The Bells of Hell

by Michael Kurland

  As he walked the footsteps kept pace, neither approaching nor retreating but staying about a half-block behind. He toyed with the idea of turning a corner and skulking until he could grab whoever it was, but a new thought surfaced: suppose it was one of the men from the warehouse? Suppose they had somehow figured out who he was? He involuntarily shuddered before reason gained control. How could they find him? Not only didn’t they know who he was, they didn’t even know he existed. Yes, but what if …?

  He turned the corner on 28th Street and walked the half-block to his building and up the three steps to the front door. He passed through the outer door and into the vestibule and glanced down at the small table that held the mail for all the boarders. Nothing for him, but he expected nothing. He used his key and went through the inner door, and then flattened himself against the wall as it closed and turned out the hallway light. There was a thin glass panel to the side of the door and, with no light in the inner hallway, he could look through it and see without being seen.

  The outer door pushed open about thirty seconds later, and a heavy-set man wearing an overcoat too warm for the weather and a newsboy hat too small for his head clomped in. He paused in the doorway looking around suspiciously, and Blake involuntarily ducked, even though he was sure the man couldn’t see him through the glass.

  The man turned to the little table and began rummaging through the mail, pausing to take out a small notebook and a stub of a pencil, and write, Blake guessed, the names of borders who had not yet picked up their mail. He was at this for about a minute when the street door opened and a woman, Mrs Gompher, second-floor front, if Blake remembered correctly, pushed her way in backwards, bumping through with her behind while furling the oversized umbrella she was carrying. She turned and saw the man.

  He held up his hand just in time to cut off what would have been an impressive scream and a downward slash from a furled umbrella. ‘Stop that!’ he yelled. ‘You crazy old biddy – what the goddam do you think you’re doing?’

  She paused in mid swing and glared at him. ‘You don’t live here!’

  He stood up and put the notebook back in his pocket. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I understand. I do apologize for having startled you, madam. I was visiting, ah, someone. I was just leaving.’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Gompher said, pulling the umbrella back to her side, but still glaring suspiciously at him. ‘Really. At this hour. Who were you visiting? It was that Willa What’s-her-name wasn’t it? I knew that girl …’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ the man said. And then, as an afterthought, ‘There are some things a gentleman does not talk about.’

  ‘Humph!’ she said, as he sidled past her.

  Blake found that he was shaking. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds as he tiptoed to the staircase. After another deep breath – and another – he started to go upstairs before Mrs Gompher could open the inner door and find him standing there. God only knew what she’d think then.

  ‘The voice,’ Blake said. He was sitting across from Welker the next morning in a booth at the New Amsterdam Coffee Shop on 8th Avenue. ‘I recognized the voice. As soon as he said one word I knew who he was. He was one of the men in the warehouse. Not the leader, one of the others.’

  Welker shifter forward in his seat. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Damn sure. I couldn’t have told you that I would recognize his voice, but as soon as I heard it …’

  Welker stared across at Blake with such intensity that after a few minutes Blake shifted uncomfortably and asked, ‘What? What?’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Welker said, shaking his head slightly and blinking. ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This is great news.’

  ‘Great for you, maybe, but I’m not going back.’

  ‘Why not? Come on, he doesn’t know who you are.’

  ‘Yeah? Then why was he following me?’

  ‘To find out where you live. To find out whom you associate with,’ Welker said reasonably. ‘Trust me, if he had any idea you were in that warehouse he wouldn’t have bothered following you, he would have killed you before you got home.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ Blake said. ‘That’s very reassuring. Did I tell you they beat this guy up? Right in front of my table a bunch of Gerard’s Blackshirts beat this guy up. They knocked him down and they kicked him and he was all bloody and he had to be carried out. And for nothing. They called him a Jew. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. But still they had no call to beat the crap out of him like that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Welker said. ‘They do that. On occasion. “The bleating of the kid excites the tiger.”’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Kipling, but I think he probably got it from an earlier source. They beat on this guy to get the crowd riled up to make the evening more exciting, something they’d talk about.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Blake.

