Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

'A couple of Englishmen might be too much for Ziggy,' Tweed had explained. 'If what I suspect happened, I will have a hard time getting him to talk…'

At that early hour – for the Reeperbahn – the alley was almost empty. A few sailors from a Spanish ship, resplendent in walking out uniform, strolled aimlessly, looking for trouble without too much certainty as to what brand of trouble they were interested in.

Followed by Newman, Tweed mounted two worn stone steps, pushed open an ancient wooden door and walked into a blast of Louis Armstrong trumpeting On the Sunny Side of the Street. Sleazy nightspot, Newman assumed, and then found he was wrong. He stared in amazement.

A powerful smell of oil and resin assailed his nostrils. He appeared to have entered a ship's chandler's office. Tackle of all types for ships was stacked round the walls of the cellar-like room. The place was lit dimly by oil-lamps and coils of rope like snakes in the gloom hung from the cracked ceiling.

The music, Louis trumpeting endlessly on, came from various hi-fi speakers slung at crooked angles from the walls. Ziggy Palewska sat on a three-legged stool behind a bare wooden table, the surface smeared with a variety of dirt. He looked up and his face froze when he saw Tweed.

`Ian Fergusson is dead,' Tweed said, drawing up a ramshackle chair to face the Pole across the table. 'He came here, talked with you, left – and was murdered. I'm not pleased, Ziggy, so don't, please, waste my time…'

`I don't know any Ian Fergusson.' He looked at Newman. 'I have not seen this man before, Mr Tweed.'

Ziggy Palewska was short in stature. He made up for his lack of height by his width. Both facially and bodily he reminded Newman of a monkey. Impossible to guess his age. His brown hair was thinning over his rounded skull. His skin was worn and gnarled, like that of a veteran seaman. His eyes shifted rapidly from one visitor to another. He spoke German with an atrocious Polish accent.

I see.' Tweed tapped his fingers on the table. 'This is going to be difficult – maybe dangerous – for you. I don't like losing one of my finest operatives. I don't like that at all. I thought you would be able to help me by telling me how he spent his last hours on earth. I know he visited you. So you have already lied to me. And you pronounced his name rather well – for an English name you claim not to know. And my friend is Heinz. The trouble with Heinz is he has a short fuse. I'll ask you once more – tell me what you told Fergusson when he came to see you…'

`The name means nothing. I'm a ship's chandler…`And I'm Chancellor of Germany,' Newman interjected. `That's rude…'

Tweed surprised Newman by the swiftness and ruthlessness of his tactics. Normally he showed infinite patience in coaxing information from a suspect. He looked quickly at Newman.

`Heinz, can we turn up Louis Armstrong louder? A wonder with the trumpet, Mr Armstrong.'

Newman, looking very German, trod heavily towards the control panel for the hi-fi. He turned up the volume even louder. The oil lamps flickered, the lamps wobbled with the crescendo of vibration, the dark shadows across the ceiling moved and assumed new shapes. Newman casually extracted the Luger, leaned against a free space of wall and studied the weapon, pointing it at the roof.

'Oh, Christ! You wouldn't…'

Ziggy half-rose from his stool. Tweed slapped the flat of his hand on the bare wooden table top. A sound like a pistol shot.

`Sit down. That's better. We wouldn't what? What time did Ian Fergusson arrive here?'

`About three in the morning. After…' He stopped in mid-sentence.

`After you had completed various illegal transactions,' Tweed said amiably. 'Like a bit of trafficking in drugs. Who told you what to say to Fergusson?' He leaned over the table as he spoke. 'Start talking. Now!'

`The blond giant…' Again Ziggy stopped in-mid-air.

'Oh, I see.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'The blond giant is back in the picture.'

'You know the bastard?' Ziggy asked.

'What name does he use with you?'

'Schmidt.'

Newman laughed unpleasantly. 'Schmidt. Of course.'

'I swear to you he did.' Ziggy was suddenly becoming voluble and the words poured out. 'I had never seen him before. He was a big brute. He threatened me if I didn't tell Fergusson what he told me to say to him…'

'How did he threaten you? Quickly,' Tweed rapped out.

'He was going to burn me.' He pointed to a corner. 'See those two drums of petrol? He brought them here. He said if I didn't do what he said he'd empty them, lock me in and throw a lighted match inside. He knew there was no other way out except for the front door. He must have checked the place out before he came to see me. He left those drums to remind me of what would happen. He said it would look like an accident. These slums burn down all the time, he said. He called my place a slum…'

'I wonder why?' Newman shouted.

The hi-fi sound – rather cracked – filled the place with its crescendo. Tweed looked at the drums. Beyond them an oil lamp shivered as the glass lamp rattled against the brass holder. It was a nightmare Newman had created. The table shook under his hand. Like being aboard a ship in a rough sea.

`Turn it down, for God's sake,' Tweed called out. He waited until he could speak in a normal voice. 'When did this Schmidt call on you?'

`A few hours before Fergusson arrived. He knew he was coming. I had to tell Fergusson – after getting money from him to make it convincing – about Dr Berlin in Lubeck. That he was the man who knew about the East German network in the Federal Republic. That there was a man at the Hotel Jensen in Lubeck who could tell him more. But I didn't know the man's name – only that he is at the Hotel Jensen. That was all.' Some of his normal cockiness came back as Tweed watched him. `How much is that worth? A good few hundred marks, I'd say…'

`He paid you how much?'

`Five hundred.. Ziggy stopped once more in mid-sentence. An ashen colour had replaced his normal pallor. Not a man who took long walks, Newman was thinking, still holding the Luger.

`I see.' Tweed kept his tone judicial. 'For five hundred marks. Less than two hundred pounds. You sold Ian Fergusson's life…'

`I had no idea…'

`Of course you didn't.' Tweed stood up. He leaned over the table close to Ziggy, dressed only in an oil-stained sweater and a pair of stained corduroy slacks. 'You do realize you could be charged by the German police as an accessory to murder?'

`Oh, God, no.' The Pole shrank back from Tweed looming above him. 'I've helped you many times. I can help you again…'

`You might just do that. You still have that concealed cine-camera in the back wall inside the cupboard – the one you use to take porno movies? Don't play with me, Ziggy.'

`I do have a camera. Yes.'

`So, if this Schmidt comes back you could arrange with a bit of help to have him photographed?'

'I wouldn't dare.' He cast a sideways glance at the large petrol drums standing against the wall.

`Then you could always stand your trial for complicity in the murder of Ian Fergusson..

`I'll do what I can. Promise. Can I have a bit of money?' `Your thirty pieces of silver?'

Tweed thrust his hands inside the pockets of his lightweight Burberry. Newman had never seen him look so grim. Ziggy's eyes dropped, he threw his pudgy hands out in a gesture of despair.

`What else could I have done…'

`You could have kept your mouth shut about Fergusson coming to see you.'

The blond was going to burn me…'

'And I won't tell you what will happen if you tell anyone I've been here to see you. Now, you can atone a little for what you have done. Describe this blond giant. Nationality?'

'German.' Ziggy hesitated. Tweed continued staring. 'He was a Saxon. Nasty people, the Saxons. I could tell that from the way he spoke German. I think he's from the East. I can't describe him…'