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Chapter Seven

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« on: May 09, 2023, 05:58:26 am »

CHARLES Denton returned from the Balkans without regret and presented himself at the Foreign Office at the end of a fortnight’s leave.

“Glad to see you, Denton. Sorry to come away?”

“Not at all,” said the young man in a tired voice. “Those people are too damned energetic by half, fight on the smallest excuse. The Younger Nations, what? Simply too nursery for words.”

“Perhaps your next job will be more to your liking. I want you to go to Germany to look for a man who is almost certainly dead.”

“Do I have to provide my own spade?”

“Do you remember a man named Reck? He used to code and dispatch messages for our Cologne agents during the war.”

Denton nodded. “He went bats and died in the giggle-house in Mainz.”

“Are you sure?” The Foreign Office man unfolded his tale, ending with, “This has been going on for more than a year now, sixteen months to be exact. We get reports of German rearmament and aviation developments which, so far as we can check them, are scrupulously correct, our agents are assisted in inconspicuous ways and their agents here are identified. One of his best efforts, conveyed in the passport of a commercial traveller in artificial silk stockings, informed us last July that Germany would resign from the League of Nations in October, which, of course, they did. We know where and when to find messages because we are informed by radio in the code Reck used. We are inconceivably grateful, but we do feel we should like to know our benefactor.”

“Does he sign his communications? Or just put ‘A Well-Wisher’ at the end?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Is he English, do you think?”

“The form of his sentences is sometimes rather German, verbs at the end and capitals to all his nouns and so on. But once he said, ‘If I ask for news, will you put a paragraph in the papers for me sometimes?’ and at the end of yesterday’s was ‘How stands the old Lord Warden? Are Dover’s cliffs still white?’ ”

“You’ll answer that in to-morrow’s Continental Daily Mail, of course, ‘Dear old boy, it depends on the weather!’ Has he asked any others?”

“Not yet.”

“I take it you want me to find out who he is. Has it occurred to you that in some way he must be fairly well in with the Nazis, and that consequently it would be very dangerous for him indeed if anyone knew who he was, even you, sir?”

“Yes. In fact, your errand is not so much to find out who he is as to put yourself in a position to be useful to him if he desires help. If you fail, it will be because he does not desire it, that’s all.”

“Then you really have not the faintest idea who he is?”

“Absolutely none. We assume, from his knowledge of procedure, that he has served at some time in British Intelligence, so we looked up everyone on our lists who is still alive. It is none of them, so it must be someone who is officially dead. I have here the photographs of every British agent who was missing or killed during and after the war, perhaps you would like to look at them. It is only a guess that he is in touch with Reck because he uses that code, but the code may have been written down and Reck may be dead, as you say. I have no guidance to offer, though you will be put in touch with the usual contacts. I only suggest that he must be in Berlin.”

“I see,” said Denton, “figuratively speaking. In point of fact I don’t see an inch ahead in this affair and I doubt if I ever do. May I brood over those photos for a secluded half-hour or so?”

“You can brood in here,” said his Chief. “I am going out for an hour and the whisky is in the cupboard.”

Accordingly, Herr Sigmund Dedler of Zurich arrived in Berlin towards the end of June 1934 armed with magnificent photographs of beauty spots in the cantons of Zurich, Luzern, Unterwalden, Schwyz and Zug, in search of printers who would reproduce them as postcards in six colours for sale to tourists. He stayed in an inexpensive hotel of the commercial type and prosecuted his inquiries diligently but without haste, he was difficult to please as regards price and quality, and it looked as though his mission would take him some time. Among the people he interviewed was a very German-looking individual who kept a tobacconist’s shop in Spandau Strasse near the Neue Markt. The tobacconist was a friendly soul, and invited Herr Dedler to sit with him sometimes in his stuffy little room behind the shop, a room even more stuffy than it need have been, since they talked with the window and doors shut though the summer days were hot. The tobacconist’s daughter, in reply to a thirsty howl from her parent, used to come in with wine, and glasses on a tray, and look at Herr Dedler with frank interest. Since she was undoubtedly a comely wench, Herr Dedler also displayed appreciation, but as her father invariably turned her out again at once and locked the door after her, the acquaintance did not progress.

