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Title: No Entry
Author: Coles, Manning [pseudonym of
Adelaide Frances Oke Manning (1891-1959)
and Cyril Henry Coles (1899-1965)]
Date of first publication: 1958
Date first posted: 4 February 2018
Date last updated: 4 February 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1503

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained.

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






NO ENTRY

by Manning Coles






Chapter 1. Excuse Me Again


Goslar-am-Harz is an interesting mediaeval town in the province of
Brunswick in the Western Zone of Germany. It is a magnet to draw
students of mediaeval domestic architecture since, though its larger
buildings can easily be paralleled or excelled elsewhere, it is very
seldom indeed that one finds a town with street after entire street of
houses dating from the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. South
of Goslar lie the Harz Mountains, not much of mountains for size but
quite remarkable for beauty.

Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon came to Goslar on a summer afternoon, not
because the town is interesting and the Harz country beautiful, but
because the Zonal Frontier lies ten miles to the eastward.

Hambledon came, like a tourist, by air to Hanover and thence by train;
he had a room booked at the Drei Bullochsen Hotel, room number 32. It
was the room which young George Micklejohn had occupied before his
disappearance three days earlier and it had been booked for Hambledon
for that reason. Someone might associate it with young Micklejohn and
visit it, or Micklejohn himself might return there, or there might be
something to find in it--all rather unlikely, but the room was still
vacant. Hambledon might as well have that room as another.

He walked into the hotel, produced his passport, and booked in; the
porter carried his suitcase upstairs and showed him a pleasant but quite
ordinary room at the end of a long passage.

"The Herr will be quiet here tonight; it so happens that the room next
to his is unoccupied. The Herr will be tired after so long a journey."

Hambledon thanked the man for his kind thought, though in point of fact
travelling did not tire him, and spent ten minutes rapidly and neatly
unpacking his things and putting them away, after which he went out for
a walk in the town. He loved foreign towns and this one was undeniably
beautiful; also it was a lovely evening. He strolled along narrow
streets with the westering sun slanting into attic windows and passed
some time trying to decipher pious inscriptions, in Gothic lettering and
mediaeval German, carved along the face of the great beam above the
ground-floor windows. "Unless the Lord keep the house they labour in
vain that build it A.D. 1621" with the 2 like a crooked capital Z. After
which he sat down at a table under the arcade of the Kaiserwerth Hotel
to drink beer and admire the gilded bronze bird--presumably an eagle,
all heraldic birds are eagles here--which presides over the drinking
fountain in the middle of the Markt-Platz.

He went back to his hotel for dinner and sat at table after it was over,
drinking a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac and looking idly out of
the window. Now that the children had gone to bed the street seemed
oddly quiet; there were plenty of people about but they were not happily
loitering in the evening light and still less strolling in groups
singing choruses. No, they went steadily about their own business or
talked together in quiet voices, two or three together and not more.
Well, perhaps Goslar cheered up later in the evening.

He left the table to go up to his own room and crossed the hall to the
porter's desk to ask for his key, room number 32. The man looked behind
him at the rows of numbered hooks and said: "Not here, mein Herr. Is the
Herr quite sure that he handed it in?"

Hambledon was morally certain that he had, but this is the sort of
question which never fails to arouse doubt in any normal mind. He said:
"Well--I thought so," and felt in his pockets. "No, I haven't got it."

"Perhaps the Herr left it in his room."

Again Hambledon did not believe it, but there was no point in arguing.

"The obvious solution," he said, smiling, "is to go upstairs and look."

"If there is any difficulty, the Herr has only to summon me."

Hambledon thanked him and walked away up the stairs. His first errand in
Goslar was to introduce himself to the police, to whom he had been
officially accredited; they would have had a letter from Foreign Office
Intelligence about him by now, but all that would, he felt, do quite
well in the morning. A quiet stroll, a harmless glass of wine in some
caf, a little conversation with some friendly stranger, and then to
bed. Hambledon yawned and tried the door handle of his own room; to his
mild surprise the door was not locked. He went in, switching on the
light as he did so.

There was a man lounging in the one easy chair by the window, apparently
asleep, but there was an unpleasant-looking hole between his eyes. He
was not asleep, he was quite dead.

Hambledon shut the bedroom door quickly; the key was in the lock inside,
so he turned it. Three swift strides took him to the windows, wide open
upon a sultry evening, and he drew the curtains over them. Then he took
a small chair from the dressing-table, planted it down opposite to his
visitor, sat down upon it, and took stock.

"You do surprise me," he said in a low voice. "I came out here to look
for you and I seem to have found you. Or have I? English clothes, and
they are not common in these parts. Age about twenty-two. I should have
thought you a little older, but perhaps being killed has aged you, has
it? It doesn't usually," said Hambledon, out of ripe experience. He took
a photograph from his wallet and looked from it to the dead man. "No, if
you're George Micklejohn I'm the Prophet Jonah. Just a moment--excuse
me----"

The dead man's eyes were almost closed. Hambledon got up suddenly,
lifted one of the eyelids for a moment, and sat down again.

"That settles it," said Tommy Hambledon. "Not even sudden death changes
grey eyes to dark brown. You are not George Micklejohn. Who the devil
are you? Some other Englishman? I wonder if whoever killed you left you
with any identification papers. Excuse me again."

Hambledon went through his visitor's pockets. There was an inner breast
pocket, closed with a button and buttonhole, and in this there was
something flat and stiff. Hambledon drew it out; it was a British
passport and the name on the outside was G. Micklejohn. Tommy's eyebrows
went up. The passport had a rubber band round it; he slipped it off and
opened the book, which had a folder inside containing five travellers
cheques. There had been more--the perforations showed where others had
been torn out--but those remaining bore the signature "G. Micklejohn" in
neat, rather mannered writing. The passport itself was perfectly normal
in every respect and the photograph in it was the same as that in
Hambledon's wallet. No attempt had been made to replace Micklejohn's
likeness with anyone else's; the visitor's, for example.

"You know," said Hambledon, addressing his visitor, "you are really very
irritating. You have had some sort of connection with Micklejohn or you
wouldn't have his passport. Did you bring it here yourself or did
somebody plant it on you? How did you know that this was his room? Don't
tell me that that was coincidence."

Hambledon looked round the room and rose suddenly to his feet, for one
of the dressing-table drawers was ajar and the corner of a handkerchief
peeped out of the gap. Hambledon, like most men who travel a great deal
and who wait upon themselves, was almost finically neat in such matters.
He pulled out the drawers to find that all the contents had been flung
about and stuffed back at random; the suits he had hung in the wardrobe
were tangled in a heap at the bottom; his suitcase also had been opened,
for only one of the two catches was fastened.

Hambledon made a hasty search through the dead man's pockets to see if
he had any identification papers of his own, but there was nothing to
show who he was.

Hambledon went out, shutting and locking the door behind him, to call
upon the Goslar police.



On the previous day, in London, Hambledon had been summoned from his
office to an interview with his chief.

"Rather a nasty mess, Hambledon. There's a young man gone missing near
the zonal boundary between East and West Germany and it is feared that
he may have crossed over and be in the hands of the Russians."

"Serve him right," said Hambledon cheerfully. "Teach him to look where
he's going. Why worry? It's not as though he'd infringed the sacred soil
of Holy Russia. Or isn't it Holy Russia these days?"

"Some say one thing and some another, I understand. However, in this
case there are complications. Young George Micklejohn----"

"George who?"

"Yes, that's the whole point. His father is the wallah who is now
touring the capitals of Western Europe----"

"See Cook's Travel Brochures."

"--trying to co-ordinate plans for the atomic weapon defence of NATO.
The Russians, naturally, don't approve of him at all and George is his
only son."

"I see," said Hambledon thoughtfully.

"If pressure were to be applied it might be awkward."

"Ye-es. However much of a Roman father Micklejohn senior might be, one
feels that--that his attention might be distracted, shall we say, from
his work."

"Precisely. I would never admit that a man in Micklejohn's position
would allow himself to be deflected from his course by threats of any
kind----"

"How well you put things," murmured Hambledon.

His chief laughed suddenly. "Sorry. The manner is horribly infectious
and I've had rather a lot of it lately."

"The solution is simple," said Hambledon briskly. "No one has to be a
Cabinet Minister if he doesn't want to. Let Micklejohn senior resign
from his high office and let another assume his mantle. Young George
will then cease to be of any significance outside his loving family
circle and all will be well."

"And the pressure will have succeeded to a certain extent. Micklejohn is
a very capable man."

"Well, yes. There is that. You know, I have never been able, for various
reasons, to take politicians very seriously. Box gives up and Cox takes
on and in a week's time the eddies have died away and there's no change.
I may be jaundiced," admitted Hambledon kindly.

"I think we're wandering from the point, which is----"

"That you want me to go and look for the wanderer, I suppose. Tell me
about him."

"He is twenty-two years old and an undergraduate of Brasenose----"

Hambledon bounded in his chair.

"Oh, furies and all hell! Not another undergraduate. Of course it's the
Long Vacation, I'd forgotten. Why don't they send them home with an iron
collar welded round their necks and a strong chain to be attached to a
post driven into the middle of the ancestral bowling green like cows in
Normandy? Please, daddy, may I leave the room because this is where I
came in?"

"Simmer down, Hambledon. This one is a quiet decent lad who went on a
walking tour with a friend, but the friend broke an ankle and returned
home. Young Micklejohn wasn't doing anything idiotic; he was staying at
Goslar in the Harz Mountains, going for walks in the day and reading at
night. He was there for nearly a week until one day he went out and
didn't come back."

"When was this?"

"The day before yesterday, on Tuesday."

"Had any news of him from anyone?"

"Only that on that Tuesday he went by bus towards the frontier and was
last seen striding away into the woods. There's a camping site somewhere
out in the wilds there and it was thought that he might have met or made
friends there and be staying with them. But no one there has seen him."

"Then there's no evidence that he did cross into the Eastern Zone? No,
then he's just as likely to have fallen down a drain somewhere."

"You know better than that, Hambledon. Remote country districts in
Germany don't have drains."

"I still don't understand why there is so much anxiety," said Hambledon.
"I was talking the other day to a man who had been up on that frontier
with the British Occupation Forces and he told me that it was quite easy
to stray into the Russian Zone--it wasn't very well marked--so when they
saw a Russian uniform they used to run back. Of course they were in
uniform, which might make it awkward, but a young man, a student in
civilian clothes, couldn't come to much harm, surely? Of course if he
turned nasty they might put him inside for a few days."

"I don't think your informant was there very recently."

"Well, no. About four years ago or so."

"Things are very different now, Hambledon. There is something like a
cold war going on along that frontier; it is closed now, really closed.
A barbed-wire fence, like that round a concentration camp, patrolled by
armed men. People get killed on that frontier now."

"Oh, indeed," said Hambledon slowly. "No, I didn't know that. I've had
no reason to take any interest in that frontier, you know, and one has a
general idea that communications are getting easier all the time, not
worse.

"That is not true of the East-West German Zonal Frontier."

"Evidently not, but it's surprising all the same. I shall be interested
to see it."

Hambledon was supplied with a photograph of George Micklejohn and a full
description of him.

On the following day Hambledon flew to Hanover and went on by train to
Goslar.



He left the dead man in his room and went to the police station, where
he sent in his card and asked to see the Chief of Police if he happened
to be still on the premises. He was, as it happened, and Hambledon was
received with some ceremony. But, of course, the Herr Hambledon's
credentials had already been received; there was a letter, yes, yes. The
Herr was most welcome; it was a privilege to meet one so high in the
famous Intelligence Service of England. Let the Herr be seated, please.
A little glass of wine, a cigar, or perhaps a cigarette was preferred?
What a wonderful summer, really, the weather was excelling itself.

Hambledon responded suitably, took a sip of an excellent wine, and
settled his broad shoulders comfortably against the high back of his
chair. He then said that, repulsive as it must be to persons with any
idea of manners to start talking business at that hour in the evening,
he must ask whether the Chief of Police was aware that he, Hambledon,
had come to Goslar to look for one George Micklejohn, unaccountably
missing.

A slight cloud passed across the German's face.

"Yes, yes indeed. Enquiries have been received from the highest levels.
This young man is the son of a member of your Government, is he not?"

"He is," said Tommy, "and a blasted nuisance you must think him."

The Chief of Police grinned suddenly.

"We like having foreign visitors in Goslar," he said, "but I must admit
we prefer them not to lose themselves."

"Has he, do you think, simply wandered off into your wooded hills and
met with some accident?"

"I wish I could think so--I beg your pardon. I should be very sorry if
such a thing had happened to any visitor, but such evidence as we have
does not suggest that." Hambledon looked expectant and the Chief of
Police went on: "The last news we have is that he, or a young man
answering to his description, went from Bad Harzburg by autobus to
Eckertal on the frontier and was not seen to return. Our police there
saw him alight and walk towards the frontier; that is quite a common
occurrence. The Herr will understand that many people--mainly our own
countrymen--find a painful interest in going up to the Zonal Frontier
and looking across the barricades into Eastern Germany, particularly if
they have friends over there. We have many refugees in this area from
the Soviet Zone, as the Herr may have heard."

"Can I assume, then, that it is possible for this young man to have
crossed the frontier?"

"It is possible," said the Chief noncommittally. "But highly
inadvisable."

"I see. I have here," said Hambledon, putting his hand in his pocket,
"Micklejohn's passport." He laid it upon the desk and the Chief of
Police picked it up.

"I do not quite understand," he said. "Was it, then, at the hotel after
all? We were told that it was not there."

"A man brought it to my room," said Hambledon. "At least, I assume he
brought it."

"What man? Did you see him?"

Hambledon nodded. "He is still there. The reason for my disturbing you
at this unseasonable hour was to ask you to be so good as to have him
removed."

"But he--is he being held--what did he say--who is he?"

"I don't know who he is except that he is not George Micklejohn, and he
said nothing. He is quite dead, mein Herr, of a bullet through the
head."

"Dead," said the Chief of Police, rising to his feet and pressing a bell
on his desk, "dead, in your room----"

"Without being unduly squeamish," said Tommy Hambledon, "I dislike
corpses in my bedroom. Disconcerting. Unhygienic."




Chapter 2. Eckertal


The police took such thorough possession of Hambledon's room that he
found it advisable, if he wanted any sleep that night, to move into the
empty room next door.

"Just for one night," he said to the hotel manager. "Tomorrow, when the
police have done with the room, I should like to move back. I like that
room."

"The Herr," said the hotel manager, "has, then, no objection to sleeping
in a room in which a violent death has so recently occurred?"

"Not in the least. Bullets through the head are not infectious--I hope.
It is not as though the poor man had died of the plague, you
understand."

"Heaven forbid," said the manager, edging away.

"I will not detain you," said Hambledon graciously.

The man pattered off down the long passage and Hambledon went back to
the end room to talk to the Chief of Police, who had come himself to
give the enquiry a handsome start. The corpse had been unobtrusively
removed via the service stair; no well-conducted hotel conveys the
evidences of its more serious crises through the front hall.

"I ask myself," said the Chief of Police, "for what object a search was
made of your room."

"So do I," agreed Hambledon, "and I add to that the further question,
who searched it? The late occupant of that chair or his murderer?"

"Fingerprints upon the furniture should tell us something. We have the
dead man's; may we, merely for purposes of elimination, have yours
also?"

"Certainly. And, of course, the chambermaid's. But do you mean to tell
me that there are no traces of gloved fingers here? The criminal
actually left fingerprints?"

"Indeed he did," said the Chief of Police, exhibiting a wonderful
collection of superimposed prints which had been brought up with grey
powder on the edge of a drawer.

"A beginner," said Hambledon disgustedly, "a novice, a rank amateur.
Lives there a man in these days who does not read _romans policiers_?"

The Chief shrugged his shoulders. "You will be needing your things out
of here, will you not? One of my fellows will bring them to your new
room; the manager has found you one, no doubt?"

"Only my pyjamas and toilet things. I am sleeping next door for tonight.
When you have done with this room I will come back to it, if you have no
objection."

"Not the least, if you have none. On the contrary, I should be glad if
you would. I am assuming for the present that the corpse was here
because this room was young Micklejohn's--what a name--not because it is
now yours?"

Hambledon agreed. "You think that possibly something else may happen
here?"

"But not, I trust, another corpse."

"So long as it isn't mine," said Hambledon cheerfully, "I shall bear up.
Or George Micklejohn's, of course."

The Chief of Police blinked.

"The armchair," he said, "shall be replaced. It is not what it was. By
the way, here are the contents of his pockets. Not very informative,
_hein_?"

There was a little collection of things laid out upon the
dressing-table: a rather grubby but good-quality handkerchief, a packet
of Astor cigarettes with some missing, and an assortment of money. East
German marks, quite a large number of West German marks, and a few
Russian coins. Hambledon looked them over and raised his eyebrows.

"No English money," said the Chief. "Not even an odd coin or so,
although he was wearing English clothes."

"So I notice. These West marks now, there is quite a wad of them, a
hundred or more. Do you think that our departed friend cashed a
travellers cheque in Goslar? And, if so, on whose passport?"

"I shall enquire as soon as we can get made a photograph of him which
does not look too dead. But there is no reason I can think of why he
should not have obtained them in any other town in Germany or even have
brought them into the country with him when he came."

"Quite so," said Hambledon.

"But it is worth trying and I will try it."

Hambledon gathered up his pyjamas and toilet articles and went to bed;
he stayed awake only long enough to decide to go to Eckertal in the
morning.

He went out directly after breakfast to see the Chief of Police again
and get from him a written authority to show the Frontier Police--the
West German force--whose duty it is to patrol the frontier on this side
as the Russian-trained Volks-polizei patrol it on the other. The West
German patrols wear a green uniform and are familiarly called the Green
Police on that account; the Volks-polizei wear brown uniforms like the
Russian Army dress but with narrower shoulder straps.

The Chief very willingly wrote out and stuck in Hambledon's passport an
order to all Zonal Frontier police to assist, protect, and direct the
Herr Hambledon as occasion might require--or words to that effect--and
to answer his questions to any extent consistent with their duty.

"We cannot, of course," said the Chief, laughing gently, "let you into
all our little secrets. But as regards Herr Micklejohn, ask what you
will."

Communications with Eckertal are neither convenient nor frequent. Why
should they be either since, except as the centre of a small farming
community, the place is now dead? It is close against The Wire, as the
frontier fence is called. Eckertal used to be a sort of suburb of
Stapelburg, only a kilometre away as the free bird flies but now removed
by the intervening Wire into another world. A railway ran through and is
now stopped, a road went through and is now stopped.

Hambledon came to Bad Harzburg at noon to find he had forty minutes to
wait for the autobus to Eckertal. Bad Harzburg is a spa and a tourist
centre: there is a beautiful white _Kurhaus_ sitting on formal terraces
where a band plays; there are formal gardens with tidy gravel paths and
gay flower beds; there are seats for the public to sit on; there are
souvenir shops selling miniature witches of the Brocken and other
mementoes; there are cafs with small tables under bright umbrellas.

Hambledon decided that he was not in the right mood for this sort of
thing. He therefore retired into a restaurant to drink beer and eat
sausage. Lunch at Eckertal seemed improbable.

The bus came at last and Hambledon got in. Other people got in also, not
many, a dozen or so. They were evidently local inhabitants, for they
nodded to each other, said "good day" to the bus conductor, and looked
Hambledon over warily, for he was a stranger. In most parts of Germany
fellow passengers in buses chatter freely to each other, strangers or
no, but not anywhere near The Wire.

The conductor asked where Hambledon wished to alight and showed evident
interest when he said: "To the end of the run." Some of the passengers
glanced at the stranger and away again but no one made any comment. The
bus rolled on, stopping occasionally to set down passengers, until at
last there were left only Hambledon and two others besides the driver
and conductor when the bus stopped finally in the weedy station yard at
Eckertal Bahnhof. The other two passengers got out and walked away.
Hambledon also got out. The conductor took a parcel to the
stationmaster's house and a policeman in a green uniform stood at a
little distance and watched proceedings.

Eckertal Bahnhof is a surprisingly large station for a very small place.
Hambledon walked on to the platform and looked about him. There is a
large booking hall, now closed, a restaurant surprisingly open until one
realises that Eckertal has lost its inn beyond The Wire, and a waiting
room fitted up as a chapel with notices on the door announcing the times
of _Gottes-dienst_. There is also a stationmaster. He was sitting on his
doorstep in his shirt sleeves, peeling potatoes. The whole place was
uncannily quiet.

Hambledon walked across to look at the rails. They were corroded and
eaten into by rust but they were not much of an eyesore because tall
grass had grown up all over the permanent way, knee-high, and veiled the
rotting lines. Sizable bushes and even young trees were flourishing
between the rails. They went on towards the East and were lost in weeds
and undergrowth.

Hambledon turned on his heel and left the place; as he crossed the
station yard he saw the Green Police officer again, in another place,
but still watching him; the man wore a large revolver holster on his hip
and carried a pair of binoculars slung round his neck. The bus had gone.

Hambledon had studied a walker's map bought in Goslar and knew that the
frontier ran east of Eckertal Station. He had, therefore, only to walk
in that direction till he came to a barbed-wire fence, and that would be
it. The woods came down to the side of the road and a path led off in
the right direction. Hambledon took it and walked pleasantly among pine
trees till he came to the bank of a stream. This, according to his map,
was the Ecker, and the frontier should be just beyond it.

The Ecker is the sort of mountain stream which is a brawling torrent
among boulders after rain and in dry weather merely a slender rivulet
among stones. Hambledon chose a suitable spot and hopped across
dry-shod.

The further bank is a tangle of bushes and small trees. Hambledon
threaded his way for some time through the undergrowth which was thick
enough to deny him a clear view in any direction. He did not find any
wire fence but he was insistently and increasingly conscious of being
stared at, though he could see no one. There was no wind to stir the
leaves--it was a blazingly hot day--and here again it was uncannily
quiet; no sound of traffic or of voices or of men working; no dog barked
and it even seemed to him that no bird sang. "They wouldn't, anyway, in
the middle of a hot afternoon," he said to himself, but the back of his
neck prickled and he turned to go.

When he reached the stream again he saw, sitting on the bank and waiting
for him, the same man of the Frontier Police who had watched him in the
station yard. Hambledon instantly crossed the stream and walked up to
him.

"_Guten Tag_," said Hambledon, with a smile.

"_Guten Tag_," said the policeman politely, and stood up.

"Were you waiting for me? I have been wandering about looking for the
frontier."

"The Herr has found it," said the man calmly. "The frontier is the
middle of this stream."

"What? Oh, is it? But it isn't marked, I was looking for a wire fence."

"The wire fence is further over. In winter when there is much rain, or
when the snow melts, this river rises, as the Herr will understand. Then
the land on the other side becomes flooded, so the Russians set the
fence back to where it remains dry. A long way, in places, fifty or a
hundred metres sometimes, but all that"--he waved his hand across the
stream--"is East Zone territory all the same. I was very glad to see the
Herr return in safety." He put up his binoculars and slowly surveyed the
scene.

"Thank you very much----"

"It is very tiresome if there is an incident, it makes a great deal of
work for us. I have to make out long, detailed reports, in triplicate."
He sighed. "I do not like making out long reports and sometimes we do
not get the body back for weeks. In this hot weather it can be an
unpleasant business, the Herr will understand."

"Dear me," said Hambledon bleakly. "You do not cross the line at all,
then, not even to recover a body on this side of their fence?"

"Not on any account. Such an action might start a Frontier Incident.
Application has to be made to the Authority this side and by them to the
Authority on the East side. Hence the delay," said the policeman, and
put his binoculars up to his eyes again.

"And suppose the victim is only wounded?"

"Go back among the trees," said the policeman suddenly, "the Herr is too
conspicuous standing up on this bank."

"But I am well on our side," protested Hambledon, removing himself
quickly within the edge of the woods.

"Guns go off by accident," said the policeman, joining him. "There are
two Vopos there now, they have just come. The Herr was extremely lucky
that they did not come while he was still across the stream."

Vopos. Of course, a pet name for the Volks-polizei.

"There is a man in the watchtower now," went on the policeman. "Do you
see him?"

Hambledon looked at a high platform above the tops of the trees. It had
a sort of shelter upon it and was very like the watchtowers from which,
in more civilised countries, a lookout is kept for forest fires.

"He is looking at the Herr through his glasses. He has a machine pistol
beside him. If the Herr has now seen enough, there are many much
pleasanter places in the Harz than this stretch beside The Wire."

Hambledon pulled out his passport.

"I ought to have shown you this at once," he said, "but events rather
overtook me. There is a note inside from the Chief of Police in Goslar."

The man took the passport and read the order, nodding slowly. "I did not
know that the Herr was anything but an ordinary tourist."

"How should you?"

The policeman looked through the pages of the passport at the numerous
closely packed stamps of a dozen frontiers of Europe and America.

"The Herr has travelled extensively," he said with a note of envy in his
voice. "It must be pleasant to be able to travel so widely."

"I have been fortunate in having opportunities," said Hambledon, "that
is all."

"For me," said the policeman, closing the book and handing it back, "I
have visited only Russia and for that I did not require a passport.
Stalingrad," he added, and raised the binoculars to his eyes again with
the now familiar movement which was plainly habitual. "The Herr is still
arousing interest. Take my glasses and look at the man on the tower."

Hambledon did so. They were excellent binoculars; when he had adjusted
them to suit his own eyes the watchtower leapt forward to hang before
his face and the man upon it was staring through similar binoculars at
him--an odd sensation.

"Ugly-looking little blighter, isn't he?"

The policeman laughed and then turned to business.

"There was some matter about which the Herr desires information?"

Hambledon offered a cigarette and they sat down together, smoking
companionably.

"I was asked to come out here to try to find some trace of an English
student who seems to have disappeared in these parts."

"I have heard that a young Englishman is missing but I do not, myself,
know anything about it. I only heard that enquiries were being made.
When did this happen?"

"Four days ago. Last Tuesday."

The policeman thought for a moment and then said: "I was not on duty
then, that was one of my free days. My colleague Ernst Schultz was on
this patrol that day, if it please the Herr I will introduce him to
Schultz and the Herr can ask him any question he pleases."

"Thank you, I shall be very glad if you will. There is an idea that the
young man--his name is Micklejohn--may have strayed across the frontier
and been taken prisoner, is that possible?"

"It is possible," said the policeman slowly. "Scarcely possible to stray
across without being aware of it; there is always The Wire. The Herr has
not yet seen The Wire? A young man could get through it easily enough,
but not without noticing it, and there is also the ploughed strip to
show footprints if anyone should walk across it. There is only one place
I know of where there is no Wire and that is a short stretch beside the
road at Neuhof, a long way off, south of Walkenried, thirty kilometres
away and more. Nobody knows why there is no Wire at Neuhof, but there is
nothing to take a visitor there, only a road leading nowhere; it is
stopped."

"Assume that for some reason a man climbed through The Wire," said
Hambledon.

"If he were seen by the Vopos in the act of doing so, he would be shot
on sight, but even the Vopos cannot be everywhere at once. If somehow he
avoided the Vopos and went on a kilometre or so beyond the frontier and
were then picked up, I do not suppose they would shoot. He would be
arrested, of course, taken in and questioned. If he seemed harmless and
told a plausible tale he might be returned to this zone after a month or
two. If they thought he was up to mischief he would be sent to Siberia
or to the salt mines and no news of him would be forthcoming. They would
say that they had never seen him."

"Finished," said Hambledon.

"Finished," repeated the policeman.




Chapter 3. The Wire


"I must resume my patrol," said the policeman. "Would it interest the
Herr to accompany me? He would then see for himself what the conditions
are on this stretch."

"It is very good of you," said Hambledon. "I should be very glad to see
anything you care to show me."

"Good," said the man, getting to his feet. "My name is Ritter."

He led the way through the wood till they came to an iron bridge which
used to carry the railway across the Ecker River towards Stapelburg.
Ritter walked on to the bridge as far as the middle and there stopped.
Hambledon made to pass him.

"Better not," said Ritter quietly. "The middle of this bridge is the
boundary and they are watching you." His glasses went up to his eyes.
"Do you see that tallest tree by the line with two bushes in front of
it? There are two Vopos behind the bushes, can you see them? There, one
of them moved. Take my glasses."

Hambledon did so and saw two men in brown standing together behind the
bushes and looking towards him. He was seized with a mixture of
incredulity and exasperation; how ridiculous it was in peacetime to have
armed men skulking behind bushes glaring at one. They were like tiresome
small boys playing at cowboys and Indians, trying to frighten people,
they wanted their heads banged together. A stupid game. One of the Vopos
moved across a gap and Hambledon saw that his hand was on his gun. No,
not a game.

"There is The Wire," said Ritter, nodding ahead along the railway line.
The Wire did not look particularly imposing at first sight, merely a
fence five feet high or a little more, composed of strands of rusty
barbed-wire, red in the sunshine. The strands were close together, eight
or ten inches apart, the posts supporting them were closer together than
is usual with a wire fence and the strands were taut between them. All
the same, the barrier was not impassable; if a coat were thrown over the
top of it an active man would get over easily enough. Provided, of
course, that the Vopos did not see him----

"You are right," said Hambledon. "A man would notice that fence if he
came up against it."

"Shall we go on?" said Ritter, and took Hambledon for a brisk walk by
the ways he himself used on patrol, from one vantage point to another,
down narrow tracks like a double-row hedge, across strips of open
meadow. For part of the time they were close to a country lane which ran
parallel with the frontier; every time a cart or a car or a bicycle came
along the road, up went Ritter's glasses as soon as it was in sight and
every time he identified the vehicle. "That is the butcher on his
rounds. That is the manager of the paper factory at Eckertal. That is
the postman."

At one point they came to a road bridge with a red and white pole across
it. Beyond the pole on the Eastern side, there were posts driven into
the road and behind them again a pit dug across the road and the gravel
from the pit piled up into a bank to stop escaping cars from crashing
the barricade.

"This was an official crossing place at one time," said Ritter. "Before
this frontier was tightened up, there were several such places, now
there is only one, at Helmstedt." He jerked his head towards the north.
"It is where the main road and the rail go through from Brunswick to
Berlin."

"How long since they closed----"

"About four years." Ritter looked round sharply as a motorcycle with two
young men on it came tearing down the road from Eckertal. They turned on
to the bridge, saw the red and white pole, and skidded to an abrupt stop
with a scatter of gravel.

"Are you in a hurry to get to Moscow?" asked Ritter pleasantly, but they
did not smile.

"We--we took the wrong turning somewhere," they said. They turned their
machine round in the road and went back the way they had come as though
the devil were after them.

"Some people never see notices," said Ritter, and put up his binoculars
again.

"That town across there," began Hambledon.

"Stapelburg. You see The Wire in front of us here with the branches
stuck in it? This bridge is a favourite place for people to come and
stare across and the Vopos got tired of being stared at, so they made a
sort of screen there. There are always Vopos about here."

"I don't see any now."

"Where are the Herr's eyes? There is a man leaning against that tree not
twenty metres away."

"It is their brown uniforms," said Hambledon, annoyed with himself. "The
protective colouration is almost perfect."

Ritter nodded. "It is also a matter of practice." Up went the glasses
again, again the slow sweep round. The country towards Stapelburg was
open farm land and people were working in the fields. There was a
cluster of small houses within a stone's throw and children were playing
round them.

"It all looks so entirely peaceful."

"It does, but they will not speak."

"Who won't? The Vopos?"

"Neither the Vopos nor the people living across there. Sometimes, when
we pass each other at points where there is only The Wire between us, I
call across 'Good morning' or 'Nice weather,' but they never answer. And
it is not as though they were Russians--they are all Germans like
us--but they never answer."

"Do you ever see Russians along here?"

"No. Very seldom. Sometimes a couple of Russian officers. The troops are
kept further back, but they are there if wanted."

"If wanted?"

"I have my wife and family in Eckertal--a man wants some home life--but
sometimes I wonder whether it is right to keep them here so near the
Russians." The binoculars went up again and Hambledon did not know what
to say.

A little later on, Ritter said that he thought Schultz would probably be
at home by now if the Herr still wished to see him. Hambledon said that
he would. It was just to ask about that day upon which Micklejohn
disappeared. Ritter nodded and they walked up the road towards Eckertal.
At this point Hambledon did his best to induce Ritter to accept five
marks for all the extra trouble he had taken, but the man refused,
politely but quite firmly.

"At least," said Hambledon, "come and have a drink with me."

"The Herr is most kind, indeed, but I do not drink on duty," said
Ritter. "Thank you, indeed."

"But when you come off duty, a round with your friends," urged
Hambledon.

But it was all of no use and he had to give it up.

Presently three motorcycles together came down the road and stopped to
speak to Ritter, who introduced Hambledon. These men wore black uniforms
and their appearance and bearing were very smart indeed.

"These are of the Mobile Police," explained Ritter. "They do not have to
wear out their legs walking all day like the poor wretched Green Police.
No, they ride about like gentlemen all day on expensive motorcycles."

The Mobiles laughed and said that Ritter had only a pair of binoculars
to service and maintain. He was not expected to be a motor mechanic as
well as a policeman.

Hambledon realised at once that these men might be very useful and that
he would almost certainly meet them, or some of them, again. He showed
them his passport and permit and explained briefly why he was there.

Ritter said that the Herr had wanted to know about conditions there, so
he himself had been showing the Herr round his area.

The sergeant in charge of the Mobile patrol said that perhaps Hambledon
would like a little ride with them; it might be bumpy but at least one
covered the ground.

Hambledon, assuming correctly that this suggestion was not meant to be
taken seriously, said that, much as he would enjoy it, he had to go and
see a man named Schultz at the moment and then he must catch the autobus
back to Goslar. They parted with mutual courtesies and the Mobile Police
swirled away.

At the entrance to Eckertal a small boy, aged about four, ran out of one
of the scattered cottages and rushed at Ritter.

"My son," explained the policeman. "What hast thou been doing today?"

But the child looked at the stranger and turned shy. There was a wooden
shanty at the side of the road where a one-armed man sold cigarettes,
chocolate, beer, and lemonade; Hambledon went in and bought the biggest
slab of chocolate in the place as a present for the boy, who proceeded
at once to tear off the wrapping.

"Oh, no," said Ritter, "not all at once. Thou wilt only make thyself
sick. Thank the Herr for his kindness. Thou shalt have a piece every
night and so thou wilt remember the Herr for at least ten days. Here is
Schultz's house, next beyond mine. Ernst! Are you there?"

Ernst came to the door, a giant of a man with a limp and three fingers
missing from his left hand. Ritter introduced Hambledon, took his leave,
and went away.

Hambledon once more explained his mission and showed the Chief of
Police's authorisation. "I understand that you were on patrol the day
the young man disappeared," he said. "Four days ago, last Tuesday."

"That is so," said Schultz in a slow deep voice. "I have been asked
about this young man; English, was he not? Yes. I saw him get off the
midday autobus at the station here and he walked along the road towards
the frontier. Then he turned off by a path through the woods. I went on
by the road and presently I saw him again on the road which runs south
along the frontier. He was walking along it away from me. Then a car
came along--they were strangers here, they stopped to ask me one or two
things--and when I looked round again the young man had disappeared.
That is all I know, mein Herr."

"Yes, I see. You have no idea which way he went?"

"I assumed he had turned off to the right, back into our woods here. If
he had turned left he would have come to the frontier and there is no
passage that way, as the Herr knows. I did not see the young man again
though I walked on down the road the way he had gone. If he had gone to
the frontier he would have had to come back again and I should have seen
him. The Herr understands? He must have turned back into our woods."

"I understand perfectly. Tell me, did anything at all unusual happen
that day?"

Schultz considered.

"Nothing, no."

"You did not hear anything?"

The policeman looked straight at Hambledon.

"The Herr means shots fired? No, I heard nothing and I should have heard
if there had been. One is always looking and listening, the Herr knows."

"Yes," said Hambledon, "yes. It is so quiet here, one would say that
even the trees were watching and listening."

"May it remain quiet," said Schultz, and at that moment there came from
the cottage behind him the sound of a baby crying.

"Then there was nothing at all out of the ordinary?"

"No, mein Herr, I am sorry I cannot help you. If anything had happened,
particularly on that day, we should have known it."

A woman's voice inside the cottage said something in a soothing tone and
the baby left off crying.

"Why 'particularly on that day'?" asked Hambledon.

"Because they had a stretch of the wire down that day, replacing the
posts. The Herr has seen the posts? They are only rough lumber, they do
not last so long. There was a gang of men working on it, taking the wire
down, replacing the posts and putting the wire back. They had Vopo
guards standing over them all the time, they always do."

"To keep them at it?"

Schultz smiled slowly. "I do not suppose they would kill themselves with
overwork, those labourers; they are not well paid nor well fed. Yes, the
Vopos watch them for that and also to see that they do not slip across
to us. Wages and conditions are better this side--everyone knows
that--and if there is a gap in The Wire it is too easy, if the Vopos are
not watching all the time."

"I see," said Hambledon. "How much of the wire would they take down at a
time?"

"Not very much. Not more than they can finish in a day. They take the
wire down and roll it up, for it must be used again. Then they pull out
the old posts, put in new ones, unroll the wire again--has the Herr ever
tried to unroll rusty barbed-wire?--and strain it back on to the new
posts. No, not a great length."

"I suppose not."

"I see what the Herr is thinking, but there were no shots that day. Not
in this area at least. Besides, I remember that afternoon for another
thing, the Russians had soldiers close up all along this frontier. We do
not often see Russian soldiers, mein Herr--they keep them further
back--but that day I suppose there was an exercise on. We see a Russian
officer or two now and again but that is all as a rule. That day there
were troops everywhere that side and the Vopos swarming like flies. But
there were no shots fired so the Herr can assure himself that no one
went across The Wire."

Hambledon thanked Schultz and walked back to Eckertal Station to catch
the bus to Goslar. He was a little early; he stood and strolled about in
the brilliant sunshine on the station forecourt with the weeds brushing
his legs. It was very hot and there was nothing to sit down on, but
Hambledon found himself preferring it to the platform side of the
station, where the tall grass waved over the rusty lines and young
bushes grew up between the points. Why such a big station in such a tiny
place, with the town of Stapelburg only a couple of kilometres away? He
could not imagine and there was no one to ask.

There were the deserted yard, the empty sheds, the road, and, beyond the
road, the pine trees stretching for miles; it was very quiet but,
instead of an air of peace, there hung over the whole scene a deep sense
of brooding unease. He was glad when a distant rumble announced the
arrival of his bus. It turned into the yard and stopped.

He looked round and there was Ritter, standing back on the perimeter of
the station yard. A few people got out. Hambledon walked forward and
looked round to give Ritter a farewell wave, but he had disappeared.

"I don't like this place at all," said Hambledon to himself. He entered
the bus and sat down. A few minutes later three or four men arrived from
nowhere in particular and also got into the bus and sat down. He
wondered where they had come from and then mentally shook himself. Out
of the station, of course, probably from the refreshment room; it was
only that he had not seen them come out. It was completely ridiculous to
picture this area as a sort of fourth-dimension country where people
turned aside and were immediately not there. It was, certainly, the sort
of place which might get on one's nerves, but one ought not to let it.

The bus turned in the yard and set off on the return journey to Bad
Harzburg and Goslar. There were two more stops within the Eckertal
boundaries--at a group of cottages and at a minor crossroads--and the
bus began to fill up. People leaving work at the paper mill and the
furniture factory and going home to sleep further away from The Wire.

After the first stop Hambledon noticed a man in the green uniform of the
Frontier Police but could not see his face; at the second stop this man
got out and Tommy saw to his surprise that it was Ritter. Hambledon
lifted a hand in greeting and Ritter responded in friendly fashion, but
he did look faintly sheepish. He might very well have had some errand at
the crossroads, or was he merely making quite sure that Hambledon really
had left the district, official police authorisation notwithstanding? A
good fellow, Ritter, and they had become friends in the course of the
long hot afternoon, but if it were his duty to see inquisitive strangers
off his manor he would do it, and quite right too. The bus rolled on and
Goslar, when they reached it, seemed like home.




