The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

  `See that chap the other side of the room, the one with a blonde?'

  `The one wearing glasses?'

  'Yes. I want to play a trick on him. He once beat me to a business deal. He boasts he's never been drunk.'

  'Sounds a stuffy type...'

  Lydia was merry but still in control of her faculties. She drank just a little more as Munzel went on explaining.

  'He is. This is what I want you to do. For a joke.' Under the table he took the plastic tube from his pocket, levered off the top, tipped one capsule into his hand, replaced the top. 'Don't let anyone see this. Hold out your hand when I tell you to. I'll drop a capsule into it. Pretend that we're clasping hands, but don't squeeze it.'

  'What's in this capsule?'

  'Something harmless — but he'll be rolling like a ship in a storm. You leave the table, pretend you're going to the toilet. As you pass his table you'll have to create a diversion, then drop this in his drink..

  'No more instructions,' Lydia broke in. 'I've served behind a bar — as part of my hotel training. This will be fun. I'm ready.'

  She reached her hand across the table, turned her palm upwards and he grasped her fingers lightly. She withdrew her hand, holding the capsule, stood up and moved slowly among a crowd of new arrivals. Alongside Tweed's table, she stumbled, put out a hand to save herself and knocked over Diana's half-full glass of wine.

  'I'm terribly sorry,' she said in German. She swayed, put out her hand towards the toppled glass. Tweed looked up at Lydia. Her hand passed over his Margharita, dropped the capsule, picked up Diana's glass, mumbling apologies. The wine stained the cloth but missed spilling over on to her dress.

  Lydia straightened herself with difficulty, walked on slowly towards the exit, apparently unsteady on her feet. A waiter rushed forward with a napkin, mopping at the cloth.

  'Clumsy tart,' said Diana. 'She doesn't know when she's had enough.'

  'Nothing on your dress?' Tweed queried. 'Good. You do look absolutely stunning.'

  'Thank you, kind sir.'

  She glowed with pleasure as the waiter refilled her glass, as Tweed gazed at her. She wore a black velvet evening dress with narrow shoulder straps. In the soft light from the wall lamps her beautifully-shaped shoulders showed to full advantage. She was also wearing jet drop earrings, her lipstick was a pale red, her nail varnish a pale pink. Very nineteen-thirties. Tweed lifted his glass, took several deep sips of the Margharita.

  `And I've trimmed my nails,' she said, extending one hand.

  `Why?'

  `Because I'm learning to type, silly. You can't type with talons. I'm getting pretty good at it. And I've just about mastered shorthand — in English and German. That came easy. The typing's rather a bore. So mechanical...'

  Across the room Munzel had summoned the waiter, handed him a one hundred-deutschmark note. 'I may have to leave suddenly — an urgent appointment. That will more than cover the meal.'

  `There will be a lot of change, sir...'

  `Keep ten per cent for the tip. I'll call back tomorrow for the rest.'

  Tweed took another sip of his Margharita, put down the glass and blinked. He took off his glasses, rubbed at them with the corner of his handkerchief, put them back on. He blinked again.

  `Is something wrong?' Diana asked.

  `Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute. I'm OK...'

  He walked rapidly out of the restaurant. Butler saw him go, saw that Diana was left alone and remained in his seat. Tweed pushed his way through the queue waiting for tables, headed for the elevator, pushed the button. His head felt very peculiar.

  He walked inside the elevator, pressed the button for his floor. The small elevator began to ascend. He blinked again. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He stepped out, hurried to his room, key in hand. He had trouble inserting the key, turned it, pulled it free automatically and shut the door, then locked it. As he took his hand away his fingers dragged out the key, which fell on the floor.

  He turned on the light, stared. The room seemed full of smoke. Something drifted towards him through the smoke, something floating in space. A naked cherub, an evil grin on its horrid little face, a pudgy hand stretched out towards Tweed. Christ! He'd been doped! That bloody girl had dropped something in his glass. He staggered towards the bathroom and the cherub floated backwards, beckoning him on.

  Downstairs in the lobby Munzel asked the girl behind the reception counter to get him a pack of cigarettes. She looked dubious about leaving her station until he gave her the tip. The moment she'd gone to the bar he reached over, lifted up the box containing the registration slips, rifled through them. Tweed. Zimmer 303.