  The waiter appeared in front of their table balancing plates of food precariously on his arms. ‘Bacon and scrambled with home fries,’ he said, sliding the plate in front of Blake. ‘Buttered roll.’ One step sideways. ‘Poached with ham, home fries, whole wheat.’ A step back. ‘Ketchup and mustard on the table. You want anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’ Blake asked.

  The waiter shrugged. ‘Hot sauce, A1 sauce, mayonnaise, extra butter, a bowl of grits – we got grits.’

  ‘Really?’ Welker asked.

  ‘Yeah. Not many joints in New York got grits, but we got grits.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ Welker said.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be back in a minute with refills on your coffee if you like. First one’s on the house.’ He retreated back to the counter.

  ‘The question is,’ Welker said, turning back to Blake, ‘what do they have in mind?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They may be grooming you for better things. They may be checking up on your background before they ask you to join the inner sanctum.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  Welker shook his head. ‘I have no idea. We’ll find out as we go along, I guess.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Blake said. ‘You want me to go back while you stay safe in – wherever it is you stay.’

  ‘Many are called,’ said Welker, ‘but few are chosen.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I have no idea. Besides, I’m going to some of these meetings myself now. Blending in. Observing. If you see me, you don’t know me.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Blake said.

  THIRTEEN

  It is demonstrable that things cannot be otherwise than they are; for as all things were created for an end, they must therefore have been created for the best end. Notice, for example, that the nose is shaped for spectacles, therefore we wear spectacles.

  – Voltaire, Candide

  ‘All in all, I was quite favorably impressed with Herr Hitler,’ HRH said, sitting forward in his seat as the train car jounced over some connecting points, and staring contemplatively at the cigar he was seriously thinking of lighting.

  ‘Were you?’ Geoffrey asked.

  ‘He’s very, you know, forceful. Says what’s on his mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ Geoffrey said, ‘and why not? I imagine one gets in the habit of being forceful when no one dares disagree.’

  ‘Um,’ said the Duke. And then, after a moment: ‘He recommended a play that just opened in London. He saw the German production and says it’s quite funny. Tovarich. It’s a farce about a pair of Russian émigrés in Paris.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ Geoffrey told him. ‘It’s very amusing.’

  ‘He assured me that the author was not Jewish. That seemed important to him.’

  ‘One wouldn’t want to be caught enjoying something written by a Jew,’ Geoffrey said, nodding. ‘Not if one were Herr Hitler.’

  HRH seemed deep in his own thoughts for a minute. ‘He seems to like me,’ he said finally.

  ‘I should think so,’ Geoffrey said.
‘You’re a likable enough chap, handsome as the devil, a boon companion, good conversationalist. You have the aura of royalty, and yet are approachable. And you’re an intensely romantic figure – although I’d suppose that last doesn’t influence Herr Hitler a whole lot.’

  HRH leaned back and stared across the table at Geoffrey. ‘A romantic figure? What the deuce do you mean?’

  ‘Come on!’ Geoffrey said. He stood up and fished around in his jacket pocket for his pipe. ‘Surely you realize: the King of England who gave up his throne to marry the woman he loves? What on earth could be more romantic than that? Young girls must swoon at the story. I’ll wager that in a few years someone will write an opera about it. With the names changed, of course.’

  ‘Oh,’ said HRH. ‘That.’

  ‘Yes, your royal highness,’ Geoffrey said, ‘that.’

  The Duke was silent for a minute, staring out the window. There was no moon and only the slightest changes in shades of black showed through the window, but still he stared, shielding his face with his right hand to see beyond his own reflection in the glass. After a minute he lit his cigar and turned to Geoffrey. ‘I may have actually made some headway in the matter of the plebiscite,’ he said. ‘Hitler agreed that it might be wise to let the voting go on, since the Austrian people will certainly choose to unite with Germany.’

  ‘He’s not so sure of it as all that,’ Geoffrey told him.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Geoffrey looked up at the ceiling of the car, noting how the electric lamps had been made to resemble gas lights. Things are seldom, he thought, what they seem. He took a deep breath. ‘The code name is “Otto”.’

