groups. But they’d been careless with the loose paper. On top of the bundle there was a contract with the New Jersey Agricultural Chemical Company for certain scientific services. It was signed by a Dr Walter Scheele of Hoboken. Wolff’s thoughts jumped to the doctor with the grey walrus moustache and Jersey drawl who’d demonstrated his cigar bomb in the field: he’d wager good money they were one and the same man.
In the same papers he found the receipts he’d signed for Albert with a false name and one authorising a cash payment to Laura McDonnell. Of the rest, the most intriguing were large transfers to two accounts bearing the baroque signature of a Mr Paul Hilken of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Shipping Line. Wolff photographed them both and twenty pages of the coded ledger. By the time he’d locked the strongbox away it was after four o’clock. Cursing himself for a fool, he checked the cabin carefully to be sure everything was as he’d found it, then slipped into the passageway. But no one troubled to ask his business as he retraced his route. The ship’s watch had changed a few minutes before and was still wiping the sleep from its eyes. So much for Rintelen’s ‘good German crew’. Bloody hell, he thought, I might pull this off. At the head of the gangway a young Third greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning’.
Wolff took refuge in ill temper. ‘If you say so.’
The lieutenant was a little taken aback. ‘Working late, sir?’ he ventured.
‘Don’t ask a friend of the captain’s what he’s doing,’ Wolff replied, brushing past and on to the gangway. Relief and something close to euphoria washed through him as he rattled down to the dock. Damn you, Rintelen, damn you, Gaunt, you too, Cumming, he thought. I’ve done it! He was in range of a shot from the ship but they weren’t going to kill him because they were stupid and complacent. That’s it, let me waltz away with your secrets.
The quay glistened like a sheet of black ice. For the first time he noticed fine rain on his face and it was good. He walked at a steady pace, his hands deep in his pockets, the warm gun-steel a comfort still, careful to concentrate on the end of the pier, careful to avoid the splashes of light cast by the dockside lamps. As he approached the terminal his pulse quickened and he tightened his grip on the revolver. To reach the street he would have to pass under the arch in the embarkation gallery; twenty-five dark yards through a forest of steel girders. He was suddenly very conscious of the sound of his steps crunching the loose cinders. A second later his heart jumped at a shadow ahead and to the left — it was a straggle of rope dancing on the breeze. Then he was under the arch and his stride lengthened, one, two, three, casting about for movement, five, six, seven, almost halfway — but Christ, there was someone. Scuffing feet and at the corner of his eye a shadow. A second later another glimpse: the man from the street, his Bill Sikes, the little spy in the derby hat. Close, so close, a few yards; he must keep walking — but Rintelen will know by the morning. That can’t happen. No.
A giant leap and swinging blindly: Wolff caught him on the left cheekbone with the grip of the revolver. A throaty groan and he staggered sideways, head dropping, defenceless as Wolff’s fist cut under, driving his chin up again. He toppled back, his shoulders thumping heavily to the ground, prostrate, gasping for breath. Too dark to see his eyes, his features contorted in pain, trying to raise himself on one elbow, clawing at the concrete. Wolff stamped on his hand, then dropped a knee to his chest, clubbing him with the grip again. His head fell, blood in his eyes, blinking, unable to speak, a look of abject terror, trying to curl his body but locked by Wolff’s arm and knee. A small man, middle years, with a poisonous little moustache. A nothing man. But from somewhere he’d produced a knife and with his free right hand caught Wolff at the top of the thigh. Still prone, but with the strength of fear, he lunged a second time. They wrestled for control of the blade, Wolff’s weight forcing it down, down, down to the shoulder and in hard, into bone. The man screamed in pain: ‘Please.’ But without hesitation Wolff drew it and thrust it back, to the hilt, to the heart. With a jerk and a sad little gasp he died, Wolff straddling him like an exhausted lover, the derby rocking on its crown a few feet away. And what was there to read in the dead man’s face? Astonishment, outrage, fear, disappointment.
Later Wolff could recall only images of his journey home — and the face. Wiping blood and prints from the handle of the knife, he remembered, and hiding the body in the tangle of steel. He dumped his own coat somewhere. There was a taxicab and this time he took it to the door of the building on East 5th. Inside his apartment he poured a whisky with a trembling hand, then another. His trousers were clinging to his legs: it was his own blood, from the gash in his thigh. What a fucking mess. He’d killed before but only once and in self-defence. For months after, he’d hated himself. Was this the same? Did it matter when thousands were dying every day? He was the enemy and he tried to stick you, he thought. But weren’t you going to finish him anyway — the little man in a derby hat?
By the time he’d dressed his wound, the world was spinning. At its soft edge, he heard the bang of the Russian’s door upstairs and the hum of dawn on the city’s streets, and feeling sick he limped through to the bathroom and threw up in the lavatory. ‘What a state,’ he muttered, collapsing on the bed. I won’t sleep, he thought, but he did.
24. A Fever
THERE WAS A deposit box at a bank on Broadway. Two keys: Thwaites’ man had the other. Make the drop before they find the body. But it was a struggle the following morning, moving in a fog of pain and memory, careless of his dress and customary toilet. He limped out at eleven and felt better for the winter air. Tomorrow it would be December. Flurries of snow were chasing down the street and the low sky promised more. On a balcony opposite, a woman was taking in some stiff-looking laundry, while the stallholders below hunched disconsolately in their coats, their horses stamping and steaming between the shafts. An old Chinaman hobbled into the library to search for a Dickens or just a warm corner, and the dead spy lingered in his doorway. I’ll move, Wolff thought; I was going to have to anyway.
The taxicab dropped him at the bank because he was bone-weary and too sorry to be careful. He signed out the black deposit box as
Replacing the handpiece, he closed his eyes and leant his head against the booth. Perhaps it would save lives too, seamen like the crew of the
He chose an Italian place just off Broadway. He knew it was expensive because the waiter looked at him disrespectfully. No tie, a day’s growth, scuffed boots, he was dishevelled, a little dissolute. He ordered coffee, some eggs, and lit his cigarette, ready to play the usual game of joining pieces, words, something like Consequences. If the Germans found the body, they’d kill him. Who else could have finished the spy off? He had lived with Wolff for days, part of the bloody street furniture. The tobacco was making him giddy. Am I prepared to take the chance? He thought perhaps he owed it to the
The waiter served the omelette and he picked at it for a while. His thigh ached and he resolved to see a doctor in case the wound was infected or needed stitches. Perhaps he was poisoning himself.
In the event, he spent the afternoon in his apartment, his eyes closed but very much awake. Rising at seven, he limped into the hall and for a time stood gazing at the telephone. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her for a fortnight; he’d written to her once and thought of her often, but it was foolish to call her when, if things went badly, he would fail to make the appointment. Tomorrow, he’d telephone her then.
The first rendezvous was with Rintelen’s driver, Hans, at the ferry terminal. Will he drop me at the entrance to a dock or throw me in it? Wolff wondered as he stepped inside the Ford. He felt ridiculously calm, too tired, too low, and that was dangerous because it was in just such a frame of mind that mistakes were made. ‘It’s important to be a little afraid,’ C liked to say. Wolff had brought the revolver, but its weight was an unpleasant reminder of the night before. In the event, Hans dropped him at the dark end of a dockyard street close to the Jersey Canal basin with the instruction: ‘Walk the rest of the way.’
