Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

destination must not be far away. Thick velveteen curtains were to remain drawn, but it did not bother me for I knew London well enough; I walked its streets almost every day. The journey lasted fifty minutes. Stark made small talk and I answered while following my own thoughts and listening to the noise the wheels made on the ground. It sounded like the broad and flat cobblestones of High Holborn, a large and busy street. The carriage turned right, a smaller street now, followed by the sounds of Blackfriars Bridge and Great Surrey Street. A sharp right turn told me this could only be Waterloo. And, yes, we crossed the river. I used to pass this bridge at least three times every week; I would recognise it in my sleep. A left turn brought us on to The Strand, with all its bustling and clattering. Then the hooting of a leaving train – we must have reached Charing Cross. Now the brougham turned into Regent Street, Piccadilly, St James, Pall Mall, and again, and again, going in circles. The pattern changed after a quarter of an hour. At first, I could not sense any familiarity. Maybe I had never been here, or at least not for a long time? But the ducks, the hungry, burred-up, freezing ducks begging for an evening meal from passers-by betrayed the location — we were passing St James’s Park on its south side. Then we made a left turn and stopped. This must be somewhere around Kings Road and south of Palace Gardens.
    Our destination was a large villa. Light was pouring through all its windows onto the brownish lawn. The wind was stiff and the old sycamore trees clawed each other with scrawny twigs, their mottled torsos shiny from the ice cold rain. The only green came from the artfully trimmed conifers lining the walkway to the house and the lichen-covered fountain with water lazily dripping over its rims.
    Our heels crunched up the walkway and, a minute later, we entered the house. Servants took our coats to brush and hang them, while Stark and I made our way through the hall and proceeded into a large, wood-panelled smoking room. A fire was crackling merrily, framed by a mantel piece of moss-coloured marble. Fifteen men were sitting in burgundy armchairs, smoking, drinking brandy, and eating snacks from a buffet. No servants were present. This meeting was done in secrecy.
    The men received me with handshakes, but not everyone was pleased to see me. The younger ones shot glances across the room, some insecure, some jealous, some despising. I smiled at them, inclined my head to show respect while feeling completely at ease. I knew my contribution would be the essential one and they needed my expertise to reach their goals.
    A peculiar hierarchy was now apparent. The group revolved around a man with a shock of light grey hair and a bushy moustache of the same colour. Today, I was certain that he was the leader. And yet, there seemed to be subgroups that rivalled each other. While the evening grew longer, I came to the conclusion that the leadership within the smaller groups was based on corruption and intrigue, while the overall leadership was based on power, pressure and fear. This, I could use to my advantage.
    The moustached man stood up and silence fell.
    ‘Dr Kronberg, you may have heard my name before. I am Dr Jarell Bowden.’
    I nodded, surprised that no coldness trickled down my spine.
    ‘I speak for everyone in the room when I say that we are very lucky to have you here.’ Men were nodding and murmuring in agreement.
    ‘As Dr Stark already told you, we are a group of medical doctors that were able to obtain enough private funding to conduct research into the development of vaccines.’
    Bowden spoke in the plural. They must have been experimenting not only with tetanus, but with other diseases, too.
    ‘You correctly stated in your presentation that the successful development of a vaccine greatly depends on the availability of the isolated germs. To be frank – we need your cultures and we want you to isolate other germs for us.’
    Bowden was used to getting what he wanted, I noticed. The other apparent thing was Bowden’s greed.
    The room fell quiet again and all faces turned to me.
    I spoke with my low and confident voice. ‘You honour me greatly, Dr Bowden. Yet, I cannot simply provide you with deadly bacterial cultures and agree to isolate more without knowing how they will be used in the future.’
    Bowden had not expected such a reply. His shoulders drooped a fraction, his upper lip curled.
    I