The old Russian was sitting behind the wheel, staring out at the rain. He seemed to be watching for Edith. "Car 3-1-9, please call in! Car 3-1-9." The rain was drumming on the roof of the car and you could hear the roar of the traffic even here, and the driver of Car 319 wasn't responding, although the girl tried again.
"What's the matter with him?" I asked Ivanov in a loud voice, leaning forward so that I could talk through the window.
He didn't answer. I was going to repeat my question when I saw a small enamel sign on the dashboard. In black lettering it read: Taxi 319.
I jumped out of the car. Ivanov had let down the window on his side. His left sleeve, the whole left side of his black leather coat gleamed wet. He was still looking straight ahead. The noise of the traffic was deafening. I could barely hear the voice of the girl from central, "Car 3-1-9 call in please! Car 3-1-9."
I leaned forward and could see a small hole in Ivanov's left temple. A little blood had seeped out of it. Very little. The bullet must have passed through his skull without tearing any blood vessels. The gray hair around the hole looked charred. Somebody must have held a small-caliber gun direcdy against Ivanov's head, and pulled the trigger.
I stood on the rim of a sea of lights and noise, and the rain fell on me and on the left side of Vladimir Ivanov. He hadn't been dead long. His hands, still holding the steering wheel, were warm. I touched them, and the streak of blood on his head
glistened in the light of a passing car. "Car 3-1-9. Please call in right away! Car 3-1-9—"
I took the elevator up to Conny's room on the surgical floor. Edith had told me the number. I ran down a passage; the room lay at the end behind a closed door. Two men stood in front of it. "Stop!" said one of them. "You can't go in!" said the other.
"There's a taxi downstairs," I said. "The driver's been shot dead." I showed them my press card.
"Oh... Herr Roland from Blitz."
"Yes."
"Come with me to the taxi," said the second man. And to his colleague, "Don't let the woman leave yet."
"Very good."
The second man was already running down the corridor with me close behind. We took the elevator down together. He said, "My name is Wilke."
"Pleased to meet you," I said. 'The driver's name was Ivanov. Vladimir Ivanov."
"You knew him?"
"Yes," I said, and told him how I had met Ivanov. It would all come out now, anyway. As we left the elevator I felt sick suddenly, and knew that the jackal was near. Delayed reaction. I got out my flask and drank, then I ran after Wilke, out into the dark and the rain, across the hospital grounds to the parking lot and the taxi with its motor still running and its parking lights still on. Ivanov had slipped to one side a little, his jaw was sagging, his eyes were open wide. Since he had slumped down against the lower window, the rain was falling into his open eyes.
Edith Herwag walked through the small garden in front of her house, Adolfstrasse 22-A, to the taxi waiting for her. Vladimir Ivanov was holding the door open for her. He greeted her. "Ill sit in front with you," she told Ivanov. She had on a fur coat and a scarf tied around her head, no umbrella.
"Very well," said Ivanov, opening the front door. "To the University Hospital?"
"Yes."
There was a lot of traffic and he had to drive carefully. From time to time the voice of a girl could be heard coming from the radio, calling other taxis. Ivanov had reported right away that he was on his way to the University Hospital; after that he was silent. But once they had crossed the Lombardsbriicke, he said cautiously, "You won't be upset if I tell you something?"
"Upset?"
"You mustn't get upset, or I can't tell you." He let down the window on his side. "The glass fogs over in this weather. Will this be too much for you?"
"No," said Edith.
The Russian said, "Your friend's name is Conrad Manners."
"Yes. How do you—?"
"I'll tell you. He was hit while crossing the street on a zebra stripe, early last night. Eppendorf er Baum. Am I right? By a big black car."
"Right."
"Well, after your friend was hit, one of our drivers, who happened to be driving down Eppendorf er Baum, reported it to his dispatcher. He got the license number of the car and reported it, too. HH-CV 541."
"Yes, and—?"
