Len Deighton - XPD

Breslow leant over the rail to watch as Stern moved under him. To his horror, he saw the glint of gold as his pen fell from his pocket. It glinted as it fell and clattered to the floor at Stein’s feet.

‘Ahhh!’ roared Stein. ‘You cunning little creep. You’re up there on that gantry, are you?’ He pumped three shots into the air. They came uncomfortably close and Breslow shrank away and fell against the wall as the bullets hit the metal racks and ricocheted back across the studio.

Breslow ran along the lighting balcony while Stein reloaded his gun. The gantry swayed and groaned with the violent movement. Breslow wondered if he would be able to climb over the rail and jump down into the camera crane. It was a distance of about six feet. In the old days it would have been nothing to him but now it was daunting. He looked over the rail. There was only one metal ladder up to the gantry and now, to Breslow’s horror, Stein began to climb it. Breslow was on the far side of the set, over the Führer’s desk. There in the leather inlay he could see the pattern of the famous half-sheathed sword that the Führer himself thought so appropriate for his desk top.

‘I’m coming, Breslow.’

Stein was halfway up the ladder now and already the exertion was making him puff. Once Stein was up here he would have a clear view all round the balcony. There would be nowhere to hide then. If Stein truly intended to murder him, then there would be no escape.

‘Stein,’ shouted Breslow. ‘Let me talk to you. It’s madness for us to fight.’

‘You killed the colonel, my best friend! You cheated my buddies!’ It was as much as he could do to get the words out and still have breath enough for climbing. It was slow work.

‘I killed no one.’

‘You goddamn Nazi! You killed my brother.’

Stein was at the top of the ladder now. He struggled to get over the top of it and onto the lighting gallery. He was holding the huge Mauser in one hand and supporting himself with the other.

‘Look out, Stein!’ Perhaps it was madness to shout a warning of danger to a man who was trying to kill you, but Breslow’s cry was spontaneous. Stein had put all his weight on the spotlight bracket, a clamp that was not designed to hold such weight. Normally only the electricians ever came up here on the balcony, and they knew every frailty of the metalwork and every uncertainty of the guard rail. Stein did not. Perhaps if Stein had released his hold on the Mauser, he might still have regained his balance and steadied himself against the rail, but he would not relinquish his gun.

‘Awww!’ Stein felt himself beginning to topple as the lighting bracket bent outwards and down. He was arched backwards now, his broad-brimmed white hat fell and drifted down into the studio. His mouth was open and his gun flailing the air as he made a frantic effort to swim upwards into the darkness. ‘Help!’ But he was already falling. The huge, untidy bundle of white clothes somersaulted very slowly off the ladder top, his arms spreadeagled and the gun outstretched. Head downwards, he gathered speed as he dropped past the expanses of red marble and the eagles and insignia and, with a terrible crash, hit the studio floor.

‘Stein!’

Breslow ran back along the gallery and clambered down the metal steps as fast as he could. ‘Stein,’ he said again as he bent low over the crumpled shape. He had fallen head-first, his skull was cracked and his face bloody. There was little chance of mistake. Breslow had seen enough dead men to recognize one.

‘Why?’ Breslow asked him leaning close. ‘Why did you want to kill me? It’s too late for that.’

Boyd Stuart swung into the forecourt of the Big O Donut Shop where the Santa Monica Freeway passes over La Brea. The tyres of the car squealed loudly enough to make the police officers drinking coffee there crane forward to look out of the window.

Billy Stein and Mary Breslow were in the car with him. He had contacted them as soon as news came that Stein had been seen. Boyd watched while Billy Stein ran into the coffee shop to talk to the policemen. It was better that there was a relative present; the policemen would be more understanding about a relative. Whatever it was that Billy said to the two policemen, it was enough to make them abandon their coffee, pick up their doughnuts and hurry out to their car. It swung round and up the ramp to the freeway with Boyd Stuart in hot pursuit

‘They won’t be in time,’ said Mary-more because she wanted to hear Stuart contradict her than because she was calculating her father’s peril. She did not dare do that. If Billy’s father really wanted to carry out his threat, he had surely had time enough to do it now.

‘It will be all right, Miss Breslow,’ said Stuart. He put his foot down. It was not easy to keep up with the police car. The black and white swung over to the number one lane and had its lights flashing. An old Buick accelerated past and cut steeply into the space between them. Stuart cursed. People did that sometimes, following police cars for no other reason than to join in the excitement.

By the time the police got to the studio entrance their radio had sent the news ahead. A studio guard in a smart black-leather zipper jacket was standing at the open gates.

‘Studio number four,’ he shouted. ‘The chief will meet you at the main door,’ he told the driver.

The car moved off again, grunting and groaning in the dips and potholes of the badly maintained studio road. Stuart’s car pulled through the gate behind the police car. The gateman decided they must be some sort of undercover detail and let them go.

They parked alongside the black and white and scrambled out. The officer, name-tagged Cooper, reached for his pistol.

‘It’s my father,’ Billy added hurriedly.

The cop turned round to look at them both. ‘Take it easy, folks,’ he said. ‘And stay outside.’ The passenger officer had unlocked the shotgun from its rack under the front seats. Now he pumped it to put a shell in the chamber.

The chief security guard for the studio led them inside through the massive soundproof doors. There was an oppressive silence. Silently, Officer Cooper put his hand on the chest of the security man to indicate that he should remain here at the door. The passenger officer, still holding the shotgun in the high-port position prescribed by regulations, moved silently over to the vegetation, keeping away from the windows. From this side of the set, he could see what a fake the whole thing was: the heavy window openings and marble surrounds were plasterboard and laths, with the rumpled ends of patterned paper poking out of the clamps.

‘This is the police.’ The voice sounded unnaturally loud. There was no reply. The policeman stepped into the set, keeping well behind the half-open door. ‘Jesus!’ he said softly as he caught sight of the opulent room and the huge Nazi eagle over the door.

Breslow released his hold on Stein’s pulse. It had been nothing more than a formality: Stein was dead. From somewhere a long way away, Breslow could hear voices but his mind was too absorbed to hear them properly. He picked up the ridiculous Mauser that Stein had been carrying and stood up. Poor old Stein.

Officer Cooper saw the sudden movement, shouted ‘Freeze!’, brought his pistol up high and double-gripped it to shoot.

‘Papa!’ It was a scream rather than a call. Mary Breslow came running into the line of fire and grabbed her father. ‘Papa, Papa, Papa!’ She kissed him and held him tight, seeing nothing and caring for nothing, even when her foot accidentally touched Stein’s body.

Breslow seemed to see the policemen and Billy Stein for the first time. He blinked.

‘He fell, Billy. He fell from the gantry up there.’