The taxi cruised along the Reeperbahn, the neon of the nightclubs a weird glow in gathering dusk, then turned right into the side streets. Newman caught sight of a street sign which read Seiler-strasse, and then lost all sense of direction.
They alighted in little more than a wide alley, Tweed paid off the driver, and led the way with a confident tread. How he was able to find the place Newman could never fathom. In the late afternoon, at Tweed's suggestion, Newman had gone shopping, purchasing German clothes — shirt, tie, sports jacket, slacks, and a pair of socks and shoes.
'A couple of Englishmen might be too much for Ziggy,' Tweed had explained. 'If what I suspect happened, I will have a hard time getting him to talk...'
At that early hour — for the Reeperbahn — the alley was almost empty. A few sailors from a Spanish ship, resplendent in walking out uniform, strolled aimlessly, looking for trouble without too much certainty as to what brand of trouble they were interested in.
Followed by Newman, Tweed mounted two worn stone steps, pushed open an ancient wooden door and walked into a blast of Louis Armstrong trumpeting On the Sunny Side of the Street. Sleazy nightspot, Newman assumed, and then found he was wrong. He stared in amazement.
A powerful smell of oil and resin assailed his nostrils. He appeared to have entered a ship's chandler's office. Tackle of all types for ships was stacked round the walls of the cellar-like room. The place was lit dimly by oil-lamps and coils of rope like snakes in the gloom hung from the cracked ceiling.
The music, Louis trumpeting endlessly on, came from various hi-fi speakers slung at crooked angles from the walls. Ziggy Palewska sat on a three-legged stool behind a bare wooden table, the surface smeared with a variety of dirt. He looked up and his face froze when he saw Tweed.
`Ian Fergusson is dead,' Tweed said, drawing up a ramshackle chair to face the Pole across the table. 'He came here, talked with you, left — and was murdered. I'm not pleased, Ziggy, so don't, please, waste my time...'
`I don't know any Ian Fergusson.' He looked at Newman. 'I have not seen this man before, Mr Tweed.'
Ziggy Palewska was short in stature. He made up for his lack of height by his width. Both facially and bodily he reminded Newman of a monkey. Impossible to guess his age. His brown hair was thinning over his rounded skull. His skin was worn and gnarled, like that of a veteran seaman. His eyes shifted rapidly from one visitor to another. He spoke German with an atrocious Polish accent.
I see.' Tweed tapped his fingers on the table. 'This is going to be difficult — maybe dangerous — for you. I don't like losing one of my finest operatives. I don't like that at all. I thought you would be able to help me by telling me how he spent his last hours on earth. I know he visited you. So you have already lied to me. And you pronounced his name rather well — for an English name you claim not to know. And my friend is Heinz. The trouble with Heinz is he has a short fuse. I'll ask you once more — tell me what you told Fergusson when he came to see you...'
`The name means nothing. I'm a ship's chandler...`And I'm Chancellor of Germany,' Newman interjected. `That's rude...'
Tweed surprised Newman by the swiftness and ruthlessness of his tactics. Normally he showed infinite patience in coaxing information from a suspect. He looked quickly at Newman.
`Heinz, can we turn up Louis Armstrong louder? A wonder with the trumpet, Mr Armstrong.'
Newman, looking very German, trod heavily towards the control panel for the hi-fi. He turned up the volume even louder. The oil lamps flickered, the lamps wobbled with the crescendo of vibration, the dark shadows across the ceiling moved and assumed new shapes. Newman casually extracted the Luger, leaned against a free space of wall and studied the weapon, pointing it at the roof.
'Oh, Christ! You wouldn't...'
Ziggy half-rose from his stool. Tweed slapped the flat of his hand on the bare wooden table top. A sound like a pistol shot.
`Sit down. That's better. We wouldn't what? What time did Ian Fergusson arrive here?'
`About three in the morning. After...' He stopped in mid-sentence.
`After you had completed various illegal transactions,' Tweed said amiably. 'Like a bit of trafficking in drugs. Who told you what to say to Fergusson?' He leaned over the table as he spoke. 'Start talking. Now!'
`The blond giant...' Again Ziggy stopped in-mid-air.
'Oh, I see.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'The blond giant is back in the picture.'
'You know the bastard?' Ziggy asked.
'What name does he use with you?'
'Schmidt.'
