The Janus Man

Seven

`Hans!' Newman waved his hand in a gesture of disgust. `There must be a million men with that name in Germany…'

`If that is what Fergusson really said,' Tweed replied and wandered over to the window, then stood there, sipping his glass of cognac. He drank rarely but the sight of Ian Fergusson lying in the morgue had shaken him.

Vier Jahreszeiten. The Four Seasons Hotel. One of the finest hostelries in all Germany. They were ensconced inside Room 412, Tweed's room, almost the size of a small de-luxe apartment. The view from the window was magnificent. The sun was shining in the late afternoon, reflecting with a glitter off the lake, the Binnenalster, beyond the road running below the window.

Tweed stared out over a line of trees in full foliage – a room on the fourth floor gave a clear view of the water where white single deck passenger craft cruised towards the landing-stage at the end of the lake. Little more than a few metres from where Fergusson's body had been found in the water at five in the morning.

`What else could he have meant?' Newman asked and finished off his cognac. It gave off a better aroma than bloody hospitals and all things medical he disliked so much.

"That could be the key to the mystery,' Tweed replied. `Maybe we shall know more tonight when we visit St Pauli…'

`The Reeperbahn? Anything can happen there after dark. I'll stick close to you. No argument.'

`Agreed.' Tweed had a dreamy look as he continued to watch the fussy water-buses plying back and forth. Fergusson came here to see Ziggy Palewska. I think he saw him the night he was killed.'

`What makes you think so? And who is this Ziggy person?'

`Because of this.' Tweed produced a small black notebook, one of the personal effects handed to him at the morgue. It had been found inside Fergusson's buttoned back trouser pocket and its pages were crinkled from exposure to water. He prised apart two pages and showed them to Newman. The notation, written in small neat script, was brief.

Ziggy. Berlin. Hotel Jensen.

`So, Ziggy told him something about the Hotel Jensen in Berlin. I've never heard of it.'

`Neither have I. And you asked about Ziggy. His father came from Poland. He married a girl from East Prussia – that is, Ziggy's mother. Both parents are dead. Near the end of the war they fled from Konigsberg – as it was called then – with Ziggy who was only ten years old. They ended up in Schleswig- Holstein, the German province – or Land – which was flooded with refugees. That fact has dominated Ziggy's life – not always for the best.'

`Which means?'

`The positive side – from my point of view – is he has always kept in touch with the underground network which links the refugees. He can be an invaluable source of information. But hi is very tricky. Thinks only of money. He'll work for anyone who pays – sometimes for both sides at the same time.'

`Sounds like a one-way ticket to eternity…'

`Oh yes, he walks a tightrope. So far with great cunning and skill. The time may come when he falls off…'

`That could be a long drop,' Newman commented.

`The final drop, I fear. Tonight I intend to put more pressure on him than I've ever done before. He must know something.' `And the negative side?'

`He's mixed up in various squalid activities. Porno movies.

Even drug-trafficking. Swears he only trades in marijuana – but I have my doubts.'

`A piece of the world's flotsam. Floating on the surface. Like scum? The Reeperbahn sounds just his cup of tea. Kuhlmann said he'd have a gun for me when we meet later…'

`I don't like guns. I don't know why I agreed when Kuhlmann made the suggestion on the phone to London. On the other hand…'

`You don't know what you're walking into. Maybe Kuhlmann does. Has he really told us everything?'

`I doubt it. Likes to hold something back. As bad as me,' Tweed remarked, and Newman knew the cognac was working. It was the first time since he'd returned from Paris that Tweed had cracked anything approaching a joke. 'Let's go for a walk. I always find when I get abroad I have to force myself out of a hotel. It's too easy to act the hermit…'

Newman had the room next to Tweed's. He made the remark as they went down in the elevator.

