The Shadowboxer

by Behn, Noel;

  The chief laughed and gave an order. She was cut loose and dragged to him. Her eroticism could no longer be controlled. She knelt before him and nodded. He repeated his demand. She lifted his loincloth and stared under it. Her mouth opened and took in the offering. Her teeth clamped down. The chief screeched in pain. Then she rushed to the pony, embraced it and reached her hand down for its member.

  The action was back to black and white. The sound of beating horses’ hooves could still be heard. Gary Cooper hadn’t missed yet. The reel ran out. White flashes skitted back and forth. Another movie began. A lion roared. M-G-M’s Little Women began.

  Webber pressed the middle button. Once more the room was in darkness. He settled down between the silk sheets and squirmed to get comfortable. His eyes closed. He wondered what such a pretty girl could see in a pony. Then Webber was asleep.

  2

  U. S. Fact-finding Panel Clears Goering, Himmler of Nazi Affiliation. Pro-Jewish Attitudes Cited.

  —Headline from German Popular Gazette,

  printed 18 January 1944, for release 9 April 1944

  The helmeted Bomb Detection Squad began its search with the walls of the fourteenth-century guildhall, then poked behind each burgundy velvet blackout curtain. Everything was inspected: wrought-iron chandeliers and torch stanchions, ventilation ducts, carved-stone fireplace, log supply, mounted spears and crossbows, tapestries, suits of armor. An hour and twelve minutes later the senior search officer pronounced the room “secure.”

  The doors were unlocked. A dozen white-gloved SS guards marched smartly through the room and deployed. Two more guards moved out onto the pulpit balcony. The combined SD-Ausland and Kripo cryptanalysis team entered and began setting up easels and display charts on the inquiry platform. Six secretaries occupied the benches under the tapestries. The Council stenographer settled in behind her portable desk. Webber and his four aides arranged themselves at the inquiry desks. He snapped open his briefcase and brought out the material. The newly issued 875-page Spangler Dossier was placed to his left, the 32-page orange-covered Webber Proposition, the SD-Ausland–Kripo plan to capture Erik Spangler, was set to his right. Two fat files of presentation material were stacked neatly in front of him. The four permanent members of the Council for Extreme Security entered and took their places at the massive oak conference table. They were followed by six “special” representatives.

  The corner door opened. The officers snapped to their feet and froze at attention. It was only the provost. He entered carrying two red velvet goosedown pillows, which he placed on the unoccupied elevated throne chair at the head of the conference table.

  Webber took his seat and surveyed the ten Council members. His attention focused momentarily on Platt of Gestapo and then quickly shifted to the Abwehr representative, Otto Zieff.

  Under ordinary circumstances Webber’s first concern at any Council meeting would be Abwehr. In the past military intelligence had been the traditional foe of all SS and civil police activities. The rivalry between Abwehr chief, Admiral Canaris, and Himmler had been bitter and persistent. Less than two weeks before, on February 14, Himmler had won. Canaris had been forced to resign. The most powerful of Abwehr units had gone under the command of General Walter Schellenberg—the same man who headed SD-Ausland.

  Webber had expected Abwehr to become subservient to SD-Ausland; it hadn’t. Webber had expected Abwehr to send Comart as today’s representative at Council; it hadn’t. Why was Zieff here instead of Comart? Would Zieff also try to discredit Webber’s presentation? Did Abwehr suddenly want the Spangler case under its jurisdiction? Platt was predictable—he would fall into Webber’s predetermined traps. Zieff was a far different matter. You could never tell what he was up to.

  Again the corner door opened. Again the officers sprang rigidly to their feet. Ten seconds elapsed. Then another fifteen. The five-foot-four-inch frame of General von Schleiben emerged. His black uniform was flawless, his boots gleamed with an unnatural shine. He crossed the parquet in quick, choppy steps, drove a fist into the goosedown pillows and climbed onto the throne chair.

  “Officers,” the provost proclaimed, “may now be seated.”

