by Colin Forbes
The Englishman made an effort to contain his impatience. Away to the north the Summit Express was speeding across Germany and, if on schedule, was approaching Ulm. At the eastern end of Lake Konstanz a grey drizzle blotted out the mountains. Through the open window moisture drifted in and settled on his face.
Arriving at the entrance to the cemetery, he paid the fare, added a generous tip and told the driver to wait. Then he plunged into the sea of headstones, his eyes scanning the maze. It was such a long shot -a remark made to him by a gravedigger when he had last been in Bregenz.
But it was the right day. He checked his watch. It was also the right time. 8 am.
'She comes every week without fail,' the gravedigger had told him. 'Always on the Wednesday and always at eight in the morning when no one else is about…'
Martel buttoned up the collar of his raincoat against the rain. The only sound was the low whine of a wind. Clouds like grey smoke were so low you felt you could reach up and touch them.
As the mist parted occasionally there were brief glimpses of the forest on the precipitous Pfander mountain. Then he saw behind a headstone the crouched form of the gravedigger. He was levering his spade, adding to a mound of freshly dug earth.
'Back again, sir.'
The old man had straightened up and turned. His moustache dripped moisture and his cap was soggy. He regarded Martel's expression of surprise with amusement.
'You didn't startle me. Saw you coming soon as you entered the Friedhof. Thank you kindly, sir…'
He pocketed the sheaf of Austrian banknotes Martel had earlier counted from his wallet, then leaned on his shovel. Martel had one hand clenched behind his back, the nails digging into his palm to conceal his frustration. It was no good asking direct questions immediately: that was not the way of the Vorarlberg.
'You work in all weathers?' Martel enquired.
'They don't wait for you on this job…' The gravedigger then surprised him. 'Looking for that woman who comes here each week? She's just coming through the main gate. Don't turn round – the slightest change of atmosphere disturbs her…'
Martel waited and then glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the pallisade of large headstones a woman wearing a red head-scarf was walking briskly. She wore a fur coat and carried a spray of flowers as she headed in a diagonal direction away' from them.
'She's not short of a schilling,' the gravedigger whispered to Martel. 'Saw her in town once – my wife said that fur is sable.' 'Whereabouts in Bregenz?'
'Coming out of a house in Gallus-strasse. Now's your chance.'
The woman was crouched with her back to them laying the flowers on a grave. Stooping low, Martel ran among the maze of headstones which reminded him of huge chess-pieces.
His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he came up behind her and stopped. It was the same grave. In Cones Frieden. Alois Slohr. 1930-1953. The woman stood up, turned and saw him.
'Dear God!'
Panic! A slim, shapely hand clutched at her mouth as she stifled a scream. Large luminous eyes stared at Martel in sheer fright. A reaction which was hardly justified. Startled – yes, Martel would have expected that. But her reaction was too extreme – like that of someone whose dreadful secret had been discovered. He spoke in German.
'I have to ask you certain questions…'
'Questions?'
'Police.' He produced the special pass which gave him access to the Summit Express and showed her only a glimpse. Documents were designed to delude the innocent. 'Security from Vienna…'
'Vienna!'
“I need information on Alois Stohr – as he is called on the headstone…'
Afterwards he could never have explained why instinctively he chose this approach – only another trained interrogator would have understood. 'Seventh sense,' Tweed would have commented tersely.
'Why do you say that?' There was a quaver in the woman's voice. She would be in her late forties, Martel estimated. Still a very handsome woman. She must have been a beauty at eighteen, say. In 1953 when Alois Stohr was buried. 'I come here to put flowers on the grave of an old friend,' she went on.
'A friend who died nearly thirty years ago? You come here each week after all this time? To recall the memory of a friend? The man who died in 1953 when the Vorarlberg was under occupation…' The words poured out of Martel in a torrent as he aimed blind, hoping to strike a sensitive spot. He went on, saying the first thing which came into his head… occupation by French troops – that is, French officers and Moroccan other ranks…'
He stopped.