“I have no suggestions to offer,” said the tobacconist. “The Department asked me more than a year ago to look into this, but I am no further forward than I was then. I know some of the Nazi leaders personally, being a good Nazi myself,” he smiled gently, “though my unfortunate health prevents me from taking an active part in their affairs---thank goodness. But several of them are kind to me and buy their tobacco here since I take the trouble to stock the blends they prefer. None of them look to me at all likely to be honorary members of British Intelligence. I hope you will have more luck.”

“I don’t suppose so for a moment,” said Denton gloomily. “I have merely been sent over because I used to know Reck. So I am walking about looking for him regardless of the strong probability that he’s been in his humble grave at Mainz these twelve years. Reck. Have you ever heard the name?”

“Never.”

“I don’t suppose you would. If he’s still alive he probably calls himself Eustachius Guggleheimer now. Does anyone in Berlin keep silkworms?”

“Silkworms?” said the startled tobacconist. “Shall I open the window a moment? It is true that the weather is hot, but----”

“No matter. I have walked about this blasted city in this infernal heat till my legs ache in every pore and my feet feel the size of Grock’s, and I’m not a bit the wiser, at least, not about that. There’s something up though, Keppel, there’s an uneasy excitement about which I don’t like. Something’s going to happen, what is it?”

“You are perfectly right. There is a lot of jealousy between the old Brown Guards and Hitler’s new S.S. men, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was trouble.”

“So. Well, it’s no business of mine, at least I hope not. At the first sound of alarm I shall go to bed and stay there, I shall at least rest my feet. I’ll come and see you again shortly. You wouldn’t like a nice picture of the Lake of Lucerne in six colours, would you?”

“I’d rather have a water-colour of the Pass of Brander as the sun goes down,” said Keppel wistfully.

Denton lit his pipe and strolled towards his inconspicuous hotel as the evening was drawing on, and noticed at once that the streets were curiously empty of people. He displayed no interest at all in what he saw, but merely slouched along with his eyes down and his hands in his pockets as one wrapped deeply in thought. He came at last within sight of the turning to his hotel and saw, with an odd pricking sensation in the tips of his fingers, that there was a line of S.S. men across the end of the street who were stopping cars and pedestrians and asking them questions.

Denton quickened his pace slightly and walked on past the picketed turning only to find another line of guards across the road fifty yards ahead. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that a third detachment had formed up behind him. He was trapped.

He decided that nobody could possibly be expected not to notice all this display of armed force, however tactful they might be, so he abandoned his nonchalant manner and scurried along like all the rest of the scattered handful of people whom ill fortune had sent abroad on the night of the Nazi purge.

He saw that the front door of a house opposite to him was ajar, so he ran across the road, dived in, and shut the door after him. In the passage he encountered a gentleman who was presumably the master of the house, for he blocked the way and said “Wer da?” in an authoritative tone.

“Sigmund Dedler from Zurich,” answered Denton, introducing himself. “I beg ten thousand pardons for inflicting my uninvited presence upon you in this abrupt and ill-bred manner, but if you would permit me to occupy some inconspicuous corner in your house till the streets are a little less unhealthily exciting, my immeasurable gratitude will outlast several reincarnations. I suggest the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Impossible,” said his host firmly, “my wife is there already. Nevertheless, no one shall say that Hugo von Einem turned out a stranger into a storm more pitiless than the wrath of God, come in.”

“Thank you, I have,” said Denton.

“Yes,” said von Einem absent-mindedly. “Yes, I suppose you have. Listen!”

Running footsteps approached the door, but passed by without pausing.

“Did you shut the door?” asked von Einem in a low voice.

“Yes,” answered Denton in the same tone. “I thought it made the house seem more home-like, don’t you know? Did you want it left open?”

“I left it open for a friend, but I doubt if he will come now. He said he would try and come to me if this happened.”

“What, exactly, is happening?”

“There is trouble in Berlin to-night.”

“I thought they were playing ‘Nuts in May,’ ” said Denton sarcastically. “Perhaps they are, only it’s June and the wrong sort of nuts.”

Von Einem stared. “ ‘Nuts in May’? What’s that?”

“A childish game little girls play in my native canton of Zug.”

There was the sound of rifle fire from farther down the street. “There is nothing childish about this game, Herr Dedler. Where are you staying?”

Denton told him and von Einem said, “But that is quite near.”

