The gunshots from the nightclub awakened Peter, who sat up in bed. Bridget was having trouble sleeping and was already awake.
“What was that?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know,” Bridget said with alarm. “It sounded like a gunshot.”
“Get dressed, Bridget. I’ll go take a look.”
Peter slipped on his shirt and pants and left the bedroom. He looked through the peephole but could see nothing in the hall. He opened the door and heard the tramping of feet coming from the stairs. He locked the door and ran back to the bedroom.
“We need to get away,” Peter said, stuffing his clothes in his suitcase. “There’s someone coming up the stairs.“
Bridget was already dressed and putting on her shoes. Peter grabbed Bridget’s suitcase and his own and headed for the door. He removed the Webley revolver from his pocket and glanced through the peephole again. In the hall, he could see two large men coming out of the storage rooms on the same floor and heading their way.
Peter joined Bridget in the living room and opened a window to the street. He noticed a ledge running the length of the building.
“Come along, Bridget,” Peter said. “We can get to the fire escape.”
“Peter, I don’t think...”
A loud banging sound came from the door and startled them.
“Come on, Bridget,” Peter ordered as he casually tossed their bags out the window and stepped out onto the ledge.
“You threw my bag out the window?”
“Don’t worry about your bloody valise, Bridget. We are only three floors up. Let’s hurry.”
Bridget was stunned by Peter’s harsh words, but followed him out the window. They scrambled along the ledge to the fire escape at the corner of the building. Inside the flat, the banging continued as Peter and Bridget started down the fire escape. Moments later, they had collected their bags and were walking quickly away in the alley.
Peter was standing near the window in the Consular Services office in his undershirt, shaving in front of a tiny mirror. He looked up and noticed an ambulance racing through the streets in the early dawn light.
“Bridget, have a look.”
Bridget joined him at the window and they watched the ambulance turn into a street near the nightclub.
“Those were gunshots we heard, Peter. Someone was hurt.” Bridget said, pouring water into the teapot.
“I know. We were lucky to get out in time.”
Peter finished shaving and washed his face before putting on a clean shirt. He went to the phone and rang Bernie at home.
“He’s not replying. I better go take a look at the nightclub.”
“No, you don’t,” Bridget replied. “The police will be all over that building. You don’t want to get mixed up in a sordid gang shootout, not after what we went through with the fire and the bloody NKVD.”
“What an awful night,” Peter said, “having to climb out the window like a cat burglar. Are you hungry. my dear?”
“I’m famished,” Bridget replied.
“After our tea, let’s go have a proper breakfast.”
On their return to the legation, Peter and Bridget joined the crowd of onlookers on the pavement outside the nightclub. The Stockholm police were busy removing a body from the building to a waiting ambulance.
“What happened?” Peter asked an old man standing on the perimeter of the police cordon.
“Looks like a revenge killing, sir.”
“How many were killed?”
“That’s the third body they’ve brought out,” the man said. “They shot Der Grosse and two of his men.”
Peter and Bridget were shocked by the news. This was madness, a gang shootout in peaceful Stockholm. Federmann was a wealthy man and worked with criminals, so it must have been a revenge killing. Surely nobody knew they were hiding out at the nightclub. Obviously, they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor Federmann. He had generously offered them protection and now he was a victim of a violent crime.
They walked away, returning to the legation. As Bridget went up the stairs to Consular Services, Peter stopped by the main reception desk.
“Has Bernie Dixon come in?”
“No, sir, not yet,” the receptionist said.
“If he calls, can you put him through to my office?”
“Of course, Mr Faye. There are several people looking for him this morning.”
Peter’s attention was aroused.
“We have two new employees come in this morning. They were scheduled to have their picture taken, but Mr Dixon didn’t show up. We had to give them temporary passes.”
“Thank you.”
“By the way, sir. There’s a police officer waiting for you upstairs.”
Peter took the stairs up to Consular Services. Sigge was busy with a client, and Bridget was at her desk while a young police detective hovered near the door. He approached Peter.
“Mr Faye, I am Inspector Dahl with the Stockholm police department. I have a few questions about that fire in your flat.”
“Hello, Inspector,” Peter said. “I need to look for someone. Can we step outside to talk?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll be back shortly, Bridget.”
Peter smiled at Bridget and left with the inspector.
Dahl drove Peter over to Bernie’s flat after he mentioned to the inspector that Bernie might have a few ideas about the fire. They left Dahl’s car on the narrow street and climbed the stairs. Peter knocked on the door, but there was no reply.
“Bernie, it’s Peter,” he said in a loud voice.
Peter knocked again and tried the door handle. He noticed that it was unlocked. He opened the door.
“Bernie, it’s Peter.”
There was only silence as Peter stepped inside, followed by Inspector Dahl. He immediately noticed the books spread out across the floor in the living room and the pungent metallic smell in the flat. He then saw Bernie’s lifeless body lying on his back behind the coffee table with a bloody gash across the throat. His eyes were open and his bruised and battered mouth had a sock sticking out of it.
“Mr Faye, stay back,” said Dahl.
Peter stayed where he was as the inspector continued on through the flat, going into the bedroom. He suddenly emerged and ran into the bathroom to throw up.
Peter entered the bedroom to see Sabrina tied to the four corners of the bed and tortured with a knife before her throat was cut. The killers had cut off her nose and hacked her ears away. The violence was so extreme that Peter stepped away as quickly as he could. He saw Dahl, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, as he went to the telephone to call in backup.
Peter sat alone on a wicker chair on the verandah with its potted plants at the back of the flat. He felt numb and miserable as he considered himself to be partially responsible for Bernie’s death. Dahl reappeared and sat down next to him.
“My colleagues are on their way. Can you tell me anything about Mr Dixon and his wife?”
“Bernie was a good man, a very good man, Inspector Dahl. He survived the trenches in France and the war in Spain, only to be murdered in Stockholm. His wife Sabrina is Swedish. They’re very fine people.”
“So you think these are the same people who torched your flat?” Dahl asked.
“I would think so, sir.”