"It was mentioned in the newspapers. At six o'clock this morning, Hans Dorpler, the missing guard, slipped into Fraulein Lisl's apartment. This estate belonged to her maternal grandparents, you see. She has atoned for her father's guilt by turning over the family house to the Federal Government, which pays for its upkeep now. She works with the chief medical administrator. A lovely, charming girl—but a bit too intense, if you understand me."
The policeman opened the car door and saluted respectfully, his eyes careful as the tiny Inspector swung to the cobblestones. Bellau handled his walking stick like a Victorian dandy, adjusted his flowing blue scarf, and walked with a rolling gait on tiny, bandy legs toward the Schloss entrance. More policemen appeared and saluted his grotesque figure. A sergeant walked with them down a tiled corridor and past medical offices to a central hallway hung with medieval banners of ancient Bavarian baronies.
*The fugitive, Hans Dorpler, slipped into the girl's tower apartment at five this morning, Herr Inspector. He held Fraulein Lisl terrorized as he implored her to help. He said he had aided her father's escape in order to save Germany's honor and keep further disgraceful trials from blackening our good name. He seemed paranoiac, the fraulein said, as if he still clung to National Socialist philosophy; he seemed to live in the past glories of military triumphs. As the fraulein put it, Dorpler was an 'unredeemed Nazi.'" The sergeant spoke with the cynicism of an educated man, his eyes sliding to watch DureU's reaction. "When Dorpler realized that Lisl Steigmann would not sympathize with him, and that she meant to turn him over to the police, he jumped from her tower window—she says."
"Shocking," Bellau murmured.
Durell said: "Didn't Fraulein Lisl learn where her father might be?"
"No, sir. Dorpler told her nothing about this."
"I want to talk to the girl."
"I am sorry, sir; she is not here. She told her story to a medical aide, and when he ran down to the courtyard to look at Dorpler's body, she slipped out of her rooms and drove away in her car. We cannot find her. She has vanished as completely as her father."
A dark blanket covered the body as it sprawled on the cobblestones under a high, round tower of the Schloss, The red ivy that climbed the walls matched the ooze of blood that had seeped from under the covering. Inspector Bellau delicately moved the blanket aside with the tip of his walking stick and considered the dead man's face. It had not been damaged by the fall, except for a froth of pinkness in the open mouth. It was just a face, heavy-jowled, with hair like iron-gray wires. Dorpler still wore his prison-guard uniform.
The breeze died and Durell sniffed and dropped to his knees beside the corpse and sniffed again.
"Hashish?"
Bellau said: "It is not common here."
"Common enough in other places."
"It is possible."
"Had he any Arab friends?"
"We will check. You are right. He was under the influence of drugs when he fell. The smell is obvious. As you Americans say, he was flying high." Bellau smiled.
Durell looked up at the high tower.
"A little too high. Have an autopsy made.*' "Yes. I am annoyed the girl has disappeared.** Leaves blew across the courtyard and gathered in small waves around the dead man's feet. Durell looked up again at the rounded tower walls and saw an open window up high. One of the policemen said the window was in the girl's apartment. They went up there.
This wing was set aside for staff quarters. The corridors were antiseptic. An ornate stairway led to the tower apartment. Another guard stood at the door to Lisl Steigmann's rooms. They were small and neat, with narrow windows overlooking the courtyard where a fountain sprayed fronds of water over green, fat-buttocked cupids. The smell of hashish smoke still lingered here. It took Durell back to certain Arab cafes he had visited in Algiers. Bellau picked up a cigarette butt and held it delicately between his fingers and nodded and put it away. Hans Dorpler had jumped or fallen or been pushed to his death from here. But Durell accepted nothing he saw. He felt that everything was too smooth; they were too anxious to please him.
Inspector Bellau dropped him at his Munich hotel shortly after noon. He ordered a lunch that would have been far too heavy, had he eaten it all; he refused the rich dessert and chose a tall glass of lager. The studious man at the next table was one of Bellau's people, but he didn't mind. There were no messages at the hotel desk. He chose a public phone and called Gordon at his auto export agency. The CIA resident listened in silence as Durell brought him up to date.
"It may be a cover-up," Durell said. "The girl has the answers. I want to find her before Bellau gets her."
"You think Dorpler told her where to find her father?" ^
"No. If she turned Steigmann in the first time, she'd do it again. I think she ran off in panic."
He told Gordon what to do, and hung up. For twenty minutes he mixed with the crowd on Munich's busy downtown streets, exerting all his skill to shake off any shadows, while Gordon used the time to fill his end of the task. It was a question of flushing the hare out of the bramble bush.
Eventually he stood behind the service entrance of the Hotel Prinz, where Carole Bainbury had taken up residence. Gordon's job was to enter the front way, threaten her with immediate arrest, then retreat. The object was to make her run.
She showed in three minutes. The street was narrow, with an^iue shops in tall, medieval houses fronted by baroque facades. The brown-haired girl slipped from the hotel doorway and looked both ways, her face taut. Then, with a tweedy coat swinging open from her fine shoulders, she struck oflf for the Marienplatz. Durell appreciated her good legs as he followed. She took a taxi to the English Garden, sat on a bench for ten minutes, then jumped up and walked again in search of another taxi. Her destination was a block of middle-class apartments near the river. Durell was only ten seconds behind her when she went inside.