“It is in theory, but there are two cordons of S.S. guards between, which in practice makes it rather far off.”

“How true. You might, however, reach it across the gardens at the back if you would not mind climbing a few walls.”

“Not at all, a pleasure, believe me. May I look?”

Denton walked through to a room at the back of the house, threw the window up, and looked out. There was a drop of about five feet to a dull little town garden, bounded by the walls of which von Einem spoke, beyond them were more gardens and more walls; one of that row of houses half-right must be his hotel.

He went back to the hall where von Einem was still listening for a footstep he knew, and said, “I think your idea is excellent---I propose to act on it at once. I am very grateful----”

“Listen,” said von Einem. The steps of several men were heard outside in the street, they stopped, and there came a quiet knock at the door.

“At last,” said von Einem, and opened it as Denton retired modestly to the back of the hall. Three men with automatics in their hands entered hastily, pushed von Einem back against the wall without saying a word, and one of them shot him dead.

Denton was through the back room and out of the window before his host’s body had slumped to the floor. “Just a garden wall or two,” he thought, “and I’ll be----”

As his feet touched the ground something hit him on the back of the head and he fell through millions of roaring stars into unconsciousness.

He awoke again with a splitting headache to find himself lying on a mattress on the floor, he felt the rough cement, in some place which was nearly dark except for a faint light which trickled in through a barred horizontal slit high above his head. He puzzled over this for some time before he realized that he was in a cellar and that the light came through a pavement grating, probably from a street lamp. His head cleared gradually and he realized that he was desperately thirsty. He sat up, setting his teeth as the darkness whirled round him.

“In all the best dungeons,” he said unsteadily, “the prisoner is provided with a jug of water and a mouldy crust of bread.”

He felt cautiously about, found a jug of generous size and took a long pull at the water; he soaked his handkerchief and dabbed his head with it, a refreshing moment, though it revealed that the back of his skull was horribly tender.

“I’ve been sandbagged,” he said, and lay back to think things over as clearly as his aching head would permit.

“I remember,” he said at last. “They shot von Einem. Wonder what they’re going to do with me?”

He felt in his pockets. His automatic had gone and so had his electric torch, but so far as he could tell everything else was there, even his money and his watch.

“Of course, they can always collect the cash from my unresisting corpse afterwards,” he said aloud. “Delicate-minded people, these, evidently.”

There came a pleasant voice in the darkness from somewhere high up in the wall opposite his feet. “I do hope you are feeling better,” it said, in English.

“Thank you,” said Denton with a slight gasp. “I survive---so far.”

“I hope you will many years survive---survive many years. You must excuse my awkward English, it is so many years since I spoke it.”

“Please don’t apologize----”

“I do not want to tease you,” said the voice, jerkily and with pauses, as of a man recalling a language long disused. “I hope to get you out of this mess, unless they liquidate me next, which seems quite likely.”

“Heaven preserve you,” said Denton with feeling.

Danke schön. I am sorry we had to hit you quite so hard, but we should not have got you away had they not you dead---thought you dead. Only dead men pass unquestioned to-night.”

“But how did you know I was there?”

“I did not, till you looked out of the window. I came to---to succour von Einem.”

“Then you were the friend for whom he was waiting?” asked Denton, unconsciously reverting to German.

“I was, but I was too late. Would you mind speaking in English, it is such a pleasure to me to hear it---especially to-night.”

“Of course. May I ask who you are?”

“I cannot answer that. I wish I could, but you understand that it would not be safe for anyone to know.”

“You are the man I was sent to find, are you not?”

“Yes. I think that stupid a little, you must all know that it would endanger me, and what is worse, spoil my usefulness.”

“My instructions were not to seek you out but to place myself where you could find me if I could be of service. I was to say that the Department is inconceivably grateful----”

“But devoured by curiosity, eh?” said Hambledon with a laugh. “I am afraid they must eat themselves a little longer, but tell them that one of these days I will come back and report, if Goering doesn’t scupper me first. My English is reviving. Tell me some news, will you?”

A little whisper of suspicion rose in the back of Denton’s mind. Set the victim’s mind at rest and then question him.

“Certainly,” he said cheerfully. “What sort of news?”

“Is José Collins still alive?”

“She was last week, I saw some mention of her in the Sphere. And a photograph.”