  Von Schleiben stretched forward, lifted the silver decanter and poured himself a glass of water. He took no notice of the assemblage as he sipped. He began to sniff.

  “Air! Fresh air! Why isn’t there fresh air?” he demanded.

  “But, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer—” the provost began.

  “It is a cold, crisp day outside,” von Schleiben let it be known. “Little birds are singing. Why must I suffocate?”

  The ventilators were switched off, the burgundy curtains drawn back, the Gothic window frames pushed open. Von Schleiben gazed out at a vista of freshly gutted Munich buildings, still smoldering in the bright morning sunlight. The fragrance of smoke and charred wood filtered into the room. The windows were hastily closed and the drapes pulled together. Von Schleiben’s fingers snapped.

  “Let it be agreed and understood, at forfeiture of life,” the provost droned, “that all matters discussed within the confines of this room are now, and shall remain in perpetuity, Reich’s Top Secret. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” the officers replied in chorus.

  “Agenda,” ordered von Schleiben.

  “Presentation of the Webber Proposition,” the provost began. “Introduction of—”

  “Objection,” Platt shouted as he stood.

  “Sit down,” von Schleiben said without looking up.

  “But, Obergruppenfuehrer … I—I must object—”

  “Then you will object sitting down,” von Schleiben snapped, studying his agenda notes. “Have I ordered you to stand?”

  “No, Obergruppenfuehrer.”

  “Then you will sit.”

  “Certainly, Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt agreed, taking his seat.

  “State your objection—briefly.”

  “Obergruppenfuehrer, Gestapo officially protests the discussion of the Webber Proposition until the revised Spangler Dossier can be authenticated. Herr Webber’s plan to capture Spangler appears to be entirely predicated on the dossier’s—the SD-Ausland dossier’s—contention that not only is Spangler alive, but he is the Rag Man and three other persons as well. What proof is there? On what is this assumption based?”

  “The initial assumption,” Webber replied, strolling toward the conference table, “is based upon the most elementary deduction, dear Platt. SD-Ausland simply took every recorded incident of assisted escape from concentration camps and compared them all for similarities—something no other organization apparently bothered to do. We immediately isolated twenty men who had never been identified. A comparison of murder techniques and other operandi soon brought the list down to what we have now. It really wasn’t that difficult.”

  “Deduction is theory,” Platt shot back. “Where is the proof? Where is tangible evidence?”

  Webber slid a notebook across the table to Platt. “This was found in a raid made on a Frankfurt apartment two days after the Vetter escape at Gusen. In it you will see a complete list of all prisoners appearing on the Chronology of Events in the Spangler Dossier—the revised Spangler Dossier.

  “Also found in the same apartment were chemical equipment and traces of the experimental explosive TDL—the same TDL that was used in the lanterns at Gusen the night of Vetter’s escape.”

  Platt blanched, then turned red as he studied the list of names. “Obergruppenfuehrer,” he finally stammered, “why wasn’t Gestapo advised of this discovery?”

  “There wasn’t time to advise anyone except Obergruppenfuehrer von Schleiben,” Webber answered before the General could reply. “We had to prepare our capture plan as well as revise the dossier. But a full report of the event will be sent to you as soon as it is ready.”

  An aide whispered into Platt’s ear. “Obergruppenfuehrer,” the Gestapo representative said, “I suggest this meeting be postponed until this notebook and the raid which produced it
can be verified. Where did SD-Ausland get the information about this so-called apartment? How do we know that this notebook and its list are authentic? What if they are a plant? Obergruppenfuehrer, this Council cannot consider such a reckless and costly adventure as the Webber Proposition on the evidence of one notebook.”

  “I quite agree,” Webber interjected. “We came across that list a week after we had compiled the revised Spangler Dossier. It only confirmed what we already had deduced—that the Gestapo and several other agencies here had been looking for one man under five different names.”

  “Then prove it!” Platt shouted. “Prove it before we go a step further.”

