'Too late.'
The couple had just boarded a red train which started to move into the well-like area they had looked down on from the Royal Hotel. Kellerman was in a rage of frustration increased by the Belgian's outward coolness and resignation.
'Your friend, Bodel Marker, we're going to see. Call him, for God's sake, and get police to check that train.'
'Let's see if that's practical, Max.'
'How can we see?'
'By checking the timetable here.'
Beaurain led the German to a series of wall timetables. He ran his eyes down one timetable after checking his watch and shook his head, pointing with his finger.
'They'll be getting off any second now. That's the train they boarded and it's a local. You can see for yourself where the next stop is — just the other side of the Royal Hotel. We'd never get there in time and I don't think we wish to talk to the local police after what happened back there in the street.'
'And I think I can hear police sirens.'
'So we walk quietly towards the exit,' Beaurain suggested, 'trying to look as though we've just arrived in Copenhagen. Someone may have seen us run in here.'
And as they calmly walked out, the jackets they had removed during the short walk folded over their arms, two patrol cars screamed to a halt by the kerb and uniformed men went briskly inside.
Police headquarters in Copenhagen is known as Politigarden. A grim, triangular building constructed of grey cement, it faces a square called Polititorvet. Beaurain and Kellerman surveyed it from a distance before they went inside.
'Looks like a prison,' Kellerman commented.
'Most inviting.'
'They're not in the holiday camp business,' replied Beaurain.
'And I see they have a wireless mast on the roof.'
'It's that wireless mast I'm counting on — on that and Superintendent Marker of the Intelligence Department. He sounded friendly enough on the phone — but he didn't know then what I was going to ask him.'
They approached the five arched entrances beneath the flat-topped roof. A patrol car pulled in at the kerb as they were crossing the square and a uniformed policeman carrying a small package dashed inside, leaving his companion behind the wheel.
Beaurain led the way to a side-door which carried the legend Kriminal Politiet. He pushed open the door and entered an austere office where a policeman in shirt-sleeves sat behind a desk.
'My identity… Jules Beaurain… Superintendent Bodel Marker
…'
He kept his voice low because there was another man in shirt-sleeves who had slipped into the room just ahead of them. The policeman behind the desk seemed to grasp the need for discretion.
'And the person with you?' he mouthed silently.
'My assistant — in charge of an undercover section. Marker will particularly wish to hear from him personally certain events he has witnessed. Name Foxbel.'
There followed a brief conversation on the policeman's internal phone. Beaurain could not understand a word he said because he was speaking in Danish. The German nudged him in the back as the policeman stared at his desk. When Beaurain glanced round, Kellerman's eyes pinpointed the man who had entered the room before them: he was studying a notice on the wall. The policeman behind the desk finished his conversation, replaced the receiver and proceeded to fill in a form.
'He is waiting to see you,' he informed Beaurain. The man who had been looking at the notice moved towards the door. Kellerman timed it perfectly. One foot projected at the last moment, the man tripped and fell, half-saving himself by grabbing the edge of the policeman's desk.
'I will come back later. I have an urgent call of nature — something I ate this morning.'
A small, weasel-faced man with a leathery complexion and the agility of a monkey. Before anyone could react he had left the office. Kellerman heaved open the door and ran into Polititorvet. He was in time to see the patrol-car which had just arrived driving away, but there was no sign of the weasel. The man had vanished. Kellerman glanced up the curving flight of steps which led to the various departments in the building. He met Beaurain coming out, holding the form.
'Disappeared into thin air, Jules. He couldn't have escaped over the square — I was out too quick. He must have gone up there.'
Kellerman pointed up a spiral staircase of stone steps which disappeared round a bend. From previous visits to Politigarden Beaurain knew the staircase led to all the main police departments. He also knew that before you could enter any of the departments, there was a police checkpoint you had to pass. The only conclusion left was that the weasel-faced man was a member of one of the many departments. Beaurain explained this briefly.
'Then he must have an official position here. Has the Syndicate penetrated here too?' Kellerman speculated.
'Why do we have to suspect him?' asked Beaurain.
'Because I deliberately tripped him up, he never protested and his reaction was to get to hell out of that room as fast as his legs could carry him.'
'You're quite right. Let's get up and see Marker.'
Mounting the spiral, they reached the first floor. There was a barrier and a uniformed policeman behind the desk. The form was essential: it was checked carefully and then they were told to continue up to the second floor and turn right along the inner corridor until they reached Room 78.
'What is worrying you?' Kellerman asked quietly as they went on up the second spiral which, like the first, was entirely enclosed by a curving stone wall.
'The Syndicate knew we were coming,' Beaurain said grimly.'Their organisation and thoroughness is incredible we've never been up against anything like this before. In some ways the extent of their reach is frightening. The only answer is to go over onto the offensive and hurl them off balance.'
Beaurain's reaction was characteristic. Kellerman was intrigued about the reasons for his comment.
'Why is the organisation and thoroughness incredible? Have I missed something?'
'First, as I've just said, they had a man waiting for us here. But we were never supposed to get here, Max. We were supposed to be dead — gunned down near the station by that couple with the brief-case. And that means the man downstairs was simply backup — warned to keep a look-out purely on the off-chance that the assassination set-up misfired. Next point, how did they know we were on our way to see Marker? Only two possible answers — they have someone on the switchboard at the Royal Hotel or — worse still — they have someone on the central switchboard here at Politigarden. This bloody Zenith thing is encircling us with a stranglehold.'
They had arrived at the second floor. Beaurain pushed open another heavy door and they found themselves out in the open air on a terrace-like corridor with a railing on the inner side. Kellerman thought it a curious arrangement: on the outside the building had been triangular in shape; now the centre was hollowed out into a huge circular courtyard entirely cut off from the outside world and open to the sky.
The courtyard, resembling the interior of an amphitheatre, was eerily deserted. They turned to the right and along their right-hand side the wall of the building continued in a circular sweep with more heavy doors at intervals.
'Weird building,' Kellerman remarked.
'Unique in my experience,' Beaurain agreed.
'I'll be glad when we get off this bloody platform. Anyone could use us for target practice and we're both unarmed.'
'Room 78. Relax, Max. You'll like Marker.' Beaurain turned the door handle and walked into the large room beyond. Kellerman was behind him when they both glanced into the room next door through an open doorway at the single object on a large desk. A knife.
'Forty million Swedish kronor worth of heroin.'
