The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Schuhbeck saluted. ‘Very good, sir.’ Spies! It was all such rubbish. But at least he could now have his lunch.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Anthony gingerly pushed back the panel of the bath and wriggled out.

  He had heard the tramping of feet and the occasional snatch of voices, but his hiding place had worked. The men had hardly looked in the bathroom, as there was so obviously nowhere to hide.

  He stole to the bathroom door and risked a glance through the hinge side of the door. Damn! Baumann was sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands. ‘Inspect the hospital,’ Anthony heard him mutter with a groan. ‘The idea!’

  A respectful knock sounded at the door. ‘What is it?’ barked Baumann testily.

  Anthony readied himself. If this was Sister Marie-Eugénie he’d have to take a hand, but it wasn’t.

  It was the elderly orderly, who didn’t seem to be remotely curious about the change of superior officers. ‘Your coffee, sir,’ said the orderly.

  ‘About time, too. Leave the pot, man!’

  The orderly departed and various noises of clinking china followed. Anthony risked another glance. Baumann was steadily working his way through the pot of coffee and looked settled for the afternoon.

  Anthony’s heart sank. Ideally, he should regain his hiding place and stay until it was safe to leave. The disadvantage of hiding behind the bath panel, though, was that he couldn’t see what was going on and he couldn’t escape quickly.

  At any moment, Sister Marie-Eugénie could arrive with little Agathé, as she called her. Baumann would naturally ask who on earth she was and what she wanted. Unless she was a very quick thinker, her part in affairs would be discovered and his chances of escaping with Milly were reduced from slim to zero. Unless, that was, he was on hand to take a part in affairs before Baumann gave the alarm.

  What he needed was for Baumann to leave his desk, to go downstairs or even into his sitting room or bedroom. Then he could escape from this ruddy bathroom, into the corridor, and find somewhere to wait to intercept Sister Marie-Eugénie on her way to the office.

  There was a wooden-cased clock on the wall of the office. Anthony could hear the ponderous seconds tick by as the pendulum swung. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly quarter to twelve. It had been a very long morning, but it had started very early. And where the dickens was Sister Marie-Eugénie? He’d been stuck in the bathroom for nearly twenty minutes. She was certainly taking her time.

  Then Baumann moved. With a jolt of hope, Anthony saw him push his chair back and stand up.

  He walked towards the sitting room, then he stopped, turned and headed straight for the bathroom. The coffee had done its work.

  There was nothing for it. Anthony only had fractions of a second. The bath panel was out of the question, so he did the only thing possible. He flattened himself against the wall where the door would shield him once opened.

  Maybe Baumann, like most men, wouldn’t bother to shut the door if he thought he was alone. Maybe …

  The door swung back against his face. Anthony suppressed a grunt as the door hit his nose and, his vision occupied exclusively by the wood grain of the door panel, listened to the unmistakable sounds of Baumann using the facilities.

  With the handle of the door in one hand and his automatic in the other, he heard a loud flushing noise as Baumann pulled the chain. He felt the oddest little stab of patriotic pride at the noise. That London lavatory really delivered.

  There was the splash of water in the sink, a pause while Baumann presumably dried his hands, followed by a footstep.

  A crash like a crack of thunder blasted the silence. At the same time, Baumann yelped and something hit the bathroom door hard.

  Anthony made a desperate grab for the handle as it jerked out of his hand. The door swung slowly back.

  Beside the bath, Baumann was bent double, nursing his foot. On the floor next to him was the fallen bath panel which he’d evidently caught with his boot. The panel had shot forward and crashed against the door, slewing off to one side.

  Anthony waited for the inevitable. It seemed to happen in slow motion.

  Baumann glanced up, gave a sort of gurgling gasp and started back, his eyes circled in terror.

  ‘Hello,’ said Anthony pleasantly, pointing the automatic. ‘Don’t shout.’

  Baumann gurgled once more, then collapsed back on the lavatory seat.

  ‘I’ll have to leave you in here,’ said Anthony. He opened the door with his left hand and backed towards it. ‘I’m sorry to have to threaten you, Baumann, old man, but if you shout or try and escape, I will shoot. I intend to remain on the other side of the door. Do you understand?’

