Her accusing eyes sought those of Cousins in a long, challenging look; then suddenly she started. He knew at once she had recognised that he was not the real Franz Minck, he had not spoken for fear of giving himself away for he had never heard Minck’s voice. As quick as thought he pushed her back into her cell.
‘You speak too much,’ he cried; ‘you harm yourself.’ For a precious moment they were apart from the others. ‘We’re disguised – trying to help you,’ he breathed in her ear in English. ‘Take no notice of what we say.’
It had all happened so quickly that he was out of the cell and with the others again before any of them, except Sir Leonard, who had been watching the girl intently, realised quite what he was doing.
‘You seem in a hurry to get away from her or rather to push her away from you,’ observed Guertner mockingly. ‘Is your conscience pricking you, Herr Minck?’
‘Why should my conscience trouble me?’ the stout little man demanded. ‘I did not ask to be brought here to give evidence. By talking in that hysterical manner she but damaged her own chances of acquittal.’
Guertner sighed. Almost he seemed to be sorry for her.
‘She has already done that beyond repair, I am afraid,’ he murmured, and signed to the men to close the door.
The last sight they had of Dora in her cell was a figure stiff and upright, immovable as a statue, but Sir Leonard thought to see a faint light of hope shining now from the depths of her great eyes. He had no means of knowing then, of course, but he wondered if, during the recent little episode, Cousins had managed to whisper a message of encouragement to her. Guertner conducted them down to the next floor, but not back to the room in which the witnesses had been given a meal. Instead he took them along a corridor and into a long unoccupied apartment. On a dais at one end were three large chairs placed behind a desk, below was a table covered by masses of documents and surrounded by chairs. Directly beyond this, and facing the dais, was a railed platform, and behind it were rows of forms reaching as far as the door at which the three men stood.
‘This is the room which is being used as the court,’ announced Guertner unnecessarily. ‘Sit over there,’ he pointed to a form near the improvised dock, ‘and wait. In a quarter of an hour proceedings will reopen.’
There was a stir as the Nazi Guards came to attention and other people rose to their feet. Into the court, led by an usher, solemnly passed the three judges. The Englishmen eyed them curiously, and were not attracted. Not one of them looked as though he possessed a vestige of humanity in him. Their faces were hard, even cruel. They might have been brothers by blood as well as by profession, if a similarity in facial expression were proof of relationship. They took their seats; then came the prisoners, closely guarded, entering the dock. The baroness was very pale, but she held her head high and, in her eyes, was an unmistakable look of contempt. Dora made no attempt to hide her feelings in the slightest. She stood as straight as a ramrod, her lips curled scornfully, her whole air undeniably that of one who felt nothing but the most bitter disdain for her judges and in fact the whole farcical business.
The prosecutor was quickly on his feet. His coarse face glowed with delight in his own importance as he informed the judges that he still had two witnesses to produce.
‘In the light of the overwhelming evidence that has already been offered against the prisoners,’ he added, ‘additional testimony may hardly seem necessary. I have proved, I think, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the women now being tried for treason are guilty. My learned friend who has the extremely difficult task of finding a defence where there is no defence, has in vain attempted to shake the evidence of the numerous witnesses you have had before you. He tried very hard –’ this was said with a sneer which drew laughter from one or two ‘– but his task was a hopeless one. The two fresh witnesses, however, have an importance that we cannot overlook. They spent some time in the company of the prisoners in Budapest; they came to Berlin to visit them, as is evidenced by the fact that their first thought was to purchase scent for them. From that it will be gathered that they have a friendly interest in them. They have no desire to testify against them, but the law can take no denial and their evidence will serve to convince you finally that Sophie Wera von Reudath has viciously betrayed a great, a precious confidence, has acted with the utmost treachery against the country of which she is a subject, and that her willing tool, her aider and abettor has been Dora Reinwald.’
He called the name of August Keller, and Sir Leonard stepped to the witness stand. He gave the impression of a man who was performing something utterly distasteful to him as he repeated, on demand from the prosecutor, what he had already told von Strom and Gottfried. Although his evidence sounded innocent enough in itself, was in fact calculated to show that the baroness had spoken only out of admiration for the Chancellor, the shrewd prosecutor succeeded in putting a suggestion of traitorous cunning into every word Sophie was reputed to have said. The baroness watched with an expression of utter indignation and horror on her face. Once or twice she seemed on the point of interrupting. Not so Dora. The latter seemed, if anything, a trifle amused. Her eyes never left Sir Leonard’s face. The advocate for the defence made a sorry show of his cross-examination. It was perfectly obvious that he was making no real effort on behalf of his clients.
Cousins followed, and apologetically told the same story. Under examination he appeared to grow confused, sometimes contradicted himself. He deliberately got himself into difficulties, and in any honest court of law his evidence would have been regarded as utterly useless. Once or twice the prosecutor’s gross face became suffused with rage, but he glossed over every mistake, insisted on his own interpretation of certain remarks being recorded. The defending counsel abjectly allowed him to go unchallenged, his cross-examination of the distressed Franz Minck was as inept as that of August Keller had been. Guertner gave evidence that they were actually the two who had been with the baroness and Fraulein Reinwald in Budapest, describing the manner in which steps had been taken to prove identity. Sir Leonard and Cousins appreciated the fact that he made no mention of Dora’s remarks. Carl Schwartz was called to substantiate identity; told how he had seen the men often in the company of the companions of the baroness and, on occasion, with her and her English friend. After that the prosecution rested, and the attorney who had conducted it sat down with a self-satisfied smirk on his ugly face.
