Alphabet House (36 page)

Since leaving Lankau tied up at his country house, Bryan had done some thinking. First of all, he’d have to question Lankau again sooner or later. The circumstances related to James’ disappearance were probably correct, but if he were to have any peace of mind he would have to force Lankau to tell him more. Even though the colossus could still fight back, Bryan suspected there were weak points in his defence. If he could find them, he felt sure the various bits of the story would fit together. And then he would let him go.

Before that he would have to go see Kröner and ask him the same questions. Maybe he would be more cooperative, Bryan thought, feeling the pistol that was still lodged in his waistband. And maybe he’d learn more about the mysterious person they called the Postman. Perhaps Kröner would even cough up Petra’s whereabouts.

When all that had been accomplished, he would phone Canterbury. If Laureen still wasn’t home he’d phone Cardiff in the hope of catching her there. If she was there, he would ask her to pack her suitcase the following morning, take the fast train to London and continue to Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line. There she would take the first plane to Paris. A couple of nights with him at Hotel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli, a Sunday stroll in the parks and evening mass in Saint-Eustache ought to be enough to entice and appease her.

Kröner’s house was the only one on the street that lay in total darkness. In all the other houses a light in the hall or over a garden path gave a sign of life. But not here.

And yet, there was life in it.

Standing just outside the wrought-iron gate in the middle of the drive, Bryan was totally conspicuous. Sixty feet away an elderly man had just left Kröner’s front door and was on his way over to him. Bryan could either walk by or remain where
he was and play the game that had already begun. Looking in his direction, the elderly man stopped for a moment as if trying to remember whether he’d locked the door behind him. Then he took another step forward, collected himself and looked straight at Bryan. He smiled and threw open his arms, almost as if they’d met before. ‘
Suchen Sie etwas
?’ he asked, stopping a couple of paces away to clear his throat.

‘Excuse me?’ The words popped mechanically out of Bryan’s mouth. It was the old man he had seen together with Kröner at
Kuranstalt
Saint-Ursula. The one he had subsequently followed to the house on Luisenstrasse. For a moment the old man seemed puzzled by the foreign language and switched over to English with a smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

‘I asked if you were looking for someone.’

‘Oh! Yes, I am, actually,’ said Bryan, looking him straight in the face. ‘I’m looking for
Herr
Hans Schmidt.’

‘I see. I wish I could help you,
Herr
…?’

‘Bryan Underwood Scott.’ Bryan took the old man’s outstretched hand, noticing its thin, ice-cold skin.

‘I’m sorry, but he and his family have gone away for a couple of days,
Herr
Scott. I’ve just been watering their flowers. That has to be done too, doesn’t it?’ Then he smiled with a twinkle in his eye, friendly and familiarly. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

Behind the mask with the white beard was a face that was pricking at Bryan’s subconscious. The voice was foreign and unfamiliar, but the features made him feel uneasy without knowing why. ‘I don’t know, really,’ he said, hesitating. He wasn’t going to get another chance like this. ‘Actually it’s not
Herr
Schmidt I want to talk to, even though it would be interesting, but one of his acquaintances.’

‘I see. But I may be able to help you nevertheless. I know most of the people in Hans Schmidt’s circle as well as he does. Who are you looking for, if I may be so bold?’

‘A mutual friend from many years ago. You’re hardly likely to know him. His name is Gerhart Peuckert.’

The old man scrutinized him for a moment. Then he pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed as he thought. ‘You know what?’ he began finally, raising his eyebrows. ‘I do believe I remember the man. He was ill, wasn’t he?’

This was one development Bryan hadn’t expected. He stared at the old man, tongue-tied for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose he was,’ he said at length.

‘I think I remember him. Perhaps it’s not even so long ago that I heard Hans mention him. Could that be so?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Well, I can try and find out. My wife is blessed with an excellent memory. I’m sure she can help us. Are you very busy? Do you live here in town?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then perhaps you would do us the honour of dining with us. What would you say to half past eight? Would that suit you? In the meantime we’ll try and find out where this Gerhart Peuckert can possibly be found. What do you say?’

