Alphabet House (37 page)

In a flash Gerhart reached out and snatched the gun. It happened so fast, one might have thought Andrea had handed it to him of her own free will. Neither Andrea nor her husband had time to react. Then Gerhart took hold of her arm and flung her backwards against the wall so hard that she fell to the floor and didn’t get up again.

The hatred between the old man and Gerhart Peuckert finally erupted. Without a sound. Stich automatically made for Gerhart’s throat with his skeleton-like hands. But despite all his years of passivity, his intended victim danced out of the devilish grip and landed a sledgehammer blow to Stich’s jaw.

This pacified the old man.

‘What do you want?’ Stich asked with difficulty, as Peuckert shoved him down into the chair. The belt strapped around his wrists obviously hurt. ‘What do you want from me?’ he repeated.

Peuckert raised a hand to the clear fluid running from one of his nostrils. Calming down, he turned his eyes to the ceiling and let Stich clear his throat. The man studied him a long time, and just as he was about to speak again, Gerhart bent down and picked up the pistol that was lying on the floor between his legs.

Gerhart sighed. Even if he’d tried, not a word could have passed his lips. He would have asked the old man to repeat the name. Not ‘Arno von der Leyen’, but the other one. The one that had made Stich laugh.

And then it came to him by itself.

Bryan Underwood Scott.

Gerhart got up and without warning struck the old man such a hard blow with the pistol butt that he tumbled out of his chair. Then he sat down and tried counting the rosettes in the ceiling frieze. At every attempt the name came back more and more distinctly. Finally he looked down and thought awhile, whereupon he went into the kitchen and opened several of the drawers. When he found what he was looking for he carefully switched off the light and strode down to the far end of the hallway where he opened a narrow cupboard and rolled the tinfoil he had just found into a big ball.

Then he screwed one of the fuses out of the electricity metre, switched off the main switch, and switched it on again after quickly replacing the fuse with the tinfoil.

The old man was still lying on the floor when Gerhart heaved the cord of his desk lamp out of its socket. Then he separated the two uninsulated wires and replaced the plug in the socket. The old man groaned a little as he was lifted back into his chair. The two looked into each other’s eyes for some time. Stich’s were just as red as the time he’d stood wide-eyed under the hospital shower.

But they registered no fear.

Peter Stich looked intently at the pistol and then at the wires Gerhart had stretched towards him. He shook his head and looked away. After a couple more blows to the chest he was too weak to resist. Gerhart pressed the exposed ends of the electric wires into each of his soft palms. Then he stretched the toe of his shoe over towards the switch on the wall. It crackled faintly as Gerhart kicked it on. The old man dropped the wires the instant he received the shock, so Gerhart switched off the current, stuck
the wires more firmly into Stich’s fists and repeated the procedure. After the fifth jolt the old man’s throat began to rattle and he fell to the floor, unconscious, his breath irregular.

The belt had left practically no marks on his wrists. Gerhart Peuckert removed it carefully and replaced it around the old man’s waist.

The carpet had been pushed so far up against the wall behind Andrea that it almost covered her. Crumpled curtains and overturned potted plants were strewn on top of the carpet so that only Andrea’s ankles and shoes stuck out. She still made no sound when Gerhart dragged her over to her husband. He placed them hand in hand, face to face, as though they’d lain down to rest.

The spittle in the corners of Stich’s mouth was almost dry when Gerhart opened it and inserted the ends of the wires. Then he stroked Andrea gently on the back of her hand and her cheek. Having looked at her expressionless face one last time he flipped the switch down. The instant the shock wave reached her, Andrea opened her eyes, horror-struck. The resulting muscle spasms caused her to clutch her husband’s hand tighter. He stood for a while, regarding his tormentors’ final twitches, until there was a slight smell of burnt flesh. A faint metallic clank from Stich’s watchband could be heard as his hand fell to the floor. The hands of the watch continued resolutely on their rounds. It was precisely seven o’clock.

Gerhart went over to the corner and rearranged the curtain and carpet. For a moment he stood looking passively at the plants lying up against the wall, whereupon he brushed the loose earth under the carpet and put the plants back on the windowsill. Finally he went into the hallway, removed the clump of tinfoil and replaced the fuse. The moment he pressed down the main switch, the fuse sprang with a bang.

