Probst bent to his file again. ‘What evidence we have been able to gather leads us to believe the children were picked up, usually on a road, and taken by car to the murder site, which presumably had been selected in advance. In the first two instances, the girls appeared to have been either choked or stunned into submission prior to the sexual assault. But in the four subsequent cases traces of chloroform were discovered in the lungs of the victims.’
The inspector looked up. ‘This evidence of a refinement in the killer’s technique, if I can put it that way, seemed particularly sinister to us, as no doubt it will to you. As policemen we are well aware of how dangerous such men become once they develop a method in which repetition predominates.’
He paused, moistening his lips, and then spent the next few moments rearranging the papers in his file. Observing him, Sinclair realized that the Berlin policeman’s dry, precise manner was to some extent a mask: that although engaging in a bald recital of facts, he was in reality deeply disturbed by what he was telling them.
‘Our first two killings took place in Prussia, neither of them very far from Berlin itself.’ Probst resumed his account. ‘The third occurred in Bavaria, in the Munich region. Unfortunately, the connection between these three murders was not noted at once. As I’m sure you know, Germany has no unified police force, nor any central organization like Scotland Yard, which can coordinate inquiries. The states and Lande act on their own account. Regrettably, we have been slow in exchanging information.
‘However, with the fourth and fifth murders, which were again in the vicinity of Berlin, it finally became clear that we were looking for a single killer and since then the Prussian and Bavarian authorities have been cooperating closely. And it was the sixth murder, in April this year, also in Bavaria, that provided us at last with a lead of some substance. Though I fear that whatever advantage we gained has turned out to be at your expense.’ He favoured his listeners with a wry look.
Bennett frowned. ‘I take it you mean this man has now transferred his activities to England?’
‘Yes, to us it seems likely that the inquiries we set in motion may have forced him to seek his victims elsewhere. But even here the situation is unclear.’ Probst tapped the table once more. ‘There is a mystery surrounding this man.’
In the silence that followed this remark the long drawn out, mournful note of a foghorn sounded from the river below. Sinclair sensed Bennett’s growing discomfiture at the direction the conversation was taking. He stepped in.
‘A lead of substance, you said. Tell us about that, Inspector. What happened with the last murder? In Bavaria, was it?’
‘Yes, the victim in this case was the child of a farmer in the Allershausen district, north of Munich. Her body was found in a wooded area not far from the main road. The crime came close to being witnessed. A woodcutter’s wife was walking through the forest and heard the child’s cries, followed by the sound of heavy blows. Guessing that some act of violence was taking place, she was on the point of running back to her house to seek help when she heard someone approaching. Terrified, she hid herself, lying face down, too frightened even to lift her eyes as whoever it was went by. When it was quiet again, she looked up and saw the figure of a man a little way off. He was on his knees, with his back to her, bending over a stream that the woman had just crossed herself. He was naked from the waist up.’
‘Naked!’ Arthur Holly came to life with a growl.
‘He had taken his shirt off…’ The inspector hesitated. ‘One must understand this woman’s state of mind at that moment. Complete terror would not be too strong a term to describe it. She saw only that his arms were spattered with blood and that he was washing himself off in the stream, both his arms and his chest, though of course she couldn’t see his front.’
‘Nor his face, either, I imagine?’ Sinclair sensed, rather than heard, Bennett’s faint sigh of relief at that point.
‘No, alas! A moment later she ducked her head down again and remained like that, unmoving, until she heard him coming back along the path where she lay, hurrying, but not running. Only when she was sure he was no longer anywhere near did she get to her feet and run back to her own house, which was a mile away.’ Probst looked up and caught Sinclair’s eye. ‘When we received a report of this incident from the Bavarian police – I mean those of us in Berlin who have been concerned with this investigation – we felt despair. It seemed a golden opportunity to identify our man had gone begging. But in fact the woman saw more than she realized.’
The chief inspector grunted. ‘I’ve known that happen,’ he remarked.