  Baumann, frozen to the spot, nodded.

  ‘Good. Then we have an arrangement. I’m going to lock you in. You don’t move and I won’t kill you.’

  Baumann found his voice. ‘Etriech,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘why are you here?’

  ‘Spying, old friend. I’ll tell you all about it after the war. If,’ he added, with a significant gesture of the automatic, ‘you live that long.’

  Baumann’s gaze slid to the gun. He gulped and nodded.

  Anthony walked backwards out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

  What the devil could he do now? Despite what he had told Baumann, he couldn’t actually lock him in. There was a bolt on the inside of the bathroom door but, naturally enough, there was no lock or bolt on the outside. Fear would keep Baumann in the bathroom for a while but not forever. And where the hell was Sister Marie-Eugénie?

  The best he could do was wedge a chair under the handle of the bathroom door. That would keep the wretched man safely out of the way for a while, at least.

  Anthony had his hand on the back of the wooden desk chair to drag it across the room, when he heard footsteps in the corridor. Sister Marie-Eugénie? No. The footsteps sounded heavy and there was definitely more than one person coming.

  Once more he had to hide and quickly.

  When, Major Schuhbeck had, over what he thought of as his richly deserved sausage and potato, been nervously informed by Corporal Weber that a Hauptmann von Casberg and an Oberleutnant Krause wished to see him, his first response was to tell Weber that they could damn well wait. After all, why should he jump to it because two junior officers wanted to see him, even if one could call himself von anything? He was eating his lunch and wasn’t going to be interrupted for a mere captain and a lieutenant. After all, who was the major here?

  Corporal Weber squirmed on the spot. Daringly, he gave his opinion that it really would be a good idea to see Captain von Casberg and Lieutenant Krause now. At once. Quickly. Without delay.

  Schuhbeck might have a just sense of his own importance, but he could read a situation as well as the next man. There must be something up to reduce Weber to such a quivering state of nerves. Grumbling, he threw down his napkin and strode outside.

  And gulped.

  Captain von Casberg and Lieutenant Krause may be junior officers, but they were junior staff officers.

  Oh, my God.

  It would take a far slower man than Schuhbeck not to realize that Captain von Casberg was someone he really shouldn’t cross.

  Every inch of Captain von Casberg, from his perfectly fitting flat cap with its dark crimson band, perfectly polished high boots and, in between, his perfectly-cut uniform with the distinctive double width dark crimson stripes, radiated steely authority.

  His monocle, his duelling-scar, the way he flicked his gloves impatiently over his wrist, all told Schuhbeck that here was a man who was only a captain in passing. This was a man with influence and relations for heaven’s sake and at that moment Schuhbeck could well believe that those relations included the Kaiser himself.

  Lieutenant Krause, standing languidly a few feet away from his captain, was out of the same mould. He seemed to be a different order of being from Lieutenant Keller and his men, standing stiffly to attention a few yards away.

  Li
eutenant Keller and his squad looked completely wooden, which was, perhaps, the best response to Acts of God like von Casberg and Krause.

  ‘Captain?’ Schuhbeck said, and very nearly added, sir.

  ‘Major Schuhbeck?’ snapped the captain. ‘You are harbouring spies.’

  Schuhbeck swallowed hard. He hadn’t believed in the spies but if Captain von Casberg said he was harbouring a spy, then he would harbour as many spies as the man wanted.

  ‘Spies?’ he wavered.

  Captain von Casberg clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Yes, man, spies! The man purporting to be the Colonel is an English spy.’

  The Colonel? Schuhbeck stared at him wordlessly.

  The Captain seemed to swell with rage. ‘Major Schuhbeck,’ he ground out, ‘I am a busy man. I have had very little sleep in the past few days. My time is precious and my temper is short. Take me to the spy. At once.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Schuhbeck, once more biting the sir off at the end of the sentence. ‘Er … Follow me.’

  Captain von Casberg nodded to Krause who beckoned to Keller and his men. They marched into the house, Schuhbeck leading the way.

  Outside the office door they paused. Von Casberg came to the front, unholstered his pistol, then, tensing himself, slammed the office door back on its hinges.

