`I suppose I have been waiting for you to arrive all my life – ever since it started…'
'May I smoke?' Martel asked.
`Please do. You can give me one…'
Was it a reaction to the state of extreme tension affecting him? He felt a wild desire to pick her up and carry her to the bed he could see through a half-open door. She followed his glance and crossed her shapely legs.
`Will the money stop now?' she asked. 'Not that I really care. It has felt like blood money all these years. And going to the Post Office to collect the envelope seemed undignified. Does that make sense, Mr…?'
'Stolz, Ernst Stolz…'
`You know, of course, I still retain my maiden name, Brack?'
`Yes, and I understand the blood money feeling; Martel probed cautiously. `Although I think you are wrong…
`We were deeply in love, Mr Stolz. When the accident happened we had just got married…'
'It was an accident?'
He was – to use another of Tweed's phrases – creeping over thin ice. She looked startled.
`But of course. My husband was driving the American jeep alone on a dangerous road in the Bregenzerwald and it was winter. He skidded over a precipice…'
`Who confirmed it was an accident?'
Perplexity mingled with suspicion in her expression as Martel struggled to draw her into the web of revelation. 'The two security men who brought me the news,' she replied.
`They wore civilian clothes? Had you ever seen them before? Do you speak French?'
`In the name of God what are you suggesting?' she demanded.
'It would help if you answered the questions…'
`Yes! They wore civilian clothes. No! I had never seen them before. And no! I do not speak French…'
`So, from the way they spoke, you would not be certain whether these two men were really French – because naturally you conversed in German?'
`That is correct. They explained to me how important it was for my husband's death to remain a secret – he was part of a long-term anti-Soviet operation. They said I owed it to his memory that his work should continue – probably for many years. They told me that his real rank was much higher than the one he had borne – that of lieutenant – and that each month I would therefore receive via the post a generous sum of money as a pension. From the amount I get he must have been a colonel at least…'
'What about the burial? Who identified the body?'
'I did, of course! In a private mortuary in the mountains. He had broken his neck but there were few other injuries.'
'And who was buried in the grave? Alois Stohr?'
'My husband, of course…' Christine Brack was shaking. 'He was buried under a different name because the long-term anti-Soviet operation depended on pretending he was still alive. They told me he would have wanted me to agree to the deception…'
They had committed two murders, Martel reflected. The man whose neck had been broken – and some poor devil of an Austrian whose body had probably been weighted and dumped in the nearby lake. It had been vital to kill and remove the unknown Stohr because of the death certificate regulations and so on – when all they had needed was his name.
Christine Brack, too, would have been killed except for one snag. A third murder might have loaded the dice against the conspirators. Instead they had told her black lies and provided money. He was now at the crux of the whole business. As he reached into his coat pocket for the envelope he realised his palm was moist.
'I want you to look at these photographs and tell me if you recognise anyone. Prepare yourself for a shock. These photos were taken recently.'
Martel waited, concealing a sensation of turmoil. Everything depended on what Christine Brack said during the next minute. She spread out the glossy prints on her lap and then uttered a little exclamation. Her expression was frozen as she held out one photograph.
'That is my husband, Mr Stolz. Older yes, but that is him. I have been dwelling under some terrible illusion for thirty years. What does it mean…'
'You are quite sure?'
'I am certain. Incidentally, I will now tell you another man came to see me recently but I told him very little.' Martel realised she was referring to Charles Warner as she returned the photographs to him.
'That is not your husband,' Martel said gently. 'It simply looks very like him. And you have been living under no illusion – your husband did die thirty years ago.' He stood up. 'You may well be under observation and in grave danger now I have called. Can you pack a bag in five minutes and come with me to a place of safety for a few days?'
Shock made her amenable and she agreed to his suggestion. Also she was a woman able to pack in five minutes.
Martel hurried her down Gallus-strasse to the lake front where he found a cab and told the driver to take them to a nearby airstrip. The pilot who had flown him from Munich was waiting with his plane.
'I have to be in Munich so I reach the Hauptbahnhof by 9.30 at the latest. And first I have to drop this lady at a hotel…' 'We're going to have to move,' the pilot warned.
'Then move!'
As they settled into the plane Martel prayed to God that he would not be too late. It had certainly been German 'security' men who had fooled Christine Brack all those years ago. And he now knew for certain the identity of the assassin.
CHAPTER 29
Wednesday June 3. Munich
The arrival of Erich Stoller in the communications coach after the express had left Ulm caused a sensation. Howard was furious and did not resort to diplomatic language.
'Where the hell have you been? You realise the three of us – O'Meara, Flandres and myself – had to assume the responsibility for the safety of your own Chancellor…'
'Who is where at this moment?' Stoller broke in.
`Still locked in Compartment 12. The others are impatient for their breakfast but felt they had to wait until he emerged…'
'Follow me,' the German suggested. 'And surely you mean the four of you?' He glanced at Tweed who remained oddly silent. `So, had someone hurled a bomb through the window of Compartment 12, you feel it would have been due to my negligence?'
`That's how I see it,' O'Meara replied.
They were following the German Who led the way from the communications coach to Voiture Four. He stopped outside Compartment i6 and raised his hand to rap on the door.
`Wrong damned compartment,' Howard snapped.
Stoller rapped on the door with an irregular tattoo and it opened from the inside. Framed in the doorway stood Chancellor Kurt Langer, fully dressed and smoking one of his inevitable cigarettes. He wore a fresh business suit and an enquiring look.
'Time for breakfast, gentlemen? The others must be ready for a good German meal. May I rouse them myself so I can officially welcome them on German soil?'
O'Meara, Howard and Flandres – who had come hurrying up behind Tweed – were stunned into respectful and bewildered silence. They stood aside as Langer, chatting amiably, returned with his fellow-leaders and escorted them to the restaurant car. When they were alone Howard exploded.
`Stoller, you owe us an explanation…'
`He owes us nothing,' Tweed intervened. 'We are now in Germany and he can take whatever action he likes. But he may wish to tell us the latest score. Something in the public section of the train worries you, Erich?'
'It was all arranged with the Chancellor in advance when I flew to Bonn,' Stoller told them as they returned to the communications car. 'I boarded the express secretly at Kehl as a passenger while the Chancellor distracted your attention…'
`But why?' Howard demanded.
`Because,' Tweed again intervened, 'he sensed there is danger in the public section. I suspect he checked every passenger while pretending to be one of them…'
`Correct,' Stoller agreed. *And,' Tweed continued, 'I imagine you checked the sleeper?'