Chapter 4. The Prisoner


George Micklejohn was a healthy but studious youth who, having passed
with credit all the previous trials with which the University of Oxford
afflicts its young, was grimly determined to get a First in his finals.
This involved, among other things, reading Roman law and this was not
easy in a home which contained an hospitable mother, four cheerful
sisters, and a generous allowance of the party spirit. George therefore
departed for Goslar, in company with a congenial soul who also wished to
work in peace. For a week they tramped long distances on walkers'
trails, ate hugely, and read industriously until the friend slipped down
a steep bank along with an angular boulder and broke his ankle. George
bound up the ankle with their handkerchiefs, his scarf, and what he
remembered of a course of first-aid lectures, hoisted the friend on his
shoulders, and carried him as far as a road. Here they sat on a bank
until a car came along and gave them a lift to Goslar and a surgeon. The
friend left Hanover for England by air with his ankle in plaster and
young Micklejohn carried on alone.

On the Tuesday before Hambledon came to Goslar, Micklejohn took the
autobus from Goslar to Eckertal, since apparently the railway was not in
operation now that there is a zonal boundary between East and West
Germany. Micklejohn took no interest in politics, domestic or foreign,
he heard too much of them at home. He alighted at Eckertal, armed only
with a strong walking stick and a packet of sandwiches. He struck
eastward along forest trails, for this country is heavily wooded, half
expecting when he came to the zonal boundary to find a wire fence with
notices hung upon it at intervals saying, in Gothic lettering,
_Durchgng Verboten_.

He did not find barbed-wire or any other sort of fence. He walked
sturdily on, enjoying the air, the theatrical effect of sunlight
striking down through gaps in the foliage upon the red-brown trunks of
pines, and the presence of twittering flocks of gold-crested wrens. He
crossed a road and came to the bank of a mountain stream of the type
which is either angrily in spate and quite impassable or else a string
of clear brown pools joined together by rippling shallows, easily to be
passed by anyone agile enough to hop from a boulder to a bank of flat
water-worn pebbles and from there to a half-submerged shelf of rock.
Micklejohn hopped across and sat down on a mossy bank to eat his
sandwiches and commune with nature to the music of running water.
Idyllic.

He got up and strolled on. The path he had been following had petered
out and he was among bushes and undergrowth. However, there were
pinewoods ahead and he made his way towards them, taking a childish
pleasure in walking quietly without breaking branches or cracking sticks
on the ground. Somewhere to his left he heard men's voices and circled
round to avoid them; he was enjoying being alone and did not feel like
talking to strangers.

A few minutes later he came upon a sort of track, as though someone had
ploughed a narrow strip; it came from his left and wound away to his
right. He thought it a little odd but it conveyed no warning to his
mind; the few Germans he had talked to had not discussed the
frontier--it is not a popular subject in those parts--and it had never
occurred to Micklejohn to ask about it. He looked carefully at the
ploughed strip but no sort of crop appeared to be coming up in it so he
walked across and entered more pinewoods. It was a perfectly beautiful
day and the air was invigorating; he lengthened his stride and went on.



The working party replacing posts on The Wire consisted of three elderly
labouring men and a guard of two young Volks-polizei. The Vopos were new
to The Wire, having but just finished their training, and they were
exceedingly conscientious. They had been told to watch the three
labourers closely and the result was a practically unwinking Vopo stare,
a thing which has to be seen to be believed and reminds the observer of
stuffed owls. The labourers, who were old enough, given an early start,
to be the Vopos' grandfathers, responded by ignoring them completely,
but they did keep on working.

At about the time when George Micklejohn sat down on the riverbank to
eat his sandwiches the senior workman glanced up at the sun, having no
watch, threw down his pick, and turned away; the other workmen did the
same.

The two Vopos shouted at them.

"What's all this? Why are you stopping?"

The senior workman threw the one word "Lunch" over his shoulder and they
all repaired to a small clear space near by, where a pot was bubbling
slowly upon embers. Three tin pannikins were charged with stew, three
spoons were taken from pockets, and three workmen sat down in a row upon
a low bank to eat.

After a momentary hesitation the two Vopos sat down opposite to them and
continued their watch. The Vopos stared, three pairs of jaws moved
rhythmically, the sun shone down, and silence lay over all.

Presently, with one accord, as at a given signal, the chewing stopped
and the busy jaws were still. Through the trees behind the backs of the
Vopo guard there passed the tall slim figure of an active young man.

There was no change of expression on the workmen's faces and no
indication that they had seen anything unusual, only the slow chewing
stopped and after a moment one of the Vopos commented.

"What's the matter? Food not good enough for you?"

The chewing started again and continued until the pannikins were empty,
when the senior workman, addressing no one in particular, said that the
food was all right but that there was not enough of it.

"You'd best be careful," snapped the Vopo. "That's enough from you."

The workmen sat still until the very last moment before the Vopos would
tell them to get up and then rose slowly to their feet and plodded
heavily back to work.



George Micklejohn walked on and presently came to the edge of the wood
and looked across rolling agricultural country with a red-roofed town in
the middle distance. There were people working in the fields but they
took no notice of him. There was a path along the edge of the wood and
he kept to it.

He heard suddenly the sound of a fallen branch cracking beneath
someone's foot and turned to see two men in uniform with soft peaked
caps on their heads. They carried arms; they were, in fact, soldiers.
They came straight up to him, with no friendliness in face or manner,
and addressed him in a language of which he did not understand one word.

"_Nichts verstehe_," he said, trying German first. "I'm sorry, I don't
understand. _Je ne comprends pas_," he added in French and then, having
exhausted his repertoire, smiled at them.

They did not smile; on the contrary, they looked grimmer than before.
One of them pointed down the path ahead and signalled to Micklejohn to
proceed down it. By this time, of course, it had dawned upon him that he
had somewhere crossed the zonal boundary and presumably these soldiers
were Russians. In that case, the only thing to do was to apologise and
retire. He stepped back.

"Frightfully sorry," he said. "Didn't know I was trespassing. I'll go
back." Since he was plainly not understood, he pointed to himself, then
back the way he had come, added: "Good afternoon," and turned to go, but
one of the soldiers lunged forward and seized him by the left arm.

This was too much and Micklejohn reacted promptly. He uppercut the
soldier as hard as he knew how and the fellow rolled over backwards into
a heap of dead branches. Instantly the second man unslung his rifle,
took it back and swung at Micklejohn's head with the butt. He saw it
coming and dodged, but the blow fell upon his left shoulder, with
paralysing effect. He staggered, caught his heel, and fell, and in a
moment they were both on him, for the fallen man was more angry than
hurt.

The next few minutes were a blazing kaleidoscope of pain, fury, and
humiliation. They were both heavier and older than Micklejohn; they had
never heard of Queensberry Rules and would not have cared if they had.
When it was quite plain that he was no longer capable of resistance they
dragged him to his feet, held him by both arms, and took him down the
rough path at a pace which he could not maintain without stumbling
continually.

Eventually they arrived at a small clearing in the forest, and stopped.
Micklejohn, feeling more dead than alive, was dimly aware of a group of
people. He pulled himself together and saw that there were more soldiers
grouped about a table covered with maps and papers, there were some Army
utility vehicles in the background and each of them bore the stencilled
insignia of a red star.

One of the men in the group had the air of a high-ranking officer. He
was a grey-haired man with a podgy red face. Micklejohn's captors
talked, the officer evidently asked questions, and the soldiers
answered. Finally they pushed Micklejohn forward and the officer
addressed him personally.

Micklejohn shook his head and said that he was English. _Englander_.
British.

The officer's face lit up, at last something had been said which had
been understood, but if Micklejohn thought that his troubles were over
he was wrong. He was taken back to the outskirts of the group and one of
the soldiers, in obedience to some order, trotted off into the woods.

Micklejohn could hardly have chosen a worse moment to blunder into
Russian Army activities. The Russians were in the acute stage of one of
their periodical attacks of panic on the subject of an attack from the
West; there was indeed a certain measure of poetic justice in
Micklejohn's troubles, since it was largely his father's urging atomic
weapons upon the West German Army which had set off the panic on this
occasion. From the Russian point of view the Western Beast was crouching
for a spring and the Smirnov Plan was being put into operation.

The Smirnov Plan involved a strong line of defence along the zonal
boundary between East and West Germany. The Russian thinks that if there
has to be a war it had much better be fought on somebody else's
territory, not his, and a very sensible idea it is. General Vedovitch,
the well-known expert on defence in depth, was making a close study of
the Zonal Frontier, sector by sector, to co-ordinate, improve, and
complete the layout of the land defence of Eastern Germany against
attack from the West, which comprises the core of the Smirnov Plan. On
the day when Micklejohn crossed the line, General Vedovitch was dealing
personally with the Stapelburg sector; it was he before whom Micklejohn
had been brought, and upon the table in the clearing lay the large-scale
fully detailed maps covered with code markings and annotations about
observation points, gun positions, fields of fire, concealed defences,
ammunition dumps, lines of supply and communication, and all the rest of
the Mystery of War.

Time passed. Micklejohn took out his handkerchief to wipe blood and dirt
off his face and sat down to rest. He was aching in every limb, his left
shoulder hurt him, his mouth was cut and bleeding and his head ached,
but all these things were of no importance compared with the fury which
possessed him. There is nothing like being contemptuously kicked by
louts in heavy boots to rouse the primitive beast in the most cultured
undergraduate. He muttered, "Wait, wait," to himself. He was so angry
that his teeth chattered.

General Vedovitch did not even look at him. The maps on the table were
closely studied and marks and marginal notes made upon them. The General
seemed to be delivering a lecture to four or five officers gathered
round the table; they looked at the maps and nodded from time to time.
At last the General folded up the biggest map together with several
sheets of paper and put them in a brief case. The table now being clear,
an orderly came from one of the trucks and began to lay knives and
forks. General Vedovitch was about to lunch.

The soldier who had trotted off upon some errand returned at this point
with a young man in civilian clothes who was not much older than
Micklejohn himself and not so tall, notably thin in the face and slender
in build. He came to stand before the General, who looked at him with
evident distaste and barked at him rather than spoke to him.

"The Big Boy doesn't like this one," said Micklejohn to himself. "Wonder
why. Clean and tidy lad. Quite well dressed, too. A good suit and it
fits him. Bit of a fop by the look of him."

The young man bowed to the General, turned on his heel, marched across
to where Micklejohn sat on a mossy bank and said abruptly: "Get up!"

He spoke English.

Micklejohn looked up without attempting to rise and said: "Why?"

"The General will tell you."

George hesitated, the young Russian scowled, and two soldiers moved up.
It would be merely idiotic to invite more punishment.

"I will hear the General's apology for this outrage," said Micklejohn,
and got up slowly. The Russian's eyes snapped but he said nothing.
Micklejohn ignored him and limped towards the table, for he had been
kicked on the knee. General Vedovitch sat squarely on a camp chair with
his fists on his knees, looked Micklejohn up and down, and said
something.

The young man translated.

"Who are you?"

"George Micklejohn."

"What are you?"

"An undergraduate of Brasenose College, Oxford."

A few sentences were exchanged at this point, probably explanations.

"Your passport?"

George produced it and it was handed to the General, who examined it
with the interpreter's help.

"Now," said Micklejohn firmly, "I am prepared to apologise for having
inadvertently trespassed across your frontier, provided that I first
receive an apology from you"--he looked straight at the General--"for
the insolent behaviour of your men and the brutal treatment I received
at their hands."

He waited while the translation was made. As it ended, the General
slapped his knee and laughed loudly, the other officers laughed with
him, and even the interpreter looked faintly amused.

"How did you come here?"

Micklejohn was quite willing to answer this and did so fully.

"You expect we believe you merely stroll across without knowing where
you go?"

"Certainly. The frontier is not marked in any way."

"It is the stream you cross."

"Indeed? It is still not marked."

"You could have asked."

"Asked whom? There was no one about."

"What are your political affiliations?"

"I have none," snapped George, for he considered the question an
impertinence.

"We waste time," said the General impatiently, and that also was
translated.

"I agree, we do," said George. "You will apologise and then I will go
home."

"The cock thinks he is on his own dunghill," said the General
contemptuously. "Andrey Lentov, take him down to my headquarters and
lock him up. I will deal with him when I have time."

The young civilian received the order in silence.

"And do not take too much delight in airing your beautiful English on
the way down. I do not trust you, Andrey Lentov, as you know. I would
not send you if I could spare anyone else. Take an escort. Go!"

Lentov bowed again and stepped back.

"Wait," said General Vedovitch and addressed one of the other officers.
"Vladimir, lend me your revolver."

Vladimir saluted and handed it over at once.

"Here," said the General, holding out the revolver to Lentov, "take
this. Put it in your pocket," he added as Lentov stood holding the
weapon in his hand. "Yes, I daresay it will drag your beautiful jacket
out of shape but you will do what you're told. Pocket it, you fool, and
take your hand out again. That's right. If the prisoner tries to escape,
shoot him. No excuses now about not having a gun, eh? Now go. No, wait a
minute."

Lentov, who had turned to go, spun round again and Micklejohn noticed
that he was white round the nostrils and that his mouth was a thin hard
line.

"You can take this brief case to Headquarters with you," continued the
General. "It is to be locked in the safe. Be careful with it, the
contents are valuable. Much more valuable than the life of a civilian
liaison officer with the local civil authorities. Go. Oh, and our
prisoner's passport, take it and hand it in with the prisoner. Go."

Lentov put the passport--it also contained George's few surviving
travellers cheques--into his pocket and turned for the third time. This
time he was not recalled. He said, "You come with me," to Micklejohn and
shepherded him away from the table.

"Where are we going?" asked Micklejohn, but he received no answer.




Chapter 5: Andrey Lentov


Since no one had bothered to translate to Micklejohn anything but the
questions he had been required to answer, he had no idea of what had
been said, though the General's manner had been unmistakable. He did not
like Lentov, he had made a fool of him in public; Lentov in consequence
was in such a rage that his hands were trembling and he could not
command his voice.

Micklejohn was conducted to a Russian version of a jeep and told to get
into the front seat. Lentov took the wheel and a Russian private with a
big machine pistol sat in the seat behind.

"Where are we going?" repeated Micklejohn as coolly as though he were
being taken for a pleasant drive in the country.

"You will find out when you get there," snarled Lentov. "Sit down and
keep still or I shoot you. This--" tapping the revolver in his
right-hand pocket--"if fired into the stomach, it hurts."

He slipped his left arm through the handles of the brief case and pushed
it up his arm, tucking it close to his side out of the way. Micklejohn
looked round as they drove off. The group had scattered and the
General's lunch was being served. George turned his head a little
further and met the passionless gaze of the private in the back seat.
The clumsy pistol he held wavered about as the car rocked on the rough
track, but the muzzle was never more than a few inches from the back of
George's head.

"No luck there," said Lentov coldly. "Stepan likes shooting."

Micklejohn looked straight ahead and made no answer.

For a few hundred yards they sidled and jolted down the forest track and
then emerged upon a country lane, not a good road by any standards but
yet a road. Lentov settled himself more easily and the car gathered
speed.

About two miles further along the road the car's engine missed,
spluttered, missed again, and stopped; Lentov coasted to the side of the
road and brought the car to a halt. He gave some order to the private,
who responded by practically resting the muzzle of his weapon upon
Micklejohn's coat collar. If he leaned back he could feel it and if he
moved forward it came with him.

Lentov raised the bonnet and examined the engine. He was, in fact,
trying to flood the carburettor but without success. He went round to
the back of the car and unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank. There
followed a stream of remarks which were so unmistakably swear words that
the fact of their being in an unknown tongue did not faze Micklejohn for
a moment. Besides, he had already diagnosed the trouble. They had run
out of petrol.

Lentov returned to his side of the car and threw himself into the
driver's seat. He turned to the private in the back and led off a
spluttering commentary which was certainly not praise. He banged the
back of the seat with a clenched fist and uttered a series of single
words which did not sound like endearments. Micklejohn could see the
private's face reflected in the driving mirror above the windscreen and
was interested to notice that its expression did not alter at all. The
man merely stared straight ahead and made no attempt to answer. Finally
Lentov issued an order, for the private laid down his gun, got out of
the car, and walked off by the way they had come.

Lentov shouted one word after him and the man broke into a clumsy trot
which lasted at least until he was out of sight round a bend.

Lentov uttered an exasperated sigh and pushed the General's brief case,
still upon his arm, more comfortably against his side. He took a packet
of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, slewed round towards Micklejohn
and spent the next five minutes trying to blow smoke into his prisoner's
face. There was, however, a pleasantly fresh current of air blowing in
on Micklejohn's side. The attempt was a failure and George gave not the
faintest sign of having noticed it. Besides, he was engaged in thought.

Lentov's pistol was temptingly near at hand, since it was in the jacket
pocket on the side nearest to Micklejohn. One might snatch the gun,
shoot him, and run for it. George had read enough war memoirs to know
that some men would do that at once and without turning a hair, but he
could not imagine himself doing it. He was much too young to have served
in the war and even his National Service had been postponed till he had
finished at Oxford. Double-barrelled shotguns he had always known, but
what was this weapon and how did it work?

"I know London," said Lentov suddenly. "A foul place full of sullen
peoples. It is only of use to buy things in. You English are a nation of
manufacturers."

Micklejohn took no notice. One could hardly shoot a man in cold blood.
Besides, if he did so and ran for it he might well be caught and if he
were----If he was patient he might be taken to someone who had a little
common sense.

"You make good suits, I admit," continued Lentov. "I myself have several
I there bought. Good cloth, too. You should all be tailors. You would be
more useful than trying to be clever at a university."

It occurred to George that perhaps the fellow was hoping to exasperate
him into a quarrel in which he could be shot with a clear conscience.
Patience, then, and take no notice. He looked up at the sky and saw a
perfectly enormous bird very high up, it must be an eagle and a big one
at that. It circled slowly in some rising current. George was so
interested that he did not hear Lentov's next remarks. The bird sailed
out of sight and Lentov said, "You are sulky, that is bad. We will cure
you of sulks."

Micklejohn looked at his wrist watch, but the face had been smashed in
the scrimmage and the hands were bent.

"Is your mother a good cook?" asked Lentov.

George was suddenly seized with the urge to answer "No, but my father
keeps goldfish in his top hat." He resisted a desire to laugh; really,
this was the most ludicrous little squirt. However, Lentov apparently
decided that this game was not worth playing and they sat in silence
until trudging steps on the gravel road brought them the private with a
heavy petrol can in each hand. He unscrewed the petrol-tank cap and a
refreshing glugging noise followed. The first can was set down empty,
the second was brought into action, and Lentov leaned over his side of
the car----

Micklejohn snatched the pistol out of Lentov's pocket, aimed it at
Lentov about amidships and snapped: "Do what I tell you or I'll kill
you. Start the car and drive on. Start the car----"

Lentov obeyed.

"Now drive on and keep going."

The car went off and left the private holding one tilted can with petrol
running out of it on the road. He straightened it up, replaced the cap,
and looked after the car till it was out of sight. He shook his head
slowly, picked up the two cans, one empty, the other half full, and then
went to sit on the bank at the side of the road until somebody should
come and tell him what to do next. He lit a cigarette and leaned back.
It was very pleasant to sit by the road and do nothing for a little
while.

Lentov drove on. His face was a greenish-white and the sweat was running
down his cheeks, for he was terrified, not so much of the Englishman,
although he had suddenly turned into a demon, as of the Russians he had
left behind. They would hear from the private that he, Lentov, had been
alone with the Englishman for nearly half an hour and that as soon as
there was petrol in the tank they had left the escort and driven off
together, for the soldier could not see what had happened in front and
would not have understood what had been said.

Lentov was under suspicion. He had been well educated and could speak
several languages and his father was a man of some importance. Andrey
had been appointed to the Soviet Embassy in London and the place had
gone to his head.

Not the English way of life, for he thought that simply silly, nor the
English people he met, whose politeness he mistook for servility and
whose jokes he found incomprehensible. It was London which charmed him,
the bustling colourful traffic--especially the scarlet omnibuses--the
clean streets, the gracious houses, the bright flowers in Parliament
Square, the busy shipping on London's river, but most of all the things
in the shops--ah, the things in the shops! He would moon up Bond Street,
flattening his nose against the windowpanes, for he knew enough to
realise that much of what he saw was priceless. And the gadgets; tin
openers, electric razors, potato peelers, bathroom fittings----

His colleagues were at first amused, then dubious, and finally
disgusted. Andrey Lentov found himself being lectured, scolded, and
finally sent back to Russia with a black mark against him.

"You are tainted," they said. "There is a weakness in your character
which has yielded to the false glamour of the decadent and
self-indulgent West. Potato peelers, huh! You are politically suspect."

Then his father died and there was no one to back him. He obtained a
dull post in the Civil Administration of Occupied Territory and was
trying to re-establish himself, without much success.

Now it looked as though he had bolted with an Englishman.

"Keep going," said Micklejohn. His reactions to this wild ride were much
simpler and not nearly so well founded. He merely thought that if he
were in a Russian military vehicle being driven by a Russian, he was not
very likely to be stopped. A little luck and he would find himself near
enough to the boundary line to be able to slip across. It ought not to
be difficult to get away from this fellow who, judging by the colour of
his face, was not much of a hero. Besides, he was not armed. He could
be, though, there was the submachine gun in the back. Micklejohn, still
pointing Lentov's pistol at Lentov's middle, put his left arm over the
back of the seat and a long stretch possessed him of the private's
weapon. He brought it over with a steady swing and hurled it into a
clump of bushes which they happened to be passing at the moment. That
was that.

Now about finding the way. The zonal boundary runs approximately north
and south, though it is anything but straight. On the map it is a series
of unbelievable wriggles. However, generally speaking, it goes north and
they were to the east of it, driving north. Let them, therefore, turn
left and they would be going towards the line. Micklejohn, it will be
remembered, knew nothing about Vopos.

Just ahead, the road forked.

"Take the left-hand road," said Micklejohn, "and step on it. I mean,
accelerate. Drive faster."

There was a group of buildings up the right-hand road, with what looked
like Army vehicles round them. They were Lentov's last hope and George
realised it.

"This pistol, you said, when fired in the stomach, it hurts. You
probably know."

Lentov took the left fork.

The road had deteriorated but was still passable; it did not appear to
be much used, for there were no new tracks on the soft patches. Lentov
became desperate. He would ditch the car and hope the Englishman would
be flung out and hurt. Even, with luck, killed. But there was no ditch;
the roadsides were low and soft. He drove on, two miles, three miles----

There was a dead tree lying by the side of the road. Lentov waited till
he was almost upon it and then, without slackening speed, swung the car
off the road and straight at the fallen trunk.

There was a hideous crash, the car stood on its head for a moment and
then fell slowly over on its side in the soft ground.

When Micklejohn recovered consciousness he was first aware of gruff
voices talking across him in a rather difficult brand of German. He
opened his eyes and found two old men, one on either side of him; to his
pleased surprise they spoke kindly to him, saying that the Herr was now
feeling better, was he not?

Micklejohn agreed that he was, he sat up unsteadily and looked about
him. Andrey Lentov was a few feet away, lying on the ground in a
careless attitude which suggested that he was either unconscious or
dead. He looked dead and Micklejohn said so.

The two old men looked at Lentov with deep distaste. One said that no,
unfortunately the ---- a dialect word unfamiliar to Micklejohn, was
still alive and the other suggested that it would perhaps be a good
opportunity to finish him off, _nicht wahr_? He lifted a very adequate
felling axe with a five-inch blade and a four-foot haft and turned it so
that the back of the axe-head was available for use as a hammer, but the
other stopped him.

"No, Hans, no. There will only be reprisals, thou knowest."

"True," said Hans, and put down the axe. "A pity, though."

Micklejohn, who had shut his eyes, opened them again.

"But that is a very handsome bag he is carrying," continued Hans. "Real
leather and practically new." He drew General Vedovitch's brief case off
Lentov's arm and put it under his own. George Micklejohn, who had
suffered many things in the last two hours, remembered the red-faced
General and was seized with a fit of something very like giggles.

"The Herr is not yet himself," observed the other old man. "We had
better get him away."

"You are right, Karl," said Hans. "To the hut first and to your house
after dark. You have a loft. Can the Herr stand?"

"Quite well," said Micklejohn, and struggled to his feet. They supported
him upon either hand, having gathered up their axes, and led him away
through narrow twisting paths through a wood of mixed timber and thick
undergrowth. After a little, Micklejohn could walk unaided and they went
together into the depths of the wood at the deceptively slow forester's
pace which yet eats up the miles.

"We are nearly there," said Karl. He turned round a clump of hazels and
down a bank to a tiny shed so overgrown that it seemed impossible that
anyone could ever find it. They went in. Hans threw down some not
particularly clean sacks, and Micklejohn sank gratefully upon them. Karl
drew out from a dark corner a black bottle and a chipped enamel mug,
poured some of the contents of the bottle into the mug, and handed it to
Micklejohn.

"Let the Herr drink, it will revive him."

Micklejohn thanked him and, remembering his manners, added "Prosit!" He
took a pull at the contents of the mug and thought that the roof of his
mouth had exploded into his brain; then the rest of the liquid ran down
his throat and set fire to his gullet. He choked and Hans kindly patted
him on the back.

"Not too fast," he said. "It is better drunk slowly. It is strong, eh?"

Micklejohn privately thought that this alarming liquid ought not to be
drunk at all. It would, he decided, be fine as a paint stripper or for
curing warts, but as a drink, no. However, in some unexpected way it
seemed to be doing him good and the explosive effects were not so marked
if taken in small sips. His colour came back and his legs ceased to
tremble.

"Tell me," he said carefully, for his grasp of German seemed a little
precarious, "you knew that fellow Lentov, did you?"

Karl spat, fortunately out through the doorway, and Hans answered the
question.

"Ach, yes, we know the swine Lentov. The Herr also?"

Micklejohn gathered his thoughts, which seemed to be straying of their
own accord.

"When you say 'know him,' I met him this afternoon. He was, I believe,
taking me to prison or somewhere like that. What I wanted to ask was,
why are you so kind to me when you didn't like him? I mean, we were
together in the jeep and you might have thought we were comrades."

"Since the Herr was holding a pistol at that"--the dialect word
again--"man's head and even after you both fell out the Herr was trying
to strangle him----"

"What? Oh, was I? I don't remember that."

"No, no. The Herr was unconscious but still vigorous. But when we
touched the Herr, he collapsed," explained Karl.

"Besides," added Hans a little apologetically, "the Herr has letters
from England in his pocket."

"We looked at them," said Karl, "because we thought the Herr was English
by his clothes and we wanted to see if we were right."

"Quite right," said Micklejohn drowsily, for his eyelids were suddenly
and inexplicably heavy, "I am English."

"We were prisoners of war in England in the first war," said Hans, "so
we know the English, how they look and how they dress."

"We are not ignorant men like those who have never travelled," said
Karl, but Micklejohn's head fell back and instantly he was sound asleep.
The two old woodcutters looked at him, at each other, and moved quietly
out of the hut.

"He will sleep for eight hours," said Karl. The door of the hut was off
its hinges and leaning against the wall. They propped it up in the
doorway.

"When he wakes," said Hans, "he will be well again. Put that brushwood
against the door."

"He has been beaten by those Russians," said Karl, "there are marks on
his face."

"God curse them," said Hans mechanically, like a response in a litany.
"If we look after him and help him, he will be grateful." They turned
away from the hut, picked up their axes, and walked off towards the
place where they had been working.

"That is so," agreed Karl. "He has plenty of money, good West marks. I
am surprised They did not rob him."

"There is no knowing what They will do."

"What shall we do when we get back to the overturned car?"

"Nothing. We will work a little further off. We saw nothing, we heard
nothing."

"That is right," agreed Karl. "Nothing at all."



Some time after Micklejohn and his elderly friends had gone away, Lentov
had returned painfully to consciousness. His head ached violently and
bright flashes tormented his eyes whenever he moved, but he dragged
himself up to his knees and looked about him.

The jeep was a wreck.

The brief case, containing the Smirnov Plan, had disappeared.

The Englishman had gone.

Therefore the Englishman had taken the Smirnov Plan.

Lentov struggled to his feet, tottered to the overturned jeep and leaned
against it. He would certainly be accused of having helped the
Englishman. He looked about him for the revolver, but that had gone too.
He could not even blow his brains out.

He felt in his pockets, vaguely, with no particular purpose, and found
Micklejohn's passport and travellers cheques and with them an hotel
card. Die Drei Bullochsen, Goslar-am-Harz, Room 32. Of course, of
course, the Englishman had said that he was staying there. No doubt he
was now on his way back there, taking the Smirnov Plan with him.

If it were possible to follow him and take the plan from him----

Lentov straightened himself, glanced up at the sun to get his bearings,
and staggered off into the woods.

When Karl and Hans returned to the spot, there was nothing there but the
overturned jeep slowly spreading an iridescent oily film upon the
ground.




Chapter 6: In the Attic


"But I must get back," said Micklejohn. "My family must be getting
worried."

He was sitting on a mattress on the floor of the loft under the roof of
Karl's house; it was twenty-four hours since the jeep had turned over.
Apart from a loose tooth, cut and swollen lips, a stiff and painful
knee, and a wonderful collection of ink-black bruises on various parts
of his body, he was himself again and no worse than he had often been
after a hard game of Rugby.

Otto Neumann looked at him mournfully and shook his head, a bald head
with a fringe of grey hair round its perimeter and an intricately
wrinkled scalp. These wrinkles fascinated Micklejohn because they
reminded him of railway lines spreading and subdividing at the approach
to a mainline terminus: Waterloo, for example. When Heir Neumann's
expression changed, the wrinkles altered like points being reset on a
railway, the Portsmouth line switched to Platform 5 while the
Southampton line temporarily vanished. Micklejohn had to make continuous
efforts not to watch them.

The two men were sitting on the floor because the loft was merely the
space under Karl's roof, triangular in section and only high enough in
the middle to allow the short figure of Neumann to stand upright.
Micklejohn, who was five feet eleven in his socks, could not stand
upright at all.

"I regret," said Neumann. "The anxiety of the Herr's relatives is never
sufficiently to be deplored but, at the moment, impossible to be
relieved." He spoke an educated German and Micklejohn found him very
easy to understand.

"But why? It's only to slip back through the woods, avoiding the police,
and----"

"Listen. I do not know what the Herr managed to do in the course of his
passage over the frontier, but I tell you----"

"All I did was to walk straight on. You talk about The Wire; all I can
say is that I never saw any."

"No. We know about that. There was a stretch of wire down that day while
posts were being replaced and the Herr has to pick that one short length
for his promenade, and by pure luck the Vopos were not looking his way.
That is literally true, for the Herr passed behind their backs while
they were watching the workers. The workers saw the Herr pass and said
nothing."

"But why didn't they call to me and tell me I was trespassing? Then I
could have apologised and gone back."

"They are decent men and they did not wish to see the Herr shot before
their eyes. Nobody likes Vopos."

"Shot? For inadvertently crossing an unmarked frontier? But that's
ridiculous, nobody would do a thing like that. Even the Russians let
people into Russia itself now, ordinary tourists, you know, and you tell
me the Vopos are Germans."

Neumann sighed. "The Herr must try to grasp this simple fact. Ever since
the workers' rising over here, in the Soviet Zone four years ago, this
frontier has been closed, closed, closed. Shut. Shut dead. Increasingly
so. At one time refugees used to stream across that frontier in
thousands; now, if seven try to go, three or four may succeed. The rest
are shot. There used to be a number of official crossing places; at
Eckertal, at Walkenried, and other places, now there is one only, at
Helmstedt."

Micklejohn ran his hands through his hair.

"The Russian soldiers used to guard this frontier, but after a time they
trained a special corps of the Volks-polizei to do the work under their
supervision," continued Neumann. "Does the Herr now begin to
understand?"

"But why shoot? If they arrested people----"

"Hear the Communist creed. Anyone trying to escape _to_ the West is a
traitor and therefore deserves to be shot. Anyone coming in _from_ the
West must be a spy and therefore deserves to be shot. Understood at
last?"

"Perfectly. There is no difficulty in understanding your very clear
explanation, Herr Neumann. It is the believing it which I find so
difficult--please understand me. I do not doubt your word for a moment,
it is just that--that it all sounds so completely mad! It's like a
frightening fairy story."

"It is mad," said Otto Neumann soberly. "That is why it is frightening."
There was a short pause and then the German went on: "All that is,
however, normal now with us, we are becoming used to it. What is not
normal is the extraordinary activity--upheaval--uproar--in the Russian
Army along the frontier just now, which seems to date from the Herr's
arrival. I said that we do not, now, see Russian troops on the frontier,
but this last twenty-four hours there are thousands of them searching
the woods and the houses and questioning people."

"You don't mean to tell me that the Russians have turned out a couple of
regiments to hunt for me?"

"Not only the Herr. It seems that there is also a Russian missing, the
man Lentov, who was also in the jeep."

"Oh? I don't know what has happened to him, then. The last time I saw
him he was unconscious and Karl told me that when they went back to the
wreck he had gone. I assumed that somebody had found him and taken him
away."

"The Russians and their friends did not, for they are hunting for him.
We true Germans would not, for he is hated. He is in charge of the Civil
Administration in this sector, he sees to it that the civil authorities
here carry out their orders and he is much more harsh and cruel than is
necessary. It is said that he is in some sort of disgrace in Russia so I
suppose that he is trying to earn his pardon."

"The General certainly did not like him," said Micklejohn thoughtfully.
"Ordered him about like a dog. Go! Come back! Go! Come back!"

Otto Neumann smiled slowly and said that in all countries, so he had
read, Army men despised the mere civilian.

"Except, I believe, in China, at least in the old days," said
Micklejohn. "They considered that war was uncultured barbarism and that
therefore only coarse and brutal men would stoop to become soldiers."

"It is at least a civilised point of view," said the German drily. "To
return to whatever has exasperated the Russian Command, the thing that
has stung them most sharply is the loss of the brief case and especially
of the papers in it."

"Oh, indeed. Yes. What has become of the brief case?"

"It is no longer a brief case and therefore no longer recognisable. It
is good soft leather and there is enough to make the uppers of a pair of
shoes."

"Splendid," approved Micklejohn. "And the papers?"

"They are here," said Neumann, withdrawing flat folded papers from
various pockets. "Can the Herr read Russian?"

"I'm sorry, no. Can you?"

"No. And I make no attempt to learn it. Before the war, Herr Micklejohn,
I was a schoolmaster, it was always my profession, but now I am a
labourer and work in the fields." He showed his hands, calloused with
manual labour. "It is better so."

"For political reasons, I suppose."

"Precisely. Those entrusted with the education of the young must be
politically reliable, that is, good Communists. I am not any sort of
Communist and I am too old to learn. When I saw what happened to other
teachers who also did not wish to learn communism I left my post,
changed my name, and became a fieldworker. By this means I am still
alive. It is very odd," said Neumann, in a faintly puzzled voice, "how
one so naturally desires to go on living. I have often wondered why."

Micklejohn, who had not previously encountered deliberately inflicted
human misery, said something incoherent about hope being innate in the
human soul and Neumann said briskly that even when one was beyond hope
there still remained innate damned obstinacy. "So," he concluded, "I
have learned no communism nor Russian either. Please look over these
papers. There is a large map, some smaller sketch plans, and a page of
notes."

Micklejohn looked them over carefully. "This large map was on the
General's table when I was first taken to him. I can't say I actually
recognise the others but I saw him fold them all up together and put
them in the brief case. They do look important, don't they? But I'm
sorry to say I've no idea what they are all about. I suppose you could
not borrow a Russian dictionary for me, could you? Or even a
Russian-German primer of some sort? If one could make out even a few
words here and there, it might give the gist of it."

"I will try," said Neumann, and got to his feet. "I must apologise for
inflicting my company upon the Herr for so long, the delight of
conversing once more with an educated man----"

"Please don't go, please sit down again. I also miss having someone to
talk to. Karl is very kind and his wife is an old pet but she's nearly
stone-deaf and they don't seem to have many interests. Besides, I wanted
to ask you again about getting away. Do I gather that I must wait till
all this excitement has died down?"

"That is so," said Neumann, settling down again. "I must explain that
the Herr is reasonably safe here; he is outside the five-kilometre zone.
That is, five kilometres from The Wire." Micklejohn mentally translated
this into just over three miles and nodded. "Everyone in Soviet-occupied
Germany carries identification papers, naturally. Within the
five-kilometre zone he has also a special pass to live and work there.
Within a half-kilometre zone, only the Vopos pass freely; anyone working
there, like the fence-repairing party, has a temporary pass for a day at
a time or less. The time for the work is estimated. If it will take
three hours he will have a three-hour pass and if the work is not done
in the time, he must leave it and come out. I tell the Herr all this not
to depress him but to make clear what the difficulties are, even
normally. Now, with the Russians swarming about it is not difficult, it
is impossible."

"Yet I walked through----"

"_Herrgott!_ And met the Russians. Also, the Herr must have been
surrounded by a bright phalanx of guardian angels holding their wings
about him, not to have been seen by the Vopos."

Micklejohn thought that he was far more likely to escape notice if he
were not escorted by any bright phalanx however well-intentioned and
also that this poor little man had got the wind up, and no wonder.
However, things did seem to be extra difficult at the moment.

"I suppose," he said, "that there are, in fact, means of communication
between you and friends in the Western Zone?"

Neumann fidgeted.

"There are, in fact, rare occasions when messages are passed across," he
said evasively. "But it is desperately dangerous. If one is caught,
there is an end."

Micklejohn took this with a large pinch of salt. If people made up their
minds to pass messages, messages would pass, if they had to be tied
round a stone and hurled across. The Vopos could not stand shoulder to
shoulder along several hundred miles of wire. Neumann appeared to have
read his thoughts.

"That is the whole point of the prohibited-zone system, you understand,"
he said. "People cannot get near The Wire except by permit and then they
are closely watched all the time they are there."

Micklejohn still thought a good forester would get through if he chose
his time and place, but it was no use arguing that now.

"I only thought," he said apologetically, "that I might get a note
through to my people, saying I was quite well and would come----"

"No, no. It may be that the Russians think the English Herr slipped out
again at once. If the note were intercepted they would know that he was
still this side and then they would go on looking for him until they
found him. No, no notes, Herr Micklejohn. Far too dangerous. I must go,"
said Neumann, getting to his feet more determinedly this time. "I have
been here a long time and someone might wonder why. I will try to get a
Russian-language primer of some kind for the Herr as quickly as possible
and I will bring some identification papers for him, such as we all
carry. Then the Herr will be able to go out a little, with care. That
will make a pleasant change, _nicht wahr_? _Auf Wiedersehen_, Herr
Micklejohn."




Chapter 7. The Road to Walkenried


Hambledon went again to see the Chief of Police at the _Polizeiamt_ just
behind the Markt-Kirche in Goslar.

"I am infinitely obliged to you for giving me that authorisation to show
the Frontier Police," he said. "They tried to shoo me away before they
saw it but afterwards no one could have been more helpful."

The Chief nodded casually and said that the Frontier Police were by way
of being a _corps d'lite_; they were, as no doubt the Herr Hambledon
knew, a body of men employed exclusively upon frontiers all round
Germany.

Hambledon said yes, indeed, he had also seen them at Aachen and other
frontier stations in the West. "And the Vopos? Are they to be described
as a _corps d'lite_ also?"

The Chief's face darkened and his voice became expressionless. "The
Volks-polizei police the whole of Soviet-occupied Germany. Probably those
who actually patrol the frontier are specially trained, but they are
basically all one force."

"I gather that 'force' is the operative word," said Hambledon blandly.
"I hope that, over the zone as a whole, they are not all equally
trigger-happy, as I am given to understand that these men are?"

"The Herr," smiled the Chief, "has made good use of his time. I thought
it better that you should see for yourself how things are rather than
that I should attempt to describe it to you. Besides, I do not go up
there, it is no pleasure. My hobby is model railways, not being glared
at by armed hooligans through rusty barbed wire."

"Not a pleasant sight, no----"

"Particularly when it is one's own country," said the German angrily.
"However, I do not wish to bore you with our troubles."

"I wish I could say that I found them merely boring, but it is plain
that they are much more serious than that. I really went to try to find
out whether young Micklejohn could inadvertently have strayed across the
frontier----"

"I should say, quite impossible, 'inadvertently.'"

"And I learned that, on that day, there was a stretch where The Wire had
been taken down for the posts to be replaced."

The Chief's eyebrows went up.

