Mistress Murder Read online

  Paul hesitated for a moment in the shadow of a warehouse then strode boldly up, his shabby suitcase banging awkwardly against the stanchions. In spite of the deserted appearance from the quayside, a man on watch appeared as he reached the ship’s side. He was a grizzled old fellow in a blue jumper and a beret, leaning over the rail at the top of the gangway. He took a pipe from his lips, spat into the oily water twenty feet below and challenged Jacobs in broken English.

  ‘You want see somebody, huh?’

  Paul’s manner suddenly changed. His shoulders went back, he seemed to get taller and even the fibre case in his hand suddenly seemed to get more respectable.

  ‘Tell your captain that I have arrived,’ he said in crisp autocratic German. It was the voice of a Prussian autocrat, not that of a down-at-heel seaman. The watchman responded at once to the authority in the tone. He jerked upright and threw a hand towards his beret.

  ‘Ja, mein Herr – zvieheisensie, bitte’ he asked respectfully.

  ‘Schulman – Franz Schulman.’ He used the name which was on the passport he travelled on from Munich last time.

  The sailor hurried forward and Paul followed him more leisurely. He passed several lighted portholes, the clink of glasses and loud laughter coming from one. Beyond these, the deck was deserted. A few lights gleamed from behind thick glasses screwed to the bulkheads, but the whole effect was dank, chilly, and eerie. The dockside looked like a graveyard and the ship smelt of wet wood and diesel oil.

  The watchman’s boots clattered up a ladder ahead of him and Jacobs followed up to the boat deck. A row of doors faced him as well as the dark aperture of an open companionway. The man had vanished and Paul stood uncertainly, waiting in the gloom. Then the nearest door burst open and a short, fat figure stood silhouetted in the bright opening.

  The captain came forwards with hand outstretched.

  ‘Schulman … what are you doing here?’ He had a harsh voice, but it had a welcome note of sincerity.

  Jacobs turned his face so that the direct light from the cabin did not fall on it. The old seaman was standing alongside the captain and Jacobs made a significant nod towards him. Herzog swung around and dismissed the man back to his watch with a few curt words.

  ‘Come in – come in,’ he said to Paul, with a curious look at his suitcase. ‘Here to stay, eh?’

  The captain led the way into his cabin and soon Jacobs was settled with a glass of Swedish schnapps. He explained to Herzog that he was on the run from the British police and wanted to get back to Germany on the Rudolf. He said nothing about the murder charges, but said that he was wanted for the narcotic offences. Herzog was not particular about mere dope smuggling but Paul knew that he might shy away from being involved with abetting a murderer, especially when one of them took place in Germany itself.

  ‘So I’ve got to clear out back to the old country, Otto – make a fresh start and work up the trade back there. I’ve got all my suppliers intact in Munich and contacts in Brussels and Marseilles. I can’t touch England for a few years – too risky. Perhaps I’ll try the States when I’ve worked up some more capital.’

  The mention of money brought a gleam to Herzog’s eyes. ‘It’s a great risk taking you back, Franz … we’re going to be lying here for another day and a half … then there’s the Bremen immigration to deal with. I’m the only one to help you – my officers these days are too damned honest.’

  Paul saw only too well what he was driving at and slid a hand into his side pocket. He dropped a thin wad of West German banknotes onto the table in front of the captain.

  ‘There’s fifteen hundred marks – I’ll give you another fifteen hundred in any bar you care to name – as long as it’s in Bremen … outside the dock gates!’

  Herzog slowly picked up the notes and flicked through them thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s not much – considering the risk.’

  Paul gestured his inability to do better.

  ‘It’s all I’ve got.’

  Herzog shrugged resignedly. ‘OK – but only for old time’s sake. You’ll have to keep out of the way. Most of this crew is new, I can’t pull the wool over their eyes as I did with the old lot.’

  They talked for an hour, Paul weaving some satisfactory story to account for his flight from the British police. He hoped Herzog would not come to learn the truth about the murder before the ship reached Bremen. There was no television aboard and the captain read little English by choice, sticking to cargo manifests rather than newspapers.

