The Poison Tide (44 page)

They were staring at him uncomfortably. Gaunt opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again with a frown. The light in the room was fading, the rain rattling against the windows.

‘Influenza, the plague, even cholera would jump no-man’s-land in time, like gas shifting with the wind,’ Wolff observed quietly. ‘The enemy is taking less of a risk of infecting his own men with anthrax.’ He paused to breathe deeply. ‘And it seems to me fear of the disease would be the most potent weapon. Dead horses, dead cattle – diseased carcases on the battlefield – anthrax spores grow quickly and survive for decades. Are they infecting our cattle too? What about the supplies we’re importing from America? If soldiers believe they can catch the disease from their animals or food, well, they’ll panic.’

‘Steady on,’ Wiseman interjected. ‘We have no proof, Wolff. There’s nothing . . .’

‘We haven’t, Sir William,’ Wolff snapped back, ‘but if we don’t look, we won’t find.’

Thwaites shifted uncomfortably beside him. ‘You really think they would go that far?’

Wolff shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . .’ he hesitated, then said forcefully, ‘Yes. Yes. They’ve used gas – we’ve used it too. They’ve bombed civilians – the Allies have too. So why not this? There are no limits, Norman.’

There was another oppressive silence. The rain still lashing the building, the heavy Empire clock still ticking, and distant English voices drifting up the stairs.

‘I don’t believe they’ve gone that far, or intend to,’ Wiseman declared at last. ‘For one thing, animals infected here would die before they reached the Front. We don’t have any evidence they’re—’

‘We’re guessing,’ Gaunt interrupted gruffly. He was still clutching the poker, flexing his fingers as if he was itching to beat someone over the head with it. ‘Catch this bugger Dilger and we can be sure.’

‘Quite right. We must pay him a visit.’ Wiseman’s gaze floated between Wolff and Thwaites. ‘After the time we’ve wasted, the sooner the better.’

But they should eat first, he said, and he ordered beer and sandwiches, fussing around them like a baronet’s butler. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about his magisterial use of the collective pronoun, or just that he was sending them into the pouring rain on what he suspected to be a wild goose chase. No violence on the President’s doorstep – the Ambassador was insistent, he informed them with an ironic smile. ‘But if he’s there . . .’ he paused, stroking the end of his moustache thoughtfully with his forefinger, ‘. . . well, we can’t let him go.’

T
HE
D
ILGER HOUSE
was just fifteen minutes’ drive from the embassy. They parked beneath a dripping cedar on the opposite side of street.

‘Folksy,’ Thwaites observed. ‘Can you imagine him living in this place?’

‘Respectable American doctor living in a respectable part of town,’ Wolff declared, wiping condensation from the windscreen. Thwaites offered his cigarette case and they smoked and listened to the rain drumming on the motor car and trickling through a rip on to the rear seat. The patch of sky Wolff could see through the canopy of the cedar was many shades of grey. The lights were on in most homes already, glowing with contentment, even self-satisfaction. Behind new lace curtains and plush draperies, bankers’ wives padded through rooms without memories, furnished from the same stores in just the same way. The Dilger house was dark.

‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’ Thwaites remarked, winding down his window a little to flick his cigarette end into the street.

Wolff rebuked him: ‘Wrong sort of neighbourhood,’ although he hardly cared. ‘Let’s take a look at the house.’

‘We’ll be soaked.’

‘This is a good time. If the sun comes out, so will the neighbours.’

‘All right,’ Thwaites muttered between gritted teeth.

Wolff’s jacket and trousers were wet through before they reached the porch and the rain had worked its way round the brim of his hat and inside his collar. They pulled the bell and waited a few minutes to be sure the place was empty. ‘Let’s look round the back. Friends of friends, if the neighbours have the temerity to ask.’

Kitchen, dining room, rented furniture and the walls were bare but for a large photograph in the sitting room. Five narrow steps down to a cellar door and two small windows. He squatted on his haunches and wiped the rain from the glass – empty but for a workbench, a sink and some rough shelving. How much more would the doctor need?

‘Anything?’ Thwaites asked. ‘If I bend to look I won’t get up again’.

‘I don’t know – perhaps.’

‘Has he gone?’

Wolff shrugged. ‘Probably.’ The Dilgers seemed to have made an effort with the garden, planting spring bulbs in the borders, and the earth at the back fence had been broken recently too.

‘I’ve looked at the door – we can force our way inside,’ said Thwaites, turning back to the house, ‘if you keep an eye . . .’ His mouth snapped shut in surprise. A woman was standing beneath the eaves in a winter coat and sou’wester.