‘It sounds fantastic.’ The prospects were dizzying. The old man’s eyes were kind. ‘I certainly can’t say no to that. It’s extremely kind of you.’

‘Then it’s settled. Half past eight.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be anything special, you understand. We’re not so young, my wife and I. We live at 14 Längenhardstrasse. It’s not difficult to find. I suggest you cut through Stadtgarten. Do you know Stadtgarten,
Herr
Scott?’

Bryan swallowed with difficulty. He knew the old man lived on Luisenstrasse. Now he’d just said something different. Avoiding the old man’s eyes, Bryan attempted a smile. It was a bad sign to be confronted with a lie just as hope was in sight. Bryan’s stomach contracted. An urge to move his bowels took him unawares.

‘Yes. Yes, of course I do.’

‘Then you can’t go wrong. From Leopoldring walk straight through the park around the back of the lake and you’ll come out at Mozartstrasse. The second turn on the right and you’re there. Längenhardstrasse. Number 14, remember that. It says
Wunderlich
on the door.’ The old man smiled and they shook hands again. Before he finally disappeared around the corner he’d turned around and waved several times.

One of the more difficult jobs, Kröner was thinking. For years there had been so many opportunities for getting rid of Petra Wagner that it was quite painful to think of now.

All this trouble! At the moment he didn’t even know where she was.

The main problem was that it was Saturday, which meant he couldn’t get hold of anyone in the staff room or the office. If he called people at home they were always out on some errand or other. He simply couldn’t get an answer to his question.

Where was Petra Wagner?

And even if it had been an ordinary weekday, whom could he have asked? Sooner or later someone would be bound to wonder about his curiosity. Especially if she were to disappear immediately afterwards.

What Kröner felt most like doing was turning the car around and driving to Titisee, where his wife and son had probably already been devouring sage biscuits at Hotel Schwarzwald all day. He clutched the steering wheel as he approached the traffic light. The road leading to the suburbs on the right looked tempting. But his destination lay straight ahead on the left. When the light changed he slowly put his foot on the accelerator and drove quickly past the housing blocks towards Petra Wagner’s small flat.

Her block of flats was just as deserted as the street. Neither the street door nor the door to her flat was a problem. A quick, firm shove with his body in the right place was enough to sufficiently loosen the doorframe.

Newspapers lay strewn about the entrance. The flat had been deserted some hours ago.

Kröner had never been there before. Both rooms were filled with the pungent scent of a middle-aged woman. The flat was neat, yet depressing.

All but one of the desk drawers was unlocked and strangely empty. A few files stuck out of the bottom shelf of the bookcase
and attracted Kröner’s attention until several recipes fell out of them. Kröner left the clippings lying on the carpet where they had fallen. In the middle of the bookcase a shelf had been taken out and replaced with an array of framed photographs. They were presumably Petra’s family and friends. In the biggest frame in the middle stood a younger edition of Petra in uniform – a blue-and-white striped blouse and an old-fashioned white nurse’s skirt. Her smile looked more relaxed than Kröner had seen before. In the chair in front of her sat Gerhart Peuckert, staring straight into the camera with a smile so fleeting and feathery that it almost seemed to have been retouched off his face.

In the adjacent room her bed was still unmade. Underwear and what she’d been wearing the day before had been flung at random over the dressing table. Another row of photos was pinned up on the wall over the bed. None of these persons had any connection with the part of her life Kröner knew about.

He looked at the locked drawer again, rummaged around in his pocket and took out his penknife. A sharp jab straight at the catch followed by a careful twist, and the drawer gave way instantly.

Amongst a pile of papers lay several more pictures of Gerhart and her. He carefully took everything out of the drawer and placed it on the writing desk. Nothing was more than a few years old. Petra Wagner’s souvenirs from the occasional vacation bore witness to her modesty and lack of imagination. Apparently her lifestyle hadn’t been enriched much by the money they’d committed themselves to paying her.

