Alphabet House (27 page)

The clear sky outside had clouded over momentarily. The light in the room was grey and barren. Wilfried Kröner still had the receiver in his hand. He’d been sitting like that for more than two minutes. The conversation with Petra Wagner had stunned him. She had been upset and incoherent, but what she’d had to report was unbelievable.

Then he straightened up and made a few notes on the pad beside him before dialling a number.

‘Hermann Müller Invest,’ came the expressionless voice.

‘It’s me.’ The man at the other end of the line was silent. ‘We’ve got a problem on our hands.’

‘Well?’

‘I’ve just spoken to Petra Wagner.’

‘Is she being difficult again?’

‘Good Lord, no. She’s as gentle as a lamb.’ Kröner pulled out the drawer of his desk and coaxed a pill from a small china bowl. ‘It’s just that she met Arno von der Leyen here in Freiburg today.’

There was a long silence at the other end. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ the man finally said. ‘Arno von der Leyen? Here in Freiburg?’

‘Yes, in the Stadtgarten. They met by accident, she says.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘That it was by accident? That’s what she says.’

‘Well, and then what happened?’

‘He introduced himself. She insists she’s quite sure. It’s him! Petra could recognise him when he told her who he was. She was very upset.’

‘I can damn well believe it!’ Again there was silence at the other end.

Kröner clutched his stomach. It was acting up for the first time in several weeks. ‘The man’s a killer,’ he said.

The old man seemed distant and cleared his throat softly. ‘Yes, he was a good man, poor Dieter Schmidt. He sure took care of him.’ Then he laughed dryly.

Kröner found this uncalled for. ‘Petra also had some other disturbing news,’ he continued.

‘He’s presumably after us now. It that it?’

‘He’s looking for Gerhart Peuckert.’

‘Looking for Gerhart Peuckert? Indeed. And what does he know about him?’

‘Apparently only what Petra told him.’

‘Then I certainly hope for her sake that she didn’t say too much.’

‘Only that Gerhart is dead. It seemed to shock him.’ Kröner put his hand to his cheek. This was a situation he definitely could have done without. For the first time in many years he felt vulnerable.

They would have to get rid of Arno von der Leyen.

‘And then he wanted to know where he was buried,’ he said at length.

‘And she couldn’t tell him, I would imagine.’ The old man was about to laugh, but had to clear his throat instead. The sound was dry and hollow.

‘She told him she’d try to find out and let him know. They’re to meet in the wine bar in Hotel Rappens at two o’clock. She made it clear that she doubted whether she could help him.’ Kröner could practically hear the wheels turning in the old man’s head. ‘What do you think? Should we go there?’

‘No!’ came the instant reply. ‘Phone and tell her she’s to let Arno von der Leyen know Gerhart Peuckert is buried in the memorial grove beside the panorama view on the Burghaldering, up beside the colonnade.’

‘But there’s no such memorial grove.’

‘No, there isn’t, Wilfried. But who would know that? What doesn’t exist can materialise, can’t it? And tell Petra Wagner that Arno von der Leyen can take the gondola up there. Have her tell him it takes only a couple of minutes from the Stadtgarten beside Karlsplatz. And finally, Wilfried, ask her to tell him that he can’t get in before three o’clock.’

‘And what then? That can’t be sufficient.’

‘Of course not. I’ve been considering whether we shouldn’t try and get hold of Lankau. He seems to be the one best suited for the job, don’t you think? It can be so nice and secluded up there on Schlossberg.’

Kröner drew out yet another pill from the drawer. In a year’s time Kröner’s son was to start school. The other parents would tell their children to play with him. He would have an easy time of it, and that’s what Kröner wanted. After the war, life had treated him mercifully. And he wanted it to continue. He wasn’t prepared to give up anything. ‘There’s something else I don’t like about the situation,’ he added.

‘And that is…?’

‘He made Petra believe he was English. He spoke only English to her.’

‘She said that?’ The old man paused for a moment. ‘Why?’

‘Yes, why? Who is he, anyway? Is he here alone? Why is he looking for Gerhart Peuckert? Why does von der Leyen make himself out to be English? I don’t like it. There are too many unknowns in this story.’