  The office was empty.

  Von Casberg turned to Schuhbeck. ‘I hope, for your sake, Major,’ he said silkily, ‘you have not allowed an English spy to escape.’

  Schuhbeck hoped so too. ‘Colonel Baumann?’ he called, more from a desire to be seen to be doing something, rather than from any expectation his call would be answered. ‘Colonel Baumann, are you here, sir?’

  To his absolute astonishment, a voice called back from the bathroom. ‘Of course I’m here! I’m locked in!’

  Schuhbeck blinked. There was no lock on the outside of the door. Did the Colonel – the spy? – mean he had locked himself in?

  Von Casberg strode to the door. With Krause beside him, he rattled the handle. ‘Come out,’ he said abruptly.

  The door opened a crack. Von Casberg reached inside and, with one hand on his pistol and the other hand on Baumann’s collar, hauled him out of the room.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ began Baumann furiously, then took in the full majesty of Captain von Casberg. ‘Bless my soul,’ he muttered weakly. ‘Oh dear, oh Lord, oh bless my soul! Who are you?’

  Von Casberg shook him like a terrier with a rat. ‘I am Captain von Casberg. You would do well to remember that. I know exactly what you’re up too, my English friend.’

  ‘English!’ yelped Baumann in indignation. ‘What d’you mean, English? I’m German! It’s the spy who’s English! He’s Conrad Etriech, and a dangerous man.’

  Lieutenant Krause stirred. ‘Conrad Etriech? Conrad Etriech of Kiel?’ He turned to von Casberg. ‘You remember hearing about him, sir? Last April he kidnapped an officer, stole his uniform and escaped under the very noses of the squad sent out to capture him.’

  Von Casberg’s eyes widened. ‘So that’s the man, is it? Conrad Etriech.’ He repeated the name, rolling out the syllables. ‘There was a generous reward for his capture. He’s a clever man. Very clever indeed.’

  Lying on the bed in the next room, hidden beneath the unholy mess Lieutenant Keller and his men had made of the bedclothes, Anthony listened to these biographical details with fascination. He had chosen to hide in the bed, not only because it was the nearest place available in the seconds he had, but also, because it had been so obviously searched, that he guessed it wouldn’t be searched again.

  ‘He is clever,’ squeaked Baumann, who was probably grateful to find something that he and this living nightmare of a captain could agree on. ‘He fooled everyone. He speaks perfect German. You’d swear he was German.’

  ‘Would I, indeed?’ drawled von Casberg. He released Baumann abruptly, who collapsed on the floor.

  Von Casberg turned to Krause. ‘I remember the Etriech affair. As you say, he stole a uniform and told a very convincing story to escape. We seem to have a pattern that’s repeated itself.’ He prodded Baumann with his foot. ‘Get up, Etriech or whatever your name is! Your luck’s run out.’

  ‘I’m not Etriech!’ Baumann scrambled to his feet, stuttering with indignation.

  ‘Really?’ Von Casberg curled his lip. ‘You are an insignificant little man, not at all the sort of man anyone would notice. Exactly the sort of vermin who makes a good spy.’

  ‘You’ve got this all wrong,’ whimpered Baumann. He gesticulated wildly in the direction of Lieutenant Keller. ‘He knows! He found me tied up. Etriech attacked me!’

  ‘That means nothing,’ sneered von Casberg. ‘How easy would it be for you to be tied up by a comrade? Then you can arrange to be found in such a way that no one questions who you really are.’ He glanced dismissively at Lieutenant Keller. ‘Of course, this fool was taken in, but you can’t fool me. That’s exactly the sort of cunning trick I’d expect a man such as Etriech to try.’

  Not bad, thought Anthony, from under the bedclothes. That idea hadn’t actually occurred to him, but it wasn’t at all bad.

  ‘I’m not Etriech!’ bellowed Baumann. He turned wildly to Schuhbeck. ‘You know who I am. Tell him. There was another man, yes? Another man who said he was the colonel.’

  Everyone looked at Schuhbeck.

  ‘Well?’ drawled von Casberg.

