Toll started out bright and breezy, adjusting his glasses as he sat opposite Tweed, who stared back without any particular expression. Then Tweed let rip, castigating the BND chief for sending a British civilian across the border.
`He went voluntarily,' Toll protested. 'And where is my man, Prohl? I've had a talk with Newman downstairs. He's given me invaluable information – about a changed code. And he was very concerned as to the fate of a girl called Gerda. That we may not know for months. We're having a longer chat later…'
`You are not. Newman went through hell behind the Curtain. He was almost caught several times.'
`I regret that. In future I check with you first. But I didn't know he was your employee,' he pointed out.
`He isn't. And I've phoned London – Prohl is flying back to Germany.' Tweed stood up. 'I think in time we will cooperate well together. Let us say goodbye on that positive note.'
He was alone for barely a minute when Kuhlmann returned, sat down and crossed his stocky legs.
`I left you alone until he'd gone.'
`And how did you know he had gone?'
`There's a pressure pad under the carpet outside the door. Someone steps on it, a light is activated in another room.'
`Tricky little place you've got here,' Tweed commented. 'You were talking about Franck.'
`He had a beard. Long hair, too. But the main thing is the beard.'
`I don't quite follow you.'
`Explains something which had puzzled me. Why did Franck go underground for as long as about a fortnight? Now I've got it – he had to hide away while he grew that beard.'
`Say that again.'
`I thought I spoke clearly.' Kuhlmann looked miffed, then he nodded his head. 'Of course, you're still suffering from that mescaline – it was mescaline; Dr Rimek phoned me the results of the analysis this morning.'
He took the cigar out of the corner of his mouth. He spoke with slow, deliberate emphasis. 'I said, why did Franck go underground for about a fortnight? He had to hide away while he grew that beard.'
`I've been an idiot – not seeing it earlier..
`Not seeing what?'
`Wait! You said Dr Berlin is back – did your man actually see him clearly inside that Mercedes?'
'No. I checked that. He has those amber-coloured net curtains inside the car. They were drawn. The chauffeur was driving. He saw a vague outline of a figure in the back, a man who wore tinted glasses – the type Berlin wears..
`So,' Tweed pressed, 'he had no clear and visible view of the passenger in the back?'
`No.'
'I thought not.' Tweed's tone expressed deep satisfaction. 'I predict we won't be seeing Dr Berlin for about another ten days yet.'
`You wouldn't care to explain all this? No? I thought not. Incidentally, you'll be on your own from now on. I have to get back to Wiesbaden. I only stayed here to track down the murderer of those blonde girls. Thanks to Newman, case closed.'
Fifty
`Five hundred kilos of heroin,' Tweed said to Newman as they strolled along the Travemunde waterfront. 'That would cause havoc in Britain. Worse, in some ways, than a couple of atom bombs. Could you load that amount aboard a cruiser like the Sudwind?'
`Yes, if you stacked it to the gunwales. Bit of an exaggeration, but it could be done.'
`Do you think that cruiser you saw approaching the Wroclaw was the Sudwind?'
In the distance, wending her way among the crowds, Diana, wearing a cherry-coloured dress, was heading for the vessel Tweed had named. Behind her ambled Harry Butler, his blue shirt concealed beneath a white lightweight Marks amp; Spencer sweater. Pete Nield strolled on the opposite side of the road.
Butler and Nield had followed Newman's hired Audi in their own hired Fiat on the drive from Lubeck to Travemunde. Newman shrugged in answer to Tweed's question.
`There are so many of these power cruisers in this part of the world now. It could have come from a marina anywhere along the Baltic – here, Kiel, Flensburg. And don't ask me if I could identify the chap in the balaclava who brought his cruiser alongside the freighter. I couldn't.'
`Lack of evidence.' Tweed grunted. 'And now Kuhlmann is going back to Wiesbaden – although I think he's wrong. I can see Ann Grayle. Let's have a chat with her.'
As usual, Ann Grayle was smart as paint. She wore a cream linen V-necked sweater, a navy blue pleated skirt, court shoes and a rope of pearls. Her right hand clasped a glass as she welcomed them aboard.
`And how are you, Bob? Fully recovered?' She eyed Tweed with a dry smile. `So, the claims investigator has come back too – with the delectable Diana. Sit down somewhere – and would you like a drink? It's a punch. I'd better warn you – it carries one hell of a kick.'
`Not for me,' Tweed said hastily. 'Perhaps a glass of orange juice?'
`I'll risk the punch,' Newman said.
`Ben! One glass of punch, one orange juice.'
The head of Ben Tolliver appeared again above the companionway, curious to see who'd come aboard, then vanished. She talks to him like a servant, Tweed thought. Grayle was at her most upper crust as she arranged herself in a canvas seat, crossing her shapely legs.
`This old tub is getting like Piccadilly Circus. I bet Bob didn't tell you he slept on board here two nights ago.'
`Really?' Tweed pretended innocence. 'I'm sure he found it to his liking.'
`And that's a dirty remark if ever I heard one. Piccadilly Circus, I said. I had the oddest visitor the night Bob came aboard – not thirty minutes before he arrived.'
`Who was that?' Tweed enquired.
`I don't know. Said his name was Andrews, but I didn't believe that. Nearly scared me over the side. All those bandages.'
`Bandages?' Newman interjected.
`Yes, like someone just out of hospital. Maybe he was. His whole face was covered in them – except for the eyes and a slit for the mouth. Said he was a reporter, asked me questions about Dr Berlin. Oh, things are livening up. The august Dr Berlin is back. I suppose he'll be meditating in his locked study.'
`He'll be doing what?' Tweed asked.
`Oh, didn't you know?' She paused as Ben appeared with the drinks on a silver tray. 'Ben, that tray could do with a good clean.'
`Then you'll be having a little job waiting – when you can get round to it.'
She glared as Ben served the drinks and disappeared down the companionway. Tweed had studied Tolliver as he handed round the glasses. The red complexion, the blue-veined nose of the hardened drinker. Whisky, probably. The tropics encouraged its consumption, the way of life he'd enjoyed in the 'good old days'.
`As I was saying,' Grayle continued, 'whenever he returns from one of his mysterious trips to God knows where, Dr Berlin locks himself in his study and meditates. None of your bogus guru nonsense which was popular not so long ago. He simply wants to be alone. Like Garbo, I suppose.'
`How do you know this?' Tweed enquired.
`He sacked one of his servants. A German who drank like the proverbial fish. He told Ben all about it in a bar one night. Shortly after that, he disappeared. Never been seen around since.' She raised her eyebrows, took a sip of her punch. 'A sinister disappearance some people said.'
`And what about this stranger with the bandaged face? Was he really English?'
`I'm sure he was. From his voice. Said he'd been in a car crash. Only superficial injuries, but mauled all over a bit. I'd have told him to leave – I pretended to fetch a handkerchief, left the drawer open, the one where I keep my gun. And Ben was aboard, doing something to the wheel. I have an alarm button concealed under the bunk I
