Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [21]
He must have cried out loud. Rosalie was awake. His whole body was shaking, absolutely out of control. Rosalie got up out of bed, and using a smooth cloth towel, she wiped his face with cooling alcohol. Then she bathed his whole body with it. Next, she ran the tub full of hot water and made him sit in the steaming bath. She sat on its marble rim as he soaked. Rogan could feel his body stop shaking, the pounding of blood against the metal plate in his skull easing off.
“Where did you learn all this?” he asked her.
Rosalie smiled. “The last three years in the asylum I was used as a nursing aide. I was almost well then. But it took me three years to get up enough courage to run away.”
Rogan took her cigarette and puffed on it. “Why didn’t they release you?”
She smiled down on him sadly. “They had no one to release me to,” she said. “I have no one in the world.” She paused for a long moment. “Except you.”
The following day was a very busy one for Rogan. He gave Rosalie five hundred dollars’ worth of marks and sent her out shopping. Then he went out to do some necessary chores. Making sure he was not followed, he drove to the outskirts of Berlin and parked the Mercedes. He went into a pharmacy and bought a small funnel and some chemicals. At a hardware store he bought wires, a small glass mixing bowl, nails, tape, and a few tools. He drove the Mercedes to a deserted side street, its ruins not yet rebuilt, and worked on the interior of the car for almost three hours. He disconnected all the wiring that operated the rear brake lights, and ran other wires into the car trunk. He bored holes into the airtight trunk, and then put tiny hollow rubber tubing into the holes. He mixed the chemicals, then put them in the small funnel and placed it over the piece of hollow tubing that now came up from the floor to the steering wheel. It was all very ingenious, and Rogan hoped it would work. He shrugged. If it didn’t, he’d have to use the pistol and its silencer again. And that could be dangerous. It would hook him up with the other killings when the police compared ballistic tests. Rogan shrugged again. The hell with it, he thought. By the time they got all the evidence together his mission would be completed.
He drove back to the hotel and parked in the special area reserved for guests. Before he went up to his room he drew his suitcase from the storage cellar. Rosalie was already waiting in their suite. It hadn’t taken her long to spend the money. She modeled the seductive Paris gown she had bought, which scarcely covered her breasts. “If that doesn’t distract those two bastards nothing will,” Rogan said, with an exaggerated leer. “Now are you sure you know what you have to do tonight?”
Rosalie nodded, but he briefed her again, slowly and thoroughly. “Do you think they will tell you what you want to know?” Rosalie asked.
“I think so,” Rogan said with a grim smile. “One way or the other.” He picked up the telephone and ordered dinner for four to be sent up to the room at eight o’clock.
The Freisling brothers were punctual; they arrived with the food trolley. Rogan dismissed the waiter, and as they ate they discussed the terms of their deal. When they had finished eating he poured four glasses of Pfefferminz liqueur, half brandy, half peppermint. “Ah, my favorite drink,” Hans Freisling said. Rogan smiled. He had remembered the smell of peppermint in the interrogation room, the bottle Hans had carried around with him.
When Rogan capped the bottle he dropped in the drug pellets. He did it quickly and expertly; the brothers were not aware of what he was doing, though they were looking directly at him. With their natural suspiciousness, they were waiting for him to drink first. “Prosit,” Rogan said, and drank. The sweet liqueur almost made him sick. The two brothers drained their glasses, and Hans licked his thick lips greedily. Rogan passed him the bottle. “Help yourself,” he said. “I must go and get the documents.