`What's it like round here at five in the morning?' the Englishman asked.
`Quiet as the grave – which is why Fergusson found his grave within feet of where you stand. I checked back with the two patrolmen who hauled him out. Jogged their memories a little. A yellow BMW drove across that bridge over there minutes before they walked down here. And, Newman, I have your gun inside this brief-case. Plus a hip holster. 7.65 mm. Luger. You can handle it?'
`I've practised with it, yes…'
`Get close to the border and you may get plenty for real… `And why,' Tweed enquired over his shoulder, 'should we find ourselves near the border, Otto?'
`You never can tell.' Kuhlmann shrugged. 'You're exactly thirty miles away from a Soviet tank battalion now…'
`And the Luger,' Newman enquired. 'Do I have a permit?'
`Take this.' Kuhlmann produced a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. 'You get into a shoot-out, show this to the state police. They won't like it but they'll check with Wiesbaden – confirmation will come back fast.'
`Which will keep me out of gaol?'
`No guarantee.' Kuhlmann grinned, a wide grin showing all his teeth. 'Depends who you shoot, the where and the when…'
`You're such a comfort…'
'Who knows? I'll probably be pretty close to you. Use your own judgement. Your reputation is good. How else do you protect our friend? Now, if you've finished staring at that stretch of water, let's get back to the Four Seasons. I'll hand over the weapon – with ammo – in your hotel room.'
They took a cab to the St Pauli district from a stand near the Jungfernstieg landing-stage at ten at night. Tweed had told Newman he didn't want the cab driver to be able to say they had come from the Four Seasons.
`And things don't warm up in Ziggy's place till getting on for midnight. If my timing is right, he'll be there, but not yet involved in his nefarious enterprises…'
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 Lubeck. 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 Lubeck who could tell him