  “If you let me present my findings I’m sure everything will fall into place.”

  “That is not acceptable,” Platt yelled, holding up the dossier. “Before anything is considered you must firmly establish that these eight-hundred-odd pages pertain to one man and one man alone.”

  Webber paused and then smiled at Platt. “SD-Ausland is certainly able and willing to do just that. But since it is our contention that Erik Spangler will attempt his next escape on January 26, seven days from now, we ask only one thing: that the Gestapo accept full responsibility if adequate preparations are not made because of delay at this Council.”

  “The twenty-sixth?” Platt questioned, turning to his aides. All shook their heads. “Where does it say anything about the intended escape taking place on the twenty-sixth?”

  “It doesn’t,” Webber replied. “My proposition simply states that Spangler will be coming to Concentration Camp Oranienburg to free Hilka Tolan. Now we know that the escape attempt will take place on the twenty-sixth. If this Council allows me to present my material as planned, we will have time enough to capture him. If the Gestapo prefers that I interrupt my presentation to meet their demands, then I feel they must take full responsibility if Spangler is not captured. Well, Herr Platt?”

  Platt glowered at Webber. His face grew a deep crimson. A vein in his forehead began to pulsate visibly.

  “Standartenfuehrer,” Otto Zieff of the Abwehr began, looking at his notes, “am I to understand that SD-Ausland contends that this Erik Spangler is planning an escape on the twenty-sixth of this month?”

  “That is our contention.”

  “On the assumption that the revised Spangler Dossier does represent the case history of one man, not five, I don’t seem to find any recorded instance where advance information of this nature was known.”

  “There is no instance. The date of a Spangler escape has never before been known in advance. If I am able to make my presentation, the process by which the date was determined will be clearly illustrated.”

  “I see,” Zieff said, checking his notes once again. “On my reading through your revised dossier one item seems to have eluded me. Never has there been a report of Spangler having freed a female prisoner.”

  “To my knowledge he never has,” Webber stated.

  “And what of political prisoners? I seem to find only one instance where he has ever freed a political prisoner.”

  “He has freed only one political prisoner, Martin Vetter.”

  “But still SD-Ausland definitely maintains that on the twenty-sixth of this month Spangler will be coming to Oranienburg to effect the escape of Hilka Tolan, a female political prisoner?”

  “We so maintain,” Webber answered confidently.

  “Can SD-Ausland substantiate this claim?” asked Zieff.

  “We can if I am allowed to make my original presentation.”

  Von Schleiben folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Is your presentation prepared for this session or is more time required?”

  “I am prepared at this session, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer.”

  “Proceed.”

  Webber walked to the display table, where a tattered newspaper-wrapped package was resting. “An exhibit like this,” he explained, “was discovered hidden under the cooks’ barracks at Oranienburg less than ten days ago.” Webber opened the package and spread the contents—two beets, a turnip, half a bar of ersatz soap and an eroded razor blade—at intervals along the table top. He picked up a wooden pointer and bounced it slowly back and forth among the items. It finally came to rest on the crumpled newspaper wrapping.

  He nodded to the cryptologists. An eight-by-four-foot display card was unveiled.

  Webber’s pointer rapped against the card. “This completed crossword puzzle,” he announced, “was found on the newspaper page. It contains a secret message.”

  Platt of Gestapo motioned for the floor. “By any chance, Herr Standartenfuehrer, is the key for extracting this secret message to be found in the date of the edition, May 25, 1939?”

  “It is,” Webber conceded.

  “Could it conceivably be possible,” Platt continued, “that you begin the deciphering by taking May, the fifth month of the year, and looking at either five down or five across?”

  “Yes, that is how you begin.”

