The Second Midnight. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
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THE SECOND MIDNIGHT
Andrew Taylor
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in the United Kingdom by Collins 1988
This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Lydmouth Ltd 1987
Cover design by www.mulcaheydesign.com © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © Mark Owen / Trevillion Images (boy looking over city), Shutterstock.com (all other images)
Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008341831
Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008341848
Version: 2019-07-16
For C. and L.T.
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
I: Pre-War 1939
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
II: War 1939–45
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
III: Postwar 1945–46
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
IV: Cold War 1955–56
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
George Farrar had his first inkling that something was wrong when he collected his room key from reception.
The manager himself was behind the desk. He was a plump Viennese, almost as small as Farrar himself, and he always wore a flower in the lapel of his black coat. He was also a compulsive talker.
Tonight, however, he produced the key as soon as Farrar reached the desk and slapped it down on the counter between them. Immediately afterwards he bent his head over the register, as if the pressure of work prevented him from exchanging pleasantries with his guests.
‘Any messages?’ Farrar said. He was hoping that William McQueen might have telephoned.
The manager didn’t raise his head. ‘No, Herr Farrar.’
Farrar noticed that the white carnation was beginning to wilt. He also noticed that the manager’s face was shiny with sweat. Still, it was uncomfortably warm in the foyer.
He said goodnight and took the lift up to his floor. A tall man wearing a camelhair overcoat came up with him. He was smoking a cigar and had small, sad eyes.
They both wanted the same floor. The tall man gave a polite little bow when they reached it, indicating that Farrar should leave the lift first. Farrar smiled his thanks.
The long corridor was empty. Farrar walked quickly to his door; behind him he could hear the soft, slow pad of the other man’s footsteps. He unlocked the door and opened it; his hand brushed against the light switch.
Everything happened very suddenly. A hand slammed into the small of his back, propelling him into the room. Simultaneously, he saw that the carpet was strewn with his belongings. Another man was lying on the bed, with his hands behind his head. He was smiling. When Farrar tripped over his own upturned suitcase, the smile became a chuckle.
Behind him, Farrar heard a click as the tall man locked the door.
The man on the bed stopped chuckling. Farrar’s stomach lurched as he recognized the Bavarian he had met last night.
The Bavarian raised his heavy black eyebrows. ‘And how is our lovely Gretl this evening?’
Farrar groped for his glasses, which had slid to the foot of the bed. Camelhair brushed his cheek. A large brown shoe stamped on the glasses and twisted them into the carpet.
The tall man sucked in his breath. ‘Ach,’ he said. ‘I am so clumsy.’
‘What a pity,’ said the man on the bed. ‘Still, accidents happen.’
Farrar got slowly to his feet; his muscles tightened, ready to receive a blow from the tall man. He moved more slowly than he needed, pretending the fall had winded him. His own stupidity angered him: last night he had assumed that the man on the bed was nothing more than a tourist who had had too much to drink; he should have known better. He remembered the manager’s behaviour and realized that his visitors must be police of some sort: German, not Austrian. He was a fool to have run