He went on past the gate for about another hundred metres before the fence turned down towards the water. There was no other entrance. Then, as he came past a thick screen of wild willow, he saw that a dead tree had been blown down in a recent gale. It had smashed on to the fence, bridging it. He stood for a few moments, listening and looking, but the forest was still. He climbed along the tree. It was a large beech and it was easy to cross. He stepped down on to a thick layer of leaves that made a swishing noise as he walked. Almost immediately he came to the back of the house. It was big and square and painted in that dark yellow which the Austrians call kaisergelb. He stood behind a tree and watched. Everything seemed to be closed up. He circled it and stood in a patch of reeds by the water’s edge looking at the facade. The architect had given the house a classical pediment and he recalled noticing it as he had come past in the boat. It was heavily screened by trees on both sides and at the rear, and thick beds of reeds lay in front of it. Again he paused, but there was no movement. It seemed to be completely uninhabited.
A large flight of steps ran up to the terrace that stretched along the front. It was cracked in many places and weeds were spreading across it like a carpet. Several tables and chairs stood on the terrace but, like the gates, they were of wrought-iron and it was impossible to say if they had been used recently or ten years before.
The ground floor windows were covered from the inside by wooden shutters so, screened by trees, he made his way to the back of the house, but it was impossible to see through the windows there either, for those in which the glass was not frosted had net curtains hanging on the inside.
Something nagged at him, making him feel additionally uneasy. There was something not quite right about the house and its grounds. It wasn’t that it seemed to exist in a decaying wilderness, but something more prosaic, more functional. It lacked any form of entrance. How, if people lived there, did they come and go? The great padlocked gate at the back did not open on to any roadway. As far as he could tell the fence was otherwise unbroken in its length around the house. They could not troop in and out through the forest There had to be another way.
He withdrew again into the cover of the forest and let his eyes rove over the wild garden and the shuttered rooms. He could see no evidence of human habitation. He turned and walked back towards the lakeshore. Here the reeds were heavy, tall and thick and in some places well over his head. The trees, too, crowded down to the water line. He found difficulty in seeing where land ended and water began, and it was only when his feet grew wet that he knew he had arrived at the lake itself. He moved through the reed-bed, parallel to the front of the house, trying to keep on dry land. The reeds clattered round him as he moved, and bits of their furry plumes fell on his head He had not gone more than thirty or forty metres when they suddenly ended and he found himself looking at a channel cut through them, twisting and turning until it reached open water.
He broke off a reed and pushed it down but the water was too deep for him to touch bottom. He moved along the bank of the channel and came upon the low-hanging branches of a massive tree. He picked his way under them and on the far side found himself in a kind of enclosure. There were trees all around him, and at his back the channel and the reeds. In the midst of the enclosure was a boathouse. It was a substantial building and meant to take a large boat or several small ones. Again he stopped and watched it, but the big doors facing the lake were open and the slipway was empty.
In front of it, the channel had been widened and a red mooring buoy bobbed in the water. It was a big enough basin for a fair-sized craft to turn in. When he had satisfied himself that the boathouse was as devoid of human inhabitants as the house itself, he moved quietly through the reeds towards it and went into its cavernous interior. Along one of the walls were projecting brackets where rowing shells must once have been stored, one above the other. Now only one rotting canoe hung there. Above the canoe were wooden plaques, some with names, some with heraldic devices, but all so old and weathered and cracked that they were illegible and he assumed that they must have been sculling prizes won in the twenties or even before.
At the rear of the boathouse was a door. He tried it and it opened into a room built to hold oars and sails and ropes but whose shelves were now empty. It was windowless and dark and some moments passed before he made out another door on the far side and crossed towards it. He saw something in front of the door which stopped him dead.
