her way to the ladies' room.
She had changed into the trouser suit behind a locked toilet door. She had used a hand-mirror to adjust carefully the rinsed wig which concealed her dark hair. Inside the large Gucci suitcase were some expensive clothes but it was mainly occupied by a smaller, tartan-covered case.
She had used a steel nail-file to force the locks on the Gucci. When it was found it would be assumed it had been stolen, certain contents taken and then abandoned in the toilet. There was no way the suitcase could be linked with its owner.
She had put on the tinted glasses, filled her new handbag with the contents of the one she had carried earlier, and substituted the Pamela Davis American passport for the Irma Romer Swiss passport. In her handbag was a fresh ticket purchased in advance from Stuttgart to Vienna. The transformation was now complete.
Klara Beck had overlooked nothing. Her actions had neutralised any check which she felt pretty sure would be made on the occupants of the sleeping-car. She was now ready for the final stage of the operation.
Normally Tweed would have been standing on the platform at Ulm during the two-minute stop – and Tweed was the man capable of recognising Claire Hofer. Martel had not only given him a verbal description of the Swiss girl during their meeting at Heathrow; he had backed this up with the passport photo attached to the special card. Instead it was Howard who checked passenger movement.
Claire was waiting on the platform when the Summit Express came in. She carried a small suitcase and her handbag. And she wore a pair of glasses with plain lenses which gave her a studious air. When the train stopped she approached the entrance to the first-class coach and showed her ticket to the waiting official.
'And your passport, Madame – or some other form of identity,' another uniformed official requested.
Claire produced her Swiss passport and this immediately satisfied the German. She climbed aboard and began moving along the corridor glancing into each compartment. The first one with only a single passenger was occupied by a tall man wearing lederhosen – the leather garb seen so often in Bavaria. His hat was tipped over his eyes and he appeared to be asleep.
She went inside, closed the door and heaved her case up on to the-rack. The fact that it was a smoker had influenced her choice. And she wanted a quiet compartment so she could think. Inside the next compartment – only a few feet further along the corridor – sat another lone passenger, a woman carrying a passport in the name of Pamela Davis.
'What a pleasant surprise, Miss Hofer…'
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hand slid to the flap of her handbag which contained the 9-mm pistol. The tall man tipped back his hat as he spoke softly.
'No need for protection. I'm quite harmless,' he continued. Stupefied, she stared as Erich Stoller stared back at her. The express began moving east again. It was exactly 8.07 am.
CHAPTER 28
Wednesday June 3: o800-o845 hours
'The Blumenstrasse cemetery. I haven't much time…' Martel told the Bregenz cab-driver. 'Where you're going they have all the time in the world… The cab-driver's response was typically Austrian, taking life as it came – and went. But Martel's urgency communicated itself to him and he drove away from the solid wall of buildings along the lakeside at speed.
The Englishman made an effort to contain his impatience. Away to the north the Summit Express was speeding across Germany and, if on schedule, was approaching Ulm. At the eastern end of Lake Konstanz a grey drizzle blotted out the mountains. Through the open window moisture drifted in and settled on his face.
Arriving at the entrance to the cemetery, he paid the fare, added a generous tip and told the driver to wait. Then he plunged into the sea of headstones, his eyes scanning the maze. It was such a long shot -a remark made to him by a gravedigger when he had last been in Bregenz.
But it was the right day. He checked his watch. It was also the right time. 8 am.
'She comes every week without fail,' the gravedigger had told him. 'Always on the Wednesday and always at eight in the morning when no one else is about…'
Martel buttoned up the collar of his raincoat against the rain. The only sound was the low whine of a wind. Clouds like grey smoke were so low you felt you could reach up and touch them.
As the mist parted occasionally there were brief glimpses of the forest on the precipitous Pfander mountain. Then he saw behind a headstone the crouched form of the gravedigger. He was levering his spade, adding to a mound of freshly dug earth.
'Back again, sir.'
The old man had straightened up and turned. His moustache dripped moisture and his cap was soggy. He regarded Martel's expression of surprise with amusement.
'You didn't startle me. Saw you coming soon as you entered the Friedhof. Thank you kindly, sir…'
He pocketed the sheaf of Austrian banknotes Martel had earlier counted from his wallet, then leaned on his shovel. Martel had one hand clenched behind his back, the nails digging into his palm to conceal his frustration. It was no good asking direct questions immediately: that was not the way of the Vorarlberg.
'You work in all weathers?' Martel enquired.
'They don't wait for you on this job…' The gravedigger then surprised him. 'Looking for that woman who comes here each week? She's just coming through the main gate. Don't turn round – the slightest change of atmosphere disturbs her…'
Martel waited and then glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the pallisade of large headstones a woman wearing a red head-scarf was walking briskly. She wore a fur coat and carried a spray of flowers as she headed in a diagonal direction away' from them.
'She's not short of a schilling,' the gravedigger whispered to Martel. 'Saw her in town once – my wife said that fur is sable.' 'Whereabouts in Bregenz?'
'Coming out of a house in Gallus-strasse. Now's your chance.'
The woman was crouched with her back to them laying the flowers on a grave. Stooping low, Martel ran among the maze of headstones which reminded him of huge chess-pieces.
His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he came up behind her and stopped. It was the same grave. In Cones Frieden. Alois Slohr. 1930-1953. The woman stood up, turned and saw him.
'Dear God!'
Panic! A slim, shapely hand clutched at her mouth as she stifled a scream. Large luminous eyes stared at Martel in sheer fright. A reaction which was hardly justified. Startled – yes, Martel would have expected that. But her reaction was too extreme – like that of someone whose dreadful secret had been discovered. He spoke in German.
'I have to ask you certain questions…'
'Questions?'
'Police.' He produced the special pass which gave him access to the Summit Express and showed her only a glimpse. Documents were designed to delude the innocent. 'Security from Vienna…'
'Vienna!'
“I need information on Alois Stohr – as he is called on the headstone…'
Afterwards he could never have explained why instinctively he chose this approach – only another trained interrogator would have understood. 'Seventh sense,' Tweed would have commented tersely.
'Why do you say that?' There was a quaver in the woman's voice. She would be in her late forties, Martel estimated. Still a very handsome woman. She must have been a beauty at eighteen, say. In 1953 when Alois Stohr was buried. 'I come here to put flowers on the grave of an old friend,' she went on.
'A friend who died nearly thirty years ago? You come here each week after all this time? To recall the memory of a friend? The man who died in 1953 when the Vorarlberg was under occupation…' The words poured out of Martel in a torrent as he aimed blind, hoping to strike a sensitive spot. He went on, saying the first thing which came into his head… occupation by French troops – that is, French officers and Moroccan other ranks…'
He stopped.