"I did not know that. The Herr will understand that the Frontier Police
are not under my authority; they do not report to me. I was asked to
make enquiries about this young man and I was told what I told you
before, that he had been seen at Eckertal but that they--the Frontier
Police--did not know which way he had gone from there."

"I found them very loth to admit that he was likely to have gone
across."

"Naturally, since it is their duty to see that such incidents do not
take place! What does the Herr wish to do now?"

Hambledon thought for a moment.

"Is there any undercover communication with sympathisers the other side
of The Wire?"

"None," said the Chief sharply, and rather spoiled the effect by adding:
"So far as we know."

Hambledon mentally translated that into: "Almost certainly there is, but
they wouldn't tell the police about it." He dropped that line of enquiry
and said that he felt he must know more about conditions before even
beginning to make any sort of a plan. "I should like to hire a car with
a reliable driver who knows the country and get him to drive me to all
the places along the _Zonengrenze_ where the line runs near the road. I
see on the map that there are many such places. There are roads which
used to cross, and so on. Perhaps you could recommend someone."

The Chief of Police stroked a rather bristly chin.

"Yes, there is a man--what is his name?--Britz, of course. Hugo Britz.
He knows the frontier very well indeed, and he is an honest man and a
good driver. He runs a taxi service in Goslar but there is not much
scope for him in a small place like this. It will be a help to him
financially to have even a short period of continuous employment."

"Is he a local man?"

"Not originally. He came in from the East about three years ago. He is
quite reliable, he does not like the Communists. He has a girl in the
Soviet Zone and they will not let him see her. He lives in the
Schildergasse, I must make sure of the number, he has a room in the
house of a widow. The Herr knows the Schildergasse? You turn off left,
by the Jakobi-Kirche, from the road to the station."

"Thank you very much," said Hambledon, getting to his feet and taking
the slip of paper on which the Chief had written Britz's address. "I
will go there now and see if I can find him at home. I am so much
obliged to you."

"Not at all," said the German. "A pleasure. You will find Britz very
obliging, I believe. He will take you wherever you wish to go, and if
you suddenly say to him: 'Turn the car and drive away like the devil,'
he will do that too. He is afraid of the Vopos."

"People seem to be," said Hambledon thoughtfully.

"Yes," said the Chief of Police.

Hugo Britz was a square-faced young man in the early thirties, not tall
but well built and strong. He had a quiet manner and was obviously
pleased at Hambledon's suggestion.

"You wish me to drive you to wherever one may come close to The Wire.
Certainly I will do that, it is quite easy. The Herr has, perhaps, a
map, or shall I bring one?"

"I have one, here it is," said Hambledon, unfolding a highly coloured
_Wanderkarte_ of the West Harz, made for the use of walkers.

"Yes," said Britz, looking at it, "yes. It is not quite so easy as it
appears on that map, some of those roads are closed, but there are many
places where one can go to look. When does the Herr wish to go? Today?"

"I think so. It is not yet midday. We will have lunch and then start, if
you have no other engagement?"

"No. We will at least see something," said Britz.

They drove out of Goslar by that one of the city's ancient gates which
is called the Breite Tor, past the mines of Oker, where so many of the
refugees live and work, to Bad Harzburg, and beyond that by a lovely
road through pine forests.

On and on, past cleared stretches with the stumps of trees showing above
the coarse grass.

"Quite a lot of the woods have been cleared here," said Hambledon. "I am
glad to see that they are being replanted!"

The driver glanced about him indifferently. "The British had these trees
felled," he said. "For pit props."

A notice against some tall fences a little back from the road: "The deer
are fed here." But presumably it was not feeding time, for there was not
an antler in sight. A tall slim radio mast with small buildings about
it: the radio station which broadcasts to Eastern Germany. A high
conspicuous hill upon the further side with what looked like a castle on
the top: the Brocken: _Walpurgisnacht_, demons and witches and bale
fires fading out in the dawn of May Day.

"That is an hotel on the top," said Britz. "The Russians hold
conferences there sometimes; there is a ballroom for meetings. I myself
have driven a West delegation there, via Helmstedt and back the same
way."

On several occasions Britz turned off the main road to drive down a
subsidiary lane towards the east, and at the end of it there was always
the same thing: the road surface deteriorating to loose gravel, a pole
across the road and, upon the further side, a pit dug and the earth out
of it piled up into a bank, as at Eckertal, and, always, The Wire.

They passed through Braunlage, a small town with shops and people about
the street, and on again until the road ran towards a pine wood and
turned sharply to run beside it. At the corner the driver stopped the
car.

"This is one of the best places to see The Wire. People come here quite
a lot."

Hambledon got out and walked across the wide road margin towards the
barbed-wire fence. The driver came after him and laid a hand upon his
arm.

"Not too near, mein Herr. That line of stone posts is the actual
frontier line. It is wiser not to overstep it." He dropped his voice.
"There is a Vopo there watching the Herr. He is lying on the ground--no,
not so far back. Just beyond the plough here. By this nearest tree."

Hambledon saw him suddenly, although he was only some ten yards away.
There was The Wire, inside it the interminable narrow strip of plough,
beyond the plough the trees, and, at the foot of one of them, a young
man with a red face, flaming auburn hair, and staring brown eyes fixed
on Hambledon. Under his hand there was a machine pistol. The sun struck
down upon reddish-brown tree trunks, the brown carpet of pine needles
and a red-haired young man in a brown uniform, all slightly differing
shades of the same colour.

"I should not have noticed him if you had not told me," said Hambledon.

"They are like that," said Britz. "There are two more further back,
standing up."

"Yes, I see them. There is another upon the watchtower," for there is
one of the numerous tall lookouts at this point.

"I have never seen so many about as there are today," said Britz
uneasily. "One may drive to these various points and hardly see one, but
today they are everywhere."

There were two labourers digging a large hole just inside The Wire. They
worked steadily on and never once glanced over their shoulders towards
the road. One was an old man with sparse white hair round an almost bald
head. Another car pulled up and four people got out. One was a girl with
a camera slung round her neck. As she came forward one of the men in the
party hurried after her, took the camera from her, and carried it back
to the car.

"Are cameras forbidden here?" asked Hambledon, observing this.

"Not forbidden, no. But the Vopos don't like them."

"But surely one can do what one likes outside the Soviet Zone!"

"It is not advisable," said Britz, "to bring them so near."

Another car pulled up behind the last. The people in it got out and
stood round the car, looking but coming no nearer.

"I know those people," said Britz. "Excuse me one moment."

He went away to speak to them and left Hambledon standing in the
sunshine, looking up at the watchtower. It was difficult to see clearly
the man silhouetted against the bright sky and Hambledon shaded his
eyes. The man had binoculars and was looking at him, at closer range
this time than from the other watchtower at Eckertal. What was really
called for, Hambledon felt, was a thoroughly rude gesture.

Britz came back.

"Those people I know," he said, "that old man is their uncle. They heard
that he was working here and they have come up to see him."

"Will they speak to him?"

"Oh, no. It is not allowed, but it is something to be able to say they
have seen him. He had two sons but the Vopos shot them both."

"What----"

"They were escaping," explained Britz. "They got over The Wire but the
Vopos got them before they could reach cover."

"When was this?"

"About three months ago, I think. Some little time ago."

The labourers went on working; the people in the road stood about
watching them and talked in low tones. One of the Vopos lit a cigarette
and the sense of brooding unease was nearly palpable.

"Let us go on," said Hambledon heavily.

"_Schn_," said the driver briskly, and led the way towards his car with
long strides.

They visited several other such stretches where The Wire ran along close
to the road, but they were all the same. The Wire, rusty in the
sunshine, the ploughed strip six or seven feet wide snaking across the
country without a break for mile after mile and, wherever they stopped,
two brown uniforms--the Vopos are usually in pairs--somewhere lurking
just within view.

There was one brighter interlude. Britz saw a party of men working in a
field, hoeing turnips in fact. There were a dozen or so of them and a
Vopo with the usual machine pistol in his hand was walking up and down
in front of them. They were plainly not working any harder than they
could help and every time the Vopo guard on his beat turned his back
upon any of them they left off working at once and leaned upon their
hoes. Britz broke into a laugh and pointed them out as the car swept
past.

"Punishment party. All Vopos. Wonder what they've done. Punishment
fatigue, the Herr knows?"

"In the British Army we call that 'jankers.' What a pity they are not
all doing that."

A little later Hambledon said: "When I was at Eckertal one of the
Frontier Police told me that there was one place where there is no Wire,
somewhere beyond Walkenried, do you know the place?"

"Oh, yes. Between Walkenried and a little place called Neuhof. Nobody
knows why there is no Wire there. There is the ploughed strip and that
is all, but it is very closely watched."

"I should like to go there, please."

"As the Herr wishes, but there are many more beautiful and interesting
places in our Harz than this melancholy _Zonengrenze_. At Walkenried
there is a most interesting ruined abbey----"

"Some other day, perhaps."

"_Schn_," said Britz submissively and drove through Walkenried towards
Neuhof. Here, at a point where the road bent sharply to the right, the
ploughed strip swept up close to the road at the angle and there was no
Wire. Britz stopped the car, Hambledon got out, and a couple of
Volks-polizei who were leaning over a gate thirty yards off turned their
binoculars upon him.

"If a car came along this road too fast and failed to take the turn,"
said Hambledon, "the driver would find himself in the Soviet Zone
whether he wished it or not. Probably with his wheels in the air."

"It has been done," said Britz drily, "but not often."

"What happened?"

"The people were allowed out again after some delay. The car, usually,
not."

"Oh. Britz, is there any way by which a man could travel to Walkenried
from Goslar and not be noticed at this end?"

"Please?"

"I was wondering whether there were any place where a stranger might
inadvertently stray across the frontier, and it seems to me that this is
the only place."

"Ah. But here it is closely watched, as the Herr sees. There was a young
Englishman who went missing the other day, when there was all that fuss
and running about among the Vopos and the Russian Army, too. It was like
upsetting a beehive, they say."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. There was a lot of excitement. It was said on the other side that
he went across to meet a Russian officer and steal some plans of the
frontier defences."

"And what happened to him?"

"He was captured by the Russians but he got away from them, or so it is
said on the other side, mein Herr. So now they are all looking for him
and the Russian officer and, of course, the plans, or so they say on the
other side."

Hambledon drew a long breath.




Chapter 8. Fear


Britz, who had been staring across into the Soviet Zone and speaking
absentmindedly, turned and looked at Hambledon.

"The Herr is evidently interested, perhaps he has heard about this
Englishman? The affair has not been made public."

"I do know about him, Britz. I have come out from England for the
express purpose of finding out what has happened to him."

Britz looked suddenly embarrassed.

"I talk too much--I, who should know better. The police recommended me
to the Herr, he said so this morning. I beg the Herr not to tell the
police that anything is known about what happens on the other side,
especially not to tell them that I know anything. I beg the Herr,
please. The police do not know anything about it, please----"

"So the Chief of Police told me this morning. I see no reason why I
should inform them. They are quite capable of managing their own affairs
and I am here to obtain information, not give it."

"Then the Herr will not tell them?"

"No."

"I thank the Herr. If the police knew that there was communication
across The Wire----"

"They guess it, Britz. Any intelligent man would. There must be
communication; it would be impossible to stop it completely."

"So long as they do not know how it is done or who knows about it----"

"Why are you so afraid of their knowing?"

Blitz's eyes went to left and right.

"Let us get back in the car and drive away. We can be private in the
car."

Hambledon agreed. He looked back as they drove off; the two Vopos who
had been leaning on the gate had climbed over it and were walking slowly
towards them. When the car had passed through Walkenried again Hambledon
repeated his question.

"It is only because, if the police knew there were means of getting news
out, they would be demanding it all the time. What is happening
there--what is that new building for--can you get a message through to
such a man? Then pressure would be applied. It would be insupportable,
the Herr sees that. It is all far too dangerous."

Hambledon saw quite plainly that if it were the Soviet intention to
establish a reign of fear along that frontier, they had succeeded
admirably. The cameras which it was "inadvisable" to produce; the
relatives who dared not speak to an unhappy old man; the hotels in
Hohegeiss, Braunlage, and Walkenried, once tourist centres, now empty
because German visitors will not sleep at night so near the Russians;
the fieldworkers on the other side who kept their faces turned away from
the West and would not even look----

What was even more revealing was the fact that it did not apparently
enter the head of a single German to do a single thing about it. They
were terrified and did not care who knew it. They cowered.

Hambledon averted his mind from the ugly picture and concentrated upon
the task which he had come there to perform.

"I shall not tell the police anything about it," he said, "upon
condition that you tell me everything you know. This young man, where is
he now?"

"I have told the Herr all I know, I think. It is all vague, nobody knows
anything definitely; and when stories are whispered from one to another
they are not very reliable, the Herr knows? Some plans were stolen from,
it is said, the Russian Army by an officer, and this young Englishman
had them. He was captured and escaped again. The Russians were still
looking for him yesterday so he must be in hiding somewhere but nobody
knows where. If anyone were hiding him they would not talk, naturally."

"I suppose not. No."

"May I ask the Herr a question? Has he been up to The Wire before? Has
he made himself, how shall I say it, conspicuous? Not wishing to appear
inquisitive, but I have never seen so many Vopos about before. Wherever
the Herr stopped and alighted, there they were. Often and often I have
driven along here and seen one or two, no more, but today----One would
say they recognised the Herr."

"Recognised me? How the devil could they when I have never been along
here before?"

"They might have photographs. On those watchtowers of theirs they have
cameras with telephoto lenses and if anyone seems to be taking too much
interest in The Wire and might be troublesome, a photograph is taken and
circulated. Then they watch for that person to come again. They are very
good photographs," added Britz, "if the light has been good. I have seen
some of them."

"They can," said the irritated Hambledon, "take photographs of the
backside of the road sweeper's female donkey if they like and I hope
they go cross-eyed studying them. They are not civilised."

"They are subhuman," said Britz calmly.

"Britz. Is it possible for a man to pass into the Soviet Zone provided
he knew where to go and what to avoid and had contacts warned to expect
his----"

"No."

"But----"

"No. It is not possible. Listen, mein Herr. When I came across three
years and more ago--three years and ten months--I left behind in
Ilsenburg my fiance. I begged her to come out with me, but her mother
was ill and could not be left. Afterwards, when she was well again, it
was too late. It is too difficult for a girl to get out; an active young
man too often fails to do it. It is not The Wire itself, it is the
control of movements on the other side, the restricted zones, the
necessary passes, the----Does not the Herr believe that if it were
possible to go across I should do it? Not to see or speak to one's
future wife for nearly four years, it is hard. I get news of her from
time to time, yes. She is well, this and that happens, but to see her,
no."

"Do people never come out, legally, by Helmstedt?"

"Oh, yes. Communists, with a job to do in the West. There are plenty of
those about in the Western Zone, the Herr must know, but not my Elise,
to join a man of military age who has skipped it to the West. Besides,
if she could make the journey and evade the Vopos and pass The Wire and
get clear away, they would take reprisals on her family, on her parents.
One cannot have that. I tried to arrange something not so long ago but
she would not come. The tears were running down her face as I begged her
to listen, but she dared not. One does not know what they would do in
revenge. They used to allow escorted parties of students to come across,
under strict escort you understand, to join in our Jugendbund
activities, camping and music and so on, but not now."

There was a short pause.

"So you do go across," said Hambledon quietly.

Britz uttered an angry expletive and slammed his hand against the
steering wheel. The next moment he apologised.

"I beg the Herr's forgiveness, the word I used was meant for myself, not
for him. It makes me angry every time I think of it, to be kept apart
from my fiance all these years, and when will it end? She and I should
have been married before this and sharing our lives together, not
wasting our best years in sterility. It preys on my mind; the Herr will
please excuse me."

"Of course. It is abominable tyranny."

Britz forced a laugh. "The Herr is really not a safe companion for a man
with secrets on his mind. The Herr is altogether too easy to talk to."

Hambledon had made his very considerable reputation largely by being
"easy to talk to," but naturally did not admit it. He said merely that a
strong emotion long suppressed was always liable to escape in speech in
any unguarded moment; it was natural, it was understandable. But it
could be inadvisable.

"The Herr is perfectly right," said Britz gloomily.

"Britz, will you try to get some news about the young Englishman for
me?"

Britz looked doubtful.

"I do not believe one word," went on Hambledon, "of all this story about
his going over to meet a Russian officer and steal confidential papers.
Storybook stuff. Rubbish. He is a young student at the University of
Oxford, of which you may have heard. He is of a quiet and retiring
disposition and working hard for a degree in law. He is rather young for
his age, takes no interest in politics and knows nothing about the Army.
He has not even done his military service; that was postponed until he
had finished his studies. I don't suppose he knows a multiple pom-pom
from a regimental cooker. He is a babe in arms--especially in arms."

Britz laughed.

"I did tell the Herr that whispered rumours were apt to be unreliable.
This one seems to be even wider of the mark than most. The poor young
man, I am sorry for him. From the story I heard, I took him to be a man
well able to look after himself, not a dreamy student with his head full
of dusty law. I suppose there are not two Englishmen loose in the Soviet
Zone? May I ask the student's name?"

"Micklejohn. I have not heard of another man being missing and I think I
should have been told. It may be that there is a hunt on for the missing
Russian and, possibly, for Micklejohn, too, if he was seen, and the two
stories have got mixed together in people's minds."

"It is very possible. Micklejohn, I have it right? Micklejohn. I will
see what I can do, mein Herr, not before Monday at earliest, but I will
try. Today is Saturday and tomorrow Sunday, many people go up to The
Wire on Sunday, their free day, and it is closely watched. May I offer
the Herr, most respectfully, a word of advice?"

"What is it?"

"Let the Herr be careful of himself, even in Goslar as well as when he
travels about. Yes, even in Goslar. There are plenty of Communists in
Western Germany, as no doubt the Herr knows, and the Russians have many
agents especially near the _Zonengrenze_. There are British troops
stationed near by Goslar and they are a source of interest in
themselves."

"Yes, no doubt they would be. What sort of thing had you in mind when
you warned me?"

Britz shrugged his shoulders. "Anything. Strange things do happen."

"Abductions?"

"The police would say no."

"Of course they would," said Hambledon crisply. "I should, in their
place. I am grateful to you for your warning and I will take
precautions."



Herr Otto Neumann, once a schoolmaster and now a farm labourer in the
Soviet Zone, came again, as promised, to visit George Micklejohn in his
attic.

"I hope that the Herr has almost recovered from his injuries?"

"How kind of you to ask. The injuries are nothing, I have almost
forgotten about them, but I shall fade away very soon if I have to stay
here much longer. The heat is nearly insupportable, there is no window
which opens, the air is full of dust, and I haven't stood upright for
two days."

Neumann clucked sympathetically and said that he had brought
identification papers for the Herr "such as we ordinary people carry.
They will not pass the Herr within the five-kilometre zone--it is
necessary to remember that--but they will serve for a little stroll in
the evenings to take the air, especially if care is taken
unostentatiously to avoid the Volks-polizei. The local ones are not such
savages as those who patrol the frontier, but they are still police and
should be avoided."

"Karl has promised to take me out this evening. I am, I believe, a
nephew of his on holiday from Magdeburg."

"That is right, I have it here. You are Georg Melcher of 247 Bahnhof
Strasse, Magdeburg. The Herr will remember to answer to that name? And
the address, if asked for, but of course the Herr will memorise the
details on this paper. The Herr has, perhaps, some money? I am ashamed,
but I have not, myself, more than enough to buy food----"

"Oh, please," said George, and plunged his hands into his pockets. "I've
only got West marks and that blighter Lentov went off with my travellers
cheques in my passport, not that they would be any good over here, I
suppose. Still, I cashed a cheque yesterday, so----"

"It is to obtain clothes and shoes, especially shoes. These the Herr is
wearing are far too good, they will attract attention at once, and the
English suit is most noticeable. Oh, no, that is far too much money.
West marks are worth far more than East marks and the clothes will be
cheap and not good, I fear. The Herr will not like them but it is
necessary if he wishes to go out."

"My dear Herr Neumann, I would change clothes with a scarecrow, if
necessary, to get a little fresh air and straighten my spine again."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I will go now and get something which will
serve. I have here a German-Russian dictionary." Neumann dragged from
his pocket a small fat book, dirty and dog-eared and with one cover
hanging by threads. "It is to-the-last-degree dilapidated and I fear
some of the pages are missing but it is the best I could get. The Herr
can entertain himself with translating the late General Vedovitch's
programme notes." Neumann smiled gently.

"The _late_ General Vedovitch?"

"Even so. You see, it did not look well for him, did it? He has
annotated maps and pages of notes about the reorganised frontier
defences. Does he guard them with his life? No. He gives them to a
Russian civilian who is already suspected of pro-British leanings----"

"Pro-British!" said George, with a shout of laughter. "I must say he
concealed them very well!"

"He loathed the British, it is said, but he was not trusted, for all
that. I was saying, General Vedovitch gave the plans to Lentov and let
him drive away in a car with a British prisoner----"

"And an escort with a horrible-looking gun----"

"You rid yourselves of the escort, did you not, upon some pretext? I
argue as the Russian High Command are arguing. Lentov and the Englishman
and, above all, the papers are missing, though it is true that the car
was found, wrecked. It follows, therefore, that either Vedovitch
connived at your escape to curry favour with the Western powers, or he
was made a fool of by a simple trick. Fool or traitor, it does not
matter, they come to arrest him and he blows his brains out."

Micklejohn was conscious of a certain degree of shock, it was the first
time in his sheltered life that any man whom he had known personally had
done himself to death, and so violently. Micklejohn was, as Hambledon
had said, young for his age. The old schoolmaster watched the changing
expressions cross George's face but said nothing, and eventually the boy
summed up.

"Well, I expect he'd bumped off plenty of people in his time. So the
Russians think that Lentov and I were working together, do they? How
silly. By the way, you said that these papers are details of the
frontier defences, didn't you? Are you sure----"

"No. That is why I want you to make an effort to check them. You have a
young, active, and trained mind; my own is blunted with suffering.
Besides, you have nothing to do at the moment and I have too much. Do
you see what you can make of the papers and I will go out and get you
some clothes. _Auf Wiedersehen._"

Neumann went off with a sum of money so small in George's eyes as to be
quite inadequate, but presumably the German knew his business. He came
back in an hour's time with a shirt of some harsh material that
scarified George's unaccustomed skin, workman's blue overalls of the
bib-and-brace type; a pair of heavy shoes so stiff that they made
Micklejohn feel like a Noah's Ark figure from the nursery at home--Shem,
Ham, or Japheth standing immovable upon a round base; and a peaked cap
such as German workmen wear.

"The overalls are secondhand but clean, it would not be wise to have all
new clothes at once. The other things are new and here is the money left
over."

Micklejohn, scarlet with embarrassment, tried to find an inoffensive
phrase to beg the old man to keep the change and a little over, and was
relieved to find that he was delighted to have it.

"For we are paid starvation rates and my clothes are what I stand up in.
I thank the Herr most sincerely. Now, would he like to come downstairs?
Karl waits below to take you out."




Chapter 9. King Charles


The moment when Micklejohn stepped out of the stuffy airless cottage
into the pine-scented evening air was one of the most delicious he had
ever experienced. His own clothes were taken out of the house in case it
should be searched. He refused to receive any money for them although
apparently they were valuable merchandise, especially the shoes. They
disappeared and he never asked what became of them, but Karl acquired a
new pullover and his wife a new kettle and a blanket, for which they
solemnly thanked him.

Two or three days passed. Micklejohn kept close to the cottage and
obtained fresh air and exercise by digging Karl's potatoes. A few old
and trusted friends, Hans among them, dropped in to see Karl's nephew
from the great city of Magdeburg, but the nephew could only speak in a
whisper. He had, it was said, been suffering from a throat infection and
had come to the country for his health.

"Your German," explained Otto Neumann, "is far too good. It is the
German of the old nobility and there are none left here. Can you
stammer? No, better not speak at all, or as little as possible, a word
at a time and the hand to the throat, you know? Yes."

George worked hard at General Vedovitch's papers and, considering that
he had to start by teaching himself the Russian alphabet, he made good
progress. He reported to Neumann.

"You were quite right. This is a thing called the Smirnov Plan for
defence against attack from the West. These sheets are concerned with
all the details and these signs on the top of the sheets refer to
similar signs"--he pointed them out--"on the map here, and here. You
see?"

Neumann nodded.

"I think the British should have these," finished Micklejohn. "I suppose
that would be possible. Things are passed across The Wire as a matter of
course, no doubt."

"Things are passed, but not as a matter of course and there is always
considerable doubt about it," said Neumann a little sharply. "The Herr
does not yet realise the state of affairs here."

George apologised and Neumann's expression softened.

"We have lived so many years as--let us face it--as prisoners," he said,
"that it is as difficult for us to appreciate the point of view of the
Herr, who has always been free, as it is for the Herr to realise what it
is like to live in a concentration camp. However, there is an
organisation which deals with such matters. I will get in touch with
them and explain what is wanted to be done."

Micklejohn amused himself by making a neat parcel of the Smirnov Plan
and sealing it with cobbler's wax. Neumann talked on and the deaf old
woman pottered about attending to a stew simmering in a pot over the
fire and occasionally interjecting a comment which had no bearing
whatever upon what was being said. Karl's cottage was well outside the
village and so close against the edge of the woods that on windy nights
branches rubbed upon the roof like soft hands seeking entrance.
Micklejohn, in his attic, had found this a little disconcerting until he
found out what caused it.

"Karl is late," said his wife suddenly, in the toneless voice of the
very deaf. "I say, Karl is late tonight."

"Something has delayed him," shouted Neumann in reply and got up to look
out of the window. Before he reached it there came a sudden rush of
flying feet and a boy of about twelve, Hans's son, put a terrified face
in at the casement.

"They are coming," he said hoarsely, "searching the village--we are
surrounded--Father says get out." The face vanished and the boy dived
through a hole in the hedge.

Micklejohn sprang to his feet and Neumann thrust the parcel at him.

"Inside your shirt--go out by the back door--hide in the woods."

George pushed the parcel down the front of his shirt as he ran for the
back door. A quick glance round the corner of the woodshed showed him a
line of men in uniforms, spaced out like beaters, advancing from the
village.

"Russians," gasped Neumann. "Run!"

Micklejohn leapt for the woods and ran, turning and twisting among the
trees. He stopped for a moment to look and listen and there came a
whistle ahead of him, and another.

"They are all round," he said to himself. "Now don't panic. Fatal to
panic."

He leaned panting against the trunk of a big tree and the parcel under
his shirt scraped his skin. To be caught with that on him----

The tree against which he was leaning was an oak; an automatic
association of ideas leapt into his mind.

"King Charles," he said, half aloud, and sprang at a low branch.



Britz came to see Hambledon on Tuesday morning as promised; Micklejohn
had then been missing for a full week.

"I have brought the car," said Britz. "If the Herr will be so good as to
order me to drive him to, say, Hahnenklee, we can talk in the car
without risk of being overheard, if the Herr pleases."

Hambledon played up.

"It is a nice day," he remarked as they strolled through the entrance
hall of the hotel. "I should like to go somewhere, I think. Someone was
telling me about Hahnenklee, though I've forgotten exactly what there is
about the place--is it far?"

"Oh, no, mein Herr, half an hour, less than that. There is the Miners'
Church there, very interesting. All built of wood and not a nail in the
whole structure."

There were people standing about in the hall, as people always do in
hotels; some of them were staying there and Hambledon nodded to them in
passing.

"I shall be interested," said Tommy unblushingly.

"The scenery also," said Britz, "is delightful."

They got into the car and drove away; two men strolling on the pavement
opposite to the hotel glanced into the car in passing. As soon as Britz
had disentangled himself from the municipal dust cart, a local bus, and
a waggon drawn by two horses, Hambledon said: "Well?"

"Not very well. The Herr Micklejohn was being hidden in a woodman's
cottage, but the Russians encircled that area yesterday and entered and
searched all the houses."

"Did they catch him?"

"It is not known, mein Herr. At least, he was not seen to be led away,
but he might have been and my friends not have seen it. The news comes
from the perimeter of the operation, the Herr understands, the Russians
were about there a long time and it was not safe to go in."

"I see. No one overheard anything that was said----"

"They were all speaking Russian and very few understand it."

"No. What happened to the people who were sheltering him?"

"I do not know, mein Herr."

"I suppose that he may have got away."

"It is possible," said Britz noncommittally.

"I wonder why the Russians suddenly searched that area."

"I do not know, mein Herr. It may be that they are searching everywhere
and came to that place in its turn, or it may be that someone talked."

"Where is this place?"

"A small village just south of Ilsenburg. My informant did not know its
name."

"It does not sound too good," said Hambledon.

"No, mein Herr. But there is always hope."

Hambledon grunted and there was a short silence.

"If the Herr is interested," said Britz, in the tone of one who is happy
to introduce a more cheerful subject, "there is news of the Russian who
disappeared with the papers."

"Oh?"

"His name is Lentov, Andrey Lentov. He was not an Army officer but a
civilian in charge of that area, an official of the Civil Administration
of Occupied Territories."

"Indeed."

"They gave me a photograph of him," said Britz, fumbling in his pocket
for his wallet. "They thought the authorities here might like to have it
in case he had got across to this side, and I thought the Herr might be
so good as to pass it on." Britz stopped the car while he took a small
print out of his wallet. "Here it is."

Hambledon glanced casually at it, looked again more closely, and gave no
sign of any particular interest.

"Andrey Lentov, you said. An official in the organisation for the
control of Occupied Territories. Very well. I shall be seeing the Chief
of Police in Goslar today and I will give it to him. He will know to
whom it should be passed on if he does not want the information
himself."

"And if he should ask where the Herr obtained it----"

"It will be in vain."

"_Schn_," said Britz contentedly.

"You will do all that you can to get further news of the Herr
Micklejohn, please."

"I will do what I can, certainly, but it is very difficult just now. The
disturbance on the other side is not yet at an end and it is still
necessary to be extra careful about where one goes and to whom one is
seen talking."

"Did you, then, go across on Monday night?"

"What, with the frontier in that uproar? Heaven forbid!"

Hambledon thought to himself that Britz would certainly forbid it if
Heaven did not, but it would be useless to ask questions to which he
would certainly not receive answers. He assumed that there was probably
a hidden telephone working somewhere, but the passing of a photograph
implied personal contact. He tried another line of approach.

"Is there any smuggling across The Wire? I have had a good deal of
experience of frontiers in one place and another and I have never known
one where smugglers did not operate if it were really worth their while.
I remember hearing about a case of smuggling brandy from France into
Belgium, the operators laid down a pipe across the frontier, just
underground you understand; they simply poured cognac into the pipe on
the French side and their friends on the Belgian side merely turned on a
tap and collected the outcome."

Britz laughed.

"How long did this continue?"

"Until there was very clearly far more cognac in Belgium than was
covered by the customs duty receipts. Then there was a real search made
and the source was discovered."

It is only human nature to cap one story with another.

"There used to be a great deal of smuggling across our Zonal Frontier
before it was tightened up," said Britz. "Clothes and boots mainly; for
some reason they cannot make boots in the Soviet Zone. It is said that
they have no leather but I cannot understand that, since they have
cattle and horses in large numbers and they all have hides."

"One would think so. What did they exchange for these things, or did
they pay money for them?"

"Hams, mein Herr, principally. The East mark is worth much less than
ours so for them to pay in money would come very dear to them."

"I can't see anyone staggering up to The Wire with a load of hams."

"Not now, no. All that trade is at an end, but there was good money made
out of it while it lasted."

No doubt, but where a photograph can be passed other things can be
passed also. However, Britz was plainly not going to talk about it. He
changed the subject with some decision and Hambledon did not persist.

When they returned to Goslar, Hambledon went to see the Chief of Police.

"I have something to show you," said Tommy. "I fear it has not helped me
to find Micklejohn but I thought it might interest you." He laid the
photograph of Lentov upon the desk and the Chief picked it up.

"I have seen this man--of course! It is the man whom you found dead in
your room. Who is he, do you know?"

"Andrey Lentov, a Russian civilian administrator of Occupied
Territories----"

"I have heard of him. He is--was--in control of the sector opposite to
us here. He was much disliked."

"I rather gathered that somebody didn't like him."

"Do you know who shot him?"

"I have not the faintest idea."

"Nor why he was shot in your room?"

"Nor that, either. Since he was in Micklejohn's room with Micklejohn's
passport, there is a connection somewhere but I have no idea of what it
is."

The Chief of Police grunted and looked again at the photograph.

"It is the same man, there is no doubt at all. Where the devil did you
get this, eh?"

"Just came across it," said Hambledon blandly.

"I see," said the German, and asked no more.

"Tell me," said Hambledon, "is there no means at all of getting into the
Soviet Zone legally?"

"There is, such as it is. If you are a member of a family resident in
the Soviet Zone and there is really important business to be
settled--family business--perhaps someone has died and there is property
to be divided--it is possible to apply for a permit to visit the place.
If you are very lucky the permit may be granted after a lapse of three
months or so. The permit will allow you to enter the zone at Helmstedt,
travel to the place you want to visit by a specified route, stay a
specified number of days, and return by the same route, not diverging
from it. While you are at the town or village you may walk about within
its boundaries but you will not go outside them until you leave again
for Helmstedt. And, of course, if the Russians have anything against
you, such as having illegally fled the country, you would be very silly
indeed to go back at all."

"That is no good. Three months hence is far too long to help
Micklejohn."

"The Herr had some idea of finding out where he was and arranging a good
excuse for a journey there? It would be a great risk but it might be
possible, apart from the delay."

"Is it always three months?"

"Or longer. Or they do not answer at all."

Hambledon shook his head.

"There are, no doubt, cases where a man has successfully crossed The
Wire and made his way into the interior without being caught."

"Herr Hambledon, if you are tired of life I recommend the attempt."

"I asked you----"

"I know you did. I have heard stories of men who have done it but I
would not vouch for their truth. The five-kilometre zone inside The
Wire--let me explain that----"

"I have heard about it."

"Very well, then. Even if by some miracle you passed that you would
still be under surveillance. Papers would be necessary and a proof that
you had a right to be there doing whatever you were doing, and a
background for your life, relatives, previous employment, and so on. Any
police officer can demand your credentials and you would have to supply
them."

"I believe there is a song or an oratorio or something," said Hambledon,
getting to his feet, "called 'Oh, for the Wings of a Dove.' How I
sympathise."

"Not a dove, Herr Hambledon. She would not be safe."

Hambledon left the police station. Twenty yards along the street two men
were looking into a shopwindow, they did not look round as Hambledon
passed, but he recognised them. They were the two who had watched him
drive off from his hotel that morning.



Micklejohn climbed high into his oak tree, selected a comfortable
crotch, and settled down to wait. The short summer night passed, the
dawn broke, and the sun rose; with the returning light the search was
resumed and Micklejohn, peering between leaves, saw the uniformed men
still diligently searching the hedgerows, beating the coverts, and going
into barns. Voices and footsteps below froze him to immobility and
passed him by.

"'And far below the Roundhead rode,'" quoted Micklejohn, "'and humm'd a
surly hymn.' I wish they'd go away, I want my breakfast. Now I come to
think of it, I didn't have any supper, either." He laid a hand over the
area of gnawing emptiness and added: "Curse the Russians."




Chapter 10. Banger and Bacon


At about midday there came a hopeful change of scene. The soldiers could
be seen to be gathering together in groups; Micklejohn climbed higher up
the tree to a point from which he could see the road. Whistles were
blown, presumably to recall stragglers.

"'Trumpeter,'" said Micklejohn, who had a regrettable habit of
quotation, "'what are you sounding now? Is it the call I'm seeking?'"

Lorries came up the road in convoy and the soldiers climbed in, a few
belated arrivals came, running, and scrambled in as the vehicles moved
off. The village street was left silent and deserted.

"I wonder if they've all gone or is it a trick to get me out of hiding?
Nobody moving yet; they think there's a catch in it. Yes, there's young
Erich Meyer from the sawmill. And his father, and the old woman from the
post office. Ha."

He began to climb down quickly, but lack of food and sleep and too much
excitement took hold of him and suddenly his head swam. He crawled down
with painful care to the crotch where he had spent the night, sat down,
and put his head between his knees. The giddiness passed and presently
he heard someone moving about below. He stiffened and waited, listening
intently. The man below was whistling. The tune was vaguely familiar
without being quite recognisable, it reminded him of something--ah!

The whistling noise was Hans trying to remember "Tipperary."

Micklejohn swung and slithered from one branch to another and dropped
from the last branch to the ground. Hans rushed up and shook him warmly
by the hand.

"_Gott sei Dank_, you are safe!"

"But starving," said Micklejohn. "My stomach is sticking to my
backbone."

"Naturally. It would be. Come with me."

"Are they all gone? Karl and his wife, are they all right?"

"Yes, the Russians are gone. They searched Karl's house. You had left
your cigarette case on the table but the old lady saw it and dropped it
in the stew, yes, even as the soldiers came through the door she did
that."

"Good job it was empty. Can I go back there now?"

"For something to eat, yes, but not to stay. The Russians asked Karl
where was his nephew and he said you went back to Magdeburg yesterday,
so you must not be seen there again. Someone has told them about you and
may tell them again if you stay there. We will find somewhere else for
you to go."

Micklejohn was fed and banished to the attic again until after dark,
when he was taken to Neumann's cottage.

"They say it is safest under the lamp," said Neumann. "I hope it is
true. The house next door"--he pointed--"it is the Volks-polizeiamt."

"Good gracious! But----"

"On the other side"--the long finger swivelled round--"the sausage
factory. Herr Muller is short of labour. He had engaged a new man from
Ilsenburg but the man has had an accident and cannot come. You are the
new man from Ilsenburg. I have your papers here."

"Does Herr Muller know----?"

"He does, but he will pretend not to. You will go to work like the
others and do what you are told."

"Certainly. I only hope I give satisfaction."

Neumann smiled slowly. "To work the big mincing machine it is not
necessary to have had a college education, but I expect you will make
good. You will live here with me, you can go to work by the back door
and never appear in the street. It may be the Vopos will never see you,
but, if they do, you are working the mincing machine. Yes? Good."

"It is you who are good," stammered Micklejohn. "I--I cannot begin to
thank you, you take all this trouble, you run these frightful risks for
a total stranger, it is unbelievable--Karl and his wife too----"

"Herr Micklejohn," said the old man, "we are poor and in misery, but we
are still Christians."

George was infuriated to find that he could not speak.

"Besides," went on Neumann, in a lighter tone, "we lead wearisomely dull
lives here. We work, we eat and then we sleep and tomorrow is like today
and so the months pass. To have a secret, to make plans, to foresee
difficulties, it is a little excitement, you know? It will be something
to talk about among ourselves when the dark evenings come and you are
safely at home in England again. Let us not get emotional about it.
Emotion clouds the judgement."

"Tell me," said George, "something about this man whom I am to
impersonate."

"Here are his identity papers," said Neumann, fumbling in an inner
pocket. "You may as well take them at once, you will have to carry them
always. Give me the other papers I made out for you. I will put them
away, they may come in useful for some other unfortunate. So."

"'Gustav Ehrlich,'" read Micklejohn aloud, "'born at Stettin on April 6,
1932'--I've grown three years older all in a moment--'grey eyes,' that's
lucky; 'brown hair,' that's all right, mine's getting browner every day;
'height 175.5 cm.,' that's"----George engaged in mathematics with the
help of his fingers. "Oh well, I shall have to slouch along with my
knees bent. 'No distinguishing characteristics,' that's a good thing. Be
a bit awkward if he'd had a wooden leg, wouldn't it? But what happens if
he turns up?"

"He will not," said Neumann cheerfully, "for he is dead and buried deep.
He was--he was very much disliked. He was a tool of the Russians. When
there was trouble among the workers at Breslau he wormed his way into
their confidence and then betrayed them. When their leaders were
executed some of their friends took an oath to execute Ehrlich, so he
left Breslau very quickly. The Russians sent him into West Germany, to
Dortmund, I think--it does not matter. He got into trouble again there,
a police matter, I believe, and again had to run for it. He came in
secretly over the frontier because the West German police would have
stopped him at Helmstedt. But we who are not Communist were looking out
for him, you understand. He had not been forgotten, no. But his Russian
masters were not pleased with him either. He was in disgrace with them
too, so he said he would take a job somewhere and live quietly for a
little. His nerves had been affected, he said. His nerves!" said
Neumann, with an angry snort. "He was coming to Ilsenburg but he did not
reach it, he is dead and buried and here are his papers."

