'I give you papers now,' Kefler decided.
He jumped off his stool, stooped down under the cherished desk from the Portobello Road. Reaching under the knee-hole, his pudgy hands jerked, brought out a small leather folder which had obviously been attached with sticky tape. He carefully removed the tape before handing the folder to Tweed.
'Open it! Please do!'
He was almost dancing with enthusiasm. Tweed extracted a sheaf of folded stiff papers, unfolded them. They appeared to be German bank statements with Zurcher Kredit printed at the top of each sheet. The contents on the sheets baffled him – lists of figures with code letters such as GT.
'You don't understand them, of course,' Kefler advised. 'So you show them to the clever Keith Kent. He will decode… Did I say three hundred million marks?… My British numbers go wrong. I should say seven hundred million marks walk.'
Paula did another quick calculation in her head. Roughly ?230,000,000! She stared at Newman, who obviously had also converted marks into pounds. He had a blank look.
'Dr Kefler,' Tweed said calmly, 'are these papers really for me?'
'Of course! I tell you. Keith Kent decode, show you.'
'You haven't a briefcase – or something like that – I could carry this folder away in?'
'The docks. I know your meaning…'
Kefler reached down the side of his desk, produced a briefcase of a type no longer in fashion in Britain. He opened it, fumbled inside and clearly it was empty. He lifted both short legs up and down, in need of exercise, Paula realized. He walked over to the window.
'In the daylight the view is interesting. Great barges come here. Large freighters. The ferry from Newcastle in Britain will arrive at 12.30 the pm – in the-'
The report was shockingly loud. Kefler staggered, fell backwards, face up. Blood streamed over his chest, spilt over his smoking jacket. Newman dashed to the body lying on the floorboards, crouching low so he was below the sill of the window. The glass had been shattered by one star-shaped hole with another ragged hole in the net curtain – where the bullet had come through.
'Is he…'
Paula barely found herself able to frame the question.
'No pulse,' Newman reported. 'He's dead. Don't look. The left side of his head is blown away. Explosive bullet.'
'Oh, God! No.' Paula covered her face, with her hands. She stood up, looked down across the room. 'Horrible. He was such a nice man.. .'
Newman reacted quickly. Crawling, still well below the windowsill, he reached up, pulled one heavy dark curtain across the window, then the other. When he stood up, away from the window, Paula was standing beside him, staring down at what remained of Kefler.
Only half a teddy bear, she said to herself, then dismissed the thought as obscene.
She sat down in her armchair again, tears in her eyes. She looked at Tweed, choking as she spoke.
'He was such a nice man,' she repeated. 'Wouldn't hurt a fly. In life you sometimes meet someone you know is good, even at a first meeting. You like him – or her. Trust them. So rare.'
'Same technique, same situation,' Tweed said in a very quiet voice, 'as the murder of Helga Trent off Ebury Street. Night-time. A figure silhouetted against net curtains, the light behind them. I should have realized…'
'I'm going downstairs,' Newman said, his revolver in his hand. 'There should be a back door. I can get out that way…'
'Stay where you are.' rasped Tweed.
Newman was ignoring the command, heading out of the study, when his mobile buzzed. He snatched it out of his pocket, faced them, standing in the doorway.
'Yes?'
'Harry here.' The voice was very low. 'No one leaves that house till I call back. That's an order…'
Newman, still holding the revolver, repeated what Harry had said.
'We all stay here then – until Harry calls back,' Tweed replied. 'Harry knows what he's doing…'
Harry Butler, sweating from the heat in his motorcyclist's black leather kit, had been crawling on his hands and knees to get closer to where he'd seen Tweed and his companions disappear into No. 23. A short way ahead he heard a sound, like the squeak of an old wooden door being opened. Looking up, he saw a door close on the control cabin of a monster crane a few yards away.
He was inside the wire that fenced off the docks from Elbstrasse. Earlier he had picked a padlock, opened a gate. He continued his crawl, his rifle with the sniperscope in his right hand, his left hand testing the ground ahead for loose chains or oil drums.
Arriving at the base of the crane, which reminded him of a slimmed-down version of the Eiffel Tower, he peered up at the cabin way above him. A ladder led down from it to the ground. He was uncertain what to do next.
It could be a spy, keeping an eye on Tweed. On the other hand it might be a stupid vandal. He checked his watch. Tweed and the others had been inside the house for a while. He settled down to wait.
He switched his gaze frequently from cabin to house and back again. There was neither sight nor sound of any activity from the control cabin. It could be a drug addict – they did the craziest things, were totally unpredictable. Again he looked at the house. There was the same light in the first floor window, but he'd seen no sign of anyone inside the place.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. His grip would slip if he ever had to use the weapon. He looked back at the house, saw a small figure silhouetted against the light behind the net curtains. He looked up. He never heard the sound of any movement above him; but he saw the muzzle flash, jerked his head back to the house, saw the small figure topple out of sight. The report of the rifle being fired echoed across the Elbe river.
Taking out his mobile, he rang Newman, gave him his message. Bracing himself against the base of the crane, he raised his rifle, aligning the cross-hairs on the cabin. Nothing happened. He crawled to the far side of the crane, looked up at the ladder.
The cabin door opened. A figure appeared, stood on a small platform, closed the cabin door, which squeaked again. Harry could have shot him then but he decided perhaps there was a chance to take him alive, to extract information. The figure began to descend the long ladder, his back to Harry, a rifle strapped huntsman-style across it.
Harry waited, his own rifle held in both hands. Less than halfway down the ladder the figure stopped, looked down. Holding on with his left hand, his right hand dived inside his jacket, came out holding a handgun.
'All right, chum, have it your own way,' Harry said to himself.
In less than a second the figure appeared in his cross-hairs. He pressed the trigger. His target stiffened, lost his grip, came tumbling down from a considerable height.
Harry jumped aside, fearing his target would crash on top of him. Instead it hit the ground near the foot of the ladder with a sickening thud. The assassin's rifle had slipped off his back, had fallen a few yards away.
Harry stepped forward, his weapon aimed. You never could be sure. He checked the twisted neck's pulse. Nothing. The corpse lay on its back, both legs broken. To Harry's surprise the right hand still gripped an automatic. Reflex action.
He shone his torch on the upturned face. Slavic cheekbones, hawkish nose, thin cruel mouth. Long hair. Harry called Newman on his mobile.
'You can come out now. Down the footpath. Find me by watching for my torch flashing.'
While he waited he put on latex gloves, searched pockets he could reach for identification material. Nothing. From the mess on either side of the head he guessed the fall had crushed the back of the skull.
He went to the gate he had opened, flashed his torch when he saw them coming. Tweed was carrying an old briefcase. Harry led them in, shining his torch on the ground so they didn't trip over discarded rusty chains. He waved Paula back, but she came over.
Butler shrugged. These days you couldn't tell Paula anything. He led the trio to the base of the crane, switched on his torch – after glancing down deserted Elbstr. Paula found she had no feelings at all about the corpse. This was the man who had killed Dr Kefler. Butler had aimed his torch at the face.
'He was up in the control cabin,' Butler said, pointing. 'Did he kill someone?'