Not until he was sitting in the dark living room and everything was quiet did he begin to cry. The combined impression had
been too massive, too varied. He had let himself go to such an extent that the immediacy of actions and words was beginning to paralyze him. Then, just as his thoughts were again starting to spin with a centrifugal force, the telephone rang.

Gerhart lifted the receiver. It was Kröner.

‘Yes…?’ he mouthed hesitantly in German.

‘I found your note, Peter. You needn’t worry, I’m prepared. On the other hand, I haven’t been able to find Petra. I’ve searched everywhere. She’s not at home or at the sanatorium. I’ve told
Frau
Billinger to phone me as soon as she turns up there. I’m at home now.’

Gerhart breathed deeply. It was far from over. He formed the words slowly before uttering them.

‘Stay where you are,’ he finally said, replacing the receiver.

Even though Petra felt like screaming with frustration, she didn’t. For the most part, the tall woman by her side had been quiet and pale, but composed. Their search on Schlossberg had been without result. The sun had slowly set as they searched around the colonnade in hopes of finding some clue that might indicate the outcome of the afternoon’s meeting. Petra stood for a while in the reddish glow that accentuated the contrasts and contours of the town beneath her, trying quietly to understand and sum up her impressions of the past couple of hours.

‘If your husband is English, then what was he doing in Freiburg during the war?’ she asked at length.

‘All I know is that he was a pilot and was shot down over Germany together with one of his friends,’ came Laureen’s quiet reply. Suddenly it was so simple and comprehensible. There were so many things that had become easy to explain, it made Petra dizzy. At that moment she could have screamed. In the wake of this revelation new questions were bound to arise.

Questions of such a nature that they had to remain unanswered for the time being.

‘And this friend, could he be Gerhart Peuckert?’ she asked, nonetheless. That was just one of the questions.

Laureen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows?’ she said. Apparently she only had thoughts for her husband.

Petra looked up at Schlossberg and a flock of black, robust birds that were all trying to land in the same treetop. Suddenly she realised how critical the situation really was. The three men who had been playing with her and Gerhart’s lives for years stood between the two women and the answers. The first step towards finding the truth inevitably involved a confrontation with them. If there had ever been any doubt about that in Petra’s mind, it was gone now. Laureen’s husband must be
in grave danger. That is, if he wasn’t dead already. Petra had to keep this realisation to herself for the time being.

And that, too, made her feel like screaming.

The receptionist at Bryan’s hotel was practically friendly. ‘No, Mr Scott has not checked out yet. We definitely expect him to stay until tomorrow.’ The next question made him rack his memory in vain. ‘As far as I can remember, Mr Scott has not shown up all day. But I could phone and ask my colleague who was on duty before me,’ he added without interest, but kindly. ‘What do you ladies say to that?’

Petra shook her head.

‘May I borrow your telephone?’ she asked, following the clerk’s indifferent wave towards the pay phone behind them.

It was a long time before anyone answered.

‘
Kuranstalt
Saint-Ursula.
Frau
Billinger speaking,’ came the voice.

‘Good evening,
Frau
Billinger. This is Petra Wagner.’

‘Yes…?’

‘I’m a bit late today; perhaps Erich Blumenfeld is worried. Is he all right?’

‘Yes, why ever not? Indeed, he is. Oh – apart from the fact that he misses you, of course.’
Frau
Billinger sounded strangely animated. Almost as if she’d just been given another bottle of port by the grateful relative of a patient.

‘Hasn’t Erich had any visitors today?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Have neither Hans Schmidt, Hermann Müller nor Alex Faber been there yet?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve not been here the whole day, but I don’t think so.’

Petra hesitated a moment. ‘And there hasn’t been an English-speaking gentleman to see him, either?’ she continued.

‘An English-speaking gentleman? No, I’m sure there hasn’t. But we did have a visitor today who spoke English, now that
you mention it. But I believe he was Frau Rehmann’s guest, and that was several hours ago.’

‘You don’t remember his name by any chance,
Frau
Billinger?’

‘Goodness, no. I don’t even think I heard it mentioned. When are you coming,
Fraülein
Wagner?’

‘I’ll be there soon. Just tell Erich that.’

Occasionally the three men and Gerhart were together on Saturdays when they’d go for a drive. Sometimes they even drove as far as Karlsruhe or out to one of the villages near Kaiserstuhl to have a drink at the local inn and sing
lieder
. In these situations Gerhart would sit in their merry company for hours without moving a muscle.

