by Colin Forbes
'Could you very kindly find something to do elsewhere?' Howard asked McNeil, who promptly left the room, still carrying the hold-all.
'Have you heard from Keith Martel?' Howard barked as soon as they were alone.
'I thought you were concentrating on security for the PM on her trip to the forthcoming Summit Conference in Vienna. So why interest yourself in Martel…'
'It's a waste of personnel. Just when I need every man…'
`So you told me. If you want it on record send me a minute and I can show it to the Minister.' Tweed perched his glasses on the end of his nose and peered over the rims at his visitor; a mannerism which he knew infuriated Howard. 'By the way, I suppose the normal people are in charge of security for the others – the Presidents of America and France, and the German-Chancellor?'
'Tim O'Meara in Washington, Alain Flandres in Paris and Erich Stoller in Bonn. Does it really concern you?'
`Not really. I just wondered if all my old friends were still in their jobs.' Tweed looked at his chief. 'These days so many get the chop just when they least expect it…'
Howard left the room, his mouth tight, his stride almost that of an officer route-marching. He would be incensed for days over the exchange which had taken place – and would therefore keep well away from Tweed, which was what the latter intended. McNeil peered round the door.
`Has he gone?'
'Yes, my dear, the British lion has roared. It is now safe to return.' He opened a copy of The Times atlas. 'Crocodile – I'm sure the meaning of that codeword is under my nose
Erwin Vinz took his execution squad back into the new search area – Bregenz – by the fastest possible route. Flying from a private airstrip outside Munich he landed his men at another airstrip close to Lindau. From here the eight men piled into three waiting cars and were driven at speed to the border and Bregenz beyond. It was three o'clock when they pulled up in front of the station.
'I think Martel got off the train here,' Vinz told the two men in the rear of his car. 'He may well still be in Bregenz. You stay here. The rest of us will quarter the town and drive round until we locate him…'
`And if we do see him board a train?' one of the two men asked as he alighted from the car.
'He has a fatal accident, of course!' Vinz was irritated by the man's stupidity. 'Whatever happens he must not reach Munich…'
Vinz held a brief conference with the other five men. 'There are twenty thousand deutschemarks for the man who locates Martel. You have his description. You tell people he escaped from a home for the mentally disturbed, that he is dangerous. Rendezvous here two hours from now. Turn over this backwater!'
Martel picked up the spoor Charles Warner had left behind in Bregenz at his twelfth attempt. The contact was a bookseller, an Austrian in his early forties with a shop at the end of Kaiserstrasse. Outside was the pedestrian underpass where Martel had arranged to meet Claire in half an hour's time. He told his tale, showed Warner's photo and the reaction was positive.
`I know your friend. Grief seems to be his companion… `Grief?' Martel queried cautiously and waited.
`Yes. His closest friend died here while on a visit. It was during the French military occupation of the Vorarlberg and the Tyrol after the war. His friend was buried here so he thought he would pay his respects.'
'I see…'
Martel did not see at all and was careful to say as little as possible. The bookseller broke off to serve a customer and then continued.
'There are two Catholic cemeteries in Bregenz and one Protestant. This man's friend had a curious religious history. Born a Protestant, he was converted to the Catholic faith. Later he appeared to lose his faith. Under the peculiar circumstances the man who came into my shop asked for the location of all three cemeteries. I showed them to him on a street map.'
`How recent was his visit to you?'
`Less than a week ago. Last Saturday…'
'Can you sell me a street map and mark the three cemeteries?'
The bookseller-fetched a map and ringed the areas. There is the Blumenstrasse, the Vorkloster – both are Catholic. And here is the Protestant burial-ground…'
Claire was waiting when Martel descended the steps into the otherwise deserted subway. She stood gazing at a scene behind an illuminated window set into the wall. The glass protected relics of an archaeological dig which had unearthed the ancient Roman town which once stood on the site of present- day Bregenz.
