by Janice Law
“I’m back like a bad penny. I need your help, Muriel.”
She gave me a close look. “Your makeup certainly isn’t all it could be.”
I took her arm as we started toward the main street. “I’ll pay for the cab,” I offered.
She stopped. “You’re in real trouble?”
“I have a way to get out of it.”
“Dearie, I’ve heard that one before.” She sounded so skeptical I was afraid she was going to tell me to get lost. But maybe her new fur had put her in a good mood, or maybe she thought I’d brought her luck, because once I unfolded my plan, she broke out laughing.
“You kill me, Francis. You really do.”
“I can pay,” I said, “and if all goes well, I’ll return the dress. Dry cleaning, too,” I added in desperation.
“Listen, you gave me a laugh. I should have an old frock you can wear, but you’ll need a coat.”
“I’m tough,” I said. “Get me a dress and a pair of shoes I can walk in, and I’ll stand the cold.”
Muriel laughed again, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “It might be easier to go for a soldier.”
That was not likely. We took a cab together, and I slept squeezed on one side of her narrow bed. She had me up in good time the next morning, and when Muriel mentioned that she could use her landlady’s phone, I persuaded her to call the consulate and ask for Harold.
“There really is such a person,” she said when she came back upstairs—how could she have doubted me? “He will meet you at the Romanisches Café at one o’clock. There were threats,” she added. “He is not a nice man.”
I apologized for Harold, although he was hardly my responsibility, and Muriel went to her closet for a maroon frock. Not a color I’d have chosen, but it was loosely cut and it fit well enough that she became enthusiastic about the project. She sacrificed a short coat to the overall effect, although she balked at a pair of stockings, which I thought was rather a shame. I had to be content with a black line up the back of each leg to suggest a seam.
Shoes had been my biggest concern, but dancers have large feet and a rather shabby pair of hers was just stretched enough to be possible. “You’ll be sitting most of the time,” Muriel said.
“Right.” The shoes were ankle-bending, heel-torturing devices, but they gave me an extra few inches that I quite fancied.
After Muriel was sure I could walk without stumbling, she got out her makeup and some hair pomade and went to work. I got my eyes done and lipstick and a good deal of rouge and powder. She put a few curls in my hair, and when she worried that my coiffeur was too short to be plausible, she found a cloche that, yes, made me look ready to dance the Charleston. I took a look in her mirror. “You’re a genius,” I said.
“An anonymous one, remember.”
I kissed her hand and promised. She had a paper sack from Wertheim’s, and I put my own shoes and clothes into it. “I’ll look as if I’ve been shopping,” I said. “Yes?”
“Yes, indeed. But less with the hips, dearie. You don’t want to scare him off.”
I didn’t think Harold scared easily, but she was right, less was more. I wanted to look like a real Berlin girl—neat and anonymous, not one of the over-the-top queens from the Eldorado. I walked carefully, smaller steps, shoulders still, down to the tram stop. By the time I got out at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church and crossed to the Romanesque pile that housed the café, I felt pretty confident. I could certainly walk, although I wouldn’t want to run. I hadn’t raised any eyebrows, either, though one nice chap had offered me his seat.
The church clock struck the hour as I made my way past the sparsely occupied outside tables. Have I mentioned my father’s fetish with punctuality? Useful on this occasion, and I went bang on time into the café, an exciting place I’d visited with Uncle Lastings. The Romanisches was the intellectuals’ hangout, full of feuding artists arguing styles to the death over beer and schnitzel.
But no art today! I hesitated at the door of the first room and looked around. There was no sign of Harold, but several men smiled at me as I passed their tables, and I gave my hips a twitch. Muriel really was clever. I finally spotted my man in an alcove at the back, well away from the high, bright windows.
I sashayed up to him, set my shopping bag on a chair and said, “Guten Tag, mein Herr.”
He looked up with a kind of panicky annoyance and flapped his hand to indicate dismissal. I’d always imagined diplomats as suave and ready for any eventuality.
