Gavin Lyall - The Conduct of Major Maxim

George's short tempers were at least short. Suddenly he was Organisation Man, and Agnes could see why politicans liked having him around. "All right, you be in Germany tomorrow some time. You'll need some money. I'll ask Sir Bruce to send a signal to Rhine Army and then you tell him what you want: a room somewhere, I'll leave that to you. Don't go armed, for God's sake. And I'll have to tell Six. They'll probably get somebody to contact you over there and you just hand over the material and come quietly home without blowing any bridges behind you. If you think you can manage that, we'll get over to Number 10and start the wheels turning. "

Hannover station was like a greenhouse and bustling with tanned young men and women hunchbacked by huge colourful rucksacks. Maxim had an hour and a half to wait for a train to Osnabrück, and half changed his mind about hiring a car, but that meant lots of signatures, and might be difficult to hand back if he flew home on a trooping flight from RAFGütersloh. So he made a couple of phone calls to Osnabrück-he found he'd been given a room with an Engineer regiment -then sipped a lager until train time.

With the flat, disciplined North German plain rattling past, he suddenly remembered when he had first been posted to Germany how surprised and even unnerved he had been to find that all the buildings seemed familiar. It had been a couple of days before it dawned on him: they were the full-size versions of the houses and station buildings he and his father had made up for their never-quite-fmished model railway layout. Like the locos and the rolling stock, the best plastic building kits – Arnolds and Heljans and Rikos – all came from West Germany and were based on West German originals. But for Maxim it was still the other way around: the landscape beyond the train window wasjust for show; secretly he knew those buildings were merefaçades, without interior floors, furniture or live people.

The only person he'd told about his odd vision had been Jenny, and she had laughed delightedly and understood.

Prom the station he took a taxi straight to Blumenthalstrasse. He knew Osnabrückfairly well, as he knew most towns inist British Corps area, although he'd never been stationed there. It had taken a bad beating from the RAF and been widely rebuilt, much of it as copies of the original high-pitchedmedieval buildings. They looked phoney, but only because they looked new; once they had cracked and weathered and slumped a little, nobody would ever credit that they mightjust as well have been built as concrete and glass shoe-boxes.

The Blumenthalstrasse address turned out to be one of the shoeboxes, a five-storey block of flats with the staircase and lift-shaft stuck on at the side of a column of frosted-glass bricks. Maxim pressed the entryphone bell for Winkelmannand waited until a man's voice rasped:"Biffe?"

Speaking rather rusty German, Maxim said carefully: "I am Harry Maxim. I rang Fraulein Winkelmannfrom Hannover. I have a message from Corporal Ron Blagg."

"Ja, ja. I remember. It is the third floor."

Maxim looked round at his taxi-driver, who had parked two wheels on the pavement with the usual German disregard for the tyres, and got a nod and a rather strange smile in return. Then the driver hunched down with a magazine, the door buzzed open and Maxim went in.

A man was waiting in the doorway of the Winkelmann flat; he was shortish, stubby, strong-looking and probably around forty. He had a face that was both sensuous and battered – his nose had been broken at some time – with deep pouches under his dark eyes. He smiled widely and held out a hand, but the way he looked Maxim over gave him a little pang of disquiet. He felt that if he'd been wearing a gun, this man would have known.

"I am Bruno. Please come in. "

The scent was the first thing: it was like walking into a peach-canning factory. The furniture came with the smell: soft, shiny, billowy and over-decorated like great banks of flowers; the little lampshades around the walls were all tassels and fringes, the ornaments were fiddly coloured glass and the not-quite-velvet curtains draped artistically and bound with golden cords. It was a very feminine room if you happened to like your femininity in ton lots.

Oh damn it, Maxim thought. I know what professionshe's in, and no wonder that taxi driver was giving me the big smirk. But I should have guessed: what other sort of woman with a permanent address would Blagg know?

Bruno wasoffering him a sticky-looking liqueur from a tall thin bottle. Maxim smiled and shook his head. I know what businessyou're in, too, mate, and I shouldn't wonder if the conversation came around to money before long.

After the room, Fraulein Winkelmannherself was hardly a surprise. Built like one of her own sofas, topped with crisp golden curls, she had big blue eyes, a vivid red mouth and three chins to do the work of one. The unexpected thing was that she made no attempt to hide her age, which was around sixty. Instead, she made up to it, becoming a perfectly painted and exquisitely detailed matron in a fur-trimmed green satin housecoat. She let Maxim hold her hand for a moment, then swept regally past and merged herself carefully with one of the big chairs.

"It is very warm," she said in English, fluttering at the air with a Japanese fan. Bruno handed her a glass. "You are not drinking?"

"Not at the moment. "

"Have you come all the way from England? How is dear Ronald?"

"He's fine." Maxim sat carefully on the least-soft chair he could find. Bruno stayed standing, watching him with a small fixed smile.

"And you have a letter from him?" Her English had an unmistakable accent, but flowed easily. And why not? – the British Army had been in Osnabrücksince 1945.

Maxim offered the sealed envelope, Bruno took it, broke it open and passed it to her. She blinked at it, said: "Ah yes," and gave it to Bruno to read properly.

Halfway through the letter, Bruno said in German: "Ah, he is a major in their Army," and then smiled hastily at Maxim because he had forgotten they had been speaking German earlier. Fraulein Winkelmannjustnodded pleasantly.

Bruno read the letter twice, then folded it up, licking his lips as if uncertain how to begin. "Corporal Blagg is… quite all right?"

"Oh yes."

"But you have come instead."

"He can't get away at the moment."

"He is not… in trouble?"

Maxim shrugged and waved at the letter. "What does he say?"

"Yes, yes. What did he say to you?"

"Just that Fraulein Winkelmann waskeeping some papers for him."

"Has he said what papers?"

Maxim looked curiously at Bruno, using the time to mask his own indecision. He didn't want to sound too eager and knowledgeable, but Bruno wouldn't believe him as a country bumpkin. "Some photographic negatives and a collection of certificates. " When Bruno didn't say anything, Maxim turned to Fraulein Winkelmann."Do you still have these things?"

"I let Bruno do all my business work. " She surged upright.

"Business?"

"I will leave you." She touched Maxim's hand and went away.

Bruno indicated the bottle. "You are sure you do not…?"

Maxim just looked stolid. Bruno squared his shoulders inside his tight-fitting shirt. "What photographs were those?"

"Some very small ones." Maxim hoped it sounded as if he were hiding something more than the fact that Blagg hadn't been able to tell what they were.

Bruno licked his lips. "There is a problem with the certificates."

"Really?"

"They are Sterbeurkunden, certificates of death, and they are from the Standesamtof Bad Schwarzendorn."

Maxim went on looking stolid.

"The night that Corporal Blagg brought them here, the Standesbeamteat Bad Schwarzendorn – he was killed. " Maxim still didn't react. Bruno licked his lips again. "There was also a woman killed."