‘Who are you?’ She was softly spoken, unmistakably of the South.

‘Frau Dilger?’ Wolff enquired.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is von Eck – my friend here is Mr Schmidt. If you’ll excuse the discourtesy, I’ll keep my hat on.’

She pretended to smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I hope I haven’t startled you. We’re friends of a friend – may we speak inside?’

‘Whatever your business, I’m sure it can’t be with me.’ She moved closer to the door, her face hidden by the sheet of water cascading from the roof. ‘Is it Dr Dilger you wish to see? My brother isn’t here, I’m afraid.’

Wolff took a couple of steps closer. ‘We’ve come from Baltimore – associates of Mr Hilken.’

She was considering him carefully. Perhaps she had a kind heart and would take pity on them. His jacket was clinging to his back. ‘Mr Hilken asked me to put your mind at rest on a few matters.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, taking a key from her pocket. ‘Then you better come inside.’

She invited them into her kitchen but no further, and she rejected Wolff’s offer of assistance with her coat. A handsome woman, early forties, a thin straight mouth like her brother’s, the same determined jawline and dimple in the chin.

‘We’re making a puddle on your floor.’ He smiled reassuringly.

‘I’m sorry if I appeared rude. I have to be careful now I’m on my own.’ Her voice shook a little and she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

‘Have we missed Dr Dilger?’

‘Yes.’

‘When do you expect . . .’

‘I don’t. You said you had a message. Please give it to me.’

‘For you
and
your brother, Miss Dilger,’ Wolff replied. ‘Is he at the farm, or in New York perhaps?’

Her eyes flitted up to his face, then away. They were a warm brown-green colour. ‘He’s visiting Germany – Mr Hilken knows that.’ She shuffled to her left, perhaps consciously putting the broad oak table between them.

‘But not yet,’ Wolff remarked. ‘We were told he was here.’

‘Well, he’s gone.’ She was staring at Wolff defiantly now, unflinching, her small dry hands clasped beneath her chest. ‘I’d like you to go too.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Dilger.’ Wolff slapped his wet hat down on the table. ‘I don’t want to inconvenience you, but we have a few questions.’

‘Leave.’ She glanced at the door.

‘Please don’t,’ he said in an aggrieved voice.

‘I’ll shout – my neighbours . . .’

‘No one will hear you,’ Wolff gestured to the rain beating at the window, ‘and it isn’t necessary.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Please sit down.’

She didn’t move.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated firmly, and this time she did.

‘Where is Dr Dilger?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘I saw him myself only a few days ago,’ he lied.

‘He sailed from New York yesterday.’

‘The ship?’

‘The
Rotterdam
.’

Wolff nodded. ‘Did you know?’ Their eyes met, the colour rising in her cheeks. Then she looked down at her hands. ‘Know?’

‘Know what your brother was doing?’ He leant closer, forcing her to look up.

‘My brother’s a doctor. I don’t know who you are – but a doctor visiting his family – he’s on – was on – vacation, that’s all.’

‘Your brother was a cheap poisoner,’ Thwaites interjected harshly. ‘Instead of treating the sick he’s been culturing disease. Where? – here?’

She shook her head. ‘My brother’s a doctor.’

She denied it, refused to even countenance the possibility, but he read shame in her face, heard it in her voice. Not the details perhaps, but she’d guessed and turned a blind eye. It wasn’t so unusual, even among the God-fearing. Wolff touched Thwaites’ sleeve. ‘I’m going to look around.’

The main rooms of the house were empty of the past, just as he’d expected them to be. He found a photograph of the doctor on his sister’s bedside table and took it from its silver frame, and in the sitting room a family group with young Anton at the feet of the soldier-patriarch. Finally, he clomped down the stairs to the basement and was reaching for the door when he suddenly froze, his fingers just touching the handle. In the kitchen above, Thwaites’ abrasive German, then a sullen silence punctuated by the scraping of a chair leg and the rain at the window. But it wasn’t a voice, a noise, that had startled him; it was a smell – the faint but sharp odour of the slaughterhouse – or so he imagined it to be. This is the place, he thought, here beneath Miss Dilger’s kitchen. He pushed open the door and turned on the lights. White walls, sink, trelliswork bench, home-made shelves; just as he’d seen it through the window. Everything had been scrubbed with bleach and yet the sickly-sweet smell of decaying blood lingered like a bad spirit. Inspecting the room carefully, he found only shards of glass which he wanted to call a Petri dish, but it was impossible to be sure.