Kröner replaced everything, pushed in the drawer and slowly withdrew the knife until he heard a click. Then he took the wastepaper basket out from under the desk and rummaged through it. As he pushed the basket into place again his eye caught the recipes lying on the floor. Sighing, he knelt down and gathered up the small pile. As he was replacing them in the file on the shelf, a yellowish slip of paper caught his attention.

It was obvious that it didn’t belong there.

Even before he had unfolded it, he knew Petra had finally lost her hold on Gerhart’s and her own life. He hastily read the short sentences that he remembered word for word, even though it was ages ago since he’d last seen them. He and Stich and Lankau had been worried about that piece of paper for most of their adult lives.

Kröner gave a little smile, then folded the document neatly, stuck it in his inner pocket and stared for a moment at the telephone dial before lifting the receiver. It took almost a minute before a breathless female voice answered his call.

‘Good afternoon,
Frau
Billinger, this is Hans Schmidt.’ Folding the penknife with one hand, he replaced it carefully in his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me if Petra Wagner has turned up today?’ he asked.
Frau
Billinger was one of the nurses who they’d had in their employment longest at
Kuranstalt
Saint-Ursula. As a rule, when she wasn’t sitting in her office she had gone down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of peppermint tea and thereafter padded further to the dayroom in the A-wing. The television set there was the newest, and the chairs were covered with plastic so the upholstery wouldn’t stink of urine. Whenever she sat down and let herself be carried away by a TV series, she often forgot she had a place of her own to go home to.

‘Petra Wagner? No, but why should she be here? You drove Erich Blumenfeld home to Hermann Müller, as far as I know. Isn’t that correct?’

‘Yes, but Petra Wagner doesn’t know that.’

‘I see.’ Kröner could visualize her thoughtful, shining face. ‘In that case it’s a bit odd, isn’t it? It’s past six o’clock. She should have been here by now. But why do you ask? Is there something wrong?’

‘Not at all, I just had a proposal to make to her.’

‘A proposal? But what kind of proposal,
Herr
Schmidt? If you think you can get her to work here for us, you’re making a mistake. She’s much better paid with the job she has.’

‘No doubt,
Frau
Billinger, no doubt. I’d be thankful if you would just ask her to phone me at home as soon as she comes. Will you do that,
Frau
Billinger?’ The silence at the other end of the line was usually a sign of
Frau
Billinger’s acquiescence.

‘And one thing more,
Frau
Billinger. We’d prefer she didn’t leave again when she finds out that Erich Blumenfeld is gone for the weekend. Get one of the orderlies to fetch some pastry. I’ll reimburse you. Give her a cup of tea and we’ll hurry over in the meantime. Just as long as you remember to phone as soon as she comes.’

‘Oooh!’
Frau
Billinger’s delight was almost audible on the telephone. ‘It sounds exciting. I love pastry and I love secrets!’

The conversation, if you could call it that, took place in a hurry. Gerhart raised his head cautiously, stopped counting and looked into the living room. Andrea was standing there, grimacing. It was a rare sight. Clearly she’d been taken by surprise. In her younger days she probably would have been more on her guard. She swore out loud. Gerhart shrunk back in his chair.

There might be hell to pay.

‘Goddamn bitch!’ she hissed. Then it came again. ‘Goddamn little bitch!’

Then everything was quiet and Gerhart resumed counting the stucco rosettes. A moment later she came shuffling calmly into the room in her slippers, took Gerhart’s arm and led him into the kitchen.

There he sat, quiet as a mouse, listening to her mumbled complaints until her husband returned. Gerhart’s eyes glided out of focus. He tried to let the words pass through him without registering them.

