Alphabet House (32 page)

‘I wanted to hear you say it again. I’ve got to be sure.’ Von der Leyen’s eyes narrowed. It was clear he was trying to catch the slightest revealing twitch in Lankau’s face. Lankau regarded him with total impassivity.

Von der Leyen’s face went suddenly hard. ‘An exciting story, Lankau,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I’m sure you’ve had your reasons for being so careful. There must be a lot of money involved.’

Lankau looked away. ‘You bet your life there is! But if you think you can coerce us, you’re making a mistake. It’ll never work.’

‘Have you heard me make any demands? The only thing I have to know is what happened to Gerhart Peuckert.’

‘You’ve just been told. He died.’

‘You know what I think, Lankau?’

‘Should I care?’ Lankau closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the sound he’d just registered. A slight creak that came if he leaned forward just a bit. Von der Leyen’s blow to his chest diverted him instantly from these investigations. The greyness had vanished from Arno von der Leyen’s face. He prodded him again with the pistol barrel. Lankau looked at it and held his breath.

‘I think I’ll shoot you here and now if you don’t tell me what’s really going on and how Petra Wagner fits into the picture!’ Von der Leyen prodded him again. Lankau gasped for air.

‘Oh, really? That’s a threat I find hard to take seriously.’ The big man suddenly rocked forward in his chair as if about to butt his interrogator. ‘What were you thinking? That you’d force us to hand over what we’ve scraped together over the years? Shouldn’t you have realised it wouldn’t be that easy?’

‘Until ten minutes ago I hadn’t the slightest idea what the whole thing was about. And certainly nothing about any money. I’m here because I want to know what happened to Gerhart Peuckert.’

Lankau heard the creaking again. ‘For God’s sake, why don’t you shut up, you miserable worm!’ he practically screamed, as he tried to register the movements of the chair. ‘You want me to believe that? You seem to forget we lay in the same hospital for months. You think I can’t remember how you moved around in bed at night while you were listening to what we talked about? Do you think I’ve forgotten how you tried to escape the hospital with what you knew?’

‘What I knew? I never understood one word of what you were saying to each other! I only understand English. I simply wanted to get away from you and that damn hospital!’

‘Oh, just shut up!’ Lankau didn’t believe any of what he was hearing.

The man before him had been playing his game for decades. He was calculating, dangerous and greedy. Stich’s doubts about von der Leyen’s identity echoed from a distant past. It was a
strong enemy who could sow doubt in his opponent. A superior enemy could make himself invisible. Lankau had never been in doubt. For him, von der Leyen was visible. Now, as then.

He frowned and looked himself over for the first time. His bound legs in their golf socks were completely numb. He tried to flex them without succeeding in restoring the circulation. Nothing hurt any more. With a jerk that set off the creaking sound again he opened his mouth wide and poured forth a torrent of inarticulate sounds. For a moment the figure opposite looked confused. ‘And I suppose you didn’t understand that, either,
Herr
von der Leyen.’ He chuckled over this insult, then was silent for a while. When the colour in his face returned to normal he closed his eyes and spoke English again with such deliberate softness that his nemesis could scarcely hear it. ‘As far as Petra is concerned, I won’t tell you a damned thing. Actually, I won’t tell you anything more at all. You bore me! Shoot me or leave me alone!’

When their eyes met Lankau knew that his life would be spared for the time being.

Restaurant Dattler on Schlossberg was not Kröner’s favourite eating establishment. Even though the menu was impressive and the food usually what his wife called ‘choice’, the portions were small as a rule and the waiters courteous in a way that could seem condescending. Kröner preferred his meals to be plain, plentiful and homely. His previous wife, Gisela, hadn’t been able to cook. During the almost twenty years they lived together they’d worn out countless cooks with no appreciable results. His present wife, on the other hand, was a dream in the kitchen. This he greatly appreciated and rewarded her for. For that, and much else.

Opposite him, Stich sat glancing at his wristwatch for the fifth time in the course of a few minutes. It had been a hectic day. Kröner could still feel his boy’s hug when he’d sent him away with his mother. For this, and all future hugs, Arno von der Leyen would have to be got rid of.

