Becker reluctantly put down the knife and, taking Baumann’s scarf, quickly wrapped it round his face, knotting it tightly.
‘Stand up,’ said Anthony. He’d have to tie Baumann to a tree. There was nothing else for it.
He felt inside his tunic and produced a small automatic. Doctors didn’t carry guns but Anthony had felt the need to be armed. He had no intention of using it, but Baumann couldn’t guess that.
With one eye on the gun, Baumann allowed himself to be tied to a tree with his own belt.
‘What now?’ asked Becker quietly. A little way up the road, they could hear the driver whistling accompanied by the occasional clunk as he changed the wheel. ‘And why did you say I was an English spy?’
‘If it’s known you’re Belgian, think of the consequences. You’d be a hunted man and innocent people will be killed.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Becker. ‘But will he believe it?’
Anthony jerked his thumb at Baumann. ‘I knew him in Germany. He knows I’m English and it’s a natural assumption that you are, too.’
Becker digested this in silence. ‘So what now? I’d say you’ve got a problem on your hands.’
‘Can you drive?’ asked Anthony.
Becker looked at him quizzically then suddenly grinned. ‘Yes.’
‘In that case,’ said Anthony, ‘let’s get you a car.’
He went forward through the trees and risked a glance up the road. The driver, his tools around him, was giving the wheel an experimental turn. Anthony waited until the driver, obviously satisfied, lowered the jack and tidied away his tools back in the car.
Anthony cleared his throat. ‘Driver!’ he called, in as good an imitation of Baumann’s fussily precise voice as he could manage. ‘Driver, come here! Come along!’
The driver rubbed his hands on an oily cloth, tossed it into the passenger seat, and came down the road. ‘Where are you, sir?’
‘Over here.’ Anthony stepped behind a tree as the driver came into the thicket.
The man looked round, then plunged further into the woods. ‘Sir?’
‘Over here!’ called Becker in German.
The driver went further into the wood. Anthony slipped out behind him.
The driver stopped and gasped in astonishment as he saw Baumann strapped to a tree.
At the same moment, Anthony, scarf in hand, gagged him from behind as Becker stepped from behind the tree and put the knife to his throat.
‘Don’t make a move,’ growled Anthony.
The driver, his eyes fixed on the knife in terror, stood rigidly still as Anthony drew his gun. ‘We need your clothes,’ said Anthony. ‘Take them off.’
The driver, his eyes bulging in fright, quickly stripped off his tunic, trousers and boots.
Anthony picked up the driver’s belt and, gun in hand, waved him towards a tree. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay here for a while,’ he said, tying the man up.
In addition to the driver’s uniform, Anthony took both Baumann’s and the driver’s identity papers. The driver’s name was Karl Hillgruber, he noted. You never knew when genuine identity papers might come in useful.
Becker, impatient at the delay, tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to hurry up. ‘I didn’t want to say too much in front of those two,’ he said as they walked away towards the car, ‘but I don’t think we have long. This is a very well-used road. Even tied up and gagged, they can probably make enough noise to be found. Have you thought of a plan yet, Dr Lieben?’
‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ said Anthony. ‘What you need to do, though, is get me into the hospital, then make yourself scarce. The rest I’ll leave to chance.’
TWENTY-ONE
With Becker at the wheel, the car turned into the gate of the hospital, swept up the drive, and came to a halt in front of the open main doors. The hospital was a long, narrow, red-brick building with steep Flemish roofs, probably built, thought Anthony, in the 1870s or thereabouts.
Two soldiers came out of the door as the car came to a halt. One stood smartly to attention while the other opened the door of the car for Anthony.
‘I am Dr Lieutenant Colonel Lieben,’ said Anthony, stepping down from the car.
He had wondered if he should use Baumann’s name – he had Baumann’s papers, after all – but a cursory glance at Baumann’s identity documents had convinced him otherwise. Only a complete optimist could believe that the description of Baumann could possibly be taken for a description of himself. Besides that, what if someone in the hospital knew Baumann? That was always the risk in taking on the identity of a real person. On the short drive to the hospital he had compared his false papers with Baumann’s genuine ones and had to hand it to the unknown forger. They really were very good indeed. No, on balance he’d better stick to being Erich Lieben.