"But," objected Micklejohn, "quite apart from one's natural objection to
taking over the identity of that--that infernal scoundrel, is it a good
idea? Because plenty of people must know him personally. I gather that
he was quite well known."

"Ach no! A very minor devilkin. Soviet Germany is full of two-mark
Ehrlichs. And he was not known in these parts at all, only in Breslau in
Silesia and that is a long way off. No, there is no risk of that, and
those who tracked down Ehrlich and killed him will not speak. No, what
we thought was this. The Russians will let him alone for a time and then
it may be they will send him orders to go back to the Western Zone. That
would suit you very well, would it not? To be ordered into the West
Zone?"

George said it sounded almost too good to be true. An ideal arrangement
if it came off. "But tell me, was it in fact this Ehrlich whom Herr
Muller had engaged to work his sausage machine?"

"Ach, no. That is only the story he tells. It is true that he wants
another man, but if Ehrlich had come I think he would have gone into the
mincing machine. There are always dogs to be fed," added Neumann
savagely. Young Micklejohn shuddered; the old man saw it and changed the
subject. "Now then, I have something here to show you."

He opened a book which lay on the table and took out a photograph, an
unmounted print, small but very clear. It showed a broad-shouldered man
against a background of pine trees. He held a pair of binoculars in his
hands and appeared to be looking up straight at the camera.

"Do you know this man?"

Micklejohn studied the print and shook his head.

"I don't know him at all, never seen him before to my knowledge. An
Englishman, by his clothes. Who is he?"

"He is an Englishman staying at Goslar in order, it is said, to enquire
about you."

"Oh, really? Indeed. I suppose he is someone my father has sent out to
look for me. What is his name?"

"Hambledon."

George shook his head again. "No. But can one get a message through to
him? My people must be getting anxious."

"I am trying to arrange for that, but it is not easy."

"No, I know. I am beginning"--George smiled apologetically--"to realise
the state of affairs over here. You told me that I did not and you were
quite right, but I am learning fast. I tell you what I think: this man
would be a good person to send these papers to, if one could." He
fumbled inside his shirt. "Ouch! That cobbler's wax has got warm and
stuck to my skin. This man, Hamilton or whatever his name is, if my
father has sent him out he will be a good chap. Capable, you know. Where
did this photograph come from? How did you get it?"

"The Vopos took it, they have telephoto lenses on their cameras. This
man was seen repeatedly along The Wire, examining it and looking across.
So they took the photograph and circulated it so that he could be
recognised, you know. One of the prints went astray, as it were, and
came to me. The name is Hambledon, you had it not quite right."

"Hambledon, yes. I have torn the covering paper on this packet getting
it off my skin, and the Smirnov Plan is falling out."

"One moment, I have paper and string here."

"There ought to be a covering note," said Micklejohn, "don't you agree?
It's a thousand to one this man Hambledon cannot read Russian and he
will not have any idea what it is. Too bad if he only used it to wrap up
sandwiches, after all our trouble."

"The Herr is quite right----"

"I will write a note on the back of one of these sheets."

"No, no. English handwriting is very unlike German. If this packet is
intercepted it will announce that you are still within the zone. I will
write it."

"But suppose Hamil--Hambledon cannot read German either?"

"He must know German or your father would not have sent him out to make
enquiries. But if it is in German anyone here would be able to read it;
you are right, it should be in English--I have it. Do you write the
message in English and I will copy it in German script. Thus we shall
have the best of both worlds. How refreshingly unusual!"

Micklejohn wrote a short message in block capitals. Neumann copied it
out, the draft was burnt, and the message enclosed in the package.

"There," said George, "all neat and clean again, what an improvement! I
seem to have come off a bit on the other wrapping, what a horrid idea.
Can I possibly, do you think, need a bath?"

"You English and your baths, they are famous! You shall have a wash in a
hand basin before you retire. Tell me, you speak of your father, is he
connected with the Herr Augustus Micklejohn of your British Foreign
Affairs?"

"The Foreign Secretary. Yes, that's him. I mean, he is my father."

Neumann's jaw dropped. "But this is very serious."

"Why? Does it matter?"

"You are very young," said Neumann severely, "but there is no necessity
to be childish."

Micklejohn thought this was a little much and threw his chin up. "No
doubt I am excessively stupid," he began, but Neumann's hand closed upon
his arm.

"Do not be offended with me, I only mean that you are evidently an
innocent in these matters. Your father is now in Bonn endeavouring to
persuade the West German Government to arm themselves with atomic
weapons."

Micklejohn nodded. "He is going all round Western Europe offering people
atomic missiles," he said. "I don't take any interest in politics,
myself. I've had them talked over my head ever since I was in the
nursery and I'm bored stiff with them. I have trained myself not to
listen, but I did read something about it in the _Hanoversche Presse_ at
Goslar----"

"Listen," said Neumann impressively. "The Russians are very angry with
your father. They do not want the nations armed with atomic weapons----"

"I don't blame them."

"If they had you in their hands they could bring pressure to bear on
your father."

"What do you mean? Threaten to bump me off if he didn't give up the
idea? That's ridiculous, it wouldn't work. Why, even if my father
resigned his post--which he wouldn't--some other man would take it on.
It is the policy of the Government, not a private scheme of my
father's."

"But such pressure would cause a great deal of trouble and probably
delay. You must not be discovered, whatever the cost."

Micklejohn thought this over for a moment and a slow smile spread widely
across his face.

"Poor old Dad," he said, "would be livid."



Britz came to the Drei Bullochsen a few days later.

"There is news," he said. "The Herr Micklejohn escaped the Russian
search and is now being hidden elsewhere."

"I am delighted to hear it. Where is he?"

"In the same village but in a different house. Formerly he was in a
woodman's hut at the edge of the forest, outside the village. Now he is
in a house in the village itself. It is said that he has obtained
employment of some kind, but I do not know what, mein Herr."

"Good lad. What is the name of the village?"

"Waldecke, a little south of Ilsenburg. It is very small and
unimportant, but the Herr will find it on a good map."

"Do you know what name he goes by?"

"No, mein Herr."

"Or the name of the people who are sheltering him?"

"No, mein Herr."

"Find out for me, will you? The name he goes by, whose house he lives
in, where he works."

"I will do my best," said Britz dubiously, "but it is all very
difficult, as the Herr knows."

I should know by now, said Hambledon to himself, you have said so often
enough. "Would it be possible to get a message to him, if necessary?" he
added aloud.

"I will try to find out. A verbal message, perhaps, not a written note."

The two men who had appeared to be taking an interest in Hambledon were
still in evidence. He continued to see them at increasingly frequent
intervals, though he told himself that the increased frequency might be
due to the fact that he was now looking for them. It seemed that
whenever he went out he saw them at some time or other; if he went into
a caf for a drink, they dropped in for a glass of beer. If he strolled
about the town, they also would be deciphering Gothic inscriptions on
mediaeval houses or admiring ties in Karstadt's windows, but they never
appeared to look at him or display the slightest interest in him. Only,
they were always there.

One was lean and saturnine, the other stouter, fair-haired and rubicund,
and both were well dressed. Hambledon asked about them from a caf
proprietor whom he knew, a policeman, and one or two others, but no one
knew who they were or where they lived. "They speak good German," said
the caf proprietor, "not a local dialect, mein Herr. I thought myself
that one of them came from the Rhineland."

The policeman shook his head and said that they were strangers to
Goslar, not local residents, but the town was full of visitors, as the
Herr knew; these men might come from anywhere, being on holiday.

One evening Hambledon decided to turn the tables and trail them. He was
good at trailing people, having had much practice at that most difficult
art, but they seemed to have a sixth sense in such things. They turned
down a side street; when Hambledon reached the corner they were not
there but when he returned to his hotel for dinner they were there
before him, having soup at a small table in the window. Why not? The
restaurant was open to the public.

Hambledon sat down to his own dinner and a little later a Swede who was
also staying in the hotel came to his table. His name was Petersen, a
cheerful and friendly soul though not, perhaps, quite so abstemious as
his best friends might have wished. He was on holiday and intended to
enjoy himself in his own way; if this involved getting tipsy every
evening, at least he was never noisy or tiresome and Germans are notably
broad-minded about drink. The hotel staff used to help him to bed at
night and send him up strong coffee in the morning. Hambledon rather
liked him. He was refreshingly carefree in a town where everyone seemed
to be apprehensive and uneasy. The people of Goslar, one feels, do not
sleep soundly at night.

Petersen asked if Hambledon was coming up to the Zwinger. "There is what
they call an International Evening laid on tonight, it's quite good fun.
Parties, you know, from the various nationalities staying in Goslar;
Norwegians and Danes and Dutchmen and even some English people, and lots
from my own country. This town must be packed out with visitors. Oh, and
a lot of the locals, of course. It's quite a place, the Zwinger, you
ought to see it."

"Oh, really? Where is it?"

"Down near the--what is it--something Chapel. It's all that is left of
the old cathedral which was pulled down before it fell down. Don't you
know? Oh, well, you go across the Markt-Platz and down by the side of
the Kaiserwerth Hotel--you know that, I've seen you there. Yes, you go
down that street and on and bear left and there you are. It's a round
tower, there's a sort of park and a lake. Very pretty, I've been there
in daylight."

"I know whereabouts you mean," said Hambledon. "It's quite a hike."

"Oh, we're having a bus affair, one of those little ones. That fellow
who drives you about, you know, it's his. He's coming here for us at
about nine. Besides, there's going to be a storm, it's raining already.
Oh, come on, it will be fun. The proprietor is a great character, huge
fellow with a face like a full moon, everybody calls him Onkel Otto."

Hambledon was rather tempted; it would be a pleasant change to see
people enjoying themselves even if they were only passing visitors who
did not "realise the state of affairs" in that region.

"I expect you've got a busload already, have you?"

"I don't know," said Petersen vaguely. "Always squeeze one more in,
can't you?"

"I'd like to come," said Hambledon. "I will if I can. Don't wait for me
if I'm not here when the bus comes."

Petersen nodded and took himself off.

Hambledon decided to go if he could shake off his shadowers. They had
finished their dinner and gone out. In any case they could not have
heard what was being said at Hambledon's table. But it would be better
to go in the bus and not walk alone in the narrow, winding, and ill-lit
streets which are so picturesque at night and so empty. The centre of
Goslar from the Markt-Platz up to the station is cheerful and thronged
with visitors, but away in the maze of ancient streets behind the bright
lights, the shopping centre and the cinemas, it is very different. The
streets are empty but for an occasional passer-by in a hurry; the
windows are curtained; all the corners are full of shadows and all the
doors are shut. When night falls, Goslar takes cover.

When the bus came to take the hotel party to the Zwinger, Hambledon's
two followers were nowhere to be seen. The rain was coming down heavily,
so he slipped into his raincoat.

"Perhaps they've turned a sharp corner too quickly and both fallen down
a well. I hope there's a dead cat in it," said Tommy viciously, and
climbed into the bus with the others.

As he did so Britz turned in the driving seat and handed him an
envelope. "Excuse me, please. The Herr asked for his account."

"Oh, thank you, yes," said Hambledon, and put the envelope into his
wallet. As soon as he could do so without being overlooked, he opened
the envelope and drew out the slip of paper it contained; on it was
written simply: "Gustav Ehrlich. Otto Neumann's house. Sausage factory."

Hambledon put it away carefully in the innermost compartment of his
wallet.

The Zwinger is a massive round tower built in about the year 1500 as
part of the defences of the city wall and is as good as new to this day,
which is not surprising since it is immensely strongly built, with walls
twenty feet thick. In these degenerate days it is what the Germans call
a _Gaststtte_, which is a restaurant-beer-hall-caf all in one. Instead
of defensive earthworks it has a coffee garden; instead of gun
emplacements a parking place for cars, and its dungeons contain the
landlord's stores of wine and beer instead of prisoners mouldering in
chains. Otherwise it is very little altered and indeed it is difficult
to see how anyone could alter it unless he were to blow it up with
dynamite and even then it probably would not be blown. One can more
easily imagine the baffled dynamite bursting downwards to disrupt,
severally and collectively, the entire sewage-disposal system of Goslar
while the massive Zwinger still sat calmly in its place, unruffled and
unmoved.

Petersen had evidently started his usual evening celebrations before the
expedition started and some of the ladies in the party eyed him
distrustfully, but he did no more than talk a good deal and laugh rather
too loudly. There is a modern ramp which now leads up to the main door
of the Zwinger. Probably in the old days there was merely a ladder which
could be pulled up as the enemy approached and the door slammed in their
ugly faces. Petersen made rather heavy weather of the steep ramp and
Hambledon gave him a helping hand up the flight of stairs inside the
door.

The great room at the head of the stairs is round to conform with the
curve of the walls, but there are long narrow rooms leading off it at
intervals so that the floor plan resembles the steering wheel of a ship
with the hand grips projecting from the rim. There is a window at the
far end of each of the narrow barrel-roofed rooms. It was a moment or
two before Hambledon realised that they were merely window embrasures
tunnelled through the thickness of the walls to provide air and light to
the central space. It would not do to jump out of those windows; they
must be fifty feet above the ground.

The place was filling up. There was an orchestra of four playing a truly
international medley of dance tunes from "O My Papa" and "Loch Lomond"
to "Einmal am Rhein" and the middle of the floor was kaleidoscopic with
whirling couples. Hambledon and his party edged their way between long
narrow tables and past the bar to the cloakroom, rows of pegs in one of
the alcoves; having hung up coats and hats, they were ushered to one of
the narrow tables opposite the bar.

"Jolly, isn't it?" said Petersen. "Look at the chandelier. It's as old
as--as the Ark. I like old things, don't you?"

Hambledon assented; the great wrought-iron chandelier, if not quite as
old as the Ark, was well worth looking at, but what he was looking for
at the moment was two familiar figures. However, they were not to be
seen. Splendid!

"Let's have a drink," said Petersen. "There's Onkel Otto over by the
bar. Picturesque figure, isn't he?"

He was an enormous elderly man with the _Kellner's_ traditional leather
apron girt about his substantial form. The orchestra stopped playing,
the floor cleared, and Onkel Otto held up his hand for silence for an
announcement. They were to be privileged to hear the two finest
yodellers in all the Harz, they had won prizes in many places, they were
justly famous----

Hambledon averted his mind from the two men who went up to the platform.
They were not the two in whom he was interested and yodelling was not
one of his enthusiasms. He shifted his chair a little, the more easily
to watch the door. The wine waiter came to serve their wine, an odd
little man with a large head, a skinny agile figure, and a green baize
apron.

"Funny little chap," said Petersen, leaning across the table, for he was
sitting opposite to Hambledon. "I say he's just like a kobold. It is a
kobold I mean, isn't it?"

Hambledon agreed amiably. "He only wants a pointed cap and he would be
one of the Seven Dwarfs in person."

The door swung open and two men sidled in. Since most of the company
were sitting down to hear the singing, these men were plainly visible
and Hambledon recognised them at once.

"Banger and Bacon," he said, half aloud, and Petersen caught the words.

"Banger, what is that?" he said, turning to see what Hambledon was
looking at. "Those two who have just come in? They were in the hotel
this evening, do you know them?"

"Only by sight," said Tommy with exact truth. "Banger is a sausage and
bacon is thin and stringy--sometimes."

"Very good," said Petersen, and laughed heartily. The singing ended, the
orchestra started again, people stood up to dance, and Banger and Bacon
found themselves seats from which they could watch Thomas Elphinstone
Hambledon.




Chapter 11: The Zwinger


Some time later the kobold waiter came wriggling through the press of
dancers in his own inimitable eel-like manner--it is an education to see
him do this with a tray of full glasses--bringing a flat parcel in his
hand. He came to a stop by Tommy's chair and said: "Excuse, please. The
Herr Hambledon?"

"That is my name."

"I have been told to bring this parcel to the Herr Hambledon and to give
it into his own hand."

He did so. Hambledon took the parcel, a flat cardboard box with the name
of Karstadt, Gentlemen's Outfitters, on the lid.

"But," said Hambledon, detaining him by the baize apron, "what is this?
I----"

"Presumably the Herr left a parcel behind him at Karstadt's and someone,
having been told that the Herr is here, has brought it after him."

"But I have not bought anything at Karstadt's. Who gave you this
parcel?"

"A gentleman, I did not know him," said the waiter, detaching his apron
from Hambledon's fingers. "He did but point out the Herr to me and tell
me what I was to do."

"Wait a minute," said Hambledon peremptorily. "This gentleman, can you
point him out to me?"

The kobold looked steadily round the room, a survey which included the
table where Banger and Bacon were sitting in full view.

"No, mein Herr, I cannot see him and, indeed, after he had given me the
parcel, he made his way towards the door."

"When was this?"

"But just now, mein Herr, three minutes ago, no more."

"Thank you," said Hambledon, and let the man go. Banger and Bacon had
not moved from their table for half an hour at least, though, if the
parcel were from them, they could have employed a messenger. The box was
tied up with string and, under cover of fumbling with the knot,
Hambledon glanced across at them. They were sitting up on the edges of
their chairs and their eyes were protuberant. When they saw that he was
watching them they both looked away.

"Incompetent oafs," said Hambledon to himself and went on disentangling
the knot under a fire of comments from other members of his party.

"What is it, Mr. Hambledon? A birthday present?"

"From a lady, I guess. Look, he's blushing."

"That's right. It's his blue eyes that's done it."

Petersen stood up, wavering, and leaned heavily on the table. "Practical
joke?" he suggested. "Look out something doesn't hop out and bite you."

Hambledon laughed and opened the box; inside was a flat packet wrapped
in poor-quality brown paper tied with twine. He slipped off the twine;
the adjacent members of the party, with natural good manners,
immediately turned away to watch the dancing, and Petersen sat down with
a bump.

Inside the wrapping were a number of papers folded together; one at
least was a map and some others looked like sketch plans. On the top
there was a slip of paper bearing a message which puzzled him for a
moment till it dawned upon him that though the writing was German
script, the words were English.

                   Mr. Hambledon. Goslar.
                   This is the Smirnov Plan which was
                   stolen. Please deliver to British
                   authorities immediately. Highly
                   valuable, take care, look out for
                   trouble.

Hambledon was in the act of folding up the note when someone brushed
against the back of his chair. He looked round quickly and saw that it
was Bacon, who, with an aloof air of distant purpose, was making his way
across the room. He could have seen, if only vaguely, what sort of
contents were in the package. He strolled across the room and passed
through a swing door opposite. Banger sat still where he was and
Hambledon, making no attempt to conceal what he was doing, put the
packet back into Karstadt's box and tied it up again.

"That fellow," said Petersen disgustedly, "was peering over your
shoulder."

"Odd manners some people have," said Hambledon. "Perhaps he thought it
was feelthy postcards. Interesting but not exciting," he added, to his
tactful neighbours at table. "I was talking to an archaeologist fellow
today about that"--what had Britz called it?--"abbey ruin at Walkenried,
and he promised to send me a lot of details about it and other places
within reach. I am a little overpowered," he added, with a laugh. "He
seems to have sent me enough stuff here to keep me quiet for months and,
what's worse, he wants it all back." He tapped the box under his arm.
Bacon, carefully not looking his way, returned to the waiting Banger.

"Will he put you through an examination to find out how much you've
seen, Mr. Hambledon?"

"Not if I can help it," he said, rising, and made his way between tables
and round the perimeter of the dance floor into the place of seclusion
from which Bacon had just returned. Here, having locked himself in, he
reopened the packet and rapidly stowed away the contents in his inside
pockets. The printed map was large and on stiff paper. He glanced at it
and saw that it covered the western edges of the Soviet Zone from
Helmstedt in the north to the borders of the Schwarzburg in the south.
He looked more closely at some of the added markings upon it and
whistled tunelessly between his teeth. The map was too stiff to go
unobserved in any pocket. He undid his shirt buttons and slid it inside,
against his chest. If the map could have expressed its emotions it would
have sighed deeply and said: "What, again?"

The next step was to find something to pad out the packet to its former
solidity and weight. Hambledon, choosing a moment when the place was his
alone, robbed cabinets of most of their amenities until he was satisfied
that Karstadt's box did not feel empty. He hurriedly tied it up again
and returned to his table. Bacon, looking really anxious, was standing
against the wall watching for him.

There was a rather messy game in progress with a sausage, tied to a
string, dangling from the great chandelier. Half a dozen young men, with
their hands clasped behind their backs, were leaping at the sausage with
open mouths while Onkel Otto, holding the other end of the string, made
matters more difficult by jerking it occasionally. By degrees the
sausage was bitten away and the last inch fell to the floor amid cheers
and laughter.

"Revolting," said an English lady next to Hambledon at the table, "quite
revolting."

"I absolutely agree," said Hambledon. "What's the matter, Petersen?"

"I don't feel very well," said Petersen. "I think I'll go home."

Hambledon was not surprised; he had been expecting this.

"I'll help you find your coat," he said, and steered the sufferer across
to the cloakroom.

"I don't feel sick or anything," explained Petersen carefully. "I've
just had quite enough to drink and I don't want any more. Hot in here,
isn't it?" He staggered and clutched Hambledon's arm.

"Hold up. You'll be all right when you're out in the air."

"That's right," said Petersen vaguely. They were at the back of the
cloakroom where it was rather dark and he took no notice when he was
helped into Hambledon's raincoat and crowned with Hambledon's hat. They
were almost exactly the same height.

"You'll be all right," repeated Hambledon. "A nice quiet stroll back to
the hotel will clear your head. Do you want to walk across the big
room?"

"Not if there's another way out. Certainly not. Is there?"

"At the back here," said Hambledon, who had noticed the stairs when they
first arrived. "Can you manage? I'll come down with you. Hang on to the
handrail."

The winding stairway, burrowing down in the thickness of the wall, was
steep and worn, but a cool draught blew up it and Petersen drew long
breaths.

"That's better."

"You know your way, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. Along by the lake and turn right at that memorial affair. I
say, Hambledon, you're a good chap. Ah, that's fine, it's left off
raining."

"Would you do something for me?"

"Course I will, what?"

"Take this box back to the hotel for me? It's rather a nuisance here.
Give it to the porter. He'll keep it for me."

Petersen tucked the box under his arm and started off, walking up the
ramp to pass the main door. Hambledon stood back in the doorway to watch
him out of sight and then slipped across in the shadows to hide behind
the trees. He could see the main door at the top of the ramp from where
he stood; as he had expected, a long lean figure came out of the
doorway, looked after Petersen, and beckoned to someone behind him on
the stair. Bacon, of course, summoning Banger. The stout figure also
emerged and they both ran down the other side of the ramp by the way
Petersen had gone.

"That's right," murmured Hambledon. "You go and snitch the box and we'll
all be happy. Petersen probably won't notice it's gone."

He walked out from under the trees towards the tower, intending to
rejoin his party, but there came from the way Petersen had gone a yell
of rage and fury followed by Scandinavian curses. Hambledon ran like a
hare up the ramp, down the further side, and round the curving path
towards the lake; before he reached it there was a splash and ripples
spread across the water. The path was ill-lit and embowered in trees,
but he caught a glimpse of two running figures disappearing in the
distance.

There was no difficulty in locating Petersen. There was a commotion in
the water such as might be caused by a grampus coming ashore--if they
do--accompanied by a string of remarks such as no delicate-minded
grampus would think of using. Hambledon cantered up to the spot and
helped Petersen to climb out.

"What the devil happened?"

"I don't know--two men came up behind and barged me into the--ugh--lake.
Ugh-ugh! I've lost my hat. I'm absolutely dripping. I've swallowed lake
water--oh, Lord, I'm going to be sick."

He was, and Hambledon supported him.

"Now," said Tommy, when the crisis was over, "we're going back to the
hotel and I'm coming with you. If you keep walking you won't catch
cold."

"I never catch cold," said Petersen with dignity. "Let me wring some of
the water out of my trousers, they do cling so. Was I very tight?"

"Oh, just nicely."

"Well, I'm stone-cold sober now," said Petersen, and it was quite true,
for he set off towards their hotel at a good four miles an hour. "I
suppose those two fellows were a bit screwed too and just staggered into
me. Where did they go?"

"I don't know. I saw you in the water and didn't worry about them."

Hambledon waited for some enquiry about the cardboard box, but Petersen
had evidently forgotten all about it. He had probably never realised
that he had it in the first place. When they got back to the hotel
Petersen dripped on the marble floor of the entrance hall and the night
porter dashed out with pitying cries.

"We have been to the Zwinger," said Hambledon. "When we came out, the
Herr fell in the lake."

The porter nodded understandingly, but Petersen was pulling off his
raincoat and looking at it.

"I've got somebody else's coat, this isn't mine. I'd better take it
back."

Hambledon made a surprised noise and said: "But that's mine. My fault
entirely, I took it off the peg. My mistake."

"Then mine is still at the Zwinger and tomorrow will do for that," said
Petersen, taking his key and starting off up the stairs. "Oh, here's
your coat, Hambledon. Sorry I got it so wet and, by the way, whose hat
did I lose? Yours or mine?"

"I don't care if it was mine, I never liked that hat."

"If the Herr," said the porter, pursuing Petersen, "will put his clothes
outside the door, they shall be dried."

"I'll toss them out," said Petersen. "My goodness, I'm sleepy. Early to
bed for once. See you tomorrow, Hambledon, and many thanks." He trailed
wetly round the curve of the staircase and rose out of sight.

"The poor Herr," said the porter, and laughed quietly.

"That unfenced path by the lake is, actually, a little dangerous," said
Hambledon severely. "It is quite easy to wander over the edge."

"That is so. The Herr Petersen is not the first to fall in there."

"I daresay not. Could you," said Hambledon, who had been doing some
intensive thinking during the walk home, "could you oblige me with a
large envelope?"

"Willingly," said the porter, rummaging in a cupboard beneath the desk
while Hambledon looked round the office. There was a safe in the corner
which seemed to be quite a good one. It would be foolish to keep the
Smirnov Plan in an hotel bedroom with one flimsy lock on the door; he
would put the plan in an envelope when the porter could find one--he was
now frantically hunting through the desk drawers--seal it up, bring it
down again, and ask to have it locked up for the night. It ought to be
secure in a good safe with a night porter watching over it.

The porter abandoned the drawers, looked wildly round, and said ah,
perhaps there were some in there. Before Hambledon had time to wonder
where "there" was, the porter took a key off a nail above the desk,
opened the safe and produced from it a large, stout Manila envelope.

"We put stationery in here sometimes when the desk is overfull,"
explained the porter, "as now. Will this one suit?"

Hambledon said, with thanks, that it would do admirably; the porter said
that he was happy in being able to serve the Herr. He then locked up the
safe again and returned the key to its nail; Hambledon wished him an
undisturbed night and went upstairs to his own room.

Here he locked himself in and examined the papers, comparing the small
sketch plans with the large map and looking through the sheets of notes
which accompanied each of them. They were plainly originals; if they had
been stolen before fair copies of them had been made, no wonder the
Russians were buzzing like mad bees round an overset hive, no one could
write out all those details from memory.

"All that work to be done all over again," said Tommy, and bounced
gently upon the edge of his bed. If Micklejohn had accomplished that he
was a lad worth knowing.

Even if these were only the rough drafts of plans subsequently copied
out and duplicated, they would still be of enthralling interest to the
British High Command. Certainly not to be entrusted even for one night
to a safe of which the key was helpfully hung upon an adjacent nail.

Hambledon folded the papers again with the map and the covering
note--had Micklejohn written it? No means of telling--and put them all
into the envelope. He sat looking at it for a moment and then, in clear
block capitals, addressed it to himself and sealed it down. After a
moment's thought he carefully inked his right thumb and impressed a
beautifully clear thumbprint upon the left-hand top corner.

He took his Luger from his locked suitcase, left the room and walked
down to the Norddeutsche Bank in Fischmaker Strasse. There were plenty
of people about; the cinemas were just closing. Hambledon pushed open
the stiff flap of the bank's night safe and dropped his bulging envelope
through the slot.

"There," said Hambledon inaudibly, "that will defeat you, I think."

He turned away and strolled comfortably home.




Chapter 12. Some Elementary Trigonometry


Hambledon undressed and went to bed but for some reason could not go to
sleep. There was a party in progress in one of the ground-floor rooms.
There was a piano and an accordion and choruses and the clock in the
Jakobi-Kirche struck one. Eventually Hambledon cursed the noisemakers,
got up and shut the window. Normally the _Lays of Ancient Rome_ would
send him to sleep but on this occasion they failed him; for one thing,
the room was hot and stuffy. He got up again after a time and reopened
the window. The party seemed to be petering out, the choruses were
intermittent and not sustained by so many voices; also the pianist had
gone home to bed. The last chorus died on the night air, the
Jakobi-Kirche clock struck the three-quarters, and all was quiet, but
still Hambledon could not go to sleep and he had nothing to read. He
had, increasingly, a sense of waiting for something to happen.

He turned over, thumped his pillow, and started upon his second string,
the _Ballad of the Revenge_. His mother used to read it to him when he
was a little boy in the rectory garden, to keep him quiet when his
father was writing his sermons. Bumblebees in the hollyhocks.

 _At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,_
 _And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away:_
 _"Spanish ships of war at sea! We have sighted fifty-three!"_

Then there would have been a scramble. Look out, make haste, the enemy
is coming----

The clock in the Jakobi-Kirche struck two.

Hambledon got out of bed, put on his soft bedroom slippers and his
dressing gown, dropped his Luger in the pocket, and opened his bedroom
door inaudibly. Outside in the passage the sense of tension was keener.
He moved silently along the passage to the head of the stairs and the
sound of a voice came faintly to his ears. It was followed by another
voice speaking not louder but more sharply. "Hold your tongue!" it said
peremptorily in German.

Tommy glided down the stairs and looked over the banisters at the turn.
There was no one in the passage leading to the front hall; the speakers
must be in the office which opened off the passage. The door of it was
standing wide. He went on, down the stairs, along the passage, and
looked in at the office door.

The porter was facing him with his hands above his head, a man in a mask
was threatening him with an automatic. A second man, also masked, had
the safe door open and was snatching out the contents.

Hambledon jabbed the muzzle of his Luger against the spine of the man
nearest to him and said: "Drop that gun or I'll kill you! Drop it. On
the floor."

Before he finished speaking the man at the safe was up on his feet, out
through the further door into the front hall, out of the front door and
away. The man with the gun dropped it obediently.

"Schatz," said Hambledon to the porter, "pick up that gun and telephone
the police. You--" prodding his captive--"hands up and walk forward."

The man obeyed, walking forward till his nose bumped the opposite wall.

"Clasp your hands behind your head," said Hambledon sharply. "That's
right. If you move your fingers I will shoot you, here," and he prodded
him again while Schatz at the telephone howled for the police, _schnell,
schnell,_ armed robbery, attempted murder, and then sat staring and
shaking until the police car whirled up to the door.

When the man had been seized and handcuffed and the mask taken from his
face, Hambledon looked at him and laughed.

"Banger," he said. "I thought so. Your svelte curves, you know."



Ludwig Kirsch lived in a small modern house a mile or more outside the
city boundaries on the road to Oker. It was not his own house; he had
rented it furnished because Goslar was not to him an abiding city. He
had lived there a little over a year, having come from Hamburg. He was,
by his own assertion, an author of books upon mathematics for the use
and torment of boys in the upper-school age groups. He lived alone,
being waited upon during certain hours of the day by the wife of a
railway worker, a simple-minded hard-working woman who regarded with
deep respect amounting to veneration anyone who could understand, let
alone produce, such sheets of complicated trigonometrical calculations
as those which could be seen, neatly sorted into piles under
paperweights, upon the table in his study.

"Be very careful, Hanna," he said, "in dusting my table, not to disturb
my sheets of calculations in any way. If they got into the wrong
order----"

"With respect," said Hanna, turning pale at the bare idea, "would it not
be better if I did not dust the table at all?"

"Perhaps it would, perhaps it would. My books also, if their place in my
bookcases were altered it would seriously annoy me."

"I had better not touch the books----"

"I agree. Do not touch the books. I have a stupid habit, Hanna, of
putting odd notes behind the clock. If by ill chance they swirled into
the fire----"

"May I, then, leave the mantelpiece untouched? If I were to confine my
attention to the floor?"

Kirsch considered this.

"I think it might be better if the room were left for occasions when I
have time to oversee your efforts. There will then be no danger of your
disturbing my work."

Hanna looked relieved.

"If the Herr will tell me when he wishes me to clean the room, I will
come at once."

Kirsch nodded approvingly.

"And at other times----"

"I will not enter without the Herr's permission."

"Thank you, Hanna. That will be best."

"_Schn_," said Hanna, and scuttled away. Kirsch, to make doubly sure
that there was no mistake, made a habit of keeping the study door locked
and the key in his pocket. The study was only a small room opening off
the main sitting room. It would not matter if it were sometimes a little
dusty. It would matter much more if a thoroughly industrious cleaner
turned out cupboards and drawers, or even wondered why they were all
kept locked.

On the evening when Hambledon went to the Zwinger and Petersen fell in
the lake Kirsch was in his sitting room waiting for two men to come and
report. It was late in the evening and Kirsch was alone in the house.

Presently two sets of footsteps sounded on the gravel path and someone
knocked at the front door. Kirsch opened it to admit two men whom
Hambledon would instantly have recognised. The tall lean one whom he
called Bacon entered first, followed by the short rotund Banger, and
both were plainly pleased with themselves.

"Come in, Dittmar," said Kirsch, "and you, Tosen, also."

They came in, grinning. Even the lean saturnine Dittmar laughed as he
spoke. "We have good news for the Herr."

"We have a little something to show the Herr," said fat laughing Tosen,
undoing his raincoat to take a flat parcel from a pocket inside it. "The
missing papers. They were passed to the Englander this evening at the
Zwinger. Dittmar here saw what was inside the parcel when it was opened,
so we waited until the Englander left, sprang upon him in the dark, took
this package, and threw him in the lake."

"We have been watching the Englander for days, ever since the Herr told
us that the papers would probably come across this side and that someone
like that Englander would have been sent here to receive them," said
Dittmar.

"As soon as I saw him," exulted Tosen, "I said to myself that here was
the type of man the English would send."

"Aided in your perspicacity by the fact that I pointed him out to you
myself," said Kirsch sarcastically, and Dittmar was mildly annoyed. He
and Tosen, after all, had done all the work while Kirsch had done
nothing but sit in a comfortable armchair and pretend to write sums for
boys.

"The Herr," said Dittmar, with excessive meekness, "was quite inspired
when he drew the right conclusion from the facts that this Englander had
Micklejohn's room, spent days examining and asking questions about the
frontier, and was openly in league with the police."

Tosen looked a little nervous, for he feared Kirsch's explosive temper,
but the mathematician merely tapped the Karstadt box affectionately and
said quite mildly that there were also other factors involved. "Anyone
might have had Micklejohn's room, the English are always nosy about the
frontier, and as for the police, any man would call them in who found a
dead man in his bedroom and you know what I think about that." He
treated Dittmar to a long cold stare and added: "Wait here while I check
these papers against the list. You may sit down." He went into his
study, leaving the door ajar, and Dittmar muttered: "Sez you," under his
breath, for he was a cinema addict.

"There are two spare glasses on the table," said Tosen in a soothing
voice, "and I am thirsty after hurrying all this way. Do you think----"

He was interrupted by a roar of rage from the further room and Kirsch
charged out, spluttering and quite incoherent with fury; he was trailing
crumpled white streamers behind him. "Look--look--look," he stammered,
"you--you----"

He gathered up the toilet paper, seized Dittmar by the collar, and made
frantic attempts to cram it into his mouth and down his neck, finishing
by scrubbing his face with it. Tosen dodged round the table and went to
ground behind Kirsch's big armchair. Dittmar made feeble attempts to
push off the attack, but Kirsch in a rage had the strength of madness.
He ended by slapping Dittmar savagely across the face and then dropped
into a chair as one exhausted. There was a long silence and Tosen rose
carefully to his feet.

Eventually Kirsch lifted his head.

"You see what happened--where is Tosen?"

"Here, mein Herr," said Tosen, and walked round the chair into view.

"This Englander made a fool of you--it would not be difficult.
_Sakrament da lekts mir_, what it is to have to make use of woodenheads
like you!"

Kirsch swept his hands through his hair and struggled for self-control.

"You----Let me think. He took the papers out of the box so he still has
them. He----"

"With respect, mein Herr," said Tosen nervously, "it may be that he is
drowned."

"What, in that duckpond? Fool, hold your tongue. Or did you kill him
before he went in?"

"No--the Herr was so angry when Dittmar shot the Russian, Lentov, in the
hotel----"

"I did not shoot him," stormed Dittmar, exploding suddenly. "You did!"

Kirsch cursed them both into silence.

"The Herr said," persisted Tosen, "'no more killing.'"

Kirsch looked at him and he backed away.

"I am trying to put myself in his place," said Kirsch, as though talking
to himself. "I should take them back to the hotel. I should not keep
them in my bedroom even for a single night; that bedroom has been
visited before. I should put them in the hotel safe, of course. It is in
the office and there is a night porter on duty with a telephone at his
elbow. Yes, that is what I should do."

He sat up with a jerk.

"Now I tell you what you will do. You will wait until all the lights are
out in the hotel except the hall light, you understand? Sometimes there
are parties there and it is late before they finish. When all the
ground-floor windows are dark and the bedroom windows also, you will
walk quietly but quickly up the street and turn without hesitation in at
the door of the hotel. If you are seen to go in, you are belated guests,
that is all. Open the door quietly; it may be that the porter is asleep
in his chair. Seize him, hold a gun to his head, and he will give you
the key of the safe. Tosen, you will continue to hold a gun at the
porter's head while you, Dittmar, search the safe for these papers. Take
them out, stun the porter but do not kill him, and bring the papers back
here. I shall be waiting."

Dittmar looked at the clock, the time was half-past midnight.

"You are right," said Kirsch, answering the unspoken thought, "it is too
early yet. I should think, about two o'clock, but you must use your
discretion, if you have any. If you cannot tell the time, you can listen
for the chimes from the Jakobi-Kirche. Any questions?"

They shook their heads and turned to go.

"Stop," said Kirsch. "How do you propose to prevent the porter from
giving your descriptions to the police, since I have told you not to
kill him?"

"Scarves round our faces," said Dittmar.

"Scarves slip," said Kirsch. He got up and went into the study,
returning at once with something black in his hands. "Here are two
masks, you will put them on the moment before you enter the hotel. Now
go, and remember that if you fail me this time I will throw you over
into the Soviet Zone. You know what they do to failures there, don't
you? Now go."

"Since we are such fools," said Dittmar, "would it not be better if the
Herr did this errand himself?"

"It would. Much better. It would at least be properly done. But you are
perfectly well aware that the whole strength of my position here depends
upon the fact that I am seldom seen out and that only in the mornings
with a shopping basket. I am never seen out at night and I never will
be. I am too important to risk, whereas you are expendable. Now go."

He closed the front door after them, took up a book, and sat down to
read and wait. When the clock struck two he laid down his book to look
up at the dial for a moment before taking up the book again.

He was still waiting when the dawn broke and when the sun rose he was
still there, waiting.

When the daily woman let herself in at seven, Kirsch was in bed, but he
had not been to sleep.



The police squad who arrested Tosen at the hotel were led by an
inspector who knew Hambledon and had seen him with the Chief of Police.
Hambledon drew him aside.

"A word in your ear, Inspector."

"Certainly, mein Herr."

"This affair here is not a mere matter of robbery for gain. In the words
of a great English poet," said Hambledon, who was rather enjoying
himself, "'Things are seldom what they seem.'"

"I imagine--if I may say so without presumption--that where the Herr is
concerned they seldom are."

"Thank you. Your chief knows that the purpose of my visit here is not
entirely to take a holiday. That dangerous-looking criminal there is
somehow involved in that purpose."

The Inspector looked across at Tosen, who was wilting in a corner. His
fair hair was standing in tufts like the crest of a cockatoo; his
normally red complexion was pale and the corners of his curiously small
mouth were turned down like a baby about to howl. Even his fat face
looked flabby and drooping and his fat hands plucked aimlessly at the
handcuffs.