  ‘Code name for what?’

  ‘The invasion of Austria,’ he told HRH. ‘It is to begin the day after tomorrow. Troops are already massing at the border. Hitler expects it to be a bloodless coup, just several divisions marching in to the cheers of friendly crowds. His agents are already assembling the friendly crowds. The Austrians living around the German border are mostly pro-German, but those further away not so much. He doesn’t know what would happen if he actually let the people vote, and he doesn’t want to take the chance of being rejected. It would be a lot harder to justify invading if the Austrian people had said they don’t want him.’

  HRH carefully balanced his cigar on the small ashtray to the right of his chair. ‘Really?’ he asked.

  ‘Really,’ Geoffrey affirmed. ‘And I understand that the plans for the affair were drawn up by that over-polite gentleman in the over-starched SS uniform that was hovering around Der Führer the whole time.’

  ‘Deputy Hess?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘How on earth,’ HRH asked, the astonishment showing in his voice, ‘could you know all that?’

  ‘Oh,’ Geoffrey said, waving his hand vaguely about. ‘I’ve had my ear to the grindstone. One hears things.’

  ‘Damn!’ the Duke said with feeling. ‘Bloody hell! You’re sure about this?’

  ‘I’m reasonably sure that that’s the intention as of yesterday. Hitler has changed his mind several times, apparently, but my informant thinks that this time he’s going through with it.’

  ‘He lied to me!’ the Duke said, sounding indignant.

  ‘I imagine he does a lot of that,’ Geoffrey said.

  There was a jerking and a hissing and Geoffrey was thrown against a partition, almost losing his balance, but he managed to push himself up without actually falling as the train slowly and agonizingly came to a screeching stop along a section of track that curved sharply to the left, the engine momentarily blanketing the cars behind with a thick cloud of white smoke. A line of military trucks had pulled up along a road paralleling the track, and within seconds searchlights mounted on the back of the trucks were bathing the train cars in light. Geoffrey and HRH watched through the window as a flock of troops in black SS uniforms jumped from the trucks and ran out to surround the train with machine pistols at ready. A few seconds later a bevy of officers, along with two men in black-leather greatcoats, exited a pair of staff cars and climbed aboard the train about two cars down from HRH’s private car.

  ‘What the devil?’ HRH unlatched the window and pulled it up. ‘What are you fellows doing out there?’ he yelled. ‘Why on earth did you stop the train?’ Then, at the uncomprehending looks, he switched to German: ‘Was werden Sie tun, meine Herren? Warum haben Sie den Zug angehalten?’

  The closest SS guard looked up at the window and shook his weapon. ‘Schließen Sie das Fenster,’ he yelled. ‘Bleiben im Zug! Das geht dich nichts an!’

  The Duke pulled his head in and turned to Geoffrey. ‘None of my business, is it?’ he groused. ‘Doesn’t he know who I am?’

  ‘Hopefully,’ Geoffrey said, ‘he doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh,’ said HRH. ‘Right.’ He closed the window and sat down.

  The conductor came knocking into the car a minute later, looking extremely nervous, bowed twice, and stuttered, ‘Your royal h-h-highness—’ He started on a third bow, but Geoffrey interrupted.

  ‘What is it, my man? What’s the problem?’

  The conductor straightened up, standing at a close approximation of attention. ‘Your royal highness will excuse, I am sure, this unfortunate interlude,’ he said. ‘I have informed the Oberst of who you are and, with hope, they will not be incommoding you. We shall be recommencing our journey shortly.’

  ‘What’s the holdup? Geoffrey asked.

  ‘The … Oh yes … They are searching for some people. They have information that … it seems that some people may have boarded the train without proper identification. Forged papers, perhaps. I am only guessing, you understand, I don’t know.’ He wrung his hands together and then became aware of what he was doing and dropped them to his sides, where his fingers twitched nervously. ‘I really don’t know. How could I know?’

  ‘What an awful fuss for a couple of stowaways,’ the Duke commented.

  ‘Indeed,’ Geoffrey agreed.