The inner door was closing when he caught it and kept the latch from shutting him out. Miss Bainbury's sensible shoes betrayed her on the stairs above. He gave her time to round the second landing, then leaped up silently after her.
She had vanished.
The corridor opened on just two apartment doors. There were no names on either door. He smelled heavy Bavarian cooking outside one, and chose the other flat as his best bet and rang the bell.
A long time went by, and he wondered about a back exit when he heard a girl's high heels tentatively approach the door. It was opened a crack. He spoke quickly.
"Fraulein Steigmann, let me in."
She gasped and tried to slam the door shut, but he drove his shoulder hard against it. The door chain burst from its screws, and he lunged inside, pushing the girl backward, and shut and locked the door behind him. His voice was quiet.
"Please do not be alarmed, fraulein. You must have been expecting me, right?"
"I do not know you," she whispered in English.
"Call Miss Bainbury out here, please."
"But I do not understand—"
"Quickly. It's important."
She was not a very good liar; her eyes flickered to a bedroom door at one side of the room. But he let it go. "Didn't Carole Bainbury tell you to expect me, fraulein?"
"Are you—are you the man called Sam Durell? You are American, but—"
"I'm Durell. And you can relax. Bellau knows nothing about this. I think you were right to get away from the Schloss, fraulein. It was dangerous for you there. And it's better for you and me to discuss your father privately, as well as the murder of that man this morning."
Her face was white. "But I did not kill Dorpler—"
''Bitte, Fraulein Steigmann. Now, please sit down and be comfortable. You are not my prisoner. But a certain frankness may speed us both on our way. May I have some coflfee?"
There was a porcelain coffee service set on a tray before the overstuffed couch. The apartment was filled with cheap Bavarian bric-a-brac, with heavy chairs and thick lace curtains over the windows to hide the basic third-rate effect.
"You must forgive me," she murmured. "I have had some bad, frightening days. The man, Dorpler, terrified me this morning. So I came here—it is a friend's apartment, she's gone to Switzerland for a holiday. As for Carole Bain-bury . . ."
Durell did not look at the closed bedroom door. "We'll discuss her later. I can guess it was Miss Bainbury who first approached you about your father's visit here, am I right?"
She nodded, moistened her lips, folded her hands.
Durell said: "First, I want to know about Hans Dorpler and what happened at the Schloss this morning."
"He was terrible," Lisl whispered. "First he claimed I must help him because he aided my father to escape from the war-criminal tribunal. When I refused and said my father deserved any punishment decided for him, he grew abusive. He was beside himself. He said he was betrayed."
"By whom?"
"He was not clear. He spoke only of *they.' "
"Was it a kind of underground outfit, say, to spirit suspected Nazis out to South America, or the Middle East?"
The girl regarded him with level eyes. "There are rumors among people like Dorpler that such an organization exists. Dorpler said he had worked for *them' before. But he mostly raved about the injustices done to Germany and how my father deserved medals rather than prison." Lisl shuddered. "Dorpler was a coarse, brutal man. I refused to give him money or to hide him."
"Lisl, why not? Didn't you love your father and want to see him safely back in the States?"
She made a thin sound of hate. "I was shocked to learn he still lived, when he flew secretly to Munich. He said he came only because he loved me and wanted to see me. But how can I carry such a monster's blood in my veins? I can never feel clean again." The girl paused. "But am I a monster, too, to deny my father and wish him dead?"
"Didn't he protest his innocence?"
"Of course. But don't they all?"
"What did he say in his own defense?"
She dropped her gaze from his and twisted her fingers together. "What could he say, after all?"
"Did you give him a chance?"
She trembled with anger. "Oh, you Americans are so self-righteous! Of course, he could not explain his past! He may have tried, but—I refused to listen."
Durell sipped his coffee. It was strong and bitter. He looked big and dark in the antique chair, his eyes saturnine as he regarded Lisl's nervous pacing. Her young face, so clean and wholesome, was suddenly stricken by doubt as she turned back to him.
"Was I wrong?" she whispered. Her eyes were wide. "Should I have listened? Do you think my father might be innocent?"
"We can find out," he said quietly.
"But if you are right, I have been so cruel, so unjust . . ."
He did not want to push her too far. He changed the subject. "Tell me how Dorpler fell from your window."
"Oh, he was like a wild animal. I threatened him with a gun when he demanded that I hide him. He backed to the open window and lost his balance—"
"Where is the gun?"
"He—he took it from me. It should be on—on his body." She bit her ripe, full underlip. "Please understand, my father was guilty, and I would not help him. A trial, surely, would determine that—"
"Lisl, why did your father come here at all, knowing how you felt about him?"
"But he did not know. I thought he was long dead. But Lis first words referred to a letter he said he'd had from me, asking him to come to see me if he had an opportunity."
"And did you write that letter?"
"No."
"Did he show you this letter?"
"No."
*Then he was lured here by a false note, supposedly written by you, is that it?"
