The light inside was dim. Two metres ahead of them lumber towered up to the ceiling, barring the way to the front of the garage. On the right, a garden hose hung on the wall, and a lawn mower was propped against it. On the left you could just make out the shape of a motorbike under a shabby old eiderdown. The inspector raised the quilt. A 1936 NSU 300 was revealed. The tank was half full, and several damp leaves clinging to the front tyre showed that the bike had recently been used.
Dietrich bent down, as if checking the number plate, and fixed the little metal box under the back mudguard. It was his own personal weapon in his duel with the murderer, and there was no need for the others to know about it.
'What did I say. sir?' asked the sergeant triumphantly once they were outside.
Dietrich grinned. 'You said you'd help to deliver any wood we collected to my home. Which is just around the corner.'
Vollmer was back in the police station soon after them. 'Huge long line of customers outside the shop, Frau Kalkfurth and her assistant Winkelmann inside,' he reported. 'I made out I was examining every power point from the cellar to the attic, and I took a good look around the place. There's no sign that anyone is living in that house except for Frau Kalkfurth, or that anyone's been hiding there.'
As usual he waited for nightfall. Night was his hunting ground. He went into the garage around ten and switched on his torch, took the quilt off the motorbike and stopped short. Something was different. The top of the fuel tank! He always screwed it on so that the maker's logo was vertical. Now it was over to one side. It didn't take him a minute to find the little metal box under the back mudguard. Wondering what to do, he turned it back and forth, fitted it to the lawn mower, took it off again and thought. Grinning, he put it in his pocket. He got the message. He did up the chinstrap of the leather helmet and put his goggles on.
'They're on your trail, son,' said a voice through the lumber.
He laughed dryly. 'The inspector's thought up something special. He thinks I don't know.'
'They'll find you wherever you hide. I can't help you now. Times have changed. Leave your motorbike here, son, and get out before they chop your head off. Though that might be best for both of us.'
'Mother, you're going too far,' he said, indignant.
Klaus Dietrich slung the bag containing the receiver over his shoulder and cycled out into the dark, a rather odd figure. The headphones gave him an owlish look. This was the third night, and Inge was wondering anxiously how long his exhausted and undernourished frame could keep it up.
His route took him first to Am Hegewinkel, where on the last two nights a steady beeping tone had told him that the motorbike was in the garage. Tonight there was no beep. The killer was on the prowl.
Her father's self-righteous monologues and her mother's constant complaints got on Jutta's nerves. She set off for home two days earlier than she had planned. It took her for ever to get from Kopenick to Berlin Mitte. The total collapse of the capital was just four months in the past, and the transport system still left much to be desired. But from Wittenbergplatz on, the U-Bahn ran normally. The line had hardly been damaged at all in the western suburbs.
On the way she thought about John. She felt a shameless, delicious desire for him. She imagined taking him by surprise, and felt herself get damp. The elderly man opposite gave her a little wink, as if he guessed her thoughts.
She reached Onkel Toms Hiitte on the last train, hurried up the steps and left the station down the narrow alley lined with barbed wire that the Americans had left for Germans to use. At the barrier, she showed the guard her pass. Full of happy anticipation, she entered the brightly lit prohibited zone. The music of Benny Goodman was swinging from a window somewhere, accompanied by laughing voices. She pressed the bottom bell outside Number 47 Wilskistrasse.
What seemed like endless seconds of waiting heightened her excitement. She thought she could already feel his firm body and her tongue between his lips. At last the door opened. She had the words 'John, darling' on the tip of her tongue. But the woman in the doorway got in first. 'John, darling,' she called over her shoulder.
She instantly knew the identity of this woman in the housecoat standing in front of her, hair rather dishevelled, a glass in her hand, and she knew the woman had come to claim her property. Like a wounded deer, Jutta turned and ran.
John Ashburner came out of the bathroom. Ethel was amused. 'Rather impulsive, your young lady.'
'I'm going after her,' he said firmly.
The inspector turned into Argentinische Allee. His stump hurt every time he pushed the pedals down. The bicycle rattled quietly. Candlelight flickered in a few windows, as if Christmas had come early. But it was October, the electricity was off, and there was a murderer cruising somewhere, through the mild, starlit night. He listened to the headphones as if expecting them to answer his question.
He went through the week's events in his mind. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Captain Ashburner had shown him the beeping transmitter. He had been to Mr Chalford's office with Muhlberger to ask about the card index of employees. He had searched the garage in secret, and tampered with the motorbike. He had been on cycle patrol for the last three nights. Somewhere and at some time during the past week, an idea had occurred to him. He had filed it away in his subconscious, and now it was lying there, refusing to be dredged up to the surface.
A faint beeping chirped in the headphones and soon grew stronger. Dietrich braked, laid his bicycle flat on the pavement, and ducked down behind a switchbox beside the road. The motorbike roared past not two metres from him, the rider's goggles reflecting the clear night sky.
Getting on his bicycle. Dietrich followed the fading beep, which showed him that the motorbike was moving away. He had no chance on his old bike. But to his surprise, a minute later the signal grew stronger again, swelling to a fortissimo. His adversary must be very close.
He stopped, looked all round — and saw the small box with the metallic gleam. It was stuck to the lamppost in front of him. His enemy had tricked him.
Something came rushing toward him with concentrated force from the nearby main road. The NSU 300! A dull thud flung him to the ground. His enemy swerved around and returned to the attack. Dietrich rolled aside, but not fast enough. There was an ugly crunch, as if all his bones were breaking. The motorbike raced away.
He lay there helpless. Suddenly revelation struck him like a thousandvolt electric shock. There it was, the connection he had desperately been trying to make for days on end. He tried to get up. He failed. The tyres of the heavy motorbike had crushed his prosthesis, and now it was hanging at a bizarre angle from the stump. Turning up his trouser leg, he unstrapped it.
A jeep was approaching, its searchlight sweeping the pavement. Dietrich raised an arm and waved, but just before the jeep reached him the searchlight switched to the other side of the road. His calls were drowned out by the sound of the engine. The hell with it, I have to get to my feet somehow, he thought. To my foot, he corrected himself.
He turned over and crawled on hands and knees to the street light where his bicycle was lying. It was barely three metres, but it seemed like miles. He hauled himself up by the lamppost. Only at the third attempt did he succeed in picking up his bike. Grasping the handlebars with both hands, he put his half leg over the middle bar and got himself into the saddle. He pushed off with his sound foot. For a few seconds he thought he would tip over, but he soon found out how to keep his balance. Pushing down the pedal, he brought it up again with his instep. It worked better than he'd expected. He got up some speed. There was no time to lose. He hoped the guard would let him telephone the American prohibited zone. And then he had an appointment with the killer.