"And my friend followed the car. A crazy drive. Farther and farther out of the city. All the way to Lake Krupunder. You don't know where it is? Doesn't matter. It's in Relingen. My friend could barely keep up with the car. It's very lonely out there. He
got scared. Understandably. Because the chauffeur let the big black car roll into the lake."
"What?"
"Yes. And my friend thought that was very strange. That's why he-called his dispatcher and said he'd lost sight of the car. But he hadn't. He saw a big Ford waiting there, at Lake Krupunder. The driver of the car got into it and the Ford drove off with him. Now my friend followed the Ford, back to the city. To Niendorferstrasse 333. A big villa, all lit up by floodlights. A high iron fence, vicious dogs, says my friend. The Ford drove through the gate to behind the villa. My friend waited, some distance away, because he was afraid. Then, an hour later, a taxi drove up, and the driver of the black car came to the gate with two men. They said good-bye, and the driver went off in the taxi. My friend followed the taxi to where the man lived."
"And where was that?"
"At the other end of Hamburg. A big new apartment house. Lots of tenants."
"And the address?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"I had to promise my friend not to tell the address to anybody. My friend is very afraid. Doesn't want to have anything to do with it. Didn't tell anyone at the office either, or any of his colleagues. Only me. The police are acting very funny in this case. But I am not afraid; and tonight, when I'm through, I'll drive to where the man lives. My friend gave me a description. I'll find him and then I'll call the police. Then they'll have to do something!"
"Did your office at least give the number of the car to the police?"
"Yes, of course."
"And-?"
"Nothing. I'm telling you, the police are behaving very strangely."
"What's your friend's name?"
"I can't tell you that, either. I really can't. Because he's so afraid. He won't do anything, I assure you. But I will. Tonight. Ah, here we are. I'll be waiting where I waited at noon, yes?"
"Yes. My friend will come here to fetch me. He'll wait for me in your taxi, if I haven't come out yet."
"'And hell wait for me,'1 told Herr Ivanov," said Edith Herwag.
She was telling her story for the second time, in the office of a doctor on emergency duty. The doctor wasn't there, but two men from MIB were, and the chief of homicide with two of his men. One of them was taking everything down in shorthand.
The first time Edith told her story, she and I had been alone amid the general confusion that had accompanied the arrival of the car from homicide. I had managed to get hold of her in front of the doctor's office. Wilke, the second MIB man, was on the phone. He didn't pay any attention to us. Edith got over the shock of Ivanov's death fast, thank God, but she was terribly frightened. "On the phone... last night... that voicel It said Conny would die if he told anything. But he didn't say anything... although he may know the license of the car, too, and more. But the Russian talked, and they killed him."
"What a pleasant surprise, Herr Roland!" A man's voice behind me. I turned and found myself facing Herr Klein and Herr Rogge from Security. They had come up very quietly.
"It's my pleasure to see you again," I said.
"You found the murdered man," asked Rogge.
"You know I did."
More men got out of the elevator and came toward us, officers from homicide, and the chief. We greeted each other.
"They've given us a doctor's office," said the chief, a sad old man. "I have to question you, Fraulein Herwag, and you, Hen-Roland. Just
a matter of routine. One after the other ... if you don't mind waiting here while I question Fr&ulein Herwag."
"I have already told Herr Roland everything I know," said Edith. "I was so happy that Conny was feeling better, and now—now the Russian is dead, just because he told me this story."
"What story?" asked the sad chief.
"A very strange story," I said.
The chief looked at me broodingly. Rogge said, "I think we 362
can all go into the doctor's office together. Herr Roland is working on this case, too. We shouldn't keep anything from him."
No... I'm sure none of you want to do that, I thought. "Besides," Rogge went on, "Fraulein Herwag has already told him everything."