`It's in a hotel like this I'm glad I made all that money out of my bestseller, Kruger: The Computer That Failed. A foreign correspondent can work a whole career and never see money like that. I really got lucky…'

In the reception hall Tweed paused to examine the tapestries on the walls, the fine long-case clocks adorning the place, the superb rugs laid on the floor. They walked out of the entrance, turned right along the Neuer Jungfernstieg, the tree-lined promenade by the lake.

`It really is the most beautiful city,' Tweed commented. 'Look back at that colonnade which runs behind the hotel. We cross here.'

`We're going somewhere definite?'

`My feet seem to be heading in one direction – towards the Rathaus…'

In the pure warmth of a sun shining out of clear skies the two men strolled past the end of the lake, past the landing-stage where tourists queued for giant ice-cream cones. A holiday atmosphere, thought Tweed, and Ian Fergusson lying in the morgue.

They turned down the Alsterarkaden, an arcaded walk alongside a canal-like stretch of water leading from the lake.

Fashionably-dressed women stood gazing into high quality shops. Tweed crossed half-way over the bridge and stopped in the middle, looking down.

`It's such a clean city,' he observed.

`Show me,' the growly voice behind them said, 'show me how any man could dive in there at five in the morning and hit the side of his head on the wall. He'd have to be a bloody acrobat…'

It was Kuhlmann, of course. Newman had an idea they'd better get used to the Federal policeman surprising them. He stood gazing into the water, holding a brief-case in his right hand.

`These goddamn pathologists,' Kuhlmann continued. 'If they'd stop playing God for a while, get out in the fresh air, even take a look at the scene of the crime. Then they might understand what this business is all about. And in the fresh air you can smoke a cigar. Tweed, it was murder. I don't have to wait for that dumbo's report. Even you can see that, Newman.'

`What's it like round here at five in the morning?' the Englishman asked.

`Quiet as the grave – which is why Fergusson found his grave within feet of where you stand. I checked back with the two patrolmen who hauled him out. Jogged their memories a little. A yellow BMW drove across that bridge over there minutes before they walked down here. And, Newman, I have your gun inside this brief-case. Plus a hip holster. 7.65 mm. Luger. You can handle it?'

`I've practised with it, yes…'

`Get close to the border and you may get plenty for real… `And why,' Tweed enquired over his shoulder, 'should we find ourselves near the border, Otto?'

`You never can tell.' Kuhlmann shrugged. 'You're exactly thirty miles away from a Soviet tank battalion now…'

`And the Luger,' Newman enquired. 'Do I have a permit?'

`Take this.' Kuhlmann produced a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. 'You get into a shoot-out, show this to the state police. They won't like it but they'll check with Wiesbaden – confirmation will come back fast.'

`Which will keep me out of gaol?'

`No guarantee.' Kuhlmann grinned, a wide grin showing all his teeth. 'Depends who you shoot, the where and the when…'

`You're such a comfort…'

'Who knows? I'll probably be pretty close to you. Use your own judgement. Your reputation is good. How else do you protect our friend? Now, if you've finished staring at that stretch of water, let's get back to the Four Seasons. I'll hand over the weapon – with ammo – in your hotel room.'

They took a cab to the St Pauli district from a stand near the Jungfernstieg landing-stage at ten at night. Tweed had told Newman he didn't want the cab driver to be able to say they had come from the Four Seasons.

`And things don't warm up in Ziggy's place till getting on for midnight. If my timing is right, he'll be there, but not yet involved in his nefarious enterprises…'

The taxi cruised along the Reeperbahn, the neon of the nightclubs a weird glow in gathering dusk, then turned right into the side streets. Newman caught sight of a street sign which read Seiler-strasse, and then lost all sense of direction.

They alighted in little more than a wide alley, Tweed paid off the driver, and led the way with a confident tread. How he was able to find the place Newman could never fathom. In the late afternoon, at Tweed's suggestion, Newman had gone shopping, purchasing German clothes – shirt, tie, sports jacket, slacks, and a pair of socks and shoes.

