Double Jeopardy (13 page)

'I showed you on the map. Look at the distance we drove round the perimeter to get here…'

'So, it could fit. You can't see the schloss from any point from the road. It is remote, secluded – ideal for concealing a horde of rabble-rousers. And God knows they are rousing – look at the riots recently. Almost as bad as in England…'

'They're opening the gates!'

Stoller had started the engine and was already driving into the open and on to the road leading past the entrance to the schloss. It was the direct route to Munich and Stoller was not prepared to go the other way for some millionaire thug who employed killer dogs.

`Raise your window,' he ordered Wilde, using one hand to shut his own. The dogs were out in the road, rushing towards the unmarked police car. Faces appeared at either window, fangs bared, mouths slavering, the heads huge, paws clawing desperately to get beyond the glass to ravage the men inside. Stoller put his foot down.

The car leapt forward. Two of the beasts appeared briefly in front of the radiator. The occupants felt the thuds of speeding metal colliding with animal bodies. Then they were hurtling past the open gates where men were pouring out led by a tall, well-built blond giant. Wilde looked back.

'They're going to follow us in a car…'

'That damned bird started it,' Stoller said calmly. 'The dogs kicked up, Dietrich's guards became suspicious – and sent out the hounds. Did you notice the blond Adonis who appeared to be their leader? That was Werner Hagen – a keen windsurfer. We have to evade them – on no account must they know they're under surveillance…'

'Evade them? How?'

They moved at manic speed round bends in the country road and Wilde braced himself. He was almost as terrified of Stoller's driving as he was of fierce dogs: his chief had the reputation of being the fastest driver in Bavaria. Stoller gave a fresh order. -

'When I stop at the next intersection stay in the car-and get well down out of sight. I'll need the gas-pistol – I'm going to block the road. Look, this will do…'

Wilde glanced over his shoulder and saw only deserted roadway. Stoller had gained a temporary lead-but Wilde knew the road ahead would be empty and for miles there were long straight sections. It couldn't be done…

Ahead a farm-track led off to the right. Stoller jammed on the brakes. There was a screech of rubber and he turned through ninety degrees, ending up a short distance along the track. Wilde was saved from being hurled through the windscreen by Stoller's insistence that he always wore his seat-belt. It was not over yet.

Stoller was now backing rapidly until his vehicle blocked the road. Grabbing the gas-pistol handed to him by Wilde who was already hunching himself below window level, he left the car, slamming the door shut. He ran towards a large tree near the roadside and hid behind the massive trunk.

The pursuing car – driven by Werner Hagen with two men accompanying him – came round a nearby bend. Hagen found himself confronted by a Mercedes broadside on and which appeared to be empty. He braked, stopped, reached for the gun under his armpit and told the two men to wait in the car.

Leaving his door open he looked cautiously round while the man in the back lowered his window to see what was going on. Stoller used the tree trunk to steady himself, aimed the gas- pistol and pulled the trigger. The missile exploded on the driver's seat – a bull's eye which spread fumes in all directions, smothering Hagen who dropped his gun and staggered, coughing, unable to see anything.

The man in the front passenger seat was choking, his vision blurred. In a matter of seconds Stoller reloaded and took fresh aim. The second missile passed through the open rear window and exploded in the rear of the car. Stoller ran back to his own vehicle.

Minutes later he was miles away, driving along one of the endless stretches with no sign of any other vehicle in his rear-view mirror. Wilde saw that his chief was frowning.

'You pulled that off beautifully. Why the scowl?'

'I was thinking about Martel. Tweed warned me he was coming – but he's a loner…'

So, like Warner, no cooperation?'

`On the contrary, he'll contact me when he needs me. Excellent judgement. I just wonder where he is at this moment…'

Thursday May 28

Martel drove the hired Audi across the road bridge linking the mainland of Bavaria with the island of Lindau. He no longer wore the Tyrolean hat nor was he smoking the pipe used to disguise his appearance in Bregenz.

