Florin opened the door and glanced nervously at the strangers before starting to close it again. "We are the Criminal Division. A message from headquarters. Concerning the incident there about one week ago. We may come in, yes?"
"Of course…"
Baum spoke in a sing-song French. He spoke in short sentences as though he expected everyone to accept him at face value. It never occurred to Florin to ask for some form of identification. They proceeded into the apartment, first Florin, then Baum and his companion, who carried the empty br ief-case and closed the door.
"You are alone?" Baum asked.
"Yes, I seldom…"
"Keep walking, please. We have been asked to look at your bedroom. Statements have been made that a woman visits you who keeps bad company."
"That's ridiculous."
"This we are sure of. Keep walking. Open that cupboard — I must be sure we are alone."
They were insi de the cramped bedroom and Florin reacted like a robot to Baum's instructions. He opened up the cupboard at his visitor's request. Baum pressed the tip of the silencer against the base of Florin's neck. The Belgian stiffened at the pressure of the cold metal. "Step into the cupboard slowly," Baum commanded in the same sing-song French. "You stay there out of the way while we search for evidence," Terrified, Florin stepped inside the cupboard, his face buried among his clothes. Baum pressed the trigger once.
He slammed the door against Florin's toppling body and turned the catch. Without saying a word he handed the Luger to his companion who immediately hid it inside his brief-case as Baum removed his gloves and shoved them inside his pocket. Time to go," Baum said.
It was his normal routine when working on a close-up job. Baum never kept the gun a second longer than necessary. It was his companion's task to transport the incriminating weapon so that Baum could never be compromised; it was a risk Baum's companion was paid good money to take.
"Now for the bar gee Dr. Berlin is worried about. We want to keep our employer happy, don't we?"
At 9.30 a.m. a butcher's van pulled into the kerb at Brussels Midi station. Serge Litov had been released from the handcuffs and was sitting facing Max Kellerman who was pointing his machine-pistol at the Russian's belly. Litov could still not fully believe he was about to be freed; the one thing which reassured him was the sound of heavy traffic outside.
"When you get out don't look back," Kellerman warned, 'or this van will be the last thing you'll ever see. One quick burst and we'd be away. And there is a whole team of our people outside to make sure you board a train — any train."
Stig Palme, still masked like Kellerman, unbolted the rear doors, opened one a few inches and peered out. He opened it wider, Litov stepped down into the street and the door was closed. Kellerman now moved very fast.
Stripping off the boiler suit he had been wearing, he stepped out of it. Pulling off the Balaclava helmet, he lifted the top of the couch Litov had been seated on, took out a trilby hat and jammed it on his head. He grabbed a suitcase and a fawn raincoat from inside the couch. The suitcase's corners were tipped with steel to serve as an improvised weapon. Sliding back a plate at the front of the van he spoke to the driver.
"Well?"
"He behaved went straight into the station booking-hall." Kellerman ran to the back of the van and dropped into the street. No-one noticed. Kellerman walked across to one of the swing doors and entered the booking-hall. Litov was standing at the ticket counter by the first-class window with only one man in front of him. While he waited he glanced behind and saw a Belgian woman with a poodle on a lead joining his queue. She was muttering away to herself as she burrowed in her handbag for fare money. Expensively dressed, which fitted her presence in the first-class queue. Litov noticed things like that.
"Stupid old cow," he thought. "Women never have their money ready."
The man in front of him moved away and with a quick glance at the station clock Litov asked for his ticket in a low tone. The ticket clerk asked him to speak up. Litov did so, anxious not to draw attention to himself.
"One seat on the Ile-de-France Trans-Europ Express to Amsterdam. One-way and a non-smoker. I shall have time to catch it?"
"Plenty of time." The clerk was writing out the car and seat number. "Arrives here 9.43, reaches Amsterdam 12.28."
Behind Litov the woman with the poodle was still investigating her handbag and muttering away to herself in French. She irked Litov: people like that ought to be locked up. He paid for his ticket and moved towards the platforms, glancing round at the milling crowd, trying to locate the hidden watchers he knew must be there.
Everything seemed normal. The bustle of passengers criss-crossing the large booking-hall, the general air of frustration and anxiety, the constant background voice over the speakers relaying an endless list of train arrivals and departures all over Europe.
At the first-class counter the woman apologised to the clerk. She couldn't find her purse. Would he serve the next passenger while she… She glanced across to see Litov walk out of sight onto the platforms. She hurried over the concourse, her poodle trotting briskly by her side, to Max Kellerman who stood reading a newspaper. Stopping abruptly, she let the poodle walk on and contrived to let the leash wrap itself round the German's legs.
"So sorry," she bur bled in French, her voice low as she untwined the leash, "Colette does like men. The 9.43 T.E.E.. to Amsterdam," she went on. "Five stops — Brussels Nord, Antwerp East, Roosendaal, Rotterdam, The Hague, then Amsterdam…"
"Get the news to Henderson," murmured Kellerman. Tell him I'm on my way."
Kellerman quickly joined the short queue which had formed at the first-class window. Behind him the fussy lady in her sixties had made her way to a telephone kiosk.
*
It was not long until the Ile-de-France de-luxe express would be arriving en route for Amsterdam. The T.E.E. s stopped for precisely three minutes. Nevertheless Serge Litov, after walking up and down the platform, suddenly returned to the booking-hall.
Left behind on the platform, Max Kellerman, wearing his raincoat and hat and carrying his suitcase, waited where he was in case Litov reappeared at the last moment and boarded the express. Litov might be standing watching the exit doors to see if anyone followed him. Or buying the ticket for Amsterdam might be the first of his tricks to throw off the shadows he knew were watching.
In the booking-hall Litov hurried to a phone box, shut the door and called a Bruges number. He watched to see if anyone appeared to be dogging his movements. What he didn't notice was a woman with a poodle who was perched on a nearby seat ostentatiously eating a sandwich. If Litov had happened to spot her, the sandwich would have explained her presence having booked her ticket she had a long wait for her train and preferred to spend it in the booking-hall.
"If he leaves the station, you follow him, Alphonse," she said quietly to the man sharing her seat.
"It doesn't look as though he is catching the Amsterdam express."
"He still has time," Monique replied equably.
"I'd like to know what he's saying," muttered Alphonse.
Inside the phone box Litov's Bruges number had connected and he identified himself quickly.
"Serge speaking, your friend from the Stampen. They let me out — just like that."
"Berlin here. Keep this call brief, I'm expecting another. Where are you?"
"Brussels Midi station. I've bought a ticket for Amsterdam. Which route — and can you get me a back-up? They're bound…"
"It was our friends?" Berlin interjected sharply. "And you know their home town?"
"Yes and yes. I'm short of time. I have to catch that express. Or don't I?"
"Of course. Then continue on by air, if you understand me. Help will meet you at Copenhagen — to deal with any difficulty you may encounter. Goodbye."