'A couple of Englishmen might be too much for Ziggy,' Tweed had explained. 'If what I suspect happened, I will have a hard time getting him to talk…'

At that early hour – for the Reeperbahn – the alley was almost empty. A few sailors from a Spanish ship, resplendent in walking out uniform, strolled aimlessly, looking for trouble without too much certainty as to what brand of trouble they were interested in.

Followed by Newman, Tweed mounted two worn stone steps, pushed open an ancient wooden door and walked into a blast of Louis Armstrong trumpeting On the Sunny Side of the Street. Sleazy nightspot, Newman assumed, and then found he was wrong. He stared in amazement.

A powerful smell of oil and resin assailed his nostrils. He appeared to have entered a ship's chandler's office. Tackle of all types for ships was stacked round the walls of the cellar-like room. The place was lit dimly by oil-lamps and coils of rope like snakes in the gloom hung from the cracked ceiling.

The music, Louis trumpeting endlessly on, came from various hi-fi speakers slung at crooked angles from the walls. Ziggy Palewska sat on a three-legged stool behind a bare wooden table, the surface smeared with a variety of dirt. He looked up and his face froze when he saw Tweed.

`Ian Fergusson is dead,' Tweed said, drawing up a ramshackle chair to face the Pole across the table. 'He came here, talked with you, left – and was murdered. I'm not pleased, Ziggy, so don't, please, waste my time…'

`I don't know any Ian Fergusson.' He looked at Newman. 'I have not seen this man before, Mr Tweed.'

Ziggy Palewska was short in stature. He made up for his lack of height by his width. Both facially and bodily he reminded Newman of a monkey. Impossible to guess his age. His brown hair was thinning over his rounded skull. His skin was worn and gnarled, like that of a veteran seaman. His eyes shifted rapidly from one visitor to another. He spoke German with an atrocious Polish accent.

I see.' Tweed tapped his fingers on the table. 'This is going to be difficult – maybe dangerous – for you. I don't like losing one of my finest operatives. I don't like that at all. I thought you would be able to help me by telling me how he spent his last hours on earth. I know he visited you. So you have already lied to me. And you pronounced his name rather well – for an English name you claim not to know. And my friend is Heinz. The trouble with Heinz is he has a short fuse. I'll ask you once more – tell me what you told Fergusson when he came to see you…'

`The name means nothing. I'm a ship's chandler…`And I'm Chancellor of Germany,' Newman interjected. `That's rude…'

Tweed surprised Newman by the swiftness and ruthlessness of his tactics. Normally he showed infinite patience in coaxing information from a suspect. He looked quickly at Newman.

`Heinz, can we turn up Louis Armstrong louder? A wonder with the trumpet, Mr Armstrong.'

Newman, looking very German, trod heavily towards the control panel for the hi-fi. He turned up the volume even louder. The oil lamps flickered, the lamps wobbled with the crescendo of vibration, the dark shadows across the ceiling moved and assumed new shapes. Newman casually extracted the Luger, leaned against a free space of wall and studied the weapon, pointing it at the roof.

'Oh, Christ! You wouldn't…'

Ziggy half-rose from his stool. Tweed slapped the flat of his hand on the bare wooden table top. A sound like a pistol shot.

`Sit down. That's better. We wouldn't what? What time did Ian Fergusson arrive here?'

`About three in the morning. After…' He stopped in mid-sentence.

`After you had completed various illegal transactions,' Tweed said amiably. 'Like a bit of trafficking in drugs. Who told you what to say to Fergusson?' He leaned over the table as he spoke. 'Start talking. Now!'

`The blond giant…' Again Ziggy stopped in-mid-air.

'Oh, I see.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'The blond giant is back in the picture.'

'You know the bastard?' Ziggy asked.

'What name does he use with you?'

'Schmidt.'

Newman laughed unpleasantly. 'Schmidt. Of course.'

'I swear to you he did.' Ziggy was suddenly becoming voluble and the words poured out. 'I had never seen him before. He was a big brute. He threatened me if I didn't tell Fergusson what he told me to say to him…'

'How did he threaten you? Quickly,' Tweed rapped out.