‘Under repeated questioning by Munich detectives this woman was able to add some crucial details to what she had first said. Interestingly, from the start she referred to the man she saw as a “Herr” – a gentleman, if you like – and finally it came out that the reason she thought so was because of his clothes. She had caught a glimpse of his jacket, which was on the ground beside him, with his shirt, and also his shoes, and they must have impressed her as being of good quality.’
Probst raised his hands in a weighing gesture. ‘It wasn’t much to go on, but the detectives went to work all the same. Since the murder took place near a main road – in fact, it’s the most direct route from Munich to Berlin – they assumed the killer had been travelling on it when he came on his victim. But in which direction? North or south? If he was going south, to Munich, there was little chance they could track him down. He would soon be swallowed up in the city. But heading north, the situation was different.’ The inspector paused. ‘Remember, by this time we had linked these crimes and we knew that the murderer must have spent a good deal of time during the past two years in and around Berlin. So it was reasonable to assume that if he drove north after killing the girl he was in fact returning to the capital.’
Probst took a deep breath. His long day seemed finally to be catching up with him and he took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow.
‘One of the Munich detectives had an idea. Since the murder had occurred between ten and eleven in the morning, why not drive north along the Berlin road for two hours and then look for likely places where the killer might have stopped for lunch? This they set out to do. Hotels, inns, restaurants. All within a twenty-mile stretch of road were covered and the same question was asked in each place: did anyone remember a well-dressed man eating on his own that day?
‘And it didn’t stop there. Police notices were placed in newspapers asking any motorist who was on the road that day to come forward. The same thing was done in Berlin. When I tell you the response was overwhelming, you may perhaps be amazed, though you should not be.’ Probst’s blue eyes glinted behind his spectacles. ‘We Germans are a law-abiding people. Overly so, some might say. Appeals from authority seldom fall on deaf ears. A considerable number came forward not only to report their own presence on the road that day but to inform us of others they had noticed and remembered. In this way we were able to form a surprisingly full picture of who was eating in these various establishments and to eliminate most of them by cross-checking. We were left with a handful of men who remained unidentified and who had not come forward of their own accord. Of these, one in particular caught our attention.’
The inspector paused to take a sip of water. Bennett glanced automatically at his watch. The sound of foghorns had continued intermittently during the long recital they’d been listening to, the plaintive notes sounding from near and far, echoing up and down the busy river.
‘This man had been noted by several of our voluntary witnesses who had eaten lunch at a roadside hotel near Nuremberg. He was reckoned to be in his forties, and had sat alone at a table in a corner reading a book while he ate. Neither the waitress who served him nor our other witnesses were able to give a satisfactory description of him. This wasn’t surprising, however. Unusual features are sometimes remembered: a large nose, say, or a scar. But unless we have particular reason to look at a person we generally form only an impression of him… yes? And the impression of all was that there was nothing out of the ordinary about this man’s appearance. He had sat with his head lowered, reading his book. Even the waitress didn’t remember meeting his glance. He ordered, ate quickly, paid and left. Our attempts to obtain some sort of picture of his face, using the services of an artist, failed completely. Some of the witnesses were unable to offer any suggestions; others produced images that differed so much, one from another, they were quite useless for practical purposes.
‘One thing only about him seemed unusual… noteworthy.’ Grimacing, Probst nodded to himself. ‘It hardly counted as a clue. It was too vague… too imprecise. And we only returned to it later, after we’d received word from the international commission about your inquiry. It was something the waitress said in her original deposition.’ Probst paused. He looked at them keenly. ‘Asked where this man might have come from – whether she’d recognized any regional accent in his voice – she said she had not. “He didn’t seem to be from anywhere.” That was her exact reply, translated from the German. We asked our Bavarian colleagues to question her again, and this time she was a little more specific.’
The atmosphere around the table had grown tense. Alerted by a new note in the inspector’s voice, Bennett leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on the German detective’s face. Probst had paused once more, perhaps to underline the importance of what he was about to say. Now he continued.
