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

saw this as a commitment that bestowed a special kind of meaning on their ill-defined relationship.

These thoughts further inflamed his eagerness to get back to the comfort of her flat as soon as he could. It was plain to him that he would not achieve this by sipping coffee and watching the departures and arrivals at Cologne railway station forever. And the imagination had long since talked him into believing beyond any doubt that the vigil across the road could only be intended for him.

He considered the alternatives. The most attractive of these was not without its risks, but they were certainly less than the cloth-capped hazard that awaited him in front of the station. And it occurred to him that, if they were watching for him here, then they would doubtless be waiting at the other end of the line as well.

Shielded by the traffic and crowds between him and the station, he slipped onto a tram that would eventually bring him to the harbour, where he was confident of finding a boat that would take him upstream. If not all the way to Switzerland, then at least some distance from Cologne, so that he could safely resume his journey by rail from a station that was not under such scrutiny.

On the assumption that more heavily laden barges would be heading south than less heavily laden ones, he looked for a vessel that lay low in the water. Only two presented themselves as possible candidates. But he was optimistic that more would arrive as night drew in, so he resolved to resume his waiting game – this time from what seemed to him the more seductive comfort of a bargee’s pub near the river, where he could enjoy a beer or two. He was mistaken. The place was empty when he entered. Dark, uninviting and – for a stranger not wanting to draw attention to himself – conspicuously bare of custom.

“Heil Hitler!”

The landlord – large, rugged and churlish – merged with the gloom cast by the beams and rafters of the bar. And his greeting caught Frank momentarily off guard. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to reciprocate before suspicion could take root. It was a necessity he had become accustomed to, but one he never observed without a deep, flinching reluctance. It had always struck him as a particularly juvenile automatism. He had had difficulty enough coming to terms with the infantile stupidities of gang behaviour at school. Now it was as if the world about him had become an extended third-form classroom with all the petty jealousies and herding ethos of adolescence. Only nastier by far.

As Frank sat in the corner, slowly but uncomfortably sipping from his beer, he sensed the barman’s unerring gaze on his every move. It remained fixed on Frank even after he had finished the first glass and defiantly settled into another. Only when he was almost at the end of this second glass did the barman look away, at the motion of the opening door. Another customer walked in. And the landlord’s expression instantly changed, assuming a more affable tone.

“Hansruedi, where’ve you been keeping yourself?” he asked. Haven’t seen you in here for months.”

The two shook hands, and the large barrel of a man addressed as Hansruedi ordered a beer. He wore a reefer jacket and navy peaked cap that told Frank he was probably once used to plying the waterways around Hamburg. But he was plainly not a native of that city. His origins were inescapably betrayed by his accent and his name. This man was Swiss.

The landlord pulled himself a beer, and the two of them sank into a muffled exchange depriving Frank of any further information that might have been of value. Frustrated, but hopeful that he had as much detail as he needed, Frank supped the last dregs from his beer glass and got up to leave.

“Heil Hitler.”

Again the landlord baited him. And again Frank acquiesced in the dumb stupidity of his words, as he walked out into the early evening air. It was already dark, and he felt the stringent freshness of raindrops on his face. As he was beginning to wonder how he might identify Hansruedi’s barge, his attention was caught by a sight that made this question redundant. Moored just a stone’s throw downstream from the bar was a magnificent vessel that could only belong to a bargeman as imposing as Hansruedi: a twin-funnelled steamboat with two barges in tow that was clearly built to cope with every possible challenge thrown at it by old Father Rhine. And to confirm its provenance, a tell-tale red flag with its white cross fluttered from the stern of each boat. This was the vessel for him.

What especially caught his eye were the two small lifeboats suspended one on each side of the vessel between the bow and the paddlebox amidships. Here was the perfect cover for his unseen passage back to Patricia.

Although it was far from clear to him how he would gain access to one of these lifeboats, he knew he needed to act quickly. The black looks of the landlord and his absurd, yet menacing valediction still hung heavily on his shoulders, successfully chipping away the veneer on his fragile sense of security. So he took rash comfort in the quiet, unmanned appearance of the ship and stole on board, trying at once to be both inconspicuous and at the same time suggestive of having business there. It was an impossible act to carry off, but luck proved to be with him as he made his way past the cabins over the paddle-box to one of the lifeboats. He had little difficulty loosening the ropes sufficiently to work his way under the canvas and into the hollow, cold asylum of the boat’s shell. Rough and hard, no comforts, but it offered shelter. And he leaned back into the relief and safety of knowing he could not be seen. The prospect of being cooped up in