  ‘Where can I stay,’ he asked Herzog, after a lot of talk and too much schnapps.

  The captain rubbed his chin. Like the rest of his face and his whole body, it was round and pink. He looked at Paul from his little black eyes. ‘I can’t actually hide you now – that watchman has seen you and he’s as loose-mouthed as a hungry python.’

  He saw Jacobs’ worried frown and reassured him.

  ‘It’ll work out. You’ll have to be a relative of mine getting a cheap trip home. I’ll put the word around at breakfast, before that garrulous old swine on watch makes a mystery out of it.’

  ‘Where can I sleep?’

  ‘There’s a spare cabin down at the after end of the boat deck accommodation.’ Otto thumbed vaguely over his shoulder. ‘Kept for a fourth officer when we have one.’

  ‘What about eating?’

  ‘Yes, a problem. We don’t want you too prominent, there are shore people hanging around all the time we are in port.’

  ‘I could be ill – probably will be once we leave dock,’ he added with a touch of grim humour.

  Herzog took him down a passage that crossed from side to side of the boat deck, between the cabins. At right angles to this was a second passage which formed a T with the first, running fore and aft.

  He was given a small cabin at the after end on the port side. A steward brought some bed linen, made up the bunk, then brought a tray of supper. Jacobs lay on the bunk, looking as listless and ill as he could manage, though he cleared the tray of food. The steward, a stolid Westphalian, took little notice of him.

  Herzog looked in late at night.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, as long as you don’t ask any Scotland Yard men on board.’

  ‘You’re on German soil now.’

  Jacobs avoided telling him that after the affair on the Brudermühlbrücke, that was not the slightest consolation to him. The Captain left and Jacobs slept until the noise of cranes and winches woke him next morning.

  It was still dark, but unloading was going on by the lights fixed in the rigging of the Rudolf. When the steward came again with breakfast, Paul muttered something about influenza coming on. Without a word the man left and came back with half a bottle of brandy and a box of aspirins.

  The day dragged and he sat thinking about his wife, for a long time. His affection for her was deep and genuine, quite different from the steel-like casing around his moral sense when it came to murder, mistresses, and drug running. Already, plans formed vaguely for reunion with Barbara at some place abroad. Once in Germany, he intended writing to her, getting someone like Herzog to mail the letter in Britain.

  But all this was in the future.

  Shaking off these nebulous schemes, he left his bunk and went to the porthole. It was late afternoon and the rain had cleared off. He stared through the thick glass at a red watery sun as it reached the cranes on the far side of the Albion Dock. For a few moments, his face was lit up by the orange glare, framed in the circle of the porthole.

  Outside on the boat deck, a passing officer glanced up. He saw the face shining in the glare of the setting sun – and almost fell on the deck with shock.

  Radio Officer Adolf Busch sat in his cabin two doors away from the passenger and pressed the bell for the steward. He had just thrown back a double gin but was still white about the face.

  Baumann, the morose steward, tapped the door and came in. He stood mutely waiting for orders. The radio operator rarely called from his cabi
n. Busch said nothing, just sat there with an empty glass in his fingers, staring at the writing table before him.

  ‘Ja?’ prompted the steward.

  Busch jerked his head up. He looked ill – sick to death.

  ‘Baumann … who is that man in the spare cabin?’

  The radio officer was looking at Baumann’s face, but his eyes were looking right through him to a vision twenty years old.

  ‘You know his name?’ he asked tonelessly.

  ‘Herr Schulman, the captain called him – Franz Schulman.’

  The radio man made no reply, and the steward got restless.

  ‘Anything you want?’

  Suddenly Busch came to life. He jumped up and grasped the older man by the shoulder.

  ‘You take him his meals, Baumann,’ he gabbled feverishly, ‘I want to see him close up – the next meal, give me your jacket. I’ll take the tray to him.’

  The steward, shaken out of his usual impassiveness, drew back from Busch and goggled at him as if he’d gone berserk.

