The Janus Man (51 page)

`If I ever meet you again I'll know you,' he said to himself.

*

Munzel couldn't believe his luck. Sitting facing Lydia, he had glanced round the restaurant and there, on the far side of the room sat Tweed. With a blonde.

His mind raced as Lydia studied the menu. He glanced round the room again. It was packed. Some of them were getting very merry. Waiters ran backwards and forwards. The perfect atmosphere for what he had in mind. Lydia looked up from her menu.

`What are you thinking about?'

`Look. I've just remembered an important customer I promised to call this evening for a decision. I've left my notebook with his phone number back at the International. Mind if I dash back there? I'll only be fifteen minutes. Help yourself to the Beaujolais. Order your first course. OK?'

`Phoning a customer at his home? Will he like that?'

`He won't like it if I don't. He's busy all day at his factory. Fifteen minutes. No more...'

Munzel slipped out of the dining-room. He got lucky again outside the Jensen. A taxi was depositing more guests. He grabbed it. `Hauptbahnhof,' he instructed the driver. This way there'd be no connection between himself and the International — if the police made careful enquiries afterwards.

`Mr Tweed?' The waiter seemed nervous. 'There's a gentleman outside who wants a word with you. He doesn't want to come into the restaurant.'

Will you excuse me, Diana? I shouldn't be a minute.' `Don't worry.' She waved her cigarette holder. 'I'll hold the main course for you.'

Tweed was puzzled. It was too early for Newman — and he'd have come straight into the restaurant. He walked out into the narrow lobby. A short stocky figure smoking a cigar stood near the exit. Kuhlmann. The man from Wiesbaden gestured towards the street.

`Let's take a short walk. They say walls have ears — although I've never seen walls growing them.'

`It had better be short. I'm in the middle of dinner.' Kuhlmann led the way in silence past the diners at the tables on the pavement. Inside Harry Butler stood up, told the waiter he'd be back in a minute, saw Diana sitting by herself, changed his mind and sat down again.

'How did you know I was here?' Tweed asked.

`The manager phoned me. Don't blame him. I guessed it would be the Jensen when you came back. I leaned on him. No sign of Kurt Franck. Vanished off the face of the earth for about two weeks. Now you're back I've put out a fresh general alert.'

'Thank you. And Dr Berlin?'

`Still gone missing. You're not saying now you're back he's going to reappear?' Kuhlmann suggested.

'I'm saying just that. Not yet, perhaps. But soon, yes.'

'You wouldn't care to enlarge on that?' Kuhlmann suggested. 'No, I wouldn't. Any more of those ghastly murders?'

'No.' Kuhlmann stopped on a deserted section of the pavement to relight his cigar. 'You go absent. Franck goes absent. Dr Berlin goes absent. The murders stop.'

'You wouldn't care to enlarge on that?' Tweed enquired.

'Just a policeman's observation. If you need me, I'm at the local police station. Possehl-strasse 4. 'I'11 write it down for you.' He did so on a small notepad, tore off the sheet, gave it to Tweed. 'If I'm not there, try headquarters at Lübeck-Süd.'

'I may need use of a safe phone again...'

'Use Lübeck-Süd — as before. Always available.'

'And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my meal.' 'Just thought I'd let you know I was around.' Kuhlmann paused as they turned back. 'I just made a bet with myself.' 'And what was that?'

'Now you're back peace ends. I'm expecting everything to detonate any time. Enjoy your meal.'

Munzel closed the door of his bedroom at the International, turned the bolt. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked a small metal box which he extracted from his back-pack. The inside was lined with suede, divided up into small compartments holding various plastic containers. He took out a plastic tube holding yellow capsules.

Holding the small tube in one hand he flicked off the top, tilted the tube, allowed one capsule to fall into the palm of his hand, recapped the tube. Child's play. He put the capsule back inside the tube. Mescaline. A hallucinogenic. One capsule and you were way out in space.

Leaving the hotel, he caught a cab from outside the station back to the Jensen. He sat down opposite Lydia shortly after Tweed had returned to his own table.

`This white wine is glorious,' Diana greeted him. `Won't you join me?'

`I feel like something to pep me up. I wonder if I could get it here.' Tweed called over their waiter. `I'd like a drink, a Margharita.'

`I've never heard of it, sir.'

`It's a mixture of tequila and fruit juice. At least ask the barman. I'll write it down for you.' He wrote on a sheet in his notebook, tore it out, handed it to the waiter.