  He thanked the girl when she came back, paid her, pressed the elevator button for Tweed's floor. Inside the elevator, the second the doors closed, he took out his bunch of keys, found the pick-lock. This was Munzel the pro, he told himself. The master of improvisation — improvisation of accidents.

  Forty-Eight

  Tweed was hallucinating. The tiled bathroom floor was crammed with naked cherubs, staring up at him, reaching up to him through the smoke with their beastly little hands. Water! He had to drink water — before the hallucinatory drug thoroughly polluted his bloodstream. He grabbed for the glass, knocked the soap on to the floor, filled the glass, drank it all down, refilled the glass, drank more.

  Fresh air! The atmosphere was stifling. Sweat ran off his forehead. He staggered to the double windows, slipped on the soap, saved himself by grabbing the ledge. He threw open both windows. Below was a sheer drop of thirty feet, straight down to the tiled floor of an interior well. All windows overlooking it were glazed, like his own. Better get away — dangerous.

  He stumbled back to the tap, filled the glass, drank more water. Something touched his shoulder. He jerked round. One of those hideous cherubs, floating in space. Dining-room, Four Seasons. Then the connection was gone. A horseman in hunting clothes appeared out of the fog. The horse reared up, crashed down on top of him. He felt nothing. A skull floated out of the mists, the skull of Harry Masterson, grinning hideously. He put out a hand, pushed it away, his hand feeling nothing, pushing through the skull. He turned away, grabbed the glass, refilled it. As he drank he glanced into the mirror. Oh, Jesus!

  Hugh Grey's image, a head without a body, stared back out of the mirror, laughing madly. With a trembling hand he refilled the glass. He had a moment of clarity. The bloody paintings Masterson had shown him at his Sussex cottage. He forgot what he'd remembered a moment later. He drank more water. The stuff was running down his suit jacket. Get it inside you, for God's sake.

  His own head was floating now. He couldn't see it — he could feel it drifting away from his neck. A vile sensation. He refilled the glass, drank greedily. Guy Dalby's head stared at him out of the mirror, catlick drooped over his forehead, an evil smile on his drifting face. Tweed's left hand reached out to the mirror. The image receded, vanished.

  He felt his feet leave the floor as though someone behind was lifting him. Now he was floating in space, like one of those astronauts he'd seen on TV. Tweed hammered the glass he was holding down hard on to the area beside the wash basin. He heard, felt, the thud. Again his mind cleared.

  The atmosphere seemed fresher. Air percolating in through the open windows. A logical thought. He sensed his mind was on a tightrope — midway between sanity and hallucination. Another logical thought. He drank three more glasses. Something touched his left hand. He looked down. A cherub with an outsize head gazed up at him, its hand touching his. Oh, no...'

  He stared down at the obscene thing. The vision was less defined, faded as he continued staring at it. He stepped back, slipped on the soap tablet and his foot skidded. He saved himself again by grabbing the edge of the basin with his left hand. Must keep away from those open windows — and the abyss beyond.

  He was filling the glass when he glanced in the mirror. In his state of shock he let the water fill up the glass — run over the rim. He'd never had time to switch on the bath
room light. The only illumination was light filtering in from the bedroom. A figure loomed behind him. He saw it only vaguely in the dim light, the face of Kurt Franck. The face moved, was shown up in a little more light. He'd grown a beard. Tweed took a firmer grip on the glass and swung round. This was no hallucination. This was for real.

  *

  Franck had stepped out of the elevator into a deserted corridor. He checked the numbers of the rooms. He found 303 at the end of the corridor. He tried the handle gently. The door was locked. He inserted his pick-lock, fiddled, felt the lock slide open.

  He went inside into a bedroom. The light was on. From the bathroom he heard the sound of running water. He turned to lock the door. No sign of the key. Too tricky to use the pick-lock. He'd want to leave quickly. He walked into the darkened bathroom.

