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.
`The second consignment you were expecting has arrived,' Braun continued. It has been delivered safely to the Hotel Bayerischer Hof a few minutes ago…'
'Where exactly is that?' Klara demanded, her tone icy.
`Facing both Hauptbahnhof and harbour. The following car registration number is linked with the consignment… I stay on duty?'
'Yes! We shall react at once. And I shall have to report your indiscretion…'
'Please…'
But the Stuttgart connection had gone dead. Behind Braun's back Martel had pulled the rubber sucker from the glass, hauled the earpiece free and thrust the whole contraption in his jacket pocket. The change in Braun's tone had warned him the conversation was ending.
Martel performed a pantomime as Braun sneaked out of the booth without a glance in his direction. He spoke loudly in English about nothing into the receiver. When Braun disappeared through the exit he left the booth. He now had solid data for Stoller to check.
Inside the luxurious tenth-floor apartment in a building less than a mile from the headquarters of Dietrich GmbH, Klara Beck slammed down the receiver. Tearing open a fresh pack with nails painted like red talons she lit her forty-first cigarette of the day.
`Braun must be losing his marbles,' she said to herself.
The cigarette was necessary to calm her nerves – and her voice – before she phoned Reinhard Dietrich. Although sexually attractive she knew it was her outward coolness which most appealed to the Bavarian millionaire, which made her his mistress. Her apparent calm in all situations was such a contrast to Dietrich's choleric temperament – and to that of his whining wife.
Taking several deep drags, she expelled smoke from her lungs, her bosom heaving with the relaxation afforded by the nicotine. It was time to make the call. She dialled the number of ' the schloss. Dietrich himself answered.
`Yes!'
Just the single, curt word.