Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

The engine came to a stop with a gasp of steam and the stationmaster’s cracked voice was straining to be heard over the clatter of doors and chatter of Washington commuters: ‘Laurel, this is Laurel.’ From the window of the ticket hall Wolff watched as a conductor directed Hinsch to a carriage at the head of the train.

It’s all about the case, Wolff realised. That’s why we’re here.

It was peculiar, about the size of a doctor’s bag, yes, but more rigid. The care with which Hinsch was nursing it was striking. He gripped the handle so tightly his knuckles were white and his arm tense, and he was holding it awkwardly, away from his left leg. As Hinsch climbed to his carriage Wolff turned to race down the station hall and out to the steps above Main Street. The Winton had reached the entrance to the vehicle park. Was Carl going to turn right or left? Careless, Wolff launched himself at the steps, two at a time, brushing someone aside, deaf to protests, eyes fixed on the street below.

What did the occupants of the motor car see? Shadows. Perhaps the silhouette of a man sprawled on the steps and another offering his hand and some frank advice. Was it a patch of ice or just too much ambition in a pair of expensive shoes? His left foot slipping, spinning like a dervish, but falling, cracking his elbow, his hip, then his knee; and the Winton’s number plate was gone before Wolff was able to think of more than the pain in his side.

‘Just piss off,’ he hissed at the man who stopped to a wag his finger. It sounded very English.

By the time he’d limped up the steps the train had left the station. He sat on Hinsch’s chair by the stove and stared into the coke fire, his thoughts drifting through Martha’s rooms, to the union rally in Hoboken and back further to the sea crossing and Berlin. He still had the face; he needed a spark to place it, just a word, an image, an object.

It was the case. No matter how hard Wolff tried to concentrate on other possibilities, his thoughts returned to an image of Hinsch’s associate lifting it from his motor car. He was still considering it when the next train to New York was called. Rocking gently in the parlour carriage, left leg out before him — his suit torn, his knee bloody — he closed his eyes to consider its colour and shape again. The task absorbed him completely. What do I know? he asked himself. That I associate the case in some way with my memory of this man; that they handle it carefully; that he called it a ‘case’ but it looks like a medical bag — is he a doctor? It’s the sort of bag people notice, so why does Hinsch want the thing?

He was asking questions he couldn’t hope to answer. He knew he should concentrate on the one he could.

Wisps of memory like the tails of light from streetlamps as the train raced on: Baltimore, to Aberdeen, Wilmington, Philadelphia — a whirligig — dizzying, round and round in a blur until he heard a cultivated American voice shout ‘Steady’, and suddenly the medical bag was flying through the air on a safety line. There was a seaman’s face at the rail, a grey Channel sky, arms raised in the stern of the pinnace to catch it, and a well-dressed passenger in a coat with a fur collar, turning to glance for’ard for just a second, tired eyes, thin straight lips, square jaw.

Wolff had to stand and walk the length of the carriage. It was you — in the ship’s boat! And the bloody bag. They must have questioned you at Ramsgate. Why? Because you’re a German and an American. But you’d visited Germany. What did they ask you to do, Delmar?

So many questions: ‘When will we visit Herr Hilken?’ — ‘Will you introduce me to Frau Hempel?’ — and money, always. But what they were doing didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Carl was as happy as a clam, fat fingers squeezing the top of the wheel, peering into the darkness. For Anton, for the money, for Germany, in that order.

‘How far now, Carl?’

Carl glanced at Dilger, a happy smile lifting the corners of his thick moustache. ‘Not far, Anton . Thank God! Should have put on another pair of socks.’

Carl was six years older but he’d always looked up to his younger brother. ‘You got my share of the brains, Anton,’ he often joked. He was a fine brewer, but a poor businessman. ‘It’s good of you to find him something,’ their sister had said when he explained that Carl was going to help in the laboratory. He didn’t say why it was necessary and Emmeline didn’t ask. Carl would be a capable technician, once he learnt how to be careful. ‘Easier than a good beer,’ he’d observed, ‘but nothing to enjoy.’ A few days into his new work he’d suggested using the basement to brew some — ‘There’s room, Anton’ — and sulked when Dilger had told him not to be ridiculous.

‘Look out!’ The Winton swerved to avoid a buggy at the roadside.

‘Sorry, Anton . The pig had no lamps.’

They were approaching the creek, only twenty minutes from home.

‘Did Captain Hinsch say when he wanted the next batch?’ Carl enquired tentatively.

‘We didn’t agree a date.’

It had been a bad-tempered meeting, although it wasn’t necessary to say so.

‘I think you’re ready to handle the cultures on your own,’ Dilger observed. And you’ll have to, he wanted to confide, but it wasn’t the right time. He would tell his sister first . He felt guilty leaving them and worried about what would happen to the laboratory when he’d gone. Was it right to have embroiled Carl? Sooner or later someone would make a mistake and the police would roll up at the door of the little house in Chevy Chase; but he would have gone. It would be Emmeline and Carl on the front page of the papers. Before I leave I’ll tell him he can walk away, he thought, but he knew his brother wouldn’t. For the first time in a long while Carl felt important. ‘I’m a spy,’ he’d boasted, over a tub of their evil-smelling soup. ‘Will Berlin give us medals?’ ‘I expect so,’ Dilger had lied.

Now he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was dishonourable.

‘All right, Anton?’ Carl touched his shoulder. ‘Headache?’

‘Tired, that’s all.’

‘Well, nearly home,’ Carl said, swinging the Winton right into 33rd Street.

And there was the Dutchman, de Witt. ‘Sniffing about,’ Hinsch had dropped into their conversation sheepishly. ‘Berlin’s not sure about him.’

Not sure? What the hell did he mean by that? Hinsch had shrugged. ‘New information.’ Dilger had said nothing to his brother. He wondered if he ought to. Hinsch had urged him not to worry: ‘Keep your shirt on, Doctor, I’ll fix de Witt.’

‘Our sister’s waiting,’ Carl observed, as the Winton pulled up in front of the house. ‘Wonder if she could fix me something.’ It was midnight but the lights were on in the parlour and before he could cut the engine Emmeline was at the door.

‘ YOU CAN’T BE sure.’

Wolff said he was as certain as he could be of most things. If they didn’t believe him they might return to their beds.

And Gaunt held up his large hands: ‘Just an observation, Lieutenant, that’s all.’ He wasn’t the bastard he used to be. As the Germans say: Not the cock who crows on the dungheap any more.

‘Testing. Quite right,’ said Wiseman, ready with his emollient smile, palms flat on the top of his desk, perfectly groomed even though the clock in his office had just struck six. Another hour before the sun would begin to creep down the many floors of Manhattan’s skyscrapers — and another before it reached the street — if it was able to.

‘Delmar was sent by Berlin — so was the fellow Wolff saw last night at the station. If he isn’t Delmar, he’s probably working with him. I’m inclined to believe he is,’ Wiseman said, easing back in his chair. ‘Lots of questions. First of all this doctor’s bag — why? What’s the fella got in the thing? Fuss he made on the ship — must be something breakable — nastier than Ma’s best china, I warrant.’ He smiled weakly at Wolff.