He had struck home – he could tell by the brief flicker of alarm in her eyes which vanished as swiftly as it appeared. Martel felt he had a lousy job to carry out but there was no other way.
'You know then?' she asked quietly.
'I am here,' he replied simply. One wrong word would lose her.
'I keep a taxi waiting…' She stooped and gathered up the loose cellophane wrappings in which she had brought the flowers. The cellophane was printed with the name of a florist and was moist with the mist. 'You want to come back with me?' she continued quietly, her voice soft and weary. 'Here…' she gestured at their surroundings… is hardly the place.'
'Of course…'
Her taxi was waiting behind his own at the gate, the drivers chatting together. Martel paid off his own driver and climbed into the back beside the woman who gave an address in Gallus-strasse.
The bookseller Martel had talked to on his previous visit had informed him it was one of the wealthier residential districts. As they drove away Martel recalled a remark the gravedigger had made about the woman. Not short of a schilling. It was all beginning to make hideous sense.
The four-storey villa in Gallus-strasse had cream-washed walls, brown shutters and was a square, solid edifice. Eight steps led up to the front door. Alongside the door were eight names, each with its own bell-push. There was a speakphone grille. One of the names, Martel noticed as she unlocked the door, was Christine Brack.
She had an expensively furnished apartment on the second floor. When she offered to make coffee he refused – he was desperately short of time. She removed the head-scarf, the sable coat, and underneath she was wearing a dark dress with a mandarin collar. As he had expected, she had an excellent figure.
Sitting down on a chair close to his own and facing him, she used both hands to shake loose long black hair. She was a very attractive woman.
`I suppose I have been waiting for you to arrive all my life – ever since it started…'
'May I smoke?' Martel asked.
`Please do. You can give me one…'
Was it a reaction to the state of extreme tension affecting him? He felt a wild desire to pick her up and carry her to the bed he could see through a half-open door. She followed his glance and crossed her shapely legs.
`Will the money stop now?' she asked. 'Not that I really care. It has felt like blood money all these years. And going to the Post Office to collect the envelope seemed undignified. Does that make sense, Mr…?'
'Stolz, Ernst Stolz…'
`You know, of course, I still retain my maiden name, Brack?'
`Yes, and I understand the blood money feeling; Martel probed cautiously. `Although I think you are wrong…
`We were deeply in love, Mr Stolz. When the accident happened we had just got married…'
'It was an accident?'
He was – to use another of Tweed's phrases – creeping over thin ice. She looked startled.
`But of course. My husband was driving the American jeep alone on a dangerous road in the Bregenzerwald and it was winter. He skidded over a precipice…'
`Who confirmed it was an accident?'
Perplexity mingled with suspicion in her expression as Martel struggled to draw her into the web of revelation. 'The two security men who brought me the news,' she replied.
`They wore civilian clothes? Had you ever seen them before? Do you speak French?'
`In the name of God what are you sug
gesting?' she demanded.
'It would help if you answered the questions…'
`Yes! They wore civilian clothes. No! I had never seen them before. And no! I do not speak French…'
`So, from the way they spoke, you would not be certain whether these two men were really French – because naturally you conversed in German?'
`That is correct. They explained to me how important it was for my husband's death to remain a secret – he was part of a long-term anti-Soviet operation. They said I owed it to his memory that his work should continue – probably for many years. They told me that his real rank was much higher than the one he had borne – that of lieutenant – and that each month I would therefore receive via the post a generous sum of money as a pension. From the amount I get he must have been a colonel at least…'
'What about the burial? Who identified the body?'
'I did, of course! In a private mortuary in the mountains. He had broken his neck but there were few other injuries.'
'And who was buried in the grave? Alois Stohr?'