On the floor were two large cardboard boxes and in them were packets of cereal, cartons of milk, coffee, bread and sugar, butter, smoked sausage. There were tins, packets of soup, lavatory paper, kitchen paper, eggs, and on top of one was an itemized list. What he was looking at was a delivery of groceries. Next to the boxes were gas cylinders of the sort used for coupling up to a cooker. Someone had phoned and ordered the groceries, which meant that someone was expected at the house.
But was that someone Bruno? He might be anywhere. The house might belong to someone else by now. Why, he wondered, had the groceries been placed where they were, in front of the second door? What lay on the far side? Was it another part of the boathouse where there were living quarters? Was that why the main house seemed so derelict? He tried the door but it was locked. He ran his fingers along the lintel hoping to find a key, but all he found was dust. Yet, he reasoned, there must be a key nearby, if the owner of the house was like most other people. His own experience told him that you did not only carry a key, you hid one near the door in case you lost or forgot the key you were carrying. He began to search the room. Every few moments he paused and listened for the sound of a launch but there was only the stillness of the misty lake.
It took him fifteen minutes to find the key. It had been taped to the bottom of the lowest shelf. He pulled it off and unlocked the door. He found himself looking into a passageway, and switched on the light. The passage rose in a gentle gradient and he could not see the far end because there was a bend in the middle. Then he noticed that it had no windows. It wasn’t a passage, then, but a tunnel.
He paused. If he went on now his actions might be irrevocable. It was one thing, in the hot black aftermath of Sue’s death to decide to find Bruno and to take his vengeance. It was another to enter the lair. He had seen what Bruno could do both when he was a youth and now as an adult. He wasn’t equipped to deal with him. He needed Hoest; needed to be able to hand over what he’d found. But what had he found and could he be sure? Did Bruno live here? He thought of the groceries behind him. Clearly there was no one in the house. Perhaps they had left already. Perhaps they were even now in some other safe-house in another part of Berlin and the groceries would rot here until Doomsday. There was only one way to find out and he owed that to Sue and to the dead couple on the ice and to Willi and to Willi’s grandmother and to old Mrs Mefitzel whose husband brought a nice piece of cheese home on a Saturday night. And the more he thought of Hoest and his silly hat and his baggy eyes and his windy stomach the less faith he had in him. Spencer made his decision.
He closed the door behind him but did not lock it, and began to walk slowly along the tunnel. When he rounded the bend he could see another door at the far end and he estimated that the tunnel was about forty metres long. It was carpeted, with matting, so his feet made little noise. He paused at the other end, straining to hear any sound from the far side. But as before, everything was still.
He opened the door and went into the house. What little light entered through cracks in the wooden shutters showed him he was standing in the entrance hall. He knew then that the tunnel leading from the boathouse to the main house was, in effect, its front door. Why it had originally been built this way he could not imagine. Perhaps the owner had wished to smuggle in his mistress unobserved, or perhaps it was an easy, if expensive, way of reaching the house without being rained on. It was perfect for someone like Bruno.
The hall was formal and neat. There was a large carved chest, a table, a wall mirror, a vase containing dried flowers.
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p; He tip-toed across and went into the drawing-room. Modern chairs, two sofas, a Breughel print, fire-place, a magazine rack without magazines, a reproduction Louis Quinze writing-table. Newspapers were thrown down and there was a drinks table on which stood a bottle of tafelwein half empty. He silently checked the rooms downstairs, a dining-room, a study, a kitchen. There was the remains of a meal on the kitchen table. It looked as though the inhabitants had left in a hurry. He looked for something that would give identity to the occupants but the kitchen contained no secrets. All was white vitreous enamel and white-painted wood. Why was the inside so neat and modem, so well-kept, and the outside allowed to fall into ruin and decay?
He went carefully up the stairs. Bedrooms led off the upstairs hall. One bedroom was unused but a second had a big double bed. Clothes, male and female, were flung on the floor. Muller and Inge? He moved on down the hall until he came to the last bedroom, and this was different. The room was feminine: full of soft pinks and pastel shades, a four-poster with hangings, white goatskin rugs on the floor, an inlaid dressing table with split mirrors. On the far side of the bed and flush with the wall so that it looked almost part of the moulding pattern, was the door of a hanging cupboard. Spencer opened it. A light, controlled by the door, came on.