The guard looked puzzled. ‘Colonel Lieben? That was not the name …?’
Anthony sighed impatiently. ‘You were expecting me, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir, but …?’
The guard trailed off in the face of Anthony’s stare. The way that the Germans respected a uniform really was extraordinary. That little piece of psychology had come to his aid before now. All he had to do was look the part and act the part. He needed to be absolutely self-assured. Or arrogant, to use Becker’s word.
‘I am expected? Then escort me in, man!’
The guard gave an almost imperceptible shrug and saluted smartly. ‘Sir!’
Anthony waved a hand at the car. ‘See that my cases are taken to my quarters.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Anthony followed the soldier through the main doors. Behind him, he could hear the car being driven away. Becker had gone. He was on his own.
The soldier led him through the corridors of the house towards the gardens. Various crucifixes and religious paintings hung on the walls, testament to the hospital’s previous existence as a convent. Pictures of the Holy Family, the Infant Jesus, and Jesus surrounded by children predominated. This had been an orphanage, after all. Anthony could only hope that Milly was still here. Through the various open doors they passed, Anthony could see rows of empty beds with the occasional black-clad nun busy at work with a mop and bucket.
‘The patients are all outside at this time of day?’ Anthony asked the soldier. Fresh air was important in typhoid cases.
‘Yes, sir. All the patients who are fit to be moved are outside, together with most of the staff. Major Schuhbeck insists on open-air treatment whenever possible.’
‘Very wise.’ Major Schuhbeck was evidently in charge, pending the arrival of Colonel Baumann.
Anthony emerged from the house into a sunlit terraced garden. A statue of the Virgin Mary singled out the garden as a religious house. There must’ve been about eighty or so patients, either lying on camp beds or walking slowly round the garden.
The belt of trees that surrounded the garden acted as a windbreak and the air was pleasantly warm. The thing that made it different to Anthony’s eyes from any other hospital was the fact that the nurses were nuns in long black habits, white aprons and long black veils with a starched white coif underneath. Nuns whose calling was nursing the sick were part of a long tradition, he knew – that’s why nurses were called ‘sisters’ after all – but he had never worked with them.
A senior officer, a Stabsartz or major, a man who looked to be in his fifties, saw Anthony, and hurried over. He was a solidly built, red-faced man, running to fat, with a ferocious moustache and an expression to match.
He came to a halt and, clicking his heels, snapped out a parade ground salute. ‘Colonel Baumann? We’ve been expecting you, sir. I am Major Schuhbeck.’
Anthony returned the salute. Better get it over with. ‘Colonel Baumann?’ he repeated enquiringly. ‘There must be some mistake. I am Dr Lieutenant Colonel Erich Lieben.’
‘Colonel Lieben?’ Major Schuhbeck frowned. ‘I apologize, sir. We were told to expect a Colonel Baumann.’
&n
bsp; ‘Evidently you were given the wrong information, Major,’ said Anthony dryly. ‘I have known mistakes in movement orders before now.’
Schuhbeck nodded. ‘So have I, sir.’ He rubbed his hands together and smiled ingratiatingly. Obviously he was afraid of having made a bad impression first crack out of the barrel. ‘No matter. We are very pleased to have you take up your post, Colonel.’
Anthony breathed an inward sigh of relief. So far so good. It could be called good luck to arrive to find a metaphorical welcome mat laid out for him. But that was a piece of good luck that would abruptly change if Baumann and Hillgruber were found. That would make life very interesting indeed.
He peeled off his gloves and slapped them thoughtfully across his hand. All he was really doing was playing for some time to think, but from the Major’s expression, it was obvious he saw the gesture as a threat.
‘Sir?’ asked Schuhbeck nervously. He swallowed. ‘Do you wish to be shown to your quarters or will you conduct an inspection first?’
Better go for the inspection, thought Anthony. Having breezed in on a fake name, it would be as well to lull any doubts Schuhbeck might harbour by establishing his credentials as a doctor. Add to that, the fact that he really needed to find Sister Marie-Eugénie and he couldn’t do that stuck in his room. ‘I’ll conduct a brief inspection first, Major,’ said Anthony.