‘I’ve seen him. Arno von der Leyen!’ Stich almost shouted. ‘It was fantastic. He spoke English, just as Lankau said. Fantastic! I nearly fell over when he presented himself as Bryan Underwood Scott, exactly as Kröner said! Not even Lankau knows that. What a name!’ Stich tried to laugh, but was forced to clear his throat instead. ‘The fool! Nothing less would do. “Bryan Underwood Scott”!’ Stich stopped abruptly, then continued in a hushed, theatrical voice. ‘We spoke to each other. “Excuse me,” he said in English, not realising who I was.’ He pinched his wife gently on the cheek. ‘He didn’t know who I was, Andrea! God bless you for getting me to change my appearance. Oh, you just should have heard him!’ He sat down heavily and cleared his throat again, snorting from the excitement and the exertion of the quick march back to the flat and up the stairs. ‘We arranged to meet two hours from now, Andrea.’ He smiled at her. ‘He thinks he’s coming to dinner. At half past eight at
14 Längenhardstrasse. God knows who lives there.’ Then he laughed and pulled off one of his boots. ‘Arno von der Leyen will never get a chance to find that out either. We two will see to that, won’t we Andrea? I recommended he cut through Stadtgarten.’

‘She phoned.’ Andrea spoke the words cautiously, shifting her chair slightly so that Gerhart Peuckert came to be sitting between her and her husband. Peter Stich dropped the other boot and looked straight at her.

‘Petra Wagner?’

Gerhart opened his eyes and looked around confusedly until he caught sight of the dots on Andrea’s apron. Starting under the front pocket, he began meticulously counting the spots, bottom up, left to right. Andrea got up quietly. Gerhart’s gaze followed her, dot by dot.

‘Yes, she phoned ten minutes ago and asked to speak to you.’

‘And…?

‘She slammed the receiver down when I said you weren’t in.’

‘You idiot!’ he yelled, seizing the boot he had just taken off. ‘You incredible idiot!’ The edge of the kitchen table cut into Andrea’s thigh as she hastily tried to push herself backwards, thereby deforming Gerhart’s dotted landscape. Stich’s aim could be painfully precise. When his eyes met his wife’s, he froze and lowered his arm. ‘You know Kröner’s looking for her, you fool!’

Even if Gerhart had been fully alert, he would never have been able to ward off the blow. The boot was rather old and had been resoled many times. It was heavy and his temple was bare. For a moment he blacked out. When he came to, the figure standing over him was still hitting him.

‘It’s your fault, all of it!’ Stich screamed, striking him again. ‘You and your bloody English bloodhound. “Excuse me” this and “excuse me” that! He’s sure as hell not coming here, causing trouble. We’ve got enough of that with you, already.’

After the final blow he dropped the boot and left the kitchen. Over in her corner Andrea gathered up a couple of cups and
went into the living room as if nothing had happened. Gerhart lay motionless with his neck resting against one of the cupboard doors. He didn’t touch the numb side of his face. He wriggled first one ankle and then the other. Next he slowly tensed all the muscles in his body, one by one. When Andrea returned to fetch the coffee she mumbled something he couldn’t understand and kicked his shin in irritation as she passed by. The moment the pain planted itself in his consciousness, he looked up at her with an expression of surprise.

For some time afterwards they left him in peace. He tried to count again in a vain attempt to calm his chaotic thoughts. Sudden whims and strange feelings kept replacing one another, churning him up inside. First, there were the impressions he’d had. Everyone around him seemed excited and irritable. Kröner had gone off to do away with Petra. Then there were the names: Arno von der Leyen, Bryan Underwood Scott, and again – Petra.

Peter Stich’s blows had rained down on him twice that day, but that wasn’t what had him aroused. It was the echo of the alien sounds that had come from Stich’s mouth.

Then Gerhart Peuckert got up and stood quietly under the humming neon kitchen lights. The words ‘excuse me’ had been like a kiss that awakened him from a magic spell.

Peter Stich continued screaming at his wife, but he quickly stopped again, as usual.

There was still some light in the living room, but scarcely enough for what Peter Stich and Andrea were doing. The old man was bent over the desk in concentration. Gerhart glided out of the darkness of the hallway, dimly aware of what was happening. The desk flap was down and half-covered with small pieces of metal. Gerhart had seen if before. Soon the old man would have assembled his pistol, and he would switch on the ceiling light in order to admire his work, well polished and ready for action. Then Andrea would sigh with pleasure, finally able to see what she was crocheting.