Hatless, his profile prominent with its strong Roman nose, ' the Englishman smoked a cigarette in his holder at a jaunty angle. It was as though he wished to draw attention to his arrival to any watchers who might be stationed in Lindau.

`What do you think you are doing?' Claire had demanded when he discarded his disguise as soon as they had crossed the – border into Germany.

`Showing the British flag,' replied Martel. 'If I had a Union Jack pennant I'd be flying it

`Delta will spot us soon enough…'

`Sooner, I hope.'

`You're setting yourself up as a target?' she protested. 'You must be mad – have you forgotten Zurich, St. 'Gallen…'

`The point is I have remembered them – and we're working to a time limit. You said the Bayerischer Hof is the top hotel on the island?'

`Yes, and it's next to the Hauptbahnhof

`Then we must rig it so it looks as though you've arrived on your own by train. We'll register separately, eat separately in the dining-room. We don't know each other. That way you can guard my back. And put on those dark glasses which transform your appearance… -

`Would sir like anything else?'

`Yes, guide me to the hotel,' he said. 'This place is a rabbit warren and I've forgotten the burrows. Use the map.'

They had a taste of the beauty of the island when they drove over the bridge and past a green park which ran to the lake edge. The mist had lifted temporarily and the sun was a luminous glow. She checked the map and gave directions. Within minutes she laid a hand on his arm.

`We're almost there. Better drop me here. Turn left at the end. The Bayerischer Hof is on your left, the Hauptbahnhof on your right, the harbour straight ahead. Where do we meet?'

`At the terrace elevated above the harbour, the Romerschanze – the place where a tourist looking through binoculars witnessed the killing of Warner without realising it…'

She left the vehicle, carrying her suitcase. Only two or three tourists were in this quiet section of the old street but she took no chances, calling out in German.

'Thank you so much for the lift. Now I shall catch my train.' `My pleasure…'

The pavement artist, Braun, spotted Martel as soon as he drove round the corner.

Today Braun's picture drawn in crayon on the flagstones was an impression of the amphitheatre at Verona. The small cardboard box for coins lay beside the picture. Again wearing a windcheater and jeans he was patrolling back and forth, hands clasped behind his back as though taking a rest from his labours.

He was actually watching the exit doors from the Hauptbahnhof. A main-line express from Switzerland was due. He turned round at the precise moment Keith Martel appeared and recognised him immediately. It was no great feat of observation.

Thick black hair, early thirties, tall, well-built, clean-shaven, prominent Semitic-like nose, habitually smokes cigarettes in holder at slanting angle…

The pavement artist was so thrown off-balance by Martel's sudden appearance, by the accuracy of the description provided, that he almost stopped in mid-stride – which would have been a blunder since it might have drawn the target's attention to himself. He strolled on as the Audi passed him and he heard it pull up. He sneaked a glance over his shoulder so he would be able to recognise the Englishman from behind.

'I wonder, you curious sod…'

Martel muttered the words to himself as he stared in his wing mirror, still seated behind the wheel. It had been a reflex action – to make one final check before he got out of the car with his suitcase. The swift glance of the pavement artist over his shoulder showed clearly in the mirror.

HS got out of the car and saw the mist beginning to roll in from the lake, invading the harbour. He walked inside the hotel's spacious, well-furnished reception hall and up a few steps to the desk. The girl behind the counter was helpful and brisk. Yes, they had an excellent double bedroom on the third floor overlooking the lake. Certainly it would be acceptable for him to pay for his room in advance as he might have to make a sudden departure on business.

'And if you would fill in the registration form, sir?'

The conversation had been carried on in English – Martel was booking in under his own name and nationality. Under the heading Occupation he wrote Consultant.

Escorted upstairs in the lift by the porter, he was shown into a huge room with a large bathroom. Martel liked to travel well and Erich Stoller was paying. As soon as he was alone he went to the side window which, as he expected, overlooked the Hauptbahnhof and hotel entrance. He saw Claire coming out of the station.