'Spooky, isn't it?' Clare remarked and gave a little shudder. 'All that time ago. And today in this mist the whole place seems creepy – and I haven't found a trace of Warner…'
'Last Saturday he was standing not a hundred feet from where we are standing now…'
She listened while he summed up his interview with the helpful bookseller. As he completed his resume she was frowning. 'I'm not grasping the significance…'
Join the club – except that one thing's almost frighteningly certain. He was here last Saturday. Sunday he's murdered out on the lake. Whatever he found in Bregenz probably triggered off that murder
…'
'But how long ago was the French military occupation of Austria, for God's sake? This goes back to just after the war…'
`Not necessarily. The Allied occupation of Austria ended May 15 1955 – so whatever Warner dug up could have happened close to that date…'
`It's still over a quarter of a century ago,' she objected, 'so what could have happened then that's relevant to today?'
'Damned if I know – that's what we have to find out. That yarn Warner spun about his closest friend dying here was eye-wash, but he had his teeth into something. The period – the time of the French occupation might mean something…'
`So how do we find out, where do we start?'
'We hire a car first at a place I saw near here. Then we visit the three cemeteries Warner was enquiring about. The secret has to lie in one of them. Literally…'
Erwin Vinz walked into the bookseller's shop in Kaiserstrasse. Despite his later arrival in Bregenz he had, without knowing, an advantage over Martel: six men were scouring the town. He spoke first to a girl assistant and asked for the manager. She went upstairs to find the proprietor who had talked to Martel.
'I'd better go down and see this man myself,' the bookseller decided.
On the ground floor he listened while Vinz told his story. The verbal description Vinz gave was graphic. Take away the glasses and add a cigarette holder and the bookseller recognised that this man was describing his earlier visitor. The Austrian studied Vinz and was careful not to interrupt.
`You say that this man has escaped from a mental asylum?' he enquired eventually.
`Yes. A very violent patient. Unfortunately he can give the impression he is completely normal and this makes him even more dangerous. You have seen this man?'
CHAPTER
Thursday May 28
IN GOTTES FRIEDEN ALOIS STOHR 1930-1953
In God We Trust… Inside the mist-bound cemetery known as the Blumenstrasse three people stared at the headstone. Martel and Claire were bewildered. Alois Stohr? The name meant nothing to either of them. Martel turned to the gravedigger who had brought them to this spot. Again he showed him Warner's photo.
'Look, you're quite certain this was the man who asked to see this particular grave?'
The old gravedigger wore an ancient cap and his moustache dripped moisture globules from the grey vapour swirling amid the headstones. So far as Martel could see – which was not very far – they were the only visitors. It was not a day to encourage sentimental journeys.
'This is the man.'
The gravedigger, Martel noted, spoke with the same conviction of recognition as had the bookseller when viewing the photo. And he had identified Warner previously before Martel gave him a sheaf of schilling notes.
'When did he come here?' Martel asked.
'Last week. Saturday.'
The same story that the bookseller had told. It was maddening. Martel no longer ha
d any doubt that Charles Warner had visited this particular grave only a short time before he was murdered. But where was the link-up – what made Alois Stohr so important he must remain undisturbed at all cost?
'Did he say anything else, anything at all?' Martel demanded.
'Simply asked me to show him the grave of Alois Stohr
Watching on the sidelines Claire had an overpowering impression the gravedigger was withdrawing into his shell under the impact of Martel's interrogation. The Englishman continued.
'Did he give the date of Stohr's death?'
'Only said it was near the end of the French occupation…'
Warner had used a similar phrase while talking to the bookseller in Kaiserstrasse. It was during the French military occupation… Why pinpoint the time like that instead of giving an approximate year?
Claire had remained silent, studying the gravedigger, and she spoke suddenly, her voice confident as though she knew the reply and was interested only in confirmation?
'Who else visits this grave?'
'I don't know as I should talk about such things,' the old boy said after a long pause. Martel almost held his breath: Claire, by a flash of intuition, had put her finger on something they would otherwise not have been told. She kept up the pressure.