'My husband, of course…' Christine Brack was shaking. 'He was buried under a different name because the long-term anti-Soviet operation depended on pretending he was still alive. They told me he would have wanted me to agree to the deception…'
They had committed two murders, Martel reflected. The man whose neck had been broken – and some poor devil of an Austrian whose body had probably been weighted and dumped in the nearby lake. It had been vital to kill and remove the unknown Stohr because of the death certificate regulations and so on – when all they had needed was his name.
Christine Brack, too, would have been killed except for one snag. A third murder might have loaded the dice against the conspirators. Instead they had told her black lies and provided money. He was now at the crux of the whole business. As he reached into his coat pocket for the envelope he realised his palm was moist.
'I want you to look at these photographs and tell me if you recognise anyone. Prepare yourself for a shock. These photos were taken recently.'
Martel waited, concealing a sensation of turmoil. Everything depended on what Christine Brack said during the next minute. She spread out the glossy prints on her lap and then uttered a little exclamation. Her expression was frozen as she held out one photograph.
'That is my husband, Mr Stolz. Older yes, but that is him. I have been dwelling under some terrible illusion for thirty years. What does it mean…'
'You are quite sure?'
'I am certain. Incidentally, I will now tell you another man came to see me recently but I told him very little.' Martel realised she was referring to Charles Warner as she returned the photographs to him.
'That is not your husband,' Martel said gently. 'It simply looks very like him. And you have been living under no illusion – your husband did die thirty years ago.' He stood up. 'You may well be under observation and in grave danger now I have called. Can you pack a bag in five minutes and come with me to a place of safety for a few days?'
Shock made her amenable and she agreed to his suggestion. Also she was a woman able to pack in five minutes.
Martel hurried her down Gallus-strasse to the lake front where he found a cab and told the driver to take them to a nearby airstrip. The pilot who had flown him from Munich was waiting with his plane.
'I have to be in Munich so I reach the Hauptbahnhof by 9.30 at the latest. And first I have to drop this lady at a hotel…' 'We're going to have to move,' the pilot warned.
'Then move!'
As they settled into the plane Martel prayed to God that he would not be too late. It had certainly been German 'security' men who had fooled Christine Brack all those years ago. And he now knew for certain the identity of the assassin.
CHAPTER 29
Wednesday June 3. Munich
The arrival of Erich Stoller in the communications coach after the express had left Ulm caused a sensation. Howard was furious and did not resort to diplomatic language.
'Where the hell have you been? You realise the three of us – O'Meara, Flandres and myself – had to assume the responsibility for the safety of your own Chancellor…'
'Who is where at this moment?' Stoller broke in.
`Still locked in Compartment 12. The others are impatient for their breakfast but felt they had to wait until he emerged…'
'Follow me,' the German suggested. 'And surely you mean the four of you?' He glanced at Tweed who remained oddly silent. `So, had someone hurled a bomb through the window of Compartment 12, you feel it would have been due to my negligence?'
`That's how I see it,' O'Meara replied.
They were following the German Who led the way from the communications coach to Voiture Four. He stopped outside Compartment i6 and raised his hand to rap on the door.
`Wrong damned compartment,' Howard snapped.
Stoller rapped on the door with an irregular tattoo and it opened from the inside. Framed in the doorway stood Chancellor Kurt Langer, fully dressed and smoking one of his inevitable cigarettes. He wore a fresh business suit and an enquiring look.
'Time for breakfast, gentlemen? The others must be ready for a good German meal. May I rouse them myself so I can officially welcome them on German soil?'
O'Meara, Howard and Flandres – who had come hurrying up behind Tweed – were stunned into respectful and bewildered silence. They stood aside as Langer, chatting amiably, returned with his fellow-leaders and escorted them to the restaurant car. When they were alone Howard exploded.
`Stoller, you owe us an explanation…'
`He owes us nothing,' Tweed intervened. 'We are now in Germany and he can take whatever action he likes. But he may wish to tell us the latest score. Something in the public section of the train worries you, Erich?'