The three men had lived and laughed in these rooms all these years, in spite of the misery they’d inflicted on their surroundings.

‘What are you doing here?’ Without turning around or looking up, the old man had sensed Gerhart’s presence. ‘Get back to the kitchen, you freak!’ he snapped, when he finally turned round.

‘Watch out for the furniture, Peter!’ Andrea looked up from her crocheting. Gerhart Peuckert was still standing motionless in the doorway leading to the hallway. He looked disobediently at Stich and made no attempt to obey. Stich got up slowly.

‘Did you hear what I said, you idiot?’ The old man turned threateningly towards the figure in the doorway, poised and threatening like an old, insolent, snarling dog. Peuckert didn’t budge, even when the gun was pointed at him. ‘Has he had his pills, Andrea?’

‘Yes, I put them on the dining room table when you went out. They’re gone now.’

Stich approached him with measured steps. Gerhart moved slightly. Neither Stich nor his wife noticed his hand, from which a sudden cascade of pills scattered like stardust. The effect was pretty impressive.

Andrea was the first to react. ‘God damn it!’ was all she said. The old man’s jaw dropped. Then, arm raised, he plunged forward and struck Gerhart with the pistol butt even before their bodies collided.

The gash in Gerhart Peuckert’s cheek was still dry. It had not yet managed to bleed. Gerhart felt the oncoming confusion and nausea and remained on the floor on all fours like an animal, while the blows from the butt of the pistol rained down on his head and neck. ‘Now, you eat them, you scum!’ Stich shrieked, until he had to sit down, exhausted by his emotional and physical outburst. But Gerhart left the pills lying on the floor as they’d fallen.

‘I think I’ll fucking kill you,’ Stich whispered. Andrea shook her head. She took Stich’s hand warned him it would be too messy and noisy.

A quite unnecessary risk.

As she got down on her knees and stopped the bleeding with a plaster she gave Gerhart a cold look. ‘This is more for the sake of the carpet than for you!’ she muttered through clenched teeth. Then she took Gerhart under his arms and heaved him up onto the nearest chair. At a nod from her husband she gathered up the pills.

Peter Stich looked at his watch and put on the safety latch before placing the gun in the pocket of his coat. This time the look he sent Gerhart was gentle. As he drew up a chair beside him, his victim doubled up instinctively. Stich patted him on the shoulder as if he’d been his own son.

‘You know you have to do what we tell you, Gerhart. Otherwise we get angry and punish you. That’s how it’s always been, has it not, little Gerhart? Then we beat you or force you in some other way, don’t we? Lankau, Kröner and I are always there, aren’t we? But you know that. We can make you do anything at all. Can’t you remember how we made you eat your own shit, Gerhart, dear?’ Stich put his head close to Gerhart’s cheek. ‘We’re not going to have any of that today, are we?’

Andrea almost curtsied as she placed the pills in her husband’s outstretched hand.

‘Now take your pills, Gerhart,’ said Stich, clearing his throat. ‘Otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do with you this time.’

Gerhart tried not to resist as Peter Stich forced his dry lips apart. His body was completely passive and drained of energy, burned out by dim thoughts.

‘Chew them, Gerhart. Or swallow them whole. I don’t care which, so long as they go down!’

When, after the third slap on his neck, Gerhart Peuckert still made no attempt to swallow his pills, the old man got up resolutely and fetched the pistol. As he released the safety his wife took a couple of quick steps towards the sofa as though she’d seen her husband carry out threats like this before. Gerhart was breathing heavily and looking straight at Stich.

‘Wait, Peter, take the cushions!’ she advised. Sighing, the old man took one that she was holding out to him. He pressed it against Gerhart’s temple with the muzzle of the gun. ‘That’ll deaden the noise, all right,’ he said. The cushion felt cool. Andrea held the other cushion by the corners on the opposite side of Gerhart’s head. It felt warmer, as if someone had been leaning against it recently.