It was a big walk-in cupboard and several suits and coats were hanging on the rail. On a shelf above the rail were cardboard boxes which had once held new clothing. He felt in the pockets of a dark blue suit. Nothing. He looked inside the jacket. There was no maker’s label or shop label. He looked at the suit next to it. Once again the pockets were empty and the labels gone. He went along the rack. Each suit, each jacket was exactly the same. Finally he came to a field-grey jacket of military cut. He paused. It held no clues as to ownership, nor even to origin. Then his eye caught something. It was the collar. There was an area that seemed slightly darker than the rest. He looked more closely. Near the other collar point he saw the same dark area. He took the jacket off its hanger and carried it to the light. Now he could just make out the faint marks of the stitches. Someone had carefully removed emblems, or patches from both sides of the collar. One of those patches had come to him in an envelope in London. The other had been found by German police in a stolen Volkswagen microbus discovered on the Portsmouth road. They were the collar patches showing heraldic leopards, the patches worn by members of the British Free Corps. He was in Bruno’s bedroom.
Just then he heard the noise of a match being struck somewhere nearby. The cupboard door was almost closed. Then he remembered the light. A voice said:
‘Is that you, John Spencer? Knock once for yes, twice for no.’
He froze.
‘Come out, dear,’ the voice said. ‘Come out and let’s have a look at you.’
The door was pulled open and a young woman stood on the threshold. She was pretty in a rather coarse way with a thin face and hair cut like a boy’s. She wore a long kaftan in sludgy greens and browns, heavy green eye-shadow, drop ear-rings and several large rings of rose quartz and malachite on her fingers. She was lighting a cigarette in a holder.
‘Don’t be surprised,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you from the window.’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I said to myself, “I wonder who that is?”’ She spoke in a low voice, somewhat husky, with a marked cockney accent. ‘Who’d be paying us a visit at this time of day. The police? But then I looked out the other windows and there was no one. And we don’t have friends to lunch. Especially friends that come over the fence with bang-bangs. So I thought, “Who’s been a clever boy, then? Who’s tracked Bruno down?”’
‘He tried to kill me.’
‘You got in his way, dear. He kills everybody who gets in his way. He’s very violent is Bruno. Not to look at. But you know what I mean.’
She went backwards into the room and he followed her. ‘He planted a bomb,’ he said. ‘It was meant for me. Instead it killed two old people.’
She made a sound with her lips. ‘I keep on telling him. I say, “Bruno, that’s not the way to do business.” It’s so unnecessary. Never mind the noise.’ She looked him over, then said, ‘I’ll say one thing for Bruno. He could always pick ’em.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Anyone can see you must have been a pretty boy. I prefer older men, see? More mature, like...’
‘Where are they?’ Spencer said.
‘Who?’
‘You know damn well who.’
‘Temper. You mean Bruno and Jurgen? They’ll be back. Don’t worry.’
‘Where’s the woman who was at my house in London?’
‘Inge? She’s with the boat. You’ll see her, too. You’ll see everyone. We’ll have a party.’ She turned away from him. Well, I can’t stay chatting. I suppose we’ll be leaving once they get back. Such a pity about the house. We’ll never find another one like it. One of Bruno’s friends let us have it a couple of years ago. Such a nice man. A lawyer, I think he is. Do you mind if I pack?’ She had opened the door of the hanging cupboard and was reaching up for a suitcase.
‘Forget it,’ Spencer said. ‘There’ll be no need for that.’
‘Now I suppose we’ll have to find another one. But Bruno’s got lots of friends.’
‘I said, leave it!’
