the meter. The lodge had white stucco walls, freshly painted, as were the windows. The lower part was hidden by a privet hedge, neatly trimmed into a box shape. Beyond the wrought-iron gate was a tiny garden, no more than three feet wide. A garden mostly paved with small bricks broken by two round flower beds. The roses were in bloom, all the dead-heads carefully removed. Quite a contrast to Harry Masterson's unkempt wilderness.

Tweed raised the shining brass door knocker and rapped three times. The door had a fish-eye spyhole and when it was opened Erich Lindemann stood in the tiny hall beyond, clad in a pair of tennis flannels, velvet smoking jacket and a polka dot bow tie.

`Well, don't just stand there. Come in.'

The usual, direct-approach Erich. Tweed introduced Diana as a potential recruit to General and Cumbria Assurance. She shook hands stiffly, not smiling. Tweed wondered if she'd had the same shock as himself.

Those blasted paintings of Harry's. They distorted your view of people. Lindemann looked more skull-like than Tweed recalled. They went inside and Tweed smelt faintly the aroma of some scented disinfectant.

`Tea or coffee?' Lindemann offered as he led them into a small living-room with mullion windows overlooking the mews entrance.

`Coffee for me, please,' Diana replied.

`Me, too,' Tweed said.

They looked round the room as they sat together on a turquoise couch which had no cushions. The room was sparsely furnished. Against the opposite wall stood a dining-table, the long side pushed against the wall, its surface gleaming. Tweed could now smell furniture polish. In one corner stood a hoover still plugged into the wall socket. Lindemann had vanished inside the kitchen which had a swing door, now closed.

Sparse but immaculate. Tweed stood up, wandered over to a high cabinet. Bookshelves crammed with volumes behind glass doors at the top; at the bottom a flap closed, the key in the lock. He turned the key carefully. No sound. It was well-oiled. Lowering the flap, he peered inside.

At least a dozen bottles of Haig whisky stood in a row like soldiers standing at attention. Lindemann was a teetotaller – had never been known to take even a glass of wine. One bottle half empty. Behind it stood a tumbler half-full. Tweed sniffed at it. Whisky. He closed the flap, turned the key, went back to the couch. Diana leaned towards him, so near he caught a waft of perfume above the smell of table polish.

`Nosey, aren't we?'

He shushed her and the swing door opened. Lindemann beckoned to Tweed to join him. 'There are some Economists in the cupboard beside you,' he told Diana in his dry voice.

`Who is she?' he asked Tweed once inside the kitchen. There was coffee bubbling in a percolator, a dish of pastries neatly arranged on a plate.

`Diana Chadwick. I told you. Good background. Speaks German fluently. I'm not sure yet..

The kitchen was little more than a galley. Tweed was reminded of the galley aboard the Sudwind. He was standing close to Lindemann and a fresh aroma wafted into his nostrils, the aroma of peppermints. His host was sucking one.

`Was it wise to bring the Chadwick girl?' Lindemann asked.

`Why do you say that?'

`She doesn't know about Park Crescent?'

`No. Of course not. What is all this about, Erich?'

`I have seen her before. In Oslo.'

`When and where?' Tweed kept his voice down.

`I can't remember. I am simply sure it was her. That it was Oslo. Good strong coffee for you? What about Miss Chadwick?' `The same.'

Lindemann had turned away to fetch a pile of crockery from the other side of the kitchen. Tweed lifted up a cloth carelessly thrown on the worktop. It seemed out of place with the rest of the well-organized kitchen. Under the cloth was an opened green tube of peppermints. He dropped the cloth back over them. Why conceal the tube?

`We are ready.'

Lindemann had arranged the tray. Cups, saucers, highly- polished silver spoons, plates, the pastries. Tweed took a last glance at the row of knives suspended over the sink, hanging from a magnetic strip of metal. No chef's knife.

`Danish pastries,' Lindemann said, offering the plate to Diana. 'Very bad for the figure.'

Behind his back Tweed stared. Lindemann had never before joked with an attractive girl in his experience. His tall form stooped over Diana, almost deferentially. She looked up and gave him her warmest smile as she thanked him. Tweed was about to sit beside her again when Lindemann took his place.

`The host's privilege,' he said to Tweed. 'You'll find that arm chair adequate, I'm sure.'

`These pastries are delicious,' Diana enthused. She turned to face her host, her blue eyes half-closed. 'You get them from a local delicatessen?'

`Actually, I make them myself.' Lindemann looked pleased. `They are much better if you buy them from a shop in Copenhagen. Have you been there, Miss Chadwick?'

`Diana. Please. No, not so far. I would love to go there one day. You really are an excellent cook..

`Living alone, one learns to look after oneself…'

Tweed remained silent while they chatted. They finished off the pastries and Diana asked could she see his kitchen. Lindemann jumped up.

`Of course.' He turned to Tweed. 'Make yourself comfortable in my study. You know where it is.'