“No points for being on time?” I asked and sat down.
His face was a picture, as Nan would say, and it took him a few seconds to rearrange his expression.
“An unexpected getup, but I want to make it home in one piece.”
Harold coughed and seemed to recover. He waved to the waiter, ordered a beer, and asked what the Fräulein would have. I gave a coy smile and asked for champagne. I deserved it, as my feet were already beginning to ache. How Muriel danced in these things was beyond me.
Harold waited until our drinks were on the table, then he leaned forward, touched my glass with his, and whispered, “Do you have the film?”
“Grünberg took it out when I left the camera. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“An expensive omission,” Harold said sourly.
“Costing me a ticket to Cologne,” I reminded him.
He held out his hand. “I want that film.”
“And I want to leave Germany. I want papers to get me over the border. And to keep me safe here in the meantime.”
Harold looked down his nose and took an official tone. “We cannot interfere with German police business. The republic has its own system of justice.”
This was bad. If he was unwilling to make a deal, I would be in the soup. Maybe I already was, because, with a little twinge of fear, I remembered Harold’s driver. Could he be lurking outside? Ready to follow me? Ready to apply some ghastly combat skill? Put the best face on it, Francis, Nan used to say. “That’s too bad,” I said. “The film will be lost forever.”
He grabbed my arm, but I didn’t budge. I was right; he didn’t want a scene. I’d only taken a sip of my champagne, so the glass was almost full. I held the little cartridge over the wine. “Ruin it if it goes in, I think.” With my best flirtatious smile, I put the film back into my coat pocket.
Harold studied me for a moment before he produced an identity card with my face on it. He’d had it the whole time and had hoped to get the film without handing it over, which I thought was rather a mean trick. The identity card described me as an art student, which gave me a funny little twinge, and claimed my name was Francis Wood.
“This is no good. I’ll need a passport.”
“Passports take time. For the moment, you need papers. When you register, inform the police that your passport was stolen and that the embassy has issued you a temporary document. Naturally, you will not go in any such outlandish outfit.”
I thought that unkind, considering he had been fooled, but I nodded. Although I was fond of lace underwear and silk stockings, I didn’t fancy even another hour in Muriel’s shoes.
“Also,” he held out his hand, “your present passport—should you be found with it, there would be unpleasant questions.”
Moment of truth. Could I trust Harold? I was quite sure I could not. Had I another option? Not at the moment. And I was certainly better off with a good document than with the papers of an accessory before the fact. I put the card in my pocket, handed over the film and my passport, and took a big drink of champagne.
“We will see what is on the film,” Harold said. Now that he had the cartridge, there was a definite change in atmosphere. “We may be in touch in case you have contact with your uncle.”
“What does my uncle do?”
Harold flapped his hand. Now he was a Man of Secrets. No doubt on a Mysterious Erra
nd.
He stood up, put money on the table, and, to my surprise, held out his arm. “We leave together,” he said sourly. “It would look odd otherwise after champagne.”
Which had been excellent, even though I had been too nervous to enjoy it. I hoped it had put a hole in his budget. We walked through the café to the nods and bows of the waiters, so elegant in their dark suits and white aprons. Out past the exterior tables with the scavenging pigeons underfoot. Along the sidewalk. Was Harold continuing to escort me farther than was really necessary? Did he have other plans for me? As we started across the street, I looked left and right for a dark saloon car with diplomatic plates and a military chauffeur.
What I saw instead was a motorcycle that swung out behind an oncoming tram, cut back in front, bounced over the rails, and swerved directly toward us. I jerked my arm from Harold’s grasp, pushed him clear and, unsteady in Muriel’s heels, tumbled after him as the bike roared by with a sudden, sharp explosion that rattled against the rails. Then came the great wheeze of tram brakes, and a metallic screech as parts of the motorbike scraped against the curb. There was a clatter and a shot—it was clearly a shot—before the grinding acceleration of the bike rose over the confusion and whined away into the distance.
