Petersen had evidently started his usual evening celebrations before the expedition started and some of the ladies in the party eyed him distrustfully, but he did no more than talk a good deal and laugh rather too loudly. There is a modern ramp which now leads up to the main door of the Zwinger. Probably in the old days there was merely a ladder which could be pulled up as the enemy approached and the door slammed in their ugly faces. Petersen made rather heavy weather of the steep ramp and Hambledon gave him a helping hand up the flight of stairs inside the door.
The great room at the head of the stairs is round to conform with the curve of the walls, but there are long narrow rooms leading off it at intervals so that the floor plan resembles the steering wheel of a ship with the hand grips projecting from the rim. There is a window at the far end of each of the narrow barrel-roofed rooms. It was a moment or two before Hambledon realised that they were merely window embrasures tunnelled through the thickness of the walls to provide air and light to the central space. It would not do to jump out of those windows; they must be fifty feet above the ground.
The place was filling up. There was an orchestra of four playing a truly international medley of dance tunes from “O My Papa” and “Loch Lomond” to “Einmal am Rhein” and the middle of the floor was kaleidoscopic with whirling couples. Hambledon and his party edged their way between long narrow tables and past the bar to the cloakroom, rows of pegs in one of the alcoves; having hung up coats and hats, they were ushered to one of the narrow tables opposite the bar.
“Jolly, isn’t it?” said Petersen. “Look at the chandelier. It’s as old as—as the Ark. I like old things, don’t you?”
Hambledon assented; the great wrought-iron chandelier, if not quite as old as the Ark, was well worth looking at, but what he was looking for at the moment was two familiar figures. However, they were not to be seen. Splendid!
“Let’s have a drink,” said Petersen. “There’s Onkel Otto over by the bar. Picturesque figure, isn’t he?”
He was an enormous elderly man with the Kellner’s traditional leather apron girt about his substantial form. The orchestra stopped playing, the floor cleared, and Onkel Otto held up his hand for silence for an announcement. They were to be privileged to hear the two finest yodellers in all the Harz, they had won prizes in many places, they were justly famous——
Hambledon averted his mind from the two men who went up to the platform. They were not the two in whom he was interested and yodelling was not one of his enthusiasms. He shifted his chair a little, the more easily to watch the door. The wine waiter came to serve their wine, an odd little man with a large head, a skinny agile figure, and a green baize apron.
“Funny little chap,” said Petersen, leaning across the table, for he was sitting opposite to Hambledon. “I say he’s just like a kobold. It is a kobold I mean, isn’t it?”
Hambledon agreed amiably. “He only wants a pointed cap and he would be one of the Seven Dwarfs in person.”
The door swung open and two men sidled in. Since most of the company were sitting down to hear the singing, these men were plainly visible and Hambledon recognised them at once.
“Banger and Bacon,” he said, half aloud, and Petersen caught the words.
“Banger, what is that?” he said, turning to see what Hambledon was looking at. “Those two who have just come in? They were in the hotel this evening, do you know them?”
“Only by sight,” said Tommy with exact truth. “Banger is a sausage and bacon is thin and stringy—sometimes.”
“Very good,” said Petersen, and laughed heartily. The singing ended, the orchestra started again, people stood up to dance, and Banger and Bacon found themselves seats from which they could watch Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon.
11: The Zwinger
Some time later the kobold waiter came wriggling through the press of dancers in his own inimitable eel-like manner—it is an education to see him do this with a tray of full glasses—bringing a flat parcel in his hand. He came to a stop by Tommy’s chair and said: “Excuse, please. The Herr Hambledon?”
“That is my name.”
“I have been told to bring this parcel to the Herr Hambledon and to give it into his own hand.”
He did so. Hambledon took the parcel, a flat cardboard box with the name of Karstadt, Gentlemen’s Outfitters, on the lid.
