The Second Victory, page 15
“What are you going to do about him, then?”
“Let him sweat. You can lay odds he’s doing it now. Very soon I think he’ll decide to call on me. Then we’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
“What’s his connection with the killer, Mark?”
Hanlon frowned and shook his head. He was beginning to tire again and his temples were throbbing.
“I haven’t had time to think about it properly, Johnny. But there’s a link that will slip into place soon. Leave it to me.”
“Only too happy “said Johnson with a grin. “How long do you expect to stay here?”
“I’ll be out as soon as Huber agrees, if not before.”
“Why rash it?” asked Johnson with plaintive envy. “Home was never like this.” He cast an eye approvingly round the room and sniffed the air for the lingering traces of perfume. “Maybe we could both function from here?”
“To hell with you, Johnny.” Hanlon laughed in spite of himself.
“Before I go, there’s one more question.”
“What’s that?”
“What do I tell Klagenfurt about this?”
“Nothing,” said Hanlon flatly. “I’ll write my own report in due course. If they think I’m out of commission they’ll have a new commander and half a dozen clodhopping investigators up here in twenty-four hours.”
Johnson looked relieved.
“Just thought I’d mention it for the record. And talking of records…”
“Yes?”
“The way the paper’s pouring in we’re going to need a battery of typists to handle it. It’s not only what they’re sending in but the stuff they want back—reams of it morning and afternoon.”
“Leave it,” said Hanlon wearily. “Put the urgent stuff through and stack the rest in a corner. I’ll look at the staff position when I’m out of this bed.”
“At least pick ’em beautiful,” pleaded Johnson mockingly. “I’m too young for this celibate life.”
“Take long walks in the snow, boy. Take one now. My head’s buzzing like a hive, and this frostbite hurts like hell.”
“There’s a price tag on everything,” chuckled Johnson. “Even on pretty nurses. See you later, Mark.”
When he had gone, Hanlon closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow, waiting till the pain should pass and he could think clearly again. He could count on Johnson to keep the situation controlled for a while at least; the important thing was to restore his own strength before Klagenfurt got wind of the trouble and sent in a new man and a new team. The search for the man behind the gun had assumed a new, personal significance. He wanted to finish it himself.
In the evening Huber came again for the painful ritual of dressing his wounds. The first moments here the worst, but Anna was there too with soft hands and steadying voice. When he had removed the bandages, Huber handed him a mirror to see for the first time the extent of the damage.
He was shocked by the first sight of the blotched and crusted frostburn which covered more than half his face, but Huber reassured him:
“That will clear up quickly enough. We have arrested the infection and now the new skin begins to grow. This”—he traced the long open scar that ran from the tip of Hanlon’s ear, across his temple and down to the cheekbone—”this is another matter. The chain opened you up like a melon skin. The scar will be ugly.”
“That makes two of us,” said Hanlon thoughtfully. “He was scarred too. The scores are even.”
Huber was not impressed. He was examining the raw edges of the wound, cleansing them carefully with a swab.
“Later, we will do a little more work on it. A small plastic will repair the worst of the damage. But you will always be…”
‘Say that again!”
“Say what?”
“A small plastic…was that it?”
Huber and the girl looked at him in surprise.
“That’s right,” said Huber. “Why do you ask?”
Hanlon looked from one to the other, debating whether to trust them. His eyes were bright with interest and his head was clear of pain and puzzlement. After a moment he said slowly:
“I’d like a promise from you both. What I have to say must be private to the three of us.”
“As you wish,” said Huber gravely.
Anna Kunzli nodded and said: “Of course, Mark.”
Then he gave it to them.
“The man who killed Willis and did this to me is scarred too. We know that he has been brought down to the town. I know—or at least I believe—that Fischer is involved in it somewhere.”
“Fischer!” they said i together, on the same rising inflection of surprise.
Hanlon nodded. “It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter for the moment. What does matter is this: Fischer has enough experience to know that he can’t keep his man here indefinitely. Therefore he must have something else in mind. You gave me a feasible idea. A plastic…a new face. That means my identification breaks down. That means the killer, whoever he is, could either stay here or be moved into the US zone without fear of discovery.”
Huber thought about it for a moment. Then he said quietly:
“It could be. But even that would take time.”
“How long?”
“I could not possibly say without seeing the man. Given a fairly easy case, a necessary minimum of skill in the surgeon, and some luck as well, three months. It might be much longer.”
“Take the surgeon first,” Hanlon quizzed him bluntly. “Who in Quellenberg could do it?”
“I could,” Huber told him. “And one other member of my staff.”
“Is he likely to be involved with Fischer?”
Huber shook his head.
“I doubt it. Like myself he is a foreigner—a Viennese. He has a wife and children in the British sector. I think he would not risk participation in a thing like this. In any case his movements and contacts would be easy to check.”
“Do you know anybody else—a resident?”
“Nobody. The man who could tell you would be Holzinger—and, of course, Fischer himself.”
Hanlon’s puffed mouth twisted into a painful grin.
“Their information mightn’t be quite reliable.”
