Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`I wondered…'

`You wondered what had happened to him. Why he hadn't flown back to Munich. Now you know. And you know what I know. We could arrange an exchange possibly,' he went on sarcastically. 'My man for yours…'

`That's ridiculous. We cooperate…'

`Like you cooperated recently? You went ahead without saying a word to me. I want him back. Quickly.'

`Two weeks…'

`Like hell. Four days. Send out an alert. My next call is to your chief.'

`The situation is delicate. One week…'

`Four days,' Tweed repeated. 'No result by then, I call your chief.'

`There is no need to be hasty.. Toll sounded worried. `I've said my last word on the matter. If anything should go wrong I'll fly to Munich myself. You're on probation.' `That's not for you to say..

`I just said it. And, by God, I meant it. That's all.' `What about Walther Prohl?'

`He stays here until I get my man back.'

Tweed slammed down the phone, his expression grim. Again he glanced towards the wall map. Then he shook his head and folded the Burberry more tidily over his arm.

`You were pretty rough on him,' Monica observed. 'And I take it you were referring to Newman's disappearance.'

`Yes to both statements. I know now he has sent Bob into The Zone – without telling his chief. I'm worried stiff about it. Trouble is, Toll wants to do it all by himself, prove himself – because I happen to know he is on probation in his new post.'

`You do that yourself sometimes,' she reminded him gently. `Do things without letting Howard know. You know the reason why you're so furious?'

`I suppose you'll tell me.'

`Peter Toll is a younger version of yourself.'

Tweed paused near the door. 'You could be right.' `And what about Newman? Will he be all right?'

`I hope to God he will. He speaks fluent German. He will if he continues to think for himself. Now, time to go and have a friendly chat with Lindemann.'

`What was the verdict on Harry Masterson?'

`Inconclusive.'

`That's a bit of luck,' said Tweed and drove the Cortina into a vacant parking slot. 'That's where Lindemann lives,' he went on, pointing out to Diana who sat alongside him an old one-storey lodge at the entrance to a mews south of the Fulham Road.

`Looks cosy. He certainly takes care of the place,' she remarked as she got out of the car.

Which was true, Tweed thought as he attended to the meter. The lodge had white stucco walls, freshly painted, as were the windows. The lower part was hidden by a privet hedge, neatly trimmed into a box shape. Beyond the wrought-iron gate was a tiny garden, no more than three feet wide. A garden mostly paved with small bricks broken by two round flower beds. The roses were in bloom, all the dead-heads carefully removed. Quite a contrast to Harry Masterson's unkempt wilderness.

Tweed raised the shining brass door knocker and rapped three times. The door had a fish-eye spyhole and when it was opened Erich Lindemann stood in the tiny hall beyond, clad in a pair of tennis flannels, velvet smoking jacket and a polka dot bow tie.

`Well, don't just stand there. Come in.'

The usual, direct-approach Erich. Tweed introduced Diana as a potential recruit to General and Cumbria Assurance. She shook hands stiffly, not smiling. Tweed wondered if she'd had the same shock as himself.

Those blasted paintings of Harry's. They distorted your view of people. Lindemann looked more skull-like than Tweed recalled. They went inside and Tweed smelt faintly the aroma of some scented disinfectant.

`Tea or coffee?' Lindemann offered as he led them into a small living-room with mullion windows overlooking the mews entrance.

`Coffee for me, please,' Diana replied.

`Me, too,' Tweed said.

They looked round the room as they sat together on a turquoise couch which had no cushions. The room was sparsely furnished. Against the opposite wall stood a dining-table, the long side pushed against the wall, its surface gleaming. Tweed could now smell furniture polish. In one corner stood a hoover still plugged into the wall socket. Lindemann had vanished inside the kitchen which had a swing door, now closed.

Sparse but immaculate. Tweed stood up, wandered over to a high cabinet. Bookshelves crammed with volumes behind glass doors at the top; at the bottom a flap closed, the key in the lock. He turned the key carefully. No sound. It was well-oiled. Lowering the flap, he peered inside.

At least a dozen bottles of Haig whisky stood in a row like soldiers standing at attention. Lindemann was a teetotaller – had never been known to take even a glass of wine. One bottle half empty. Behind it stood a tumbler half-full. Tweed sniffed at it. Whisky. He closed the flap, turned the key, went back to the couch. Diana leaned towards him, so near he caught a waft of perfume above the smell of table polish.

`Nosey, aren't we?'

He shushed her and the swing door opened. Lindemann beckoned to Tweed to join him. 'There are some Economists in the cupboard beside you,' he told Diana in his dry voice.

`Who is she?' he asked Tweed once inside the kitchen. There was coffee bubbling in a percolator, a dish of pastries neatly arranged on a plate.

`Diana Chadwick. I told you. Good background. Speaks German fluently. I'm not sure yet..

The kitchen was little more than a galley. Tweed was reminded of the galley aboard the Sudwind. He was standing close to Lindemann and a fresh aroma wafted into his nostrils, the aroma of peppermints. His host was sucking one.

`Was it wise to bring the Chadwick girl?' Lindemann asked.

`Why do you say that?'

`She doesn't know about Park Crescent?'

`No. Of course not. What is all this about, Erich?'

`I have seen her before. In Oslo.'

`When and where?' Tweed kept his voice down.

`I can't remember. I am simply sure it was her. That it was Oslo. Good strong coffee for you? What about Miss Chadwick?' `The same.'

Lindemann had turned away to fetch a pile of crockery from the other side of the kitchen. Tweed lifted up a cloth carelessly thrown on the worktop. It seemed out of place with the rest of the well-organized kitchen. Under the cloth was an opened green tube of peppermints. He dropped the cloth back over them. Why conceal the tube?

`We are ready.'

Lindemann had arranged the tray. Cups, saucers, highly- polished silver spoons, plates, the pastries. Tweed took a last glance at the row of knives suspended over the sink, hanging from a magnetic strip of metal. No chef's knife.

`Danish pastries,' Lindemann said, offering the plate to Diana. 'Very bad for the figure.'

Behind his back Tweed stared. Lindemann had never before joked with an attractive girl in his experience. His tall form stooped over Diana, almost deferentially. She looked up and gave him her warmest smile as she thanked him. Tweed was about to sit beside her again when Lindemann took his place.

`The host's privilege,' he said to Tweed. 'You'll find that arm chair adequate, I'm sure.'

`These pastries are delicious,' Diana enthused. She turned to face her host, her blue eyes half-closed. 'You get them from a local delicatessen?'

`Actually, I make them myself.' Lindemann looked pleased. `They are much better if you buy them from a shop in Copenhagen. Have you been there, Miss Chadwick?'

`Diana. Please. No, not so far. I would love to go there one day. You really are an excellent cook..

`Living alone, one learns to look after oneself…'

Tweed remained silent while they chatted. They finished off the pastries and Diana asked could she see his kitchen. Lindemann jumped up.

`Of course.' He turned to Tweed. 'Make yourself comfortable in my study. You know where it is.'

The moment they had disappeared inside the kitchen Tweed went over to the bookcase, checking the volumes. Histories of the Scandinavian countries. The great sagas of legend. Biographies. Napoleon. Bismarck. Bernadotte, Napoleon's general who became King of Sweden. Laurence Olivier. Amateur theatricals.