In Germany, 1933, Johann Ingersoll, star of screen and master of disguise, enjoys a sinister talent. It is one that lets him indulge a taste for cruel sex and casual murder. And one soon spotted by Hitler's brutal regime.
(The Hunt)
“The agents of Die Sechs Fuchse report only to Vierhaus and he reports only to me. The particular assignment we have in mind for you would, in the event war is imminent with the United States, paralyze their war effort and neutralize them. It would, we are certain, keep the United States out of the war. In other words, Hans, this mission could directly affect the outcome of our struggle. So, if you choose to accept and are successful, you will be the single most important war hero in the history of the Third Reich.”
Ingersoll’s excitement flooded over. He began to speak but Hitler held up a finger.
“Before you say anything, Hans Wolfe, you must understand if you accept this job, both Hans Wolfe and Johann Ingersoll must die. You would become a man without an identity. A number.”
“A number?”
“Willie Hitler said.
“You would be known only as Siebenundwanzig.”
“Twenty-seven? Why twenty-seven?”
“You will understand in time,” Vierhaus said.
Also by William Diehl
Thai Horse
Hooligans
Chameleon Sharky’s Machine
WILLIAM DIEHL
Mandarin
27
A Mandarin Paperback
27
First published in Great Britain 1990 by William Heinemann Ltd
This edition published 1991
Reprinted 1991 by Mandarin Paperbacks Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London SW3 ORB
Mandarin is an imprint of the Octopus Publishing Group
Copyright © William Diehl 1990
Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published materiaclass="underline"
CPP/Belwin, Inc., and International Music Publications: An excerpt from the lyrics to “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” by Charles Tobias, Lew Brown, and Samuel. Stept. Copyright 1942, 1954 Robbins Music Corporation.
Copyright renewed 1970, 1982 Robbins Music Corporation All rights of Robbins Music Corp. assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Rohbins Catalog, Inc.
International copyright secured. Made in the USA. MI rights reserved. Used by permission. Purdy Bienstock Enterprises: An excerpt from the lyrics to “Strange Fruit” by Lewis Allen. Copyright 1939 Edward B. Marks Music Company.
Copyright renewed. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
MCA Music Publishing: An excerpt from lyrics to “Lover Man (Oh Where Can You Be),” words and music by Jimmy Davin, Roger “Eam” Ramirez, and Jimmy Sherman. Copyright 1941, 1942 by MCA Music Publishing,
a division of MCA, Inc., New York, NY 10019. Copyright renewed. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., and Songwriter’s Guild of America as agent for Jay Gorney Music and Glocca Morra Music: An excerpt from the lyrics to “Brother Can You Spare a Dime” by J. Gorney and E. Y. Harburg.
Copyright 1932 by Warner Bros. Inc. Copyright renewed.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.: An excerpt from the lyrics to “Love for Sale” by Cole Porter. Copyright © 1957 Warner Bros. Inc. (renewed). An excerpt from the lyrics to “She’s Funny That Way” by Billie Holiday. Copyright 1928 Chappell & Co. An excerpt from the lyrics to “I’ve Got a Crush on You” by George Gershwin—lea Gershwin. Copyright 1930 Warner Bros. Music (renewed) New World Music Corp.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 7493 0555 K
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox and Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
To the four people who love this island as much as I do:
The late, great Bobby Byrd,
my daughter, Temple,
Mark Vaughn,
and always, for Virginia
“What is past is prologue.”
William Shakespeare The Tempest
BOOK ONE
“What other dungeon is so dark
as one’s own heart!
What jailer so inexorable
as one’s self.”
Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1851
The creature was a terrifying specter. A bizarre distortion, part human, part animal, this scarred, panting, wild-eyed obscenity seemed proof that all things in nature are not perfect and that even God in his infinite wisdom is sometimes capable of a monstrous blunder.
The face was a network of red, ridged scars, one of which stitched his left eye shut. The nose was a crushed lump, its nostrils flattened against a pale, cadaverous face like the snout of a pig. Thick lips revealed tortured, broken teeth which overlapped as if, in a divine afterthought, had been jammed haphazardly into the gums. His hair was a thick, blond, twisted mane that tumbled down both sides of his face, framing and accentuating its abnormalities.
His body had not escaped the ravages of natural disorder. He was short, barely five feet tall, bent over by a bowed spine, his shoulders jammed against his neck in a perpetual shrug, one foot turned inward and slanted so he walked on its side in a curious limp that lacked rhythm and cadence.
Misery permeated every pore and sinew of this tortured being.
His one good eye hinted at the angry soul encased in this crippled cage of skin and bone; a fearful gray, glittering orb, unable to conceal his unbridled hatred for the normal humans who, on those rare times when he had been seen, were so revolted by his hideous deformities that they turned their own eyes away from him in horror.
Only his arms and hands seemed to have escaped the uncontrolled genes which had molded him into a human disaster. His arms were powerful and muscular, his hands long, expressive, even delicate. And yet as if their beauty reminded him of what might have been he kept them tucked away under his armpits, making his peculiar gait even more ominous.
A night predator, he emerged only after dark to forage for food, to steal what little money he required.
And to kill.
Shrouded by a long, dark green loden coat, its hood concealing his face, he stalked the shadows, dodging the police and the brownshirts, looking for victims. His rage was such that he hunted only the most beautiful and innocent-looking women, and when he found them he killed them, disfiguring their bodies with a ragged butcher knife as if he were getting even with the fates for what they had done to him.
In this, the spring of 1932, he had butchered no less than two dozen women over a period of three years.
The Berlin police were confounded by this monster serial killer who seemed to vanish in the city’s shadows. Clues were nonexistent. There was no pattern to his crimes other than the victims’ youth and beauty.
To everyone who read the newspapers or listened to the radio, he was now known as Der Nacht Hund, the Night Dog.