I scrambled dizzily to my feet within a couple of yards of the stalled tram, caught one of Muriel’s shoes in the track, and snapped off the heel. My left side felt as if it had been crushed, and the unevenness of the shoes meant every hobbling step was painful. Across the tram tracks, Harold had gotten onto his knees, but from the red oozing over the front of his jacket, he wasn’t going to get much farther. People were rushing out of the cafés and crowding nearer, calling for the Polizei, which might be disastrous, and for the Krankenauto, which I guessed we both needed.
Fortunately, Mac had already pushed his way through the crowd to seize Harold. Though the diplomat was much the larger man, Mac got him to his feet, caught him under the arms, and hustled him toward the same dark car that had brought me back to Berlin. I kicked off both my shoes and followed them. Mac wasn’t keen to let me in the car, but Harold, white-faced and in obvious pain, flapped his hand and said, “Schnell, schnell, Fräulein.”
I have to admit that showed presence of mind. Mac put the car in gear, and we screamed off along the Budapester Strasse with Harold bleeding heavily. I grabbed his fine handkerchief out of his breast pocket and pressed it against his shoulder, only to have the cloth turn red almost instantly. “He needs a doctor!” I shouted.
Now that he knew I spoke English, Mac showed his true abilities. “Take his shirt off,” he said, and when I had accomplished that—not very easily, given that I probably had broken ribs and Harold was half-conscious—he told me to use the shirt to put pressure on the wound. I managed this, but within minutes the white linen began to turn an ominous pink and then red.
“He’s still bleeding,” I said, my voice rising in alarm.
Mac’s response was to step on the gas, endangering trams and carts and other cars to get us to the embassy, an overblown mansion with big pillars and a passage that took the car straight into a basement garage. Mac jumped out and ran to a house phone, summoning help that arrived in the form of two stout military types and what appeared to be a bona fide doctor. They wrestled Harold out of the car, put him on a stretcher, and rushed him along the corridor to an elevator.
I was left standing barefoot and bareheaded in a ruined frock beside the car, and it’s likely I’d have been put out on the street if Mac had not taken charge of me. My own shoes and my leather coat were long gone. All I had were Muriel’s ruined duds, totally unsuitable for my new identity card, and the few marks that remained from my trip to Grünberg’s. Now that we were safe, I was freezing cold and shaking with nerves.
“Come on, lad.” Mac spoke in a friendly sort of way, but when he patted my back, he sent pain all across my left side. “Ribs,” was his diagnosis. “I can strap them up for you.”
I followed him down the long corridor to a small, cozy room with a tartan rug and a narrow bed covered with a khaki blanket. He helped me take off Muriel’s ruined clothes and produced some tape to protect my ribs. With this operation complete, he opened a bottle of whiskey and poured each of us a stiff tot. “None of that schnapps rubbish,” he said.
I sat down on his bed, quite exhausted, while he opened the closet and rummaged in his trunk for a pair of khaki pants that were only two or three sizes too large and an olive-colored sweater with leather patches at the shoulders that made me look like a juvenile commando.
“Not quite right with the lipstick,” I said.
He laughed. “You’d be surprised. Soldiers come in all varieties. Especially irregulars.” He ran some water in his sink and brought me a cloth to wash my face. “Rest here while I organize a room for you. Better if you are not seen.”
I lay down on his bed and slept until he returned. Outside it was totally dark. The streetlights were on, and the sounds of the city traffic diminished. He set a plate of stew and a cup of coffee on the bedside table. When I asked him what time it was, he said just half past nine. “Shock,” he added. “It makes you tired.”
“You know a lot about injuries.”
“I was a medical orderly. Believe me, you can pick up quite a bit around field hospitals.” He poured himself another whiskey and added a jigger in my coffee. “Medicinal,” he said and winked.
Mac’s kind good nature was so surprising that I wondered if there was some hidden agenda. Perhaps he detected my suspicion, because he said, “You saved the major’s life.”
“Just quicker reflexes is all.”