"He does not look particularly dangerous," said the Inspector, "but if
he is really concerned in the purpose to which the Herr refers,
appearances are no doubt deceptive. I have seen killers who looked like
that."

"So have I."

"Excuse me one moment," said the Inspector. "A little adjustment,
perhaps."

He called up one of his men and handcuffed Tosen to him with a word of
warning.

"His interrogation----" began Hambledon when the Inspector returned.

"Will begin at once. My chief will himself wish to interrogate him in
the morning, but in the meantime we can worry him a little. The Herr
would not wish to be present?"

"Heaven forbid that I should intrude upon your communings with any
prisoner. Besides, I want to go to bed. This man, by the way, is one of
the two who have been shadowing me for the past week or more. The other
one was going through the safe here but I could not hold him, he ran too
fast. Never mind, I have a feeling that we shall meet again."

"Did he get away with anything from the safe, did the Herr see?"

"I have reason to think not. My compliments to your chief and if he can
spare me a few moments in the morning, I have something to tell him.
Good night."

"The Herr's message shall be delivered," said the Inspector.

Hambledon went back to bed and fell asleep at once with no assistance
from Tennyson or Macaulay. In the morning he was finishing his last cup
of coffee when he was called to the telephone. The Chief of Police would
be delighted to see him as soon as was reasonably convenient.

"I come at once," said Hambledon.

He was shown into the Chief's office and found him going through his
correspondence. At sight of Hambledon he dropped the whole pile into a
tray and said: "That fellow won't talk."

"Dear me. Did you ask him what they hoped to find in the safe?"

"He says money. What do you think he was looking for?"

"You remember the story we heard," said Hambledon, "about some papers
having been stolen from the Russians at the time when Micklejohn
disappeared? That fellow Lentov was supposed to have had a hand in it."

"I heard that from various sources," said the Chief of Police. "I
suppose there was some truth in it."

"Certainly there was. It was those papers which were being looked for in
the hotel safe."

"_Himmel!_ Why?"

"Because I had them," said Hambledon, and told the whole story of what
had happened at the Zwinger the night before. "This fellow, whom I
called Banger, not knowing his name----"

"Tosen."

"Tosen, is not a principal. He is not the type to be, neither he nor
Bacon, whose name also I do not know. He was the man who was searching
the safe. What we want to know is: Who gives them their orders?"

"He will not talk," said the Chief gloomily. "Except for saying that
they were looking for money, he answers only, 'I do not know,' or
'Nobody' to all questions."

"What have you charged him with?"

"Armed robbery. Safebreaking. Menaces," said the Chief rather
helplessly. "He does not seem to mind."

"It follows, then, that he is more afraid of what someone else will do
to him than he is of a term of imprisonment," suggested Hambledon.

"It would seem so. Particularly as, in fact, nothing was stolen and
technically a safe is not 'broken' if it is opened with its key. He can
be charged with 'attempting' this and that, but all he actually did was
to terrify the night porter."

"Charge him with something more serious, then."

"What? There is nothing against him previously."

Hambledon thought for a moment.

"Charge him with the murder of Lentov in my bedroom, then. A murder
charge will make most people talk."

"But there is no shadow of a--wait a minute. There were fingerprints in
your room. Two men's prints."

"So there were. If the charge produces any results, you can compare
those prints with his, can you not?"

"If we compare them first and they are his, we should have something
definite to back the charge."

"Certainly. But if you compare them first and they are not his, your
accusation will, I feel, lack that fire and energy which are so
convincing. Charges can always be withdrawn."

A slow smile spread across the German's face.

"It is plainly to be seen," he said, "that the Herr is not a policeman."
He touched a bell upon his desk, when a constable answered it he was
told to bring in the prisoner Tosen.




Chapter 13. The Man in the Dressing Gown


The Chief of the Goslar police, a square and solid man, sat behind his
big desk; Hambledon sat in a chair at one end of it; at a small table in
the corner a shorthand clerk waited with pencil at the ready. Tosen was
brought in and set before them.

"Tosen," began the Chief, "since you were before me earlier this
morning, further evidence has come in."

Tosen's gaze was fixed on the carpet at his feet. His eyelids flickered
but his expression did not change.

"Interesting," said the Chief, observing this. He looked at Hambledon.
"The Herr agrees with me?"

Tommy realized that he was supposed to ask what was particularly
interesting, and did so.

"The prisoner's reaction," explained the Chief. "If a man who knows
himself to be innocent is told that further evidence has become
available his face lights up, his shoulders are thrown back, his chin
rises. Hope nerves his sinews and uplifts his heart--no?"

"Not on this occasion, it would seem."

"No. The guilty prisoner knows only too well that further evidence can
only tell against him."

The Chief of Police paused for this remark to sink in.

"Tosen. You are now charged with the murder of a Russian named Andrey
Lentov in Room 32 of----"

Tosen leapt as though he had been jabbed with a pin.

"I did not! I am not guilty, I tell you, I was not even carrying a gun
that day, I----"

"Carrying a gun," repeated the Chief of Police thoughtfully. "Who told
you that Lentov was shot?"

"Who told you I shot him?" demanded Tosen, turning at bay.

"Who could tell us?"

"Any liar who wanted to cover himself! It was all over Goslar that a man
had been shot at the Drei Bullochsen and that he was a Russian. I don't
believe anybody told you I shot him. You are trying to pin it on me
because you can't find out who did it! It is only," babbled Tosen, who,
once his silence had been broken, was like a cask of Hanover beer with
the bung knocked out, "because I was caught there with a gun tonight
that you conclude I was the man there with a gun ten days ago! It's
ridiculous. I've never carried a gun before except in war against the
enemies of my country," said Tosen magnificently, "and I've never been
inside the Drei Bullochsen in my life before tonight. I swear it."

At this point the Inspector who had arrested Tosen stepped forward and
laid a slip of paper on the desk before his chief, who glanced at it and
then at Hambledon.

"Now I come to think back," went on Tosen, "on that day I was not in
Goslar at all. I was in Hanover, spending a couple of days with an old
comrade I had not seen since the Battle of the Reichswald at the end of
the war. He and I----"

He met the eye of the Chief of Police, who was looking so amused that
Tosen's voice faltered and came to a stop.

"That must have been most gratifying," said the Chief. "We must have his
name and address, must we not? I should like to ask him how you managed
to get along without your fingers."

"My----"

"Fingers. The things you leave prints with. How dare you tell these
fairy tales to me? Your fingerprints were in Room 32 of the Drei
Bullochsen when we found Lentov dead."

Tosen staggered and one of the police escort kindly supported him.

"So you see," added the Chief, "our informant was speaking the truth
after all. Wasn't he?"

Tosen jumped, as it was hoped that he would, to the natural conclusion
that Dittmar was also in custody and had been talking.

"That swine Dittmar," he raved, "the biggest liar the devil ever made.
He'd sell his mother for two marks. It was he who shot Lentov, not I. I
wasn't even armed, I told you that. We ought to have made some excuse
about the wrong room and got out. Kirsch said----" he stopped abruptly.

"Kirsch! Who is he?"

"Nobody. I don't know."

"But you said----"

"I was going to say that Dittmar had been drinking, that's all. Kirsch
is a drink, you know. Dittmar always drinks kirsch."

"Then why did you stop suddenly?"

"Because I did not think you would be interested in what Dittmar
drinks."

"You are lying," said the Chief contemptuously. "Your words were 'Kirsch
said.' Listen, Tosen. You are involved up to the neck in the murder of
Lentov and I mean your neck. Do you really want to hang for it while the
man who sent you there goes free? Because you will."

Tosen hesitated.

"Can I have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Can I have a drink, then, please?"

"Give him a glass of water."

The water was brought and Tosen drank thirstily.

"_Danke_," he said, and put down the glass. "If I tell you all I know,
will you swear to send me back to the Rhineland and tell no one--no one
at all--where I have gone?"

"You are proposing to bargain with us," said the Chief, in a menacing
voice.

"Yes, mein Herr, please. The Herr will understand that if I tell all I
know it will save the Herr a great deal of trouble, whereas if I do not
talk I shall only be imprisoned or hanged and both are preferable to
what I have already been promised if I should fail--as I did."

"Fail to get the papers, you mean," said Hambledon, speaking for the
first time.

"That is so, mein Herr," said Tosen, looking at him with plain
curiosity. "May I apologise now for having thrown the Herr into the
lake?"

"No need," said Hambledon, lighting a cigarette. "You didn't."

Tosen blinked. The Chief of Police said that they were straying from the
subject and Hambledon apologised.

"Go on," said the Chief to Tosen.

"I am a Rhinelander, mein Herr, and the Rhine is a pleasantly long way
from the Soviet Zone. Even if I am in prison----"

"You will be."

"--so long as it is in the Rhineland I shall be safe, not here, where
one may be abducted into the Soviet Zone and----" Tosen shuddered.

"Was that what you were promised as a reward for failure?"

Tosen nodded.

"You are a scoundrel," said the Chief thoughtfully. "You are a traitor,
which is worse. You are probably a murderer too." Tosen shook his head
violently. "You are also a fool for putting a weapon into my hand. If
you do not tell all you know, I myself will have you put across the
frontier."

He paused a moment and then continued:

"But if you tell me frankly and fully all you know, I will do my best
for you, since, although you are a man of no importance whatever, it is
in your power to save us some time and trouble. Understand this," he
went on, as Tosen tried to thank him, "if it is proved that you murdered
Lentov you will hang like anybody else."

"I did not murder Lentov," said Tosen steadily. "Here is the truth,
then. My employer is Ludwig Kirsch." Tosen added particulars of Kirsch's
address and ostensible occupation. "He comes from Hamburg and has been a
Communist for years. He ran a Communist cell there and taught in a
school. He has a violent temper and was dismissed for half killing a boy
who angered him. So he came here and organises the Soviet espionage
and--and other activities for them here. He----"

"Just a moment," said the Chief. He wrote a message upon a slip of paper
and handed it to the Inspector, who immediately left the room. "Now, go
on."

Tosen talked, incidentally clearing up a number of small mysteries which
had been puzzling the police, and went on: "When the Smirnov Plan papers
were stolen from General Vedovitch, it was not known whether Lentov had
them or the Englander Michel--Machel----"

"I know whom you mean. Go on."

"Or even if they were in it together. They both disappeared and there
was no trace of where they had gone, it was thought likely that the
Englander at least had slipped back over the frontier to Goslar. Kirsch
ordered Dittmar and me to find out if he had returned to Goslar but
there seemed to be no news of him. Then we were ordered to search his
room at the Drei Bullochsen. We got in without being observed, choosing
our time, there was no one in the room but it was occupied, clothes and
things in the room. So, we were searching when there was a step outside
and the door handle turned. Dittmar was behind the door when it opened.
I went down behind the bed, on the floor. Somebody came in--I could not
see who--and cried out something and there was a shot and someone fell.
Dittmar spoke to me and I got up. There was a man dead on the floor. He
wore English clothes and the passport in his pocket was the English one
of Michel--that Englander." Tosen picked up the glass and drank the rest
of the water.

"Go on."

"Dittmar said: 'This is good, this is that Englander who stole the
papers. It may be that he has them on him.' So we searched his pockets
and found not the Smirnov Plan papers but the identity papers of Andrey
Lentov, Under-Commissar for Civil Administration of Occupied
Territories. So then, mein Herr, we did not know which man had been
shot."

"Very awkward," said the Chief of Police. "Go on."

"I said, 'It is the Englander, look at the clothes,' but Dittmar said,
'It is the Russian, look at the photographs.' So we propped him up in
the armchair, mein Herr, out of respect, took his Russian identity
papers and his gun, and came away. Kirsch was very angry with us for
having shot Lentov, but Dittmar said that Lentov had drawn his gun and
were we to stand there and let ourselves be shot? But Dittmar said that
I had shot the man, not he."

"I see. Now tell me about Dittmar."

Tosen embarked willingly upon a picturesque survey of Dittmar's personal
character, morals, habits, and tastes, but the Chief of Police stopped
him.

"No, no. We will take all that as read. Do you know anything about his
history, where he was born, what he is by trade, where he has lived,
that sort of thing?"

If one could believe a single word that Dittmar said, it appeared that
he had been born and brought up at Glogau on the Oder, that he was
trained as an engineer and worked in a factory at Frankfurt-am-Oder
until the war, when he went into the Army and served on the Western
Front and in North Africa; "that is how he knows French," explained
Tosen. After the war he had worked in Hamburg and it was there that he
met Kirsch in the Communist organisation. "But his home is in the Soviet
Zone and he still keeps in touch with his people there."

Tosen was removed to a cell and the Chief of Police turned to Hambledon
and was about to speak when another note was brought in.

"Kirsch," said the Chief. "He was arrested and brought here, just like
that. He has not spoken since he was arrested. My friend, you provided a
key to unlock the tongue of Tosen; have you any suggestion as to how we
may induce confidences from Kirsch?"

Hambledon said that he was sorry he had not, never having heard of the
man until half an hour earlier. "But some help might be obtained from a
study of his private papers," he added. "What accommodation did he have,
a couple of rooms in a house?"

"A house all to himself with a small room kept locked. It has cupboards,
locked, and a desk, locked, a safe and numerous drawers, all locked.
Sounds interesting, does it not?"

"You make my mouth water. If I were a spaniel I should be dribbling
visibly. Kirsch must have a bunch of keys the size of a prison
warder's."

"Herr Hambledon, this part of Germany is in the British Zone of
Occupation and this is a Security matter. You will wish to go through
Kirsch's papers yourself and I will postpone his examination until you
are able to be present."

"You are more than correct, you are generous," said Hambledon
gratefully, for, though what the Chief had said was quite true, it is
much pleasanter to be offered facilities than to have to insist on them.
"I am very much obliged to you and I will go there at once if you will
kindly give orders for me to be admitted."

"Certainly. And, thank you. In return," said the German, with a laugh,
"do you feel that you could satisfy a curiosity which is burning me to
the point of pain? Where are those famous Smirnov Plans now, in your
pocket?"

"Oh, no. They are in that bank in Fischmaker Strasse, the Norddeutsche
Bank is it? I dropped them into the night safe last night, addressed to
myself. There was also with the Smirnov Plan a covering note addressed
to me by name, rather odd, it was written in English in German
script--unsigned. I have no means of knowing whether Micklejohn wrote it
or not. I should say it was written by a German but it is in idiomatic
English and ends by telling me to look out for trouble. How right he
was. Now tell me, Herr Chief of Police, have you yet sent up your
detectives to search that house?"

"Not yet. My police are there but I have not yet given the other order."

"May I suggest that it might be as well to withhold your detectives for
the moment? If you will agree, I should like to spend two or three days
there on the chance that someone may come or the telephone may ring. I
am not really interested in the Smirnov Plan for its own sake, though
now it is in my possession I shall be happy to send it on to those
interested and if the Russians are running round in small circles
tearing each other's hair over it I am filled with fiendish delight. But
Micklejohn is my job, not the Smirnov Plan, and I am only interested in
it to the limited extent that Micklejohn seems to have come across it
somewhere. However, one can't miss possible chances. By the way, did
Kirsch have any domestic staff or did he wash up and make his own bed?"

The Chief of Police looked at the Inspector, who had returned after
arresting Kirsch.

"He had a woman in by the day, mein Herr, the wife of a man on the
railway, but she has been called away to keep house for a married
daughter at Hameln who has just been confined."

"Are you sure she did not provide a substitute?" said Hambledon. "I
don't want someone letting themselves in with the back door key at seven
tomorrow morning and sending for the police because there's the wrong
man in the house."

"There was another woman. She came to the house just after Kirsch had
gone. I told her that the Herr had gone away unexpectedly and that I was
waiting for her to ask her for the key, I have it here. I said that the
Herr would let her know when he was coming back." The Inspector smiled.
"She said that she did not mind how long it was before the Herr came
back, so I do not think she will give any trouble."

"It almost sounds as though she did not like him."

"It appears, mein Herr, that the Herr Kirsch looked at her over his
glasses, and----"

"No one could possibly like that."

"No, indeed, mein Herr. And that he went about the house unshaven and in
a dressing gown all day. She said it was not respectable."

The Chief laughed, but Hambledon asked interestedly whether Kirsch had
any other peculiarities.

"Only a tendency to draw the blinds at the earliest possible moment. He
said it was an invasion of privacy if people could look in at him."

"I rather sympathise," said Hambledon. "By the way, may I use your
telephone to ring my department in London?"

The message was to tell his department that young Micklejohn was alive
and well and being sheltered by sympathisers in the Soviet Zone.




Chapter 14: Do Not Forget Us


"I will drive you out there myself," said the Chief of Police, "and you
shall tell me what you want my police to do. No, it is no trouble,
indeed, I have to go to Oker about something."

"What I should really like the police to do is to keep watch on the
house but keep out of sight. I should like them to notice anyone who
comes to the house and to follow him when he leaves. Not to arrest him
but to find out where he goes."

"You shall hear me give the orders."

Goslar, like most ancient towns which once were walled, has its houses
closely packed within the old perimeter; outside it the houses are
immediately more widely spaced. Kirsch's house stood alone in a garden.
A drive came up to the front door and past it to a garage containing his
car. A lane between hedges ran down the side of the garden to cross a
stream called simply _Die Abzucht_ and so on towards the railway.

When the Chief's car came up to the front door a uniformed man came out
of the house, saluted, and said that they had made another arrest.

"Get back in the house," said the Chief abruptly, and followed him in
with Hambledon. "Who is it and where is he?"

"In the scullery, mein Herr, he is handcuffed and there are bars on the
window. We locked up the house after the prisoner was taken away and
Mulder and I were talking just within the entrance to the lane, when
this man came down the road and turned in at the gate, so we kept
observation through the hedge. He knocked several times at the front
door and again at the back door but, of course, the house is empty. Then
we saw him working on the catch of one of the windows and preparing to
climb in. We accordingly apprehended him, mein Herr."

The Chief looked closely at his constable and said that something seemed
to have happened to his left eye.

"Yes, mein Herr," said the man woodenly. "Mulder also was kicked in the
stomach. That is why we handcuffed the prisoner. Mulder is being sick
outside."

"I see."

"The prisoner's papers are not in order but, according to them, his name
appears to be Bauer."

"Just a moment," said the Chief of Police, and took Hambledon into the
sitting room, shutting the door behind them. "You were right, someone
did come."

"Yes," said Hambledon, "yes," and took a turn up and down the room. "A
pity he came so soon, but it can't be helped. He seems to have reacted
rather violently when asked to explain why he was climbing in at a
window and, when you come to think of it, that is rather an odd thing to
do in broad daylight even if he did not know there were two constables
behind the hedge. I mean, why not go quietly away and come back later?"

"It may be that his errand was urgent, perhaps? A message to be
delivered at a time when Kirsch ought to have been at home? I wonder if
he is carrying a letter."

"I should think not," said Hambledon, but the Chief put his head out at
the door and asked if the prisoner had anything on him in the way of a
letter, besides his personal papers.

"No, mein Herr, only the usual things a man carries in his pockets,
though it is true that we have not searched his clothing. There might be
a letter sewn in somewhere. Does the Herr wish such a search to be made?
Mulder has left off being sick now."

"No, it can wait till we get him down to the station," said the Chief,
and shut the door again. "You were thinking----"

"That if this man disappears without trace they will send someone else
if the message is really urgent. You have enough against this man to
hold him?"

"Plenty. Housebreaking, papers not in order, assaulting the police, ach,
yes. I will take him away at once, shall I?"

"If you please. I think it would be as well if he did not see me. I
don't really know why; just my natural caution breaking out. I will stay
on here, I think. No doubt there is food in the house."

"We will look; if not I will send some up. I will send two other men up
also. This fellow outside is not our brightest specimen and I imagine
that Mulder ought to go off duty for the rest of the day. Ring me up at
least four times a day, will you? And, of course, at any time you want
anything. _Auf Wiedersehen._"

Hambledon, armed with Kirsch's keys, entered Kirsch's study, shut the
door behind him and opened the window, which protested that it was not
accustomed to being opened. He then started upon a search of the various
locked containers which were not, thank Heaven, nearly so numerous as
the Chief of Police had suggested. There was a safe and a writing table
of the type which has four small drawers at either side acting as
pillars to support the leather-covered top. There was a sizable table in
the middle of the room bearing a typewriter and the neat piles of
trigonometrical calculations which had so impressed the simple mind of
Hanna. Hambledon looked over the sheets and recoiled, for mathematics
was not his subject; when it occurred to him that they might conceivably
be an innocent-seeming series of keys to codes, he backed away until he
bumped against the opposite wall. He had not the crossword-puzzle type
of mind and regarded codes much as the average man regards nuclear
science--a wonderful thing worked out by marvellous minds, but they can
have it.

There were two long shallow drawers under this table. He unlocked and
opened these first, to discover that Ludwig Kirsch was, actually, in the
last stages of preparing a textbook on _Trigonometry for Higher Forms_.
There were the pages carefully laid out with incredibly neat footnotes.
So Kirsch really was doing what he said he was doing, and why not? Even
a Soviet agent must have his hobbies.

Hambledon abandoned the trigonometry and turned to the safe. Even as he
inserted the key he thought of booby traps and stood at one side when
the door swung open. However, nothing squirted vitriol at him or even
tried to shoot him, and he came round to the front and looked in.

"Not even a cobra poised to strike," he remarked, for one of his fellow
guests at the hotel had lent him a really blood-curdling thriller into
which politeness had compelled him to dip.

The safe was reasonably full, mainly of information about the British
Occupation Forces in the area. Hambledon looked through them and
marvelled for the thousandth time at the German passion for detail.
Kirsch had complete particulars of the strength of the British forces,
the units concerned, their arms and equipment, their guns and their
transport, the exact position of all the units, and even the layout of
their barracks and posts. There were complete lists of all the officers
in order of seniority; their names, ages, war records, decorations; the
part of the country from which they came, and even the schools which had
nurtured their formative years, though why it should interest the
Russians to know that the Colonel was at Winchester and the Adjutant at
Rugby, only Heaven knows.

"Perhaps it enables them to show off," said Hambledon. "'To us, your
lives are an open book; from us, there is nothing hid.' Blast them." He
looked more closely at the typewritten pages, they were carbon copies,
kept in case the top copies went missing in transit, no doubt.

He stacked them on the floor in a space by themselves--the British
should have those--and turned to the next shelf. Here were reports about
individual Germans in that area of the Western Zone, with their full
names and addresses and comments about their characters and
capabilities. "Accurate and thorough, this man is commendable."
"Conscientious but has not the technical knowledge required for his
post." "Unreliable, drinks to excess. Should be dropped." "Brilliant but
careless, lacks application."

Hambledon sat back on his heels, there was an old, familiar ring about
these comments--of course! End-of-term reports. Once a schoolmaster,
always a schoolmaster.

"I wonder how often I give myself away," said Hambledon, who had been a
schoolmaster himself.

There were further details about German Communist agents, with brief
notes about information which they had supplied and useful work which
they had done.

Another set of papers were copies of suggestions sent across by Kirsch
himself. Would it not be a good idea, subject to approval, of course, to
work up ill-feeling between the British Occupation Forces and the German
people? Incidents involving the troops, such as assault and rape,
robbery at lonely houses, scenes of violence in cafs. It would be
possible to produce most convincing evidence, it did not really matter
if it did not convince the British Army authorities so long as the
Germans believed it.

The next discovery was a series of bright ideas about sabotage,
particularly of the kind which causes accidents.

"'Don't blow up the barracks,'" commented Tommy, "'tamper with the
steering gear.' One must admit that this fellow is capable. The Russians
are going to miss their Ludwig, aren't they?"

There was a locked drawer at the bottom of the safe, which contained one
stout envelope, unsealed. Hambledon slid out the contents. They
comprised a set of personal papers of a kind which he had never seen
before, for they were Soviet-issued passes to enter the Soviet Zone at
Helmstedt. That is, there were a number of passes but they all referred
to Ludwig Kirsch. There was a German passport complete with photograph
and visaed for entry into Soviet-occupied territory at Helmstedt only,
not anywhere else. There was a grey card authorising him to travel by
railway from Helmstedt direct to Magdeburg and a white one permitting
him to move about within the city limits of Magdeburg for a period not
exceeding seven days. This must be taken to the police by the bearer in
person _within_ three hours of arriving in the city. There was a short
list of names and addresses of "permitted" hotels; a note at the foot of
this said that ration cards were obtainable at the office of the
Rationed Food Distribution Controller and identity papers must be
produced at the time of application. There was a further card, blue this
time, giving the name and address of the particular _Volksbank_
authorised to exchange West marks into East marks; Hambledon, who had
heard from Britz, his driver, that there was a thriving black market in
the Soviet Zone for the more valuable West marks, guessed that this bank
was not nearly so busy as it ought to be.

"Dear me," said Hambledon. "I wonder whether you were in the habit of
running across to see your little playmates every so often." He took up
Kirsch's passport again and examined it closely. It had been issued in
1954 and was therefore three years old. It bore exit and entry stamps
into Holland and back in 1954 and again in 1955 and these were the only
entries before the Soviet visa dated January of the current year.
Kirsch's address was given as Hamburg.

Hambledon looked at the passport and the beginning of an idea began to
germinate in his mind. Of course, this passport only said that Kirsch
had not entered Russian territory since 1954. He might have made a habit
of it before that, not so long ago. Besides, it was practically certain
that Kirsch would have had visitors from the Soviet Zone. Russian
Intelligence Services would not conduct their business through the post.
Hambledon's idea, always a little misty, thinned out almost to vanishing
point. There would be no sense in entering Soviet-occupied territory on
these papers, only to be confronted with rows of hard-faced autocrats
all looking coldly at him and saying with one voice: "This ain't our
Ludwig." Then, moving as one man, they would all draw out their
Army-issue revolvers. No, no future in that. None at all.

Hambledon sighed and returned the papers to the safe for the moment.

The drawers of the writing table, although as scrupulously locked as the
rest, contained only such innocent and homely things as blotting paper,
writing paper, envelopes, paper clips, pencils, and boxes of nibs. The
bottom left-hand drawer alone contained something not strictly
utilitarian, a box of chessmen and a folding board. The man kept no
letters--there were a few tradesmen's receipts--he seemed to have
neither family nor friends. No "Lieb' Ludwig, could you lend me fifty
marks till the end of the month"; no "Lieber Onkel, there is great news,
Gretchen has a son and the little Lottchen has cut a tooth." Nothing
human.

Hambledon went over the rest of the house. Downstairs there was also a
kitchen and the small scullery in which Bauer had been confined. Here
there was a back door leading to a neglected garden and a
secretive-looking little path between currant bushes to an inconspicuous
gate in the side lane. A quiet route for shy visitors.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a small box room, unused. One
bedroom was kept under dust sheets by the careful Hanna; the other was
Ludwig Kirsch's. The grey dressing gown which had so much affronted
Hanna's deputy had been flung across the foot of the bed. Presumably
Kirsch had changed into more formal attire when he was taken to police
headquarters. There were clothes in a hanging cupboard, underwear and
handkerchiefs in the dressing-table drawers, shaving kit and so forth on
the fixed wash-hand basin. Everything that should be in a man's bedroom
was there and nothing more. Had Kirsch no gun, then? Oh, probably on him
when he was arrested, and taken away, with him, by the police.

Hambledon reckoned that he was not likely to be approached by anyone
from Soviet Intelligence until it became obvious that Bauer was missing;
not, probably, for two days. In the meantime it would be idiotic as well
as intensely boring to sit indoors continuously at this stage. Dull and
stuffy, even with the windows open. Besides, he was getting hungry.

He reopened the safe, took out Kirsch's careful details about the
British Army, and put them in a large envelope with a covering note for
transmission to the British Army of Occupation, Security Branch.
Kirsch's passport and various passes for the Soviet Zone went into
Hambledon's own inside pocket; it was painfully unlikely that he would
ever be able to use them, but one never knows. The fact was that he
could not bear to part with them.

He rang up the Chief of Police on the telephone.

"I have found a lot of stuff in Kirsch's safe which will interest you.
In fact, it won't matter in the least if Kirsch never speaks another
word as long as he lives; it's all here. I'll bring it along to you. I
think it would be wiser if your detectives were not seen to be buzzing
round this house at the moment... What?... No, no trouble at all,
I'm going out to lunch. There's no sense in my sticking close to this
place until it becomes obvious to those who sent him that Bauer has got
lost. I wish Bauer would talk, but... Yes, I agree. I've often
thought so... Yes, but one couldn't rely on what he said and there's
no means of checking it. I assume that he did come in from the Soviet
Zone... Oh, have you? Well done. Through Helmstedt yesterday, I see.
Probably stayed the night at Brunswick. Yes... Well now, I have also
found some stuff the British authorities ought to have, not that it will
do them much good, it's all carbon copies but it will make nice bedtime
reading... Oh, would you? How kind, I'll bring that along too, then.
Very well, I'll have some lunch, it's getting late, and then come on to
you. I beg your pardon?"

"I said," repeated the Chief of Police, "that I have a message for you
from London. Here it is. 'Your message received. Please arrange get
Micklejohn out earliest possible moment.' Message ends."

Hambledon caught a bus into Goslar and stood himself lunch at the
Schwartzer Adler. If he were going to spend two or three days--or even
more--immured in Kirsch's house with a choice between cooking for
himself or living upon sausage, he would at least have a nice lunch to
remember. Besides, if he were to go about with two or three days' beard
upon his face none of the better hotels would admit him, and rightly.

He emerged, pleasantly replete, from the Schwartzer Adler and stood
outside the door while he lit a cigar. Apparently Adolf Hitler used to
stay at the Schwartzer Adler when he came to Goslar, though why anyone
should think it recommended an hotel to have had among its clients a man
who ate boiled cabbage and cream buns and drank _Apfelsaft_ it is hard
to understand. If it could be said that Goering had approved the place,
there would have been much more sense in it.

He walked up the path to the road and turned right to go into the town.
The side wall of the Schwartzer Adler's decorative forecourt ends in a
square stone pillar and on this pillar there is a bronze plaque.
Hambledon stopped to look.

It is about two feet high by eighteen inches wide and depicts, in low
relief, a barbed-wire fence such as are placed round prisoner-of-war
camps. Against this fence there is the figure of a man, seen from
behind, drooping against the wire in an attitude of the most heartbroken
despair. One hand drags at a strand as though his legs will scarcely
support him, his body sags sideways, and his face is hidden in the crook
of his arm. An inscription across the top reads _Vergesst Uns Nicht_--do
not forget us.

It is a memorial to the eighty thousand German prisoners whom the
Russians still refuse to release. Quite recently, in fact, the Russians
have said that these prisoners cannot now be returned because they are
all dead.

He turned away and walked on, wondering whether or not the irony was
intentional which had set this plaque outside the one place in Goslar
most associated with Adolf Hitler.




Chapter 15. The Smirnov Plan


Hambledon went on down the road and angled across the square which
contains the Jakobi-Kirche to reach the Police Headquarters by footways
and narrow side streets. The Chief of Police received him at once.

"These will interest you," said Tommy, and gave him Kirsch's lists of
Communist agents in that area--the end-of-term reports--and the further
list of what these men had done.

"I am interested," said the Chief grimly, running his eyes down the
lists. "So will they be when I bring them here before me. I will give
them something to occupy their minds, yes, yes. I----"

"These," said Hambledon, "I think you should see and then, if you will,
pass them on to the British authorities. I really don't know whether you
or they are the more concerned."

These last were Kirsch's suggestions for stirring up trouble between the
British Occupation Forces and the German people, and also for sabotage.

"These, I think, will form an important part of the case against him,
but I will send copies at once to the British authorities, do you agree?
Good. Anything else?"

"Only this rather fat envelope for the Army Security people. You said
that you would kindly send them up."

"I will send a police car out at once. There is no message with them?
No. They shall have them in an hour," said the Chief. "Anything else?"

"Only an enquiry, a complete shot in the dark. The man may not even
exist but it would be foolish to neglect the most outside chance--Gustav
Ehrlich is the name. Do you know anything whatever about a man named
Ehrlich, Gustav?"

"Ehrlich. I have heard the name and that quite recently. One moment."
The Chief of Police went to a tall card index, pulled out the drawer
labelled EB-EN, and flicked over the cards. "Yes, here he is. 'Ehrlich,
Gustav, born at Stettin 1932, engineer, employed at Breslau 1952-54,
went to Dortmund October '54, Communist. Suspected on good evidence of
embezzling firm's money, complaint laid with police May 27, this year.
Evaded arrest and is thought to be making for Soviet Zone.' That is
right, we were looking out for him but we have not caught him. That is
quite recent, you see, but I expect he has got across by now. I have no
photograph but here is his description: 'Eyes, grey; hair, brown; round
face; long nose; cleft chin; ears flat, no lobes; height 175.5
centimetres, no distinguishing marks.' That, mein Herr, is all I have."

"Thank you very much," said Hambledon.

The Chief looked at him, but, as it was evident that there was nothing
more forthcoming, he put back the card, shut the drawer again, and asked
what Hambledon proposed to do now.

"Dispense with shaving, trail about in Kirsch's old dressing gown, and
hope that someone may come who does not know him personally."

Two days later, in the evening as the light was going, a knock came at
Ludwig Kirsch's front door. Hambledon, with the grey dressing gown on
over his shirt sleeves, no collar, a two-day stubble on his face, a
spare pair of Kirsch's glasses on his nose and bedroom slippers on his
feet, opened the door cautiously. A small neat man stood on the mat
outside and said, in an enquiring tone: "Herr Ludwig Kirsch?"

Kirsch's glasses were very strong and Hambledon could not see through
them at all; he let them slip down his nose and peered at his visitor
over the top of them.

"That is my name," he said, not attempting to move.

"Lorenz Grober," said the small man, introducing himself. "May I come
in?"

"I suppose so," said Hambledon grumpily. He showed Grober into the
sitting room and waited to lock and bolt the door before following him.
"Please sit down."

"Thank you. You do not know me, Herr Kirsch----"

"You are perfectly right, I do not."

"Perhaps I might show you my passport," said Grober, and opened it to
display the stamp of entry into Western Germany from the Soviet Zone at
Helmstedt, dated that day. Hambledon dropped his glasses and managed to
steal a glance at the page before putting them on again. He stared
owlishly at the passport and then at his visitor.

"I do not like dealing with strangers," he said abruptly. "Where is
Bauer?"

"Has the Herr not seen Bauer?"

"Of course I've seen him. Repeatedly." Hambledon knew that Bauer's
passport showed frequent transits across the frontier at Helmstedt. "I
do not like this at all. Who are you to be asking me questions about
Bauer? I was expecting him. One moment. That curtain gapes a little."
Hambledon got up and arranged, with meticulous care, one of the window
curtains which did not quite meet its fellow. "I detest gaping curtains
when I have lights on in the rooms. Now tell me why Bauer has not come.
I was expecting him before this."

"We greatly fear," said Grober, "that something has happened to Bauer.
He crossed at Helmstedt three days ago with the intention of calling
upon you the following day, but he has not returned to us and now you
say that he did not come here. It does look as though something has
hap----"

"Nothing irritates me more," said Hambledon, so energetically that his
glasses fell off his nose into his lap, "than this stupid and inaccurate
habit of using a vaguely harmless circumlocution in place of a definite
statement. If you mean that you think Bauer has been picked up by the
police, why not say so in plain terms? Accuracy, accuracy."

"But he may not have been arrested," pleaded Grober. "He may have been
taken ill--met with an accident--been run over in the street."

"It is possible. These are all possible suggestions, now that you have
applied your mind to formulating your ideas. Well, at least it is clear
that Bauer was on his way here and has failed to arrive."

"Yes. That being so, I have had the honour to be sent in his place, and
the substance of my message concerns the Smirnov Plan, which, as you
know, was stolen from the late General Vedovitch. The papers have not
been found on our side and it is thought increasingly likely that they
were brought across the frontier here. I am to urge----"

"Quite right. They were."

Grober sat up. "You know that, for a fact?"

Hambledon replaced his spectacles--Kirsch's spectacles--firmly on his
nose. The effect was to make Grober's face look like a large, pink bath
sponge, but that could not be helped.

"Have I, then, a reputation for making inaccurate statements?"

"Heaven forbid, Herr Kirsch! Quite the reverse. My remark was more in
the nature of an exclamation of pleased surprise."

Hambledon sneered and Grober went on hastily:

"That being so, I am to urge upon you the imperative necessity for
locating them and securing possession of them at the earliest possible
moment. The Soviet Army authorities lay the greatest possible stress
upon the importance of their being regained at once, as the utmost
inconvenience and damage would be caused if they fell into West German
or British hands."

Hambledon sat with his hands lightly folded in his lap, waiting
patiently until Grober should have completed his sentence. When it was
quite clear that there was no more to come he moved his head just enough
to make his spectacles flash like the eyes of the witch in "Hnsel und
Gretel" and remarked:

"I already have them."

Grober bounced in his chair.

"You--already--have--them?"

"I wish Bauer had come instead of you. He at least did not expect me to
repeat even my simplest statements twice."

Grober also wished that Bauer had come; presumably, long acquaintance
had taught him how to deal with this peppery old horror. He himself was
not enjoying the interview at all.

"I beg your pardon. I was surprised, that is----"

"Surprised? That I was told to regain possession of certain plans and
have actually done so? Why should that surprise you?"

Grober drew out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

"Gn' Herr, I beg----"

"Go on. What do you beg?"

"Permission to say that whatever may be the case with an inexperienced
young man like myself, my superiors at least will not be surprised. The
Herr has no idea--can have no idea of the extraordinarily high value
which Russian Intelligence places upon his services. The Herr's
reputation is unsurpassed."

Hambledon was not surprised; he had himself formed a high opinion of
Kirsch's capabilities. He thought it time to unbend a little.

"'I use only the best butter,'" he murmured, and allowed his grim
expression to relax slightly.

"Indeed, indeed, it is not flattery," protested Grober. "Would the Herr
care to tell me something of how the plans were recovered? My superiors
will be so eager----"

"It was nothing. Perfectly simple. That fellow Andrey Lentov brought
them across and I took them from him. That is all. It was, surely, known
from the outset that Lentov had them?"

"Of course, yes. General Vedovitch was so ill-advised as himself to give
Lentov the plans to take to headquarters, and the young man was not seen
again."

Hambledon made a shocked noise and added: "Imbecile. Criminally
imbecile. I take it that General Vedovitch has been suitably dealt
with?"

"He committed suicide, mein Herr."

"Good. Most suitable for a high-ranking Army officer."

"Yes, indeed. And where is Lentov now?"

Hambledon raised his eyebrows.

"In Hell, presumably, if the theologians have their facts right."

"Then he----"

"I shot him myself, as a matter of fact," said Hambledon casually. "He
was a traitor."

He took his glasses off to rub his eyes. The strong lenses were
straining his sight. "Be so good as to report that also to your
superiors," he added. "And apologise on my behalf for depriving them of
the pleasure, but circumstances were a little pressing at that moment."

"Certainly, certainly. And the Smirnov Plan--you have it here?"

"What? In this house? _Himmel_, no! I do not consider this house
altogether safe. I think the police take a little interest in it
sometimes." He replaced the spectacles and peered at Grober over the
frame. "One cannot be too careful. One of my assistants was arrested and
the other has taken fright and run away."

Grober seemed to grow smaller where he sat.

"Then you think--do you think----"

"Frequently," snapped Hambledon. "And, if I may say so, intelligently.
On this occasion I think I want a new assistant."

"But the man who was arrested, will he not talk?"

"Do dead men talk?"

"Oh, he is dead. You did not say that, you only said he had been
arrested and----"

"Blistering nincompoop," roared Hambledon, "do even you suppose that I
should be sitting here quietly in my own house if my late assistant were
wagging his tongue off at Police Headquarters? You are a fool."

"Evidently," said Grober faintly, "evidently. But the Russians are very
eager to have the plans back."

"I do not insult them by suggesting that they would expect me to hand
them over to you--a man I have never seen before in my life. If Bauer
had come----"

"But you do not know any of us except Bauer, now that Groenfeld is
dead," said Grober desperately. "I applaud--we all applaud--your extreme
caution in never crossing to our side, in having no dealings with the
usual Communist clubs, in never attending meetings, in never having
people at your house here except the occasional visitor like Bauer, even
your care with the drawn curtains--all admirable. But I am sent to beg
you to come over so that we may see what manner of man has served us so
well. Bauer brought you the passes, did he not?"