“But,” said Hambledon, detaining him by the baize apron, “what is this? I——”
“Presumably the Herr left a parcel behind him at Karstadt’s and someone, having been told that the Herr is here, has brought it after him.”
“But I have not bought anything at Karstadt’s. Who gave you this parcel?”
“A gentleman, I did not know him,” said the waiter, detaching his apron from Hambledon’s fingers. “He did but point out the Herr to me and tell me what I was to do.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hambledon peremptorily. “This gentleman, can you point him out to me?”
The kobold looked steadily round the room, a survey which included the table where Banger and Bacon were sitting in full view.
“No, mein Herr, I cannot see him and, indeed, after he had given me the parcel, he made his way towards the door.”
“When was this?”
“But just now, mein Herr, three minutes ago, no more.”
“Thank you,” said Hambledon, and let the man go. Banger and Bacon had not moved from their table for half an hour at least, though, if the parcel were from them, they could have employed a messenger. The box was tied up with string and, under cover of fumbling with the knot, Hambledon glanced across at them. They were sitting up on the edges of their chairs and their eyes were protuberant. When they saw that he was watching them they both looked away.
“Incompetent oafs,” said Hambledon to himself and went on disentangling the knot under a fire of comments from other members of his party.
“What is it, Mr. Hambledon? A birthday present?”
“From a lady, I guess. Look, he’s blushing.”
“That’s right. It’s his blue eyes that’s done it.”
Petersen stood up, wavering, and leaned heavily on the table. “Practical joke?” he suggested. “Look out something doesn’t hop out and bite you.”
Hambledon laughed and opened the box; inside was a flat packet wrapped in poor-quality brown paper tied with twine. He slipped off the twine; the adjacent members of the party, with natural good manners, immediately turned away to watch the dancing, and Petersen sat down with a bump.
Inside the wrapping were a number of papers folded together; one at least was a map and some others looked like sketch plans. On the top there was a slip of paper bearing a message which puzzled him for a moment till it dawned upon him that though the writing was German script, the words were English.
Mr. Hambledon. Goslar.
This is the Smirnov Plan which was
stolen. Please deliver to British
authorities immediately. Highly
valuable, take care, look out for
trouble.
Hambledon was in the act of folding up the note when someone brushed against the back of his chair. He looked round quickly and saw that it was Bacon, who, with an aloof air of distant purpose, was making his way across the room. He could have seen, if only vaguely, what sort of contents were in the package. He strolled across the room and passed through a swing door opposite. Banger sat still where he was and Hambledon, making no attempt to conceal what he was doing, put the packet back into Karstadt’s box and tied it up again.
“That fellow,” said Petersen disgustedly, “was peering over your shoulder.”
“Odd manners some people have,” said Hambledon. “Perhaps he thought it was feelthy postcards. Interesting but not exciting,” he added, to his tactful neighbours at table. “I was talking to an archaeologist fellow today about that”—what had Britz called it?—“abbey ruin at Walkenried, and he promised to send me a lot of details about it and other places within reach. I am a little o
verpowered,” he added, with a laugh. “He seems to have sent me enough stuff here to keep me quiet for months and, what’s worse, he wants it all back.” He tapped the box under his arm. Bacon, carefully not looking his way, returned to the waiting Banger.
“Will he put you through an examination to find out how much you’ve seen, Mr. Hambledon?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said, rising, and made his way between tables and round the perimeter of the dance floor into the place of seclusion from which Bacon had just returned. Here, having locked himself in, he reopened the packet and rapidly stowed away the contents in his inside pockets. The printed map was large and on stiff paper. He glanced at it and saw that it covered the western edges of the Soviet Zone from Helmstedt in the north to the borders of the Schwarzburg in the south. He looked more closely at some of the added markings upon it and whistled tunelessly between his teeth. The map was too stiff to go unobserved in any pocket. He undid his shirt buttons and slid it inside, against his chest. If the map could have expressed its emotions it would have sighed deeply and said: “What, again?”
