Rhinoceros (39 page)

'Slow down, Otto. You're not driving the 1C train . . .'

'Now!' Kuhlmann rasped. 'Herr Blau has murdered
Kurt Kruger in Berlin this morning. Clumsy attempt to
make it look like suicide again. Revolver clamped in his fin
gers, in a manner no one would hold a gun and fire it. . .'

'Hold on. Who is - or was - Kurt Kruger?'

'Only chief aide and closest consultant to the Deputy Chancellor. Travelled all over the globe at the behest of his master.'

'In Berlin, you said. Whereabouts?'

'In the Zoo Garden -
Zoologischer Garten.
A quiet day due to the heat, the stink of animals. Kruger, married, met
his girlfriend there in a secluded spot. Found slumped at
the foot of a tree.'

'Like Jason Schulz - in a park. Did Kruger meet his
girlfriend there regularly?'

'We think he did. The girl's as much as admitted it.'

'So Herr Blau could have followed him over a period to
make sure Kruger kept to his routine?'

'Ja! I mean yes. All hell has broken loose. They want
me to go to Berlin. I've refused, appointed a top detective
to be in charge of the investigation.'

'Any leads at all?' Tweed asked.

'Not a sausage.' Kuhlmann was proud of his command
of idiomatic English. 'Herr Blau is a very careful killer. I've
checked with informants in the underworld. What gets me
is he doesn't seem to be an assassin for hire. Just chooses
his own targets. Which I find very strange.'

'Very strange. It could be the key to his actions.'

'Go on. Tell me.'

'I've got to think it out first.'

'Thanks a lot . . .'

Tweed arrived in the bar on the dot. The Brig was seated behind a small table in a corner: Tweed almost expected
him to check a stopwatch. To his surprise the Brig was
clad in a German jacket, German slacks and a German
shirt open at the collar, exposing his bull-like neck.

'Two double Scotches. On the double,' his host barked
at the barman.

As he sat down Tweed noticed an almost empty glass on
the table. This wasn't the first drink the Brig had enjoyed.
His complexion was a brilliant red, the veins in his nose
prominent.

'I phoned your room during the day but you were out,' Tweed remarked.

'Went to Bremen, didn't I? Shipping. They showed me
a new destroyer. Lots of gimmicks. Played the buffoon. So
they boasted about their new toy. Took more in than they realized.'

'But you're not Admiralty.'

Tweed thought his companion was explaining far more
than he usually did.

'They knew that. Which was why they talked. Got a naval chum back home. Do my bit when I can. Cheers!'

Tweed sipped while the Brig swallowed half the contents
of his glass. Not drunk, he decided, but not sober, either.

'Been to Berlin?' Tweed enquired.

'Berlin?'

'Yes. The new capital of Germany.'

'I know that. Made the odd trip there. State-of-the-art
architecture. Horrible new jargon. It's chaos over there.
Never stop building. Crazy tubes and cubes going up to the sky. Get vertigo. Looking up.'

'It's a comparatively short flight from here to Berlin.'

'Is it? Sort of thing you'd know, I suppose.'

The Brig seemed nervous. He kept looking at the
entrance to the bar, as though he expected the Devil to
walk in.

'How's your investigation going?' the Brig asked when
he'd ordered another couple of double Scotches.

'Not for me,' Tweed said firmly. 'And this one is
mine.'

'You'll accept when I say so,' Barford said in the manner
of addressing an awkward subaltern in the officers' mess.
'And I did ask how your investigation is progressing.'

'What investigation?'

'Oh, come on,' the Brig said roughly. 'You're always up
to your clever neck in an investigation.'

'What do you think about the riots we endured?' Tweed asked suddenly.

'Riots.' He took a long drink - while he thought out how
to react, Tweed said to himself. 'Shoot the lot of them, I
would - and not with rubber bullets. We've gone soft. What we need is strong government. We . . .'

He faded out. Tweed felt he had pressed a button.
Someone came into the bar. The Brig jerked his head
to see who it was. Just a relief barman coming to take
over. Visibly, the Brig relaxed. Tweed stood up.

'I must go now. Thanks for the drink.'

'Do it again. Do it again. Soon . . .'

For the first time since he had sat down, Tweed suspected
the Brig was nothing like as drunk as he'd pretended to
be. At the exit he turned round, just in time to see Barfbrd
getting up, striding across to the bar to demand more
service. No sign of a stagger. He'd moved as erect as the
soldier he had once been.

In his suite Tweed had just taken another shower and dressed for dinner when there was a tapping at the door.
Paula and Newman walked in, ready for departure. Paula
was clad in a stunning blue, form-fitting belted dress,
slashed on one side up to the knee and with a high collar.

