Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

Tweed stared out over a line of trees in full foliage – a room on the fourth floor gave a clear view of the water where white single deck passenger craft cruised towards the landing-stage at the end of the lake. Little more than a few metres from where Fergusson's body had been found in the water at five in the morning.

`What else could he have meant?' Newman asked and finished off his cognac. It gave off a better aroma than bloody hospitals and all things medical he disliked so much.

"That could be the key to the mystery,' Tweed replied. `Maybe we shall know more tonight when we visit St Pauli…'

`The Reeperbahn? Anything can happen there after dark. I'll stick close to you. No argument.'

`Agreed.' Tweed had a dreamy look as he continued to watch the fussy water-buses plying back and forth. Fergusson came here to see Ziggy Palewska. I think he saw him the night he was killed.'

`What makes you think so? And who is this Ziggy person?'

`Because of this.' Tweed produced a small black notebook, one of the personal effects handed to him at the morgue. It had been found inside Fergusson's buttoned back trouser pocket and its pages were crinkled from exposure to water. He prised apart two pages and showed them to Newman. The notation, written in small neat script, was brief.

Ziggy. Berlin. Hotel Jensen.

`So, Ziggy told him something about the Hotel Jensen in Berlin. I've never heard of it.'

`Neither have I. And you asked about Ziggy. His father came from Poland. He married a girl from East Prussia – that is, Ziggy's mother. Both parents are dead. Near the end of the war they fled from Konigsberg – as it was called then – with Ziggy who was only ten years old. They ended up in Schleswig- Holstein, the German province – or Land – which was flooded with refugees. That fact has dominated Ziggy's life – not always for the best.'

`Which means?'

`The positive side – from my point of view – is he has always kept in touch with the underground network which links the refugees. He can be an invaluable source of information. But hi is very tricky. Thinks only of money. He'll work for anyone who pays – sometimes for both sides at the same time.'

`Sounds like a one-way ticket to eternity…'

`Oh yes, he walks a tightrope. So far with great cunning and skill. The time may come when he falls off…'

`That could be a long drop,' Newman commented.

`The final drop, I fear. Tonight I intend to put more pressure on him than I've ever done before. He must know something.' `And the negative side?'

`He's mixed up in various squalid activities. Porno movies.

Even drug-trafficking. Swears he only trades in marijuana – but I have my doubts.'

`A piece of the world's flotsam. Floating on the surface. Like scum? The Reeperbahn sounds just his cup of tea. Kuhlmann said he'd have a gun for me when we meet later…'

`I don't like guns. I don't know why I agreed when Kuhlmann made the suggestion on the phone to London. On the other hand…'

`You don't know what you're walking into. Maybe Kuhlmann does. Has he really told us everything?'

`I doubt it. Likes to hold something back. As bad as me,' Tweed remarked, and Newman knew the cognac was working. It was the first time since he'd returned from Paris that Tweed had cracked anything approaching a joke. 'Let's go for a walk. I always find when I get abroad I have to force myself out of a hotel. It's too easy to act the hermit…'

Newman had the room next to Tweed's. He made the remark as they went down in the elevator.

`It's in a hotel like this I'm glad I made all that money out of my bestseller, Kruger: The Computer That Failed. A foreign correspondent can work a whole career and never see money like that. I really got lucky…'

In the reception hall Tweed paused to examine the tapestries on the walls, the fine long-case clocks adorning the place, the superb rugs laid on the floor. They walked out of the entrance, turned right along the Neuer Jungfernstieg, the tree-lined promenade by the lake.

`It really is the most beautiful city,' Tweed commented. 'Look back at that colonnade which runs behind the hotel. We cross here.'

`We're going somewhere definite?'

`My feet seem to be heading in one direction – towards the Rathaus…'

In the pure warmth of a sun shining out of clear skies the two men strolled past the end of the lake, past the landing-stage where tourists queued for giant ice-cream cones. A holiday atmosphere, thought Tweed, and Ian Fergusson lying in the morgue.

They turned down the Alsterarkaden, an arcaded walk alongside a canal-like stretch of water leading from the lake.

Fashionably-dressed women stood gazing into high quality shops. Tweed crossed half-way over the bridge and stopped in the middle, looking down.

`It's such a clean city,' he observed.

`Show me,' the growly voice behind them said, 'show me how any man could dive in there at five in the morning and hit the side of his head on the wall. He'd have to be a bloody acrobat…'

It was Kuhlmann, of course. Newman had an idea they'd better get used to the Federal policeman surprising them. He stood gazing into the water, holding a brief-case in his right hand.

`These goddamn pathologists,' Kuhlmann continued. 'If they'd stop playing God for a while, get out in the fresh air, even take a look at the scene of the crime. Then they might understand what this business is all about. And in the fresh air you can smoke a cigar. Tweed, it was murder. I don't have to wait for that dumbo's report. Even you can see that, Newman.'

`What's it like round here at five in the morning?' the Englishman asked.

`Quiet as the grave – which is why Fergusson found his grave within feet of where you stand. I checked back with the two patrolmen who hauled him out. Jogged their memories a little. A yellow BMW drove across that bridge over there minutes before they walked down here. And, Newman, I have your gun inside this brief-case. Plus a hip holster. 7.65 mm. Luger. You can handle it?'

`I've practised with it, yes…'

`Get close to the border and you may get plenty for real… `And why,' Tweed enquired over his shoulder, 'should we find ourselves near the border, Otto?'

`You never can tell.' Kuhlmann shrugged. 'You're exactly thirty miles away from a Soviet tank battalion now…'

`And the Luger,' Newman enquired. 'Do I have a permit?'

`Take this.' Kuhlmann produced a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. 'You get into a shoot-out, show this to the state police. They won't like it but they'll check with Wiesbaden – confirmation will come back fast.'

`Which will keep me out of gaol?'

`No guarantee.' Kuhlmann grinned, a wide grin showing all his teeth. 'Depends who you shoot, the where and the when…'

`You're such a comfort…'

'Who knows? I'll probably be pretty close to you. Use your own judgement. Your reputation is good. How else do you protect our friend? Now, if you've finished staring at that stretch of water, let's get back to the Four Seasons. I'll hand over the weapon – with ammo – in your hotel room.'

They took a cab to the St Pauli district from a stand near the Jungfernstieg landing-stage at ten at night. Tweed had told Newman he didn't want the cab driver to be able to say they had come from the Four Seasons.

`And things don't warm up in Ziggy's place till getting on for midnight. If my timing is right, he'll be there, but not yet involved in his nefarious enterprises…'

The taxi cruised along the Reeperbahn, the neon of the nightclubs a weird glow in gathering dusk, then turned right into the side streets. Newman caught sight of a street sign which read Seiler-strasse, and then lost all sense of direction.

They alighted in little more than a wide alley, Tweed paid off the driver, and led the way with a confident tread. How he was able to find the place Newman could never fathom. In the late afternoon, at Tweed's suggestion, Newman had gone shopping, purchasing German clothes – shirt, tie, sports jacket, slacks, and a pair of socks and shoes.