  ‘I believe they are Juden – Jews,’ the conductor explained. ‘And it might be that they are trying to leave the Reich with some belongings that should have been confiscated.’

  ‘Belongings?’

  ‘Yes, your royal highness; perhaps money, perhaps jewelry. It is forbidden for the Jews to leave with such things.’

  ‘They can’t leave with their own belongings?’

  ‘Such is what I believe,’ the conductor said. ‘Again I apologize for the inconvenience. We should recommence our journey shortly. I believe the steward has your dinner selections, yes? The stewardess is here to commence setting the table and arrange for the meal, which will be brought in promptly.’ He made a gesturing motion behind him and a young woman in a version of the blue uniform of the railroad staff came in and curtsied to them.

  ‘I shall set the table up here?’ she asked in English.

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ said the Duke, and the stewardess began pulling table linens from the cupboard and set about clearing and setting the dining table.

  The conductor shifted his gaze nervously between the woman and the Duke. ‘All is good, yes? Now I shall return to my duties.’ He bowed and retreated back to the luggage car, which was positioned between HRH’s car and the main body of the train.

  Less than a minute later he was back, barely ahead of a German officer, who strode through the connecting door, snapped to attention in front of HRH, and gave the Nazi salute, clicking his heels together smartly twice. ‘You will forgive this intrusion, Excellency,’ he said. ‘But I must examine the whole train, you see. Is there anyone else in the car with you?’

  HRH muttered an uncomplimentary epithet and then turned. ‘Anders!’

  His man appeared from somewhere to the rear of the car, immaculate in his morning suit. The only one who dressed better than a British gentleman, Geoffrey reflected, was his manservant. ‘Your royal highness?’

  ‘You have anyone hiding back there with you?’ HRH asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ Anders replied, s
howing no surprise at the question. ‘I am quite alone.’

  The Duke turned to the officer. ‘There you have it,’ he said.

  The officer clicked his heels together, wheeled, and marched back out of the car, followed by the conductor.

  ‘Damn nuisance,’ the Duke muttered, going back to the window. ‘And there’s something going on out there.’

  Geoffrey peered out the window.

  ‘Off to the right,’ HRH said, pointing.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  At the car two ahead of theirs a cluster of troopers were clambering about the undercarriage, along with much shouting and waving of flashlights. A young boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, in a neat gray suit and a newsboy cap, was pushed through a door a few cars up, and he stumbled down the steps, righted himself, and stood there looking confused. Somebody barked an instruction at him and he looked around, even more confused. The instruction was repeated, and he nodded and sat down on the grass verge along the track, compliant but confused.

  A few moments later the flashlights had all focused on the far end of the car, and a spotlight on one of the trucks swiveled, its beam flooding the area in a harsh white light. A little man in a dark-colored business suit, perhaps gray, perhaps blue, was pulled out from under the car by an SS officer. The silver piping on the officer’s uniform gleamed in the spotlight, creating weird tracings as he moved. Geoffrey noticed that the little man’s suit jacket had four buttons up the front, all neatly buttoned from the collar down. It is, he thought, the sort of thing you notice when you don’t want to notice anything else. The little man tried to keep his hands in the air, but his progress was a constant stumble as the officer prodded him along with the Nazi version of what the British call a swagger stick, and his hands dropped to catch himself and then jerked back up at the officer’s barked command.

  Two troopers crawled under the car and extracted a large leather suitcase, its brass fittings gleaming in the glare of the spotlights. At the officer’s command, they laid it on the ground and forced the lid open, snapping the lock with some small instrument that Geoffrey couldn’t make out. The officer stared down at it for a moment and then reached in and began pulling out its contents, handful after handful. Clothing, framed pictures, toiletries, all were flung onto the ground. He continued until the suitcase was empty, and then he drew his SS officer’s dagger and slashed at the lining. Whatever he expected to find wasn’t there. He turned and gesticulated some undecipherable waving of the arms and yelled some threats Geoffrey couldn’t make out at the man, who cowered away from the officer, hands clutched together over his head.