  “Bravo!” shouted Platt. “Bravo for Standartenfuehrer Webber and all those brilliantly deductive minds at SD-Ausland! In the months they have been assigned to the Spangler case, they have finally discovered—all by their ingenious selves—what four other agencies have known for better than two years: that crossword puzzles are one of the favorite methods used by camp prisoners for sending covert communications to one another. Bravo again. I suggest we all pause, here and now, to applaud Herr Webber and—”

  “Enough,” warned von Schleiben.

  “Excuse me, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt gleefully beseeched, “but the idea that we have all rushed to an emergency session only to find that SD-Ausland’s momentous discovery is a puzzle-message is too ridiculous to believe. Messages like this have been intercepted and deciphered by the dozens, and never have they had any relationship whatsoever with Spangler’s activities.”

  “Messages like this have most definitely been discovered in the past,” Webber agreed, “but they have always been random interceptions. One message here, another there. Never has a series been taken. That is why no sense could be made of them. SD-Ausland has intercepted three in the last ten days, therefore we have continuity—and we know what they mean.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Platt said laughingly. “And would Herr Webber like to tell this Council if this trio of messages have any mark or name on them which would establish that they came from Spangler?”

  “The Gestapo is quite right,” Webber answered politely. “These secret messages have no establishing name or mark in either message text. We would never have known they had come from Spangler if we hadn’t been extremely lucky in finding something at Concentration Camp Gusen.”

  Webber motioned. The second display card was unveiled.

  Koln

  9 January

  MOST CONSIDERATE COMMANDANT, Please forgive me for troubling you again about my son Martin Vetter, who is one of your prisoners, but as you know from my previous letters I am gravely ill. The doctors now say the road to recovery is off beyond all medical hope. I must prepare to die. Please tell Martin the truck keys are in the house of his Uncle Alfred. Please tell Martin Alfred promised he won’t drive it, only guard it. Martin should call Alfred on his release and get it back. Please, I beg you, might I telephone Martin? I am ready for death, but hearing his voice would mean so much.

  May God bless you and yours.

  ILSE VETTER

  c/o Harovatin

  38 Hohenzollernring

  Koln.

  The ankle locks were chained to the brackets imbedded in the pulpit-balcony floor, the wrist irons to the rungs protruding from the wooden railing. The white-gloved guards stepped back. The Council gazed up at the first witness.

  “Name?” asked Webber.

  “Prisoner L224537.”

  “Speak louder.”

  “Prisoner L224537,” the intruder repeated in a somewhat stronger monotone.

  “Prisoner from where?”

  “Concentration Camp
Gusen.”

  “Before serving at Gusen had you also been a prisoner at both Bergen-Belsen and Dachau?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a member of a secret prisoner society at Gusen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the society known as the Weeping Nuns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they involved in the Vetter escape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen this letter before?” Webber asked, pointing to the second easel.

  “Yes.”

  “Does it contain a secret message?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “The Spangler Group.”

  “Extract the secret message for us.”

  “… Ready … telephone call … guard house … truck off road …”

  “How was this message deciphered?”

  3

  The waiting line for the Prague Industrial Free Clinic began forming in the street at 5 A.M. By dawn it stretched four and a half blocks, and newcomers were sent on their way. Rain started falling at six-thirty. At eight the first four dozen patients were allowed entry to the guarded outer lobby. SS processing was the first stage. Curfew permits, work identification cards, passports, food ration books, work leave-of-absence permits and transportation passes were all inspected, recorded and temporarily confiscated. The group was reassembled and shuttled on to the Medical Processing Section with their clinic permits.

  “Name?” asked the Czech volunteer nurse.

  “Grebic, Anatol.”

  “Middle name?”

  “No middle name.”

  The woman looked up into the wide, flat face of deep-set black eyes, thick nose and bushy red mustache. “Every Czech has a middle name.”

  “This one doesn’t.”

  “No insolence or you’ll be sent to the end of the line.”

  “Forgive me, but I was born without a middle name.”

  The woman returned to the application form. “Factory?”

  “Kulitz Works.”

  “Position?”

  “Foreman, hand-grenade inspection, Division Two.”