One with a brief-case which contains the weapon…
The lights had changed, the pedestrians were swarming over the crossing. Beaurain and Kellerman were caught up in the swirl. Beaurain grasped who Kellerman meant at once and scanned the oncoming crowd. Zenith! Desperately Beaurain went on scanning faces, with Kellerman a step or two ahead as though he had some urgent purpose. Beaurain did not distract the German in any way. He had learned to give his trained gunners their heads in an emergency situation. He had almost reached the sidewalk, the crowd had thinned out, when he saw…
One man of medium height and build dressed in a suit of American cut, wearing a straw hat — apt in this weather — and dark, shell-shaped glasses. He already had his hand inside the brief-case his compan ion held towards him. They had emerged from behind the map, which was mounted on two high wooden posts with an open gap below. It was through this gap that Kellerman had first noticed the two pairs of legs, had remembered the odd couple he had seen from the tenth floor. The German had watched and seen them come into view seconds before he began to move over the crossing. He'd just had time to make his remark to Beaurain.
As always, Baum had timed his move perfectly; he had been known to plan executions with a stop-watch. Appear from behind the street plan just as the lights changed. Be ready for the targets as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Two shots with the silenced Luger in the confusion of the morning traffic and minutes could pass before people realised what had happened.
Beaurain was not armed. He knew Kellerman was not carrying a gun. He saw Baum, who wore thin brown gloves, withdraw his right hand from the brief-case gripping the butt of a silenced Luger. Baum and his companion were about thirty feet away from their twin targets.
Kellerman was still several paces ahead, striding forward now the crowd had cleared out of his way. His long legs covered the ground at astonishing speed, although he did not appear to be hurrying. And he was striding straight towards Baum, who was taking aim with his left arm extended at right angles to act as a perch for the weapon. Max was going to be shot down in cold blood and there was nothing Beaurain could do to save him.
Suddenly Kellerman's right hand whipped out of his pocket holding the knife he had been nursing. In a blur of movement Beaurain saw Kellerman hoist his arm backwards then the knife was sailing through the air with the thrust of all the German's considerable strength behind it. The missile struck Baum's right shoulder, jerked his elbow and arm upwards and caused him involuntarily to press the trigger. Phut!
A bull's-eye! The silenced bullet hit a street light suspended high over the crossing. Sprays of shattered glass fell on pedestrians and there were shouts of surprise and annoyance. Baum still held on to the Luger and snapped off one more shot. His bullet missed Kellerman by a mile and shattered the windscreen of a passing Volvo. The car swerved across the line of oncoming traffic and ended up inside the window of a jewellery shop. Then the screaming began in earnest.
Pulling the knife from his shoulder, Baum dropped the Luger inside the brief-case which his companion still held open and they turned and ran. Kellerman sprinted forward to stop them, crashed into a French tourist who appeared from nowhere and both men fell sprawling. Kellerman dispensed with apologies and was on his feet again as Beaurain reached him.
"Where have they gone?"
Towards the railway station," Beaurain replied and they both ran — in time to see Baum and his companion, who still carried the brief-case, vanish inside the main entrance to the old station building. Behind them they left traffic blocked in both directions, several cars which had crashed together when the Volvo swerved across their lane, and a growing crowd of tourists and locals forming a mob of sightseers, none of whom had the slightest idea of what had happened.
"We can't miss that American bastard in that garb. Bloody great checks,"
"So noticeable you never think he could be anything but normal. Now, watch it — you haven't got your knife now."
They walked casually into a large reception area with places to eat, book stalls banks of phone booths, rows of ticket counters. After a swift glance round, Beaurain headed straight for some steps which led down onto the platforms. The flight of steps was crowded with people.
"There they are, Max!"
"Let's get to hell after the bastards!"
"Too late."
The couple had just boarded a red train which started to move into the well-like area they had looked down on from the Royal Hotel. Kellerman was in a rage of frustration increased by the Belgian's outward coolness and resignation.
"Your friend, Bodel Marker, we're going to see. Call him, for God's sake, and get police to check that train."
"Let's see if that's practical, Max."
"How can we see?"
"By checking the timetable here."
Beaurain led the German to a series of wall timetables. He ran his eyes down one timetable after checking his watch and shook his head, pointing with his finger.
"They'll be getting off any second now. That's the train they boarded and it's a local. You can see for yourself where the next stop is — just the other side of the Royal Hotel. We'd never get there in time and I don't think we wish to talk to the local police after what happened back there in the street."
"And I think I can hear police sirens."
"So we walk quietly towards the exit," Beaurain suggested, 'trying to look as though we've just arrived in Copenhagen. Someone may have seen us run in here."
And as they calmly walked out, the jackets they had removed during the short walk folded over their arms, two patrol cars screamed to a halt by the kerb and uniformed men went briskly inside.
Police headquarters in Copenhagen is known as Politigarden. A grim, triangular building constructed of grey cement, it faces a square called Polititorvet. Beaurain and Kellerman surveyed it from a distance before they went inside.
"Looks like a prison," Kellerman commented.
"Most inviting."
"They're not in the holiday camp business," replied Beaurain.
"And I see they have a wireless mast on the roof."
"It's that wireless mast I'm counting on — on that and Superintendent Marker of the Intelligence Department. He sounded friendly enough on the phone — but he didn't know then what I was going to ask him."
They approached the five arched entrances beneath the flat-topped roof. A patrol car pulled in at the kerb as they were crossing the square and a uniformed policeman carrying a small package dashed inside, leaving his companion behind the wheel.
Beaurain led the way to a side-door which carried the legend Kriminal Politiet. He pushed open the door and entered an austere office where a policeman in shirt-sleeves sat behind a desk.
"My identity… Jules Beaurain… Superintendent Bodel Marker
…"
He kept his voice low because there was another man in shirt-sleeves who had slipped into the room just ahead of them. The policeman behind the desk seemed to grasp the need for discretion.
"And the person with you?" he mouthed silently.
"My assistant — in charge of an undercover section. Marker will particularly wish to hear from him personally certain events he has witnessed. Name Foxbel."
There followed a brief conversation on the policeman's internal phone. Beaurain could not understand a word he said because he was speaking in Danish. The German nudged him in the back as the policeman stared at his desk. When Beaurain glanced round, Kellerman's eyes pinpointed the man who had entered the room before them: he was studying a notice on the wall. The policeman behind the desk finished his conversation, replaced the receiver and proceeded to fill in a form.