The next step was to find something to pad out the packet to its former solidity and weight. Hambledon, choosing a moment when the place was his alone, robbed cabinets of most of their amenities until he was satisfied that Karstadt’s box did not feel empty. He hurriedly tied it up again and returned to his table. Bacon, looking really anxious, was standing against the wall watching for him.
There was a rather messy game in progress with a sausage, tied to a string, dangling from the great chandelier. Half a dozen young men, with their hands clasped behind their backs, were leaping at the sausage with open mouths while Onkel Otto, holding the other end of the string, made matters more difficult by jerking it occasionally. By degrees the sausage was bitten away and the last inch fell to the floor amid cheers and laughter.
“Revolting,” said an English lady next to Hambledon at the table, “quite revolting.”
“I absolutely agree,” said Hambledon. “What’s the matter, Petersen?”
“I don’t feel very well,” said Petersen. “I think I’ll go home.”
Hambledon was not surprised; he had been expecting this.
“I’ll help you find your coat,” he said, and steered the sufferer across to the cloakroom.
“I don’t feel sick or anything,” explained Petersen carefully. “I’ve just had quite enough to drink and I don’t want any more. Hot in here, isn’t it?” He staggered and clutched Hambledon’s arm.
“Hold up. You’ll be all right when you’re out in the air.”
“That’s right,” said Petersen vaguely. They were at the back of the cloakroom where it was rather dark and he took no notice when he was helped into Hambledon’s raincoat and crowned with Hambledon’s hat. They were almost exactly the same height.
“You’ll be all right,” repeated Hambledon. “A nice quiet stroll back to the hotel will clear your head. Do you want to walk across the big room?”
“Not if there’s another way out. Certainly not. Is there?”
“At the back here,” said Hambledon, who had noticed the stairs when they first arrived. “Can you manage? I’ll come down with you. Hang on to the handrail.”
The winding stairway, burrowing down in the thickness of the wall, was steep and worn, but a cool draught blew up it and Petersen drew long breaths.
“That’s better.”
“You know your way, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Along by the lake and turn right at that memorial affair. I say, Hambledon, you’re a good chap. Ah, that’s fine, it’s left off raining.”
“Would you do something for me?”
“Course I will, what?”
“Take this box back to the hotel for me? It’s rather a nuisance here. Give it to the porter. He’ll keep it for me.”
Petersen tucked the box under his arm and started off, walking up the ramp to pass the main door. Hambledon stood back in the doorway to watch him out of sight and then slipped across in the shadows to hide behind the trees. He could see the main door at the top of the ramp from where he stood; as he had expected, a long lean figure came out of the doorway, looked after Petersen, and beckoned to someone behind him on the stair. Bacon, of course, summoning Banger. The stout figure also emerged and they both ran down the other side of the ramp by the way Petersen had gone.
“That’s right,” murmured Hambledon. “You go and snitch the box and we’ll all be happy. Petersen probably won’t notice it’s gone.”
He walked out from under the trees towards the tower, intending to rejoin his party, but there came from the way Petersen had gone a yell of rage and fury followed by Scandinavian curses. Hambledon ran like a hare up the ramp, down the further side, and round the curving path towards the lake; before he reached it there was a splash and ripples spread across the water. The path was ill-lit and embowered in trees, but he caught a glimpse of two running figures disappearing in the distance.
There was no difficulty in locating Petersen. There was a commotion in the water such as might be caused by a grampus coming ashore—if they do—accompanied by a string of remarks such as no delicate-minded grampus would think of using. Hambledon cantered up to the spot and helped Petersen to climb out.
“What the devil happened?”
“I don’t know—two men came up behind and barged me into the—ugh—lake. Ugh-ugh! I’ve lost my hat. I’m absolutely dripping. I’ve swallowed lake water—oh, Lord, I’m going to be sick.”