She had gripped the small suitcase with her hand and now she turned and threw it at him. One of its corners caught him high up on the cheek, knocking him on to the bed. She was on him in a flash. He found himself enveloped in the kaftan like a leopard in a net. She was incredibly fast and had a body like whipcord. They rolled off the bed on to the floor. She was trying to get the gun and Spencer needed all his strength to hold on to it. He felt her teeth sink into his wrist and he brought up his knee into her stomach. She coughed and momentarily released her hold. He tried to club her with the gun but again she was on to him like a wild animal, all arms and legs.
Somehow she had managed to get her legs around his throat and was able to use both hands to try and get the gun. She began to bang his hand against the leg of the bed. She caught his thumb and bent it backwards. The agony was too much for him. He opened his hand and the gun flew across the floor. She went after it but he caught at the kaftan. It ripped. She got to her feet and he saw the back of her naked body as she sprang for the gun. One foot was in the folds of the kaftan. She tripped and fell forward. There was a crash of glass as her head went through the window. She tried to scream but all he could hear was a gurgling noise. He picked himself up and crossed to her. Blood was pouring down her neck and the window frame. He lifted her off the window. The glass had cut her throat. He saw what he had not seen before. She wasn’t a girl, but a young man. Spencer brought him back into the room and laid him on the carpet. He was bubbling and gasping and Spencer watched him in a daze. He was weak, drained, numb. He crouched, staring at the young man, unable to take in what was happening.
There was a noise behind him and people came into the room. He heard Bruno’s voice: ‘Oh, Christ, he’s killed Norman!’ He felt a terrible blow on the side of his face and he fell on to the body. He knew another blow was coming and put up a hand to try to ward it off.
Instead, there was a noise from outside the house. A voice, magnified. ‘This is the police,’ it said in German. ‘The house is surrounded.’
Someone switched out the light and Spencer could hear running feet. A few moments later a woman — Inge — said, ‘It’s true!’ Her voice was terrified. ‘They’re all around. I can see them at the back.’
Bruno said, ‘Go to the front room. See if they are down at the boathouse.’
Spencer was left alone with Bruno and the dead body. ‘Get up!’ Bruno said.
Spencer pulled himself up on to the bed. ‘Why?’ Bruno said, kneeling by Norman’s body and taking his head in his arms. ‘Why did you kill him? He did no harm.’ Spencer saw he was weeping.
The blow to his head and the sudden rise to his feet had made him feel giddy and sick. He
was suffering from double vision. He sat, trying to collect his senses. Bruno was holding one of Norman’s dead hands.
The big man in the white T-shirt, whom he now recognized as Jurgen Muller, came in. ‘They are just below the terrace. I can’t see any near the boathouse.’
At first, Bruno did not seem to hear. Then slowly he got to his feet. He bent and folded Norman’s hands on his chest, then straightened. After a moment he said, ‘We’ll use the tunnel.’
‘What about him?’ Muller pointed to Spencer.
‘Leave him to me.’
They went downstairs. Muller and Inge led. Spencer and Bruno followed. Bruno had a heavy Walther PPK in his hand and he kept the barrel pressed at the nape of Spencer’s neck. They went into the tunnel and waited for a minute. Then the voice came through the bull-horn again.
‘The house is surrounded. You have five minutes to give yourselves up. In five minutes we will attack you.’
The four went silently down the tunnel. The only light was the flame from Muller’s cigarette lighter. At the far door Bruno said, ‘Let him go first in case there is shooting.’ He pushed Spencer forward. He would have fallen if Muller had not held him upright.
In a daze he opened the door. Grey daylight was seeping into the sailroom. No one was there. As they went from the sailroom to the slipway they could hear another announcement on the bull-horn.
In the turning basin below the boathouse, tied to the red buoy, was the boat they had arrived in while Spencer had been talking to Norman. It was a thirty-foot launch with a big Evin-rude engine. Muller caught one of the ropes and pulled it towards a small jetty.
Berlin Blind Page 20
