Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Because they have a bright police chief here,' Kuhlmann told them. 'Name on the deceased's passport rang a bell. He put it through the computer at Cologne. Fergusson came up as one of your people. So, I phoned you. Which is why I'm here, why you are here. This case could have international implications…'

`Then the BND could get involved.' Tweed sounded bothered as he referred to the German counter-intelligence HQ at Pullach just south of Munich. 'Low profile,' he repeated.

`Let's go see the doctor who attended Fergusson,' Kuhlmann said impatiently. As they walked down a clinically spotless corridor he continued explaining. 'Two uniformed policemen on night patrol saw Fergusson's body floating up against the lock-gates leading from the Binnenalster to the Elbe. Hauled him out with a boat-hook, found he was still alive, rushed him to this hospital. He died an hour later..

`How did he come to get into the water?' Newman asked.

`Blow on the side of the skull. Could have slipped, caught his head on the stone wall before he hit the water, so they say. Accidental death would have been the verdict.' Kuhlmann chewed at his cigar, unhappy that he couldn't light up inside the hospital. 'Accidental death,' he repeated. 'Except your people don't have accidents. Here's the doctor's office. Schnell is his name. Speaks good English. Take your choice of language.'

Dr Schnell, a small, plump-faced man, wearing a white coat, rose from behind his desk and Kuhlmann made brief introductions, then launched straight into his interrogation.

`How did Ian Fergusson die?'

'He stopped breathing…'

`That's not funny. Tweed here was a close friend of his.'

'I had no intention of treating this tragedy humorously, Mr Tweed. But it's up to the pathologist to answer that question. Fergusson's body has been transferred to the morgue.'

'I quite understand.' Tweed paused, glancing at a dark haired nurse who stood behind Schnell, an attractive girl in her late twenties. 'Who was present when he was close to death?'

'Myself and Sister Bruns. That is why she is here.'

'He was still alive when he was brought in, I gather. Did he say anything? No matter how unimportant it might seem, I need to know everything – if he spoke.'

'Well, yes he did.' Schnell picked up a pencil and turned it slowly between sensitive fingers. 'It made little sense to either of us, I'm afraid…'

'He spoke in English or German?'

Tweed's gaze encompassed both Schnell and Sister Bruns who was watching him closely. He had the strong impression the girl wanted to speak but was inhibited by Schnell's presence.

'In English – which we both understand. He was in a bad way – the blow on the side of the head plus being half-drowned when the two policemen dragged him out. So he was pretty incoherent. I may not even have heard correctly…'

'Try and tell me,' Tweed coaxed.

`He had trouble getting the two words out which he repeated – if, I emphasize, I really did understand. First he said "Berlin". He repeated the name of the city twice. Then he repeated a man's name – "Hans" – and that, I'm afraid, is all he said…'

`You agree?' Tweed turned to Bruns and stared hard at her as she shook her head. 'There was something else?'

She took a deep breath. Beneath her uniform her breasts heaved. 'He was trying to say something before "Berlin". I'm quite sure of it…'

`Just having trouble speaking at all,' Schnell objected.

`No!' Bruns was vehement, holding Tweed's gaze. 'He said the word three times – and three times he tried to say something before it. Then when he said "Hans" he tried to say something else. After "Hans". Again it happened three times. I could not possibly be mistaken…'

`Really?' Schnell was ironic.

`I am quite sure of what I say. My hearing is very acute and I was watching him closely. Believe me, Mr Tweed, I am right.' `I believe you,' said Tweed.

At the morgue Tweed stared down at the white sheet covering the body of a man lying on the dissecting table. Kuhlmann had introduced Martin Kosel, the pathologist, an ascetic-looking man in his fifties who might have been displaying furniture for sale. Kosel pulled back the sheet and exposed the head and neck.

`That's Ian Fergusson,' said Tweed. 'He can't have been in the water long…'

`I couldn't comment before I've completed my examination,' Kosel replied, covering the corpse with the sheet again.

`But you will,' Kuhlmann growled. He produced a folder, shoved it under the pathologist's nose. 'Federal Police. We need an educated guess. Now. Assuming you are educated…'

`I resent that…'

`Noted for the record. The pathologist showed resentment. Now, let's get to it. When we checked his personal effects his passport was hardly damp…'

`It was inside the breast pocket of his jacket,' Kosel pointed out. 'And he was wearing a raincoat buttoned to the neck.. `A lightweight raincoat. His wallet, tucked inside his other breast pocket wasn't even moist. And the police patrol dragged him out when he was half-submerged under the water. I'd say he was found within five minutes of being dumped into that outlet from the Binnenalster. They came as close as that to catching the killer.'

`Killer?' Kosel protested. 'I haven't established the cause of death..

`You think he walked off the edge for an early morning swim? He was found floating by the lock-gates not five minutes' walk from the Jungfernstieg landing-stage on the Binnenalster. That whole area is well-lit by street lamps…'

`Maybe he was drunk…'

Tergusson never touched alcohol,' Tweed remarked mildly. 'So cancel that one,' Kuhlmann said.

The corpse smells strongly of alcohol – whisky I would say.'

'So, we can make some educated guesses?' Kuhlmann grasped Kosel by the arm and smiled grimly. 'You're doing fine. Keep it up. Now, let's come to the blow on the side of the head.'

`Encrusted with dried blood. He could have hit his skull on the stone wall when he went in.'

`Sure!' Kuhlmann waved his cigar like a conductor's baton. `He's crossing the bridge near the lock-gates. He climbs over the rail, then dives head first for the wall. Is that really what you're saying? That it is even physically possible?'

`It would seem unlikely…'

Newman intervened. 'He was a first-rate swimmer, too. If he had fallen in he'd have found a way out.'

`That information is useful,' Kosel responded primly.

`Your unofficial opinion would be also useful,' Kuhlmann pressed. 'Other people's lives may be at stake. Or do you want this place to be standing room only?'

`I can't be pressured…'

`Try me,' Kuhlmann challenged. 'We can take what's lying under that sheet away from you – bring someone in from Wiesbaden.'

`If he never drank… Kosel paused. He frowned as he looked at Tweed. 'It is beginning to seem someone made it look like an accident. The front of his clothes was soused with alcohol…'

`That's it,' said Kuhlmann. 'Take this card, keep it to yourself. Send your report to that address when you've done what you have to do.'

`Wiesbaden? It must be submitted to the Hamburg chief of police…'

`Hans Lenze, who is a close friend of mine, who knows I'm here, who told me about you. Do it any way you damn well wish – but that report goes to Wiesbaden. Now, let's get out of here and go look for fresh air.'

`Hans!' Newman waved his hand in a gesture of disgust. `There must be a million men with that name in Germany…'

`If that is what Fergusson really said,' Tweed replied and wandered over to the window, then stood there, sipping his glass of cognac. He drank rarely but the sight of Ian Fergusson lying in the morgue had shaken him.

Vier Jahreszeiten. The Four Seasons Hotel. One of the finest hostelries in all Germany. They were ensconced inside Room 412, Tweed's room, almost the size of a small de-luxe apartment. The view from the window was magnificent. The sun was shining in the late afternoon, reflecting with a glitter off the lake, the Binnenalster, beyond the road running below the window.