Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`You can use a Walther?' Falken asked. 'Good. Take this.'

Newman released the safety catch, opened the front door, stepped outside quickly and closed the door behind him. The cold of the night hit him after the warmth of the cottage. Holding the Walther in both hands, extended in front of him, he explored round the cottage, down the tow-path to the bank of the canal.

Then he took the more difficult route to where the canvas covered the tractor and the Chaika. At frequent intervals he paused and listened. The night was heavy with silence, the nerve-wracking silence you only experience after dark in the country. He resumed his walking, heading for the most likely hiding-place for the rest of a patrol. Behind the covered vehicles.

He was almost convinced Schneider had spoken the truth when he said he'd come alone. But it had to be checked. Assume the worst. An excellent maxim. He found no one behind the canvas hump. But, kneeling down, feeling the ground carefully, he detected flattened rye where Schneider must have waited and watched. For God knew how long. But he'd had the patience of a farmer.

Newman returned to the cottage.

The corpse lay on the flagstone floor. Wrapped in two grey Army blankets. Further wrapped in a sheet of canvas. And round two parts – the chest and the knees – the whole parcel was coiled with two heavy, rusting chains. Falken, who had opened the door, went back to the table where Gerda sat, shivering, small hands grasping a mug of steaming black coffee.

`No one out there,' Newman reported. 'He was on his own.'

`I knew that,' Gerda said in a cold voice, 'he boasted about it. But you were right to check. There is still coffee in the pot.'

Newman sagged in a chair opposite Falken. He suddenly felt unutterably weary, drained of energy. He drank some of the coffee Falken had poured, then looked again at the body.

`Where did you get the chains?'

`Snow chains. For Norbert's car in winter. We think the body must be weighted. To make it sink.'

`In the canal?'

`Out of the question.' Falken's tone was abrupt. 'It might be found. Then old Norbert would be in terrible trouble. We cannot risk that.'

`Bury it,' Newman suggested. 'During the night.' `Impossible. The ground is too hard. We have to think of something else.'

`Such as?'

`I have no idea.' Falken sounded irritable. 'For God's sake let me think.'

`That was the first man I have ever killed,' Gerda suddenly remarked in a choked voice.

Newman laid a hand on hers. 'Try not to dwell on it. Remember, we'd probably all have ended up dead if you hadn't acted. I do understand how you must feel…'

`Leave her alone,' Falken broke in roughly. 'He was an enemy.'

`No need to get so tough about it,' Newman snapped back.

Gerda grasped his hand, squeezed it. 'You are a nice man, but he is right. Sympathy can undermine resolution. We have to be hard to survive…'

`And you,' Falken told Newman, 'may have to be hard before you cross the border again. I have decided we must leave this place early. Tonight, in fact. The people who sent Schneider may come looking for him. Your schedule is speeded up…'

`And what about the body?' Newman demanded.

`That is a problem. I am still trying to solve it…'

It was a novel problem for Newman. He'd never realized before just how difficult it was to dispose of a corpse so it would not be discovered.

`Yes, what can I do for you, Mr Ted Smith?' asked Kuhlmann. `I have got the name correct?' he went on in English.

He was sitting in the interrogation room on the tenth floor of the Lubeck-Sud police headquarters. Outside it was dusk, would soon be dark. Reception had called him. An Englishman, a tourist, had called at the building, wanted to see someone about the Kurt Franck poster he'd seen outside the local police station at Travemunde.

Ted Smith, in his late twenties, was dressed in hiking shorts, an open-necked shirt, trainer shoes, and when he'd entered the room he'd dumped an incredibly heavy-looking backpack on the floor at Kuhlmann's suggestion. If that was enjoyment, they'd better keep it.

Kuhlmann sensed the young man was nervous. He tried to put him at his ease by fiddling with his lighter, pretending he was having trouble lighting up the cigar.

`Yes, you have,' Smith replied. 'This may all be about nothing…'

`Tell me about it. We welcome information of any kind. On holiday'?'

`Yes. Hitch-hiking. Then partly by train with a rail-pass. I came up from Hamburg three days ago. Decided to splash out a bit here. Took a room at the Movenpick.'

`Very nice, too.' The lighter flared. 'There, got it going.' Kuhlmann puffed at the cigar. 'Do you smoke?'

`The occasional cigarette. Four a day. Trying to give it up. Er, mind if I smoke too?'

`Go ahead.' Kuhlmann lit Smith's cigarette. 'Now what is this about Kurt Franck?'

`We… that is, I, saw him. About three weeks ago it would be. I went on by train to Copenhagen when I first arrived. Came back to Hamburg, then back again to here. I like Lubeck.'

`You saw Kurt Franck three weeks ago. Where exactly?' `At the edge of a river on the way to Travemunde. He pushed a motor-bike into the river. We… I… thought that was a funny thing to do.'

`You keep saying "we". Is it a girl? No law against having a girl friend in Germany, you know.'

`Well, yes, it is. An American girl. Suzanne Templeton.' `Where is she now?'

`Well, actually, she's waiting in the Volkswagen I hired – downstairs. Outside the police station. You see, we saw this poster in Travemunde and wondered whether we ought to do something about it. Then we were driving past here and we saw the Polizei sign. Sue told me to drive in.'

`Sensible girl. Let's have her up here. You don't mind? I find two pairs of eyes are better than one. She was with you when you saw Franck?'

`Actually, she was.' Smith hesitated. Fresh-faced, clearly his American girl friend was the one who had urged him to report what they had seen. Kuhlmann phoned reception, asked for the girl to be brought up, and sat puffing his cigar until a policewoman opened the door and showed a tall slim girl with a good figure into the room. Kuhlmann's eyes narrowed. She was blonde-haired.

Half an hour later Kuhlmann was driving his car along the road towards Travemunde which ran not so far from the river Trave. Sue Templeton, who sat beside him, had proved a great deal franker and more confident than Ted Smith. Yes, they had been making love in the deep grasses close to the river when they'd heard someone coming on their side of the river.

`He'd gotten this motor-cycle,' she'd explained in the interrogation room. crouched on my knees, hoping he wouldn't see us as I peered over the grasses. A Suzuki, Ted said. He stopped the engine and pushed it the last few yards. He had a suitcase strapped on the back. He took that off and then pushed the machine into the river. We got dressed quickly…'

`We thought it was funny, you see,' Ted intervened. He looked uncomfortable and Kuhlmann guessed he wanted to skip over what they had been up to. 'Then he walked along the path at the edge of the river…'

Sue interrupted him. 'He was carrying the case. That might be important – because of what happened later.'

`What did happen?' Kuhlmann enquired.

`He walked about a mile along the footpath. We followed him at a distance – the path winds which made it easier and the tall grasses hid us from him until he reached this small power cruiser and went on board.'

`You didn't happen to notice the name of the cruiser?' `The Moorburg,' she said promptly.

`Please describe him again.'

`Six foot tall. At least. Blond-haired. Early thirties and well-built. A tough-looking guy…'

That was when Kuhlmann asked them if they would accompany him in the car, try to find the place where the motorcycle had been pushed into the water. Ted Smith had been reluctant, Sue had insisted it was their civic duty, as she had phrased it.