forced open the soggy object and stared at a length of chain.
`End of the line,' he said and stood up, gesturing for one of his men to collect the sodden case.
'No, it isn't,' Sue said. 'We saw him later…'
`It wasn't him,' Ted objected.
`I tell you it was! You weren't looking when he came out of the shop.'
`Which shop?' asked Kuhlmann.
`After the cruiser moved off we thought we'd lost him. We walked back to the highway and hitched a ride into Travemunde. We were walking along the front, looking for somewhere to eat, when I saw him. I know it was him,' she repeated. `I'm studying law – that teaches you to be observant.'
`So far your powers of observation have amazed me. Go on.'
`He came out of a shop and he was putting on a straw hat. I saw his blond hair just before he put it on. One of those wide-brimmed hats. Ted went off to find a toilet so I followed the blond man. He went into another shop nearby and came out with a pipe in his mouth, one of those little curved things. It was the same man, I am certain. And he was dressed differently.'
`Let's get back inside the car. You are getting goose pimples on your arms…'
The night sky above them was clear, the Prussian blue studded with glittering stars. The balmy warmth of the evening was evaporating and a slight chill descended on the fields. Kuhlmann waited until they were settled inside the vehicle; Sue again sat beside him.
`Dressed differently, you said?'
`When we first saw him pushing the machine into the over he had on a dark blue windcheater, the same colour slacks tucked inside leather boots. Coming out of the shop in Travemunde he wore a light green T-shirt, khaki slacks, white sneakers and a large backpack – one with those chrome rods. He'd become a hiker.'
Kuhlmann sat chewing his unlit cigar. Sue Templeton's description of Franck corresponded exactly with that given to him by Ann Grayle, who had called at Travemunde police station and asked to see him.
Aboard the sloop she had told him how she had seen Franck when she was going for a walk, how Franck had almost bumped into her. That had been almost three weeks ago. At the time Kuhlmann had wondered whether Grayle had been mistaken. He looked up at Ted Smith in the rear view mirror.
Will you be staying at the Movenpick a little longer?' `Until the money gives out. Sue likes Lubeck..
`Don't worry about money,' Sue interjected, 'I've got loads of travellers' cheques. And we're having such a good time. I like a good time.'
The remark jolted Kuhlmann. Shades of Diana Chadwick; the sort of remark she'd have made. Where was she now, he wondered.
`Money's no problem,' Sue went on. 'My father's a state senator.'
Kuhlmann received a second jolt. He looked at her, studying her sheen of blonde hair. In a way he wished they were leaving Germany at once. He looked at Ted again.
`I ought to warn you – in case you couldn't read the German on that poster…'
`We couldn't,' Sue told him.
`Then I must warn you, Mr Smith, that man you saw could be a mass murderer – his speciality is blondes. Three have been horribly killed already. Stick close to Sue. All the time.'
`I'll do that, and I'll buy a weapon.' Smith looked older and more serious than he had before.
`A weapon?' Kuhlmann queried.
`A heavy walking stick. I've seen them in the shops..
`A good idea. And I'm taking you both to dinner at the Maritim Hotel in Travemunde. But first, I must make a report.'
He picked up the mike, called Lubeck-Sud, began detailing the new description of Kurt Franck. The only two points Ann Grayle had not mentioned were the straw hat and the pipe. He must have gone to the shops soon after she'd spotted him.
`Lubeck-Sud? Kuhlmann here. Kurt Franck. New description… persona of hitch-hiker…'
In the loft of the barn near Burg on Fehmarn Island he was now ready to move. For the third time Munzel checked his appearance in the hand mirror. Flourishing blond moustache and beard, more blond hair flowing down the back of his neck. Unrecognizable.
Dressed in a light green T-shirt, khaki slacks and a pair of white trainer shoes, he put down the mirror, hiding it with the spirit kettle under a pile of straw. He hoisted the backpack over his shoulders. It weighed like a hundred kilos, but he'd soon get used to it.
He looked round the loft, checking for traces of his using it as a refuge. There were none. He had cleared up carefully. Reaching down, he picked up the straw hat and rammed it over his head, then took the curved pipe from his pocket – already filled with tobacco – and clenched it between his teeth.
He descended the ladder slowly, arrived at the bottom and ran heavily to the open barn door. He peered out. No sign of life. He went back to the ladder – the only evidence that the loft existed – and hauled it down until he held it parallel to the straw-strewn floor.
His arm muscles felt the strain as he carried it outside and round the back of the barn. Very slowly he lowered it inside the grass-choked ditch which ran alongside the rear of the barn. He spent several minutes straightening the grasses until it disappeared from view, then he returned to the front and started along the track leading to the country road.
An hour later, having caught the bus from Burg, he sat on the platform at Puttgarden station. While he waited for the train to Lubeck he struck matches, lighting and relighting his pipe.
Franck was in a confident mood. With his changed appearance he'd be safe in Lubeck. He'd stay at the hotel opposite the Hauptbahnhof – the International as far as he could remember. From there he would call Martin Vollmer in Altona for news of Tweed's movements.
Confident because the police hue and cry would be a thing of the past. Or at the worst they'd have him as a low priority. During his time on Fehmarn Island other crimes would have been committed. The police were like the press. Kurt Franck was yesterday's news.
Twenty-Nine
Newman drove the Chaika up the cinder track, the headlights swung in a wide arc as he turned east on to the highway. Behind them the lock-keeper's cottage was in darkness. Beside him sat Falken. Gerda had the dirty end of the stick – cramped in the back. Beside her was propped up the canvas-covered bundle which contained the corpse of Karl Schneider.
`The lake…'
It was Gerda who had thought of the place where they should deposit the motionless passenger. She had come running in from the kitchen with her suggestion. At first Falken shook his head.
`A long way off our route.'
`But you said we should leave here this evening,' she pressed. `We can drive through the night, then go on to Radom's farm. We will be close to Leipzig for the morning. You can phone her to tell her we shall be early.'
`I suppose you could be right…'
`I know I am right. Aren't you always going on at me about we must be flexible in our plans, ready to change them at a moment's notice if the circumstances warrant it?'
`It will be dangerous.. Falken had glanced at the chained bundle lying on the floor. 'There are patrols out at night.'
`It may be even more dangerous to stay here. You said they'd probably send people out to find him – why he hadn't come back.'
`The lake it is, then…'
Newman had been impressed with the care they took to erase all traces of their stay in the cottage. Gerda used a dust-pan and brush to sweep black bread crumbs off the flagstones, had then used it to sweep the fading relics out of the fireplace. She had emptied her pan in the canal.
Falken had carried out a final inspection of every room. When they had gone out across the fields to collect