  ‘Why … what are you doing?’

  The radio operator calmed himself with an effort.

  ‘Look, don’t worry … just tell me when his next meal is due. Why don’t he eat in the saloon with the rest of us?’

  ‘He’s sick. Got a bad chill. He eats well enough though. I’m due to take him his supper at six thirty.’

  ‘I’ll take it – call in here with the tray.’

  The steward reluctantly agreed and left for his pantry. Busch sat for a long time on his bunk, his face set and drawn. He stared at the opposite bulkhead, his mind far away in space and time.

  The radio operator spent the night without a wink of sleep. After his brief visit to the cabin along the passage, he was a mental wreck. The long night passed with agonising slowness, his clock seeming more like a calendar.

  At six in the morning, he could stand it no longer. It was the day they were due to sail – the previous evening, the ship had shifted her berth to the Pool of London to take on a few tons of special cargo. She was going back to Germany very light this trip. The small consignment of machinery would be swung aboard in the London River during the morning and by afternoon she would be battened down and ready to sail on the evening tide.

  Busch had no duties until then and by eight thirty, he was washed, shaved, and in his best uniform. He caught a taxi and by nine o’clock was waiting on the steps of the West German Embassy in the West End.

  At four fifteen that afternoon, a distinguished member of the Diplomatic Corps of the Federal German Republic was ushered into the presence of Superintendent Gleeson at New Scotland Yard.

  Gleeson was one of the Special Branch officers and his particular pigeon was liaising with the Aliens Department – keeping tabs on the members of other nations whose presence in Britain was suspect.

  Gleeson, another large calm man of the type that abounds in the senior ranks of the British police forces, rose to greet his top-brass visitor.

  He shook hands and pulled out a chair.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you again, Herr von Grauber. How can I help you this time?’

  Von Grauber, a caricaturist’s dream of a Prussian aristocrat, sat down gracefully and spoke in English conspicuous only by its perfection.

  ‘I think perhaps it may be the other way round, Superintendent – it is a matter of considerable urgency, so I shall not waste words.’ He opened an elegant briefcase and took out a thin folder. ‘This morning, the radio operator of a West German vessel berthed in London came to see me.’ He opened the file and glanced at the top sheet. ‘This man was very agitated and frightened. The crux of the matter was this. The previous evening he caught a glimpse of a man being given a passage back to Germany on this ship. He thought he recognised him and, by a pretext, managed to get a closer look. I should say that the conditions under which this passenger is housed seem furtive, to say the least. The radio man was convinced, by this second look, that the mystery man was a former SS officer wanted in Germany for certain war crimes.’

  He turned over another page in the folder.

  ‘This ship’s officer, Busch, was a signals corporal in the Wehrmacht in nineteen-forty-five. The battalion to which he was attached had a most gruelling time at the front during the Allied invasion and was withdrawn only in time to save the whole morale from crumbling. The day following their return from the front, there was a major Allied offensive on the Rhine and they were ordered back into battle. They went to pieces completely and though they did not get to the point of actual mutiny, a detachment of SS was sent to deal with them.’

  The Prussian’s face was set and hard. He was talking of this to one of the enemy, however far in the past it had happened.

  ‘The details are best forgotten, but the outcome was that more than twenty soldiers were shot and many more dealt with in a barbaric fashion. The SS colonel responsible was tried at Nuremburg and hanged. Other officers were also punished, but one, Oberleutenant Schrempp, was never traced.’

  He paused for a moment

  ‘Last night, this ex-corporal Busch recognised Schrempp as the man hidden on board the vessel Rudolf Haider in your Surrey Docks.’

  Gleeson nodded politely, but still wondered where all this was getting them. He had a hell of a lot of work to do and he had had his fill of the German Army in the Western Desert many years ago.

  Von Grauber went on before the detective could intervene. ‘The ship sails in a few hours. To make sure that we were not making fools of ourselves, the Embassy phoned the War Crimes Commission in Frankfurt this morning and got them to wire a photograph and the main points from his dossier.’