`That will pep you up.' Diana gave him a certain look, her eyes half-closed. 'This could turn into an interesting evening.' She drank some more wine. 'And I'm getting tiddly. Darling,' she continued, 'you look a bit faraway.'

`I didn't expect to meet that chap who called to see me — at least not so soon. Doesn't matter, he's gone now.'

Tut look what's coming.'

`Your Margharita, sir,' the waiter said. 'We have a new barman. From Italy. He knew the drink immediately. Enjoy yourselves. The main course will be a little longer..

`Take your time,' said Tweed.

`And it's a proper Margharita,' Diana said, peering at his drink. 'It has salt round the rim of your glass.'

Tweed sipped, then took a larger gulp. He set down the glass and beamed, nodding his head with satisfaction. `You may have to help me up to bed.'

`That I would enjoy.'

Across the room Munzel talked to Lydia and watched Tweed's table. He had observed the arrival of the drink. People, their meal finished, were leaving. Other guests, waiting at the entrance, were filling up the tables again. There was a lot of movement. He leaned forward and whispered to Lydia.

`See that chap the other side of the room, the one with a blonde?'

`The one wearing glasses?'

'Yes. I want to play a trick on him. He once beat me to a business deal. He boasts he's never been drunk.'

'Sounds a stuffy type...'

Lydia was merry but still in control of her faculties. She drank just a little more as Munzel went on explaining.

'He is. This is what I want you to do. For a joke.' Under the table he took the plastic tube from his pocket, levered off the top, tipped one capsule into his hand, replaced the top. 'Don't let anyone see this. Hold out your hand when I tell you to. I'll drop a capsule into it. Pretend that we're clasping hands, but don't squeeze it.'

'What's in this capsule?'

'Something harmless — but he'll be rolling like a ship in a storm. You leave the table, pretend you're going to the toilet. As you pass his table you'll have to create a diversion, then drop this in his drink..

'No more instructions,' Lydia broke in. 'I've served behind a bar — as part of my hotel training. This will be fun. I'm ready.'

She reached her hand across the table, turned her palm upwards and he grasped her fingers lightly. She withdrew her hand, holding the capsule, stood up and moved slowly among a crowd of new arrivals. Alongside Tweed's table, she stumbled, put out a hand to save herself and knocked over Diana's half-full glass of wine.

'I'm terribly sorry,' she said in German. She swayed, put out her hand towards the toppled glass. Tweed looked up at Lydia. Her hand passed over his Margharita, dropped the capsule, picked up Diana's glass, mumbling apologies. The wine stained the cloth but missed spilling over on to her dress.

Lydia straightened herself with difficulty, walked on slowly towards the exit, apparently unsteady on her feet. A waiter rushed forward with a napkin, mopping at the cloth.

'Clumsy tart,' said Diana. 'She doesn't know when she's had enough.'

'Nothing on your dress?' Tweed queried. 'Good. You do look absolutely stunning.'

'Thank you, kind sir.'

She glowed with pleasure as the waiter refilled her glass, as Tweed gazed at her. She wore a black velvet evening dress with narrow shoulder straps. In the soft light from the wall lamps her beautifully-shaped shoulders showed to full advantage. She was also wearing jet drop earrings, her lipstick was a pale red, her nail varnish a pale pink. Very nineteen-thirties. Tweed lifted his glass, took several deep sips of the Margharita.

`And I've trimmed my nails,' she said, extending one hand.

`Why?'

`Because I'm learning to type, silly. You can't type with talons. I'm getting pretty good at it. And I've just about mastered shorthand — in English and German. That came easy. The typing's rather a bore. So mechanical...'

Across the room Munzel had summoned the waiter, handed him a one hundred-deutschmark note. 'I may have to leave suddenly — an urgent appointment. That will more than cover the meal.'

`There will be a lot of change, sir...'

`Keep ten per cent for the tip. I'll call back tomorrow for the rest.'

Tweed took another sip of his Margharita, put down the glass and blinked. He took off his glasses, rubbed at them with the corner of his handkerchief, put them back on. He blinked again.

`Is something wrong?' Diana asked.

`Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute. I'm OK...'

He walked rapidly out of the restaurant. Butler saw him go, saw that Diana was left alone and remained in his seat. Tweed pushed his way through the queue waiting for tables, headed for the elevator, pushed the button. His head felt very peculiar.

