The old elevator clanged again once or twice against its workings as Rossett crouched down, looking toward the concierge’s office as he dragged the unconscious Neumann’s legs into the lift.

He pulled the door closed, then pressed the button for the third floor several times impatiently. Neumann groaned as the cage started to rise, and Rossett knelt down, roughly searching through Neumann’s pockets.

He found a Mauser and some cuffs. He slipped the Mauser into his own pocket, snapped one cuff onto Neumann’s left hand, and then, pushing hard on the German’s shoulder, managed to free the other arm and cuff both wrists to the rear.

Neumann blinked and gave a tiny shake of his head as the lift shuddered to a halt on the third floor. Rossett, still crouching, gently tapped him on the side of the head with the Webley.

“Do you see this?”

Neumann struggled to focus his eyes on the gun; he blinked a ­couple of times and then nodded.

“Who is in the room with Koehler?”

“Are you mad?” Neumann finally spoke, his voice weak but incredulous.

“Who is in the apartment?”

“You’ll hang for this.”

Rossett thumbed the hammer on the pistol and jammed it into the temple he’d punched moments ago.

“Who is in the apartment?”

“My assistant, just one man, that’s all,” Neumann replied, his eyes now closed.

“Is he armed?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

Neumann didn’t reply, so Rossett pulled back the pistol an inch and then jabbed the barrel forward again, hard.

“Answer the fucking question. What are you doing here?”

“We are looking for Koehler’s wife and daughter. They are missing, and he’s up to something. I’m trying to figure out what.”

Rossett tapped the pistol against Neumann’s temple, lighter this time.

“Shush now.”

Neumann fell silent.

The lift arrived at the third floor. Rossett pulled open the cage and looked along the silent, red-­carpeted corridor. Four gold-­numbered doors led off to either side. The contrast with Rossett’s own accommodation couldn’t have been greater, but that didn’t matter right now.

His friend needed help.

“Is Koehler locked up, handcuffed?”

“No. This is crazy. We were only questioning him. This is crazy.” Neumann shook his head, his voice stronger now. “Uncuff me and we can sort this out.”

“Where are the uniforms?”

“What?”

“Where are the uniformed policemen?”

“In the office with the doorman. I didn’t bring them up. The major is an officer; I didn’t think it was correct.”

Rossett looked back along the corridor and then down at Neumann.

“Get up.”

Rossett half dragged, half pushed Neumann to his feet. The German flopped against the wall of the lift until Rossett took a handful of his collar and pushed him out into the corridor.

“What door?”

“I thought you were his friend,” Neumann replied. “You don’t know where he lives?”

“Which door?” Rossett shoved Neumann forward a few steps more.

“You’re taking a big risk for someone who wouldn’t invite you to his flat.”

Rossett pressed the gun into Neumann’s neck.

“You’re the one taking the risk. Which door?”

“Pull the trigger and March will know you are coming. I thought you English policemen were supposed to be the best in the world?”

Rossett looked at the back of Neumann’s head, sighed, then hit him with the butt of the Webley just behind the ear, knocking him down again.

“Smart arse,” muttered Rossett as he lowered Neumann to the floor.

He didn’t do it quietly enough. The door to his right opened. March stood framed in the light, looking down at Rossett and the unconscious Neumann.

In a second he was also looking at the Webley.

Rossett rose up from the crouch and pointed at Neumann with his other hand. “Get your boss into the flat.”

March did as he was told. Quickly and quietly he gripped Neumann’s arms and dragged the older man unceremoniously into the apartment.

Koehler emerged from the kitchen holding a china teapot, which he almost dropped as he watched March, under the eye of Rossett’s Webley, drag Neumann out of the corridor.

“What . . . ?”

“This wasn’t the plan,” Rossett replied.

Neumann groaned, so everyone looked at him.

“You had a plan?” said Koehler.

Rossett looked down at March and then back at Koehler.

“Not exactly, no.”

 

CHAPTER 11

EVEN UNDER A fresh fall of snow, Whitechapel still had the grit and grime of two hundred years of soot powdered to its face. The narrow streets and the tall tight houses squeezed the ­people who lived there like mortar between bricks.

The occupation of the Nazis had done nothing to improve Whitechapel; the place had just gotten worse. When the Germans arrived there had been a fair-­sized Jewish population. At one point there had been talk of a ghetto being established, but the clearance had been too efficient: the residents were thrown away rather than thrown behind barbed wire.

Frank King had been sure he’d chosen their hiding place well; there were no Germans or police prowling these streets when he had originally scoped the area. But looking out the window at their snow-­covered Opel outside, he was suddenly feeling less certain.

No other car had been up or down in hours. There had been one solitary strolling policeman, who had stopped and stared at the car, then around at the houses in the street.