He strolled across the courtyard, Schuhbeck at his heels. ‘I am pleased to see that you have allowed the patients to enjoy the fresh air.’
‘That is of first importance in typhoid cases, sir.’
‘Indeed it is. As is the quality of nursing.’ Anthony indicated the black-clad nuns. ‘These nuns – they are Belgian women?’
Schuhbeck swallowed. ‘It is necessary, sir,’ he said apologetically.
‘They are trained nurses?’
Schuhbeck swallowed once more. ‘Colonel Anschütz instituted a rigorous training programme for all the nurses, Herr Commandant.’
‘I see.’ Anthony picked out an obvious flaw. ‘Why are the nurses not wearing rubber gloves? Gloves are essential to prevent the spread of the disease.’
‘Rubber gloves?’ Schuhbeck looked startled. ‘We cannot obtain them, sir.’
I should have known that, thought Anthony. ‘Things are different in Germany,’ he commented. ‘You do insist that the nurses wash thoroughly with bichloride solution?’
From Schuhbeck’s expression, it was obvious that the answer was no.
‘See to it from now on,’ said Anthony sternly. ‘Hygiene is of the first importance.’
He stopped by a bed. The patient, a fair-haired boy in his early twenties, looked at him blankly from the pillows. The nurse stood by the bed, her eyes lowered.
Anthony looked carefully at the patient’s skin. ‘I can see no sign of the customary rash.’ He turned to Schuhbeck. ‘Have you considered this man may be suffering from pyaemia? Miliary tuberculosis is also a possibility.’
‘It’s possible, sir,’ faltered Schuhbeck.
Anthony frowned at him. ‘Do you not administer blood tests as a matter of course?’
‘Not hitherto, sir,’ said Schuhbeck.
Anthony sighed, a great deal more testily than he felt. ‘You do have the facilities for blood tests?’
Schuhbeck nodded.
‘Arrange for a test as soon as possible. If there is an absence of leukocytosis, then we can assume that the correct diagnosis has been made.’
‘Very good, sir. I may say that I have always advocated performing blood tests on all our patients upon admission.’
A likely tale, thought Anthony. However, he nodded in stern approval. ‘Excellent, Major. I can see you have the patients’ interests at heart in accordance with the best traditions of our noble profession. It is that sort of attitude which wins both approbation and advancement.’
And that sentence, thought Anthony, as he watched Schuhbeck swell with conceit, could’ve won prizes for arrogance. Never mind. It was all to the good. First unsettle the Major, then dangle the carrot of promotion.
‘What about diet?’ demanded Anthony. ‘Nurse! What has this patient had to eat?’
The nurse shook her head, not understanding the German.
‘These women mainly speak either French or Flemish,’ said Schuhbeck.
Anthony repeated the question in French, watching Schuhbeck’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.
The nurse launched into a description of the patient’s diet. Schuhbeck listened uncomprehendingly.
Anthony had an idea. It was evident that Schuhbeck couldn’t speak French and Baumann could turn up at any moment. He didn’t have much time. It was risky but it was worth trying.
Keeping a wary eye on Schuhbeck, he asked the nun a couple more questions in French, then added, in the same tone of voice, ‘Is this building still an orphanage?’
The nun faltered in her account. Schuhbeck glanced up, alerted by the nun’s change of tone, then resumed his blank stare of incomprehension as Anthony continued his questions in French.
Anthony, still with a watchful eye on Schuhbeck, talked about milk, bread and mashed potatoes then said, ‘Please keep on talking. We cannot be understood. I cannot explain but I am a friend of Belgium and not what I seem. Please trust me. I have a reason for my questions. Is this building still an orphanage, Sister?’
The nun played along magnificently. Without pausing she answered. ‘But yes, sir, it is. We were allowed to take care of the little ones in return for agreeing to work as nurses. The care of the sick is a Christian duty but the work is hard. Who are you?’
Anthony noticed that, despite being a young woman, how thin and tired her face was under the projecting white coif which framed her face. The word English was too risky. ‘I come from over the water. You look after the children?’