Newman laughed unpleasantly. 'Schmidt. Of course.'
'I swear to you he did.' Ziggy was suddenly becoming voluble and the words poured out. 'I had never seen him before. He was a big brute. He threatened me if I didn't tell Fergusson what he told me to say to him...'
'How did he threaten you? Quickly,' Tweed rapped out.
'He was going to burn me.' He pointed to a corner. 'See those two drums of petrol? He brought them here. He said if I didn't do what he said he'd empty them, lock me in and throw a lighted match inside. He knew there was no other way out except for the front door. He must have checked the place out before he came to see me. He left those drums to remind me of what would happen. He said it would look like an accident. These slums burn down all the time, he said. He called my place a slum...'
'I wonder why?' Newman shouted.
The hi-fi sound — rather cracked — filled the place with its crescendo. Tweed looked at the drums. Beyond them an oil lamp shivered as the glass lamp rattled against the brass holder. It was a nightmare Newman had created. The table shook under his hand. Like being aboard a ship in a rough sea.
`Turn it down, for God's sake,' Tweed called out. He waited until he could speak in a normal voice. 'When did this Schmidt call on you?'
`A few hours before Fergusson arrived. He knew he was coming. I had to tell Fergusson — after getting money from him to make it convincing — about Dr Berlin in Lübeck. That he was the man who knew about the East German network in the Federal Republic. That there was a man at the Hotel Jensen in Lübeck who could tell him more. But I didn't know the man's name — only that he is at the Hotel Jensen. That was all.' Some of his normal cockiness came back as Tweed watched him. `How much is that worth? A good few hundred marks, I'd say …'
`He paid you how much?'
`Five hundred.. Ziggy stopped once more in mid-sentence. An ashen colour had replaced his normal pallor. Not a man who took long walks, Newman was thinking, still holding the Luger.
`I see.' Tweed kept his tone judicial. 'For five hundred marks. Less than two hundred pounds. You sold Ian Fergusson's life...'
`I had no idea...'
`Of course you didn't.' Tweed stood up. He leaned over the table close to Ziggy, dressed only in an oil-stained sweater and a pair of stained corduroy slacks. 'You do realize you could be charged by the German police as an accessory to murder?'
`Oh, God, no.' The Pole shrank back from Tweed looming above him. 'I've helped you many times. I can help you again...'
`You might just do that. You still have that concealed cine-camera in the back wall inside the cupboard — the one you use to take porno movies? Don't play with me, Ziggy.'
`I do have a camera. Yes.'
`So, if this Schmidt comes back you could arrange with a bit of help to have him photographed?'
'I wouldn't dare.' He cast a sideways glance at the large petrol drums standing against the wall.
`Then you could always stand your trial for complicity in the murder of Ian Fergusson..
`I'll do what I can. Promise. Can I have a bit of money?' `Your thirty pieces of silver?'
Tweed thrust his hands inside the pockets of his lightweight Burberry. Newman had never seen him look so grim. Ziggy's eyes dropped, he threw his pudgy hands out in a gesture of despair.
`What else could I have done...'
`You could have kept your mouth shut about Fergusson coming to see you.'
The blond was going to burn me...'
'And I won't tell you what will happen if you tell anyone I've been here to see you. Now, you can atone a little for what you have done. Describe this blond giant. Nationality?'
'German.' Ziggy hesitated. Tweed continued staring. 'He was a Saxon. Nasty people, the Saxons. I could tell that from the way he spoke German. I think he's from the East. I can't describe him...'
'Why not? He was standing in front of you. There's not all that much space in this den of iniquity.'
'I can't!' Ziggy protested. He glanced at Newman who was still leaning against the wall, still holding the Luger. 'He wore a woolly cap — like sailors wear — pulled down over his head, huge tinted glasses and a silk scarf pulled up over his chin...'
'Yet you say he was blond,' Newman pointed out.
'A tuft of the blond hair protruded from the back of his cap when he was leaving. He was over six feet tall, built like a house.'
'Age?' Tweed demanded.
'Thirty. Thirty-five. I couldn't say. I'm going by how he spoke. He had a big nose. Clean-shaven. A killer. That I'm sure of. Which is why I was so frightened...'
'Stay that way. Stay frightened. Of us,' Tweed advised and turned on his heel without another word.