Petra was relieved to hear that wasn’t the case today. As long as Gerhart was at the sanatorium she could concentrate on helping Laureen and thereby possibly herself.

‘What did you ask her, Petra?’ Laureen spoke even before Petra had replaced the receiver. Petra looked at her. It was the first time she’d called her by her first name.

‘I simply asked how Gerhart Peuckert was. He’s all right. But I found out something I can’t quite understand.’

‘And that is…?’

‘I think your husband was at the sanatorium at some point today.’

‘I don’t understand. If he has already found this Gerhart Peuckert at the sanatorium – this man he’s been trying so hard to find – and Peuckert’s still there, then where has he been the whole time? Where is my husband now, if not there?’

‘I don’t know, Laureen.’ She took the tall woman’s hands and squeezed them. They were cold. ‘Are you sure your husband doesn’t want to hurt Gerhart?’

‘Mmm…’ Laureen didn’t seem to hear the question. ‘Tell me, couldn’t we go to my hotel now?’

‘Do you think he could be there?’

‘If only I did. Bryan has no idea I’m in Freiburg, unfortunately. No, there’s something I simply can’t put off any longer, damn it!’

‘What’s that?’

‘I have to change these shoes. My blisters are killing me!’

It was a rapturous and slightly tipsy Bridget who entertained Petra in Hotel Colombi’s lounge while Laureen was up in her room changing into some worn-out shoes. Petra kept glancing at her watch impatiently. She was at her wit’s end.

‘I really oughtn’t be relating such things when my sister-in-law’s listening,’ Bridget said distractedly, noticing Laureen as she strode out of the elevator and headed over to sit down with them again. Laureen pointed at her watch and Petra nodded. ‘I’m almost ashamed to say so,’ Bridget continued, unperturbed, ‘but God, aren’t the men in this town gorgeous?’

‘You’re completely right,’ said Laureen. ‘You shouldn’t say such things while I’m around. If you’re up to something I can’t pass on to my brother, I don’t want to know about it.’

Bridget blushed.

‘What do we do now, Petra?’ Laureen asked, ignoring her sister-in-law.

‘I don’t really know…’ Petra wasn’t looking at her. ‘I think we’ll have to phone one of those three awful men.’ Petra almost bit her lip. ‘If I’m not mistaken, we’ll find Peter Stich at home. He’s sure to know what’s going on.’

‘Who’re you going to phone?’ Bridget looked curious. ‘Peter Stich? Who is this guy?’ Her face lit up for a moment. ‘What exactly are you up to, Laureen?’

She hardly deigned to look at her sister-in-law. ‘Do you think that’s wise, Petra?’

‘What else can we do? Your husband’s not at his hotel. We have no idea where he is. The only thing we know is that a couple of hours ago he was on his way up to Schlossberg to meet these men. What else can we do?’

‘We could phone the police.’

‘But we’ve got nothing to report.’ Petra looked at Laureen. ‘We can’t even report him missing.’

‘Then phone those men, Petra. Do what you think is best.’

As Petra went to find the phone box in the lounge Bridget took her sister-in-law’s hand. Her voice was trembling as she explained. ‘I must speak to you, Laureen. You’ve got to help me. I have to get out of this marriage. Sorry, but that’s just how it is. Don’t you understand?’

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Laureen replied, noncommittally. ‘It’s your life, Bridget. Right now I’ve got enough going on my own life. Sorry, but that’s just how it is!’

Bridget’s lips quivered a moment.

When Petra returned, she shook her head. Laureen had already guessed, judging by her expression.

‘I only managed to get hold of Peter Stich’s bitch of a wife. She was alone, so something’s got to be wrong.’

‘What about Kröner and Lankau?’

‘I couldn’t get hold of them either.’

‘What does all this mean?’ Laureen could feel the unease growing.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It sounds as if you’re playing hide-and-seek with someone.’ Only a little ring of mascara under one eye revealed Bridget’s own personal quandary. She smiled her best smile, which she always did when she didn’t understand anything.

‘Hide-and-seek?’ Laureen glanced at Petra. It was nearly a quarter to seven, almost five hours since Petra had spoken to Bryan in the wine bar. The three men apparently had the situation under control. They could be anywhere. ‘Is hide-and-seek what we’re playing now, Petra?’

‘Hide-and-seek?’ Petra looked at her. Laureen could feel her desperation growing. ‘Perhaps…’ Petra said. ‘Yes, you might as well call it a kind of hide-and-seek.’