‘Leave the unknowns to me, Wilfried. Isn’t that my specialty? Haven’t I always said there was something fishy about the man? Didn’t I already tell you at the time that I suspected he wasn’t the person he made himself out to be? I did, indeed! And now you can see for yourself! Unknowns are my trademark, you know that.’ He attempted a laugh, but it was stifled by his cough. ‘I practically live off unknowns. Would we have been where we are today if it weren’t for my ability to make use of unknowns?’ he said with difficulty.

‘Then what’s Arno von der Leyen’s trademark? With what he learned from our nightly chats in the hospital, he’s got to know what he’s after.’

‘Nonsense, Kröner!’ Peter Stich’s voice hardened. ‘He’d have shown up years ago if he suspected we were here, but he doesn’t. Our names are not the same. You mustn’t forget the passage
of time. It’s a far cry from that red-eyed patient in the hospital to old, white-bearded Hermann Müller. But, get rid of him we must, that’s obvious. Now, take it easy and phone Petra Wagner, and in the meantime I’ll find Horst Lankau.’

Lankau was furious when he finally got to the flat on Luisenstrasse. He was oddly dressed. His jumper sat crooked, as if his golf bag was still slung over his shoulder. He didn’t even shake hands. ‘Hasn’t it dawned on you yet?’ he blurted out. Kröner gave him a worried look. This time his incredibly broad face was entirely copper-red. He had put on a lot of weight in recent years, forcing his blood pressure to dangerous heights. Andrea Stich took his coat and disappeared into the hallway. The light in the big flat was blinding, even though the sun was above the building. The old man stroked his beard once or twice and pointed amiably towards the corner sofa where Kröner was already sitting.

‘I play golf on Saturday, dammit! Freiburger Golf Club is my sanctuary! And I always have lunch with my opponent at the Colombi between the ninth and the tenth hole, don’t I?’ Lankau didn’t expect an answer. ‘And that time when my daughter was in labour I didn’t want to be disturbed, either. You know that, damn it all! Why the hell are you disturbing me now?’ He sat down heavily. ‘Make it brief!’ he snapped.

‘Calm down, Horst, we’ve got some interesting news to tell you.’ Peter Stich cleared his throat another couple of times and briefly explained the situation to the hefty, irritable man. Lankau’s broad face was soon drained of every trace of colour. He was speechless. He clasped his chubby hands and leaned forward. He was still a giant.

‘So that’s how it is, Horst! If you want to keep your little sanctuary on the golf course – or any other kind of sanctuary for that matter – I’m afraid you’re going to have to phone your golf partner and tell him he’ll have to pop the ball into the last nine holes by himself this afternoon. You can tell him you have
unexpected visitors from the old days, can’t you?’ Again the old man had to clear his throat instead of laughing.

‘We’ll have to drop everything else immediately,’ said Kröner, trying to ignore Lankau’s rebellious glare. In the old days their rank had been clearer. ‘Until this is all over I’d suggest our families go away for a couple of days.’

Lankau frowned, which made his injured eye close completely. That was the calling card Arno von der Leyen had left him the last time they met. ‘You think the swine knows where we live?’ He turned towards Kröner, sticking out his bottom lip. Kröner felt certain that Lankau was worrying more about his possessions than his family. The result was the same in any case. Lankau kept listening.

‘I’m convinced that Arno von der Leyen is well-prepared, and that he’s planning his next move right now. Stich doesn’t agree with me. He believes in coincidences.’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, myself,’ said Stich. ‘But whatever steps you take with regard to your families are up to you. So long as you do it discreetly. Besides, I don’t think I’ll get Andrea to move from here, will I, Andrea?’ The small figure shook her head silently and put the cups on the table.

Kröner looked at her. For him, she was an appendix to her husband – not an independent person, but unpolished and crude. Unlike Kröner’s present wife who was the embodiment of innocence, Andrea Stich had tried a bit of everything. A long life with her husband had made her immune to worries and pain. A concentration camp commandant’s wife’s heart couldn’t remain innocent indefinitely. If her husband had an enemy, he would have to be got rid of. It was as simple as that. She didn’t question that kind of thing. It was for the men to deal with. In the meantime she would look after the home and herself. But Kröner couldn’t involve his family in this game. He neither could nor would. Lankau sat muttering to himself for a while. Then he leaned forwards.