'He was going to burn me.' He pointed to a corner. 'See those two drums of petrol? He brought them here. He said if I didn't do what he said he'd empty them, lock me in and throw a lighted match inside. He knew there was no other way out except for the front door. He must have checked the place out before he came to see me. He left those drums to remind me of what would happen. He said it would look like an accident. These slums burn down all the time, he said. He called my place a slum…'

'I wonder why?' Newman shouted.

The hi-fi sound – rather cracked – filled the place with its crescendo. Tweed looked at the drums. Beyond them an oil lamp shivered as the glass lamp rattled against the brass holder. It was a nightmare Newman had created. The table shook under his hand. Like being aboard a ship in a rough sea.

`Turn it down, for God's sake,' Tweed called out. He waited until he could speak in a normal voice. 'When did this Schmidt call on you?'

`A few hours before Fergusson arrived. He knew he was coming. I had to tell Fergusson – after getting money from him to make it convincing – about Dr Berlin in Lubeck. That he was the man who knew about the East German network in the Federal Republic. That there was a man at the Hotel Jensen in Lubeck who could tell him more. But I didn't know the man's name – only that he is at the Hotel Jensen. That was all.' Some of his normal cockiness came back as Tweed watched him. `How much is that worth? A good few hundred marks, I'd say…'

`He paid you how much?'

`Five hundred.. Ziggy stopped once more in mid-sentence. An ashen colour had replaced his normal pallor. Not a man who took long walks, Newman was thinking, still holding the Luger.

`I see.' Tweed kept his tone judicial. 'For five hundred marks. Less than two hundred pounds. You sold Ian Fergusson's life…'

`I had no idea…'

`Of course you didn't.' Tweed stood up. He leaned over the table close to Ziggy, dressed only in an oil-stained sweater and a pair of stained corduroy slacks. 'You do realize you could be charged by the German police as an accessory to murder?'

`Oh, God, no.' The Pole shrank back from Tweed looming above him. 'I've helped you many times. I can help you again…'

`You might just do that. You still have that concealed cine-camera in the back wall inside the cupboard – the one you use to take porno movies? Don't play with me, Ziggy.'

`I do have a camera. Yes.'

`So, if this Schmidt comes back you could arrange with a bit of help to have him photographed?'

'I wouldn't dare.' He cast a sideways glance at the large petrol drums standing against the wall.

`Then you could always stand your trial for complicity in the murder of Ian Fergusson..

`I'll do what I can. Promise. Can I have a bit of money?' `Your thirty pieces of silver?'

Tweed thrust his hands inside the pockets of his lightweight Burberry. Newman had never seen him look so grim. Ziggy's eyes dropped, he threw his pudgy hands out in a gesture of despair.

`What else could I have done…'

`You could have kept your mouth shut about Fergusson coming to see you.'

The blond was going to burn me…'

'And I won't tell you what will happen if you tell anyone I've been here to see you. Now, you can atone a little for what you have done. Describe this blond giant. Nationality?'

'German.' Ziggy hesitated. Tweed continued staring. 'He was a Saxon. Nasty people, the Saxons. I could tell that from the way he spoke German. I think he's from the East. I can't describe him…'

'Why not? He was standing in front of you. There's not all that much space in this den of iniquity.'

'I can't!' Ziggy protested. He glanced at Newman who was still leaning against the wall, still holding the Luger. 'He wore a woolly cap – like sailors wear – pulled down over his head, huge tinted glasses and a silk scarf pulled up over his chin…'

'Yet you say he was blond,' Newman pointed out.

'A tuft of the blond hair protruded from the back of his cap when he was leaving. He was over six feet tall, built like a house.'

'Age?' Tweed demanded.

'Thirty. Thirty-five. I couldn't say. I'm going by how he spoke. He had a big nose. Clean-shaven. A killer. That I'm sure of. Which is why I was so frightened…'

'Stay that way. Stay frightened. Of us,' Tweed advised and turned on his heel without another word.