The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

peacocks, jambu trees and rose-ringed parakeets were striking enough and hinted at a romantic side to his father’s character which Frank had never even suspected. But what especially caught his eye were some loose leaves in the book that became dislodged by his thumbing of the pages and, on closer inspection, revealed a large sepia brown photograph of an attractive Indian girl fetchingly attired in her traditional sari. On the back of the photo he found the words: With regards to you and your family, Neeti.

This intriguing discovery begged so many questions that Frank would never be in a position to answer. But the very thought that his father might possibly have had some kind of a liaison with this Neeti woman filled him with a curious gladness. Was this perhaps the true reason for his father’s many travels? Was this his escape from the straitjacket of his mother’s regime, which he was certain must have been as harsh for his father as it was for him?

Frank searched the shelves for more clues. But of his other books – which appeared to be mostly dry tracts on the art of building bridges and the like – none surrendered any further glimpses of his father’s romantic nature. Nonetheless, he began to feel that his journey had not been entirely in vain after all. He tucked the photograph carefully back inside the book, wrote a brief note to the nurse, giving her Patricia’s flat as his contact address, then left. He had no desire and saw no reason to speak with the dragon again. And he felt sure that she had nothing of any consequence to report about his mother that he had not already seen with his own eyes. The book he took with him under his arm. Whether this was out of sentiment or curiosity he was not certain, but he felt in some inexplicable way that it belonged with him. And it was presumably this possession of his mind by thoughts of the unsuspected love knots of his father that blurred his mental faculties and obscured the stupidity of this last act of leaving behind his address.

After the original purpose of his journey to Cologne had been so rudely blanched by betrayal, the enjoyment of this discovery in his father’s study now imbued the journey with a certain colour. And punctuated his stay in this city with such pleasing neatness that he was now eager to return. The knowledge that Patricia would no longer be there when he got back slightly took the edge off his appetite. But he was nonetheless still sufficiently motivated by the uneasy feeling that he had a score to settle with Achim.

What he was not prepared for was the reception that appeared to be waiting for him when he arrived at the railway station to start his journey back. The cloth cap and shabby attire stopped him in his tracks before he had even crossed the street to the station entrance. He recognised the figure at once as the man on the train who had shown such a keen interest in the suitcase of betrayal he abandoned when he got out at Mannheim. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Frank asked himself.

From the concealment of an advertising pillar some distance from the station entrance, Frank watched the man for a good fifteen minutes. He appeared to be looking out for the arrival of someone, but gave the impression of having all the time in the world. If Frank did not move soon, he would miss his train. But he felt unable to risk being seen by this man, who remained an unexplained threat to his existence.

Frank’s sense of caution told him that his journey south should be postponed for at least another few hours. Taking care to ensure that he was not followed, he took himself off to a cafe from where he could observe the comings and goings at the station.

The permanence of the man’s presence convinced Frank all the more that he must be in the pay of the police. Anyone who lurked for so long in one place would inevitably draw suspicion upon himself and be quietly moved on – unless he enjoyed the benefits of some special kind of patronage. There could be no other explanation for the stubborn vigil of this shabby man who had watched his every move so keenly on the train up to Cologne.

It seemed more than likely to Frank that, having found the incriminating evidence in the suitcase left behind in the carriage, the man would have felt compelled to keep a watch for him at the station. They would have established his destination with a quick phone call to the office where his passport and ticket had been so assiduously checked before he got on the train. How they could have known that he would be returning to Switzerland on this particular day remained a mystery to Frank. But he was confident enough of their intelligence to believe that it was distinctly possible.

As he sat in the coffee house, his eye on the station traffic, the bitterness of the coffee on his tongue reminded him of the first time he had drunk coffee with Patricia. It recalled the growing sense of fear that he was going to lose her even before they had become close enough to have anything to lose. How he wanted her at this moment. How desperately he needed her company. And how far away she seemed.

She had not confided in him precisely where it was she was disappearing to for so long. And he had been unwilling to drive a wedge between them by pressing too hard for information. But the coincidence of her departure with the appearance of the mysterious Léandre made him suspect at least a tenuous connection. Yet strangely his suspicions did not unduly disturb him. He did not feel the pangs of jealousy or disappointment. She had left him the freedom of her flat, after all. And he