Alphabet House (44 page)

Lankau saw the shadow move across the terrace as he was lifting up one end of his semi-conscious victim. The next thing he felt was a violent blow that made his legs give way under him and sent him hurtling sideways over the edge of the pool.

‘God damn you, Gerhart, you imbecile! You’re gonna pay for that!’ he gasped, as he grabbed hold of the ladder and let the water stream off him.

Not until he’d brushed water off his body with unconcealed irritation did he realise what had happened. It had been a simple, ridiculous mistake. He’d let Gerhart overhear what he intended to do with Petra. He suddenly remembered that the gun had been left lying on the table inside, but by then it was too late. Behind his kneeling, near-senseless prey, Gerhart was standing like a pillar of salt, pointing the pistol straight at him.

‘What is it, Gerhart?’ he asked, stretching out his hands in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Are we no longer friends?’ He rose slowly to his wet feet and approached the tall man. ‘Was it what I said about Petra, Gerhart? Then I apologise.’ Peuckert’s eyes were burning with hatred. Lankau assessed his possibilities. ‘I was only joking. What did you think? It was merely a matter of getting that swine von der Leyen to squeal, you know that!’ He had a single step left, then he would strike. ‘Petra’s a good girl…’

That was the last thing he said before Gerhart began screaming.

The anguished, hateful cry was so bloodcurdling that the birds flew into the air, chattering, and Lankau stiffened. Even as it still echoed across the landscape he saw that Gerhart Peuckert had no intention of letting him get any closer. Peuckert’s face was bluish red, his lips pulled back with teeth completely bared. Lankau retreated a couple of steps and nearly slipped in one of his own puddles. He stretched out his arms and continued backing away in a big curve towards the double doors to the
living room. The figure in front of him did nothing but stand there, breathing deeply, watching his clumsy attempt to make his way backwards.

When he reached the room he turned and ran to the pantry.

His pursuer caught up with him just as his hand reached the main switch to the bungalow. Precisely as Lankau had hoped.

‘Give me that gun, Gerhart! Otherwise I’ll turn it on,’ he said, crooking his finger. ‘And then you’ll never see Petra again. Is it worth it?’

‘I heard what you said before!’ Gerhart’s face was still twitching. ‘You’ll do it anyway!’ He pressed the pistol hard against Lankau’s temple.

‘Nonsense, Gerhart! You’re not well enough to tell the difference between reality and fantasy!’ The tiny beads of sweat on Lankau’s face stood in sharp contrast to his calm voice. It was a wonder he could speak at all.

Gerhart Peuckert stretched his hand slowly up towards Lankau’s, which was still resting on the switch. ‘If you touch me, I’ll press it!’ Lankau said, sweating as he watched the hand stretch past him.

When at last the sinewy, almost spidery hand lay on top of his, Lankau gave up all resistance. Gerhart Peuckert’s eyes were calm, attentive and cold.

Lankau jerked involuntarily as Gerhart threw the switch. The sharp bang from the shed of gears set into motion was accompanied by the gleam of the light in the yard. Lankau wasn’t sure if he’d heard a scream. The characteristic rumble of the wine press meant that its methodical, deadly rotation had begun.

During the next few minutes Lankau obeyed Gerhart Peuckert’s orders without hesitation. He prayed that the madman wouldn’t start fiddling with the safety catch while he was aiming the weapon at him. Every breath was transformed into thoughts of how he could escape his precarious predicament.

On Peuckert’s command, he dragged von der Leyen into the house and over to the blubbering woman. Meanwhile he tried to
remember where his wife’s toy-like hunting rifle could be hidden. As he passed the exotic weapons hanging on the wall behind the bound woman, he considered staking his life on a desperate grab for one of them.

Gerhart Peuckert never gave him the chance.

‘Sit down at the table,’ Peuckert said. It had become silent in the room. Arno von der Leyen was slumped on the floor, his eyes trying to smile up at Laureen.

However irritating, Lankau felt an increasing admiration of Peuckert’s cold nonchalance, coupled with imperceptible bursts of burning hatred which for the time being had to be suppressed.

‘Put your legs all the way under the table,’ Gerhart ordered, without looking at him, ‘and pull your chair in with you.’ Lankau grimaced and squeezed his bulging belly against the rough edge of the oaken table. The idiot was rummaging in his wife’s bureau.

