With his picture in the paper as a fugitive, his presence at a murder scene would cause the police to draw unfortunate inferences, no matter that the forensics would show the man had been dead hours before Lang's arrival. If necessary, he would explain later. Right now, he needed to disappear.
A quick look confirmed his initial impression: There was only the one staircase, the one that would take him into the living room, where he could hear the investigating cops walking about.
Suppressing the urgency he felt, he walked slowly to the window away from the street, careful to make no sound. It took a second or two to figure out how the window latch worked before he slid it open. Ten or twelve feet below was the compost pile.
Lang was thankful he was not on a farm, where such a pile would contain things a great deal more rank than rotting grass clippings and the remains of last year's vegetable plants. Climbing through the screenless window, he held on to the sill with one hand while pulling the window as close to shut as he could. Not perfect, but at least the police's attention would not immediately be called to a gaping open window in the murder room. If he was lucky, they wouldn't notice it at all.
They would find his prints if they thought to dust a second-story window. It couldn't be helped.
He let go, and the pile of mounded vegetation broke his short fall. Dusting himself off, he looked up into a face staring openmouthed from a neighboring second floor window. Shrieks of alarm followed him as he dashed for the fence's gate.
The police were coming but of the front door as Lang rounded the corner. He pointed to his right. 'Schnell! Er hat da gelaufen!' Quick! He ran that way!
Lang was relying on the theory that any command, if shouted with sufficient authority, would be obeyed by Germans. He was only partially correct. One cop dashed off in the direction Lang had indicated. The other blocked Lang from the street and his car, his eyes narrowing. Lang was certain he was comparing the man in front of him to the picture he had seen in the morning paper.
Reaching for his weapon, the police officer asked in English, 'Who are you and what were you doing in the Herr Professor's house?'
Lang had been made as an American. He apparently growled when he should have spit.
Forgetting his linguistic shortcomings, Lang had the Glock in his hand and pointed at the German's head before the officer could open the flap of his holster. 'Hold it right there. Reach your left hand across your body, take the gun by its butt, and let's see how far you can throw it.'.
Evidently not liking what he saw In the American's eyes, the cop did as he was told.
'Smart man! Now, the same with your radio.'
The radio followed the gun in an arc over the fence behind Lang.
Giving quick glances in the direction in which the other officer had-gone, Lang marched his prisoner to the police car, disabling the unit's radio before using the unfortunate man's handcuffs to secure him firmly to the steering wheel. A short search revealed the hood latch, enabling Lang to reach into the engine compartment and remove the distributor cap, which he tossed after the radio and gun.
Lang then departed in the opposite direction than that in which the other cop had gone.
On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at an apothecary, designated by a sign bearing a mortar and pestle.
Inside, he purchased hair dye, cotton balls, an orthopedic corset, and a pair of premade eyeglasses. A few doors down the street, he finished replacing the clothes in his abandoned suitcase with ill-fitting, German-made jeans designed for no cowboy he had ever seen and Italian knit shirts. He was careful in his selection of sandals and the black socks European men insist on wearing with them.
Anyone looking for Langford Reilly, American, would see a blond man with jowls, slightly obese, wearing normal European leisure clothes. He would no longer resemble the picture on his passport, but that would not be a problem until he departed Europe. The Common Market had essentially abolished borders between its members. On the way back to the car, three police vehicles wailed past, headed in the general direction of Blucher's house. Lang guessed a very embarrassed cop was trying to explain things to his superiors.
He was in the bathroom, applying the hair coloring, when Gurt got back to the hotel.
Noting his purchases spread out on the bed, she said, 'Things did not go well at the Herr Professor's?'
Lang was looking at her reflection behind his in the mirror. 'Keep your day job; you have no future as a comic.'
Her puzzled expression drew an explanation. 'Blucher's dead, killed the same way Don was. The police showed up while I was in the house. I left one of them handcuffed to the steering wheel of his cruiser.'
Gurt did not seem particularly surprised. Getting in trouble with the police was becoming a habit of Lang's.
''And the others?'
'One. He went chasing off somewhere.'
She nodded, slowly digesting the news, before groping into her massive purse and producing a pack of cigarettes.
Turning from the mirror, he frowned as she lit it. 'Those things will eventually kill you.' She ejected a stream of blue smoke. 'Not if you get us shot by the police first.'
Touche.
She glanced around for an ashtray, found one, and deposited the spent match. 'Did you find anything at the professor's house besides the police?'
'Somebody had pretty thoroughly tossed it, papers scattered all over the place. Gestapo showed up before I had time to really look through any of it.'
She sat on the edge of the bed, the hand without the cigarette in it twisting the small glass ashtray around and around. 'I suppose we will be leaving Heidelberg soon.'
He turned back to the mirror to inspect the dye job. 'Shortly. As in 'shortly before the cops can get my picture spread even wider than the newspaper.' '
'And we go where? They will be looking at every airport.'
Satisfied, Lang reached for the hotel's hair dryer. Before turning it on, he said, 'How 'bout a nice drive-say, to Montsegur?'
She stubbed out her cigarette and raised her voice to be heard above the whine of the dryer. 'Why Montsegur?'
He turned to face her, his hair multidirectional. 'If we can find out what this guy Skorzeny was looking for, we may learn why someone wants us dead and who that someone might be.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Berlin (Wilhelmstrasse)
The Reich Chancellery
March 1944
Adolph Hitler usually worked standing up behind the massive marble desk. Today he was not only on his feet but pacing, waiting for the news that would arrive any moment. Plans for the defense of the French coast, crucial orders for the movement of troops, could wait just as he, the most powerful man in Europe, possibly the world, had waited.
Although he was expecting it, the knock at the door of his office made him jump.
An immaculately clad SS Feldwerbel, sergeant, stood in the doorway, arm outstretched in salute. Well over six feet, his blond hair and blue eyes could have been taken from a recruitment poster had the SS needed to seek members. 'Mein Fuhrer!' he almost shouted, eyes locked onto a spot several feet above Hitler's head, 'Reichsfuhrer Himmler!'
Small by comparison, Heinrich Himmler entered, giving the same salute as the sergeant withdrew, quietly shutting the door. The light from the windows reflected from Himmler's glasses, making it impossible for Hitler to see the man's eyes. He was dressed in the black dress uniform of the SS: pressed jodhpurs stuffed into jackboots that gleamed with polish, a blouse resplendent with party, rather than military, decorations. The most feared man