‘Now listen, you ape!’ Stich said, emphasizing his words by shoving the cushion harder against his cheek with the gun muzzle. ‘You’ve played out your role. When we’ve got rid of Petra, what will we need you for? The two of you kept each other under control, which was an excellent arrangement at the time. But what do we need you for without her around?’ Despite Stich’s firm grip, Gerhart managed to turn his head enough to look the henchman in the face. ‘It’s your last chance,’ the old man continued. ‘You can be back in your armchair at Saint-Ursula’s this evening if you swallow those pills now. And if you don’t, I don’t think we’ll have much problem explaining your disappearance. Swallow them! I’m counting to ten!’

By now it was many hours since Gerhart had last had his pills. So much time had never elapsed before. A couple of minutes previously while he was down on all fours, being pistol-whipped on the kitchen floor and staring at the small white things scattered under the kitchen table, the main sensation he’d felt was one of astonishment.

It was as if the room had grown longer than usual, and he had to keep on swallowing the saliva that had begun flowing unhindered. The sensation of his body growing and shrinking made him giddy. Andrea’s steps sounded like the tramping of an ox. All the words came to him as if through a megaphone.

As the old man began to count, Gerhart felt defiance finally taking hold of him. The man’s face was in his way. It brought shadow into the room and coaxed disgust up to the surface. He smelled sourish and the stubble around his beard gave him a slovenly appearance.

When he’d counted to five, Stich spat in his face, but there was still no reaction. The old man’s face had turned completely colourless with fury and he was frothing at the mouth. Andrea was watching him nervously. ‘I hate the noise and the mess!’ she cried. Then she leaned back precariously as far as she could to make sure the projectile wouldn’t hit her when it went through Gerhart’s head. The way she was sitting, a gust of wind could have toppled her off her seat.

On the count of seven Gerhart Peuckert raised his arm and dried the spit off his face with the back of his hand. Stich’s violent outbursts weren’t working as planned. The weaker they were, the greater the effect. Like when the old man had touched him gently on the shoulder. This had inadvertently aroused something in Gerhart that he found impossible to combat.

The desire to feel.

No jigsaw puzzle is complete without the final piece. Without the puzzle, no thoughts. Without thoughts, no feelings. And without feelings, no reactions. This entire sequence was set off by Stich’s one tender touch. The soft hands had aroused feelings. Hearing about Petra’s intended fate was the final piece. When Peter Stich’s tenderness vanished and his threats resumed, they brought Gerhart’s reaction with them.

The puzzle was complete.

On the count of nine he spat all the pills into his oppressor’s eyes with such force that the old man was temporarily blinded.

A last, fatal mistake.

The old man backed away in surprise. Andrea squealed like a stuck pig, waving the cushion as if it were a deadly weapon.

Gerhart spat again, seized the old man’s wrist and pressed his nails into his leathery skin with all his might.

Gerhart didn’t hear the metallic sound of the pistol falling to the floor until it was too late. Within a second everything was quiet. Andrea stood over Gerhart with outstretched arms. She had grabbed the pistol and was intent on using it. Stich’s eyes were mad with rage. His entire body shook with indignation.
The white, congealing mixture of half-dissolved pills and saliva was still trickling down his cheek, but he didn’t notice.

Gerhart turned away from him and looked at Andrea. He stretched out an arm towards her, tilting his head to one side. His eyelashes were glued together and his mouth quivered. ‘Andrea…’ he said. It was the first time he’d said her name. Feelings fused and separated again, making him laugh and cry.

‘But my dear friend, you seem so upset,’ came the measured voice from behind. The colour returned to Stich’s cheeks as he straightened up, and he became his usual controlled self again. ‘How you can splutter, little Gerhart. In a little while you’ll calm down again, I promise. Give me the pistol now, Andrea,’ he urged, stretching out his hand. ‘We must put an end to all this!’