The Janus Man tac-4

by Colin Forbes

  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. S
he 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 fourte
en-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.