‘And now I’m supposed to kill him! Isn’t it that what you’re saying? Well, I’ll be happy to. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years. But couldn’t you have chosen a better place than Schlossberg for that kind of thing?’

‘You just take it easy, Lankau. It’s an excellent place. At three o’clock in the afternoon all the school children will have left. At that time of day, in the middle of September, there won’t be a single observer in the colonnade. You’ll be able to get your revenge in peace.’ The old man dipped another biscuit into his coffee. It was a Saturday privilege that his doctor would have castigated him for. Kröner knew this from his own son. Diabetic patients had a habit of breaking the rules. ‘In the meantime, you’ll see that both your families go away for the weekend, won’t you, Wilfried? And I suggest we meet at five o’clock at Dattler’s when it’s all over. Then we can get rid of the body together. I’ll find a solution to that little problem, don’t worry. But until then we have some things to do. First and foremost, yet another little job for you, my dear Wilfried.’

Kröner looked at him absent-mindedly. He had been wondering what he was going to say to his wife. She would ask questions. Peter Stich placed his hand on top of his.

‘Before you do anything else, Wilfried, you must pay Erich Blumenfeld a visit.’

Feelings of joy and sorrow, tension and relief, anxiety and sadness kept on sweeping over him in unpredictable and self-contradictory waves. One moment he stopped breathing, the next moment he was gasping for breath.

His tears blurred the contours of the surroundings.

James hadn’t made it. It didn’t come as a surprise, but as an accusation.

The feeling of having let James down was no longer merely latent.

‘Have you seen the grave?’ Welles enquired at the other end of the line. Bryan could all but see his incredulous face.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

‘The nurse thought so, yes.’

‘But you haven’t seen the grave yet! Shall I carry on until Monday as we agreed?’

‘Do as you like, Keith. I think we’ve reached our goal.’

‘You
think
so.’ Keith accentuated Bryan’s reservation. ‘You’re not certain?’

Bryan sighed. ‘Certain?’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’ll let you know when I know more.’

One of the waitresses gave Bryan an indignant look. The pay phone was their greatest obstacle between the kitchen and the cafeteria. They all nodded towards a notice printed on the wall above the telephone. Bryan couldn’t understand what it said, but presumed it referred customers to one of the phone boxes he’d seen on the ground floor of the department store. Bryan shrugged his shoulders every time they edged past him with overfilled trays, shaking their heads. It had been his third phone call. Or rather his third attempt.

After several tries he could only conclude that Laureen was not at home in Canterbury. There was a good chance of her having accompanied Bridget back to Cardiff.

The next call was to Munich. They hadn’t had need for him in the Olympic City. The exchange of words was brief. They spoke solely of England’s victory in the women’s pentathlon. Apparently this triumph overshadowed everything else. Mary Peters had exceeded the magical 4,800 by one single point. It was sensational. The world record was within reach. Despite pauses in the conversation, neither party found occasion to touch upon the tragic events of recent days. The desecration of the Games had been discussed, screamed and written to death even before the victims had been buried. But in sports, the show must go on.

His heart was hammering at a dangerous pace when he finally reached Hotel Rappens’ entrance on Münsterplatz. The bar was almost full. Bryan saw nothing and no one else but Petra. She was sitting by the door facing the square in her overclothes, sipping a large glass of draft beer. The froth on the uppermost part of the glass had already solidified. She must have been waiting for some time. So his being early didn’t matter.

It was ten minutes to two.

Before the hour struck, she had deprived him of his last hope. The realisation made Bryan’s lips tremble. Petra kept her eyes on the table and shook her head slightly. Then she looked at him and put her hand on his arm.

The taxi driver had to ask three times before he understood where Bryan wanted to go. Bryan was already regretting not having stayed with Petra so they could try to come to terms with their common past. But he had no choice.

He simply had to get out of there.

She had confirmed that Gerhart Peuckert was dead. Once again the shock was instantaneous. James had been buried in the common grave of a memorial grove – another shock that took Bryan unawares. Many people had been killed in the raid on 15th January 1945, and many had been buried without having been identified – a fact that dawned on him only now. James had
been laid to rest without a name, without a stone to mark his grave. That was what was worst of all.