‘What did he use, Miss Dilger?’ he asked her at the kitchen table. ‘An animal of some sort – blood?’

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t look him in the eye but kept twisting, twisting her lace handkerchief tighter.

‘Whatever it was – it smelt awful,’ he explained to Thwaites. ‘Here in this basement.’

‘Culturing disease in the house?’ Thwaites exclaimed, incredulous. ‘You must have known,’ Wolff said to her. ‘What about your neighbours – did you think of their safety?’

She began to rise – ‘Leave my house.’ Her lower lip was quivering, the first tear on her cheek – ‘Leave, leave, leave’ – then she bolted for the door.

Wolff held Thwaites’ arm – ‘No, let her’– and flinging it open she ran out into the rain.

‘Don’t you feel sorry for her?’ he asked.

Thwaites scoffed. ‘No, I damn well don’t.’

‘Don’t you see? She’s been betrayed by someone she loves.’

‘Left her things,’ Thwaites joked, lifting her coat from the back of a chair. Her clasp bag was on the table, just large enough for powder, a handkerchief, some money.

‘Rummage through the coat, would you?’ Wolff reached for the bag and emptied it on to the table. Just a respectable middle-aged lady’s essentials, although he was surprised to find a Levy lipstick. He opened her pocketbook and thumbed through the pages.

‘Nothing,’ Thwaites declared, dropping her coat back. ‘Bills from a grocery store and her key.’

Wolff looked up at him blankly, her pocketbook still open in his hands.

‘Come on – what is it?’ Thwaites prompted him.

‘Notes, some telephone numbers – just . . .’ he hesitated, swallowing hard, ‘. . . numbers – probably family,’ then closed it deliberately and slipped it into his breast pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

They pulled the back door to behind them and scuttled across the street. The motor car had sprung some more leaks. Thwaites uttered a profanity and ran his sleeve over the driver’s seat. ‘We’re sinking.’

‘There’s something I have to do,’ Wolff said, sliding on to the passenger seat. ‘I’ll need your revolver. Can you drop me at Union Station?’

Thwaites stared at him intently. ‘This thing you have to do . . .?’ He paused, waiting for Wolff to accept his invitation to explain. But Wolff just looked away. ‘Look, whatever it is, you should tell me, it might be—’

‘It isn’t – not to you or Wiseman.’

Silence but for the rain beating on the canopy. A motor car sploshed by with its lamps blazing. Wolff was gazing impassively at the windscreen, misted with their breath. ‘Is it her?’ Thwaites whistled softly. ‘It is.’ He slapped his palm on the steering column in frustration. ‘Remember C’s rules, I said.’

‘Yes, you did.’ Wolff dipped into his jacket for the pocketbook. ‘Last entry.’

Thwaites flicked through to the page. ‘This number?’

‘Zero, three, six, five, six. It’s Miss McDonnell’s.’

‘And you think . . .’

‘I don’t know. I’m going to find out.’

W
OLFF TOOK UP
his post before dawn, loitering in doorways as New York began to rise. A clear cold city day in March, a day for thick socks, gloves and a muffler, walking at a brisk pace, and coffee and eggs in a smoky café. But Laura’s apartment wasn’t on that sort of street. He tried to keep on the move, shifting his position, drifting between blocks, brushing shoulders and smiling at businessmen fixing their hats on the doorstep or striding the sidewalk to the subway. He was exchanging short words with a man who had charged him with malicious intent when a motor car came to a stop close by and flashed its lamps once. A moment later Masek’s pinched face appeared at the driver’s window.

‘Have breakfast,’ he said, as Wolff climbed in beside him. ‘I watch apartment. Café three blocks,’ and he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

Wiseman had sent Masek in a Consulate car. ‘She not know Masek,’ he explained. ‘I follow – no trouble.’ There was no denying it would be simpler. Slight of frame, penetrating gaze, Masek had the air of a poor scholar at a provincial university, threadbare but respectable, fingers stained yellow by tobacco, the sort of man you might pass on a New York street without a second glance. They didn’t say much because it was business, but shared cigarettes and took it in turns to doze. Then, at nine o’clock, Laura appeared at the door, sifting through the morning mail, placing it in a portfolio she was carrying, adjusting her hat and tidying strands of hair. As Wolff watched her pass he felt a desperate urge to leap out of the motor car and ask her outright: ‘Have you seen Dilger? Do you know what he does?’