He was, and Hambledon supported him.
“Now,” said Tommy, when the crisis was over, “we’re going back to the hotel and I’m coming with you. If you keep walking you won’t catch cold.”
“I never catch cold,” said Petersen with dignity. “Let me wring some of the water out of my trousers, they do cling so. Was I very tight?”
“Oh, just nicely.”
“Well, I’m stone-cold sober now,” said Petersen, and it was quite true, for he set off towards their hotel at a good four miles an hour. “I suppose those two fellows were a bit screwed too and just staggered into me. Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. I saw you in the water and didn’t worry about them.”
Hambledon waited for some enquiry about the cardboard box, but Petersen had evidently forgotten all about it. He had probably never realised that he had it in the first place. When they got back to the hotel Petersen dripped on the marble floor of the entrance hall and the night porter dashed out with pitying cries.
“We have been to the Zwinger,” said Hambledon. “When we came out, the Herr fell in the lake.”
The porter nodded understandingly, but Petersen was pulling off his raincoat and looking at it.
“I’ve got somebody else’s coat, this isn’t mine. I’d better take it back.”
Hambledon made a surprised noise and said: “But that’s mine. My fault entirely, I took it off the peg. My mistake.”
“Then mine is still at the Zwinger and tomorrow will do for that,” said Petersen, taking his key and starting off up the stairs. “Oh, here’s your coat, Hambledon. Sorry I got it so wet and, by the way, whose hat did I lose? Yours or mine?”
“I don’t care if it was mine, I never liked that hat.”
“If the Herr,” said the porter, pursuing Petersen, “will put his clothes outside the door, they shall be dried.”
“I’ll toss them out,” said Petersen. “My goodness, I’m sleepy. Early to bed for once. See you tomorrow, Hambledon, and many thanks.” He trailed wetly round the curve of the staircase and rose out of sight.
“The poor Herr,” said the porter, and laughed quietly.
“That unfenced path by the lake is, actually, a little dangerous,” said Hambledon severely. “It is quite easy to wander over the edge.”
“That is so. The Herr Petersen is not the first to fall in there.”
“I daresay not. Could you,” said Hambledon, who had been doing some intensive thinking during the walk home, �
��could you oblige me with a large envelope?”
“Willingly,” said the porter, rummaging in a cupboard beneath the desk while Hambledon looked round the office. There was a safe in the corner which seemed to be quite a good one. It would be foolish to keep the Smirnov Plan in an hotel bedroom with one flimsy lock on the door; he would put the plan in an envelope when the porter could find one—he was now frantically hunting through the desk drawers—seal it up, bring it down again, and ask to have it locked up for the night. It ought to be secure in a good safe with a night porter watching over it.
The porter abandoned the drawers, looked wildly round, and said ah, perhaps there were some in there. Before Hambledon had time to wonder where “there” was, the porter took a key off a nail above the desk, opened the safe and produced from it a large, stout Manila envelope.
“We put stationery in here sometimes when the desk is overfull,” explained the porter, “as now. Will this one suit?”
Hambledon said, with thanks, that it would do admirably; the porter said that he was happy in being able to serve the Herr. He then locked up the safe again and returned the key to its nail; Hambledon wished him an undisturbed night and went upstairs to his own room.
Here he locked himself in and examined the papers, comparing the small sketch plans with the large map and looking through the sheets of notes which accompanied each of them. They were plainly originals; if they had been stolen before fair copies of them had been made, no wonder the Russians were buzzing like mad bees round an overset hive, no one could write out all those details from memory.
“All that work to be done all over again,” said Tommy, and bounced gently upon the edge of his bed. If Micklejohn had accomplished that he was a lad worth knowing.
Even if these were only the rough drafts of plans subsequently copied out and duplicated, they would still be of enthralling interest to the British High Command. Certainly not to be entrusted even for one night to a safe of which the key was helpfully hung upon an adjacent nail.
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