`My friend gave you a generous sum so we expect complete frankness. Who comes here?'
`I don't know her name. She comes every week. Always on a Wednesday and always at eight in the morning. She lays a bunch of flowers, waits a few minutes and then goes…'
`How does she get here?' Claire persisted. 'By car? By cab?'
`She comes in a cab- and keeps it waiting till she leaves…'
`Her description? Colour of hair? Her age roughly. How is she dressed? Modestly? Expensively?'
The barrage of questions reinforced the gravedigger's obvious reluctance to say more. He handed Warner's photo back to Martel and picked up his shovel, prior to departure.
`Expensive – her clothes…'
`Colour of hair?' Claire went on relentlessly.
`Can't say – she always wears a head-scarf…'
`And you passed on the same information to the man in this photo when he came here?' Martel asked.
The gravedigger, shouldering his shovel like a soldier, was moving away, vanishing into the mist shrouding the headstones. His voice came back like that of a ghost.
`Yes. And I think he found out where she lived. While she was here I saw him talking to her cab-driver. Money exchanged hands
Have you seen this man?
The bookseller who had talked to Martel adjusted his glasses and gazed at Erwin Vinz. He took his time before replying.
`You have some form of identification?' he enquired.
`You have seen the escaped patient then?' Vinz pressed eagerly. 'As to identification – we're not police, we don't carry cards…'
`Your description means nothing to me. I have never had anyone in my shop remotely resembling this man. If you will excuse me, I have a shop to run…'
He watched Vinz leave, shoulders hunched, his mouth a thin line. He climbed into a car outside, said something to the driver and the vehicle disappeared. The girl assistant spoke tentatively.
'I thought we did have a man in here earlier…
'You think that man who just called had anything to do with an asylum?' There was a note of contempt in the Austrian's voice.
'For one thing he was a German so he would have approached the authorities if his story were true…'
'You think he was…'
'Lying in his teeth. You have just met a neo-Nazi – I can smell the breed, to say nothing of the badge he flaunts in his coat lapel. If he returns, tell me and I will call the police…'
The sun had burnt off the mist and it was now a brilliant afternoon. When Vinz arrived and left two men to watch the railway station there remained a team of six – including himself and he had divided them up into pairs. Each couple took one of the three cars to explore the district allocated to them.
One couple was driving up Gallus-strasse, a prosperous residential area, while Vinz was making his abortive visit to the bookshop. Vinz's men had just enquired at yet another hotel and again drawn a blank. The car descending Gallus-strasse towards them contained Martel and Claire. Both vehicles moved at a sedate pace as they closed the gap between them.
Vinz's men, in a BMW, were keeping down their speed so they could check the sidewalks for any sign of Martel. Behind the wheel of the Audi they had hired, Claire drove slowly through the unfamiliar district while Martel, beside her, gave directions as he studied the town plan. -
'At the bottom – to avoid going past the railway station – we turn …'
'Oh, my God! Keith – inside that BMW coming towards us. I saw the sun flash off something shiny in the lapel of that man beside the driver, I'm sure it's a badge. It's Delta…'
'Don't speed up, don't look at them, don't change anything – just keep going as you are doing…'
`They'll have your description…'
`Good luck to them!'
Inside the BMW the man in the front passenger seat carried a Luger inside his shoulder holster. He studied the two people in the oncoming Audi. It was second nature for him to overlook no-one. Imprinted in his memory was the detailed description of Martel every member of the squad had been provided with.
Gallus-strasse was exceptionally quiet at this hour. Claire was suddenly aware she was gripping the wheel tightly and forced herself to relax – not to look at the BMW driver who had lowered his window which would allow his passenger to fire at her point-blank.
'Steady now…!'
Martel spoke softly, his lips scarcely moving as he studied the street map spread out on his lap. The two cars, still slow- moving, drew level. The passenger inside the BMW stared hard at the man next to the girl driver. Then the cars were moving away from each other.