Stich stroked his white beard and again gazed out of the panorama windows that laid the whole town at their feet. ‘I feel the same as you, Wilfried.’ Turning to look straight at Kröner, he rapped his thin, withered knuckles on the tablecloth beside his coffee cup. ‘I’d rather it were all over. Now it’s up to Lankau. Let’s hope things have gone as they should. We’ve been lucky till now. It was a good thing you fetched Gerhart Peuckert in time. I had a feeling it would prove necessary. But are you sure von der Leyen didn’t see you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And
Frau
Rehmann? She couldn’t tell you anything more about the purpose of his visit?’

‘Nothing more than what I’ve told you.’

‘And she believed that story? That he was a psychiatrist? A member of some committee or other?’

‘Yes. He gave her no reason to doubt him.’

After a few pensive moments Stich took out his glasses and studied the menu again. It was a quarter past five. Lankau
was fifteen minutes late. Then he put down his glasses again. ‘Lankau’s not coming,’ he ascertained.

Kröner rubbed his forehead, trying to gauge Stich’s cold gaze. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest. The boy’s hug and his trusting, warm glances were diverting his thoughts again. ‘You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?’ he asked.

‘What I think is immaterial. Arno von der Leyen didn’t turn up at the sanatorium by chance. And it’s not normal for Lankau to be late.’

Kröner massaged his forehead once more and looked down towards the aerial cableway. ‘You think he might be disposing of the body on his own? He can be damned headstrong.’

‘It’s possible. But why hasn’t he contacted us?’

Even though the years had softened Kröner a bit and he’d come to like his new surroundings, he could scarcely be called naive. The day’s developments, and not least Lankau’s delay, were extremely worrying. For years the brotherhood of malingerers had been prepared for the possibility of something turning up and threatening their position. With that in mind, there had been times when Horst Lankau had spoken to his family of selling his business and emigrating. Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Mozambique and Indonesia had been named. The descriptions of warmer climates and safe, closed environments were tempting, but his family had been against it.

They didn’t know his motives.

For Stich and Kröner, convenience had always come first. Now things were different. Kröner wouldn’t take risks merely for the sake of convenience. Recent years, during which he had acquired a new family and learned to allow himself to have feelings, had brought other and more important considerations. He’d grown older, and while the thought of transplanting himself was not appealing, it was nevertheless possible. His wife, on the other hand, was young and could live anywhere. A new world of mutual agreements and a small child’s desires had pinned him down without provoking his displeasure.

Now Kröner looked at his watch too. ‘Petra,’ was all he said.

‘Petra, yes.’ The old man nodded. ‘There’s no other possibility, is there?’ He cleared his throat and wiped the corners of his mouth. ‘Who knows? Maybe all these years she’s just been waiting for the right opportunity. And now it has come, apparently.’

‘She’s told him everything.’

‘Probably, yes.’

‘Then Lankau’s no longer alive.’

‘Probably not, no.’ The head waiter was there instantly when Peter Stich called him. ‘We’re leaving now,’ he said.

The tracks in the earth beside the colonnade bore clear witness of a fight. As soon as Stich and Kröner were convinced they hadn’t overlooked any traces of blood or any other indications of the outcome of the struggle, they drove quickly over to Peter Stich’s flat in Luisenstrasse, where earlier in the day they had left Gerhart Peuckert in Andrea’s motherly care.

Apart from Petra, Stich’s wife was the only one able to get a smile out of Gerhart. It happened only occasionally, and awkwardly, but it happened. And Andrea had to work for the trust he placed in her. Whenever Gerhart Peuckert was installed in Stich’s flat Andrea pampered him. Kröner looked up at the building in front of him. He’d never understood why Andrea displayed such magnanimity. It wasn’t like her.