The only witnesses for the defence were the prisoners themselves. They, poor ladies, were badly handled by the man who was supposed to be there to prove their innocence. The prosecutor cross-examined them with ruthless cruelty. With diabolical cunning he strove to make it appear that their gentleness, their womanliness, even their beauty, were cloaks for the hearts of female Iscariots. Sophie von Reudath protested in vain against his innuendoes, Dora angered him by refusing to answer his questions, regarding his shouts and threats and the passionate antics into which her indifference threw him with an insolent mocking smile. The final speech by the defending counsel was as listless as all his other efforts on behalf of his clients had been; that of the prosecutor a thunderous, violent denunciation, a diatribe that was intended to make the two women appear the lowest of the low. Through it all ran his insistent demand for the death penalty. The judges conferred together for a brief period; they did not leave the court. Then they gave their verdict of guilty. The accused were asked if they had anything to say, whereupon Sophie made an impassioned appeal for her companion. With tears in her eyes she declared to the judges that whatever guilt might rest at her door, Dora Reinwald was utterly, entirely innocent. She declared she was willing to suffer whatever penalty they cared to impose on her, but begged them to exonerate the girl. Her plea was calculated to touch the hardest heart. It failed, however, to have any effect on the inhuman monsters who had presided over that pathetic farce of a trial. Only too well did they carry out the orders of the man who had succeeded in getting such a pitiless stronghold on Germany.
Sophie Wera von
Reudath and Dora Reinwald were condemned to death. They were to be beheaded in the courtyard of the prison, at sunrise on the following morning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two in a Lorry
Both Sophie and Dora received the sentence with wonderful calmness. Except that their faces went entirely bloodless, their eyes showed horror, and their hands gripped convulsively, they gave little sign of distress. They walked steadily away between their guards, passing close to the men who had vowed to rescue them. The baroness held her head high with a noble, touching dignity; she looked neither to the right nor to the left. Dora Reinwald, however, cast a long searching look at Cousins in which he read a tragic appeal. He and Sir Leonard watched until they had disappeared. They stood unheeding as the judges passed out and the room rapidly emptied. It was almost with a sense of surprise that they presently found themselves alone, except for a clerk who was busily writing in a large book at the table.
‘Come!’ muttered Sir Leonard. ‘Let us get out of this.’
They descended to the hall below. At the entrance door their progress was stayed by a burly Nazi guard.
‘Quarters for the witnesses have been provided in the pavilion over there,’ he announced, pointing across the courtyard.
‘Quarters for the witnesses!’ repeated Cousins, almost making a muddle of his German in his surprise.
‘That is what I said,’ declared the man gruffly.
‘But we do not require quarters,’ Sir Leonard told him with a smile, though a dreadful suspicion had entered his heart. ‘We have rooms at the Adlon Hotel in Berlin. It is our purpose to go there at once.’
‘It may be your purpose,’ grunted the fellow, ‘but it is not ours. The orders are that no witnesses are to leave the castle until tomorrow afternoon.’
The suspicion had become fact. Realisation of what it would mean passed through Sir Leonard’s brain in a flash, but he allowed no sign of his feelings to show.
‘That is rather inconvenient,’ he observed calmly. ‘Surely such an order cannot apply to us. We are visitors to Berlin, and—’
‘The order applies to all witnesses without exception. Paul,’ he called to another man a short distance away, ‘escort these two to their quarters.’
They went without further demur, but their thoughts were indescribable. They were shown into an ornately decorated building, the long corridor within, with its beautiful carved work, the trophies of the chase hanging from the panelled walls, speaking eloquently of a glory that had departed. At the door of a large room their guide left them, after informing them that they were at liberty to walk in the courtyard, but would be turned back if they approached the gates, or attempted to wander into the gardens or any other part of the prison. They entered the apartment to find the other male witnesses sitting on chairs or reclining on the camp bedsteads that had been provided. It was a large room with a wonderful ceiling, oak-panelled walls, and a great open fireplace. A long table ran down the centre, and was covered with papers and magazines, which had been provided for the entertainment of the reluctant guests. It was not possible for the two British Secret Service men to talk unheard or unnoticed there. Selecting their beds, therefore, they sauntered out into the courtyard. They chose a quiet spot, where they could reasonably expect to be free from interruption and were far enough from any sentries or other officials to be able to converse unheard. There they paced to and fro discussing the situation in low voices. The one essential they decided at once was that they must escape by some means or other, but try as they would that means refused to present itself to them. After dark there might be more hope, but the chances were that then they and the other witnesses would be locked in for the night. It was a terrible problem that confronted them. Already faced with the seemingly impossible task of rescuing the two condemned girls, they were now themselves prisoners, utterly unable to make arrangements for carrying out any scheme that might suggest itself to them in the event of Hanni failing in her purpose. Even if she succeeded, and they still remained in the castle, there would be no car to meet the baroness and whirl her away to safety, nobody to get Dora Reinwald away. Time was slipping by – it was already long past six o’clock. They stood watching a lorry coming through the gates. It was driven by a soldier, another sitting by his side, and seemed to be loaded with a variety of objects from sacks of vegetables and crates of groceries to articles of military equipment. After it had undergone the usual scrutiny at the entrance it was driven to a building that had the appearance of a storehouse quite close to where they were standing. There it was unloaded. A gleam showed fleetingly in Sir Leonard’s eyes as he watched men throwing in bundles of empty sacks and crates from which the contents had been removed.
