Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Where are you, Bob? Are you all right?'

`Lubeck. I'm OK. I desperately need to talk to Tweed.'

`I don't know where he is.' She paused. 'Where are you calling from?'

`Public call box. Chosen at random…'

`He's over there. Flew to Hamburg. Today. He was going to stay at the Four Seasons, but when I tried to call him an hour ago he'd checked out. No forwarding address – and he didn't even sleep there one night.'

`I'll call again, Monica. I have to go now

`Take care.'

`Thanks, but it doesn't matter any more.'

Newman put down the receiver, took out a cigarette, lit it and thought. Hamburg today. An unscheduled departure. The second trip to Germany. Tweed would be geared up, moving fast. Was he on his own? That was what worried Newman. Then he had an idea. He checked the directory, found the number of the Jensen, dialled the number. He recognized the manager's voice.

`Have you a Mr Tweed from London staying with you?'

`Yes, he's just arrived. You wanted to speak to him? He's having dinner. I saw him go in a few minutes ago. You want to speak to him now? Could you hold on a minute?'

It seemed an age before Tweed came on the line. Actually it was thirty seconds. Newman had checked by his watch. `Who is it?' Tweed asked cautiously.

`Newman…'

`Thank God! Where are you calling from?'

`Public phone booth in Travemunde. Can I come right over? I can be there in fifteen minutes by cab. Are you alone?'

`No, Diana is with me…'

`You know what I mean.'

`The answer to your question is no.'

`Well, thank God for that. Book me a room if you can. I am on my way…'

`We're having dinner. Just started. Take your time. Are you in one piece?' The anxiety came clear down the line.

`By a miracle – several – yes. See you.'

On his way back to the sloop to tell Ann Grayle he had to go into Lubeck, Newman passed the local police station. An old building with a Dutch-style roof, it perched on the corner of the waterfront and a side street, St-Lorenz-strasse. Newman paused briefly, his eye caught by a poster. It was a reproduction of the Identikit picture of Kurt Franck. The poster was beginning to curl at the edges, taking a secondary place to other more recent posters of wanted villains. He stared at it for a moment before hurrying on.

`If I ever meet you again I'll know you,' he said to himself.

Munzel couldn't believe his luck. Sitting facing Lydia, he had glanced round the restaurant and there, on the far side of the room sat Tweed. With a blonde.

His mind raced as Lydia studied the menu. He glanced round the room again. It was packed. Some of them were getting very merry. Waiters ran backwards and forwards. The perfect atmosphere for what he had in mind. Lydia looked up from her menu.

`What are you thinking about?'

`Look. I've just remembered an important customer I promised to call this evening for a decision. I've left my notebook with his phone number back at the International. Mind if I dash back there? I'll only be fifteen minutes. Help yourself to the Beaujolais. Order your first course. OK?'

`Phoning a customer at his home? Will he like that?'

`He won't like it if I don't. He's busy all day at his factory. Fifteen minutes. No more…'

Munzel slipped out of the dining-room. He got lucky again outside the Jensen. A taxi was depositing more guests. He grabbed it. `Hauptbahnhof,' he instructed the driver. This way there'd be no connection between himself and the International – if the police made careful enquiries afterwards.

`Mr Tweed?' The waiter seemed nervous. 'There's a gentleman outside who wants a word with you. He doesn't want to come into the restaurant.'

Will you excuse me, Diana? I shouldn't be a minute.' `Don't worry.' She waved her cigarette holder. 'I'll hold the main course for you.'

Tweed was puzzled. It was too early for Newman – and he'd have come straight into the restaurant. He walked out into the narrow lobby. A short stocky figure smoking a cigar stood near the exit. Kuhlmann. The man from Wiesbaden gestured towards the street.

`Let's take a short walk. They say walls have ears – although I've never seen walls growing them.'

`It had better be short. I'm in the middle of dinner.' Kuhlmann led the way in silence past the diners at the tables on the pavement. Inside Harry Butler stood up, told the waiter he'd be back in a minute, saw Diana sitting by herself, changed his mind and sat down again.

'How did you know I was here?' Tweed asked.

`The manager phoned me. Don't blame him. I guessed it would be the Jensen when you came back. I leaned on him. No sign of Kurt Franck. Vanished off the face of the earth for about two weeks. Now you're back I've put out a fresh general alert.'

'Thank you. And Dr Berlin?'

`Still gone missing. You're not saying now you're back he's going to reappear?' Kuhlmann suggested.

'I'm saying just that. Not yet, perhaps. But soon, yes.'

'You wouldn't care to enlarge on that?' Kuhlmann suggested. 'No, I wouldn't. Any more of those ghastly murders?'

'No.' Kuhlmann stopped on a deserted section of the pavement to relight his cigar. 'You go absent. Franck goes absent. Dr Berlin goes absent. The murders stop.'

'You wouldn't care to enlarge on that?' Tweed enquired.

'Just a policeman's observation. If you need me, I'm at the local police station. Possehl-strasse 4. 'I'11 write it down for you.' He did so on a small notepad, tore off the sheet, gave it to Tweed. 'If I'm not there, try headquarters at Lubeck-Sud.'

'I may need use of a safe phone again…'

'Use Lubeck-Sud – as before. Always available.'

'And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my meal.' 'Just thought I'd let you know I was around.' Kuhlmann paused as they turned back. 'I just made a bet with myself.' 'And what was that?'

'Now you're back peace ends. I'm expecting everything to detonate any time. Enjoy your meal.'

Munzel closed the door of his bedroom at the International, turned the bolt. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked a small metal box which he extracted from his back-pack. The inside was lined with suede, divided up into small compartments holding various plastic containers. He took out a plastic tube holding yellow capsules.

Holding the small tube in one hand he flicked off the top, tilted the tube, allowed one capsule to fall into the palm of his hand, recapped the tube. Child's play. He put the capsule back inside the tube. Mescaline. A hallucinogenic. One capsule and you were way out in space.

Leaving the hotel, he caught a cab from outside the station back to the Jensen. He sat down opposite Lydia shortly after Tweed had returned to his own table.

`This white wine is glorious,' Diana greeted him. `Won't you join me?'

`I feel like something to pep me up. I wonder if I could get it here.' Tweed called over their waiter. `I'd like a drink, a Margharita.'

`I've never heard of it, sir.'

`It's a mixture of tequila and fruit juice. At least ask the barman. I'll write it down for you.' He wrote on a sheet in his notebook, tore it out, handed it to the waiter.

`That will pep you up.' Diana gave him a certain look, her eyes half-closed. 'This could turn into an interesting evening.' She drank some more wine. 'And I'm getting tiddly. Darling,' she continued, 'you look a bit faraway.'

`I didn't expect to meet that chap who called to see me – at least not so soon. Doesn't matter, he's gone now.'

Tut look what's coming.'

`Your Margharita, sir,' the waiter said. 'We have a new barman. From Italy. He knew the drink immediately. Enjoy yourselves. The main course will be a little longer..

`Take your time,' said Tweed.

`And it's a proper Margharita,' Diana said, peering at his drink. 'It has salt round the rim of your glass.'