Authors: Andrew Williams
Wolff took the ticket but not his change and ran helter-skelter through the barrier and down two flights of stairs to the lower level, pausing only to confirm the platform number. The passengers were aboard the train, the railroad workers uncoupling the electric locomotive that had guided it through the city’s tunnel. Was Hinsch at a window? He had seven yards to cross from the shadows at the bottom of the stair to a carriage. The guard’s whistle reminded him they were at war – would it always? – and the heavy clunk of doors:
Damn it, just get on, why don’t you?
There were only four carriages. Wolff walked quickly to the second. Was Hinsch even on this train?
he wondered, as the engine took up the slack, and then: it’s the final nail if he sees me. But it didn’t matter really. Hadn’t he decided already there was nothing to lose? Then he remembered Laura.
T
HERE WAS NOTHING
to do but wait – wasn’t that most of a spy’s life? Thankfully this was on a broad leather bench in the parlour carriage, comfortable in the best tradition of the Royal Blue Line. Wolff glanced at his wristwatch – a gift at Christmas from Wiseman. It was an hour and a half to Washington so he would be arriving after dusk. Until then he couldn’t even be sure he was travelling on the same train as Hinsch. Better to sit tight than risk giving himself away. He’d noticed on the station board there were stops – Relay, Annapolis Junction, Laurel – but he didn’t expect a saboteur to have any business in a small town. All the same, he kept a close eye on the platform at Relay. Beyond it the train rumbled pleasingly through flat grassland dotted with neat brick and white weatherboard farms, the low sun blinding in the glass. A conductor punched his ticket. Two suited men and a sailor left the train at the next junction. Then onwards, gathering speed, but only for a few minutes before slowing again. ‘Laurel. This is me,’
the middle-aged lady opposite said, encouraging him with a pointed look at her portmanteau. ‘I should have put the thing in the van but it’s such a short distance.’ Wolff was still hauling her bag to the carriage door when they chuffed into Laurel.
‘You’re so kind,’ she drawled in a Dixie voice. ‘My brother will be here to take it, I’m sure.’
Stooping to the window, he could see a file of people emerging from the little brick station, some with luggage, others to meet passengers, their faces lost in shadow. An old railroad worker was pulling a trolley along the boardwalk platform. Parked in the yard at the side of the station were a buggy, a wagon and two automobiles. With a hiss and hollow groan, the train came to a stop. Seconds later a barrage of opening and closing doors, and the Southern lady was urging Wolff to step down to the platform. He was turning to make an excuse when Hinsch swept past the window. Fortunately his gaze was fixed on those who’d already left the train.
‘Are you going to help me, sir?’ the lady prompted him, her voice rising in agitation. ‘If not, perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of calling Joe the stationmaster for me.’
That wouldn’t be necessary, he assured her. He was leaving the train too, and pulling the brim of his hat lower, he lifted the bag on to the platform, then offered his hand to her: ‘Madam.’
She gave him a coy smile. She was of an age when, in Wolff’s experience, a woman was most likely to be grateful for the attention of a younger man, and it suited him well enough to offer it. Bending over her bag, he shuffled sideways in time to see Hinsch shake hands with a smartly dressed man at the station door. Hat, mackintosh, about five-ten, slim build, but at thirty yards and in shadow, it wasn’t possible to distinguish his features. His cramped shoulders suggested he was ill at ease, and he may have said something of the sort because Hinsch turned to look back along the platform. If he noticed Wolff and his new lady friend, he thought nothing of them because his gaze did not settle, and a second later he was distracted by a blast of the train’s klaxon, like the trumpeting of a dying elephant.
‘Is everything all right?’ she enquired. ‘Look, he’s here at last.’ Stalking towards them was a well-built young farmer, to judge from his clothes. She scolded him, then introduced him as ‘Tom Brown, like the schooldays’ – fishing for Wolff’s name in return. ‘Curtis,’ he said. Over the farmer’s shoulder he saw Hinsch conduct his associate into the ticket office.
The train began to trundle out of the station and those who had left it were making their way down badly lit steps at the back of the building on to the street, or to the vehicles on its west side.