“The town records might help.”
“We’ll check ’em, line by line.”
Huber nodded gravely and bent again to the task of cleansing the raw flesh and laying on the new dressing. Anna Kunzli helped him with deft hands. Quite unexpectedly she said:
“Why don’t you ask Father Albertus? He knows everybody in Bad Quellenberg.”
Huber looked up from his work and answered in his deep, quiet voice: “It wouldn’t do, little one. A priest is like a doctor; he must preserve the secrets of his flock. To ask him would be an indiscretion.”
Hanlon tried to nod his agreement, but the new antiseptic burned his face and he winced sharply. Instinctively the girl reached out her hand to quiet him. Huber’s quick eye caught the movement but he said nothing.
When the dressings were finished and he was settled again, Hanlon turned to Anna and said gently:
“Would you give the doctor a cigarette, Anna, then leave us for a few moments?”
“Of course.”
She rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table, brought out Hanlon’s cigarettes, handed one to Huber and put another in Hanlon’s mouth. Then she went out, closing the door behind her. Huber lit up for Hanlon and himself, and the two men smoked a few moments in silence. Huber said dryly:
“With training she’d be a very good nurse. She has gentle hands and a warm heart.”
Hanlon ignored the hint and said simply:
“I’m in an awkward position, Huber.”
“How?”
“Sepp Kunzli. I may have to put him through the wringer. Yet I’m a guest in his house.”
Huber eyed him shrewdly through the smokedrifts.
“Has he said anything to you?”
“I haven’t seen him. He sends his compliments through Anna, and asks if there’s anything I need, but that’s all.”
“He’s discreet,” said Huber placidly. “He understands the situation as well as you do. He prefers to keep it impersonal. It’s your own fault if you involve yourself.”
“Meaning?”
Huber jerked his cigarette significantly towards the door.
“The girl. She’s more than half in love with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Hanlon curtly.
Huber shrugged and spread his hands eloquently.
“It starts as a nonsense. Afterwards…it gets serious.”
“When can I move out?”
Huber smoked for a few minutes, considering the question.
“I’d like to keep you here another week, just for safety. But, as things are…” He paused. “I’ll send an ambulance and a couple of orderlies tomorrow to move you back to the hotel. You’ll have to stay in bed though and stick to the treatment. Otherwise you’re in for trouble.”
“I can cope with that sort,” said Hanlon with a grin.
“Better if you can avoid it altogether,” said Huber. “What else did you want to talk to me about?”
“The killer.”
“What about him?”
“I’ve met him now,” said Hanlon. “I think we should revise our opinion.”
“Why?”
“Your first thought was that he was deranged. A shock case…something like that.”
“Yes?”
“When I met him, he was with two other men. He was under no restraint. When he spoke his voice was educated and full of authority. He was obeyed. He acted swiftly and with decision.”
“Some of the craziest killers in history have been the most normal in appearance,” said Huber coolly. “Besides, there’s a flaw in your logic,”
“What’s that?”
“The man who struck you may not have been the killer at all. It could have been any one of twenty men with a grudge or a bellyful of liquor. It could even have been Fischer himself. There’s more than half a chance you’re right, but so far it’s guesswork.”
“As we’re placed now I can’t do anything but guess. And eliminate the improbables one by one.”
“I’m puzzled by your attitude in this matter, Major.”
Hanlon looked up, surprised at the blunt challenge.
“What puzzles you, Doktor?”
“The importance you attach to him, the extent of your personal involvement.”
Hanlon gave him a crooked smile and put one muffled hand up to his head.
“Doesn’t this explain it?”
Huber shook his head. “No, you are too intelligent for that. You are too subtle for crude revenge. You would find no pleasure in it. You know better than I how much is to be done here and how secondary is this question of a capture. You will get him in the end. If Fischer is involved, Fischer will do everything he can to keep him under cover so that he is not a danger to anyone else. But you have this—this psychotic drive to get him.”
“Call it a symbol if you want,” said Hanlon casually.
“Of what?”
“Of the things we fought against, the things we came here to stamp out—violence, lawlessness, protected murder.”
“The trouble with symbols,” said Huber calmly, “is that they mean different things to different people. What one man worships, another draws on a lavatory wall.”
“We have a common interest,” said Hanlon irritably. “Unless the people see that, there is no profit for either of us.”
“Then find a common symbol,” said Huber with a slow, grave smile.
“What, for instance?”
“Christmas is coming,” said the big Tyrolese, with studied irrelevance. “There is a child lying in straw and a homeless pair stabled with the cows. There will be millions of them this year, all over Europe. Think about it, Major—for your own sake, and for ours!”
Two hours after Hanlon’s return to the Sonnblick, Karl Adalbert Fischer came to see him. He brought with him a large suitcase and a tubby soft-faced fellow whom he introduced as Herr Rudolf Winkler, a retired bookseller from Munich.
Both of them were politely shocked when they saw Hanlon bandaged to the eyes and propped in the ornate bed. He heard them out in sardonic silence, and Captain Johnson watched them with pale unfriendly eyes.