The conversations with Captain Wilkens, who had guided the Allied bombers to the hospital, came back all too vividly now.

Painfully vividly.

When Bryan finally reached the
Kuranstalt
Saint-Ursula where he’d parked the mutilated Volkswagen, his mind was in complete turmoil.

Everyone reacts differently to having his or her patience put to the test under pressure. Bryan remembered clearly how James always became sleepy in such situations and instantly looked around for some place to stretch out. That’s how it had been prior to taking off on a raid, and that’s how it had been on exam days at Eton and Cambridge. A gruff exam leader had often had to shake some life into James before he could sit down and face the examiners.

This was an enviable talent, and a blessing.

But it had never been like that for Bryan. Waiting made him restless. It made him get up from his chair, then sit down again. Constantly. He had to wriggle his feet, run out into the fresh air, hurriedly scan the syllabus again, dream of freedom. Do
something
.

This feeling overpowered him now for the first time in ages. The waiting fever had taken possession of him. There was an hour before he could go up Schlossberg to see his best friend’s grave. An hour where agitation and irrationality would reign. He was under pressure and he was impatient.

He looked at his wreck of a Volkswagen again. It stood out from the other cars on the street. Although hard to imagine, it was filthier than ever. There wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t covered with dust. It was no longer black, but grey.

His intention had been to drive the Volkswagen over to the little bodega by the railway bridge and park it there so its previous owner could fetch it again, as they’d agreed.

Bryan folded his arms on the roof of the car, not noticing how black his underarms were getting, and looked over at
Kuranstalt
Saint-Ursula.

Like all institutions housing psychological deviants, Saint-Ursula naturally had its secrets. His hope had been that James was one of them. But that was not the case, he knew now. However the pockfaced murderer, Kröner, was a part of that place. An unknown part. He could be anything at all.

The Volkswagen rocked slightly when he struck the roof. He’d made a quick decision.

The waiting fever had had its effect.

Several minutes passed before the director,
Frau
Rehmann, appeared in the administration unit. Until then an unwilling orderly had tried to turn him away. But the bouquet Bryan thrust towards him confused him and cleared the path into
Frau
Rehmann’s front office. Bryan glanced at the bouquet, already wilting from the heat, and congratulated himself on his resourcefulness.

It had been intended for James’ grave.

The front office was neat and tidy. Not a piece of paper to be seen. Bryan nodded appreciatively. The only decorative object in the whole room was the framed photo of a young woman looking over the head of a dark-haired boy. Therefore Bryan assumed that
Frau
Rehmann’s secretary was a man, and expected the worst of her.

And he was right, though only partially.

Frau
Rehmann was just as impregnable in reality as on the telephone. It had been her firm intention all along to throw Bryan out. But as she was about to guide him out again, Bryan’s sudden presentation of the bouquet pacified her long enough for him to sit down on the edge of the secretary’s desk and flash her a broad, authoritative smile.

It was a question of negotiation. Bryan was an expert at this even when, as now, he hadn’t the slightest idea of his goal, let alone his motive.

‘
Frau
Rehmann, do forgive me! I must simply have misunderstood Mr MacReedy. There was a message left at my hotel saying that the morning hours wouldn’t suit you, so I took it to mean I should come in the afternoon, instead. Shall I go again?’

‘Yes, please, Mr Scott. I would appreciate that.’

‘Of course, it’s a shame, now that I’m here. The commission will be very disappointed.’

‘Commission?’

‘Yes. Naturally we know your clinic is run according to the best management principles. Yet I’m sure you’ll agree with me,
Frau
Rehmann, that there isn’t a single administrative enclave that wouldn’t benefit from the available funds.’

‘Available funds? I don’t know that you’re talking about, Mr Scott. What is this commission you’re referring to?’

‘Did I say commission? Well, maybe that’s putting it a bit strongly, in so far as it hasn’t been set up yet. Let’s call it a commission committee. That’s probably a more appropriate term.’

Frau
Rehmann nodded. ‘I see. A commission committee.’

