An ancient gabled two-storey structure built of wood, it stood on its own and at one time must have looked picturesque. But it had remained empty for a long time before Dr Wand had bought it through a holding company.
The once bright red paint of the main facade and the white trim round the windows was peeling away, eroded by the salt air. It still had a derelict, unoccupied look. With his long neck poked out of his stiff collar Dr Hyde resembled some vile bird. He cast one look back before inserting the key: a mournful desert where nothing grew except tussocks of stubby grass amid the powdered sand.
He heard the phone ringing as he closed the door, hurried to the back room. The caller could only be one person and Hyde knew he would be rebuked.
`If I may be so bold as to enquire, where have you been? It seems unlikely you would find any feminine company in that part of the world,' Wand commented sarcastically.
'I have been for a brief walk. I have to keep fit for my work,' Hyde responded waspishly.
`How very commendable of you. I should apologize for what always appears to be my ill-timed calls.'
`I am at your service,' Hyde replied in an oily tone, regretting his outburst.
`Excellent! You will not be idle for long. A patient, a lady, will arrive soon. I foresee that treatment will be required within three days. Not before, you understand. Now, this is what I suggest, subject to your own diagnosis…'
Wand put down the phone as soon as he had completed his instructions. They had been phrased carefully in words Hyde understood but so their sinister significance would mean nothing if an operator had listened in. Starmberg, who had left the study, returned at the moment the call had ended.
`Eight more of my men have arrived,' he reported. 'The whole team is ready to carry out this evening's operation.'
`I trust there was no chance that the vehicles were seen entering the grounds?'
`None at all. The same method was used as when we came in. A vehicle parks near the entrance, waits until no other traffic is about, the gates are opened, the vehicle races down the drive, the gates are closed behind it. I was wondering – what do we do now about Westendorf?'
`Nothing. And you really must, if I may suggest it, rid yourself of this habit of wondering. As you have raised the matter I will explain briefly. Westendorf was not a complete success and for some months he will undoubtedly be heavily guarded. After some time has passed we may eliminate him.' Wand leaned forward into the light thrown by his desk lamp, the sole illumination. His expression was unpleasant but he spoke in his normal detached tone.
`Concentrate your mind now, Jules, on Miss Grey. I will not tolerate another fiasco. She must be in Denmark before midnight – I repeat, before midnight.'
Before leaving Blankenese Tweed had given Marler orders via Newman to drive immediately with his team across the Danish frontier. That left him only Paula, Newman, and Cardon to accompany him to Copenhagen. He felt sure it would be more than enough.
He had a stroke of luck when they arrived back at the Four Seasons. Saying goodbye to Westendorf, who drove off in his limo, he climbed the steps and the first person he saw was Willie Fanshawe.
`Leave me alone with him,' he whispered to Paula and Newman.
`I say! Am I glad to see you,' Willie began. 'Hate being on my own. Look, we're only three paces from the Sambri bar. Be a good chap. Join me in a glass of champers. Bit early for a sundowner, but what the hell. Oh, your friends have gone off. They'd have been more than welcome…'
`They had an appointment,' Tweed said, edging his way into the flood of words which went on.
`Well, we can have just a man-to-man conversation. I love the ladies, God bless 'em, but sometimes it makes a change to have a nice chat on our own. Champers, of course!'
Tweed reluctantly agreed. They were already inside the empty bar under Wilie's enthusiastic impetus. He ordered two glasses from the barman and they sat down on the banquette furthest from the door.
`What's happened to Brigadier Burgoyne?' Tweed asked casually as he raised his glass, took a sip., put down the glass.
`Oh, the Brig.'s off haggling over some little deal, I'm sure. He loves it. Always on parade, is his motto. What he doesn't love is the present state of England.'
`Indeed? What's wrong with it?'
`Everything…' Willie became emphatic. 'According to the Brig. No self-discipline any more. Morale has collapsed. The welfare state has undermined the strong fibre we were once noted for. Everyone's holding their hands out for a freebie. They have a slight headache and rush to the doctor because it's supposed to be something for nothing. According to the Brig., that is. Half the country wants to be nannied. The young, instead of struggling to make a career on their own, want it all handed to them on a plate. And now the cranks want to break up the old UK into separate bits. A good dose of iron government is what is needed – so the Brig. thinks. Shock treatment is the only answer, he keeps saying.'
`I suppose it's his military background,' Tweed suggested.
`That's another thing! Conscription should be introduced again. That would instil some discipline into these louts who bang old ladies over the head to grab a few pounds. And often for what? To finance their beastly drug habit. Very hot on that, is the Brig.'
`And what do you think?' Tweed enquired.
Willie beamed. 'Have another glass. I'm going to…'
`I haven't finished my present drink, thank you.'
Tweed felt sure this was Willie's second visit to the Sambri bar this morning. His face was even more flushed than usual as he ordered a fresh glass for himself.
'My view?' Willie pursed his wide mouth. 'The Brig. does rather go over the top. Up Guards and at 'em. But he was a brilliant soldier, so I just listen. Not much choice once he gets going. A real martinet. But there's never a dull moment when he's around.'
`He's staying on in Hamburg for a while?'
`Never can tell with him. He's like the proverbial grasshopper. We could be off to Vienna at the drop of a hat. The Brig.'s hat.' Willie chuckled, drank some more champagne. 'What about you?'
'My programme is vague. Depends on how events unfold. I hope you'll excuse me. I also have an appointment…'
It was a very thoughtful Tweed who went up to his room.
`There's your chance, Bob,' Paula said after they had left Tweed and wandered into the lobby. 'Tweed said get next to Helen – and there she is. Looking this way and practically sending out a siren call to you. I'm going to get a bath. Have fun…'
Helen Claybourne, seated on a couch, was writing in a notebook with her large elegant fountain-pen. She tucked the cap over the nib and gave Newman her cool smile as he sat beside her.
'Unless you're busy,' he suggested.
'Very glad not to be.' She'd closed her notebook with a snap. 'Willie has the wildest schemes for making money. I spend half my time persuading him not to invest in some hare-brained scheme. He's a sucker for con-men – unlike Maurice. You wouldn't get a penny out of the Brigadier until he'd interrogated you into the ground.'
Helen looked smart as paint, as always. She wore a grey pleated skirt which ended just above her shapely knees. A well-cut grey jacket hugged her figure and underneath she was clad in a white blouse with a high- necked collar.
Perched in a corner of the couch, she tucked her legs under her like a cat and turned to face Newman. She flicked a speck of cigarette ash off his lapel and stared straight at him with appraising eyes as she asked the question.
`Just what are you up to, Mr Newman? You seem to be on the go most of the time. I saw you leave earlier about nine with Paula and Tweed. Are you after a juicy story? Or shouldn't I ask?' she teased him.
`We've been exploring Hamburg, taking in one business call. You're staying on here?'