Eight
At one o'clock in the morning they sat in Tweed's room at the Four Seasons, drinking black coffee ordered from room service. A double room, it had a separate sitting area, divided off from the sleeping area by a graceful arch.
`Did we learn much?' Newman asked. 'And when we came out of that Pole's -slum I noticed Kuhlmann standing in a doorway alcove, cigar unlit...'
'I know. I wonder when he sleeps? Yes, we learnt what poor Ian Fergusson was trying to tell me. Berlin isn't the city at all — he's the mysterious Dr Berlin who, I understand, spends a part of the year in the ancient city of Lübeck on the Baltic. And that links up with Ian's reference to
Hans
.'
Tweed finished his cup and refilled it. Newman guessed he was being tantalizing. He liked to keep people guessing.
`All right,' he said, 'tell me how it links up. I'm damned if I see any connection..
`Not easy.' Tweed settled himself in his arm chair. 'Ian was trying to say
Hansa
— maybe Hanseatic. In the twelth century a number of northern ports formed a protective association — they reckoned there was strength in alliance. So they formed the Hanseatic League. Lübeck was a leading member of that League. Hamburg, too, for that matter. Ian was pointing the finger at Lübeck, specifically the Hotel Jensen..
`All being information provided via Ziggy by Blondie,' Newman pointed out.
`Yes, but Ian wouldn't have known that. And what do you know about the recluse, Dr Berlin?'
`As much as anyone, I imagine. I once interviewed him — at his house on Priwall Island near Lübeck. As a young man of eighteen he started out in Africa — Kenya, I think. He looked after the natives, a second Dr Schweitzer up to a point. That's over twenty years ago..
`And how did he come to settle in Lübeck?'
`That's a weird story. Berlin didn't want to talk about it too much. I did get out of him that he disappeared from Kenya and the locals thought a wild animal had got him. He made treks into the jungle and had a mission station in a remote spot. Eighteen months went by. Everyone assumed he was dead.'
Tweed sat absorbing the data as Newman refilled his own cup. He drank half the strong black liquid and put down the cup.
`You're intriguing me,' Tweed prodded.
`He turned up in Leipzig — behind the Curtain in East Germany. As you mentioned, he's something of a recluse, a secretive man. I was lucky to get that interview, short though it was. He'd been treated at the School for Tropical Diseases for a rare complaint. Recovered, he crossed over to the West and turned his energies to helping refugees in Schleswig-Holstein. His parents had come from what is now East Germany. After he arrived in the West he said he had slipped across the border. The East German lot said he'd been permitted to go where he liked because of his international reputation. End of story..
`Not entirely satisfactory,' Tweed observed. 'What does he look like?'
`Has a black beard. He first grew that in Kenya. A fanatic for work, he couldn't be bothered wasting time shaving each day. And while I was in the Lübeck area I stumbled over something else you might find intriguing.'
`Try me.'
`In summer — at just this time of year — there's a British colony afloat at Travemünde, the port on the Baltic near Lübeck.'
`Afloat? What does that imply?'
Newman grinned. 'Thought that would get you. They live on a collection of yachts and power cruisers. While at Travemünde they moor at the marinas — for the summer, as I said. And where do you think they hail from? Kenya. They're old hands, relics from the British Empire. Summertime, they sail from the Mediterranean to the Baltic to escape the tourist crowd which infests the Med. Wintertime, they sail up through the Kattegat, down the North Sea, through the straits of Gibraltar and back into the Med for the warmth. Mostly to the Greek islands, some berth in Port Said, others get as far as returning to Mombasa in Kenya through the Suez Canal.'
`They sound a curious crowd...'
`They are! Straight out of Maugham and Noel Coward. The one place they don't like is Britain.' Newman changed his voice, mimicking a plummy falsetto. "My dear, the place has changed so much you'd never recognize it. Simply awful." And they never pay one penny tax.'
`How do they manage that? I think I can see but...'
`They're careful never to be resident in any country for more than a few months. That's why I said afloat. They wander over the oceans — literally ships in the night. Some of them are pally with Dr Berlin...'
`Odd that — for a recluse.'
`Not really,' Newman explained. 'They have common roots — so far as they have roots at all. The old days in Kenya. Berlin himself told me that.'
`What does he do for money? How does he live?'
`Well. In a word. Rumour hath it that certain American foundations support his refugee work.'