“No, he’d have been a goner. His right eye was injured at Ypres. He claims to see motion, but between you and me, he’s got no depth perception, and he’d have been blindsided today. Not that you’d ever mention that.”
“Certainly not,” I said. Nan had, after all, raised me to be a gentleman.
To seal the deal, Mac poured me another glass of whiskey, and we might have spent a congenial evening if there hadn’t been a knock on the door. A smart young officer looked in and said, “The major’s asking for you and for our guest.”
Mac nodded. “A good sign,” he said. We were escorted to the elevator and up to a top-floor bedroom. The officer tapped on the door, opened it, and stepped aside for us. The opening revealed a lot of High Victorian mahogany, brocade drapes, and stucco work centered on a large and ornate bed. Harold was propped up on pillows with thick bandages covering his right shoulder and upper arm. He had a tube in his left arm hooked up to a bottle hanging off a medical rack, and he looked pale and uncomfortable.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Mac asked.
“Surviving.” Harold gestured for him to take the chair next to the bed. “We have a problem,” he said. His eyes were half-closed.
“The film is good and being developed,” Mac said. “You needn’t worry about that.”
Harold patted the bed, and Mac leaned in. “Who knew I was meeting Francis?”
“You and I. The switchboard might have guessed.” He pursed his lips and added, “Plus whoever saw the car going out. There are always people around.”
“And you,” Harold said, looking at me. “Who knew?”
“My friend who phoned for me. But she is English.”
Harold made a face that suggested no one was above suspicion. “Did anyone follow you?”
“Not that I know of. I’ve been cautious. Some of Uncle Lastings’s enemies have been interested.”
“Tell us where you spent last night,” Mac said.
“With my friend. Who doesn’t want to be involved.”
Mac was going to press the issue, but Harold waved his hand. “We can worry about her later. My sense is that it’s someone here. Support staff most likely, but you never know.”
Mac was all efficiency and authority, which I thought odd for a chauffeur.
“We’ll put a guard on your room, sir. Close off this floor to all German nationals.”
Harold considered this and shook his head. “Would cause talk. We will just be careful, though a guard is a good idea. But was I the real target? Or was it young Francis here? Without that ludicrous costume, would he have even made it to the café? We need to know that, too.”
I caught the urgency in his voice. “I could leave Germany immediately,” I offered, and my heart lifted as I envisioned my first flight. I would enjoy the drama of an early morning departure and the view of Germany from the clouds. What would that look like?
“Not possible,” Harold said curtly. “Then there’s the matter of your uncle. I’m afraid we’re going to require your help.”
I sensed an appeal from king and country, neither of which had shown much interest in me before. “What is my uncle up to?”
“Ah,” said Harold. “That’s something we’d all like to know.”
Chapter Eight
I’d hoped to learn more about Uncle Lastings, but the only information I got was that Harold really was a major and that his name was actually Sutton. I know this because just as he was about to brief me, a doctor arrived with boards on his shoulders and bars on his sleeves and a great air of medical authority to declare that it was time for Major Sutton’s shot. When Harold protested, the doctor, said, “No nonsense, Felix.”
On the way downstairs, Mac explained that Harold was what he called the major’s “operations name,” and he’d assumed it just for me. I tried not to let that go to my head.
Down on the lower floor, Mac made a noisy deal of moving me into an isolated room close to the garage, followed by our very quiet return to his own room, where I was to spend the night. “No point in being careless,” Mac said. “No one will touch you here.”
I guessed that was right, but after my formidable keeper left, I wedged a chair under the doorknob just in case.
In the morning, I was as stiff as my own grandpa and black, blue, and greenish-yellow all along one side. It took me a while to get dressed and longer than I liked to find my way down to the WC. When I got back, Mac was waiting for me with the information that Grünberg, the elderly pawnbroker, had been robbed yesterday. “The old man might have been killed,” Mac said, “if it wasn’t for a customer who arrived with several hunting rifles to pawn.”