‘She said she wondered if he was German at all.’
‘She meant he was a foreigner?’ Sinclair found his tongue before the others. A glance at Bennett showed him sitting sphinx-like. Holly, beside him, scowled.
‘Perhaps, though she didn’t say so. Not in so many words. The man’s German was faultless, you see – at least to her ears. No, we’re back with impressions. She just had a feeling he wasn’t one of us.’ The inspector shook his head regretfully. ‘Earlier, as I say, we hadn’t given much importance to this aspect of her evidence. After all, she seemed so unsure herself. But after news of your inquiry reached us, we had cause to think again.’
Probst removed his pince-nez. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze finally coming to rest on the assistant commissioner.
‘It’s our belief the newspaper campaign we launched caused this man to flee Germany, Sir Wilfred. No murders of the kind we’ve been discussing have been reported in my country for the past six months. In the meantime, however, it would appear he has become active here. Remembering what the waitress in that hotel had to say, and given that he chose to come to this country, rather than another, I submit there is a question we must all ask ourselves: Could this man we are seeking be English?’
Bennett leaned back in his chair, the gold links of his watch chain glittering against his dark waistcoat. As the afternoon wore on and the gloom of the foggy day outside deepened, the lights in the assistant commissioner’s office had grown brighter. He stifled a yawn.
‘This has been a long day, and we all have much to reflect on. I don’t know about you, but I’d welcome a good night’s sleep. I suggest we meet again in my office tomorrow morning so that we can lay the groundwork of our future cooperation, before Inspector Probst returns to Berlin.’
Sinclair was relieved to hear Bennett’s words. For some time now he’d sat silent, puffing at his pipe, reluctant to take any further part in what he increasingly viewed as a charade. Earlier, there had been a break in the proceedings; the interval had been proposed by Sir Wilfred on the ground that there were one or two unrelated, urgent matters awaiting his attention that couldn’t be delayed, a pretext so transparent, at least to Sinclair’s eyes, that he’d wondered whether Probst, too, had seen through it.
But the Berlin inspector had accompanied him without comment to a nearby waiting room reserved for important visitors. His choice of refreshment, offered by Sinclair, had proved to be afternoon tea – ‘in the English manner’, as he put it, with a glint of humour in his blue eyes.
‘At Miss Adamson’s we always had sandwiches and Madeira cake.’
The chief inspector had informed the staff canteen accordingly (while mentally wishing their guest luck with the result) and then returned swiftly to Bennett’s office, where he found the assistant commissioner and Holly sunk in despair.
‘Six murders, he says! And there may have been more. This is a dreadful business, Chief Inspector.’
With that observation, at least, Sinclair had no quarrel. But he had a bone to pick with the assistant commissioner all the same.
‘With respect, sir, why did you tell him we only have two on our hands? It’s virtually certain the Henley case is connected, and the time factor puts a completely different complexion on the matter.’
‘In this instance, “virtually certain” is the operative phrase, Chief Inspector.’ Bennett’s response had been sharp. It was plain he resented the accusing note in Sinclair’s voice. ‘Look, they’ve already guessed the killer might be a British subject. If we tell Probst there was a linked murder in 1929 by a man who then disappeared for three years, during which time a further six killings occurred in Germany, he’s quite likely to ask himself what kind of individual would be in a position to lead such an existence: living first in one country, then in another, and at home in both. And just as likely to come up with an educated guess that he’s a diplomat, or some other accredited person. Until we’re sure about Vane, until we’ve questioned him, I’m not going to allow any hint to surface that the author of these crimes could be a British official.’
‘That’s a sensible precaution, Angus.’ Holly had added his weight to the argument. ‘There’s no point in jumping the gun. Just think of the implications!’
Sinclair had not forgotten them; nor, it seemed, had Probst. And although the German policeman’s point of view, of necessity, differed from theirs, the fears to which he’d finally given expression at the close of the long afternoon were uncomfortably close to those of his British counterparts.