Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

'Why not? He was standing in front of you. There's not all that much space in this den of iniquity.'

'I can't!' Ziggy protested. He glanced at Newman who was still leaning against the wall, still holding the Luger. 'He wore a woolly cap – like sailors wear – pulled down over his head, huge tinted glasses and a silk scarf pulled up over his chin…'

'Yet you say he was blond,' Newman pointed out.

'A tuft of the blond hair protruded from the back of his cap when he was leaving. He was over six feet tall, built like a house.'

'Age?' Tweed demanded.

'Thirty. Thirty-five. I couldn't say. I'm going by how he spoke. He had a big nose. Clean-shaven. A killer. That I'm sure of. Which is why I was so frightened…'

'Stay that way. Stay frightened. Of us,' Tweed advised and turned on his heel without another word.

At one o'clock in the morning they sat in Tweed's room at the Four Seasons, drinking black coffee ordered from room service. A double room, it had a separate sitting area, divided off from the sleeping area by a graceful arch.

`Did we learn much?' Newman asked. 'And when we came out of that Pole's -slum I noticed Kuhlmann standing in a doorway alcove, cigar unlit…'

'I know. I wonder when he sleeps? Yes, we learnt what poor Ian Fergusson was trying to tell me. Berlin isn't the city at all – he's the mysterious Dr Berlin who, I understand, spends a part of the year in the ancient city of Lubeck on the Baltic. And that links up with Ian's reference to Hans.'

Tweed finished his cup and refilled it. Newman guessed he was being tantalizing. He liked to keep people guessing.

`All right,' he said, 'tell me how it links up. I'm damned if I see any connection..

`Not easy.' Tweed settled himself in his arm chair. 'Ian was trying to say Hansa – maybe Hanseatic. In the twelth century a number of northern ports formed a protective association – they reckoned there was strength in alliance. So they formed the Hanseatic League. Lubeck was a leading member of that League. Hamburg, too, for that matter. Ian was pointing the finger at Lubeck, specifically the Hotel Jensen..

`All being information provided via Ziggy by Blondie,' Newman pointed out.

`Yes, but Ian wouldn't have known that. And what do you know about the recluse, Dr Berlin?'

`As much as anyone, I imagine. I once interviewed him – at his house on Priwall Island near Lubeck. As a young man of eighteen he started out in Africa – Kenya, I think. He looked after the natives, a second Dr Schweitzer up to a point. That's over twenty years ago..

`And how did he come to settle in Lubeck?'

`That's a weird story. Berlin didn't want to talk about it too much. I did get out of him that he disappeared from Kenya and the locals thought a wild animal had got him. He made treks into the jungle and had a mission station in a remote spot. Eighteen months went by. Everyone assumed he was dead.'

Tweed sat absorbing the data as Newman refilled his own cup. He drank half the strong black liquid and put down the cup.

`You're intriguing me,' Tweed prodded.

`He turned up in Leipzig – behind the Curtain in East Germany. As you mentioned, he's something of a recluse, a secretive man. I was lucky to get that interview, short though it was. He'd been treated at the School for Tropical Diseases for a rare complaint. Recovered, he crossed over to the West and turned his energies to helping refugees in Schleswig-Holstein. His parents had come from what is now East Germany. After he arrived in the West he said he had slipped across the border. The East German lot said he'd been permitted to go where he liked because of his international reputation. End of story..

`Not entirely satisfactory,' Tweed observed. 'What does he look like?'

`Has a black beard. He first grew that in Kenya. A fanatic for work, he couldn't be bothered wasting time shaving each day. And while I was in the Lubeck area I stumbled over something else you might find intriguing.'

`Try me.'

`In summer – at just this time of year – there's a British colony afloat at Travemunde, the port on the Baltic near Lubeck.'

`Afloat? What does that imply?'

Newman grinned. 'Thought that would get you. They live on a collection of yachts and power cruisers. While at Travemunde they moor at the marinas – for the summer, as I said. And where do you think they hail from? Kenya. They're old hands, relics from the British Empire. Summertime, they sail from the Mediterranean to the Baltic to escape the tourist crowd which infests the Med. Wintertime, they sail up through the Kattegat, down the North Sea, through the straits of Gibraltar and back into the Med for the warmth. Mostly to the Greek islands, some berth in Port Said, others get as far as returning to Mombasa in Kenya through the Suez Canal.'

`They sound a curious crowd…'

`They are! Straight out of Maugham and Noel Coward. The one place they don't like is Britain.' Newman changed his voice, mimicking a plummy falsetto. "My dear, the place has changed so much you'd never recognize it. Simply awful." And they never pay one penny tax.'

`How do they manage that? I think I can see but…'

`They're careful never to be resident in any country for more than a few months. That's why I said afloat. They wander over the oceans – literally ships in the night. Some of them are pally with Dr Berlin…'

`Odd that – for a recluse.'

`Not really,' Newman explained. 'They have common roots – so far as they have roots at all. The old days in Kenya. Berlin himself told me that.'

`What does he do for money? How does he live?'

`Well. In a word. Rumour hath it that certain American foundations support his refugee work.'

`I'd like you to check on this Dr Berlin, Bob. Gives you a good reason for what your role is…'

`That means going to Lubeck.'

`Which is my next port of call. Literally.' The phone rang. `Who can that be?' Tweed wondered. 'And at this hour?'

`Ziggy here, Mr Tweed. I'll prove I am trying to help. While you're in Hamburg you should contact Martin Vollmer. He has an apartment in Altona. Here is the address…'

Tweed scribbled the instructions on a pad. As he finished he heard a click. Ziggy had gone off the line. 'And that was Ziggy Palewska,' he told Newman. 'I was just going to ask him how he knew I was at the Four Seasons.' He flung down the pencil. `I find it uncanny. Everyone seems to know where I am, where I'm going to before I get there. Gives me an eerie feeling.'

`Get some sleep,' Newman advised, standing up. `I'm bushed. In the morning everything will seem different:'

In the morning as they sat at breakfast Hugh Grey walked into the dining-room.

`I didn't ask you to contact me,' Tweed said quietly as Grey sat facing them.

`I came in on the late flight last night. Howard asked me to look you up, see how you were coming along and all that… `I'm not an invalid,' Tweed said coldly.

`Oh, you know what I mean.' Grey was full of bounce, his pink face flushed with good health. 'After all, this is my territory, so it's the least service I can render, to do the honours and all that. I say, any chance of a pot of coffee? Steaming hot is how I like it. First thing in the morning, need something to get the old motor humming…'

`The old motor appears to be humming only too well.. Tweed reluctantly summoned a waiter, gave the order. 'And the coffee is always steaming hot here. This is the Four Seasons…'

`Not a bad doss-house, I agree…'

Oh, Jesus, Tweed muttered under his breath. He forced a trace of a smile. 'You know Robert Newman?'

`I'll say. Old drinking buddies…'

`Once,' Newman replied. 'At a bar in Frankfurt. You spilt a double Scotch over my best suit…'

`Must have been half-smashed…'