He walked inside the elevator, pressed the button for his floor. The small elevator began to ascend. He blinked again. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He stepped out, hurried to his room, key in hand. He had trouble inserting the key, turned it, pulled it free automatically and shut the door, then locked it. As he took his hand away his fingers dragged out the key, which fell on the floor.

He turned on the light, stared. The room seemed full of smoke. Something drifted towards him through the smoke, something floating in space. A naked cherub, an evil grin on its horrid little face, a pudgy hand stretched out towards Tweed. Christ! He'd been doped! That bloody girl had dropped something in his glass. He staggered towards the bathroom and the cherub floated backwards, beckoning him on.

Downstairs in the lobby Munzel asked the girl behind the reception counter to get him a pack of cigarettes. She looked dubious about leaving her station until he gave her the tip. The moment she'd gone to the bar he reached over, lifted up the box containing the registration slips, rifled through them.
Tweed. Zimmer 303
.

He thanked the girl when she came back, paid her, pressed the elevator button for Tweed's floor. Inside the elevator, the second the doors closed, he took out his bunch of keys, found the pick-lock. This was Munzel the pro, he told himself. The master of improvisation — improvisation of accidents.

Forty-Eight

Tweed was hallucinating. The tiled bathroom floor was crammed with naked cherubs, staring up at him, reaching up to him through the smoke with their beastly little hands.
Water!
He had to drink water — before the hallucinatory drug thoroughly polluted his bloodstream. He grabbed for the glass, knocked the soap on to the floor, filled the glass, drank it all down, refilled the glass, drank more.

Fresh air!
The atmosphere was stifling. Sweat ran off his forehead. He staggered to the double windows, slipped on the soap, saved himself by grabbing the ledge. He threw open both windows. Below was a sheer drop of thirty feet, straight down to the tiled floor of an interior well. All windows overlooking it were glazed, like his own. Better get away — dangerous.

He stumbled back to the tap, filled the glass, drank more water. Something touched his shoulder. He jerked round. One of those hideous cherubs, floating in space. Dining-room, Four Seasons. Then the connection was gone. A horseman in hunting clothes appeared out of the fog. The horse reared up, crashed down on top of him. He felt nothing. A skull floated out of the mists, the skull of Harry Masterson, grinning hideously. He put out a hand, pushed it away, his hand feeling nothing,
pushing through the skull
. He turned away, grabbed the glass, refilled it. As he drank he glanced into the mirror. Oh, Jesus!

Hugh Grey's image, a head without a body, stared back out of the mirror, laughing madly. With a trembling hand he refilled the glass. He had a moment of clarity. The bloody paintings Masterson had shown him at his Sussex cottage. He forgot what he'd remembered a moment later. He drank more water. The stuff was running down his suit jacket. Get it inside you, for God's sake.

His own head was floating now. He couldn't see it — he could feel it drifting away from his neck. A vile sensation. He refilled the glass, drank greedily. Guy Dalby's head stared at him out of the mirror, catlick drooped over his forehead, an evil smile on his drifting face. Tweed's left hand reached out to the mirror. The image receded, vanished.

He felt his feet leave the floor as though someone behind was lifting him. Now he was floating in space, like one of those astronauts he'd seen on TV. Tweed hammered the glass he was holding down hard on to the area beside the wash basin. He heard, felt, the thud. Again his mind cleared.

The atmosphere seemed fresher. Air percolating in through the open windows. A logical thought. He sensed his mind was on a tightrope — midway between sanity and hallucination. Another logical thought. He drank three more glasses. Something touched his left hand. He looked down. A cherub with an outsize head gazed up at him, its hand touching his. Oh, no...'

He stared down at the obscene thing. The vision was less defined, faded as he continued staring at it. He stepped back, slipped on the soap tablet and his foot skidded. He saved himself again by grabbing the edge of the basin with his left hand. Must keep away from those open windows — and the abyss beyond.

He was filling the glass when he glanced in the mirror. In his state of shock he let the water fill up the glass — run over the rim. He'd never had time to switch on the bathroom light. The only illumination was light filtering in from the bedroom. A figure loomed behind him. He saw it only vaguely in the dim light, the face of Kurt Franck. The face moved, was shown up in a little more light. He'd grown a beard. Tweed took a firmer grip on the glass and swung round. This was no hallucination. This was for real.