Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

Suddenly he was there. The building’s name, Gloucester Mansions, was emblazoned in jet-black curlicue letters above the door, standing out against the bright white-painted portico, while up above, the tall red-brick mansion block loomed against the skyline with myriad symmetrical square windows looking out over the park opposite. Trave hesitated at the top of the entrance steps, fidgeting to fit the key in the lock. This was Albert’s key; this was where the old man would have stood at just this time of the evening, thinking he was safe when in fact he was standing on the brink of extinction. Inside, the big hallway was deserted — full of shadows, with the only light coming in through the oval window above the door. There was nothing to suggest that this was where a man had met a horrible death less than two weeks before.

Trave had got halfway up the stairs when the silence was shattered by the horrible stomach-churning wail of the air-raid siren going off outside. But he carried on climbing. Now that he’d come this far, he was determined to see the inside of Albert’s flat one last time.

He paused on the second-floor landing in front of Albert’s door. There was the sound of people moving around down below. The front door of the building was open and a light had gone on in the hall. It helped him see to fit the key in the lock, and he went inside. But immediately he stopped in his tracks, flattening himself against the wall of the narrow corridor that ran the length of the flat down to the fire escape door at the far end. Someone was inside the living room. Even above the noise of the siren, he was sure he’d heard the sound of sharp movement and a door closing just as he came in, and he could see a line of artificial light glowing in the gap between the base of the closed door and the floor. Instinctively he reached inside his jacket, looking for his gun, but then realized that he wasn’t carrying it. He was off duty — he had no business in the flat, and if he got hurt, that was going to be his own bad luck.

He edged forward, keeping his back to the wall. Opposite, through the open door of Albert’s bedroom, he could see the made-up corner of the dead man’s bed. It looked as though Ava had not yet begun to dismantle the flat, unless she was the one inside the living room, going through her father’s possessions. Of course, Trave thought. That was the obvious explanation. And she would be frightened out of her wits, assuming she’d heard him come in, which seemed likely. He hadn’t made any particular effort to be quiet when he’d first entered the flat.

‘Police, this is the police. Who’s in there?’ he called out, but there was no answer, just the sound of the siren. So he tried again. ‘Is that you, Ava?’ he asked. ‘This is Detective Trave. You know me. There’s nothing to be frightened of.’

But there was still no response, just a sound of rustling; of muffled, furtive movement on the other side of the door. And the smell of smoke. As far as Trave could remember, Ava didn’t smoke, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps she did.

Trave’s heart was beating fast, and he knew that if he was going to open the door and face the unknown, he needed to do it now. Any further delay and he risked losing his nerve. He took hold of the brass handle of the door, and then in one rapid movement he pulled it open and rushed inside.

Immediately he had to force himself to stop. Facing him across a carpet littered with books and papers was a middle-aged man. Trave recognized him straight away — it was the same man who had lied to him at 59 Broadway on the day after Albert’s death and had provoked the scene at the funeral. Alec Thorn. Trave remembered the downstairs neighbour, Mrs Graves, struggling to put her finger on the name when he’d talked to her on the night of the murder after everyone else had gone home.

For a moment, he thought that Thorn would go for a gun. But he did nothing, just stood with his back to the blacked-out window, his eyes flicking between Trave and the open door behind Trave’s back. He looked taut — defiant and anxious and curious all at the same time. A half-smoked cigarette burned uselessly in an ashtray on the desk in the corner.

‘Why didn’t you say who you were when I asked?’ Trave demanded breathlessly. He realized with surprise that he was angry. Very angry, in fact. But that made sense, he realized. It had required a lot of nerve to burst unarmed through the door. He’d felt he was taking his life in his hands, and Thorn could have saved him the trouble.

‘I’m sorry. You didn’t give me any time,’ said Thorn, looking Trave steadily in the eye. Trave had that same sense he’d had at 59 Broadway that Thorn was assessing him, working out his next moves as they spoke.

‘Okay,’ he said, mollified by the apology. ‘So what are you doing here? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me that.’

‘Saying goodbye to an old friend. Albert and I go back a long way,’ said Thorn, choosing his words carefully.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that,’ Trave said severely. ‘You lied to me before about why you came here, and I don’t need you to do it again. I’m sure you know who the most likely candidate is for returning to the scene of a crime.’

‘A murderer, you mean,’ said Thorn with a thin smile. ‘I can assure you I’m not that. The old lady downstairs let me in an hour ago. Murderers don’t knock on doors, or at least not in my experience, and I’m here looking for clues, not trying to destroy them.’

‘Clues? Clues to what?’

‘To who killed Albert, of course. I don’t think it was Bertram, whatever the newspapers say, and I don’t think you do, either, or you wouldn’t be here.’

‘All right, who, then? If you know something I don’t, you’d better tell me. I think your old friend at least has the right to expect that out of you.’ Trave sensed that Thorn was trying to play him, turning his questions back on him so as to take control of the conversation, and he was determined not to let that happen.

‘Tell me,’ he repeated when Thorn didn’t answer. But still Thorn stayed silent. He looked troubled, as if he couldn’t make up his mind about what to do. Behind his knitted brows, years of training in the ways of silence and concealment were competing with his longing for a confidant — someone, anyone, who might share his view of what had happened. Eventually he went over to the desk and picked up the still smoking cigarette from the ashtray; he inhaled deeply, and as he blew out the smoke, he seemed to come to a decision.

‘I think Charles Seaforth killed Albert,’ he said gravely. ‘He works with me — for me, in theory, although that’s been a fiction for some time now.’

‘I know who he is,’ said Trave.

‘How?’ asked Thorn, looking surprised.

‘I’ve been following him around London, or trying to,’ Trave said with a wry smile. ‘But that’s another story. Finish what you were going to tell me.’

‘All right,’ said Thorn, eyeing Trave with renewed interest. ‘I believe he intercepted Albert outside the building where we work, the one where you came to visit me; gave him some excuse about everyone having gone home; and then followed him back here and pushed him over the banister out there because he knew too much.’

‘About what?’ asked Trave.

‘About a plot of some kind that’s being hatched in Germany-’

‘By someone called C?’ asked Trave, interrupting.

‘Yes. How do you know that?’ asked Thorn sharply, looking shocked. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.

‘It was in a note we found in Albert’s pocket. Here, read it if you like,’ said Trave, taking his wallet out from inside his jacket and extracting a folded-up piece of paper that he handed to Thorn. ‘Don’t worry — it’s not the original. It’s just a copy I made for my own use.’