‘Write on this!’ Peuckert threw a sheet of lined paper on the table in front of him.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing, Gerhart! Wouldn’t it be nice if I drove you back to the sanatorium? Remember, if it hadn’t been for these two, nothing would have happened. It’s not my fault!’ He swore as he looked up at Gerhart. ‘If it hadn’t been for them, you and Petra would still be having a good time together, wouldn’t you? And whatever happened to Kröner and Stich wouldn’t have happened. Isn’t that so?’

The ballpoint pen Gerhart threw onto the table in front of him belonged to the Englishwoman. It had been lying on the floor at Gerhart’s feet.

‘Shoot those two instead.’ Lankau jerked his head in the direction of the tied up man and woman. ‘Just shoot them, man! They haven’t brought us anything but misery. What could possibly be the harm in that? I know you can do it,
Herr Standartenführer
Peuckert. No one could hold you responsible, anyhow. How could they? You’ll get back to the sanatorium, I promise. It’ll
be just the same as before. You’ll be Erich Blumenfeld again. Reconsider, Gerhart. Don’t you remember? We were the ones who looked after you all these years.’

Peuckert calmly tightened his grip on the pistol. Bending his head slightly, he looked at Lankau, frowning. ‘I remember,’ he replied, pushing the paper towards Lankau’s belly. ‘Write what I dictate!’

‘Maybe,’ answered the broad-faced man, trying to figure out how many bullets were left in the Shiki Kenju.

‘We, citizens of Freiburg im Breisgau,’ Peuckert drawled slowly, ‘Horst Lankau,
standartenführer
in the Mountain Commando Corps, alias Alex Faber,
Obersturmbannführer
Peter Stich of the
SS Wehrmacht
and
Sonderdienst
, alias Hermann Müller, and Wilfried Kröner,
obersturmbannführer
in the
SS Wehrmacht
, alias Hans Schmidt …’

‘I’ll write nothing!’ Lankau said, and threw down the pen.

‘I’ll kill your wife if you don’t!’

‘So what? What do I care?’ Lankau shifted slightly in his chair. The massive table was heavier than he had reckoned with. To throw it at Peuckert would demand superhuman strength. He took a deep breath.

‘And your son, too!’

‘Oh, really?’ Lankau flipped the pen further away in defiance.

Gerhart stood staring at him for some time until, with a grimace, he added, ‘It was I who killed Kröner and Stich.’ Peuckert didn’t take his eyes off Lankau, who was now breathing calmly, his face no longer so defiant. ‘I electrocuted Stich. And Andrea, too. And you know what? They were pitiful from start to finish. In the end they didn’t even smell good.’ He paused for a moment. Spittle had formed a crust in the corners of his mouth. He delved deep into his pocket and shook it. There was the familiar rattling of a bottle of pills. For a moment his eyes clouded over. Lankau watched. He seemed to be having withdrawal symptoms, as if the urge to take a pill or two was becoming increasingly strong.

‘Don’t you feel well, Gerhart? Tell me. Shouldn’t I help you?’ Lankau heard his words die away.

‘And I drowned Kröner,’ Gerhart finally added softly, straightening his back. ‘In the same way as you intended to drown that swine over there. Very slowly.’

‘I think you’re lying!’ Lankau was not unaffected, but still he leaned nonchalantly back in his chair as far as his uncomfortable position allowed. If he could combine the movement with a strong heave of the table, he was sure he’d break free.

‘I’ve had excellent teachers.’

The smile that spread across Lankau’s lips was almost one of pride. But Gerhart’s statement was a dangerous truth. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘You know very well.’ Gerhart wiped the corners of his mouth and spat on the floor.

‘Are you thirsty, Gerhart? I have some good Rhine wine in the bungalow. Do you feel like having some?’ Lankau moistened his lips and winked.

‘Shut up!’ came the prompt reply.

The wet figure on the floor made sounds of pathetic vomiting attempts. Neither Lankau nor Gerhart turned their heads. ‘Don’t you remember how you used to entertain each other with stories about how to kill people?’ Peuckert continued. ‘I think you do. I do, at any rate. You threatened to kill me as well!’

‘Nonsense! We’ve never threatened you. Well, perhaps years and years ago.’ Lankau looked apologetic. ‘That was before we knew we could trust you.’

‘You’re full of shit!’ Peuckert hissed at the broad face, which was watching him vigilantly. Lankau was making ready to push off.

The stink of vomit was becoming noticeable. Bryan groaned, regurgitated an extra time and tried to sit up. ‘Kill him, James,’ he coaxed quietly.

But he couldn’t get through to him.