Kröner knew she’d regarded Gerhart as dirt during all the years in which her husband and his friends had paid for his stay in the sanatorium. Society should get rid of its scum, she’d always said. She’d seen it put in practice in the concentration camps and it had pleased her. Efficient purging meant fewer costs and less work. It was only her husband’s and his friends’ curious affection for that madman that made her feign solicitude.

Andrea was good at faking.

All in all, there were many reasons why Kröner was reluctant to let his wife get too close to her.

Andrea noticed their mood as soon as they came through the door. Kröner saw her duck back in the narrow hallway like a shadow. Before she even returned their greeting she had seized Gerhart Peuckert by the arm and led him into the dining room where he’d often sat in the dark.

This time she switched on a single wall lamp.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, pointing over at the decanter of port on the sideboard.

Stich shook his head. ‘Something that we can’t do anything about, I’m afraid.’

‘Where’s Lankau?’

‘We don’t know. That’s the problem.’

Andrea Stich dried her hands on a towel and silently fetched her husband’s telephone book from the study. He took it without thanks.

He phoned both Lankau’s home and his country house without result. Kröner bit the insides of his cheeks. Frowning, he tried to recall his own house and its surroundings when he’d sent his wife and son away. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual. A shiver ran through his body that made his shoulders tremble. He’d have to suppress those fears. Lankau was their concern now. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up.

‘Let’s see now…’ said Stich, standing behind Kröner and looking down at the parking spaces in front of the house, and then down along the street that was still bustling with life in the pale afternoon light. ‘Assuming von der Leyen has got rid of Lankau, something will probably happen by itself very soon. Gerhart Peuckert seems to be important to him. But why? Can you tell me, Wilfried? Why will that bastard stop at nothing to find our silent friend here?’

‘I think it’s the other way around. I’m sure it’s us he’s after. Peuckert has just been an instrument in his finding us.’

‘But does that make any sense, Wilfried? Why in the world should he think he could find us through Peuckert? The only thing we can possibly have had in common with Peuckert is a
few months in a loony bin. Ages ago, I might add.’

‘I don’t know. But I feel convinced that Leyen is out to blackmail us.’

‘There I agree with you. At this point I think he’s doing it for personal gain. We were hard on him that time, but I don’t think he’s driven by revenge.’ Stich turned around and stared out the large window. ‘I don’t think he’s the type. Revenge is for irrational people, and whatever else he might be, von der Leyen’s not irrational, if you ask me.’

All these unanswered questions obviously troubled Stich. The irritation in his face was unmistakable.

‘Have you any idea whether Peuckert may be able to help us get on the right track, Peter?’ Stich turned to his wife as she spoke. Kröner knew why she’d been sitting in the far corner of the room. When her husband was in the mood, he could get it into his head to hit her as soon as they were alone. Even though he usually repented afterwards and probably didn’t deal his blows so authoritatively any more, Kröner suspected she preferred that others bear the brunt of his displeasure. The idiot sitting in the next room, for example.

In her own way, she too had grown softer with age.

After a few more phone calls Stich turned to Kröner and shook his head. They had both accepted the inevitability of the new situation.

The pock-faced man stared at the telephone for some time. By now his wife and child must have reached their destination. Just as he was about to pick up the receiver to call them, Andrea dragged the robot-like figure into the room. Peuckert was still busy chewing some food. Stich took him by the arm and drew him gently down onto the sofa beside him. Then he stroked his hair. It had become a habit over time. This idiot lodger had turned into a kind of pet, their little imprisoned mascot. Their kitten, their little monkey. Lankau was the only one who’d had his suspicions all these years.

