Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

A bulky figure, trilby hat jammed low over his forehead, a pair of wrap-around, tinted glasses concealing his eyes and the upper part of his face. A bulky figure which walked with a stoop, his suit old and baggy.

Tweed resumed his walk up the incline. His hearing was acute and something was bothering him. The tapping of the stick was more like a series of quick thuds. As though instead of a rubber tip the end of the stick was heavily weighted…'

Only a blind man. Tweed swore inwardly at his own stupidity. The man following him steadily up the deserted street was a cripple. The Cripple had at long last made his appearance – the man Harry Masterson had warned him against.

Tweed felt the palms of his hands grow moist. His mouth tightened. He resisted the temptation to hurry up to the top of the street. At least his ruse had worked. But, oh God, this was the first time he had walked alone since landing at Hamburg Airport. It gave a terrifying insight into the closeness with which he had been watched by the opposition. And Lubeck was so near the border.

Get a grip on yourself. Your people in the field live like this all the time. Never free from fear. You've worked in the field yourself for years. What the hell is wrong with you? Too much time spent behind a cosy desk back at Park Crescent?

Suddenly he felt cold. The expression on his face had not changed but the nervousness was gone. He wiped his right hand dry inside his Burberry pocket. Then he conducted a difficult manoeuvre, still walking. Concealing most of the cosh inside his hand, he whipped off the Burberry and folded it loosely over his arm. Like a cloak.

He had reached the top of the street, a T-junction. He turned into an equally dark street called Kolk, just below the tower of the church which loomed above a vertical wall. Kolk was a short street. Leading into the maze of the old town. Tweed paused outside the entrance to a bar. Over the entrance was the legend Alt Lubeck. A small bar furnished with dark wood, stools by the counter, dim lighting. He dismissed the temptation to seek sanctuary and walked on.

Tap… tap… tap! Very close now. The blind man had turned the corner into Kolk, had increased the length of his stride, was very close now. Then the tapping stopped. Tweed turned round. The huge silhouette in the shadows had hoisted the loaded stick, was bringing it down in a wide arc.

`He stumbled in the dark, missed the edge of the kerb, caught his skull against the stone paving, smashed it like an eggshell. There was drink on his breath…'

The wording of the police report recording his death flashed across Tweed's brain. He pressed himself against the wall, protecting his back, timed it carefully, grabbed at the descending stick with his right hand, felt the stinging pain. He grasped the stick with both hands.

His attacker held on, shoved forward with the end of the stick, aiming it at Tweed's belly. Tweed's powerful wrists took the strain, and they wrestled for the weapon. Tweed knew he was at a disadvantage. His attacker had a strong grip on the handle of the stick. It was only a matter of seconds before Tweed lost his grip, then the second attack would come, a flailing blow again aimed at his skull.

Newman hit the attacker from behind with a Rugby tackle, the full force of his rush knocking the assailant sprawling in the cobbled street. Newman sprawled with him. His opponent bent his right leg at the knee, rammed his foot forward. Newman felt the steel-tipped boot hit his jaw. He was stunned.

Tweed was handicapped by Newman's sprawled body. He was stepping over it when the killer leapt to his feet, using one gloved hand to give himself extra impetus. He tore off down the street and vanished. A police car's siren sounded, came round the corner, jammed on its brakes as its headlights beamed on Newman.

`Where is he?' Kuhlmann roared.

The Federal policeman had jumped out of the front passenger seat. He addressed the question to Tweed who was standing while Newman still lay in the street.

`That direction…' Tweed pointed. 'Heaven knows where after that. It's like Hampton Court Maze…'

`Description?' Kuhlmann half-turned to the uniformed driver. 'Give me that mike.' Tweed noticed the radio car had a very high aerial.

`Six foot tall,' he said quickly. 'About a hundred and eighty pounds. Trilby pulled low over head. Shabby dark suit. Tinted wrap-round glasses – discarded by now, I'm sure…'

`And blond hair,' Newman added, climbing slowly to his feet.

`Could you see his hair?' Kuhlmann queried. 'With the hat?' `Blond hair,' Newman persisted.

Kuhlmann spoke rapidly into the microphone, spelling out the description. 'Blond hair,' he ended. 'Probably – that is, the hair colour. Seal off the island now,' he continued in staccato tone. 'Close all the bridges. Road-blocks. Check all cars…'

`And motor-bikes,' Tweed added. 'I thought I heard one start up.'

Kuhlmann included motor-bikes, handed back the mike, then he lit a cigar before he rasped, 'What do you think you were up to, Tweed? Walking the streets – at night, too, for God's sake – by yourself.

'He wasn't by himself,' Newman contradicted. 'I was following him. And we nearly got him..

`And he nearly got Tweed…'

`Are you all right?' Tweed asked Newman.

`Bruised shoulder. The most minor memento I could have expected.' He bent down and picked up the weighted stick.

`I'll take that.' Kuhlmann held out his hand. 'And careful how you handle it. Fingerprints…'

`Don't waste your time,' Tweed advised. 'He wore gloves.' `You had a pretty rough few minutes,' Newman said to Tweed as he brushed dust off his jacket.

`Oh, I don't know. A bit of excitement gets the adrenalin stirring.' He looked at Kuhlmann. 'How did you happen to be in this area?'

`I persuaded the state police to watch you. Unfortunately they waited for me to drive from the local police station to the patrol car which had you under surveillance…'

`You want to know where you might find the owner of that walking stick?' Newman suggested.

`What do you think?'

`Hotel Movenpick. Name of Kurt Franck. No guarantee that he's your man. We never got a good look at his face…'

I'm on my way. Call you later at the Jensen…'

Balkan was on the move. 11.30 p.m. on the beach at Travemunde Strand. He stared straight ahead, like a sleep-walker. His feet made a slushing sound as they trudged through the sand. Lights glowed in the distant multi-storey Maritim Hotel. Most holidaymakers were indoors, drinking in the bars, dining late.

There was only one other person on the long beach. A blonde girl, clad in a two-piece bathing costume, soaking up the peace, the last warmth of the day. Iris Hansen had a date with her new German boy friend. They'd arranged to meet on the beach at midnight and then go dancing.

Iris, her long blonde hair trailing like a waterfall down her nude back, lay stretched out on a towel, leaning on one elbow.

She listened to the gentle lapping of the Baltic on the edge of the shore. Dreamy. A long way off the sound of laughter, the drumming beat of pop music. All night long. That was what he'd promised. They'd dance all night long.

She'd spent three weeks in Travemunde, three glorious baking weeks. To hell with Copenhagen. This was the life. Better than she'd ever hoped for. She just wanted it to go on and on. She heard the slushing sound of feet treading the sand, looked up.

`Oh, it's you. Hello, there…'

He stood over her, one foot on either side of her prone body. She raised an eyebrow, then dropped her eyes. Why not here? Now the only sounds were the lapping water, distant laughter and music. She looked up and her eyes widened in horror. Oh, God. No!

He held the broad-bladed knife in his right hand. Held it high above his head. She opened her mouth to scream and he planted a naked foot over her mouth, stifling the scream. Then the blade descended in a wide arc. It entered just above her breasts. And ripped down. And down. And down…'