  Schuhbeck cleared his throat. ‘Dr Lieutenant Colonel Lieben arrived about an hour before Colonel Baumann.’

  ‘You see?’ said Baumann eagerly. ‘He’s the spy.’

  Von Casberg laughed dismissively. ‘I don’t think so. I have no doubt that Colonel Lieben arrived, but he was not the spy.’

  ‘I didn’t think he was,’ said Schuhbeck in some relief. ‘When Colonel Baumann arrived, I asked to see his papers in accordance with proper procedures, but he refused to show them to me,’

  ‘Etriech stole them!’ yelped Baumann.

  ‘How very convenient,’ said von Casberg smoothly. ‘Of course he did. I will interview Colonel Lieben in due course, but as for you, Etriech, we have proof positive that you are a fraud, a cheat and a spy.’

  Anthony twitched aside a bit of ripped blanket, listening intently. What proof could von Casberg have?

  ‘You made a grievous error in confiding in that woman. I have no truck with popish superstitions, but she acted wisely. What was her name again, Krause?’

  ‘Marie-Eugénie, sir.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed von Casberg. ‘She, I am glad to say, realizes who are the masters in Belgium now.’

  Beneath the blankets, Anthony felt as if a cold hand had gripped his heart.

  Sister Marie-Eugénie had betrayed him.

  Yes, he had to work fast and yes, the situation had been desperate, but he would have sworn he could’ve trusted her. She was Belgian, for God’s sake. More than that, she was a nun, a nun who must know how the occupying army had treated the priests and nuns of Louvain. Only hours ago he had stood in the ruined cathedral of St Pierre and seen the destruction of Catholic Belgium. How could he have been betrayed by her, of all people?

  ‘She told us all about you, Etriech,’ continued von Casberg. ‘She told us that the man calling himself Colonel Baumann was really an English spy. You said as much to her, didn’t you? For all your cleverness, that was remarkably stupid. You will come with us now, identify your companion, the second spy, if he is still to be found, and face the full consequences of your actions.’

  Even though he felt sick with shock, Anthony numbly realized what must have happened.

  A Colonel Baumann had been expected that morning. It was only the guards at the door and Major Schuhbeck who knew that the colonel who had turned up wasn’t called Baumann but Lieben. While he was carrying out his brief inspection, Schuhbeck, if he had called him anything, had called him ‘Colonel’ or ‘sir’.

  Sister Marie-Eugénie knew him as the Colonel. Naturally enough, she believed he was the Colonel
Baumann they had been waiting for.

  If he had been capable of feeling anything at that moment apart from blank despair, Anthony could have felt sorry for Baumann. Without putting a foot wrong, he had landed himself in a mad tangle of misunderstanding. For Sister Marie-Eugénie he felt a cold knot of loathing twist his stomach.

  ‘Take him away,’ said von Casberg and Anthony heard the stamp of feet as the soldiers came to attention. A despairing wail from Baumann was the last he heard as the men marched out of the room and the door slammed behind them.

  Anthony waited a few moments before throwing off the bedclothes. Practically speaking, it was to make sure that no one was in the office but, as much as anything, he wanted a couple of moments to gather his thoughts.

  Sister Marie-Eugénie was an enemy. That was the stark, unpalatable truth. The only thing he could do was try and somehow find Milly and get out of here. He realized how much he had depended on trusting the nuns to help him. Dammit, he needed the nuns to help him. Milly had grown and changed since her photograph had been taken, that was obvious. How on earth could he find her?

  The sound of the children in the garden below was maddening. One of them might be Milly. He could lean out of the window, call her name, see if one of the children looked up … No. That idea was appealingly simple but far too risky.

  He had to get into the orphanage. Even if Sister Marie-Eugénie had inexplicably decided to side with the Germans, surely all the nuns couldn’t be traitors? That young nun he had talked to in the hospital, for instance, could easily have given him away to Schuhbeck but hadn’t.

  Opening the office door a crack, he listened intently, but all was quiet. The whole top floor of the building seemed deserted. Von Casberg said he wanted Baumann to identify his companion. That meant, surely, that a parade of all staff would be called and Baumann would be forced to confront them.