Bryan felt manic. The seduction of this bony woman in front of him was therapeutic in itself. He glanced at his watch. It was half past two. Now he wouldn’t have time to park the Volkswagen outside the hippie’s bar.

‘Yes, it’s a matter of EEC funds that are in the developmental phase at present, but that we venture to presume are in the offing. All private clinics like yours may come into consideration regarding some quite substantial funding,
Frau
Rehmann.’

‘Aha, the EEC!’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think I’ve read something about it somewhere…’
Frau
Rehmann was a terrible actress. ‘You say it’s in the committee stage? When will the commission be set up, Mr Scott? I mean, when will you come to a decision regarding the distribution and size of the funding?’
Frau
Rehmann laughed a bit awkwardly. Now Bryan knew where he had her.

Frau
Rehmann was both accommodating and instructive as she showed him around the clinic. Bryan nodded with polite interest and posed few questions, which seemed to suit his guide admirably. Despite Bryan’s expert knowledge, most of
Frau
Rehmann’s copious psychiatric terminology went over his head. His thoughts were elsewhere.

It was a modern establishment. Light and friendly, with subdued colours and a smiling staff. In one wing practically all the patients were sitting in the lounge. Everywhere the Olympic Game finals resounded over the television.

The great majority of patients in the first ward seemed to be suffering from senile dementia. They were sitting passively in a drug-induced stupor, the saliva flowing unimpeded down their chests. Some others were constantly digging around discreetly in their crotch.

There were remarkably few women.

Although
Frau
Rehmann appeared to be taken aback, Bryan insisted on being allowed to take a peep into all the rooms.

‘
Frau
Rehmann, I’ve never seen a higher standard. That’s why I’m still curious. Can your entire institution really be like that?’ The director smiled. She was half a head taller than all the men they had encountered on their rounds. Most of this difference in height was due to her unusually long legs, and even more so to a hairstyle that was constantly threatening to topple over. She reached up and touched this enormous superstructure every time Bryan complimented her. Now she did it again.

It was already three o’clock when they passed the counter in the front hall on their way to the other wing. An immense, indefinable exotic plant stood on each side of the entrance, stretching its leaves towards the skylight in the roof. Besides being decorative, the purpose of the plants was to mitigate the sight of two abominable, freestanding clothes racks where Bryan had been instructed to hang his coat upon arrival.

Behind these gigantic plants and behind these clothes racks, a large figure with a scarred face had withdrawn, unnoticed. He
was breathing between his teeth, quiet and controlled. The sight of
Frau
Rehmann’s companion made him clench his fists.

It wasn’t until they reached the last room that the director’s attention was deflected from showing Bryan around. There had already been several attempts to call her on the intercom, but with no apparent effect.

Bryan looked about. The interior was the same as in the previous ward.

But here, however, the condition of the patients had changed. A world of difference from the quiet death of geriatric psychosis.

Cold shivers ran down Bryan’s spine. More than anything else, this ward reminded him of the time he spent in the SS hospital’s psychiatric ward. The inarticulate forms of speech and body language. The underlying apathy and a feeling of things having been hushed up.

Although Bryan hadn’t seen any really young patients anywhere, the average age here was scarcely more than forty-five. At first glance some of the patients seemed to be fairly healthy, politely acknowledging the director’s curt nod – so curt that her hair scarcely concurred with the nod.

And there were other patients whose entire body language bore the mark of schizophrenia. Lethargic, contradictory facial movements and deep, disquieting eyes.

They were all staring at the television set from their respective places. Most of them were sitting in a row of oak, architect-designed armchairs, some on colourful sofas, and a few in large, high-backed armchairs that faced away from the entrance doors.

As Bryan looked the TV viewers over, he noticed a new and more serious expression on
Frau
Rehmann’s face as she stood beside the intercom. Then she said a couple of words, made straight for Bryan and took him gently by the arm.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Scott, but we must hurry on. I do apologise, but we still have an upper storey to inspect, and some events have occurred that will demand my presence shortly.’

Several of the patients watched them listlessly as they left the room. Only one had failed to react at all. He’d been sitting immobile in a high-backed armchair that many years of seniority had given him the right to have for himself. Only his eyes moved slightly.

Whatever was taking place on the screen had riveted his attention.