The moment they had disappeared inside the kitchen Tweed went over to the bookcase, checking the volumes. Histories of the Scandinavian countries. The great sagas of legend. Biographies. Napoleon. Bismarck. Bernadotte, Napoleon's general who became King of Sweden. Laurence Olivier. Amateur theatricals.

He left the bookcase, crossed the room and opened the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him. An old-fashioned roll-top bath. Above the wash-basin a wooden cupboard. He opened it. Two shelves. Shaving kit on the top one. Bottles on the lower shelf. He picked up one which was half-empty and examined the label. Hair Tint. Sable Colourant. He placed it back on the shelf exactly as he had found it, flushed the lavatory, unlocked the door and emerged as Diana walked out of the kitchen, handbag under her arm, followed by Lindemann.

`I really think we ought to go,' Tweed said. 'Just thought we'd call in on you, make sure you were enjoying your leave.'

`I'll be glad to get back to work. There are a dozen policies I ought to attend to personally.'

`Excuse me just a second,' Tweed remarked suddenly. 'I think I left my Dunhill pen in your study.'

He opened the door and pushed it half-closed. The tiny room was empty. On Lindemann's desk a pad he had been making notes on was upside down, a glass paperweight perched on top.

Tweed lifted the weight, turned over the pad. Covered in figures in Lindemann's small handwriting, figures which looked like salary computations for his staff in Copenhagen. He replaced the pad, put back the paperweight and walked back into the sitting-room. There was no one else in the place. He had half-expected to find a hidden visitor.

Lindemann took Diana's arm, led her to the front door. She thanked him for his hospitality and they left. Tweed heard the door close behind them as he climbed into the car.

`And what did you think of him?' he asked as Diana arranged her skirt.

'A barrel of laughs.'

`Which means you didn't like him? He's a reputation for no interest in women…'

`That you'd better revise.'

`Really? Why?'

He had started the car but he paused in surprise. She took out her ivory holder, inserted a cigarette.

`He likes blondes. That I do know. A woman can always tell. In fact, I'd say he's interested in all types of attractive women. Don't let him fool you.'

`I thought maybe it was just you…'

`I never flatter myself. Tweedy, a woman always knows. He is interested in the opposite sex. Period. Did you find anything?'

`Maybe.'

`You don't even trust Diana, do you?' Monica asked as Tweed settled himself behind his desk.

`Why do you say that?'

`It's obvious. You have Pete Nield following her. Where is she now? Back in Newman's flat?'

`After leaving Lindemann's place I did drop her there. She said she was going window-shopping at Harrods. Nield managed to find a parking slot further down the street when we arrived at the lodge. And my main purpose in never leaving her alone is to guard her. She could be a key witness.'

`Witness to what?'

`That I'm not sure of yet…'

`All right, go secretive on me. Hugh Grey will be at his Norfolk farmhouse tomorrow. He's leaving his Cheyne Walk flat this evening to drive out there. And Guy Dalby will be home in Woking.'

`Then I'll drive Diana to Norfolk tomorrow. Get her impression of Grey.'

`Is that really the only reason you're travelling round with her to see the sector chiefs?'

`What other reason could there be?' Tweed enquired. 'We must stick to the point.' He stood up, began strolling round the office. 'There are two main threads running through this grim investigation. Who is the Janus man – the person responsible for Fergusson's murder? Because only four people knew he was on his way to Hamburg. The four sector chiefs. One of them has to be Janus.'

`And the second thread?'

`Who is Dr Berlin?'

`They all seem to be absent from Europe at the same time, Monica remarked. 'I managed to contact Kuhlmann at Lubeck Sud, as you requested. After four calls. He confirmed that Dr Berlin has still not returned to Priwall Island. What's the matter?'

`Something you just said..

Tweed stood stock still, gazing through the heavy net curtains towards the trees in Regent's Park. They were in full foliage and the sun shone on them out of a clear blue sky. Tweed was not seeing any of this. His gaze was abstracted, like a man who has received a shock. He swung round.

`Read to me that report I dictated after my visit to Dr Generoso, the psychiatrist…'

`I typed it out. You can read it for yourself.'

`Read it aloud, woman. Please. I want to hear it.'

She extracted a folder from a drawer, took out a sheaf of typescript, began reading. Slowly. She'd had to do this before for him. He grasped it better listening.

' "A man leading a double life… One life here, the other on the continent… Now under great pressure… you propose to increase that pressure… you're treading on thin ice… Schizo… Kim Philby drank like a fish… a good example. The alcohol saved him. Release from all the tension he laboured under… murdering women at random… Very difficult to detect. The murderer might well appear perfectly normal most of the time… likely to be obsessive in some direction… Maybe excessively neat. Fussy about small things… an overweening self-confidence verging on arrogance… delight in fooling people… very like an actor, playing two roles… insufferable conceit, a feeling of great superiority over other human beings… Step up the pressure, you could step up the killings." And that is about it,' Monica concluded.

`I've been barking up the wrong tree!' Tweed snapped his fingers in his excitement. 'And something I repeated to you recently which Diana said was another pointer.'

`Really? Pointer in which direction?'

`Dr Berlin. Of course!'