Jack Ludlow: The Burning Sky

If Peter Lanchester had any notion of appearing incongruous as he strode down the Reeperbahn, it did not show, while he was also self-possessed enough to ignore the looks he was getting from the inhabitants of the city of Hamburg. No strangers to eccentricity, they nevertheless rarely saw a man dressed in a bowler hat, let alone a thick beige overcoat called a ‘British Warm’, standard dress for off-duty British Army officers and perfect protection against a biting north-east wind.

The tightly rolled umbrella would be seen as sensible in a port that sat in the broad funnel of the River Elbe, which frequently brought in foul weather from the North Sea. If not that, a Baltic tempest could come racing across the flatlands of Holstein, either to drench the city or scar the flesh with a Siberian wind. As Lanchester made his way, a careful ear would have noted some symmetry in the tattoo of the brass ferrule striking the pavement in rhythm with the heels of his highly polished black Oxfords; sensed,

eter Lanchester had any notion of appearing incongruous as he strode down the Reeperbahn, it did not show, while he was also self-possessed enough to ignore the looks he was getting from the inhabitants of the city of Hamburg. No strangers to eccentricity, they nevertheless rarely saw a man dressed in a bowler hat, let alone a thick beige overcoat called a ‘British Warm’, standard dress for off-duty British Army officers and perfect protection against a biting north-east wind.

The tightly rolled u

perhaps, this fellow, wearing a striped military tie, was either a serving or an ex-soldier.

The bar he was seeking looked dingy from the outside, and entry into the dim interior did little to elevate the first impression. Hat off now — Lanchester was, after all, an officer and a gentleman — he ignored the slobbish fellow who sought to guide him to a table and made his way to a point where he could survey the far-from-spacious room, to peer through eyes stung by the smoke-laden atmosphere, the product of numerous cigarettes and too many cheap cigars.

Most of the tables were occupied, but having identified the man he was looking for, and observing he was in deep conversation with another, Lanchester chose a table for himself. He took the precaution of flapping a lazy hand across the chair before sitting down, and even more care not to put any part of him, including his calfskin gloves, on the little round table, much scratched and sticky with dried alcohol. His hat he placed on his upright brolly.

The champagne bottle, two glasses and a bill appeared before his bottom hit the velvet-covered, gilt-painted chair; the overweight and overmade-up whore was sitting opposite him a second after, leering with a mouth full of misshapen teeth, elbows on the table and her cavernous cleavage pushed forward, trying in German to sound seductive while wafting in his direction a mixture of bad breath and cheap perfume.

The temptation to rake his brolly across the table and remove the bottle and glasses was one he had to resist, but the presence of the prostitute he could not abide, being too fastidious a fellow for her type. So, sure she would understand a modicum of English in one of the world’s busiest trading ports, he told her, in his very clipped tones, to ‘fuck off!’.

That she reacted so badly was unfortunate, producing a stream of loud German invective, which drew unwelcome attention, in particular that of the man he had come to see. The eyes flicked over him and he knew he had been recognised: when you have fought in battle alongside a fellow his features never fade. But Lanchester was pleased Cal Jardine did not react in any special way; he looked over and then looked away with an unhurried turn of the head.

Picking up the open champagne bottle Lanchester perused the label, which told him it was a non-vintage Ruinart, which, if true, would indicate a decent brew. Curiosity, and a conviction it was false, had him pour a drop and hold it up to one of the dim wall lights, wondering if he would see any bubbles, his suspicions confirmed when none appeared. He waved to the man who had served it and he came waddling over, his hands clasped before him.

‘ Sprechen Sie English?’

‘ Ja , a leetle.’

‘Good,’ Lanchester said, lifting the champagne bottle. ‘Take away this rubbish and bring me something decent to drink.’

‘Is fine champagne, mein Herr .’

‘It is shit, old boy, and most certainly not champagne. Now, be a good chap and do as I bid. Dish me up a Moselle of the quality Herr Jardine over there might drink. Oh, and when you bring it, make sure it is unopened, verstehen Sie ?’

The waiter, who was either naturally greasy or inclined to excessive perspiration — Lanchester had mentally named him ‘the slob’ — looked him up and down; he was a fellow accustomed to a rougher clientele: merchant seamen, local riff-raff and the like, but it was impossible to equate the elegance of the man he was observing with them. Everything about him, from the toe of his gleaming shoes, through the sharp crease on his trousers, to the neat, swept-back and barbered black hair, marked him out as very different. The face, with its somewhat severe features — well-defined nose, high cheekbones and direct, black eyes — merely added to the overall impression of one who was accustomed to getting his way.

‘And please do not try to cheat me, old son, or you’ll find yourself occupying a cell in Davidstra?e.’

The eyes of the slob narrowed, trying to figure out, Lanchester supposed, if in mentioning the St Pauli police station he was bluffing. The slight smile he wore was designed to hint at assurance and it worked; the man nodded and went to do as he was asked.

Cal Jardine, having finished his conversation, was now showing his companion out of the club, passing by Lanchester’s table as he did so, but he avoided looking at him until the fellow was through the door and he was coming back, this coinciding with the arrival of a long-necked, brown wine bottle, taken from the slob by Jardine, who looked at the label. He rattled off a stream of German, sending the waiter scurrying away once more.

‘I’ve ordered something better, Peter, something you will enjoy.’

‘I have to say, Cal, the old German sounds very proper.’

‘Just back in the groove, Peter; remember, I was partly raised in Germany.’

‘As well as most other places on the bally Continent, I seem to recall. Happy to stay here, are we, with what is going on, Nazis and all that?’

‘I have commitments that keep me here.’

‘Are you going to sit down, Cal? I do so hate looking up at people, it makes me feel as if I’m back at school.’

Jardine sat down as the slob returned, with a bottle poking out of an ice bucket, two glasses, one of which was picked up to see if it was clean, that followed by a sharp nod which sent the man away. While that was happening, Peter Lanchester, in the way of a man who has not seen someone for years, examined Jardine, still a handsome bugger he thought, with the build of the rugby back row he had once been, a hard man who lived a testing life, the face lean, with the scars to prove it faintly evident on brow and jaw.

Then the piercing blue eyes, under those pale eyebrows and lashes, were on him. ‘Let’s leave it to chill, Peter, shall we, and while it does perhaps you will tell me what the hell you are doing here in Hamburg?’

‘Why, Cal, old boy, I have come to find you. I was told this was where you did business and it seems I was correctly informed, though I have to say it is not the most salubrious emporium I have ever been in.’

‘I prefer discretion to decor, Peter, and this is very discreet.’