‘Have you had anything to eat, little Gerhart? Has Andrea seen to you?’ Gentleness beamed from the fool’s face whenever Andrea’s name was mentioned. Peuckert smiled and looked across at Andrea, who had just lit the chandelier. ‘Do you like sitting here with the rest of us, little Gerhart? Should Kröner come over here and sit with us for a while, too?’ Stich took his hands and rubbed them as if they were frozen. ‘There. That’s what you like, isn’t it, Gerhart?’ The old man patted the back of Gerhart’s sinewy hand, smiling quietly at him. ‘Andrea and I would like to know whether Petra still visits you.’ Kröner noticed the almost imperceptible sign of a smile in the corners of Peuckert’s mouth. It spoke for itself. Stich patted his hand again. ‘And we’d like to know whether she asks you questions, Gerhart. Does she ask you strange questions sometimes? For example, about the old days, or about what we do when we go for an outing in the woods? Does she, little Gerhart?’ Gerhart Peuckert pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling, as if in thought. ‘Well, that may be difficult to remember. But perhaps, my friend, you can tell me if she’s ever spoken to you about Arno von der Leyen.’ The silent figure in the chair looked at him and pursed his lips again.

Stich got up, dropping Gerhart’s hands as suddenly as he had taken them. ‘You understand, this Arno von der Leyen is looking for you, little Gerhart. And we don’t understand why. And he calls himself something different. Do you know what Kröner says he calls himself?’ Gerhart Peuckert’s head rotated slowly towards Kröner in the quiet spell following the question. Kröner couldn’t tell whether he recognised him or whether it was a chance look. ‘He calls himself Bryan Underwood Scott,’ continued Stich, laughing dryly for a moment before clearing his throat. ‘Isn’t that funny? He’s been to Saint-Ursula’s, where he spoke English to dear
Frau
Rehmann. Surprising, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s strange?’

Kröner approached Peuckert and bent down in order to take a closer look at his face. As usual it showed no signs of reaction.
They would have to take matters into their own hands. ‘I’ll find Petra,’ he said, standing up.

The old man didn’t take his eyes off Peuckert as Kröner straightened his back. Then he opened his eyes wide. ‘Yes. And when you find her, make sure you squeeze the truth out of her, won’t you Wilfried? If you get the feeling she might have let us down, then you’ll kill her, right?’ he said, jovially clasping Peuckert by the back of the neck with his outstretched hand.

‘What about the letter she’s always threatened us with?’

‘Pick your poison, Wilfried. If we don’t do anything, then you’re sure to have a problem. And if you pull yourself together and do what you have to, who knows what’ll happen afterwards?’ The look Stich threw him was mocking. ‘Almost thirty years have passed, Wilfried! Who would think of taking a piece of paper like that seriously? And who says it really exists? Can we trust the Wagner girl at all? Go on now and do as I say! Understood?’

‘You don’t have to order me about, Stich! I can think for myself!’ But, in fact, this wasn’t true. Kröner could no longer think. Regardless of the outcome of his meeting with Petra, they were facing a new situation. One that was new and changeable, and totally unsuitable to his everyday requirements for peace of mind. As he left the room he turned around to face Gerhart Peuckert. The slumped figure’s lips trembled as he suffered Stich’s comradely grasp. The eyes were devoid of emotion. They looked as if they’d had more than enough for one day.

As he was putting his hat on, Kröner sensed Stich’s casual movement in the room behind him. He turned around in the doorway in time to see the blow clobber its helpless victim on the temple. Peuckert fell to the floor, trying desperately to shield his face with both hands.

‘What does Arno von der Leyen want with you, you fool? Why are you so valuable?’ he screamed, kicking him so hard with the toe of his shoe that his frail knee gave a crack. The old man winced and looked coldly down at the figure huddled beneath him.

‘What’s that swine got to do with you?’ Despite his knee he kicked him again. For a second Kröner caught the expression on Gerhart Peuckert’s face. It seemed more astonished than entreating. ‘What is it about you that could make this son of a bitch spend nearly thirty years abroad without forgetting you? I’d very much like to know! What do you say, little Gerhart? Can you tell me and Andrea?’ Then he kicked him once more without expecting an answer. ‘Can you tell us what the hell this so-called Bryan Underwood Scott wants with you?’

The figure beneath him was beginning to sob. It had happened before. An inarticulate torrent of sound that Kröner knew could incite Stich to hit again, harder than ever. Kröner stepped into the room and took Stich by the shoulder. The gaze that met him told him it had been unnecessary. Stich himself knew it was enough. Time might be precious. He would have to calm down.