Hambledon got up and took a turn up and down the room, waving his
glasses in his hand. Grober, of course, had to stand also.

"He did, yes, and I still have them. I am gratified at this courteous
desire to make a fuss over me, but I have always refused to come across
for the simple reason that once I was noted as having crossed your
frontier I should be marked down as being in touch with the Soviet Zone,
whereas at present I am not tainted with any political affiliation. I
think that is quite simple and clear."

"Perfectly, and we----"

"But the present emergency is quite serious. The Smirnov Plan papers are
of the greatest importance--I am aware of that--and the Russians should
have them back at the earliest possible moment, but to hand them over to
a total stranger! No, no, I cannot bring myself to do it."

Grober had enough tact to hold his tongue and wait.

"I see no help for it," said Hambledon finally. "It seems that this
course of action is forced upon me. I only hope that I shall not have to
regret it," he added, from the bottom of his heart.

Grober, in fluent phrases, expressed himself as being overjoyed at the
prospect of being able to take back with him such good news as that the
famous, nay, the illustrious Herr Ludwig Kirsch was actually----

"Make sure that you do get back with it and do not fall into oblivion on
the road like poor Bauer," said Hambledon. "Now, the passes Bauer
brought me provide for a train journey to Magdeburg and back to
Helmstedt. That will not do at all because I shall be travelling by car.
My car. And I cannot be confined to any particular route. I must be able
to choose any road which I think best."

"But----"

"Triple-damned idiot," snarled Hambledon, "do you seriously suppose that
there is no anti-Communist organisation on your side?"

Grober knew very well that such organisations did exist and was obliged
to admit it.

"Very well, then," said Hambledon. "I drive my own car----"

"I shall be asked," said Grober timidly, "your excellent reasons for not
wishing to travel by train."

"Because I shall be carrying the Smirnov Plan."

Grober's face lit up. "It will, of course, be concealed in the car?"

"You have your brighter moments."

"Thank you, indeed. The necessary passes shall reach you within
twenty-four hours."

"I shall not be ready to come across for a couple of days. I told you
the plan is not here, it is hidden. I must go and get it and I may have
to watch my moment for taking it from where it lies hid. Let us say two
clear days to be on the safe side--I have a mania for being on the safe
side----"

"How wise! How right!"

"How true. Well, now, today is Tuesday, is it not?"

"Certainly, gn' Herr."

"Wednesday, Thursday. I will cross the frontier at Helmstedt between
fourteen and fifteen hours on Friday and you will be there to meet me,
Grober. Understand? If you are not waiting at the Soviet Zone barrier
when I drive up, I turn straight round and drive back again. It is still
true that I do not know nearly enough about you but at least I shall
recognise your face. I absolutely refuse to be landed with an unknown
escort who may be a member of your subversive underground movement only
waiting for a lonely stretch of road to cut my throat."

Grober made clucking noises.

"Do you realise," said Hambledon, with his most terrifying scowl above
the spectacles, "that even now you may be a member of that organisation
who has wormed himself in here--having cut Bauer's throat on the way--to
penetrate my obscurity and betray my secrets?"

"Herr Kirsch," said Grober, in a voice trembling with sincerity,
"believe me, if I were not perfectly genuine I should have fled long
ago."

"If I had not believed you genuine you would never have left the house.
Let us before all things be accurate: you would never have left the
garden. Why are we standing up? Sit down."

Grober sat down with a bump and Hambledon sank slowly into his chair,
settling his dressing gown about him. One of the pockets bulged and a
weight inside dragged it down, it contained Hambledon's Luger, and
Grober's eyes had been nervously upon it.

"I think that is all, is it not?" said his terrifying host. "Unless you
have anything further to tell me, I need not detain you."

Grober sprang up again.

"Only the car number, mein Herr, for the pass, the number and make and
colour of your car."

"Oh. Yes. Well, the number is GS 13579, you had better make a note of
that. As for the make, that is a little more difficult. You see, it was
built--you had better come out and look at it."

Hambledon took a small electric torch from a drawer and led the way into
the entrance hall, where he unlocked and unbolted the door and switched
the ceiling light out before opening the door.

"It is not really dark outside," he said, stepping out confidently. "It
is a strange thing, but in the dark I can see better without my
spect----What have you done? Please do not make so much noise."

"I fell over--I think, the scraper," said Grober, getting up painfully
and rubbing his shin, but Hambledon had not waited for him and could
dimly be seen at the garage door. A key turned in a lock, the door swung
open, and the light of Hambledon's little torch could be seen inside.
Grober limped after him.

"This car was constructed by a local mechanic at a time when cars were
hard to come by. Long before I came here, of course. I am not a
specialist in automobile construction but I understand that the--the
underframing and the engine are of one make, the bonnet and the radiator
are of another, a Renault radiator, is it? And the body is an extremely
comfortable coup. I like it."

Grober looked at the car and blinked, for he did know something about
automobiles. The original chassis had belonged to a full-length saloon
car of some sort. The coup body was much too short to cover it and the
rear end of the frame members with the transmission shaft, differential,
back axle, and what Hambledon in his own mind called "all the rest of
the gubbins" stuck out behind in naked majesty. The general effect was
of a sedan chair perched upon a secondhand bedstead, but the car was
clean and well cared for and the paint in reasonably good condition.
Hambledon patted the bonnet affectionately.

"It goes very well," he said casually. "Now you have seen it do you
think you will recognise it again?"

He gave Grober full marks for keeping every trace of emphasis out of his
voice when he said that he would.

"Now," added Grober, "I think I need not inflict my company upon you any
longer." He stepped back while Hambledon shut and locked the garage
door. "Your valuable time--I have taken up too much already. In taking
my leave----"

"Be quiet!" hissed Hambledon, and listened intently. "Back in the
house."

He hustled Grober into the dark hall and took some pains to close and
fasten the door silently.

"What----" breathed Grober. "Police?"

"Yes, but the fellow on duty tonight is hard of hearing. I think he may
not have heard you. It will be better to wait a little. Come in and sit
down."

Grober would have given much for a drink, but probably the Herr Kirsch
only drank at breakfast time or when the moon changed. In any case, he
did not suggest it. Grober's head was beginning to ache and his shin was
abominably painful, but he eased the trouser leg away from it and
composed himself to listen while Herr Kirsch talked about the car, which
appeared to be his one human weakness.

"You will understand," he said eventually, "that, since I am passing
here as nothing more than a retired teacher of mathematics, I cannot
afford to appear well-to-do. Quite the reverse. So when I saw this car
pushed away into the back of a garage with an absurdly low price upon
it, I seized the opportunity. The car----"

But Grober really felt as though he could not stand any more car.

"I must, finally, refer once more to my boundless admiration for your
far-seeing caution," he said. "Your cover is so good, this artistic
simulation of a quiet student writing a book of algebra for boys----"

Herr Kirsch sprang from his chair. He was not a tall man, but to
Grober's alarmed eyes he appeared to tower like the tall Agrippa in the
_Struwelpeter_ his grandmother used to show him on Sundays.

"Simulation?" he stormed. "You suggest I am pretending? Come with me."

He seized Grober by the ear and dragged him into the further room, the
little study.

"Look," he said, releasing Grober in order to switch on the light, "look
upon that table. Behold a small part of years of work. Those are the
examples and the exercises for my _Trigonometry for Higher Forms_, every
one deliberately selected to display some fresh facet of--of
trigonometry. Look at my pages here." Hambledon dragged open a table
drawer and thrust a handful of Kirsch's careful layouts under Grober's
terrified nose.

"I--I am overcome," said Grober, backing away to the door. "I am
incapable of appreciating--I never understood mathematics. In any case,
esteemed Herr Kirsch, I must go now. I have detained you too long from
your for-the-instruction-of-youth-indispensable labours." He picked up
his hat in the sitting room. "I shall look forward with joy to meeting
you at Helmstedt on Friday." He laid his hand upon the front door. "_Auf
Wiedersehen_, gn' Herr."

"Not that way," said Hambledon, and steered him through the kitchen to
the scullery. "Here is the back door. There is a path through the garden
to a small gate in the lane. When you reach it, turn right and the lane
will lead you back to the town. _Auf Wiedersehen_, Grober."

He closed and locked the door almost before the young man was clear of
the doorstep, and listened with pleasure through the scullery window to
rustling noises and smothered yelps, for some of the bushes were
gooseberry. "And I hope you fall in _Die Abzucht_," he added unkindly.

Now, _Die Abzucht_ means The Drain.




Chapter 16. A Meal with Wine


Hambledon took off Kirsch's glasses and looked at them.

"That was a mistake," he said to himself. "If I go on wearing those
things I shall be cross-eyed in six hours." But Grober had seen the
thick pebble lenses and would notice at once if they were replaced by
plain glass. Besides, the frames did not fit him. Of course, the answer
was simple; plain glass with tinted glare-proof glasses clipped over
them. Simple. See about it tomorrow. He crossed the room to Kirsch's
sideboard, took out a bottle and a glass, poured himself some wine, and
sat down again to enjoy it.

Ten minutes later someone tapped on the windowpane. Hambledon got up and
went to the door to speak to the police officer outside.

"Well?"

"He didn't go down the lane, mein Herr. He came back up to the main road
and a car picked him up. They went off towards Oker, mein Herr, but I've
got a man trailing the car."

"Thank you very much. I expect he'll turn off north. He's bound for
Helmstedt. Is your chief still at the office, do you know?"

"When he heard that this man had come, he said that he would wait until
he heard from the Herr."

"Very good, I'll ring him. Thank you very much. Good night."

Hambledon telephoned to the Chief of Police.

"He has been and gone again and all's well. He did not know Kirsch, so
there was no trouble. I meant to ask you before, I want to ring up my
department in London, will it be all right to use this phone?"

The Chief hesitated. "A long-distance call, you would have to give your
number to the exchange--come and take your call from here. Do you want
to do it tonight or will tomorrow morning do?"

"I would rather do it tonight, I think."

"Sit tight and I will send a police car for you. No, no trouble at all,
they are only patrolling round and getting bored. Any immediate news for
me?"

"Not immediate, no, it will keep till the morning."

"Very good indeed; then I go to bed and you can have my office all to
yourself. I am tired. There is nothing which tires me more than asking
questions and getting no answers. That Kirsch and that Bauer, they will
not even say yes or no."

"Very sensible of them," said Hambledon.

"I hate sensible criminals," said the Chief tartly. "Never mind. I send
the car for you and then I go to bed. _Auf Wiedersehen Morgen, ja?_ Good
night."

Hambledon's message to his department was to ask them to send out, as
early as possible next day, by air to Hanover, a man with gear for
photographing documents. He was to stop in Hanover and Hambledon would
come there to meet him with the documents to be photographed. Yes,
tomorrow without fail. What? Yes, of course it would be later today
since it was past midnight, sorry. Today, then. Very important indeed,
there must be no hitch. Good.

After which Hambledon, yawning his head off, went back to Kirsch's house
and to bed.

On the following morning, having had a nice clean shave, he slipped out
by the back door in case someone--besides the police--might be keeping
an eye upon the house of the illustrious Herr Kirsch. He went down the
lane and by devious ways to the town. Here he straightened his back,
held up his head, and walked about like a free man, for was he not once
more the English visitor staying at the Drei Bullochsen? His first
errand was to a photographer's for a passport photograph, his second to
the bank in Fischmaker Strasse for the envelope which he had dropped
into their night safe. Here he was prepared for a little trouble in
establishing his identity, but his passport and a detailed description
of the envelope with a black thumbprint in the left-hand top corner
served to convince the bank officials. Perhaps the Chief of Police had
smoothed his path.

With the Smirnov Plan in his pocket he went to look for Britz and found
him washing and polishing the small bus in which the party from the Drei
Bullochsen had travelled to the Zwinger. Britz straightened himself when
he heard a step behind him and his face lit up at sight of Hambledon.

"_Gott sei dank_, I feared that something might have befallen the Herr.
I saw the Herr Petersen yesterday and he told me that the Herr was away
from the hotel, and I feared----"

"Thank you," said Hambledon. "I am sorry to have caused you anxiety, but
I have been spending a few nights at the house of a friend. I want to
speak to you. Are we private here?"

"Let us get into the bus," said Britz, opening the door for him, "thus
we may be private enough. There are some fresh people on the
ground-floor of this house. I do not know anything about them." He got
in beside Hambledon, shut the door, and took a large road map out of the
cubbyhole. "If we are observed," he said, opening it out, "we are
planning the route for a drive."

"There is," said Hambledon, leaning across to point out a place on the
map, "a face behind that muslin blind, but I think it is only a child."

"One cannot be too careful," said Britz gloomily.

"No. I wanted to ask you to get a message across to the Herr Micklejohn,
Gustav Ehrlich, you know."

"I will do my best, but the Heir knows that it----"

"I know it is difficult, but this one is very important. Say to him that
if he hears that Ludwig Kirsch is asking for him, to go to him without
fear, for Ludwig Kirsch is a trustworthy friend."

"Ludwig Kirsch," said Britz, running his finger along the road to
Clausthal-Zellerfeld. "I will remember that name."

"Thank you. The other thing I want you to do for me is a great deal
simpler. I want you to go to a certain house"--he gave Britz the full
address of Kirsch's house--"and look over an extraordinary old car you
will find in the garage there. Here is the key of the garage. I don't
want an elaborate overhaul and in any case I shall want her in the
morning of the day after tomorrow--Friday. I only want her to start when
required, continue to proceed and stop when I want to stop. That's all."

"General checkup," said Britz cheerfully. "Petrol, oil, you want me to
fill her up? Tyres, brakes, steering, running--certainly, mein Herr. I
will go out there at once."

"If the police should ask you what you are doing there," said Tommy,
scribbling a message upon one of his cards, "show them this."

"Very good. And if anyone else should ask me?"

"Tell them to go to hell."

"_Schn._ What make is the car?"

"Oh. That is rather difficult. It's a composite affair with a coup body
on a long chassis. It's got a Renault radiator, but what the engine is I
really don't know."

"Ach, that is the car which my friend Ernst Krueger made up soon after
the war out of what scraps he could salvage when he came home. He used
to drive her about, she goes very well, it is a good engine, but she
looks so odd that the girls used to laugh at him and say that the body
was once the porch of Noah's Ark. Ernst, he does not like girls to laugh
at him, so, as soon as he could, he bought a Volkswagen and pushed the
old car out of the way. Then one day he told me that he had sold it to a
Herr Kir----"

He stopped.

"Herr Kirsch, that's right. I have been staying in his house," said
Hambledon. "The Herr is away from home at the moment and the police are
keeping an eye on the house, that is why I gave you that card."

Britz looked up with eyes full of questions, but Hambledon merely smiled
and the questions remained unasked.

"I may take it, Britz, may I not, that you are not a man who talks?"

"_Herrgott_," said Britz violently, "I have had enough practice in not
talking."

"_Schn_," said Hambledon. "Well, I must go, I have an engagement." He
turned to get out of the car, but Britz said: "Excuse me, please. The
Herr reached his hotel safely the other night from the Zwinger?"

"Safe and unmolested," said Hambledon with emphasis. He looked Britz
squarely in the eyes and added: "I did not even have my pockets picked."

Britz said with what was, for him, a broad grin, that he was delighted
to hear it, and Hambledon went off to catch his train for Hanover.

"Though why in the name of common sense," he said to himself, "Britz
could not simply have come to the hotel quietly and handed the Smirnov
Plan to me personally, I cannot understand. All that business about the
waiter bringing me that box from Karstadt's----"

He came level with the Schwartzer Adler and glanced over his shoulder at
the _Vergesst Uns Nicht_ plaque.

"Perhaps if I lived only ten miles from the Russian Army," he concluded,
"I should become tortuous and complicated too."

He returned from Hanover in the evening, called in at the
photographer's, and went on to see the Chief of Police.

"Will you be so good as to take charge of this for me? Put it in your
safe, if you will. It is the Smirnov Plan."

"That almost fabulous document," said the Chief, taking the envelope.
"You wish me to guard it for you until you return to England?"

"Oh, no. Only until Friday morning. I'll pick it up on my way to
Helmstedt. You see, I thought it would be a nice gesture to let the
Russians have it back. They will be pleased, don't you think?"

"But----"

"It has spent the afternoon in Hanover," said Hambledon, gently flicking
the envelope, "having its photographs taken."

"Ach! I begin to see. And the photographs?"

"Are on their way to London. If the plane should fail to arrive, there
is still time to have them photographed again tomorrow. That is why I am
not going until Friday."

"You are going, you said, to Helmstedt?"

"I am going by Helmstedt into the Soviet Zone to deliver these precious
papers personally to the Russian Army authorities. They ought to be
pleased, don't you think? They will probably lay on a banquet.
Fortunately I like vodka."

"But, my poor friend, you are mad! You have allowed yourself to become
mentally deranged! Because you managed to pass yourself off as Ludwig
Kirsch to one man who did not know him----"

"Nobody knows him," said Hambledon, and explained Kirsch's elaborate
security precautions. "Only two men from that side knew him. One is
Bauer--don't lose him, will you?--and the other is dead."

"But they may have a photograph of him and you do not resemble him in
the least."

A sudden memory flicked up from the recesses of Hambledon's mind: Britz,
on that first drive along the frontier, saying that there were cameras
with telephoto lenses in those watchtowers. They take very clear
photographs when the light is good. Hambledon put the thought away for
future consideration.

"If they produce a portrait of Kirsch and point out that it is nothing
like me, I shall proclaim in the ringing accents of unmistakable
sincerity that they have got the wrong photograph. Then they can take
another look at me and see that it is so."

The Chief of Police appealed to his Maker.

"No filing system," added Hambledon, "is completely watertight.
Especially, I imagine, the Russians'. The human element, you know."

"But why are you putting your head in the lion's mouth like this? Do you
hope to be able to find young Micklejohn?"

"I shall tell them that I want a new assistant. My man Tosen was
arrested, though I managed to kill him before he could talk, and the
other man, Dittmar, took fright and ran away. I know the man I want, he
has worked on this side before. His name is Gustav Ehrlich. I am telling
you this in advance, Herr Chief of Police, in case it may happen that
Gustav Ehrlich gets across the frontier separately, alone, before I do.
If he does, you will take great care of him, won't you?"

"Micklejohn," said the Chief, in a voice so low as to be barely audible.
"Tell me," he added, "what do you think has happened to the real
Ehrlich?"

"I don't know at all but I should think that he is probably dead, since
he doesn't seem to be using his identity papers any more. Well, I think
that is all at the moment. Are there any special formalities about
leaving this zone at Helmstedt?"

"You will need a Russian visa and----"

"Ah, yes. That brings me to my next point. Here is Kirsch's passport
complete with Russian visa as required. The only thing the matter with
it is that it carries Kirsch's photograph instead of mine and, as you so
truly remarked just now, there is little or no resemblance between us."
Hambledon laid the passport on the Chief's desk and took a small
photographic print out of his wallet. "Here also is a passport
photograph of me and no one can say it is not up to date, because it was
taken today. Now, if Kirsch's photograph were carefully removed from his
passport and mine substituted, the thing would be complete. Wouldn't
it?"

He sat back and beamed upon the Chief of Police, who spluttered.

"But--but--but this is----"

"Oh, come," said Hambledon kindly. "You can't tell me that you have
reached your present deservedly exalted rank without ever having heard
of a cooked passport? In a good cause, of course. Besides, it isn't as
though Kirsch will want his passport again in what politicians call the
foreseeable future. Consider the issues involved. Consider the
practically tearful gratitude of Britain's Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, the Right Honourable Augustus Micklejohn, Member of
Parliament. I shouldn't be surprised if you received a ceremonial visit
from the British Ambassador in person. Besides, consider yourself; how
refreshing, how ennobling it is occasionally to take a strong line
against pettifogging restrictions. One must above all things refuse to
allow oneself to become hidebound."

The Chief's face slowly turned deep red and appeared to swell and for a
moment Hambledon thought that he had gone too far, but the big man's
shoulders began to shake and it became plain that he was amused.

"Herr Hambledon," he gurgled, "I am sure that that is an accusation
which will never be brought against you." He wiped his eyes and picked
up Kirsch's passport. "The difficulty, of course, is the official stamp
here, which is partly on the photograph and partly on the page. It will
need very careful reproducing upon yours so as to fit in."

"That is so," said Hambledon cheerfully. "I used to know a man in Paris
who did that sort of work quite beautifully, but it is a long way to
Paris and he may not be with us now."

"No need," said the Chief firmly. "Germany also is not without her
artists. There is a man now serving a long term in the convict prison at
Hanover who will be happy to do it for a box of cigarettes and a good
meal with wine. Leave it with me and I will arrange it."

"You are extremely good----"

"Not at all. I spend my days trying to stop this sort of thing, it will
be a pleasant change to encourage it for once. Besides, it will help me
not to become hidebound."

"I do apologise----" began Hambledon.

"Ach, please! Your other passes for travel inside the Soviet Zone? There
are many needed, as I once told you."

"I have them, all except the passes for the car, which may arrive this
evening, so I had better get back to my house--Kirsch's house. By the
way, I asked London to ring through to you to report the safe arrival of
those photographs. I hope you will excuse me. I thought they had better
not ring me direct. About leaving this zone?"

"No, there is nothing extra you will need but I will make sure that you
are not held up."

"Tell them to clear the road for me when I come back," grinned
Hambledon. "I may be in more of a hurry then."

He walked through the streets of Goslar, through the great gate called
the Breite Tor and out upon the road to Oker, recalling what Britz had
said that day they drove to Walkenried. Britz had said that he had never
seen so many Vopos about on any occasion before, and certainly, wherever
they had stopped, there were the brown uniforms and the clumsy intent
faces somewhere near by if one looked carefully. At Neuhof, where the
country was more open, there were two of them leaning over a gate
studying him through field glasses. "One would say they recognised the
Herr."

Well, it could not be helped and probably the risk was slight. Hambledon
had no intention of going anywhere near The Wire and copies of the
photograph would only be circulated to patrols along the frontier. No
doubt a further copy would find its way into some filing cabinet where
no one but a filing clerk would ever see it; there must be a good many
photographs taken along The Wire if it were worth while installing
telephoto cameras, and what is one among so many? Not worth bothering
about.

He turned in at Ludwig Kirsch's gate and found Britz working on the car.
He said it was in good condition; he had had it out on the road and it
appeared to be suffering mainly from insufficient use. The Herr Kirsch,
it would seem, was not an indefatigable motorist. Hambledon thought
that, judging Kirsch's eyesight by the type of glasses he wore, the
roads of Goslar and district would be a great deal safer if he never
drove again. Well, he would not in any case, since he was in gaol and
likely to stay there for some considerable time.

Hambledon encouraged Britz with a few kind remarks and went into the
house to cook himself some supper. The telephone rang: a message from
Police Headquarters to say that a packet had reached an address in
London. Good. He finished his supper and went upstairs to hunt through
Ludwig Kirsch's wardrobe for a suit which would approximately fit him;
there was one which would serve reasonably well. Continental suits do
not fit as do those of English cut and Kirsch was notoriously not a
dressy man.

Hambledon ran over in his mind the various arrangements he had made. The
only thing left to do tomorrow was to get some glasses which would not
blind him as Kirsch's did. The passes for the car had not arrived but
there was all tomorrow.

He poured himself a glass of wine and looked through Kirsch's bookcase
for something to read and at this point it occurred to him that as an
expert on trigonometry he should at least know something about its field
of operations, if only in order to dodge the subject if it looked like
coming up. He selected a book from the shelf and sat down to study it.

Trigonometry is a means of working out, in figures, calculations which,
in geometry, are expressed in diagrams drawn accurately to scale.

Trigonometry is particularly useful in gunnery for calculating the range
on targets.

"I shall avoid gunners," said Hambledon aloud.

Trigonometry is indispensable in the work of surveyors. The Smirnov Plan
was largely the work of surveyors. He was to take the Smirnov Plan to
those who, of all men, were most interested in it. Probably they worked
out trigonometrical problems in their heads over breakfast. Plane
trigonometry. Spherical trigonometry.

"Curse Kirsch!" said Hambledon violently. "This is much more dangerous
than all their cockeyed photographs. Why the hell couldn't the fool take
up Chinese hieroglyphics if he wanted a hobby? Nobody knows about
Chinese hieroglyphics."

He hurled the book across the room and went to bed.




Chapter 17. Smoke Screen


When Hambledon came down to get his breakfast on the following morning
he found inside the front door an envelope which had been dropped
through the letter slot; it had not come through the post. It contained
a frontier pass for the grey coup valid for Helmstedt and an open pass
to authorise the driver, Ludwig Kirsch, to travel freely upon the roads
of the Soviet-occupied zone of Germany.

Evidently Britz and his friends were not the only people who
communicated through The Wire. Well, nobody supposed that they were.

Hambledon went into the town to buy a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles
with plain glass instead of lenses, to the mild surprise of the
optician, to whom Hambledon explained that they were for use in private
theatricals. He added a pair of sunglasses of the type which clip on
over the lenses and walked out wearing spectacles for the first time in
his life. It fidgeted him to wear them but he was reassured when he saw
himself in a mirror and wondered momentarily who was the man staring at
him.

Britz had finished work on the car by lunch time and Hambledon took her
out for a trial run. She steered a little front-heavy but presumably one
would get used to that. The day seemed rather long but, like all other
days, came to an end at last.

On Friday morning Hambledon picked up the Smirnov Plan and the passport
from the police station and drove away in the direction of Helmstedt. He
admired the passport, which was a thoroughly artistic production, at
least as regards the photograph; the personal description had had to
stand but at least the eyes were the right colour and there was nothing
outstanding about Kirsch's appearance. It is very difficult to tamper
with the personal description page because it is printed upon a special
kind of paper which reacts violently to any attempt to alter the written
word.

Hambledon drove some five miles out from Goslar and pulled the car in to
the side of the road. He lifted up one of the floor boards in the boot,
took it inside the car with him, and tucked the Smirnov Plan away in an
ingenious cavity in the board. Britz had found it because this board was
a little thicker than the others. Hambledon put in the two little screws
which kept the thin lid in place, put the board back where it belonged,
and screwed that down also.

He drove on towards Helmstedt and found that the car, though noisy, went
extremely well considering its age. He stopped for lunch at a roadside
inn and considered various possibilities; before he drove on he went to
a garage and bought a litre can of lubricating oil, which he took into
the car with him.

He had arranged to meet Lorenz Grober at the Soviet frontier post at
Helmstedt between two and three o'clock that afternoon and he did not
wish to get there too early. It was nearly half-past two before he came
in sight of the red and white barrier which marked the West German post
and was pleased to see that there did not appear to be much traffic
passing at that time. This is the main road to Berlin, the only road
through the Soviet Zone, there might have been a long queue of lorries;
in point of fact there were only six or eight and they were not being
long delayed. Probably the process would take longer on the Russian
side. He drove to the tail of the queue and stopped, got out and emptied
the can of oil into the sump which Britz had filled the day before.

Hambledon turned to the carburettor. He had watched Britz delicately
adjusting the carburettor setting the day before; it had appeared to be
a case of "the little more and how much it is." After all, most
carburettors are like that.

When it came to his turn he drove up to the officer on duty and it was
clear at once that the Goslar Chief of Police had been as good as his
word, for no difficulties were made, inspection of the car was
perfunctory, and his papers were stamped without any delay. He drove on
the short distance to the East German post and noticed in his driving
mirror that the smoke from his exhaust was a public offence.

He drew up behind the last lorry in the line and kept his engine
running. A blue malodorous haze spread across the road and an official
shouted to him to stop the engine. Hambledon took no notice and merely
lit a cigar while he was waiting. Drivers alighted to look back at him
and other drivers emerging from the office with their papers called
official attention to him, pointing. Two lorries behind him stopped a
respectful distance away.

A frontier official came, running, and said that he was making a
nuisance of himself with all that smoke. Hambledon smiled amiably and
said ah, he had been told before that his mixture was too rich, "if I
have the phrase correctly. I am not, myself, an automobile mechanic."

The official said that that was reasonably evident and called him on out
of turn to get rid of him. Hambledon drew up at the office door with a
flourish and went in with his papers. The moment he was inside, someone
switched off his engine for him.

"Dear me," said Hambledon in a pained voice, "someone has stopped my
engine. I only hope that it will start again. I have had trouble already
this morning."

"If it won't, it will be towed away," said the official briefly.
"Papers, please."

Almost at once an argument started because the space on the car's papers
headed "Make of Car" had been filled in "Composite." What was meant by
"composite"?

Hambledon tapped irritably with his fingers on the counter and said
composite meant composite, that he had understood that this office was a
Frontier Control & Customs Post and not an elementary school, though, as
a retired schoolmaster, he would be happy to give instruction upon the
meaning of such ordinary words as might puzzle the class as and when
required. In the meantime, why not go out and look at the vehicle?

The official said sharply that impudence would not help him and
information had to be supplied to the office. The staff were not
supposed to fill up travellers' forms for them. Hambledon agreed that
filling up forms did indeed demand a certain minimum standard of
education and intelligence and a deadlock was rapidly forming when there
was a swirl in the interested group in the doorway and Grober rushed in
to the rescue.

"Ah," said Hambledon, relaxing, "here is my courier at last. He will
deal with the matter."

There was a hurried consultation in low tones during which Hambledon
absent-mindedly strolled out of the door and had to be brought back to
have his passport stamped.

He returned to the driver's seat; Grober, nervously asking permission
which was graciously accorded, sat beside him. Rather to Hambledon's
surprise--for he was beginning to think that he had overdone the
oil--the engine started at once and the car moved off under the lifted
barrier into what starry-eyed optimists call the German Democratic
Republic and tactless realists the Soviet Zone.

"I have been instructed to guide you," said Grober, "direct to
Magdeburg, where the Army High Command are waiting to receive the
Smirnov Plan from your own hands."

"Excellent," said Hambledon. "I shall be interested----"

His voice was drowned in the roar of six powerful motorcycles which
formed up round the car as it went, two in front and four behind. They
were ridden by six highly polished soldiers smartly dressed in glossy
black leather uniforms. Their faces were pink with cleanliness and their
expressions conveyed that earnest devotion to duty seen only in official
escorts under the eye of authority.

Hambledon slowed down to a walking pace.

"Is anything the matter?" asked Grober.

"I am only waiting till that noisy cluster of mechanised blackbirds has
passed on," yelled Hambledon, above the din. "I cannot hear myself
speak. Why are they stopping?"

"They are your escort, mein Herr. No further risks are to be taken with
the Smirnov Plan, by order of the High Command."

"What? Am I expected to tolerate this nuisance all the way to
Magdeburg?"

"It is only about fifty kilometres," shouted Grober, so apologetically
that his voice went up into a squeak. "By express order of the High
Command."

Hambledon said something about the High Command which Grober thought it
tactful not to hear, changed into second gear, and stamped on the
accelerator pedal. The result was a loud bang in the exhaust which
spattered the two front men of the rear guard with a mixture of oil and
carbon and filled their eyes with smoke while the car leapt forward so
briskly that the vanguard, paddling along with their toes on the road to
keep upright, had the nearest possible escapes from being run down. They
roared off ahead while those behind, cursing aloud, mopped their
blackened faces and followed after some distance behind.

"That," said Hambledon with what he hoped was a fiendish grin, "will
teach the escort to keep its distance. I cannot endure to be crowded on
the road."

Grober said nothing and some miles passed before the car showed signs of
resenting its condition. One and sometimes two of the six cylinders
began missing and there was that sickening intermittent hesitation which
all drivers have experienced at some sad time. The vanguard looked back
over its shoulders and slowed down and the rear guard closed up. A
little later a third cylinder also gave up the struggle, the engine
stopped and Hambledon coasted in to the side of the road.

He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigar and the sergeant in charge of
the escort came up to the driver's window.

"There appears to be something the matter," said Hambledon, waving him
towards the bonnet. "Tell me," he added, turning amiably to Grober,
"something about the organisation of agriculture in these parts. These
large agricultural machines which I see at work in the fields, are they
the property of individual farmers?"

Grober had been born and brought up in Magdeburg and worked in an office
ever since he left school. He knew nothing whatever about the country
and regarded it as a muddy place inhabited by rude people who kept pigs,
but he did know something about Soviet organisation in general.

"Oh, no, I think not. They would be the property of some sort of
farmers' association. Collectivisation, you know. There would be a
certain number of the--the necessary machines allotted to each area and
they would be taken from place to place as required."

"I see. So many haymaking machines to so many square miles, I suppose."

"Exactly. Precisely."

"And what happens if all the hay in an area wants cutting at once? As it
probably would, you know. They would all have the same weather,
presumably."

Grober was spared answering by the sergeant, who came to the window with
a plug in his hand, showed it to Hambledon, and said it was oiled up.

"Well, you know what to do, I am sure. I have the utmost confidence in
you," said Hambledon blandly. The sergeant looked pained and went away.
Hambledon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Ten minutes later the sergeant came back to the window and said that if
the Herr would try her now----

Hambledon woke up with a start and said that he supposed they ought to
be getting on to Magdeburg before long. He then switched on, started the
engine and drove off rapidly, leaving the escort hastily gathering up
tools in the road and transferring streaks of black grease from their
dirty hands to their overheated faces. The sergeant looked from one to
another of what had been an impeccably smart patrol.

"You look like greasers off a tug," he said bitterly. "You look like
chimney sweeps who've lost their top hats. You look like charcoal
burners. Get cracking."

"Did someone say, Sergeant, that we are to escort that--that--that----"

"All right. I know what you mean."

"--wherever he goes for a fortnight?"

"Not if I can get out of it," said the sergeant desperately. "Ready?
Mount!"

Hambledon was out of sight by this time, but the escort had no
difficulty in following the smoke trail which he laid behind him.

He drove on until Magdeburg lay before them; as they entered the
outskirts of the city, the escort formed up once more round the car. The
cortge attracted a certain amount of public notice; people looked first
at the odd-looking car and then, more interestedly, at the embarrassed
motorcycle escort, who, with one accord, bent their heads and fiddled
with some unnecessary adjustment.

"Look," said Hambledon to Grober, "we attract attention, it seems to me.
They take me for the Emperor of Senegal in a homemade car with an
imperial Negro escort." He sounded a cheerful fanfare upon the horn.

Grober said something Hambledon did not catch and then: "Slow here, if
you please. We turn off before entering the city. If the Herr will
kindly follow the leading escort, here, on the right."

There, on the right, was the imposing entrance to what had once been a
large country house outside the city boundaries but was now an Army
headquarters standing in a few acres of severely disciplined grounds.
There were sentries stiffly on duty at the entrance, but even discipline
could not entirely suppress amusement as the motorcycle patrol swept
past. Hambledon followed up the drive and came to a stop at a pillared
porch. The escort rested like black statues in perfect formation, Grober
leapt out to open Hambledon's door for him and a young officer appeared
in the porch, took one look at the tableau before him, and came to an
abrupt stop.

Hambledon got out, took off his driving gloves, extracted a shabby brief
case from behind his seat, and stalked into the hall, taking no notice
of the young officer.

"In this room," said Grober, revolving round him, "in here, if the Herr
will be pleased to sit down for a moment, only a moment, while I inform
the General, who will wish to gather his staff together to receive the
Herr in proper form."

"Naturally," said Hambledon. He entered the room and the door closed
behind him. It was a small room beside the front door, the window looked
out upon the drive and was slightly open. He was thus enabled to enjoy
the remarks being addressed by the officer to the sergeant in charge of
the escort and what little they were allowed to say in reply, for
discipline is extremely strict in the Russian Army. However, the
sergeant was permitted to explain what he thought was wrong with the car
and the officer said that it had better be taken to a garage at once.
"Tell them that the job is of the highest priority and the work had
better be good," added the officer. "You will take the car yourself,
Sergeant, at once. Now."

"I thought I'd forgotten all my Russian," said Hambledon contentedly to
himself, "but it comes back, it comes back. I wonder if dear Ludwig
could speak Russian? Probably not. Nothing Russian among his papers."

The car moved away on five cylinders from before the windows and a blue
haze followed it down the drive. The escort disappeared, the young
officer turned on his heel and passed from sight into the porch, and
peace settled upon the scene. When the door opened the Herr Ludwig
Kirsch was sitting at the table so deeply absorbed in some mathematical
formulae he was scribbling into a small pocketbook that he did not even
look up.

"Mein Herr," said the young officer, smartly at attention, "General
Ambromovitch has the honour to await the Herr Kirsch."

The Herr returned slowly from the depths of his absorption.

"What? Oh, the General. Yes, yes, of course." He put his notebook away
and picked up the brief case. "What is the General's name again?"

"Ambromovitch, mein Herr."

"Lead me to him at once."




Chapter 18. Magdeburg


Hambledon was shown into a large room with windows looking out upon the
garden. There were six or eight men standing about a long table and at
their head a big bullet-headed man with the oddly hairless look which
afflicts so many of the Russian leaders. It almost seems as though there
must be something about Marxism which affects the eyebrows.

He came forward and said: "Herr Kirsch? General Ambromovitch," and held
out his hand, which Hambledon shook enthusiastically.

"Ludwig Kirsch," he said. "Delighted, General."

The General introduced his officers one by one and there were stiff bows
and the inescapable handshaking all round.

"Now," said the General, whose eyes had been set upon the scruffy brief
case from the moment it came into the room, "let us sit down and see the
beautiful present our clever friend has brought us." He spoke German
rather badly, hesitating for words and plainly translating in his mind.
Hambledon sat down with the others and slid the brief case along the
table to the General, who seized it eagerly and struggled with a
defective catch while the rest of the company watched in breathless
silence. Eventually the flimsy catch gave way, the General opened the
case and drew out its contents.

"What--what----"

He spoke in Russian and all the men at the table rose as though actuated
by one lever and leaned across the table towards him; all, that is,
except Ludwig Kirsch, who could not be expected to understand. He
therefore kept his seat and gazed innocently out of the window.

He was roughly recalled by having his arm shaken by the man next to him;
he looked up to find the General purple in the face and waving foolscap
sheets of squared paper with neat calculations upon them. Kirsch sprang
to his feet with a cry of horror, snatched the sheets from the General's
hand, and clasped them to his chest.

"My notes--my manuscript examples--my life's work! I am engaged,
gentlemen, in----"

The General interrupted with a Russian word which Hambledon could not
remember ever having heard before, though there was no doubt as to its
meaning, and added in German: "The Smirnov Plan. Where is it, where?"

"Ach! In the car. Concealed in the car, General. I go and get it." He
turned towards the door and opened it. "In the car, well hidden, I go
and----Where--_zehn tausend Teufeln_--where is my car? It was outside
the door I left it----"

The young officer, who seemed to be on butler fatigue that day, sprang
forward to explain that as their distinguished guest had had trouble on
the road he had at once sent the car to the garage beyond in order that
the distinguished guest----

"Bring it back at once!" said the General. "At once."

Since all this was in Russian, Kirsch naturally could not be expected to
understand a word of it. He therefore stood by, bleating: "My car, where
is my car?" Then, remembering that he had a reputation for losing his
temper, he picked up a china ash tray from the hall table, hurled it
across the room, and thundered: "Produce my car at once! What den of
thieves is this?"

By this time the young officer had run out of the house and Hambledon
followed him to the front porch, still clasping his trigonometry samples
and quivering with fury. The General took him by the arm, making
soothing noises, and led him back to the long room; the other officers
trooped after, avoiding each other's eyes and wiping a variety of
expressions off their faces.

"It is a little mistake," said the General. "Your car was taken to the
garage for a slight adjustment which your escort recommended for your
convenience, Herr Kirsch. It is a very good garage. We ourselves use it
in cases where a specially high standard of work is required. The Herr
need have no fear."

Kirsch allowed himself to be soothed and offered vodka and a cigarette.
He reclaimed his brief case and tucked his papers lovingly away.

"While we are waiting," said General Ambromovitch, "tell us, please, how
you regained the papers?"

Kirsch put the brief case away and became in a moment the alert
intelligent spy. His mouth hardened and his jaw came forward.

"I received the first message about the Smirnov Plan on the day before
the Englishman passed through Goslar on his way back to England."

"He is gone, then. You are quite sure?"