“I daren’t be seen reading the English papers,” murmured Hambledon. “Do you know Hampshire?”

“Parts of it.”

“Is Weatherley much changed?”

“No. They’ve turned the Corn Exchange into shops on the corner of the Market Square. There’s a certain amount of building in the county, on the slopes of Portsdown Hill for example, and all round Southampton and places like that, but the country is unchanged.”

“The country is unchanged,” repeated Hambledon dreamily. “You asked just now if you could help me. There’s one man I should like to help me if the Department would send him out---Bill Saunders.”

Denton bit his lip and said nothing.

“Perhaps you don’t know him.”

“Yes,” said Denton, slowly and distinctly, “I knew him very well indeed.”

There was a short pause, and Hambledon said sharply, “What happened and when?”

“He was found shot. That was in---er---in ’24. He ran a garage in a Hampshire village after the war, and one morning the woman who looked after him went in and found him dead. It was apparently accidental, he had been cleaning his automatic.”

“So you didn’t get anybody for it?” said Hambledon in a savage tone.

“No. There was no evidence to show that anyone had done it. Suicide or accident was more probable. He was not a very happy man.”

“Not married? You said a woman went in----”

“Yes, a village woman to do the housework. Yes, he was married, but separated from his wife.”

“Not Marie Bluehm?”

“Marie Bluehm?” cried Denton, starting up. “Who the devil are you---oh, of course, I know now. You must be Hambledon. Marie Bluehm was killed in the rioting in Köln just before the British marched in, I---I saw it done. I think it broke him. That’s why I think it may have been suicide, he just didn’t care for anything much any more.”

“Suicide six years later? Don’t believe it. Who did he marry?”

“Some colonel’s daughter, don’t know who, never met her. Tiresome wench, I believe.”

“Were you with Bill, then, after I disappeared? What’s your name?”

“Denton, sir. I was sent on to Köln from Mainz.”

“I remember. Bill mentioned that you were there. Well, I think I’ve heard enough news for to-night. You can tell the Department that Tommy Hambledon is not dead, that is, unless they call on me in the next few days. Goebbels loathes me, but Hitler still thinks I have my uses, so I may survive. I dare not tell you who I am here, don’t try to find out.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And don’t ‘sir’ me every second word, I am not in my dotage yet. Besides, it reminds me of Bill. Denton, there’s something fishy about that business. I’m going to look into it. If it was arranged and I find out who did it, God have mercy on the man, for I won’t.”

Denton said nothing.

“The most brilliant brain in the Service, shot like a dog. What were you all about to let it happen? Wasn’t he guarded?”

“The police, I understand, had the usual----”

“Police!” exploded Hambledon. “The village constable, no doubt, had instructions to keep a look out for suspicious characters, as though such men ever look suspicious! My God, if I’d been there----”

He stopped and sighed deeply. “I suppose you think I’m making a fuss over nothing, because it was an accident. Well, perhaps it was, but somehow I don’t believe it.”

“Perhaps you will be able to clear it up,” said Denton, just biting off the “sir” in time.

“I’ll have a damned good try. Now about you. I’m sorry I daren’t bring you out of that foul coal-hole to-night or, probably, to-morrow, it’s the only place I know of which is even approximately safe at the moment, but I’ll bring you some creature comforts and try to make it a little more bearable. To-morrow night I’ll try and get you across the frontier. Wait a bit, I’ll go and fetch some rugs and something to eat and drink. And you are not going to see my face, either, I have no wish to be recognized as the Lord High Panjandrum of All the German Armies or something equally spectacular. I don’t look very like Tommy Hambledon now, you know, so it won’t be any use digging any of my late scholastic colleagues out of their retirement at Bath or Bournemouth to come over and give the Nazi Party leaders a look over, because they won’t recognize me if they do. I have a false nose grafted on, a thick bushy beard, and plucked eyebrows. How my English inconceivably improved has, even during this short interlocutory or what-have-you, ain’t it? Is old Williams still alive, I wonder?”

“Who?”

“Williams. At one time Headmaster of Chappell’s.”

“I could not possibly say, sir, I was at Winchester myself.”

“Never mind, these things can be lived down. I will go and fetch your ameliorations.”

There was a faint sound of departure, and silence sank again upon the cellar.

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