  Tweed was standing staring into the mirror over the washbasin. Munzel noticed the soap smears on the floor, gleaming in the dim light, the open windows beyond. A perfect set-up. So many accidents happened in bathrooms. He stepped behind Tweed. Their eyes met in the mirror. Tweed swung round with surprising speed. He dashed the glassful of water into Munzel's eyes. The German couldn't see for a moment. In that moment

  Tweed brought the tough base of the glass down on the bridge of Munzel's large nose. His eyes watered — this time with real pain — but Tweed was too weak to have delivered the blow with great force.

  `Bob! How good to see you...' Diana had half-risen from her seat, handbag tucked under her arm, when Newman walked into the restaurant. 'Tweed is here,' she went on. 'I was just going to find out what's happened to him...'

  'Why?'

  `He suddenly felt unwell. He went to his room. But he's been there a long time. I was going up to see him. And soon after he'd gone I saw a big blond German get up from his table over there and go out of the restaurant. From the back, the way he moved, in a great hurry....'

  `Tweed's room number?'

  `Three-O-Three...'

  `Wait here. Don't move.'

  Newman, remembering the placid pace of the elevator, ran up the staircase. 303? That was the room Tweed had occupied before. He knew exactly where it was. He reached the third floor, raced down the corridor, tried the handle and pushed it open quietly, pushing it almost closed behind him. The sounds came from the bathroom. He ran to the open door. Tweed was grappling with Franck, who had his huge arms round Tweed's waist, lifting him off the floor.

  Newman, fresh from East Germany, took in the scene at a glance. The soap-smeared floor, the open windows beyond. He clenched his right fist, jerked his elbow back, rammed his fist forward, slamming a vicious kidney punch into the German. Franck let go of Tweed, doubled over, straightened up and started to turn. He slipped on the floor, skidded clear across the bathroom and his hands slapped down on the window ledge. He turned again and his feet slithered under him. He ended up half out of the window, his waist against the ledge, his long legs stretched in front of him.

  He bent down, hauled up his left trouser leg, heaved out the broad-bladed knife from the sheath strapped to his leg. That reaction took a few seconds. Newman had crossed the bathroom,

  avoiding the skid-marks. He stooped down, grasped Franck by the ankles, elevated them and shoved with all his strength.

  The German shot out of the window, disappeared. They heard his wailing shriek, cut off suddenly, followed instantly by a horrible soft thud. Newman peered out. Franck lay spread-eagled in the yard far below, reminding Newman of one of those chalk-mark silhouettes police left behind, showing where the corpse was found.

  `Anyone see him go?' Tweed asked.

  `Doesn't look like it.'

  `Keep it...' Tweed had trouble speaking.. quiet.'

  He fumbled for his wallet, got it out, dropped it on the floor. Newman picked it up as Tweed crept into the bedroom, warning Newman to keep clear of the skid-marks He sagged on to the bed.

  `Get Kuhlmann. Local police station. Possehl-strasse 4. Something like that. Folded sheet of paper. In my wallet. Tell him what happened. Discreetly...'

  `I've found it. I'll get the number from the directory here.'

  Newman made the call. He was put through to Kuhlmann almost immediately. The conversation was short. Newman put down the phone, came over to Tweed who had propped up a pillow and was slumped against it.

  `He'll be here in-five minutes. I'll just pop downstairs, see Diana, stop her coming up. She was on her way when I went into the restaurant. Anything you need now?'

  `One thing. Bob, get me a glass of water.'

  Kuhlmann arrived with only one other man, a Dr Rimek, who insisted on examining Tweed while Kuhlmann spent time with Newman in the bathroom. Rimek, a humorous-looking man in his sixties, was thin and stooped and wore a pince-nez.

  He listened while Tweed confined his description of what had happened in his hallucinatory experiences, nodding his head occasionally. Then he checked Tweed's pulse, blood pressure and used his stethoscope. He straightened up and grunted.

  `What's the verdict?' Tweed asked in German.

  `Tough as old hickory, you are. And you did just the right thing — drinking litres of water. I'd say it was mescaline, something like that, you were drugged with.' He looked up as Newman came back into the room. 'If that drink, whatever it was called...'

  `Margharita,' Tweed said.

  `If that drink is still on the table in the dining-room I'd like the glass for analysis...'

  `I brought it up with me.' Newman opened the wardrobe and took a glass rimmed with salt from the top shelf. `This is it.'