So all of us walked into the small, white emergency office, with a bed, a cupboard, a desk, and a few chairs in it, and Edith told her story again. The man listened to her without interrupting her. I walked over to the window. We were very high up here, in the surgery wing; and between the orthopedic clinic and the administration building, I could see across Martinistrasse to the little parking area on the other side. Vladimir Ivanov's taxi was standing there in the beams from the headlights of several police cars. Police officers were walking back and forth, photographers were taking pictures, a crowd had collected behind a barricade. From up here they all looked like toys. I could see them take the dead man out of the car, put him on a stretcher, roll it into an ambulance, and drive away. Policemen formed a chain to hold back the curious people who were pressing forward. And it was raining hard on all of them. They can't cover this thing up, I thought. This will make the papers. But in what form? A taxi driver murdered. Yes. And what else? Nothing.
"You don't know the name of Ivanov's friend?" the chief asked when Edith had told her story.
"No. I told you, he wouldn't give me his name. What sort of an address is that—Niendorf erstrasse 333? What sort of villa is that, in a big garden? Who lives there?"
Rogge and Klein, and Wilke, the man from MIB, all stared at me. Rogge's thick glasses glittered. Their looks said quite clearly that if I said who lived there and what purpose the villa served, I was finished. They would see to it that I left Hamburg fast.
"We don't know, Fraulein Herwag," said the sad chief with a perfectly straight face. "We'll find out right away, of course." He looked at Edith, bit his lip—
"And you, Walter?" asked Edith.
I said, "I have no idea." What else could I say?
"Under the circumstances," said Klein, "I think Fraulein Herwag should be taken into protective custody right away. Until further notice. It's much too dangerous for her to be alone in her apartment."
"The room next to Herr Manners is free," said the first man from MIB. "Fraulein Herwag could stay there until this case is
cleared up and she can no longer be considered in danger. And she would be close to her fiance. Would you like that, Fr&ulein Herwag?"
"Yes. Yes, please," said Edith. She was trembling.
"Well, then a police car will drive you to Adolfstrasse, where you can pack what you need, and bring you right back," said Klein. "Is that all right with you, Chief?"
He nodded. He was still biting his lip.
Edith looked at us, from one to the other. "It's all so—so strange. So incomprehensible," she said. We looked at her stonily. "Can't anyone here tell me what's going on?"
"Right now, no," said Rogge.
"This friend of Ivanov's gave the number of the car to a taxi dispatcher yesterday. Didn't the company pass on the number to the police?"
"Of course," said the chief.
"And?"
"We couldn't find the car. How were we to know that it was at the bottom of Lake Krupunder?"
"Yes," I said. "That was something nobody could guess."
There was a pause and every man in the room was looking at me, and I knew: If I got fresh once more, my work here was finished.
"And now may we drive you home, Fraulein Herwag?" asked the officer who had been taking down everything in shorthand.
Edith was startled out of her thoughts. "Yes, of course. May I-?"
"What?"
"May Herr Roland come along? I know him and I'd feel safer if-"
"Certainly," said the chief, after a look at Klein, who nodded.
I looked at my watch. 7:11. If everything went according to plan in Niendorferstrasse, Bertie should be on the trail of Bilka, his fiancee, Michelsen, and God knew who else, on their way to the airport. Should have been for quite some time. Hopefully, nothing had gone wrong. If something had gone wrong and Bertie had called Club 88, Jules was supposed to let me know immediately, but he didn't know where I was and I couldn't call the Metropole and ask to speak to him. And I had to comply with Edith's wishes. She was close to hysteria, and I didn't want her to break down completely. "Of course I'll come with you," I said.
There was a knock on the door. A policeman came in and 364
without a word laid something that looked like a large button in the chief's hand. "Where did you find that?" he asked.
"Stuck under the dashboard beside the steering wheel."
"Well, that explains everything," said Klein.
"What is it?"
"A bug."
"A what?"
"That's what we call it," said Klein. "A tiny transmitter with microphone. Its range is a thousand or two thousand meters. In a car that was undoubtedly following Ivanov without his noticing it, there was a receiver for this transmitter."