‘Will you be staying in Laurel long?’ Miss Brown enquired, patting her hair artfully with a gloved palm. ‘Not long,’ he said, just a little business. He pretended to watch brother and sister walk away, taking in the stationmaster unloading packages from his trolley, the empty platform, and in the vehicle park the one remaining motor car, a Winton; at its wheel a man with jowls and a bushy moustache, eyes closed, chin nodding on to his chest
.
The station door was behind Wolff, facing the platform; there were windows at the front and back of the building, and a large one to the side, its blind half drawn. Crouching to do up a shoelace, he could see beneath the blind into the ticket office and beyond this the glass door of the waiting room. Hinsch was at the stove and his associate went to sit beside him but he had barely settled before he was up again. He was plainly anxious and Wolff guessed the meeting wouldn’t last long. Rising, he slipped out of his overcoat – it was the last thing Hinsch had seen him wearing – and began to stroll along the platform.
‘Washin’ton this side,’ the wizened stationmaster volunteered. He hadn’t replaced the bulb in the lamp above the door and the only light was spilling yellow through the windows.
‘You comin’ in, sit by the stove?’ he asked. ‘Fifteen minutes till the next ’un.’
Later, perhaps, Wolff replied.
The waiting room extended a few feet from the station façade so passengers could gaze along the platform. Wedging his shoulders in the angle of the wall, Wolff was able to peer through a slit window in the side across to the reflection of the room in its main one. Hinsch was still by the stove, his companion standing beside him. They were a thickness of brick from Wolff but it was impossible to distinguish their features in the glass or hear more than the murmur of their voices.
Then the image was moving, the stranger drifting to the window, and Wolff heard him say in German, ‘No. Look, tell Hilken two weeks and not a day longer.’
Hinsch must have replied because the stranger turned to gaze at him, his back still to Wolff. If he moves his head the other way, he might see me here, he thought
.
He was trusting to luck and the deep shadow beneath the hipped roof.
‘I’ll need a ticket and more money,’ the stranger said. ‘Money for Carl too.’
Was he a stranger?
Wolff wasn’t sure. Dark hair, slight wave, strong jaw, slim but tall, heavy overcoat with a fur collar, and something in the way he held himself that was familiar. Perhaps one of the gentlemen at Martha’s, but not a sailor. He would know a sailor.
‘Carl knows what he’s doing, I’ve told you,’ the man said irritably.
Was he Delmar?
The image softened as the man walked towards the stove and out of earshot. But a couple of minutes later he was back, peering up and down the platform this time, his nose to the glass, too close for more than a murky reflection.
‘When did you say your train was due?’ The stranger didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The case is with Carl in the motor car. When we go out there, please don’t mention my plans to . . .’
But the rest was lost as the station door to Wolff’s right swung open, forcing him to step smartly from the corner.
‘Baltimore and Noo York in five,’ the stationmaster hollered as he stepped out to the platform.
He must have drawn the gaze of the stranger at the waiting-room window. Wolff could sense him there. Is he watching me? I should be carrying a suitcase, he thought
.
‘Noo York,’ the old man called once more.
Slowly, stiffly, Wolff ambled along the platform, glancing through the window of the ticket hall. The waiting-room door was ajar: they’d gone
.
He walked on past the old man and his trolley and a military man in a blue dress coat; stepping round the luggage of a young couple who had just arrived and were arguing about timekeeping. A few yards more to the corner of the building and he paused, pretending to consult his watch. He gave an impatient shake of the head and half turned to search the vehicle park at the side of the station. A large motor car was jigging across the rough ground and as it swung right its lamps caught two men dropping down the steps. A few seconds later it came to a halt and Hinsch and his companion crossed its beam again. Wolff watched them walk a little further, to where ‘Carl’ was waiting at the wheel of the Winton. They were only a stone’s throw from the platform but it was too dark to see the stranger’s face. That he was German and involved in something nefarious, Wolff could be sure of. Why else would Hinsch drag his carcase to a place like Laurel? Was this Agent Delmar
?
If Wolff moved closer he was certain to arouse suspicion. And if he didn’t, he had nothing.
He was still weighing the risks when Carl turned on the lamps of the Winton. Stepping into the beam, Hinsch reached into his coat for his money, which he began laboriously counting from his left hand to his right.
That’s right, thought Wolff, play it by the book again. Are you insisting on a signature for Dr Albert?
Wolff could imagine the stranger’s frustration. Help him, my friend, why don’t you?