`Something about that Audi?' asked the man behind the wheel.
Just checking. Not a bit like him…'
At the bottom of Gallus-strasse Martel directed Claire to keep them away from the lake front – and the railway station. She gave a sigh of relief.
`Not to worry,' he remarked. 'I wonder how they got here while we were still in town…'
'They were Delta…'
'I saw the badges out of the corner of my eye as they passed us. In any case, I was prepared…' he lifted a corner of the street plan and she saw his right hand gripping the butt of his. 45 Colt. Any sign of hostile action and I could have blown them both away. There was no one else about. And how did you expect them to recognise me?'
She glanced at him. He wore a Tyrolean hat with a feather in the band purchased while she arranged the hire of the Audi. Clamped between his teeth was a large, ugly-looking pipe he had bought in another shop. On the bridge of his Roman nose perched horn-rimmed glasses. The transformation from his normal hatless appearance with cigarette-holder at jaunty angle was total.
'God,' she said, 'I'm a fool not to have your confidence…'
'Your reaction was correct,' he rapped back. 'The day you're not nervous in a situation like that is likely to be your last. Now, let's head for the border and the whirlpool – Lindau.'
In the late afternoon Vinz phoned Reinhard Dietrich from Bregenz. He was exhausted. So were his men. By phoning the schloss he also avoided reporting to the man he most feared. Manfred.
`Vinz speaking. We were asked to undertake a commission…'
'I know.' Dietrich sounded irritable. 'I was informed by the agent who placed the commission. I take it you have earned your keep?'
In the payphone near Bregenz station Vinz gazed out at the dense fog rolling in from the lake. 'From the beginning it was an impossible task,' he said. 'We ran ourselves into the ground. The Englishman is not here…'
'What! He must have got off that express at Bregenz. Don't you see – he chose that stop because he guessed the competition might be waiting for him at Lindau. And Bregenz is a small town…
'
'Not all that small,' Vinz snapped. He was so tired he answered back. 'The layout is complex – and the fog has returned. The whole place is blotted out…'
`Get back here at once! All of you! We'll discuss our next move the moment you arrive. And don't stop anywhere for a drink or anything to eat…'
'We haven't eaten all day…
`I should bloody well hope not! Straight back here! You understand?'
Dietrich slammed down the receiver. He was red in the face. He ran his hands through his silver hair and gazed round the library. Vinz would never know his outburst had been promoted not by rage but by fear. He rang for Oscar and when the hunchback arrived told him to pour a large brandy.
`They haven't found the Englishman,' he said savagely.
'He must be clever. The first spy, Warner, was clever – but he revealed himself in due course. This new Englishman will make the same mistake…' He handed the brandy to Dietrich who took a large gulp and shook his head.
'He eludes every trap. He has been on the continent less than two days and is getting closer to Bavaria, to Operation Crocodile, every moment. In six clays' time the Summit Express will be crossing Bavaria!'
`So we have six days to find him,' Oscar said reassuringly, refilling his master's glass.
`God in heaven, Oscar! Don't you see you can turn that round? He has six days to find us!'
Close to the main entrance to Dietrich's walled estate there was a small forest by the roadside. The entrance was guarded by wrought-iron gates and a sentry lodge. It was early evening when a large bird swooped over the gates and all hell broke loose.
Behind the gates ferocious German shepherd dogs appeared, huge brutes which leapt at the gates, barking and snarling, eager to tear any intruder to pieces.
Inside a Mercedes parked out of sight on the edge of the trees Erich Stoller, chief of the BND, listened to the sound of the dogs, his slim hands lightly tapping the wheel. Forty-three years old, Stoller was six feet tall and very thin, his face lean and sensitive.
His chief assistant, Otto Wilde, sat beside him clasping a tine-camera equipped with a telephoto lens. Small and plump, Wilde was terrified of fierce dogs. He glanced at his chief.