‘Yes. You ask about diet. Our poor children live because of the Americans. They give us food.’ Her face brightened. ‘You are American? America must be a land of saints.’
Anthony toyed momentarily with the idea of being a saintly American then regretfully dismissed it. ‘I am a friend of the Americans.’ He hoped that would do. Never mind Americans, saints or otherwise, he needed to get in touch with Sister Marie-Eugénie and he needed to do it pretty sharpish. ‘Please do not show any surprise at this question. Do you know a Sister Marie-Eugénie?’
Despite the warning, the young nun’s eyebrows shot up. ‘But yes, sir.’ She moved as if to point her out. ‘She’s there.’
Anthony intervened hastily. ‘Don’t move. Just tell me where she is.’
‘She is standing by the fourth bed along.’
‘I see.’ Anthony thought he was safe enough, but he didn’t want the mention of Americans or Sister Marie-Eugénie to raise any suspicions in Schuhbeck’s mind, so he threw in a few more comments about diet before moving on.
Sister Marie-Eugénie was a stout, middle-aged woman, who had evidently, judging by her loose clothes, once been stouter. She was bent over a patient, thermometer in hand.
Anthony looked at her hungrily. This was the woman he had come so far to see, the woman who could surely explain at least some of the mystery, the woman who – his stomach tightened – had care of Milly.
‘What is the patient’s temperature, nurse?’ asked Schuhbeck, with a look at Anthony. He was obviously anxious to be seen to be doing something.
‘High but steady, Herr Doktor,’ replied Sister Marie-Eugénie. ‘I think he will recover.’
So she spoke German, did she? That meant there was no chance of a secret conversation under Schuhbeck’s nose, but he had to say something.
Anthony picked up the patient’s wrist and felt for the pulse. ‘I see dicrotism is well marked,’ he said, feeling the irregular beats. ‘Its presence is always suggestive in typhoid cases. See that this man receives a tepid bed-bath and ensure that he has nothing but a milk diet for at least the next three days.’
He dropped the man’s wrist, smothered a yawn, and turned to the Major. �
��Everything seems to be running smoothly, Major. I congratulate you.’ The Major, evidently very pleased, clicked his heels together and nodded. ‘However,’ continued Anthony, ‘I am tired after the journey. Have a man escort me to my quarters.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Schuhbeck turned his head and beckoned to an orderly who hurried over. ‘Show the Colonel to his rooms.’
Anthony made as if to go, then stopped and clicked his fingers at Sister Marie-Eugénie in his best arrogant manner. ‘And you, nurse, come to my office immediately.’
Both she and Major Schuhbeck looked surprised.
‘I wish to question this woman about the nursing care and practices used.’ The real colonel probably wouldn’t have explained, but it was better than having Schuhbeck wonder what was going on. ‘This woman evidently speaks German. I would prefer my questions to be answered in our own language.’
‘I can send the Matron to you—’ began Schuhbeck, but Anthony interrupted him.
‘No doubt I will see her in due course, but for the time being, I will speak to this woman.’ He smiled thinly. ‘My office, Sister. Immediately.’
She looked put out, and no wonder, thought Anthony, as the major summoned an orderly to show him the way to his rooms. Anyone would be at being told to jump to it with a click of the fingers, to say nothing of being referred to as ‘this woman’ . Still, it was nice to know she still had that much spirit left.
Following the orderly, Anthony went back into the house. He was shown along the corridor and up two flights of stairs. Sister Marie-Eugénie followed on slowly behind.
To Anthony’s annoyance, the orderly, an elderly private, and, Anthony realized, a real old potterer, followed him round, pointing out the various virtues of the various rooms, expressing the repeated hope that it was all to the Colonel’s satisfaction.
The rooms consisted of an office, with the usual desk, filing cabinets and telephone. Leading on from the office, there was a sitting room, with a settee, two chairs and a dining table, should the Colonel wish to take his meals alone, a bathroom with a bath and sink panelled in gloomy mahogany and a high-cisterned lavatory that flushed. The lavatory, raised on its own mahogany step, was a genuine Victorian throne made, ironically enough, in London. The orderly seemed unduly proud of the lavatory.
The Price of Silence Page 18
