The journey from Paris to Munich took ten days. In order to save money, we hitched lifts along the country roads for the first part. We travelled on the backs of lorries and on cattle trucks, on horse-drawn carts and small, bumpy local buses. We reached the city of Strasbourg and crossed the River Rhine into Germany. From there, it was only a half-day’s journey by train to Munich.
I had begun to feel more and more unhappy at the prospect of meeting Jenkins again. What was worrying me was a dreadful suspicion that Jenkins—or Mr Reeves, as he’d called himself at the time—had murdered Shetland Jack to get hold of the pearl necklace. That is what the Glasgow police thought, too.
What if it turned out to be true? What would Jenkins do when he realized we knew who he really was?
We took a tram to Wiener Platz from outside Munich Central Station. The tram swayed and rattled across great squares and through streets of elegant stone buildings before emerging onto a wide boulevard lined with gardens and lawns. Spring was more advanced here than it had been in Paris. The crowns of the trees were light green and flowers were blooming in the beds. Had it not been for the steady rain that was falling from the low cloud cover, it would have been a lovely day.
We crossed a narrow river called the Isar and entered a more ordinary district with crowds and street-life. The conductor shouted the name of our stop and we left the tram.
Wiener Platz was a cobbled square full of market stalls. We found Brockdorff’s Funfair on an open field behind the houses that surrounded the square. There were no more than a handful of visitors strolling around among the wagons and tents. The merry-go-round was silent and still and there was no sign of Harvey Jenkins.
The Chief and Bernie followed me to Margosha’s tent. The atmosphere inside was warm and clammy and the smell of incense was so strong it was difficult to breathe. Margosha was asleep and snoring in a rocking chair by the stove in the centre of the tent. The shining jewels hanging from her ears had stretched her earlobes a couple more centimetres since we had last met.
The Chief and Bernie looked wide-eyed and not a little nervously at the sleeping giantess. Her dull snores sounded like the rumble of distant thunder. I went over to her and carefully laid a hand on her shoulder. Her eyelids opened slowly. We looked at one another and a smile spread across her sleepy face. Her beautiful eyes gleamed.
“So you’re back, are you?” she said. “And about time too. I’ve missed you, Sally Jones.”
Her eyes moved on to the Chief and Bernie.
“And I see you’ve brought a couple of handsome men with you.”
The Chief stepped forward and introduced himself, and Bernie did the same.
A short while later and all four of us were sitting round Margosha’s table, sipping at small cups of the mysterious beverage she always offered her clients.
“I take it that you’ve come here to meet Harvey,” Margosha said.
“Yes, that’s right,” the Chief said.
Margosha looked at me with questioning eyes.
“I’m an inquisitive sort… and a fortune-teller into the bargain. But I still haven’t managed to work out what was going on between you and Harvey. He seemed troubled when we left Lisbon. And perhaps just a little ashamed. I had a feeling that it was something to do with you.”
“Is Jenkins anywhere around?” the Chief wondered.
Margosha nodded.
“He is,” she said. “But if you’ve come to have it out with him, it’s not a good time. His much-loved old cockerel died a couple of days ago. It’s lying in a tub of ice outside Harvey’s van, waiting to be buried.”
She drank what was left in her cup.
“Harvey is making a coffin for the cockerel. He’s rented a bench in a joiner’s workshop on Schiltbergerstrasse, not far from here.”
We stayed with Margosha a little longer and then she told us how to find the workshop. A short walk took us to a gate that led into a paved yard off the street called Schiltbergerstrasse. There we found an open door with a sign hanging above it:
FRANZ WEBER
ZIMMEREI
We entered and were met by the wonderful smell of wood shavings. A small man with rosy cheeks looked up from his work. The Chief enquired about Harvey Jenkins and the old fellow pointed to a staircase in the corner of the room.
One floor up we found Harvey Jenkins bending over a workbench. He was using sandpaper to smooth a small wooden box with a rounded lid and beautifully dove-tailed corners. On hearing our footsteps, he looked up. His face was thinner and more lined than I remembered.
Jenkins looked at the Chief and me. At first he was confused, but then he managed a little smile.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the words stuck in his throat when he saw Bernie coming up the stairs behind us. Jenkins and Bernie stared at one another, eyes wide with astonishment. Then Jenkins put down his sanding block and took a couple of hesitant steps towards Bernie. Standing as close to Bernie as I was, I could feel the tremors running through his body. And the colour drained from his face.
At last Jenkins spoke in an unsteady voice. “It’s been a long time since we last met, Bernie.”