  The German paused to give his punchline its best effect.

  He swivelled the folder around to Gleeson and flipped a page over so that a photograph of a face was presented to the Yard man’s view.

  ‘That is the man … the radio officer confirmed it … and I think many thousands of people in Britain would recognise him as well.’

  Gleeson stared blankly at the photo. In his specialised branch he had little contact with ordinary crime, but then the penny dropped.

  ‘Good God! That’s the chap they’ve been flashing over the TV and papers – the Cardiff killer!’

  He looked up in amazement at von Grauber. The implications were startling enough to shake even his impassive nature. The Embassy man smiled with modest pride and saluted with a Prussian jerk of his head.

  ‘I thought it might interest you – as far as I remember from newspaper reports, this man is wanted for serious crimes both here and in Bavaria.’

  Gleeson was already reaching for his phone.

  ‘I think our need for him is greater than yours, Herr von Grauber … hello, get me Chief Inspector Benbow, please.’

  Within minutes, Archie Benbow had joined them, having hurled his rotund body along the corridors of the Yard at a speed never equalled since he left the beat. Gleeson rapidly got him up to date and showed him the photograph of Golding. The Admiral beamed and rubbed his podgy hands together.

  ‘Bloody marvellous – this character is as full of tricks as a cartful of monkeys … but with a bit of luck, we’ve got him now.’

  He turned to von Grauber. ‘I’m afraid, sir, that we’d like first crack at him if we’re going to catch the beggar. We want him for two murders and a long string of narcotics offences. I don’t know if we can get him hanged on it – it was murder with a firearm, capital murder under the fifty-seven Act – but it was done abroad … what d’you think, Superintendent?’

  Gleeson shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Archie … he’s committed two murders on separate occasions – that’s a capital offence, as well, unless the one abroad doesn’t count.’

  Benbow’s smile persisted.

  ‘In any case, Herr von Grauber, we’ll get a life sentence at very least – then we’ll turn him over to your people for hanging!’

  The German looked pointedly at his wristwatch.

  ‘I suggest that unless you
do something quite soon, neither of us will have the opportunity. The ship moved from the Surrey Commercial Docks to the Pool of London on this morning’s tide to finish loading and is due to sail for Bremen on this evening’s tide … it is now four-forty-five.’

  Benbow stood up quickly. ‘What time is high water?’

  Gleeson reached to a shelf behind him and picked up a newspaper. He crackled the pages with agonising slowness until he found what he wanted.

  ‘London Bridge – six-twenty-two. Another hour and three quarters.’

  Benbow was halfway to the door.

  ‘I’m on my way … don’t want to cut it too fine.’

  He rushed back to his office and sent Bray for a car and a couple of detective constables. He rang Information Room and asked for the assistance of a patrol car, which was to meet him at Billingsgate.

  Within a few minutes, Archie Benbow was crammed into a black Wolseley with the three other detectives and a driver, swearing their way slowly through the rush hour traffic.

  The driver did his best down the Embankment but, even with the gong ringing, they made very poor time to Blackfriars. As they sat fretting in a solid jam at the end of the bridge, Benbow leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  ‘Knock off the bell and the flasher when we get into Lower Thames Street – we don’t want to scare the pants off this chap … he’s given us the slip too often in the past.’

  As an afterthought, he prodded the other man in the front seat.

  ‘Call Information Room … tell them to find out from the P.L.A. where the ship is berthed in the Pool. And tell them to buzz the other patrol car to make sure that they don’t go clanging their way up to the gang plank.’

  Cursing the one-way systems, the driver squeezed his way up Queen Victoria Street, Cannon Street, and eventually reached Lower Thames Street, which runs along the upper side of the Pool of London, the highest reach of the river which can be used by big vessels through Tower Bridge.

  ‘Better stop here … the other car should be around the comer,’ commanded Benbow. This was the territory of the City Police Force, independent of the Metropolitan, but in a case like this, there was no argument about priorities.