He walked back to the market square, looking for a place to have supper. After strolling past two or three traditional Franconian eating-houses he noticed the smoke curling up into the frosty night sky from the red-tiled roof of the small sausage-house in the corner of the square, in front of the doors of St Sebald’s. It was a pretty little place, fronted by a terrace fringed with boxes of purple heather from which a careful owner had brushed the morning’s snow.
Inside, the warmth and good cheer hit him like a wave. The wooden tables were almost all occupied, but a couple from a corner table were leaving, so he took it, bobbing and smiling back at the couple on their way out, who wished him a good appetite. He took the speciality of the house, the small, spiced Nuremberg sausages, a dozen on one plate, and treated himself to a bottle of the local wine to wash them down.
After his meal he sat back and dawdled over his coffee and chased the black liquid home with two Asbachs. He didn’t feel like bed and it was pleasant to sit and gaze at the logs flickering in the open fire, to listen to the crowd in the corner roaring out a Franconian drinking song, locking arms and swinging from side to side to the music, voices and wine tumblers raised high each time they reached the end of a stanza.
For a long time he wondered why he should bother to risk his life in the quest for a man who had committed his crimes twenty years before. He almost decided to let the matter drop, to shave off his moustache, grow his hair again, go back to Hamburg and the bed warmed by Sigi. The waiter came over, bobbed a bow and deposited the bill on the table with a cheerful ‘Bitte Schön’.
He reached into his pocket for his wallet and his fingers touched a photograph. He pulled it out and gazed at it for a while. The pale, red-rimmed eyes and the rat-trap mouth stared back at him above the collar with the black tabs and the silver lightning symbols. After a while he muttered, ‘You shit,’ and held the corner of the photograph above the candle on his table. When the picture had been reduced to ashes he crumpled them in the copper tray. He would not need it again. He could recognise the face when he saw it.
Peter Miller paid for his meal, buttoned his coat about him and walked back to his hotel.
Mackensen was confronting an angry and baffled Werwolf about the same time.
‘How the hell can he be missing?’ snapped the Odessa chief. ‘He can’t vanish off the face of the earth, he can’t disappear into thin air. His car must be one of the most distinctive in Germany, visible half a mile off. Six weeks of searching and all you can tell me is that he hasn’t been seen …’
Mackensen waited until the outburst of frustration had spent itself.
‘Nevertheless, it’s true,’ he pointed out at length. ‘I’ve had his flat in Hamburg checked out, his girlfriend and mother interviewed by supposed friends of Miller, his colleagues contacted. They all know nothing. His car must have been in a garage somewhere all this time. He must have gone to ground. Since he was traced leaving the airport car park in Cologne after returning from London and driving south, he has gone.’
‘We have to find him,’ repeated the Werwolf. ‘He must not get near to this comrade. It would be a disaster.’
‘He’ll show up,’ said Mackensen with conviction. ‘Sooner or later he has to break cover. Then we’ll have him.’
The Werwolf considered the patience and logic of the professional hunter. He nodded slowly.
‘Very well. Then I want you to stay close to me. Check into a hotel here in town and we’ll wait it out. If you’re nearby I can get you easily.’
‘Right, sir. I’ll get into a hotel down town and call you to let you know. Yo
u can get me there any time.’
He bade his superior good night and left.
It was just before nine the following morning that Miller presented himself at the house and rang the brilliantly polished bell. He wanted to get the man before he left for work. The door was opened by a maid, who showed him into the sitting room and went to fetch her employer.
The man who entered the sitting room ten minutes later was in his mid-fifties, with medium-brown hair and silver tushes at each temple, self-possessed and elegant. The furniture and décor of his room also spelled elegance and a substantial income.
He gazed at his unexpected visitor without curiosity, assessing at a glance the inexpensive trousers and jacket of a working-class man.
‘And what can I do for you?’ he inquired calmly.
The visitor was plainly embarrassed and ill at ease among the opulent surroundings of the sitting room.
‘Well, Herr Doktor, I was hoping you might be able to help me.’
‘Come now,’ said the Odessa man, ‘I’m sure you know my working chambers are not far from here. Perhaps you should go there and ask my secretary for an appointment.’
‘Well, it’s not actually professional help I need,’ said Miller. He had dropped into the vernacular of the Hamburg and Bremen area, the language of working people. He was obviously embarrassed. At a loss for words he produced a letter from his inside pocket and held it out.
‘I brought a letter of introduction from the man who suggested I come to you, sir.’
The Odessa man took the letter without a word, slit it open and cast his eyes quickly down it. He stiffened slightly and gazed narrowly across the sheet of paper at Miller.
‘I see, Herr Kolb. Perhaps you had better sit down.’
He gestured Miller to an upright chair, while he himself took an easy armchair. He spent several minutes looking speculatively at his guest, a frown on his face. Suddenly he snapped, ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Kolb, sir.’