  `Excellent.' Rimek took a wide-mouthed plastic bottle out of his bag, poured the contents of the glass into it, screwed down the top. 'I'll know tomorrow...'

  `Phone the results to me,' Kuhlmann called out from the bathroom door. 'He'll live, I take it? Good. And, Rimek, not one word about this to anyone else.'

  Rimek took a blood sample before he left. He paused at the door, staring at Tweed. 'Two days' complete rest. You don't have to stay in bed. Just in the hotel. Maybe a short walk tomorrow afternoon. No more than two hundred metres. Same the day after. And no alcohol for two days. I'll get off now.'

  Kuhlmann waited until Rimek had gone, then lit his cigar and began talking.

  `Before I call the clean-up squad — fingerprint, photographer, forensic, etc — we have to get our story straight. Newman has told me what happened. Now I'll tell you. You feel up to this, I hope, Tweed?'

  'Go ahead.'

  `You don't want any publicity — being who and what you are. Newman arrived soon after you came up here.' Kuhlmann jabbed his cigar at Tweed to emphasize his point. 'You were never here. You were in the dining-room. You gave Newman your room key to borrow a handkerchief. He comes up, finds the door wide open, finds Franck rifling the room. Pull out a drawer in a minute, empty the contents on a floor. There's a struggle in the bathroom — where Newman found Franck taking a pee. Franck pulls a knife. That went down in the area with him. You've left the bathroom windows open — it's a hot night. Franck goes out of the window — slipped on the soap. That's it. Keep it simple. The local police chief is a pal of mine — I'll keep him off your back. I'm going to phone Possehl-strasse now.'

  `How can you keep it quiet?' Tweed asked. 'Someone must have heard Franck — he screamed when he went down...'

  `You'd be surprised how people don't hear things like that. The manager knows. I had a word with him before I came up. He won't talk. Hotel guests aren't keen on acts of violence. He took me into the area. There's a door under your window you can't see from up here, a door he locked and I have the key.'

  `I'd better get out of here for the moment,' Tweed said.

  `Definitely. Use Newman's room...'

  'I think I can make the dining-room. I have a friend down there.'

  `Better still. Your colour's coming back.'

  While Kuhlmann was using the phone Tweed pointed to a drawer. Newman pulled it out, turned it upside down. Shirts, socks and handkerchiefs spilled on to the floor. He pic
ked up one of the handkerchiefs embroidered with Tweed's initials.

  `This,' he said, 'is the borrowed handkerchief. I'll give you mine — just in case some eager beaver searches me.'

  `You might bring me some tissues from the box in the bathroom,' Tweed suggested, planting his feet on the floor, testing his strength before he stood up.

  Newman brought the tissues and handed him one which he had screwed up. 'My handkerchief is inside that. If you don't mind keeping it.'

  Tweed shoved it inside his jacket pocket and then started using the other tissues to dab at his jacket front, drying out the water he'd spilt down it. Diana was bound to spot the dampness, to ask what had caused it. He took several steps round the room, then paced more briskly. His head had stopped pounding.

  Kuhlmann put down the phone, said the team would be there inside ten minutes, so they'd better get moving. And he'd be back the following day to talk some more.

  `They'll have trouble smuggling Franck out,' Tweed said. `Oh, they'll scrape him up, cart the bits away.'

  Forty-Nine

  Tweed stayed up half the night in Newman's room, listening in silence to his account of his experiences in East Germany. Earlier he had gone down to the dining-room, assured Diana it was only a stomach upset. That covered the fact he hadn't felt like eating. Coffee, however, helped to clear his head.

  He saw her safely to her room. As the door closed and he turned round he saw Harry Butler sitting in a chair close to the elevator, reading a copy of Lübecker Nachrichten, the local paper. He nodded to him and went to Newman's room.

  `So,' he commented as Newman finished his report, 'you've had a pretty grim time.

  `And now we know Dr Berlin is a fake. The trip was worth it to find that out.'

  `I suspected it. But suspecting is one thing, knowing is another. Lysenko must have trained an impostor all those years ago. It's creepy — their long-distance planning. I want this kept quiet, Bob.'