'It was all arranged with the Chancellor in advance when I flew to Bonn,' Stoller told them as they returned to the communications car. 'I boarded the express secretly at Kehl as a passenger while the Chancellor distracted your attention…'
`But why?' Howard demanded.
`Because,' Tweed again intervened, 'he sensed there is danger in the public section. I suspect he checked every passenger while pretending to be one of them…'
`Correct,' Stoller agreed. *And,' Tweed continued, 'I imagine you checked the sleeper?'
`Again, correct.' The BND chief permitted himself a wintry smile. 'For the sleeping-car I donned a uniform and examined credentials soon after the train left Stuttgart at 7.03 when they would have had a good night's rest. I found something curious -a woman left the train at Stuttgart, said she was feeling unwell. I'm unhappy about her…'
'All of us are,' Tweed replied and explained the mysterious disappearance of Irma Romer who had proved to be an imposter.
A subtle change had come over the relationship between the security chiefs since Stoller's arrival. Before his appearance the personality of Alain Flandres had dominated the group. Now, without seeming to, Tweed had assumed authority.
`I'm going along to the breakfast car to make sure all is well while they breakfast,' Howard suggested. 'Want to join me, Tim?'
Tweed said he would stay with Erich. Stoller waited until they were alone and guided Tweed to the end of the communications coach out of earshot of the technicians. He sat on one of the bunks and lit a cheroot. Tweed thought he looked badly in need of sleep. The German kept his voice low.
'Claire Hofer, Martel's Swiss assistant, came aboard at Ulm – she's by herself in the first-class coach. It worried me…'
'I'll go and see her in a minute,' Tweed replied.
'You know where Martel is? He's gone missing.'
'No idea. I think you have something on your mind…'
'I know who is the target for the assassin – it's staring us in the face,' Stoller asserted.
'I agree. But you tell me – and why you think so.'
'My own Chancellor. The state election in Bavaria is knife-edged – with Tofler, the Kremlin's creature, using the neo-Nazis to frighten the
electorate into voting for him. So, what would be the effect of the assassination of Langer today?'
'Panic. A potential landslide for Tofler, leading ultimately to Bavaria becoming a Soviet republic as it briefly was in 1919.'
'So we agree,' said Stoller. 'And you know where I'm convinced the assassination attempt will take place?'
`Go on…' Tweed was watching Stoller through half-closed eyes.
'Munich. He insists on making a brief speech outside the Hauptbahnhof during the stop there and I can't dissuade him. Have you made any progress in locating the assassin?' he asked casually.
'No,' lied Tweed. 'But I'm going along to have a quiet word in her compartment with Claire Hofer. Did you bring any of those new alarm devices your boffins invented.'
'Half-a-dozen were put aboard. I'll get you one…'
Stoller walked to the far end of the coach and returned with a square rectangular plastic box he carried by a handle. 'This is The Wailer. It's designed to look like a powerful torch – but if you press this button a siren starts up. All hell breaks loose.'
Tweed picked up the 'torch' and made his way along the speeding express through the restaurant. The four western leaders were eating breakfast and the American President, as relaxed as ever, had just cracked a joke which was making his companions laugh. As Tweed passed their table the PM looked up and smiled at him.
Tweed walked on, showing the guards his pass, and moved into the first-class coach. He heard the door being locked behind him and nodded at the two guards outside. Walking slowly along the corridor, he glanced into each compartment.
The one before Claire's was occupied by a single woman wearing what the Americans called a pant suit. He noticed she had a tartan-covered suitcase on the rack and she was smoking as she stared out of the window. He wasted no words as he sat down beside Claire Hofer and showed the pass with his photograph.
'Miss Hofer, my name is Tweed. Keith Martel will have told you about me. Where is he?'
She examined the pass carefully before returning it. 'He flew to Bregenz in Austria late yesterday evening. He ordered me to board this train at Ulm.'
