In January he had got a letter from Hamburg jail. It was hardly literate. The woman must have asked the barman for his name and told her husband. The letter had been sent to a magazine for which he sometimes worked. They had passed it on to him.
‘Dear Herr Miller, my wife wrote me what you done just before Christmas. I never met you, and I don’t know why you done it, but I want to thank you very much. You are a real gent. The money helped Doris and the kids have a real good time over Christmas and the New Year. If ever I can do you a good turn back, just you let me know. Yours with respects …’
But what was the name on the bottom of that letter? Koppel. That was it. Viktor Koppel. Praying that he had not got himself back inside prison again, Miller took out his little book of contacts’ names and telephone numbers, dragged the hotel telephone on to his knees and started ringing friends in the underworld of Hamburg.
He found Koppel at half past seven. Being a Friday evening he was in a bar with a crowd of friends, and down the line Miller could hear the juke-box in the background. It was playing the Beatles’ ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’, which had almost driven him mad that winter, so frequently had it been played.
With a bit of prompting Koppel remembered him, and the present he had given to Doris two years earlier. Koppel had evidently had a few drinks.
‘Very nice of you, that was, Herr Miller, very nice thing to do.’
‘Look, you wrote me from prison saying if there was ever anything you could do for me, you’d do it. Remember?’
Koppel’s voice was wary.
‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘Well, I need a spot of help. Not much. Can you help me out?’ said Miller.
The man in Hamburg was still wary.
‘I ain’t got much on me, Herr Miller.’
‘I don’t want a loan,’ said Miller. ‘I want to pay you for a job. Just a small one.’
Koppel’s voice was full of relief.
‘Oh, I see, yes, sure. Where are you?’
Miller gave him his instructions.
‘Just get down to Hamburg station and grab the first train to Osnabrück. I’ll meet you on the station. One last thing, bring your working tools with you.’
‘Now look, Herr Miller, I don’t ever work outside my patch. I don’t know about Osnabrück.’
Miller dropped into the Hamburg slang.
‘It’s a walkover, Koppel. Empty, owner gone away and a load of gear inside. I’ve cased it, and there’s no problem. You can be back in Hamburg for breakfast, with a bagful of boodle and no questions asked. The man will be away for a week, you can unload the stuff before he’s back, and the cops down here will think it was a local job.’
‘What about my train fare?’ asked Koppel.
‘I’ll give it you when you get here. There’s a train at nine out of Hamburg. You’ve got an hour. So get moving.’
Koppel sighed deeply.
‘All right, I’ll be on the train.’
Miller hung up, asked the hotel switchboard operator to call him at eleven and dozed off.
Outside, Mackensen continued his
lonely vigil. He decided to start on the Jaguar at midnight if Miller had not emerged.
But Miller walked out of the hotel at quarter past eleven, crossed the square and entered the station. Mackensen was surprised. He climbed out of the Mercedes and went to look through the entrance hall. Miller was on the platform, standing waiting for a train.
‘What’s the next train from this platform?’ Mackensen asked a porter.
‘Eleven-thirty-three to Munster,’ said the porter.