Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘Are you going to help me, sir?’ the lady prompted him, her voice rising in agitation. ‘If not, perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of calling Joe the stationmaster for me.’

That wouldn’t be necessary, he assured her. He was leaving the train too, and pulling the brim of his hat lower, he lifted the bag on to the platform, then offered his hand to her: ‘Madam.’

She gave him a coy smile. She was of an age when, in Wolff’s experience, a woman was most likely to be grateful for the attention of a younger man, and it suited him well enough to offer it. Bending over her bag, he shuffled sideways in time to see Hinsch shake hands with a smartly dressed man at the station door. Hat, mackintosh, about five-ten, slim build, but at thirty yards and in shadow, it wasn’t possible to distinguish his features. His cramped shoulders suggested he was ill at ease, and he may have said something of the sort because Hinsch turned to look back along the platform. If he noticed Wolff and his new lady friend, he thought nothing of them because his gaze did not settle, and a second later he was distracted by a blast of the train’s klaxon, like the trumpeting of a dying elephant.

‘Is everything all right?’ she enquired. ‘Look, he’s here at last.’ Stalking towards them was a well-built young farmer, to judge from his clothes. She scolded him, then introduced him as ‘Tom Brown, like the schooldays’ — fishing for Wolff’s name in return. ‘Curtis,’ he said. Over the farmer’s shoulder he saw Hinsch conduct his associate into the ticket office.

The train began to trundle out of the station and those who had left it were making their way down badly lit steps at the back of the building on to the street, or to the vehicles on its west side.

‘Will you be staying in Laurel long?’ Miss Brown enquired, patting her hair artfully with a gloved palm. ‘Not long,’ he said, just a little business. He pretended to watch brother and sister walk away, taking in the stationmaster unloading packages from his trolley, the empty platform, and in the vehicle park the one remaining motor car, a Winton; at its wheel a man with jowls and a bushy moustache, eyes closed, chin nodding on to his chest . The station door was behind Wolff, facing the platform; there were windows at the front and back of the building, and a large one to the side, its blind half drawn. Crouching to do up a shoelace, he could see beneath the blind into the ticket office and beyond this the glass door of the waiting room. Hinsch was at the stove and his associate went to sit beside him but he had barely settled before he was up again. He was plainly anxious and Wolff guessed the meeting wouldn’t last long. Rising, he slipped out of his overcoat — it was the last thing Hinsch had seen him wearing — and began to stroll along the platform.

‘Washin’ton this side,’ the wizened stationmaster volunteered. He hadn’t replaced the bulb in the lamp above the door and the only light was spilling yellow through the windows.

‘You comin’ in, sit by the stove?’ he asked. ‘Fifteen minutes till the next ’un.’

Later, perhaps, Wolff replied.

The waiting room extended a few feet from the station façade so passengers could gaze along the platform. Wedging his shoulders in the angle of the wall, Wolff was able to peer through a slit window in the side across to the reflection of the room in its main one. Hinsch was still by the stove, his companion standing beside him. They were a thickness of brick from Wolff but it was impossible to distinguish their features in the glass or hear more than the murmur of their voices.

Then the image was moving, the stranger drifting to the window, and Wolff heard him say in German, ‘No. Look, tell Hilken two weeks and not a day longer.’ Hinsch must have replied because the stranger turned to gaze at him, his back still to Wolff. If he moves his head the other way, he might see me here, he thought . He was trusting to luck and the deep shadow beneath the hipped roof.

‘I’ll need a ticket and more money,’ the stranger said. ‘Money for Carl too.’

Was he a stranger? Wolff wasn’t sure. Dark hair, slight wave, strong jaw, slim but tall, heavy overcoat with a fur collar, and something in the way he held himself that was familiar. Perhaps one of the gentlemen at Martha’s, but not a sailor. He would know a sailor.

‘Carl knows what he’s doing, I’ve told you,’ the man said irritably.

Was he Delmar?

The image softened as the man walked towards the stove and out of earshot. But a couple of minutes later he was back, peering up and down the platform this time, his nose to the glass, too close for more than a murky reflection.

‘When did you say your train was due?’ The stranger didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The case is with Carl in the motor car. When we go out there, please don’t mention my plans to…’

But the rest was lost as the station door to Wolff’s right swung open, forcing him to step smartly from the corner.

‘Baltimore and Noo York in five,’ the stationmaster hollered as he stepped out to the platform.

He must have drawn the gaze of the stranger at the waiting-room window. Wolff could sense him there. Is he watching me? I should be carrying a suitcase, he thought .

‘Noo York,’ the old man called once more.

Slowly, stiffly, Wolff ambled along the platform, glancing through the window of the ticket hall. The waiting-room door was ajar: they’d gone . He walked on past the old man and his trolley and a military man in a blue dress coat; stepping round the luggage of a young couple who had just arrived and were arguing about timekeeping. A few yards more to the corner of the building and he paused, pretending to consult his watch. He gave an impatient shake of the head and half turned to search the vehicle park at the side of the station. A large motor car was jigging across the rough ground and as it swung right its lamps caught two men dropping down the steps. A few seconds later it came to a halt and Hinsch and his companion crossed its beam again. Wolff watched them walk a little further, to where ‘Carl’ was waiting at the wheel of the Winton. They were only a stone’s throw from the platform but it was too dark to see the stranger’s face. That he was German and involved in something nefarious, Wolff could be sure of. Why else would Hinsch drag his carcase to a place like Laurel? Was this Agent Delmar ? If Wolff moved closer he was certain to arouse suspicion. And if he didn’t, he had nothing.

He was still weighing the risks when Carl turned on the lamps of the Winton. Stepping into the beam, Hinsch reached into his coat for his money, which he began laboriously counting from his left hand to his right.

That’s right, thought Wolff, play it by the book again. Are you insisting on a signature for Dr Albert? Wolff could imagine the stranger’s frustration. Help him, my friend, why don’t you? And as if pulled by invisible strings the stranger stepped forward, snatching at the money. There were angry words, the stranger shaking his head with incredulity. Then he turned abruptly to speak to Carl, his face full in the light and white like an apparition: strong jawline and chin, high brow, thin lips. And Wolff knew he’d seen the fellow before.

The howling of the klaxon made him jump and drew Hinsch’s gaze up to the platform. He was plainly intending to catch the train because the rest of their business was conducted with some urgency. The stranger opened the passenger door and removed a case from the well in front of the seat. From thirty yards, Wolff could see it was brownish, an unusual shape, perhaps a doctor’s bag, and not heavy because he lifted it from the car with ease. Hinsch took it from him almost gingerly. A final word and a cool handshake, and nodding curtly to Carl he turned towards the steps. The train was pulling in at Wolff’s back, its carriages casting a sickly light on the platform.