"Certainly. I made quite sure that he had not got the plan before I
allowed him to pass unhindered. I saw him being conducted to the train
by some other Englishman who came out to meet him; I made enquiries and
learned that he had flown back to England from Hanover."

"That is helpful, to know that he has gone home. We have been looking
for him but now the search can be called off and the troops returned to
barracks. Colonel Kaganov, you will give the order."

The officer on Hambledon's right assented and left the room. Hambledon
drew a quiet breath. He had, of course, been angling for this.

"And Lentov," prompted the General.

"Lentov, I think, must have had difficulty in crossing the frontier; he
arrived two days later. I did not ask him about his adventures," said
Herr Kirsch drily. "He looked as though he had been sleeping in
ditches--I do not know. Nor care. One of my people sheltered him and let
me know, I went down to the house." Kirsch made a gesture of finality.
"We buried him in the orchard. I took the plan and hid it on my way
home. I will not, if you will excuse me, tell even you where it was. I
will only say," he added, with a grim smile, "that churchyards are not
normally the place for vulgar pranks or children's play, there are many
hiding places in ancient tombs and the dead do not chatter. I am sorry
if I deprived you of the pleasure of dealing with him yourself, but
the----"

There came a knock at the door and the young officer entered. "The car
is here."

"Good," said Kirsch, and left the room with long strides.

General Ambromovitch looked round the table.

"An odd man," he remarked, "the brilliant Ludwig Kirsch. One would say,
two men. Did you notice how he altered when he turned his mind to our
Intelligence work? I imagine that his devotion to his mathematical
studies is equally wholehearted. He lives two lives, that man.
Interesting."

Herr Kirsch came back a few minutes later carrying under his arm a thick
and very grubby plank which he laid on the table, thus displaying what
looked like a patch let in and held by two small screws. "This is the
underneath of the plank, of course, it is part of the floor of the
luggage compartment in the back of the car." He took a screwdriver from
his pocket and drew out the two small screws, lifted the lid and took
out the packet inside. "The Smirnov Plan, gentlemen, as I received it. I
hope that egregious idiot Lentov has not lost any of it."

General Ambromovitch took it in both hands, laid it on the table, and
tore open the covering paper. There, once more, was the large folded map
upon stiff paper, the smaller sketch plans relating to marked areas upon
the map, the pages of notes; everything, in fact, which the original
package had contained except the note beginning: "This is the Smirnov
Plan which was stolen." That note had gone back to London with the
photographs.

Kirsch took a step back from the table. "I did but glance at the
contents to see if they appeared to be the right thing," he said, with
an unexpectedly deprecating smile. "I have never been a soldier; my
eyes----" He touched his glasses. "General, you will wish to examine
these in private. With your permission I will retire."

General Ambromovitch, who had been delightedly gloating, sprang to his
feet and came round the table to take both of Hambledon's hands in his.
They were indeed the right papers--they appeared to be complete--the
gratitude of the Russian Command--their indebtedness--the brilliance of
the operation which rescued the papers--the intrepidity, the resource,
the initiative----

Kirsch bowed, extricated his hands, and stepped back. He thanked the
General politely, but entirely without enthusiasm, for what he had said.
There was, however, no occasion for all this fuss. He, Kirsch, had been
instructed to regain a stolen packet and he had accordingly regained it.
Why not? An agent expected to be given that sort of order and was
naturally expected to carry it out. A thousand thanks. "And now," he
added, "I should like to return to Goslar. My other work awaits me and I
am very busy."

They crowded round him, patting him on the back, those who could speak
German saying that he must not go back yet, a few days' holiday among
friends would be good for his health. "In any case," put in the General,
"there is a dinner party tonight at which you, esteemed Herr Kirsch,
will be the honoured guest."

Eventually Kirsch yielded; he would stay a day or two, not more. There
was, of course, also the question of a new assistant in Goslar. "No
doubt Grober reported that I have lost both my Goslar assistants? Yes,
yes, one is dead and the other has run away. Let him go. He was becoming
too well known in Goslar, people were beginning to notice him. Of course
I have other men in my area but they are well posted where they are. If
I were to move one of them he would have to be replaced and their local
knowledge of their districts is their most valuable asset." Kirsch
walked up and down across the end of the table and addressed the class.
"It will be plain to you, gentl--I mean, comrades, that when a man has
lived so long in one place he knows everyone in it and can spot a
stranger on sight. When he is an integral part of the community and is
known and told all the local news and can ask questions without arousing
distrust, that man is a hundred times more valuable where he is than he
would be anywhere else. That is clear, I hope? Good. In Goslar, where
there are many visitors, this useful faculty would be wasted. I want a
new man, a stranger. I want Gustav Ehrlich."

Kirsch sat down at the end of the table and absently nodded to the
others to sit down also.

"Grober told us," said the General, "that you wished to have Ehrlich,
but you ought to know that we cannot recommend him. He is not reliable.
He is an agitator, useful in factories, no more than that. He is----"

"But do you not see that a man who can readily make acquaintances, who
can talk to all comers and encourage them to talk to him, is precisely
what I want? As for being an agitator, that may come in useful, but for
the present he will say what I tell him to say and do what he is bid."

One of the officers said something to the General in Russian and
Ambromovitch nodded.

"Walenski reminds me that Ehrlich fled the Western Zone because the
police were after him for a civil offence, embezzling canteen funds or
something equally stupid. He is not honest, he----"

"He will be honest with me," said Kirsch, and smiled unpleasantly.

"Very well," said the General. "Heaven forbid that I should attempt to
teach a man like you his trade. We have put out an enquiry for Ehrlich
through the usual channels; a further order of special urgency shall be
issued at once. Walenski, you will see to it at once and report to Herr
Kirsch tomorrow."

Walenski bowed and left the room.

"If he is above ground you shall have him," promised the General. "There
is, of course, the point that if Ehrlich is wanted by the West German
authorities for embezzlement or whatever it was, the Goslar police may
have his particulars and be looking for him."

A slow smile grew across the enigmatical Herr Kirsch's face, he looked
at the General and began to laugh quietly. He made no sound but his
shoulders shook and Ambromovitch drew back.

"I have done it again," he said apologetically. "A life spent in the
Army is my only excuse, I have always had to ask, 'What are you going to
do and by what means?' I do apologise, Herr Kirsch."

"Not at all, not at all," said Kirsch amiably. "I myself am become
tiresomely secretive over the most unimportant concerns of my private
life. It is as well I have no wife, I should drive the poor woman
demented."

On this pleasant note they parted. Hambledon's car having once more been
removed--towed away this time--he and his luggage were driven to his
hotel in a staff car with a soldier driving and another beside him.
There was also a little pennon on the bonnet. It was a pity that the
distinguished guest's arrival should have been marred by his suitcase
foolishly casting open its lid and spreading upon the pavement his
striped nightshirt, three odd socks, two clean collars, and a pair of
bedroom slippers with holes in them. Hambledon picked up his dressing
gown and stalked into the hotel with this garment trailing on the ground
behind him, leaving the soldier escort to gather up the debris.

The dinner that night went on as Russian dinner parties usually do. It
started with drinks at about half-past nine and finished with drinks
towards three in the morning. Hambledon, who had endured Russian dinner
parties before, swallowed a couple of olive-oil capsules before starting
out and was thus enabled to be bright-eyed and still telling laboriously
funny stories long after the General had fallen abruptly from his chair.

On the following morning he was at the garage, observing, with childlike
wonder, the engine of his car dissected into its component parts. He
explained that he was not a mechanic and illustrated this point by
asking why there was a lump in the middle of the back axle and,
following on from that, what was the principle of a differential? "So
often," he said plaintively, "I have asked for this to be explained to
me and even now I do not understand.... Yes, but if one back wheel
goes round faster than the other, why does the tyre not wear out more
quickly?"

Just before the chief mechanic faced the choice between insanity and
suicide, two officers from the Headquarters Staff came along to the
rescue. They were apparently delighted to find that Herr Kirsch was in
full working order even if his car was not. One, who had been at the
dinner the night before, introduced another who had not, saying that
Lieutenant Lischtin, who could speak German and had taken an honours
degree in mathematics, had been selected for the honour of taking the
Herr Kirsch round Magdeburg and showing him whatever he wished to see.
"There is a cathedral," said the older officer, who appeared to have a
headache, "which I understand is interesting to those who like that sort
of thing. There is also an exhibition of Soviet Art and Culture." He
then sighed wearily and withdrew with lagging steps.

"This," said Hambledon to himself, "is it. They have turned a real
mathematician on to me, how unspeakably painful. If he bowls me out it
will be the end. Oh, hell's canaries, why did I come on this idiotic
trip?"

Aloud he said, looking after the retreating Russian, that the poor man
looked as though a Turkish bath would do him good. Lieutenant Lischtin
laughed and said that poor Captain Petrov suffered with his liver, but
he would be well again tomorrow. "I am entirely at the Herr's service
this morning," he added. "If the Herr is really interested in the
cathedral, shall we go there?"

"Are you?"

"Well, personally, I feel I've rather grown out of cathedrals," said
Lischtin apologetically. "When I was about twelve I was frightfully keen
on that sort of thing, but I seem to have worked it out of my system, as
it were. But if the Herr would be interested to see it, I shall be
delighted----"

"Not at all," said Hambledon briskly, and called himself a fool.
Lischtin could hardly discuss cosines and cosecants in the precincts of
a cathedral, or could he? If there happened to be a dome on the thing,
he might----

"What I really had in mind," said Hambledon, "was, to be frank with you,
beer. We made rather a night of it last night, as you may have heard,
and I am left with a thirst. Have you learnt to drink beer?"

Lischtin said yes, indeed, since he had been stationed in Germany, and
added that there was quite a decent caf down by the river where one
could sit on a terrace and watch the steamers. They set off at a good
four miles an hour, since the banks of the Elbe were some distance away,
and Lischtin babbled cheerfully on about the time when, as a schoolboy,
he had wanted to be an architect and build cathedrals, but his father
had sensibly pointed out that the demand for cathedrals in present-day
Russia was likely to be limited and he would have his living to earn.
"So I took up mathematics. Does not the Herr think that there is a good
deal in common between mathematics and architecture? One starts with a
foundation in the form of a problem and builds upon that, including the
various factors involved as an architect would include arches soaring to
clerestories and----"

At this point Hambledon became entangled with a woman pushing a
perambulator and surrounded by five children, one of whom had a dog on a
lead. By the time he had sorted himself out, Lischtin's flood of similes
had at least been interrupted. "And if he talks about trigonometric
functions of a constant variable, I can always be taken ill," he
encouraged himself. "If only I had a small piece of soap I could have a
fit." But fortunately for him there were, in the centre of the town, so
many people upon the pavement as to make conversation impossible.

Lischtin's caf overlooked the island upon which Magdeburg's Citadel
stands; as they settled down at a table on the terrace, he pointed it
out to Hen Kirsch.

"Excellent," said Hambledon. "Now, if the waiter will hurry up with the
beer we can attend to our thirsts and look at the Citadel at the same
time. What could be better?"

"Nothing," said Lischtin with conviction.

After a short but refreshing interval Hambledon ordered two more and
asked Lischtin what he wanted to do with his life. "For mathematics," he
said, boldly taking the initiative, "are not an end in themselves unless
you propose to teach, and somehow I cannot picture you as a
schoolmaster."

Lischtin said that possibly that had been in his parents' minds but,
frankly, it was not in his. Captain Petrov had introduced him as a
mathematician, "But I do hope, sir, that you don't suppose for a moment
that I think I'm anywhere in your class. But I was particularly happy to
be given the opportunity of talking to you this morning because there
was something I wanted to ask you."

"Here it comes," thought Hambledon, and managed with an effort to look
benign.

"The--the outside world," said Lischtin, blushing with earnestness. "Has
the Herr travelled? In, perhaps, Switzerland, Holland, and even France?
To Paris? Really, to Paris? Ah, tell me about Paris!"

A couple of hours later they had lunch together and then Lischtin
reluctantly admitted he had to go on duty. "Such a privilege to meet
you, I cannot thank you enough----"

"It has been a pleasure," said Hambledon warmly.




Chapter 19. Sausage Factory


Walenski reported that he had made enquiries at the various Record
Offices and there was no trace of Ehrlich.

"He reported his return to the Eastern Zone," he said. "He was not
received with any particular acclaim because he had behaved like an
idiot." Walenski was a tall thin man with a hooked nose, black eyebrows
over hooded eyes, and deep lines from his nose to the corners of his
mouth. Bad-tempered, thought Hambledon, and obstinate.

"A man who has a job to do for Soviet Intelligence," went on Walenski,
drawing his black brows together, "has no business to put himself in the
power of the police by petty malefactions for personal gain. He is
unworthy of the cause he serves. He is a scoundrel, and in my opinion
should have been sent to the salt mines."

"Whereas he has now disappeared? To avoid being sent to the salt mines?"

Walenski frowned and said that trace of the man appeared temporarily to
be lost. "It is reported that he said his nerves were affected by being
hunted down by the police. He apparently gave a highly coloured account
of his hairbreadth escapes. He said that he would find work somewhere
for a time until his nerves were restored."

Hambledon remembered that it was Walenski who had volunteered
information about Ehrlich's crimes to General Ambromovitch. Some
personal animosity?

"Do you know this man yourself?" he asked.

Walenski said with emphasis that he neither knew Ehrlich nor wished to.
"He is very small fry," he added contemptuously. "He would not appear at
Headquarters. No, my interest in this unimportant matter is quite
otherwise, and I shall now disclose it to you, Herr Kirsch, because in
my opinion it affects your security and effectiveness and that of all
men in your position. Not nearly enough care is taken in the selection
of men in your service and I contend--have frequently contended--that
until we select candidates for Intelligence with much greater care than
is used at present, we shall continue to be faced with the humiliating
failures we too frequently endure at present. The selection is at
fault."

Hambledon had recognised the type by this time, he had met it all his
life in every country in which he had served. Walenski was the Bore with
a Grievance and one finds his twin brother in every club in Europe. They
complain to the secretary, poor man, whose emotions have been most
movingly expressed in the Hundred and Ninth Psalm. With perfect respect,
one sometimes wonders whether the psalmist was ever a club secretary.

"I see your point," said Herr Kirsch, "and I will bear it in mind. About
Ehrlich----"

"He may have been taken on by some employer for a fortnight on trial,"
said Walenski. "It is not necessary to register at a Labour Registration
Bureau until the employment becomes permanent."

"Thank you," said Kirsch acidly. "I am afraid I cannot wait for a
fortnight. If your various Records cannot trace this man for me I
suppose I must go and look for him myself."

"But----" began Walenski.

"In my vocabulary," said Herr Kirsch, glaring at the man over the top of
his spectacles, "there is no such word as 'but.'"

He abandoned Walenski without ceremony and went to stroll in the
painfully tidy garden, where he encountered General Ambromovitch.

"I have just heard that my car is now ready for the road, General."

This happened to be true, shorn of the garage's comments, which were to
the effect that that car didn't want mechanics on it, it wanted a squad
of fairy queens waving wands to turn it into a new one and that if they
ever saw it again they would all run away and join the Army.

"I hope," said the General courteously, "that this does not mean that we
are to lose the pleasure of your company so soon."

"Most kind," said Kirsch. "No, it seems that I have to drive to one or
two places where I have introductions, to see if I can find Ehrlich.
Captain Walenski's research into Records has not been successful."

The General's eyebrows went up. "Walenski--well, Herr Kirsch, he is our
liaison with Records so I felt obliged to ask him. He is," said
Ambromovitch firmly, "a most conscientious officer."

"I am sure of it," said Hambledon politely.

"And, my dear Kirsch," said the General, throwing an enormous arm round
Hambledon's neck and speaking in his ear, "I can't stand the sight of
him."

"Transfer him, then!"

"He has been transferred so often," said the General sadly. "He has
performed his duties with impeccable accuracy in practically every
branch of the Army."

"You embolden me to ask whether he has ever served in Intelligence--I
trust, General, that I do not offend?"

"Not a bit. You are no fool, are you? You don't mean to tell me that he
has been trying to teach you your business?"

"He gave me a little advice," said Hambledon drily.

The General laughed loudly and smacked Hambledon between the shoulder
blades.

"He advised our Inspector General of Military Intelligence in Berlin,"
he gurgled. "That was the point at which he was transferred to us. So
you are going to drive off into the blue and interview masked men behind
haystacks, are you? Heaven knows how you mystery men work but you
certainly deliver the goods. Come back, my dear Kirsch, and we will have
another party before you return to your dangerous work. It was a good
party the other night, wasn't it? Come back and see me again. Good luck
to you. I must go; there are six people waiting to see me." He shook
Hambledon warmly by both hands and turned away.

"Jovial old boy," said Hambledon to himself. "Not a bad fellow at all,
for a Russian."

But General Ambromovitch was coming back.

"About that man Ehrlich," he said abruptly, "you are quite wrong, you
know. The brute is rotten to the core like so many of your stinking
fellow countrymen. When he has betrayed you, remember that I warned you.
You can either shoot him yourself or send him back to me. I will deal
with him and what is left of the beast can go to the salt mines."

The fat hairless face looked grimly amused, but the pale eyes were
merciless. He nodded and went away to join the group who were waiting
for him; Hambledon, after a moment's dumbfounded silence, walked off to
his hotel to pack Kirsch's clothes in Kirsch's suitcase, meditating on
what had just passed.

"I shall never understand these people. What was that proverb father
used to quote? 'Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar'? How
unpleasantly true."

He looked with distaste at Kirsch's scruffy dressing gown but threw it
over his arm and picked up his hat and the suitcase.

"Of course, they are an oriental people, one must remember that."

He went out and collected his car from the garage, which seemed oddly
glad to see it go, and drove out of Magdeburg, going south. It would,
naturally, be quite idiotic to drive straight to Waldecke near
Ilsenburg, the noticeable car would certainly be reported by dutiful
police and his journey plotted from place to place. In a series of
mystifying zigzags he traversed much of the province of Anhalt, stopping
here and there for brief conversations with road menders and other
readily available persons. He stayed one night in a village inn at a
remote place called Wippra, which is miles from anywhere, and on the
afternoon of the second day drove into Waldecke.

It was, indeed, a small unimportant place such as Britz had described,
but it contained all the necessary ingredients. There were the great
forests sweeping down close to the village with a few cottages tucked
away in the very shadow of the trees. Was it in one of those that
Micklejohn was first concealed? The village was unusually compact,
probably because it had grown up in a clearing and had had no room to
spread; one road ran through it and on to Ilsenburg. The houses stood
upon the street for the most part; there were a few more beside a lane
leading to the church. There was a farmhouse or two further back, and
there was a sawmill beside a stream. It was all extremely peaceful.

Hambledon drove up the street at a footpace. One house at the end of a
row was larger than its neighbours; the sausage factory perhaps? No, a
faded board above the door announced the Volks-polizeiamt, the Vopo
headquarters. It looked as though in happier days it might have been an
inn. Tacked on to this were three small cottages forming a row of which
the far end was a slightly larger double-fronted house with yet another
board above the door. This one bore the name of Hans Muller and, below
the name, the entrancing word _Wurstfabrik_; Sausage Factory.

Hambledon stopped the car and went in. Micklejohn and his friends would
have received by this time the message telling him to trust Ludwig
Kirsch, a friend. There would be no trouble, therefore, he had only to
announce himself and a pathetically grateful undergraduate of BNC,
smelling strongly of sausage, would leap out from some dark corner and
greet him with decently controlled enthusiasm.

He walked in at the front door to encounter sausage factory smells and a
stout imperturbable man with gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up on a
shining forehead. This man sat behind a desk in a small room used as an
office; a door open behind him let pass the clank of primitive machinery
and the smell.

"Good day," said Hambledon.

"Good day, mein Herr," said the man behind the desk. He went through the
motions of rising from his chair without actually doing so and looked
enquiringly at his visitor.

"Ludwig Kirsch," said Hambledon and waited for some reaction, but none
came. "Ludwig Kirsch," he repeated. "Do I address the Herr Muller?"

"Hans Muller," said the fat man, with a bow. "Please sit down. In what
way can I serve the Herr?"

Hambledon sat down, drew the chair closer to the desk and leaned across
it to speak in a confidential tone.

"I believe that you have working for you a young man named Ehrlich,
Gustav Ehrlich."

Muller's face became completely blank; not gradually in some process of
thought but instantaneously, like a camera shutter.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, and half rose from his chair to shut the
door behind him, that leading to the workshop. The lock did not catch at
the first attempt. Muller rattled the handle to free it and slammed the
door shut this time. "The noise," he explained and, indeed, it was
immediately decreased. "I am, in any case, a little deaf. The Herr was
asking for one Gustav----?"

"Ehrlich," said Hambledon, and spelt it.

Muller shook his head slowly from side to side and his glasses slid down
on to his nose.

"I am sorry," he said. "I do not think I have ever employed a man of
that name. Certainly I have no Ehrlich working for me now."

Hambledon hesitated. Perhaps a mistake had arisen somewhere along
Britz's tortuous lines of communication, or perhaps this man was not in
the secret. The name of Ludwig Kirsch had fallen quite flat. Yet that
instantaneously blank look was certainly hiding something, though the
something need not necessarily be an English undergraduate. It might
equally well be black market pork or illicit sausage skins.

"The name is not a local one," said Muller, "and I employ all local
labour. Is the Herr quite convinced that he has come to the right
place?"

"I was told Waldecke, near Ilsenburg."

Muller heaved up his fat shoulders.

"In this wooded country there are so many places named Wald--something,"
said Muller reasonably, for _Wald_ means a wood. "There is Wald
Lobenklee, there is Oberwald, Unterwald, Waldboden, Waldklippe,
Waldberg. I cannot but think that the Herr has been misdirected. Also,
most places make their own sausages and my name is probably the
commonest in Germany."

All quite true. Hambledon began to think that the locale of the story
must have been shifted, perhaps quite inadvertently, from a place name
strange to the speaker to one he had heard before--a very frequent
mistake.

"Do you know if there is a man in this place called Otto Neumann?"

"Another common name, Neumann," smiled Muller, "nearly as common as
mine. Not an Otto, no. There is a Widow Neumann, who is a little simple,
poor thing. She has a small grandson called--what is it--Willi. Wilhelm,
no doubt. His father was killed in an accident and his mother is also
dead. He is I suppose about eight years of age. They are our only
Neumanns, mein Herr."

There seemed no more that could usefully be said and Hambledon rose to
his feet.

"Thank you very much for your courtesy, I must apologise for taking up
so much of your time."

Muller stood up and came round the desk to shake hands, the eternal
Teutonic handshaking. "Not at all, it has been a pleasure to meet the
Herr, we see so few strangers in these lonely villages. I only wish I
could have helped the Herr in his enquiries."

Hambledon knew what a wide network is comprised in undercover movements;
the secret grapevine telegraph runs for miles in all directions. If this
were not the right village it was probably somewhere in this area.
Micklejohn would not have travelled far--if he left a word it might be
passed on to him.

"If I may," he said, "I will leave my name and present address with you.
If you should happen to hear of this young man, perhaps you would be so
good as to let him know that I was asking for him."

He wrote "Ludwig Kirsch" on a piece of paper together with the name of
his hotel in Magdeburg. "I shall be there for a few days longer."

Muller said that he was honoured with the Herr's confidence and would
institute enquiries, for what that was worth, and they parted like old
friends. Hambledon went out and sat in his car to think things over.

Curse Britz. This was obviously the wrong village since the name of
Kirsch aroused no response at the sausage factory, and now he had no
idea where to go. Thoroughly discouraging.

He looked at the Volks-polizeiamt and considered going there to ask for
Gustav Ehrlich, since their records probably covered a larger area than
this village. He hesitated for fear lest, if anything of this should
ever leak out, reprisals might be taken against those who had sheltered
Micklejohn. Besides, if he were seen going into Vopo headquarters it
would damn him finally in the eyes of the underground movement and
neither of his messages would be believed. Confound Britz and
Micklejohn, too, for a pair of infernal incompetent blasted nuisances.
To think he had successfully pulled off the Kirsch impersonation only to
go home empty-handed.

He lit a cigarette, started the car, and drove slowly out of the
village, thinking deeply as he went. Five miles away he stopped the car
and got out his map, for he had had an idea. Muller had mentioned
several other villages with names which began with _Wald_; since
Hambledon was in the district with a car, it would be worth while going
to look at them. One only had to look for a _Wurstfabrik Muller_. Wald
Lobenklee was easy to find, it was not far off, just north of the
Brocken, but it seemed to be a stretch of country, not a village.
Oberwald and his brother Unterwald, where were they? Waldboden, surely.
No? How very odd. Waldklippe, Woodcliff, the sort of name one would
expect to find in this country of woods and cliffs, but one would be
disappointed. There were a dozen names ending in _klippe_ but not one
beginning with _Wald_. Waldberg struck a familiar note, but not here, it
was far away in--in Wrttemberg, of course. Not far from the Swiss
border. There might well be another Waldberg, since Germans are
regrettably given to duplicating their place names, but it did not
appear on this map.

Hambledon drew a long breath and relaxed comfortably in his seat. Muller
had invented all those delightful place names; Muller had lied. That
instantaneous blank shutter across his face was no matter of illicit
pork, it was a reaction to the name of Ehrlich. Gustav Ehrlich, not
Ludwig Kirsch. The name of Kirsch had apparently rung no bell, but that
of Ehrlich had set off all the alarms at once.

The evening was closing in rapidly as it does in those narrow wooded
valleys; the sun may still be shining on the Soviet-occupied hotel on
the top of the Brocken, but under the trees by the streams in the glens
there will be a dim green twilight. Work ceases in the woods and the
workers go home to supper.

Hambledon turned the car and drove back until, a couple of miles from
Waldecke, he found a cart track leading into the woods. The car bumped
and rolled in the ruts as far as a clearing where it was possible to
turn. It would be wise to leave it facing outwards, ready for a sudden
departure. He was wearing his own crepe-soled shoes; he took a pocket
torch and his Luger automatic and started to walk back to Waldecke.




Chapter 20. Micklejohn


Hambledon did not hurry; he wanted to reach the village after dark. The
sky clouded over and the night came on swiftly. He took what he thought
would be a short cut and lost his way, in the event he did not arrive in
Waldecke until it was so dark that one could scarcely see across the
street, and in the small houses lights were going out one by one. The
inn was still open and there were customers inside with steins in their
hands. The Vopos in their headquarters were still astir, and at the
corner by the turning to the church there was an oil lamp in an iron
cage doing little but casting shadows. Hambledon retired into a deep
doorway opposite to the Sausage Factory Muller, and waited.

There was no light in the house of Muller, though presumably he lived
over the workshops; seen by daylight, there had been curtains at the
upper windows and, in one, the back of a looking glass. Fancy living out
one's days in a perpetual atmosphere of damp sausage. Now it would seem
that either the Herr Muller had gone to bed or was out visiting his
friends.

Down the street, by the way Hambledon had come, there were voices saying
good night and a remark which was probably a jest, for laughter
followed. The inn closing down for the night? Presumably, for a door
closed audibly in the quiet night and there were footsteps, heavy
footsteps of tired labourers, not the measured tread of trained men;
not, for example, Vopos. Most of the steps went the other way but two
men came up the road and past Hambledon's doorway. With eyes accustomed
to darkness he could see them reasonably well, elderly men bent with
labour; as they passed there drifted to his nose a mingled smell of
beer, tobacco, and farmyard. Particularly farmyard. Their footsteps died
away and complete silence settled upon the street, only broken by the
church clock chiming half-past ten on a cracked bell. Early risers go
early to bed.

Hambledon thought that he would give Muller until eleven to come back,
if he were out; if he did not appear it would be time enough to rouse
him up. The village would be in its first sleep and not easily
disturbed. He looked up and down the street. Even the Vopos had gone to
bed.

A quarter of an hour later there came to his ears the click of a key
being turned in a lock, the rattle of a loose door handle. Across the
street the door of the sausage factory office opened cautiously and the
light of an electric torch appeared.

Hambledon instantly bent his head down and put his hands behind him lest
the light falling on them should betray his presence, but the man in the
doorway merely looked up and down the road, listened for a moment, and
said: "All clear. Come on," to someone behind him.

Two more men came out. One was of medium height or less, like the first,
but the third was tall and slim and even in that dim light it could be
seen that he moved and held himself differently from the others. He
turned back to speak in a low tone to whoever was shutting the door
after them and someone wrung him by the hand.

"Never," said the tall young man, "never, so long as I live," and only
Hambledon's preternaturally sharp hearing enabled him to catch the
words.

The tall man turned away just as one of his companions put out his hand
to pull his arm and all three walked off up the street, with their heavy
boots clumping on the dry road. The tall man was in the middle, the
shorter ones upon either side and Hambledon, in his soft crepe-rubber
soles, followed silently after.

"It is extremely good of you," said the tall young man, "to take all
this trouble----"

"Shut your trap," said one of the men roughly. "Give us away at once if
anyone hears. Nobody talks like that in these parts. And stroll, don't
walk so fast. Nobody strides along this time of night."

The young man said no more and the three went on without speaking;
Hambledon, following behind, had plenty to think about. No doubt the
underground movement continually sheltered men on the run for one reason
or another; hid them in attics and passed them from place to place by
night. Where there is tyranny there will always be men evading it. It
would be unwise to assume that this man was necessarily Micklejohn,
though there was that about him which strongly suggested it. He walked,
even in those boots, with a lighter step than the others, he had the
loose-limbed balanced swing of the natural athlete, not the heavy-footed
tramp of the labourer, and he carried his head high like a free man. But
it was his voice which had startled Hambledon. The young man's German
was excellent; fluent, grammatical, and carefully pronounced. Too good,
as the other man had said; extremely well taught, in fact, and almost
certainly not his native tongue. It was not guttural enough; it was much
too clear.

If the message about trusting Ludwig Kirsch had gone astray, this man
could very well be Micklejohn.

At this moment some inner prompting urged Hambledon to drop back and let
the three get further ahead: he slowed up and stopped by the entrance to
a yard.

The three men ahead of him were much too far off for Hambledon to hear
anything that was said in a low tone, or even, in that darkness, to
observe small movements. One of the two shorter men had taken to
glancing over his shoulder and the other noticed it.

"What's the matter, Franz?" he asked in a low tone, peering round the
young man in the middle.

"I think we're being followed," answered the other, in an equally low
voice.

"Why, did you hear anything?"

They all stopped together and listened intently; Hambledon, thirty yards
behind them, slipped like a prowling cat into the yard and waited.

"Didn't hear nothing," said Franz. "I just felt there was someone."

"I hear absolutely nothing except the leaves rustling," said the tall
young man.

"Wait here," said Franz. "I'll go back."

Hambledon heard him coming, one man alone, and went to ground behind the
gatepost. The man passed the yard entrance, went a little further along
the street, and paused for a moment before he turned and came past again
to rejoin his companions.

"Find anyone?" said Franz's friend.

"No."

"Satisfied, then?" said the tall man.

"No."

Hambledon did not move from his place until he heard them all start
walking again. When he put his head cautiously round the gatepost he saw
them, against a lighted window, looking back over their shoulders.

Hambledon cursed under his breath, for now he would have to keep so far
behind that it would be quite easy in the dark to lose them altogether.
He went on with the most extreme caution, following only the sound of
their footsteps until they passed out of the village and walked on along
the road. He followed them for some distance, nearly half a mile, before
the footsteps stopped and there came the clash of an iron gate being
closed. After that, silence. Hambledon held his breath; a moment later
he heard, very faintly, the sound of a closing door.

He moved more easily now that they were within some building which
might, with luck, be identifiable by the iron gate. In any case, they
would have to make some sort of light and no house is really lightproof.

The night was less dark by now; the sky had cleared and somewhere behind
the hills the moon was rising. Hambledon came to a fence enclosing a big
yard, weedy and overgrown with disuse and he remembered passing it
earlier that day, when he first came. It had a faded and broken notice
board still standing; since he had been looking for a sausage factory,
he had read what was left of the inscription. _Mbelfabrik_. Not
sausages. Furniture.

Hambledon climbed over the gate, there was a large shed across the yard,
facing him. There were some balks of timber stacked up to his left, on
his right a broken-down timber tug. He walked on to the big shed and
circled round it. There was the door by which they had entered. The shed
was built of wood and some of the planks were rotten and slipping.
Further along, at the back, there was a faint light showing through a
slit, a candle on a table, and three men round it.

Hambledon leaned his ear against the slit and listened.

"--have to stay here tonight," one of the German voices was saying.
"Such short notice as that, no time to work out a plan, nothing
arranged." The usual German discomfiture if every detail is not settled
beforehand.

"I am very greatly obliged to you," began the educated voice, but Franz
interrupted him.

"Not good of us at all," he said grumpily. "We only done it because you
are a danger to all of us. If you'd been caught there, there'd have been
shootings against a wall and we've had too many already."

"But I still find it hard to believe"--the young voice again--"that just
because a man comes and asks for Ehrlich--he was told Ehrlich was not
here and never had been----"

"Ach, but it was the man who came! It was that Ludwig Kirsch as bold as
brass, giving his name as though we had never heard of him! We know
about him, the Russian spy in Goslar, he's here only to make trouble, he
is. Hobnobbing with the Russian Army in Magdeburg. They gave him a
banquet the other night, pity it didn't poison the lot of them. If you
can't see nothing wrong you've got no sense."

"Well, you'll have to stay here tonight and we'll see about getting you
away in the morning. You can sleep in the wood drier. Nobody will look
for you there and you can have some sacks to sleep on."

"I hope there's a little more room than there was over the Vopo
headquarters," said the young man cheerfully. "I couldn't move."

"Was that where old Neumann put you? Well, what a place! How did you get
there?"

"Up into the roof and through an attic partition, you know; just planks
between, but they'd got it all stacked up with boxes and I dared not
move them."

"When was this, then?"

"When that man first came, Kirsch, you know. Muller rattled the handle
of his door and shut it twice, that was the signal somebody was asking
for me and I'd better clear out. If Kirsch had gone to the Vopos they
might have searched the houses and that was one place we were sure they
would not look into."

Hambledon abandoned his listening post, for he had heard enough. The
tall young man was Micklejohn and the next thing to do was to go in and
get him without being shot at sight. He made his way round to the door,
slipping out his picklocks as he went, because if the door was not
locked it ought to be. It was the only outer door in the place except
for the great double doors in front, which had not been opened for four
long years. He tried the handle of the small door and was rather
indignant than otherwise when it opened at once.

"These amateur conspirators," he muttered, and closed the door carefully
behind him--he could not lock it, there was no key.

The door had admitted him to a vast workshop; furniture making takes a
lot of room. The three men were in a small room at the far end, probably
once the manager's office, and the light from the candle showed through
the broken glass panels of the office door. Hambledon, keeping close to
the wall, thought it safe to switch on for a moment at a time the tiny
pencil torch which kept him clear of disused machines and odd stacks of
unidentifiable rubbish. He reached the door without attracting
attention, turned the handle, and walked straight in.

"Good evening," he began.

The three men whirled round to face him, the two Germans with guns in
their hands and their mouths open, but Hambledon went straight on.

"My name is Hambledon and I am an Englishman, come here to take out one
George Micklejohn. You, I think, are George Micklejohn, are you not? We
have never met but I have seen your photograph. I think----"

He was interrupted by a sort of muffled bellow from Franz.

"That is a damned lie! You are the Russian spy from the other side,
Ludwig Kirsch. I saw you in the village this afternoon."

"Ludwig Kirsch is in gaol in Goslar. I came over here on his papers."

"Another lie. Kirsch was in Magdeburg the other day, sucking up to the
Russians. They gave him a banquet----"

"They gave me a banquet," said Hambledon mildly, "but I am still not
Ludwig Kirsch."

"Are you trying to tell us nobody noticed you'd changed your face?"

"They had never seen Kirsch," said Hambledon. "He has never been over
this side."

Micklejohn intervened. "I will speak to him in English, I shall know at
once if he is not an Englishman." He changed to English. "Mr. Hambledon,
is this really true? I heard that there was someone of that name come to
Goslar to look for me."

"Perfectly true. Your father asked for someone to be sent out and I got
the job. You heard I was there, then, but you didn't get another message
telling you to trust Ludwig Kirsch?"

"Oh, no, I didn't. But there was some trouble one day last week,
somebody got shot. I expect----"

"That would be it," said Hambledon. "Damn those trigger-happy Vopos."

"Chattering away," said Franz angrily, "and we don't understand a word
of it. How are we to know what you're saying?"

Micklejohn reverted to German.

"He's English all right--by the way, wait a minute. I've got a
photograph in my wallet. Here it is. The Vopos took this when you went
up to The Wire, Herr Hambledon, and a copy was passed to me asking if I
knew you. I didn't, of course." He gave the print to the Germans, who
peered at it under the candlelight. "You can see it's the same man."

"It's a Vopo photograph all right," said Franz's companion. "I've seen
the like of that before."

"Yes, maybe, but that don't prove he isn't Kirsch," said Franz
obstinately. "You're too simple, Ernst. Kirsch could have gone up to The
Wire, like anybody else on the other side, couldn't he?"

Hambledon said: "Micklejohn, do you believe me?"

"I do, yes. I don't understand how you could have got away with
impersonating Kirsch, but I'm perfectly certain you are English and not
German.

"I don't like it," said Franz, but his friend Ernst, who never said much
at any time, took the floor for once. He spoke a dialect so thick that
Micklejohn had difficulty in following him.

"I don't see," said Ernst slowly, "as it matters to us, Franz. As I see
it, we was asked to get him out of here because Kirsch was after him.
Well, now, if he"--pointing a gnarled forefinger at Micklejohn--"is
satisfied, if he wants to go with this man as says he isn't Kirsch, why
should we stop him? We don't want him here, do we?"

"No," said Franz, "that's right. You're right, Ernst. You come over
here," he went on, addressing Micklejohn, "wandering across, only _der
lieber Gott_ knows how, and you have to be fed and sheltered and hidden
away and all of us in danger on your account as though we hadn't enough
to worry about without you----"

"Believe me," said Micklejohn passionately, "I realise all that
perfectly well, and when I think what some of you people have done for
me, I--I can't----"

"All right, all right," said Franz, not unkindly. "So long as you do
realise it. Well, if you want to go with this Herr Whatever-it-is, I
say, go."

Ernst nodded agreement.

"Well, that's all right," said Hambledon. "I don't anticipate much
trouble in getting you out, Micklejohn, you are my new assistant and I
have permission to take you back into Western Germany with----"

The door at the far end of the shed opened without precaution against
noise and a man came running, with an electric torch to guide his steps.
He called out something as he came and Franz said: "All right. It's only
Walter."

He came up to the door of the little office, looked round him at
Hambledon and Micklejohn, and said: "Ach, good. I am in time, then." He
leaned against the doorpost, panting. "I have run all the way."




Chapter 21. X37


He was a weaselly little man, thin and in poor condition, but his eyes
glittered in the candlelight. "There is news," he said, "from Magdeburg.
Wilhelm Greiger's son August, you know? He works at the Russian
Headquarters at Magdeburg, he is a waiter."

Franz was impatient. "That is no news, he has been there for weeks."

"Ach! As though I run to tell you that! This is something he heard while
he was serving vodka to that Russian pig of a general and his guests.
The news is that the Englander who came over here got back again the
same day and went home to England at once, and the proof of that is that
the Russians have called off the search for him and all their soldiers
have gone back to their kennels. So, this man you all think an innocent
Englander, what is he? A police spy. A police spy. Living here among us
all----"

"Absolute nonsense," said Micklejohn sharply. "I am the Englander of
whom you speak and I have never been a spy in my life."

"I myself," said Hambledon, "told the Russians that lie for the express
purpose of having the search cancelled." But they were not listening to
him, the damage was done. The three Germans were standing together by
the door. Ernst's and Franz's guns were out again and all their faces
were alive with fear and suspicion.

"Put your hands up!" bellowed Franz suddenly. "And get back the other
side of the table! I never did trust either of you, and _Gottes Wort_, I
was right!"

"Who is that?" asked Walter, the newcomer, pointing at Hambledon.

"Ludwig Kirsch."

"Ach! He who told the Russians the Englander had gone. Now he says he is
not gone, eh? Very clever man, Ludwig Kirsch, it is said. He does not
look so clever now, does he?"