'You look terrific,' Tweed told her.

'Everyone says that.' Her tone was self-mocking. 'Which
means Bob said something similar. What about transport?'

'We're taking a cab,' Newman announced.

'What?' exclaimed Paula. 'To the dock area?'

'Cool it.' Newman put a hand on her shoulder. 'Behind us will be two four-wheel drives. One with Harry at the
wheel and Marler beside him. The second with Nield at
the wheel and, I hope, Mark beside him.'

'But what the devil has happened to Mark?' growled
Tweed. 'I will only take so much more of his mavericking.'

As if on cue there was a knock on the door and when Newman opened it Mark walked in, smiling broadly.

'Hello, folks,' he greeted them. 'Bet you've been cursing
me,' he went on, looking at Tweed.

'I have. Where have you been? From now on you tell
me or you go home.'

'Fair enough. Not going home. I'm wondering whether you're all feeling your age, going soft . . .'

'What does that mean?' Newman bristled.

'In case you've forgotten we knocked hell out of the
thugs during that little escapade at the Turm. I was there,
so maybe I'm losing it.'

'What are you talking about?' Newman demanded.

'I've been spending time keeping an eye on the Renais
sance. Who should turn up late this afternoon? Two
gentlemen you may recall. Barton and Panko. They have a drink at the bar and then leave again on foot. I follow. Still with me?' he asked, grinning at Newman.

'Yes,' Newman said shortly, his tone rather subdued.

'Like I said, I follow. They go to a nearby gym. I
pay the fee, hide myself up in a balcony. Then I watch
Barton beating hell out of a punchball. Did some fancy
footwork, too. While he's doing that, Panko is on his
back, lifting weights. In other words, our friends are back in business.'

'I can't believe it,' Newman said.

'You'd better believe it, buddy,' Mark told him.

'Vernon's men are tough,' Tweed said quietly. 'So we'll have to be tougher.' He quickly explained to Mark who Oskar Vernon was, that he'd moved to the Atlantic. Then
he asked Newman to put Mark in the picture about the
trip to the Fischereihafen.

'I imagine,' Mark speculated when Tweed had explained,
'that when we get to this place you're dining at, the rest
of us stay outside, scatter, take up positions watching the
entrance. I've been down to the docks. At night they won't
be the most fun place to be.'

'They're not,' Paula said, with feeling.

'One more thing I have to tell you before we go,'
Tweed began.

He told them about the call from Kuhlmann, the murder
of Kurt Kruger, confidential aide to the Deputy Chancel
lor. Then he looked at Paula and Newman.

'You realize what that tells us?'

'No,' said Paula as Newman shook his head.
'Well, work it out,' Tweed snapped as he moved towards
the door. 'You have the same data I have . . .'

Paula did not enjoy the journey to the docks. She glanced
back several times and felt better when she saw the
two four-wheel drives following them as the cab entered
Elbstrasse.

Again, she had the illogical fear that the enormous cranes
would topple down on them. She made a point of not
looking at No. 23, the late Dr Kefler's residence. Tweed
did look, saw there was still police tape cordoning off the
property.

The moon was hidden by a heavy overcast and the
humidity was trying. They reached yet another large ware
house located on the river bank and the taxi stopped. The
driver pointed to a side entrance with light streaming out. Tweed led the way inside and an arrow pointed up a long
staircase. Tweed leapt up it. At the entrance Paula had
glanced back, had seen Marler directing his troops to their
positions. The vehicles had disappeared.

'Have you worked it out?' she asked Newman. 'Tweed
said we had all the data. Was he talking about Rhi
noceros?'

'No idea.' Newman replied in his easy manner.

'Or maybe he was referring to the Elite Club?'

'Still no idea.'

'You're not trying,' she accused him.

Tweed was waiting in the reception area just beyond
the top of the stairs. A dinner-jacketed manager had
welcomed him.

'Mr Tweed? A friend of Herr Rondel. You are most
welcome. May I lead the way . . .'

Paula was impressed as they walked inside the converted
warehouse. The restaurant was enormous and on two
levels. The main level was below, stretching across to large
windows overlooking the Elbe river at night. The upper
level, like a narrow balcony, was smaller. The place was
packed with people, the men wearing either dinner dress or business suits while the women, many very attractive,
wore a variety of expensive evening dresses. The restaurant
was a hive of activity, with waiters moving rapidly among the tables. The atmosphere was joyful, a constant chatter, clinking of glasses. The manager led them to the balcony,
paused by a table near the far end, pulled out chairs
and they settled in. Tweed had a chair at the edge of
the balcony. Paula was given the position opposite him
while Newman sat next to her. Tweed told a waiter his
suggestion was acceptable. Champagne.