The Age of Treachery by Gavin Scott

Author:Gavin Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

17

THE BLUE CAT

Forrester spent the rest of the day at the Control Commission and visiting the headquarters of the other political parties to see what else he could discover about Dorfmann’s activities, but came away with precious little: as far as the records revealed, he’d simply been an ordinary academic who’d been lucky enough to keep his head down and survive.

In the early evening he returned to the villa on Fasanenstraße and fell sound asleep. At 8.00 p.m. Flint came in and woke him as instructed, and they set off through the ruins to find the Blue Cat Club.

They heard the band first, clear in the frozen air, and Forrester was reminded of Noël Coward’s remark about the extraordinary potency of cheap music, especially when heard at a distance. Here, as it echoed down the wrecked street, it seemed to mock the devastation. The two men walked down cellar steps slick with melted snow, the walls dripping with moisture, but as the door at the bottom opened, a blast of warmth rushed up to envelop them.

The cellar was packed solid with servicemen of all nations – French, Brits, Russians and Americans; the air was solid with cigarette smoke and down here the noise of chatter almost drowned out the music. Waiters carrying trays loaded with beers hurried through the room as customers yelled out their orders; there seemed to be a woman at every table, sometimes several, their carefully hoarded make-up doing its best to hide faces pinched by hunger.

Flint went off to join a group of other drivers in the far corner and Forrester found himself a seat at a table being vacated by an American airman, who was leaving with a sloe-eyed blonde. As he ordered a beer from a passing waiter he heard a voice he recognised at the table behind him.

“I can give you a hundred and twenty yards of copper wiring,” boomed the speaker, “in return for ten rolls of newsprint.” Forrester glanced around: it was the dark-haired captain from the villa on Fasanenstraße. The other man at the table said something in reply, and the captain said, “Alright, seventy yards for seven rolls. Done?” There was the sound of wine behind poured into a glass.

When the waiter came back with his beer Forrester asked him if he knew a woman called Greta Rilke. “You’re listening to her,” said the waiter, and Forrester swung around to look at the singer.

She was a slight brunette, with a face that reminded Forrester of a monkey. At first it was off-putting, but as she sang he was reminded of the French phrase “jolie laide”. There was a hint of savagery in that face, a hint of the primitive that held its own erotic charge. Her silvery dress hugged her thin figure, clinging tightly to her small breasts. She sang in German, English and Russian about love, betrayal, loss and longing. Her voice was low and husky, seemingly too deep for that fragile body. By the time her set was over Forrester had almost forgotten why he was there.

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