Fischer had a story to tell and he had brought Winkler to corroborate it. He told it carefully and well.
“It seems we both had the same idea, Major: that an attempt might be made to bring the murderer down to the town on St Nicholas’s night. You will remember that I raised the question at our last meeting.”
“I remember you made a vague reference.”
“I—I did not pursue it, since to one who did not know our customs it might have seemed laughable. I apologise for underrating your experience.”
“That’s always a mistake,” Hanlon told him dryly.
“I realised that when I heard of your accident and when I saw the preparations you had made in the town. It was a clever move, Major. It nearly succeeded.”
“Go on.”
“When the news got around the town Herr Winkler here telephoned me with some information which he thought might be valuable. I think he should tell you about it himself. Then I have my own comments to add.”
The tubby fellow puffed out his smooth cheeks and launched into his story. His voice was high-pitched and faintly effeminate and his soft hands made small fluttering gestures of emphasis.
The time he judged to be about nine o’ clock on St Nicholas’s night, a little before, or a little after, he could not be certain. At the time it had had no significance. He was at home in his small house at the end of the Mozartstrasse, quiet, withdrawn from the main life of the town. He was not rich. He had to buy modestly and live quietly. However, about this time he heard voices quarrelling outside his gate, men’s voices talking in the dialect of the mountains. He was a Bavarian himself and he found them difficult to understand, more so as they seemed to be drunk. He went to the door and looked out. He saw that there were three men dressed in Krampus costumes. Two seemed to be quarrelling with the third. He shouted to them to be quiet and move off. One of them shouted a drunken insult. Then they split up: two of them wandered off towards the town, staggering, the third hurried off up one of the tracks that led through the pinewoods. That was all. It was only after the news of the attack on the Major that he attached any significance to the incident. The Major would, understand how it was. He was something of a stranger. There was always drinking at provincial feasts…
Then Fischer took up the tale:
“After Herr Winkler’s telephone call, I went out immediately to interview him. I followed the track which the third man had taken. About half a mile up the slope there is a woodcutter’s hut—a storehouse for wedges and tools. Inside, stuffed behind some boxes, I found this . .”
He snapped open the suitcase and brought out the Krampus costume which Hanlon had seen on his assailant. Johnson and he stared at it in amazement.
“Do you recognise it, Major?”
“I do.”
Fischer nodded with professional gravity.
“There is a special interest in this costume. It is the oldest known example in the area. It was stolen from a showcase in our museum.”
Johnson and Hanlon looked at each other. The story was so circumstantial it might be true. Even if it weren’t, Fischer must be sure it couldn’t be broken. The little policeman went on:
“The mask and the showcase and the metal have been wiped clean of fingerprints. So we understand that we are dealing with intelligent people, who are also very familiar with the town.”
“I’d thought of that myself,” said Hanlon.
“I thought it would be wise therefore, if we co-operated on an immediate search of the area, beginning at Herr Winkler’s house and extending in a circular sector back towards the hills.”
“We’ll arrange it immediately,” Hanlon told him. “Captain Johnson will have a detachment ready to move off in ten minutes.”
Fischer nodded approval.
“I wish you to understand, Major, how much we all regret this business, and your own personal misfortune. I promise you our fullest co-operation.”
“Thank you, Fischer. And you too, Herr Winkler. Captain Johnson will go with you and will keep in constant touch until I am on my feet again. Auf Wiedersehn.”
“Güten Tag, Major.”
They went out; Johnson led them into the corridor and handed them over to Sergeant Jennings. Then he came back to Hanlon.
“Well, Mark? What do you think of it?”
Hanlon shrugged impatiently.
“Fischer’s a policeman. He knows a good alibi when he’s got it. We’ll have to investigate, of course. But I’d take long odds our man is miles away from where Fischer wants us to look.”
“That’s my feeling, too. What about Winkler?”
“Either an innocent bystander or an accessory. We’ll check his papers, but, knowing Fischer, they’ll be in order too. Follow it up, Johnny, but don’t expect too much.”
“You want me to go straight away?”
“Yes. Send Jennings up to look after the office.”
“Will do. How are you feeling?”
“Like hell,” said Hanlon unhappily. “Fischer’s made me look a fool and I can’t wait to take it out of his hide.”
How big a fool, he could hardly guess.
Forty minutes later Johnson and his non-coms were standing in Winkler’s lounge, while the man they were hunting lay, drugged and gagged, under a boxbed, in the room of the trapmouthed housekeeper.
As soon as Sergeant Jennings arrived, Hanlon dictated a note of thanks to Sepp Kunzli. He enclosed with it α set of travel papers and a detailed list of instructions for the visit to Zürich.
There was a letter for Anna, too, longer, more personal, which the despatch rider was to deliver into her hands.
For the rest of the afternoon he worked steadily through the mass of directives and memoranda that had piled up during his absence.
The amount and complexity of the paper work staggered him at first. Then slowly he began to understand: this was more than half the business of government. The modern world was founded on paper. Without it, chaos would come again.