"What do we do with them?" asked Ernst. "Take them outside and kill
them? It will make a mess in here and leave marks on the floor."

"Quatsch!" said Walter. "There is plenty of sawdust and wood shavings on
the floor. They will soak up the blood. Shoot them in here, I say; if we
take them outside, they might escape."

Hambledon looked at Micklejohn, who had turned a little green, for it is
one thing to face death with a decent degree of fortitude and quite
another to hear oneself described as a mess on the floor. However, he
managed a valiant if rather sickly grin.

Franz, whose weapon was a Russian-made automatic, told Ernst to keep the
prisoners covered while he wrestled with his gun and something which he
had taken from his pocket.

"What is that?" asked Walter.

"Silencer. Without it, these guns make so loud a noise, if there is
anyone within half a mile--ach! These Russian weapons! If only I had one
of our good German weapons, but this is----" The silencer jammed and
refused to move on or off and Franz threw it down on the table. "I
cannot see," he said angrily. "I get a light," and stumped out of the
room.

"If I can make any sort of diversion," said Hambledon in English to
Micklejohn, "go flat on the floor by the table. I shall do much better
if I haven't got to worry about you."

"I've done some amateur boxing," said Micklejohn helpfully, "it seems a
pity not to use it."

Hambledon grinned. "You can always bob up again, can't you?"

"Quiet there!" said Walter commandingly. "I do not like your jabbering
together."

"And remember," added Hambledon, still in English, "no Queensberry Rules
here. Kick first and apologise afterwards!"

There came from outside the room the sound of someone pumping
vigorously; a moment later a bright light entered the room, carried by
Franz, who set it down on the table.

"That petrol lamp," said Ernst uneasily, "it is not safe in here. Those
things explode."

"Only when they become overheated," said Franz, picking up his gun
again. "I can't see without it." He wrenched at the silencer and Walter
came close to watch him. "Ach! The devil-damned thing----"

Even Ernst, who had kept his eyes and his gun steadily upon the
Englishman, could not any longer resist. He looked down at Franz's
gun----

Instantly Hambledon moved forward and his knee came up under the table,
tilting it away from him; the lamp fell over, rolled off the table
between Walter and Ernst, and exploded. Burning petrol ran about the
floor, the trampled shavings caught fire, and the flames began to
spread. Hambledon threw the table over upon Walter, who failed to
withstand it and cannoned into Franz just at the moment when Micklejohn
dodged round the table and hit him violently on the ear and the nose and
finally in the eye. He forgot Hambledon's warning about kicking, but
Franz reminded him with a hack on the shin which brought him down.

Ernst fired off his gun several times in no particular direction till
Hambledon, snatching out his own Luger, drilled him through the
shoulder. He dropped his gun to clasp his arm and Hambledon hit him on
the side of the head with all his strength.

Walter had disengaged himself from the mle and, having drawn a lungful
of wood smoke, was clinging to the doorpost coughing his heart out. He
was, in fact, a consumptive.

Micklejohn got up again, limping, and was about to resume operations
when the flames reached a heap of shavings in a corner and blazed up in
real earnest.

Franz uttered a shout of warning. "Get out, get out! The explosives!" He
dodged into the doorway, taking Walter with him.

"Explosives?" said Ernst, shaking his head as though Hambledon's punch
had rattled his brains. "What explosives?"

"Under the floor, you fool! Run!"

They ran, dragging the coughing Walter with them, down the long shed and
out of the door at the far end into the night. The flames, encouraged by
the draught from the door, ran up the partition.

"We'd better go too, hadn't we?" said Micklejohn, edging round the
table.

"Not that way, I think," said Hambledon, tearing at an old tarpaulin
which had been nailed to the wall like wartime blackout. "I think
there's a window behind this--yes, there is. They might be waiting for
us at the other end--you never know." The rotten tarpaulin gave way and
the equally rotten window frame went out with a crash. "Can you get out
or shall I--oh, good. I was afraid that fellow had really hurt you."

"Only hacked my shin and it serves me right. You did warn me," said
Micklejohn as Hambledon scrambled out after him. "Now what?"

"Run," said Hambledon, "before the place blows up."

They ran off behind the shed and found a fence. They went over it like
cats and dodged among tree trunks till Micklejohn came upon a path. They
trotted along more easily, having their way illuminated by the leaping
flames from the big shed, which, being made of old tarred timber, burned
like a torch.

"They had better do something quickly about that fire," said Hambledon,
"or they'll have the trees alight. Ever seen a forest fire, Micklejohn?"

Before Micklejohn had time to answer there was a sudden hollow boom;
they took cover behind tree trunks and saw sparks and flame and burning
timbers hurled high into the air to fall slowly over a wide area with
pattering noises like the first heavy drops of a storm; something small
and heavy crashed through the branches of Micklejohn's tree and thudded
into the ground behind him.

"If that doesn't wake up the village," said Hambledon thoughtfully,
"it's a poor lookout for the Last Trump."

Reaction seized upon Micklejohn, who leaned against his tree and laughed
till the tears came.

"I was hoping to leave the district with my usual modest unostentation,"
added Hambledon, "but I don't think it's going to work this time. I've
got a car, such as it is--here's the road."

They came out upon the road and began to walk along it, hearing excited
shouting from the direction of the village and the sound of a car engine
being started.

"Waldecke is awake," said Micklejohn.

The noise from the car increased suddenly and twin head lamps lit up the
road as they came.

"The Vopos," said Micklejohn, "they've got the only car in the village,"
and he turned to dive into the bushes but Hambledon seized him by the
arm and dragged him back.

"Stand fast," he said, "if you'll excuse my talking like a whisky
advertisement, they've already seen you. Do the Vopos know you at all?"

"No. Never seen me, I took care of that."

Hambledon stepped into the road and held up his hand with a commanding
gesture; the car slid to a halt with screeching brakes and a voice
bellowed, "Volks-polizei!"

"I should hope so. Why the devil weren't you here before? Or don't you
read orders on a Saturday night?"

"Mein Herr----"

"I come here on a special mission from Magdeburg," stormed Hambledon,
"expecting to find you at your posts. I suppose you were tired. I
suppose you were in bed. I suppose you think that orders from General
Ambromovitch can be left over till Monday. Why the hell weren't you
surrounding the place as ordered?"

"What place--we had no orders----"

"What place! The underground subversives have a meeting place and a
store of arms and explosives here, under your noses, and you don't even
know it!" Hambledon shook his fists in the air. "When I report this----"

The car door opened and a fat agitated German hopped out. Over his
shoulder it could be seen that the car was full of Vopos still hastily
doing up buttons and buckling equipment. Hambledon flung open the other
door.

"Get out and go and put the fire out! What do you mean, sitting in there
doing nothing, do you think you're in a box at the theatre? _Aus! Aus!_"

The men tumbled out and ran towards the burning ruins of the
_Mbelfabrik_ shed and their unhappy commander turned to follow them.
"Not you! I have cleared out this nest of vipers for you with one
assistant and now I am going home. You can drive me to my car.
Fritz"--to Micklejohn--"don't stand gaping there, get in the car."
Micklejohn dived inside as the first of the running villagers drew near.

"But the men," bleated the commander, "the scoundrels who----"

"You can rake over the ashes in the morning," said Hambledon, entering
the car and slamming the door. "You may find a few blackened
bones--drive on till I tell you to stop--but I doubt it. There may be
some pieces hanging in trees."

The Volks-polizei commander shuddered and drove on past the leaping
flames, not very high now since the roof and most of the walls had been
blown away. The commander had once been a major in an Army Commissariat
branch; when his Army life came to an end with the war and there was, of
course, no pension to be had, he had thought himself lucky to get a
police post in a quiet country district. Waldecke was not within the
frontier zone and the violent young men of the frontier guard were under
a separate command, _Gott sei dank_. The commander had never been used
to violence; all he wanted in life was a quiet office where he could sit
filling up forms, for he loved filling up nice tidy forms and did it
very well, not to be driving along dark roads in the small hours alone
with this terrible man from Magdeburg and his downtrodden assistant. The
commander discovered in himself an unexpected gush of sympathy for a
young man appointed as assistant to a man like that. Dreadful.

"Stop here," said Hambledon.

The car stopped at the entrance to the cart track up which Hambledon had
driven Kirsch's car earlier in the night. The Vopo commander leapt out.

"One word, I beg," he said. "I implore the Herr to believe that I
received no orders for this evening from Magdeburg; indeed, indeed, I am
most meticulous about opening orders at once. Mein Herr, the orders must
have been misdirected--lost in transit--stolen----"

Hambledon, half out of the car, appeared to hesitate.

"I suppose that is possible," he said slowly. "I find it hard to believe
that a man of your rank would deliberately ignore an order. Certainly,
once the alarm was given, you brought your men upon the scene with
commendable promptitude."

The commander practically wagged his tail.

"I was sure that the Herr's sense of justice would prevail. I will lodge
a strongly worded complaint with Magdeburg about the non-arrival of
these orders."

"Just a moment," said Hambledon, and drew his feet back into the car. "I
don't think you had better do that. I don't think it would be wise. If,
by any chance, the loss of the orders was not carelessness but
deliberately arranged--you see what I mean?"

"You mean----" began the commander, and stopped.

"You have it. Your complaint would be looked for and abstracted like the
orders, and endless confusion would result."

"Dreadful. Ach! Dreadful!"

"I am myself driving straight back to Magdeburg now and I will visit
Command Headquarters first thing in the morning. If I myself give a full
account of what has happened here--including the non-arrival of your
orders--all will be made clear with no possibility of leakage. You
agree?"

"But, of course----"

"And an enquiry can be set in train from the Headquarters end."

"Excellent. From every conceivable aspect preferable. In my report of
tonight's doings, what should I say, then?"

"For your own records, a full account, naturally. As for a report to
Headquarters it would be better to wait until you hear from them. I
shall, after all, be making your report for you and will explain that
you have qualms about entrusting it, in writing, to possibly unreliable
communications. You will hear from them in due course by a reliable
messenger."

"A thousand thanks. What a relief! I shall remember the Herr with
gratitude to the end of my life. With apologies, I have a small flask of
schnapps in the car, the Herr must be exhausted and thirsty, I should be
so greatly honoured----"

"Thank you. I think a little something would go down very well."

The commander produced a flask which must have contained at least half a
pint, pulled the cup off the bottom of it, unscrewed the cap, and handed
both to Hambledon, who was, indeed, not sorry for a little restorative.
It had been a crowded evening. He said: "_Prosit!_," drank, and asked if
his young assistant might also----

"Oh, please----"

So Micklejohn had a small tot while Hambledon explained that though
young and inexperienced he was really shaping quite well on the whole.
"Now you, Commander. No, I insist."

"What name," said the commander, wiping his mouth on the back of his
hand, "shall I be permitted to remember with honour?"

Hambledon got out of the car and shook hands. "In the branch in which I
have the honour to serve," he said solemnly, "we do not use names. If
you refer to X37, Headquarters will understand. _Auf Wiedersehen_, Herr
Commander. Would you mind moving your car a few yards? Mine is parked
away up this lane. Come, Fritz."

Hambledon led the way up the track with long strides, Micklejohn
dutifully keeping half a pace behind. The old car started at the first
attempt and they drove out into the road, past the saluting figure of
the commander, and turned right for Ilsenburg.

"Congratulate me," said Hambledon, "for I have attained a lifetime's
ambition."

"Certainly I do," said Micklejohn. "Congratulations, sir. What about?

"For years I have had a secret longing for somebody to call me X37 and
at last I've managed it."

"Sounds like a policeman to me."

"What? Oh. Oh, well, you may be right. I thought the name of Ludwig
Kirsch had been bandied about quite enough for the moment. Policeman,
eh? Never mind. I took some trouble to muzzle him for the moment,
Micklejohn, because we've got to go back to Magdeburg to pick up our
exit passes for Helmstedt. I didn't want him ringing up Headquarters
early in the morning with a dramatic story about bangs in the dark and
have old Ambromovitch demanding a full account of it tomorrow afternoon
and probably well into the night. I want to get away as soon as
possible."




Chapter 22. Dead or Alive


They drove away through the sleeping countryside; just before they
reached Ilsenburg an odd light high in the air to the west caught
Hambledon's eye. He slowed down, staring, and stopped the car for a
moment.

"What in the name of Heaven is that?"

It was a great cross of glowing light and looked as though it were
hanging in the sky.

"That," said Micklejohn, "is what they call the East German Cross. It's
a huge wooden one about sixty feet high on a hilltop in the Western Zone
near Bad Harzburg. It is covered all over with reflectors and on
Saturday nights they floodlight it from the ground. You can see it for
miles and miles into the Soviet Zone and people creep out after dark to
look at it sometimes. You know. It rather awes me."

"I don't wonder," said Hambledon.

He drove on for some time and then stopped the car again off the road in
a quiet spot.

"It is now a little after 3 A.M.," he said, "and only forty miles to
Magdeburg. There is no sense in arriving there at 5 A.M., making people
wonder what we've been doing all night. I simply loathe people wondering
what I've been doing. Besides, the offices won't be open till eight.
Let's have two or three hours' sleep. Can you sleep in this
wagon-non-lit?"

"I think I should sleep if I were pegged up on a clothesline," said
Micklejohn frankly.

"Sleep well," said Hambledon. He turned his shoulder to his companion,
snuggled down into his corner, and closed his eyes, though how much he
slept is another matter.

At six he woke Micklejohn by the simple method of starting the car and
driving off. Micklejohn, whose young energies seemed completely restored
by two and a half hours' sleep sitting up in a cramped space, woke up at
once.

"Good morning," said Hambledon. "I hope you slept well."

"Yes, thank you. Good morning, Mr. Hambledon. I hope that you also had a
good night."

"Passable," said Hambledon, slowing down for a herd of cows, "passable.
Which is more than can be said for these beasts, isn't it? Let us talk
German, shall we? They might overhear us and give us away. Take your
fool's tail out of my radiator, Strawberry."

When they had passed the cows Micklejohn asked whether Hambledon knew
anything about a thing called the Smirnov Plan. "I started it off to you
as soon as I heard that you were in Goslar, but communications seemed a
little----"

"I know," said Hambledon. "Difficult. But I got it all right. Want to
hear the whole story? Listen."

Hambledon talked on to an enthralled audience and ended: "So after it
had all been carefully photographed I brought it back as a nice present
for the Russians. Not a very civilised people but they're great on
presents."

"But why not simply remove it----"

"And have them thinking out a brand new plan we know nothing about? Not
likely."

At Magdeburg there was no difficulty about the exit permits, as
Hambledon had had the forethought to get a signed authorisation for them
from General Ambromovitch's office beforehand.

"Breakfast?" asked Micklejohn.

"Certainly, breakfast. I know a pleasant caf down by the river. Come
on."

They sat on the terrace in the morning sunshine; since it was Sunday, a
few church bells rang halfheartedly, but there were no little groups of
people, prayer books in hand, making their way through the streets. The
Communists do not encourage Sunday observance, as is well known,
secularisation is the word of power, and traffic and people passed
busily about as on a weekday.

"You wouldn't think it was Sunday," said Micklejohn. He emptied his
second cup of coffee and attacked his third roll. He received no answer
and looked round in surprise to see Hambledon sitting very still in his
chair, with his hat tilted forward over his eyes. He was watching two
men who were walking together past the caf; one was a small neat man
who looked across at Hambledon, raised his hat, and bowed. Hambledon
made no response whatever. The other man was tall and lean, dark-skinned
and saturnine, with a deeply lined face, he did not look in Hambledon's
direction at all. The two men walked on quickly and could be seen to be
deep in conversation.

The moment they were out of sight Hambledon sprang to his feet, threw a
note upon the table, pointed it out to the attentive waiter, said: "Come
on, Micklejohn," and walked rapidly away, leaving his coffee unfinished.
Micklejohn abandoned his roll and hurried after Hambledon, who was
already starting the car.

Micklejohn jumped in beside him, shut the door, and said: "Who were
those two men?"

Hambledon swung the car off the car park and drove away without
answering. When they were at last clear of the city and upon the road to
Helmstedt he settled down to send the car along at the utmost speed of
which she was capable.

"Those two men," he said, and laughed abruptly. "The small fair one is
Lorenz Grober, a German in Russian Intelligence. He came to see Ludwig
Kirsch at his house at Goslar. Kirsch being already in gaol, he saw me
instead and as he'd never seen Kirsch I managed to persuade him that I
was Kirsch. He then kindly arranged this little trip for me and even met
me at Helmstedt, to ensure that I wasn't held up on the Russian
frontier. The other man's name is Dittmar and he is probably the one man
in the whole Soviet Zone of Germany who knows that my name is Hambledon
and not Kirsch. Tiresome, isn't it?"

Micklejohn thought this over and considered that "tiresome" as a summary
was a trifle inadequate.

"But he was the tall dark man--are you sure he saw you? And recognised
you? I thought he did not look across at all."

"He saw me all right; that's why he didn't look again. As for
recognising me, he was shadowing me round Goslar for a fortnight on
Kirsch's orders, Kirsch was his boss. When things blew up and Kirsch and
another man were arrested, Dittmar ran for it and got clear away."

"But what's he doing here with the other man, Grober?"

"All in the network of Russian Intelligence. I expect Dittmar knew him
by name and where to find him. Dittmar had to get out of the Western
Zone because the police were after him. No doubt he made his way here
and went to see Grober to report and ask for another post. I ought to
have thought of it. It's obvious, when you come to think of it. We ought
to have had a pint of beer in a cellar for breakfast instead of coffee
on a terrace, but I thought I was the illustrious Herr Kirsch still and
it wouldn't matter if I was seen. They would know that I had picked up
our exit permits, you see."

"Yes. For Helmstedt. And we're making for Helmstedt."

"That's right. It's only thirty miles from Magdeburg and we've covered
more than half the distance already and the Russians simply hate getting
up early and it's Sunday anyway. Grober is not a very important person,
it may be some time before he can induce anybody to listen to him--I
hope."

"And in the meantime we pass the frontier before they have time to stop
us."

"That's the general idea," said Hambledon.

Micklejohn relapsed into silence to watch the kilometres coming up on
the speedometer. The old car was going quite well.

"It was a bit of bad luck," he said suddenly, "those two men happening
to come along together at that moment, wasn't it?"

"These things happen," said Hambledon calmly, "and one can't always
expect them to be in one's favour. But it must have been quite a moment,
mustn't it? There they were, strolling happily along in the morning
sunshine and suddenly that harmless little twerp Grober says: 'Look.
There is your employer, the never-sufficiently-to-be-esteemed Herr
Kirsch.' And Dittmar says: 'The devil it is, it's that hellhound of a
_verdammter_ Englander, the Herr Hambledon.'"

"But if Dittmar knew that Kirsch had been arrested in Goslar, he'd
report it, wouldn't he, as soon as he arrived?"

"I am not sure that he did know it," said Hambledon. "I think he was too
busy running away. Anyway, we haven't been arrested yet, have we?" He
patted the steering wheel encouragingly. "Come on, Boanerges. Another
ten kilometres and then you can cool down."

Although the road was an important main road, it was neither wide nor
particularly well kept. They were driving through a stretch of forest
where the road was narrow but reasonably straight; some distance ahead
there was someone at the roadside doing something with branches. One
would say that he was piling smaller branches upon a larger one of beech
which, being flat, would make a passable sled. When they drew nearer it
became plain that this was, indeed, what the old man was doing. He
glanced towards the oncoming car, the only one in sight, bowed his
ancient back to take the strain, and dragged his timber out to block the
road almost completely.

"Is he blind and deaf?" began Micklejohn----

"Just possibly neither," said Hambledon, and pulled up Boanerges within
a yard of the obstruction.

The old man turned with a dramatic start of surprise, cupped one hand to
his ear, and squeaked: "I didn't hear you. Just a minute and I'll
clear--what say?"

He came doddering round to Hambledon's window, stuck his head in and
said: "Name of Ludwig Kirsch? Thought so. Don't go on, they're waiting
for you. Road block on the bridge two kilometres ahead and a Vopo Post
just round that bend. Orders to stop car and take you both, dead or
alive."

Micklejohn gasped and Hambledon said: "Thank you very much indeed. How
did you know?"

"Outside Vopo telephone box," said the old man, with a toothless grin.
"They think I'm deaf, see? Can't hear nothing, I can't. So they repeat
message, write it down and read it back. Car number GS 13579, name of
Kirsch and friend. I know about you from Waldecke, see? The man with the
message to say Kirsch is all right is in my attic with a bullet in his
chest. Turn left here, keep going seven kilometres, and then lie up till
dark." He backed away and dragged his wood round in the road to let
Hambledon pass. "Go, quick, quick!"

Hambledon, who had not stopped the car engine, let in his clutch and
swung left into a woodland track. In a matter of yards he was out of
sight of the road. Micklejohn, looking back, said so.

"But not out of earshot," said Hambledon, thankfully changing into top
on a downward slope.

"Tell me, if it's not a tactless question," said Micklejohn, "why do you
handicap your mobility with this peculiar vehicle?"

"It's Kirsch's and he loved it, odd as that may seem. It's the only car
he ever consented to drive and he lost his quite notoriously violent
temper if anybody was tactless enough to cast nasturtiums upon it."

"Some obscure fixation," suggested Micklejohn helpfully.

"Obscure is right. Kirsch drove it, I am Kirsch, therefore I drive it.
But I think we will find an early opportunity to dump it now that the
name of Kirsch appears to be without honour in the land."

"Six kilometres coming up," said Micklejohn, with his eyes on the
speedometer. "Seven, our old friend said. What do you suppose happens
after seven kilometres?"

"Probably a road junction complete with police post." Hambledon slowed
down, stopped the engine, and got out. "You stay with the car, will you?
I'm going to walk on and see what there is to see. I shan't be long."

He came back twenty minutes later to say that there was indeed a police
post on the road to which this track would lead them and that it was
manned by alert Vopos. He climbed into the car, took out a map and
brooded over it, merely making small grunting noises when Micklejohn
asked questions until the young man gave up asking. Eventually Hambledon
looked up with a grin, offered Micklejohn a cigarette, and pointed out a
double dotted line on the map.

"Walker's track," he said. "I don't know whether we can get the car
through but we can try. It turns off to the right about fifty yards
ahead and meanders off. I think it by-passes this road ahead of us,
which, if I am right, ends in a farmyard. We circumnavigate the
farmyard"--he started the car--"and consequently do not have to cross
the road."

"I see that," said Micklejohn, as the car moved on, "just like walking
round the headwaters of a stream. But I thought we were going to leave
this car."

"What, here and now? It isn't my idea of a car but it goes a lot faster
than we can walk, you know." Hambledon changed down and put the car at a
rise, which it charged gallantly. "It's in much better condition than
most cars over this side. You must have noticed that. It's just a little
too well known, that's all."

They rounded the head of a valley and turned south and east until
Hambledon said: "I think this will do for the present. Can you keep
awake for two hours? I want to sleep. Call me if anyone comes."




Chapter 23. Beanfields


As soon as darkness began to gather, Hambledon climbed into the car and
said that it was time to start. "We ought to pick up some petrol
somewhere. I didn't wait this morning. I thought that there was plenty
of petrol in the Western Zone. Never mind. Some opportunity will
doubtless present itself."

They drove on along one lonely country road after another, but always
trending southwards, till the car hesitated, coughed, and hesitated
again. Hambledon pulled into the side of the road and turned the petrol
tap on to the reserve.

"Though even that would be more helpful if I had any idea whether the
reserve tank held two gallons or one pint," he said. "You're very quiet,
aren't you?"

"Nothing much to say," said Micklejohn. "I expect I'm hungry.
Stultifying to the brain. I've noticed it before."

"We might pick up some sausage somewhere," said Hambledon soberly, "but
don't count on it. The country people here are hungry too."

They came up to the top of a rise and looked down the further side to
see, on the left, a house with lighted windows open to the warm night.
Hambledon put the car out of gear and coasted silently down the hill. As
they drew near the lighted house it could be seen that it was an inn; it
could also be heard that there was a party in progress, for sounds of
revelry floated out through the open windows.

The inn stood a little back from the road with a cobbled space before
it. Hambledon drew the car off the road, ran it past the house to a
patch of grass beyond, and stopped the engine.

"I'm going to have a scout round for some petrol."

"But this is an inn, not a garage----"

"I know. But they may have a pumping engine or something. It's worth
looking."

"They are very drunk, aren't they?"

"All the better," said Hambledon, and slipped away.

There was a yard at the back of the inn. He turned into it and received
the full blast of dissonance from two windows and an open door. Someone
was playing an accordion not too badly, but he had chosen quite a
different melody from someone else who was strumming loudly on a guitar.
Some members of the party--it appeared to number about six--were singing
whatever took their errant fancies from moment to moment. Hambledon was
a man so nearly tone-deaf that he always said that the only way to
recognise a song was by the words, but even he found this cacophony
almost painful.

"But it's nice and loud," he said, and wandered round the yard looking
for petrol cans. He did not find any, but he did find a car run into a
shed with the doors closed but not locked upon it. It was a good car by
Eastern Zone standards, which meant that it was an official car, and
when he walked round it there was a little green, pennon on the bonnet
and several official stickers on the windscreen, which he identified as
those of the Agricultural Produce Control Office, or words to that
effect, for he had thought it wise to learn something about control
offices.

He turned on the petrol, released the brake, and pushed the car
backwards out of the shed without difficulty. Too easily, in fact, for
the car dropped its back wheels into a surface drain just too deep for
Hambledon to heave it out unaided.

"They wouldn't hear," he said, "if I started up a racing Maserati." He
got in, confidently started the engine, and began to drive out of the
yard without having disturbed the revellers in the least. But just as he
was passing the open door a man came staggering out of it.

He stopped, stared, and let out a yell which quietened even the singers.
The inn emptied itself into the yard with shouts and maledictions as
Hambledon put the car into second gear and shot out, blowing the horn to
attract Micklejohn's attention. He was already out on the road.
Hambledon slowed down just enough to throw the door open and let
Micklejohn scramble in, and then drove on down the hill.

"They're all blind drunk in there," said Hambledon.

"Not too drunk to run," said Micklejohn, crouching on his seat to peer
out of the rear window. "Two of them have found Boanerges. Here comes a
third. No, he's fallen down. He's staying down. They've got Boanerges
going and they're coming on. They're all over the road but they continue
to come. They've switched the headlights on, dipped. That was a fine
sweeping curve; d'you think the driver thinks he's skating?"

"This is where we leave them behind," said Hambledon, and put his foot
down. "There'll be a road post soon and I want to get there comfortably
first. Are those papers in that door pocket beside you?"

They were and Micklejohn dragged them out.

"Potatoes," he said, peering in the dim light from the instrument panel,
"beets, cabbage, beets, potatoes, kale--what are we, greengrocers?"

"Far better than that. Greengrocers, indeed. We are the Ministry of
Agricultural Produce Control----"

"We have them," said Micklejohn cheerfully, "only we call them the
County Ag. Red lights ahead."

"Very good. Any sign of Boanerges?"

"No. Yes, I think--yes. Squinting slightly and far, far behind, but
still pursuing."

"There must have been more in that reserve tank than one would expect.
Never mind, so long as I can pass this barrier--stand by." Hambledon
drew to a halt at the red and white pole, and a man in Volks-polizei
uniform, who had been signalling to him with a red lantern, came up to
the window.

"Good evening, mein Herr," he said, saluting the little pennon and the
windscreen stickers rather than the individual driver. "Papers, please."

"What, again?" said Hambledon genially. "Franz, get those papers out
again. Tell me, what is all the excitement tonight? This is the fourth
time I've been stopped in the last hour."

"We look for a car," said the Vopo, "and though it is plain that the
Herr's car is not the one, it is my duty to stop everyone."

"Naturally," said Hambledon. He took the papers from Micklejohn without
looking at them and absent-mindedly laid them down. "I saw a car outside
an inn three or four kilometres back--what make is it?"

"Composite, it says on the order. Two-seater body on long chassis----"

"But----" said Micklejohn.

"What number?" asked Hambledon excitedly.

"Western Zone number GS 13579----"

"That's the one! Was it not, Franz? Surely."

"That is right. All odd numbers and there was something funny about the
car body," said Micklejohn eagerly.

"They were exceedingly drunk," said Hambledon. "They started the car as
we came by and followed us. They were all over the road."

"They are coming this way?" asked the Vopo.

"Certainly. At least, they started this----"

"Look, look," babbled Micklejohn, pointing back up the hill. "All over
the road----"

Dipped head lamps swooped and curved, appeared to hesitate and came on
again.

"Look here," said Hambledon urgently to the Vopo, "I've got no fancy for
being slammed in the rear by this drunken fellow. Let me through, quick,
I'll stop the other side."

"Certainly" said the Vopo. He swung the bar to let Hambledon through and
immediately closed it again, calling to his mate in a little telephone
hut beside the road. "Hugo! Come out, this looks like our meat."

Hambledon drove on just far enough to be out of trouble, stopped the car
and switched off the engine. In the sudden quiet Boanerges could plainly
be heard approaching in a series of short bursts as the almost empty
tank spared a few more drops to the starved carburettor.

Hugo walked forward to meet Boanerges while his fellow waved a red
lantern. The car coasted down and ran over a bump which shook a last
teacupful into the carburettor; the engine awoke with a sudden roar, the
car swung across the road and butted the telephone box, which
disintegrated. From white insulators above, on the telegraph pole, there
came a sound as of harp strings breaking.

"Tara's halls," murmured Micklejohn. "I shall laugh in a minute."

"Be quiet. Look at that----"

The Vopos, one upon either side, opened Boanerges' doors and dragged out
the occupants. These stood upon their dignity, such as was left to them,
and addressed the Vopos by the German equivalent of "low fellow." The
Vopos resented this and their captives kicked shrewdly. The butts of two
Volks-polizei-issue revolvers rose up and fell sharply, with
hollow-sounding thuds, upon the close-cropped heads of the captives.
Their knees gave way. They were dexterously caught and laid out side by
side in the cool grass of the road verges.

Hambledon's friend came, grinning, to put his head in at the car window.

"That's them all right," he said. "I thank the Herr for his warning. But
our telephone, it is _kaputt_."

"Can I do anything? Take a message?"

"Ach, if you would! There is another post at a crossroads five
kilometres on. I will write you a note. They can report this for us and
then come up and help us."

Hambledon waited while the Vopo sprawled over his bonnet to write a note
upon a small official pad with a printed heading: "The People's Police
of the German Democratic Republic," which, as Micklejohn remarked when
they drove on, is a fine example of words meaning what Big Brother says
they mean and you can go and boil your head.

"Oh, quite," said Hambledon, placidly driving on through the night.

"But doesn't it make your blood boil----?"

"My dear boy, if I let things like that heat my blood I'd have died of
spontaneous combustion long ago."

"But," began Micklejohn again. He then saw Hambledon's grim face in the
shadow and abandoned, with a slight gasp, whatever he had been about to
say.

The next road post duly materialised at a crossroads, a red light was
waved, and Hambledon drew up.

"A note for you," he said, handing it out, "from Post 287 up the road.
They have caught your fleas for you."

The patrol uttered a pleased exclamation and took the note to another
man in yet another telephone box. He read it and came out, grinning, to
ask for details of the affair at Post 287. Hambledon told him all about
it.

"So all is well," he finished, "except that their telephone box is
smashed to firewood and the wires down. They want you to go up and help
them."

The man nodded. "They want to borrow our little radio
transmitter-receiver," he said. "Hans, get your motorcycle going and you
can take me along on the pillion. Oh, first let us dismantle this road
post, it will not be wanted any more. You clear it away while I ring up
posts ahead to pass the word 'Emergency Ended.' Then they can all go
home to bed. The Herr may drive on now. He will not be stopped again.
Good night."

"Thank you," said Hambledon meekly, and drove away.

They drove on and on, sometimes through deep and silent woods and
sometimes through open farming country, until the stars faded and the
sky grew light in the east. Here and there lights began to appear in
cottage windows and the daylight broadened minute by minute.

"Where are we going?" asked Micklejohn, after a long silence. "Anywhere
particular, or are you just looking for a likely spot, as it were?"

"We are making for a spot near a little place called Neuhof, where, for
some reason which no one understands, there is a short length of
frontier without a wire fence. There is the usual ploughed strip and a
lot of Vopos, but no wire; on the further side of the ploughed strip
there is a road which, believe it or not, is in the Western Zone. I wish
it wasn't getting so damned light. I was hoping to cross in the pearly
light of dawn, if that. It can't be far now." Hambledon put his hand in
an inside pocket and pulled out a small folded map, which he passed to
Micklejohn.

"Ah! The _Wanderkarte Camping_! When I first came to Goslar----"

"Look down in the left-hand bottom corner, outside the zonal boundary.
Obersachswerfen, got it?"

"Obersachswerfen----"

"Oh, give it to me." Hambledon stopped the car and pointed with his
finger. "There. Obersachswerfen we have just passed through, the next
village is Branderode--about two kilometres--and we fork right just past
the church. Then it's just over a kilometre to the frontier." He started
the car again and drove on fast. "Please fold up the map again and put
it in your pocket, I don't want it blowing about."

Micklejohn did what he was told and asked in a meek voice if there was
anything else.

"If you know any nice strong prayers you might say them."

Branderode came into sight, a very small place with a few houses along
either side of the road. There was, however, more than one lane turning
off to the right and Hambledon slowed down.

"A right fork just past the church--not that. Nor that. Where's the
church, for--there it is. Right fork. Good."

They turned off and left the place behind.

"Did you notice the Vopo office? No light on anywhere and no smoke
coming out of the chimney."

"Nobody awake yet," ventured Micklejohn.

"No. And the Vopo patrols who've been on duty all night on the frontier
will be tired and hungry and chilly and a bit dopey, I hope. There. Look
ahead, across two fields, do you see a road? That's in the Western--dear
me, how excessively fatiguing. Look to the left a little; two Vopos
leaning on a gate. See them? The last time I was here there were two
Vopos leaning over that gate. Oh, so that's the roaring noise. I thought
it was the blood rushing to my head. Now for a little innocent
camouflage."

Hambledon leaned forward and pulled out the choke on the dashboard to
its fullest extent.

The roaring noise to which he referred was being made by a farm tractor
in some kind of trouble. It had just been started up in the road ahead
of them, which had suddenly deteriorated to a mere cart track and came
to an end in a field. The tractor was roaring on full throttle and the
driver was clambering about on it with a spanner, no doubt trying to
calm it but without much success.

Hambledon's car by this time was responding to the full choke by running
unevenly and pouring from the exhaust a cloud of black smoke which
drifted across the landscape and poisoned the pleasant morning air. He
came up close behind the tractor, stopped, leaving the engine running,
and got out.

The tractor driver could not have heard him but, in stepping down from
his machine he bumped into Hambledon, who seized him by the arm and
yelled in his ear.

"Do you know anything about cars?"

The man looked round and said he did, a bit, why?

"Mine's gone wrong. Come and do something!"

The man walked towards the car and then noticed the green pennon and the
windscreen stickers.

"Agricultural Control," he said, and shied away. "I hates agricultural
controls. We'd all get on a lot better if you was all stuck in ditches.
I've got my own troubles. Governor's stuck and my tractor roaring her
head off----"

"Come on," said Hambledon persuasively, and showed a roll of notes.

"Oh, well. Your mixture's too rich for one thing."

"The engine's missing," said Hambledon, and got the invariable reaction
which always follows this remark. The man walked up to the car and
cocked his head to listen.

Hambledon hit him hard under the jaw and caught him as he fell.
Micklejohn jumped out of the car and Hambledon said: "Lay him down under
the hedge there. Now hop on the tractor. On the side seat, there, I'm
driving. I don't know much about tractors but they have gears like
cars--hang on."

Hambledon swung the tractor round and out into the field ahead, there
was a loud clatter behind, and Micklejohn reported in a horrified voice
that they were trailing a cultivator but it was in the up position.

"I am more interested in the Vopos; are they in the up position too?
Across this field and the next and we're free. They don't seem
particularly interested at the moment, do they? They probably think
we're in training for tractor races or merely--what the hell have you
done?"

Micklejohn, scarlet with effort and embarrassment, was heaving with all
his strength against a long lever. The tractor had slowed abruptly to
about half speed because the cultivator had been dropped into service
and the six long curved tines were tearing up the ground.

"'Cast four anchors out of the stern'?" asked Hambledon lightly. "We are
now entering upon a field of beans, the farmer will be pleased, won't
he?"

"I thought this lever would let the trailer drop off," wailed
Micklejohn, "and now it won't even come up again----"

"There's probably a catch on it somewhere," shouted Hambledon above the
uproar. "Like what you have on a hand brake."

They were cutting a beautiful swathe through the beans and the
accumulated harvest was packing more and more tightly under the hooked
tines. Micklejohn found a small lever and pressed it, the big lever came
back suddenly, the tractor leapt forward, and Micklejohn fell off.
Hambledon, who was not normally given to swearing, produced an
expression which startled himself, the tines fell down again, and
Micklejohn ran alongside and jumped on once more. The two Vopos, now
only some fifty yards away, doubled up with laughter and clung to each
other, pointing.

At this point the farmer who owned the beanfield came running to cut
them off from the gap for which they were making. He yelled, waving his
arms and gesticulating, and signalled to the Vopos, who left off
laughing and unslung their rifles. Another thirty yards to the road.

"Could you repeat that trick?" shouted Hambledon. "You can leave out the
comic turn at the end."

Micklejohn hauled the long lever forward again and held it this time.
Another fifteen yards--ten----

Something smacked into the tractor framing just in front of Hambledon
and sang off, leaving a bright streak on the metal. He glanced over his
shoulder. The Vopos were both firing though they did not look
particularly steady. One of them threw himself down to take aim.

Hambledon drove across the ploughed strip, across the road beyond,
through a hedge and straight into another field of beans on the further
side.

"We're safe," shouted Micklejohn, releasing the lever in his excitement,
"you can stop now, we're safe."

A bullet passed through the sleeve of his coat and smashed the
oil-pressure-gauge glass just in front of him.

"Are we?" said Hambledon grimly. "Lever again, please," and he drove on.

Some men working in the field came running, white in the face and very
angry.

"Who are you--this is not allowed--who will pay for the damage--look at
my beans--at my hedge----"

Hambledon looked back at the road. Two motorcycles roared up to the
corner, each with two men on it in the smart black uniforms of the
Mobile Police. They pulled up, Hambledon sighed with relief, stopped the
tractor, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was like a blessing.

"The police shall arrest you and shall throw you back," raved the
Western Zone farmer. "Who shall pay me for all this damage?"

Hambledon got down from the machine, staggered momentarily, and leaned
against it.

"Here is one perfectly good Russian-made tractor," he said, patting it
affectionately. "It is yours, it will more than pay for the damage."

"No. We shall have to give that back. We cannot keep it."

By this time there were a score or so of people round Hambledon and
Micklejohn; men who had been working in the fields, women from a little
cluster of cottages near by, round-eyed scared-looking children. They
all stared at him and their eyes were not friendly.

Three out of the four Mobile Police came through the gap in the hedge
which had been made by the tractor and walked towards them; instantly
the people milled round them instead, all talking at once. This trouble
was not their fault, it was these two who had come across from the other
side, they should be thrown back at once----

The police put them aside and the sergeant in charge came up to
Hambledon and asked him who he was.

"You have heard of the young Englishman who went missing? That is he;
his name is George Micklejohn. I am Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon, also
an Englishman. The Chief of Police in Goslar knows me."

The sergeant made notes and spoke in a slightly more friendly voice.

"I have had instructions about gentlemen bearing those names but, the
Herren will understand, their identities must be proved. It is my duty
to conduct the Herren to Goslar."

Hambledon looked round at the ring of frightened hostile faces and
beyond them to the ploughed strip, the _Zonengrenze_. Beyond this again
there were the bent, sullen figures of the fieldworkers in the Soviet
Zone all looking the other way; the square brown figure of the farmer
shaking his fists over the long swathe cut in his beanfield; the
Vopos--six of them now--standing about with their guns ready in their
hands.

"To Goslar," repeated the sergeant.

"Certainly, Sergeant. I cannot think of anything which would delight me
more and the sooner the better."

"In Walkenried," said the sergeant, "I will call up a police car. This
way; it is not far."

They turned and walked away together.






[End of No Entry, by Manning Coles]