‘If we could only get inside and cover ourselves with the sacking,’ he muttered, ‘our problem would be solved. Let us go and show how interested we are, Cousins.’
A little smile appeared in his companion’s face. Sir Leonard’s casual manner suggested to the little man that action was imminent. The chief never appeared more unconcerned than when he had resolved on taking a desperate chance. They strolled as though aimlessly across to the lorry, and stood within a yard or two of the back watching the men at work. There were four of them apart from the driver, who still remained at the wheel. After a few enquiring glances no notice was taken of them. They merely appeared a pair of individuals who, having nothing better to do, were taking a cursory interest in the proceedings. From where they stood they could only be seen from one part of the courtyard, and that was deserted; had been deserted for some time, a fact which had first decided Sir Leonard on taking the chance on which he was now bent. If the four men would only enter the building at the same time instead of in relays as they were doing, it would mean that there would be nobody within sight of the rear of the vehicle for any appreciable period, perhaps half a minute. Unfortunately as one or two went inside others came out, and thus it went on. Wallace managed to draw a couple into conversation, as they were departing for a fresh load of empty sacks, asking them casually what the sacks had contained, and why they were taking them away. They responded to his overtures genially enough.
‘Why,’ laughed one, ‘you would be surprised how all the sacks are numbered and docketed. If we of the supply lose one there is a great fuss. They come here loaded with potatoes and other vegetables and when emptied, are carefully folded and stacked up. Empties – boxes, sacks and all – are collected once a fortnight like this, and taken back to the depot in Berlin.’
‘You people up here are very particular,’ remarked Herr August Keller. ‘In Bavaria we do not bother much about trifles.’
‘The quartermaster would have a fit,’ commented the second man, ‘if he heard you talk of his beloved sacks as trifles. So you are from Bavaria? I was once at Munich. It is a fine city. Are you witnesses for the trial?’
‘Yes,’ chuckled Cousins, ‘and we are being given free board and lodging for one night. What a tale I shall have to tell when I get home. I shall horrify my friends by saying I was kept in a prison in Potsdam. That will shock them. They are all so good, and will think I am stamped with a blot that will not come off.’
There was a general laugh at that. The other two men came up, one carrying a couple of empty cases, the other a bundle of sacks. Sir Leonard adroitly drew them into the conversation. He now had the four together, which meant that they would depart together. For some minutes they stood talking; then one said:
‘Come on, you fellows! There is still quite a lot of stuff to be loaded.’
‘And we were told a meal would be given us soon,’ observed Cousins, ‘so we had better be going back to our little bit of the palace or we may miss it.’
‘You look as though that would be a great grief to you,’ observed the man, who seemed to be the senior.
‘It would be – a great grief,’ returned Cousins.
The four went off laughing. Sir Leonard cast a last look round. They still seemed to be unobserved, the part of the courtya
rd from which they could have been seen remaining unoccupied.
‘In you get,’ he whispered, ‘and don’t make a noise, or the driver may hear.’
Cousins promptly drew himself up and wriggled along to the far end. Wallace was up and in as rapidly; despite his handicap. They squirmed their way under piles of sacks, taking care that they were completely covered, and lay close behind the driver’s cab. It was perhaps a fortunate circumstance that the latter did not possess a little window like so many. The man might have looked through, and thus put a complete end to their chances of escape. They could hear him singing softly to himself, as they lay hot and half stifled but now definitely hopeful. For some time they were filled with anxiety, fearful lest they had been noticed, but no hubbub rose, no sound of excited voices there came no sudden removal of their coverings and a curt demand for them to get out. From time to time they heard other crates and bundles being dumped in the lorry, occasionally caught scraps of conversation. It seemed a very long time before the lorry moved, and all the time they were troubled by the thought that they might be missed, and a search made for them. At last the engine was started.
They lay for a long time under the sacks without venturing to raise their heads. There was a possibility that a man was riding in the back with them in which case he would be bound to discover them if they moved their coverings. But Sir Leonard had no intention of riding to the depot and thus perform the time-honoured action, of falling from the frying pan into the fire. It was his design to descend at some quiet spot in the suburbs of Berlin. If there appeared to be a man riding in their part of the lorry, it would be a pity – for the man. Cautiously he moved the stifling, evil-smelling sacks away from his head, and looked out. They were alone. He nudged Cousins who sat up promptly, and drank in a great draught of fresh air.
Wallace Intervenes Page 19