‘You were the worst one, Lankau,’ the madman went on, radiating contempt. ‘Can’t you remember you made me drink the blood of the animals you’d just been out hunting?’ Peuckert took a step to one side. He was furious. Lankau remembered, but did his utmost not to react. Now Peuckert was standing behind him. ‘And the dog piss? And my own shit?’ he yelled.

Telltale beads of sweat formed on Lankau’s forehead. He was still convinced he could reason with the fool. But in a game like this, sweat was an irrational factor. Impossible to control and all-revealing. Lankau raised his arm cautiously and wiped his brow. ‘I can’t remember any of what you’re talking about. It must have been Stich. He could be an evil devil when the urge came over him.’

The man standing behind him was silent for a moment. Then he struck him hard on the neck with the Kenju. The shot went off instantly. Lankau threw his head back, wondering how he could still be alive. His ears were howling. He looked to the side. The projectile had struck above Arno von der Leyen’s head. The woman was silent, but still crying.

Gerhart Peuckert looked at the pistol in astonishment. He hadn’t pulled the trigger.

‘Be careful with that thing, I told you! It can go off for no reason.’ The sweat on Lankau’s forehead was turning cold. He shook his head.

‘Are you afraid of it, Lankau? You shouldn’t be.’ Gerhart Peuckert’s agitation made Lankau’s ears buzz even more. ‘You’ll be begging me to use it! I’m not forgetting what you said out on the terrace.’

‘It was you who killed Petra, remember that. It was you who started up the wine press!’

‘And I’ve thought of an even worse fate for you if you don’t write what I dictate. Can you remember how you threatened me with caustic soda? Teasing me by threatening to make me drink it?’

Lankau twisted his body around as much as he could. The sweat had broken out again. Gerhart turned and strode up to Arno von der Leyen. ‘Get up!’ he ordered, addressing the drunken man who was lying in his own vomit.

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ came the quiet response from the floor. ‘Speak English, James. Talk to me.’

Gerhart stood for a while, regarding the figure beneath him.

‘Get up!’ he then said slowly, in English. Lankau was overcome with horror. At once it dawned on him how fatally he’d misjudged the situation and had been making the wrong decisions all day.

Arno von der Leyen looked up immediately. Lankau noted that Peuckert’s eyes were still evil-looking and cold as he watched the bound man. If there were any ties between them, it was a mystery to him.

‘James!’ was all that came from the man on the floor.

‘Get up!’ The Kenju lay firmly in Peuckert’s hand. He took a deep breath. Lankau noted his excitement with unease. ‘You’re going to get something for me from the kitchen. I’ll untie one of your hands.’ He stepped to the side and slugged Lankau on the back. ‘Don’t get any bright ideas, you hear?’

Even though Lankau didn’t doubt Peuckert would carry out his threat, he chose to ignore the warning. He’d got a good grip on the table in front of him. All his strength was mobilized.

Arno von der Leyen scrambled to his knees. He didn’t seem to understand what Gerhart wanted him to do. The wounds in his side and back seemed to be plaguing him intensely. Peuckert made no move to help him.

The clamminess on Lankau’s back began to cool.

‘You’re to fetch the caustic soda from the kitchen cupboard. It’s labelled ‘
Ätzmittel
’. Bring it along with a glass of water, you understand? And don’t try anything smart. You won’t get away with it.’ Arno von der Leyen got to his feet and tried to straighten himself up. Leaning painfully to one side, he again
glanced at Peuckert’s impassive face. ‘Perhaps I’ll give you a more merciful death if you do as I say. The woman, too.’

‘Death?’ Arno von der Leyen looked as if he were trying to shake off the alcoholic fog. ‘What are you talking about, James?’

‘Save yourself the trouble, you drunken swine!’ Lankau heard himself say. ‘He’s raving mad!’

Von der Leyen leaned his face against Peuckert’s chest. ‘James, it’s me, Bryan! I came to find you. Listen to me.’ His confused eyes were begging. Peuckert didn’t react. Suddenly von der Leyen drew himself up, making his wounds burst open again and trace dark shadows on the side of his pullover. ‘We’re friends, James!’ he pleaded. ‘You’re coming home now. To Canterbury. Petra can come too, if you like.’ He shook his head in bewilderment.

He couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

Peuckert turned to face Lankau. ‘He refuses to prepare the caustic soda that you’re to drink.’

‘That, I understand.’ The mockery in Lankau’s voice suppressed his desperation. His grip on the table was now perfect.

‘And you don’t think I can make him do it?’