She said dubiously: "It seems to be so."
"Then Dorpler helped him escape from his police cell, after you denounced him; and Dorpler worked for some 'organization' that would smuggle your father out of Germany?"
"Dorpler implied this, yes."
"But he told you nothing about such an organization?"
"Nothing." She was perplexed, and watched Durell rise smoothly from his chair. "What is it?"
"Lisl, you denounced your father to the authorities, convinced he was guilty of war crimes, even though he had just arisen from the dead, so to speak. Who put these ideas into your head? Who suggested his guilt, and who told you about it? Was it your friend. Miss Bainbury, in the next room?"
"But I trust Carole—!"
The girl looked desperate, chagrined. Durell was careful. He did not know which way she might jump, and he took no chances when he moved to the closed bedroom door. Lisl put out a hand as if to stop him, then shrugged helplessly. Durell yanked open the door.
"Come out here. Miss Bainbury."
The English girl in the bedroom, who had shadowed him since his arrival in Munich, was ready and waiting.
She held a gun, pointed at his belly.
Chapter Six
AT CLOSE range, there was nothing studious or ordinary about Carole Bainbury. It was a day for disturbed women, he thought wryly. Carole was more mature than Lisl, but she was equally apprehensive. She handled her wartime Beretta nervously, and he held out his hand for it."
"Don't be alarmed, please," he said quietly. "We both want Dr. Hubertus Steigmann, it seems, and we can decide how to share him when we're successful. Surely we can cooperate until we catch our fox. Miss Bainbury."
She hesitated, then lowered her gun with a quick, hard smile. She had abandoned her heavy glasses, and her brown hair now swung at shoulder length, instead of being done in the prim bun she had affected before. She had a deep, husky voice.
"Yes, it is as you say, Mr. Durell. First we must catch our fox. And to do that, we must find his trail. I thought I might manage it myself, but perhaps this talk is best."
"How long have you known Lisl?"
"Oh, a month or two."
"Were you at the Schloss this morning when Dorpler came to ask her for help?"
"No. It was all a terrible error. We wanted Hans Dorpler ourselves. He was worth something, alive, for any information he might have. Unfortunately—" She paused and gave him a brilliant smile. "When Lisl phoned me about it, I told her to come here, where I could help her. Aside from the wasted opportunity, however, Dorpler deserved to die."
"And Dr. Steigmann?"
She looked at Lisl. "He was a criminal, and it was only right that he should be arrested and tried for his crimes."
"Did you write the letter in Lisl's name that lured him here to Germany?"
Carole crossed the room to pour herself a cup of coffee. Her hands were steady now. Lisl regarded her with wide, confused eyes. She looked as if she wanted to appeal to the older woman for an explanation, but she bit her lip again and was silent. Carole Bainbury's brown eyes were mocking and intelligent as she swung about to regard Durell.
"I have not been completely frank, of course. Who is, in this world? In our world, Mr. Durell. We are not enemies, you and I. And I had no wish to hurt Lisl, either. But I had to use her. Her father is the target for a number of international agencies who would like to brainwash him for his laser techniques—the popular 'death ray,' according to the sensational press. But I am not from the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence, nor the KGB. Neither am I working for the British M. I. 6 department, Mr. Durell." She shot an amused
glance at his tall figure. "Our first objective was to lure Dr. Steigmann within reach—here, in Germany."
Lisl's voice trembled. "And then you had me betray him, to have him arrested and to stand trial?"
"Arrested, my dear, yes. Trial—no."
"You planned his escape?"
"Dear Lisl, your father's 'escape' was inevitable. Many sympathizers like Hans Dorpler were glad to help him. And many others would have done so, in order to get him to work on their side."
Durell said coldly: "And what went wrong?"
"We wanted, and expected, Steigmann to be 'rescued.' But he was only bait. We want the people who hired Dorpler to help him get away. We have been on this hunt for some time. But Dorpler is dead. Don't blame yourself, Lisl. He would have been killed by his employers, anyway, to insure his silence after his task was done. He was not very reliable."
"So you used Steigmann mainly to get a line on an underground organization that smuggles brains out of Germany?"
"From anywhere in the world," she said flatly.
"And did you get such a line?"
"We did," said Carole Bainbury. "At least, we know the name of the outfit. They call themselves the Cairo Dancers."
Chapter Seven
"GO ON," Durell said.
"But that is all we know," she insisted. "Only the name."
" 'We?' " he asked.
She was silent. Durell searched his memory, but the term she had used meant nothing to him. Nowhere in the files he had examined had he come upon the slightest hint of anything called the Cairo Dancers. It was something new and, to judge from the girl's drawn face, something very deadly. And it was what he had been looking for.
He signaled the two girls to remain where they were and moved to the telephone that stood on an ornate piecrust table near the lace-curtained window. Beyond the window was an areaway, dimly seen through the curtains, and the windows of other apartments in the same shabby building.
The back of his neck prickled with tension. He called Henry Gordon's number and listened to the telephone ring four times before Gordon replied. He sounded far away, a poor connection.
Assignment The Cairo Dancers Page 3