"You mean—" Edith drew a deep breath. "You mean that whoever sat in that car could hear everything Ivanov was telling me?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I mean," said Klein.
"And that's why Ivanov is dead," said the chief, and his look as he gazed out the window was more melancholy than ever. The raindrops were running down the dark pane like tears.
Page Proof
"Bon soir, monsieur," said the chef d'6tage, Jules Cassin. He had knocked, and when I opened the door, there he was with a silver tray, soda, an ice bucket, a bottle of Chivas, and glasses.
"Good evening, Jules," I said as I let him in. The floor lamps and sconces were lit, the radio on the little table was playing the theme song from the film The Apartment. I had got back to the Metropole a half hour ago. It was now 8:20.
"How is the yoting lady?" asked Jules. "Everything all right?"
"Everything's fine. She's just changing for dinner. I talked her into it." I had changed, too. I was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red and blue bow tie.
"Good," said Jules. "And how is she feeling?"
"Better."
She really was. I had found her calm. She had even met me with a smile. All hysteria seemed gone. To avoid any further scenes, I had lied and said that we hadn't found Bilka yet—only a trace—and that Bertie was following it up. Bertie was coming later, and later I would have to tell Irina the truth. But not now. I was tired. Ivanov's death, getting Edith safely to her apartment, then back to the hospital with her things, had unnerved me. It would pass; I just needed some Chivas. I poured myself a strong drink and a weaker one for Irina.
"The night shift is on," said Jules. "Herr Heintze has taken over from Herr Hanslik. I spoke to Herr Engelhardt. He called Club 88 and asked for me."
"When?"
"At 7:45, monsieur."
"But the plane was to leave at 7:401"
"A slight delay. Only fifteen minutes. They must have taken off by now. Monsieur Engelhardt said everything was going according to plan. Bilka, his girl, Michelsen, and seven men left the house in Niendorferstrasse in two cars. Monsieur Engelhardt recognized Bilka and the girl and Michelsen, according to the description of a resident on Eppendorfer Baum. He followed
them to the airport, didn't let them out of sight. They were all perfectly calm and not—how do you say—wohnisch? "
"Argwohnisch ... suspicious."
"That's the word! And not suspicious. Your friend looked at the passenger list on the counter. Bilka is flying under an as
sumed name. All the others, too. With forged passports. What is the matter, monsieur?"
"It's terribly hot in here," I said, tugging at my collar. It was very warm in the salon, but I was very excited again—that was why I was so hot.
"Then I'll open the window a little," said Jules.
"Yes, please do."
Jules disappeared behind the heavy blue drapes and opened one of the French windows that looked out on the park. He emerged again. "I also spoke to Herr Seerose."
That meant Seerose couldn't have spent more than half an hour with the Americans. What had they talked about in that half hour? Something so important that our general manager had had to fly to Hamburg? Evidently Bertie hadn't told Jules that we had seen Seerose at Niendorf erstrasse 333, so I said nothing about it. I asked, "And—?"
"Monsieur Seerose is very pleased. He is in your publisher's office. They're waiting for what happens next; the whole house is waiting."
He was right about that. Before going back to the hotel, I had phoned Frankfurt from Club 88 and told Hem everything that had happened since my last call. He had said, "We live in an age of patents. We invent things to kill bodies and save souls, and spread them around with the noblest intentions."
"You're absolutely right, Hem."
"That's not by me. Somebody said it a long time ago."
"Who?"
"Lord Byron. By the way, I've found out that Seerose wasn't in his office this afternoon. Only came back just now."
"What could that mean?"
"I don't know. Everything seems A-OK so far. He really is on very good terms with the Amis, always has been. I've found that out, too. Now he's upstairs with Herf ord and Mama. Lester and I are supposed to stay here until we know Bertie has left Helsinki for New York with Bilka and the others. At least that long, says Herford. He's absolutely beside himself with enthusiasm."
I had left the bar and crossed the street in the rain, back to the
The Traitor Blitz Page 40