Her performance had been a model of skilled evasion. Wearing her dark glasses and a head-scarf, she had crossed the road immediately Martel had turned the corner. The pavement artist had not even seen her. He was not looking for a girl, only a man, Martel…

Once inside the Hauptbahnhof Claire had waited for someone else to walk out. A couple staying at the hotel had gone across to check the timetable board. Claire emerged with them, having heard a brief snatch of their conversation in German.

'I'm looking for the Bayerischer Hof,' she said to the elderly man who was beside her. It was his wife beyond who answered.

'My dear, it is just across the road. We're staying there ourselves. You'll find it an excellent hotel…'

'Let me have your case,' the German said and took it, grasping the handle.

It was perfect cover for anyone wilt) might be watching. Claire appeared to belong to the couple who had gone to the Hauptbahnhof to meet her. The pavement artist never even noticed her as the trio vanished inside the hotel entrance.

From the open third floor window in his bedroom Martel stared at the sidewalk immediately below where his car was still parked. The pavement artist held a tiny notepad in the palm of his hand and he was noting down the vehicle's registration number.

Seen from street level, the pavement artist's action was carried out with such skill no one noticed what he was doing. He never gave a thought to the possibility that he might be observed from above.

`Got you, you bastard…'

Martel muttered the words as he ran to his case, snapped open the locks and pulled out from under neatly folded clothes a small instrument. He shoved it inside his jacket pocket, left the room and descended in the waiting lift.

At ground floor level he ignored Claire who was completing the registration form after reserving a single room with bath. Walking to the exit, Martel peered out and strolled into the street. As he expected, the pavement artist was casually crossing the road on his way to the Hauptbahnhof.

The watcher had to have some quick means of communication with his employers – what could be more convenient than the public telephone booths he would undoubtedly find inside? The double doors closed in Martel's face as the pavement artist entered ahead of him. The Englishman pushed a door open slowly and walked into a large booking-hall. The row of phone booths was to his left.

The pavement artist had entered a booth in the middle of the row, the only one now occupied. Martel paused. Shoving his hand into his jacket pocket he waited until his quarry picked up the receiver and commenced dialling. Then Martel entered the booth to the right and slammed the door shut.

The noise attracted the pavement artist's attention. Out of the corner of his eyes, his head bent over a notebook he appeared to be consulting, Martel sensed the man's shocked disbelief. For the next few seconds he held his breath. It was a question of psychology.

The pavement artist turned his back on Martel and continued making his call. It was the reaction Martel had prayed for. The man was not a top-flight professional. Had Martel been in his place he would have continued dialling the first' figures which came into his head, listened for a moment as though getting the wrong signal, slammed down the receiver and left the booth.

He knew exactly what had happened instead. Startled to find his target in the next booth, the man had experienced seconds of indecision. But because he had started dialling – and because he was certain Martel could not possibly suspect him – he continued what he had been doing.

Martel raised his own receiver with one hand while the other performed a quite different action. Extracting the instrument taken from his suitcase, he pressed the rubber sucker at waist- level on the glass window separating his booth from the next one. He then inserted the hearing-aid in place, using his upper left forearm to conceal the wire from the sucker to the earpiece.

The Englishman was gambling on the second-rate calibre of the pavement artist – that he would keep his back to Martel to hide his features. The instrument was working perfectly. Every word of the conversation in the next booth was transmitted to him with great clarity.

`Is that Stuttgart…?'

Martel memorised the number, although unable to hear the other end of the conversation.

`Edgar Braun speaking,' the pavement artist said formally. 'Is that Klara

'Cretin! You have already made two mistakes!' the girl told him venomously. No number or name at this end to be transmitted. You want someone to keep an appointment with you?'

`S-orry…' Braun mumbled the words. He has been badly thrown off balance by Martel's sudden appearance in the next booth. His fervent wish now was that he had broken off the call -but he dare not do that at this stage because Klara would guess something was wrong, that he had blundered. The only thing was to press on.