And as if pulled by invisible strings the stranger stepped forward, snatching at the money. There were angry words, the stranger shaking his head with incredulity. Then he turned abruptly to speak to Carl, his face full in the light and white like an apparition: strong jawline and chin, high brow, thin lips.
And Wolff knew he’d seen the fellow before.
The howling of the klaxon made him jump and drew Hinsch’s gaze up to the platform. He was plainly intending to catch the train because the rest of their business was conducted with some urgency. The stranger opened the passenger door and removed a case from the well in front of the seat. From thirty yards, Wolff could see it was brownish, an unusual shape, perhaps a doctor’s bag, and not heavy because he lifted it from the car with ease. Hinsch took it from him almost gingerly. A final word and a cool handshake, and nodding curtly to Carl he turned towards the steps. The train was pulling in at Wolff’s back, its carriages casting a sickly light on the platform.
The engine came to a stop with a gasp of steam and the stationmaster’s cracked voice was straining to be heard over the clatter of doors and chatter of Washington commuters: ‘Laurel, this is Laurel.’
From the window of the ticket hall Wolff watched as a conductor directed Hinsch to a carriage at the head of the train.
It’s all about the case, Wolff realised. That’s why we’re here.
It was peculiar, about the size of a doctor’s bag, yes, but more rigid. The care with which Hinsch was nursing it was striking. He gripped the handle so tightly his knuckles were white and his arm tense, and he was holding it awkwardly, away from his left leg. As Hinsch climbed to his carriage Wolff turned to race down the station hall and out to the steps above Main Street. The Winton had reached the entrance to the vehicle park. Was Carl going to turn right or left? Careless, Wolff launched himself at the steps, two at a time, brushing someone aside, deaf to protests, eyes fixed on the street below.
What did the occupants of the motor car see? Shadows. Perhaps the silhouette of a man sprawled on the steps and another offering his hand and some frank advice. Was it a patch of ice or just too much ambition in a pair of expensive shoes? His left foot slipping, spinning like a dervish, but falling, cracking his elbow, his hip, then his knee; and the Winton’s number plate was gone before Wolff was able to think of more than the pain in his side.
‘Just piss off,’
he hissed at the man who stopped to a wag his finger. It sounded very English.
By the time he’d limped up the steps the train had left the station. He sat on Hinsch’s chair by the stove and stared into the coke fire, his thoughts drifting through Martha’s rooms, to the union rally in Hoboken and back further to the sea crossing and Berlin. He still had the face; he needed a spark to place it, just a word, an image, an object.
It was the case. No matter how hard Wolff tried to concentrate on other possibilities, his thoughts returned to an image of Hinsch’s associate lifting it from his motor car. He was still considering it when the next train to New York was called. Rocking gently in the parlour carriage, left leg out before him – his suit torn, his knee bloody – he closed his eyes to consider its colour and shape again. The task absorbed him completely. What do I know? he asked himself. That I associate the case in some way with my memory of this man; that they handle it carefully; that he called it a ‘case’ but it looks like a medical bag – is he a doctor? It’s the sort of bag people notice, so why does Hinsch want the thing?
He was asking questions he couldn’t hope to answer. He knew he should concentrate on the one he could.
Wisps of memory like the tails of light from streetlamps as the train raced on: Baltimore, to Aberdeen, Wilmington, Philadelphia – a whirligig – dizzying, round and round in a blur until he heard a cultivated American voice shout ‘Steady’, and suddenly the medical bag was flying through the air on a safety line. There was a seaman’s face at the rail, a grey Channel sky, arms raised in the stern of the pinnace to catch it, and a well-dressed passenger in a coat with a fur collar, turning to glance for’ard for just a second, tired eyes, thin straight lips, square jaw.
Wolff had to stand and walk the length of the carriage. It was you – in the ship’s boat! And the bloody bag. They must have questioned you at Ramsgate. Why? Because you’re a German and an American. But you’d visited Germany. What did they ask you to do, Delmar?
So many questions: ‘When will we visit Herr Hilken?’ – ‘Will you introduce me to Frau Hempel?’
–
and money, always. But what they were doing didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Carl was as happy as a clam, fat fingers squeezing the top of the wheel, peering into the darkness. For Anton, for the money, for Germany, in that order.