`Could you see his hair?' Kuhlmann queried. 'With the hat?' `Blond hair,' Newman persisted.
Kuhlmann spoke rapidly into the microphone, spelling out the description. 'Blond hair,' he ended. 'Probably – that is, the hair colour. Seal off the island now,' he continued in staccato tone. 'Close all the bridges. Road-blocks. Check all cars…'
`And motor-bikes,' Tweed added. 'I thought I heard one start up.'
Kuhlmann included motor-bikes, handed back the mike, then he lit a cigar before he rasped, 'What do you think you were up to, Tweed? Walking the streets – at night, too, for God's sake – by yourself.
'He wasn't by himself,' Newman contradicted. 'I was following him. And we nearly got him..
`And he nearly got Tweed…'
`Are you all right?' Tweed asked Newman.
`Bruised shoulder. The most minor memento I could have expected.' He bent down and picked up the weighted stick.
`I'll take that.' Kuhlmann held out his hand. 'And careful how you handle it. Fingerprints…'
`Don't waste your time,' Tweed advised. 'He wore gloves.' `You had a pretty rough few minutes,' Newman said to Tweed as he brushed dust off his jacket.
`Oh, I don't know. A bit of excitement gets the adrenalin stirring.' He looked at Kuhlmann. 'How did you happen to be in this area?'
`I persuaded the state police to watch you. Unfortunately they waited for me to drive from the local police station to the patrol car which had you under surveillance…'
`You want to know where you might find the owner of that walking stick?' Newman suggested.
`What do you think?'
`Hotel Movenpick. Name of Kurt Franck. No guarantee that he's your man. We never got a good look at his face…'
I'm on my way. Call you later at the Jensen…'
Balkan was on the move. 11.30 p.m. on the beach at Travemunde Strand. He stared straight ahead, like a sleep-walker. His feet made a slushing sound as they trudged through the sand. Lights glowed in the distant multi- storey Maritim Hotel. Most holidaymakers were indoors, drinking in the bars, dining late.
There was only one other person on the long beach. A blonde girl, clad in a two-piece bathing costume, soaking up the peace, the last warmth of the day. Iris Hansen had a date with her new German boy friend. They'd arranged to meet on the beach at midnight and then go dancing.
Iris, her long blonde hair trailing like a waterfall down her nude back, lay stretched out on a towel, leaning on one elbow.
She listened to the gentle lapping of the Baltic on the edge of the shore. Dreamy. A long way off the sound of laughter, the drumming beat of pop music. All night long. That was what he'd promised. They'd dance all night long.
She'd spent three weeks in Travemunde, three glorious baking weeks. To hell with Copenhagen. This was the life. Better than she'd ever hoped for. She just wanted it to go on and on. She heard the slushing sound of feet treading the sand, looked up.
`Oh, it's you. Hello, there…'
He stood over her, one foot on either side of her prone body. She raised an eyebrow, then dropped her eyes. Why not here? Now the only sounds were the lapping water, distant laughter and music. She looked up and her eyes widened in horror. Oh, God. No!
He held the broad-bladed knife in his right hand. Held it high above his head. She opened her mouth to scream and he planted a naked foot over her mouth, stifling the scream. Then the blade descended in a wide arc. It entered just above her breasts. And ripped down. And down. And down…'
`Kuhlmann here…'
Listening to the phone in his bedroom, Tweed detected a note of disappointment. He sat down in his dressing gown and identified himself.
`Your Kurt Franck wasn't at the Movenpick,' Kuhlmann informed him. 'Yes, he's registered here. He came into the bar for a quick drink just before he left. Time 20.00 hours. Half an hour before you walked out of the Jensen. No go…'
`Why not?' Tweed asked.
`Said to the barman he was going out to meet a new girl friend. I checked his dress. He was wearing jeans and a white polo-necked sweater. No shabby two-piece suit. And then I checked the parking lot. He doesn't have a motor-bike. Travels around in a hired BMW. Yellow job..
Did you say yellow?'
`I did. Why?'
`Nothing. I didn't catch the word first time…'
'So it looks like he's out on the town – maybe for the whole night. Not our boy, I'd say. At least today is ending quietly. Be in touch. If anything develops…'
Thirteen
The phone began ringing in Tweed's bedroom. He swore in the bathroom, his face covered in lather, put down the old- fashioned razor he'd used for years, grabbed a towel and ran into the bedroom. Always when he was shaving. The bloody phone. He lifted the receiver.
`Hugh Grey here. Not too early for you, I'm sure. Bright as the proverbial lark, eh, Tweed?'
Grey sounded horribly buoyant and Tweed could just imagine his plump face, the ruddy flush of his skin, the eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. It was a bit much, first thing in the morning.
`What can I do for you?' Tweed asked, wiping soap off his chin.
`I've heard about last night. A nasty experience for you. Not what you're used to…' A reference to the fact that Tweed's place was behind his desk. 'Can I send in the troops?' Grey went on energetically, 'I like to be supportive. Some back-up. OK?'
'No,' said Tweed. 'Thank you, but no,' he said emphatically. `And I'm quite all right, thank you. Leave things the way they are. Anything to tell me?'
'Not over the phone. Business is very active. Results expected shortly. I'll keep London informed. Don't forget – you need anything, call HQ at Frankfurt. Keep chipper. 'Bye for now. My three minutes is nearly up…'
Tweed put down the phone and sighed. The jargon got on his nerves. Can I send in the troops? What did Grey think he was? A bloody field marshal commanding an army? He went back into the bathroom to finish his shave.
He knew the real purpose of the call. To inform Tweed that he was on the ball. Grey must have an informant inside Lubeck – maybe even inside police HQ at Lubeck-Sud. He'd heard about the scuffle in Kolk damned fast. But Lubeck was on the border – an obvious place to watch closely.
He told Newman about the call over breakfast at an isolated table. The reporter finished chewing a piece of roll before he commented.
`How did Grey know you were here?'
`Oh, they all know. I'd much sooner the two of us handled the problem on our own – but I had to let Howard know where they could contact me. New boys, only six months as sector chiefs – I have to be available if something tricky crops up. Hugh Grey is just so bouncy first thing…'
`You have to admit he's efficient. This is his sector. The fact that he knows what's going on so quickly is a tribute to his organization…'
`You're right, of course. Well, we have something positive to look forward to this afternoon. Dr Berlin's party. Diana is late for breakfast.'
`She told me she was sleeping on the Sudwind last night. It saves her driving back and forth. We get there a bit early and pick her up off the cruiser before crossing to Priwall. She's going to introduce us to people at the famous party. I'd like to get there really early,' Newman went on, 'if that's OK by you. I want to interview Ann Grayle at greater length. That lady talks…'
`Endlessly. And we have company. Kuhlmann has just walked in. Something tells me we have a busy day coming up…'
The breakfast room at the Jensen was at the back of the hotel. You helped yourself from a buffet. Kuhlmann took a plate, piled on four rolls, a quantity of butter, three canisters of marmalade and sat down.
