Only she wasn’t either, because Tiessenkai 16 was no longer her home. And getting her new address from the dragon guarding what turned out to be a boarding-house for respectable widows and spinsters called for every ounce of Ranklin’s own respectability, charm – and a few hinted lies about a business connection with Herr Wedel, deceased.
The Widow had, it seemed, just come into a small inheritance and moved to rooms above the restaurant by the lighthouse where they had met Gunther the day before. And while the rooms there might be bigger, the view better and the restaurant itself respectable, living above any restaurant, next door to strangers, quite likely men, was, Herr Spencer must agree …
Ranklin agreed with everything but it still took five minutes. After that, however, it was easy. He asked at the restaurant and a waiter pointed immediately to a corner table.
She looked very much like a pre-Raphaelite painting of The Widow: middle-aged but slim and sitting very upright, with a thin ascetic face and flaxen hair drawn tightly back to a bun. She also seemed, like such a painting, very detailed in the modest lacework of her blouse, the metal brooch at her throat, the fine pattern of her pleated skirt. The respectability of Tiessenkai 16 certainly hadn’t worn off yet, and Ranklin approached her with caution.
He was, he said, most apologetic for approaching her so improperly, but he was pressed for time. She had doubtless heard of the unfortunate death of the English Naval officer, a friend of his, and he had been asked by the officer’s father …
He spun it out, giving her time to react and for him to see her reactions; Corinna, he guessed, would be as insistent as the Commander on a complete report. At first the Widow seemed to tense, but then – almost with no visible sign – relaxed and listened carefully. When he had finished, she asked him to sit down, called for another cup and poured him coffee.
“It is so much more convenient to come back after work to a home that is also a coffee-house,” she said. “Naturally, I read of the English officer’s death, but knew nothing of him. Have you spoken to the police?”
“To Hauptmann Lenz and also a Naval officer, Kapitanleutnant Reimers. It was he who mentioned the unfortunate death of your late husband.”
“Really? I thought the government had forgotten all about that. Why was it mentioned?”
“Lieutenant Cross had among his papers a bond issued by your husband’s company.”
“Truly? It would be without value now. I wonder how he got it?”
“I wondered also. Being so out of date, it would not be easy to find.”
“Naturally I have several old unissued ones – as ridiculous souvenirs. But I cannot think why anyone else should keep one.”
Really I’m getting nowhere, Ranklin thought, and even Corinna would have to admit it. Time to stop bothering the Widow.
“More coffee, Herr Spencer?” she suggested.
So he stayed just one cup longer. While he was trying to think of fresh but harmless conversation, she asked: “And what was the English lieutenant doing in Kiel?”
“Oh, I think only for the races.”
“And you are not also in the Navy?”
“No. Just a friend.”
“Not a comrade of his, then.”
Ranklin said carefully: “No, but we had many interests in common – naturally.”
“Naturally.” She permitted herself a small prim smile, then glanced over her shoulder at the windows. “It is a charming view, is it not? It is one of the reasons I moved when I got my unexpected inheritance.”
“Most charming,” Ranklin agreed. “May I express my pleasure at your good fortune? – if it was not outweighed by the loss of a relative.”
“Oh, I felt no loss. Indeed, that I deserved it.” She put down her cup. “Come, let me show you the view from the terrace.”
The last yachts were trailing home, heeled gently to port by a dying west wind and dodged by chugging ferries crammed with home-going workmen. “Charming,” she said again. “And even better from my windows. See, those are my rooms up there.”
A bit surprised, Ranklin turned and looked up. The windows were also fake medieval, divided into several smaller panes of glass by lead strips. Several panes were almost blanked out by coloured decorations on the inside.
“I like to decorate my windows,” she explained. “To make them more interesting against the morning sun. But I cannot decide how to do it, so I change them often.”
There were six windows, he counted, and nine panes in each. In each window there were no more than two decorations, each of a different colour.
“This building has not changed,” she said, “from how it is in the engraving my late husband put on the bond certificate.”
“Most interesting,” Ranklin said very, very calmly. “And what work is it you do for the government?”
“Very dull. Every day at the locks office I must prepare for the invoicing department a complete list of all ships which have passed through the Canal in the past twenty-four hours …”
Coming away from the restaurant, Ranklin wanted to tell everyone of his triumph and simultaneously thought everyone was staring straight into the guilty knowledge in his head. He hesitated at the roadside. He had solved it! – well, Corinna had sent him up to the Widow Wedel, but he’d surely have visited her sooner or later anyway. And he deserved a cab back to town: if he waited, he must catch one setting down dinner guests at the restaurant. But if he wanted to cover his tracks, best to go back on the anonymous ferry, there must be one soon.
As he hesitated, an elderly but very well-kept town car drew up beside him and the chauffeur leant out to say he was heading back to Kiel empty, would the gentleman like a ride – for a consideration? A taxi! An unofficial one, but chauffeurs did it all the time. And the curtained rear windows suggested more luxury than the average motor taxi. He deserved this. He agreed and opened the rear door -
– and a hand yanked him all the way in. A pistol glinted dully in the curtained light, and at the other end of it was Anya’s mournful watchdog of last night. Sherlock Holmes would never have got caught like this, Ranklin thought.
35
Corinna might have waited dinner for Ranklin, but her father wasn’t used to waiting for anyone. They were into the fish course when Jake appeared at her shoulder and murmured: “A man – I wouldn’t say a gentleman – wants to speak with you, ma’am. Urgently, about Mr Spencer.”
“Police?”
“I wouldn’t say police, ma’am. More the opposite.”
Mr Sherring hadn’t heard all of this (he hadn’t been supposed to hear any of it) but asked: “Are your guests bringing us trouble with the authorities, Corinna?”
“Nothing like that, Pop. I’ll handle it.”
As they went out onto the deck, Jake said gravely: “I have a pistol in my pocket, ma’am.”
“Oh? That much not a gentleman, is he?” She thought for a moment. “Give it to O’ – to Gorman, and send him up.”
The man had been leaning on the rail watching the sun prepare to set behind the Bellevue Hotel, but turned as they came up. One glance at the sad dark eyes and mournful moustache would have braced Corinna in other circumstances for an equally sad, long and untrue story of Slavic misfortune, price 1,000 marks or near offer. But now the face was trying to look cheerful, even triumphant.
“We have Mr Spencer as prisoner.”
O’Gilroy had expected that, Corinna hadn’t quite brought herself to. She said: “We haven’t met before, have we?”
“My name does not matter.”
“Nothing about you matters, but you must have a name.”
The man shrugged. “Caspar.”
“Okay, Caspar, what’s the deal?”