It was 6.17 p.m. as Tweed and Diana left the express at Lubeck. Tweed had suddenly changed his mind, decided to leave Hamburg by an earlier train. Butler watched them as they climbed the steps off the platform. Nield was already at the top of the flight, disappearing from view as he made his way on foot to the Movenpick.
Following at a gentle pace – to give them time to get a cab – Butler had the impression Tweed couldn't wait to reach Lubeck. Everything had suddenly become hurry-hurry. Walking out of the concourse on the higher level, he saw them climbing into a taxi.
He waited until their cab had pulled away before summoning his own. It was still broad daylight. Holidaymakers strolled back to their hotels for dinner. The atmosphere was warm and humid. Butler suspected Lubeck was at the end of a torrid day.
`It's like coming home again,' Diana said to Tweed, snuggling up against him in the taxi. 'Ann Grayle is in for a surprise when she sees me. I'm looking forward to that.'
`I thought you didn't like her.'
`It's a kind of love-hate relationship.' She smiled impishly. 'I like her, she hates me.'
The manager at the Jensen had welcomed them back, Tweed had registered, was just about to press the elevator button when Harry Butler appeared, carrying his case. Tweed ignored him but said to Diana in a loud voice, 'Your room number is 307, mine is 303 – so you can easily pop along to see me. Let's get down for dinner as soon as we can. I'm famished.'
Fifteen minutes later Butler walked into the large oblong- shaped room which was the restaurant. The place was crowded, had the jolly atmosphere of people enjoying themselves. They gave him a table by the windows at the end of the room overlooking the street and the river beyond. Tweed and Diana were at a table against the wall, chattering like magpies. A few minutes later he idly noticed a tall, heavily-built man with a blond beard and long hair enter accompanied by an attractive brunette. They were given a table on the far side of the room, near the serving counter and bar.
Newman slept for twelve hours aboard the sloop at Travemunde. Ann Grayle had sent Ben to fetch some dry clothes, insisted that Newman took a shower, and when, he came out wrapped in a bath-robe she sat him at a table already laid and presented him with a large bowl of steaming hot asparagus soup.
`It's from a tin, but you do look as though you need some internal central heating quickly,' she drawled. 'And here's a glass of whisky. Neat. Does everything suit His Lordship?'
Later, Newman had put on a pair of outsize pyjamas Ben had brought back. Grayle had asked no questions, typical of the discretion of an ex-diplomat's wife. After the meal he'd been taken to a bunk which he collapsed into, hardly able to keep his eyes open.
Grayle, a glass in her hand, had perched for a moment on the edge of the bunk, a wicked look in her eyes.
`Better if you sleep alone tonight, don't you agree? I'm not sure you'd be up to any sort of physical activity…'
That was the last thing he'd heard anyone say until he woke. Strong light was pouring in through the porthole above his head. He looked at his watch, expecting it to have stopped. Someone had wound it for him while he slept. Christ! It was noon.
He took Grayle out to a long lunch at a place on the waterfront. Again she asked no questions. As for Newman, he wallowed in the release from tension, the end of the need to look at everyone as a potential danger. Grayle talked about her past life in Kenya, mentioning Dr Berlin.
`I didn't even like him then. These do-gooders always bore the hell out of me.'
It was mid-afternoon when they wandered together along the waterfront. Newman pointed to the Sudwind. The cruiser had a deserted look. He asked whether she'd noticed any activity on board.
`No, but I've been on a shopping trip to Hamburg. I spent several days there, so I don't know. The precocious Diana is noticeable by her absence. Must have found some new man to roll around with..
It was after six in the evening when he left the sloop and called Park Crescent from a public phone booth. Monica came on the line and he heard the relief in her voice when they'd talked for only a minute.
`Where are you, Bob? Are you all right?'
`Lubeck. I'm OK. I desperately need to talk to Tweed.'
`I don't know where he is.' She paused. 'Where are you calling from?'
`Public call box. Chosen at random…'
`He's over there. Flew to Hamburg. Today. He was going to stay at the Four Seasons, but when I tried to call him an hour ago he'd checked out. No forwarding address – and he didn't even sleep there one night.'
`I'll call again, Monica. I have to go now
`Take care.'
`Thanks, but it doesn't matter any more.'
Newman put down the receiver, took out a cigarette, lit it and thought. Hamburg today. An unscheduled departure. The second trip to Germany. Tweed would be geared up, moving fast. Was he on his own? That was what worried Newman. Then he had an idea. He checked the directory, found the number of the Jensen, dialled the number. He recognized the manager's voice.
`Have you a Mr Tweed from London staying with you?'
`Yes, he's just arrived. You wanted to speak to him? He's having dinner. I saw him go in a few minutes ago. You want to speak to him now? Could you hold on a minute?'
It seemed an age before Tweed came on the line. Actually it was thirty seconds. Newman had checked by his watch. `Who is it?' Tweed asked cautiously.
`Newman…'
`Thank God! Where are you calling from?'
`Public phone booth in Travemunde. Can I come right over? I can be there in fifteen minutes by cab. Are you alone?'
`No, Diana is with me…'
`You know what I mean.'
`The answer to your question is no.'
`Well, thank God for that. Book me a room if you can. I am on my way…'
`We're having dinner. Just started. Take your time. Are you in one piece?' The anxiety came clear down the line.
`By a miracle – several – yes. See you.'
On his way back to the sloop to tell Ann Grayle he had to go into Lubeck, Newman passed the local police station. An old building with a Dutch-style roof, it perched on the corner of the waterfront and a side street, St- Lorenz-strasse. Newman paused briefly, his eye caught by a poster. It was a reproduction of the Identikit picture of Kurt Franck. The poster was beginning to curl at the edges, taking a secondary place to other more recent posters of wanted villains. He stared at it for a moment before hurrying on.
`If I ever meet you again I'll know you,' he said to himself.
Munzel couldn't believe his luck. Sitting facing Lydia, he had glanced round the restaurant and there, on the far side of the room sat Tweed. With a blonde.
His mind raced as Lydia studied the menu. He glanced round the room again. It was packed. Some of them were getting very merry. Waiters ran backwards and forwards. The perfect atmosphere for what he had in mind. Lydia looked up from her menu.
`What are you thinking about?'
`Look. I've just remembered an important customer I promised to call this evening for a decision. I've left my notebook with his phone number back at the International. Mind if I dash back there? I'll only be fifteen minutes. Help yourself to the Beaujolais. Order your first course. OK?'
`Phoning a customer at his home? Will he like that?'
`He won't like it if I don't. He's busy all day at his factory. Fifteen minutes. No more…'
Munzel slipped out of the dining-room. He got lucky again outside the Jensen. A taxi was depositing more guests. He grabbed it. `Hauptbahnhof,' he instructed the driver. This way there'd be no connection between himself and the International – if the police made careful enquiries afterwards.
`Mr Tweed?' The waiter seemed nervous. 'There's a gentleman outside who wants a word with you. He
