by John Holt
* * *
Scott had to get out of the city, out of the country. He had driven for what seemed like hours. It was now getting late, and darkness was falling. Must rest, and get something to eat. Have to dump the car though. They must have full details of it by now anyway. There’ll be roadblocks set up everywhere. He decided to find somewhere off the beaten track, and abandon the car.
Some miles further along he found the ideal spot. Just off the main road was a sign leading to a small lake. Slowly he drove along the dirt track, until he reached the lakeside, where he stopped. He got out of the car, leaving the engine running. He then placed some heavy stones onto the accelerator pedal. He put the car into gear, and released the hand brake. The car slowly moved forward directly into the lake. It suddenly stopped, stuck in the mud along the lake edge. Scott moved forward and started to push. Suddenly the car started to move once again. A few moments later the car entered the water. Slowly it began to sink, until eventually it disappeared completely below the water, air bubbles rising to the surface as it did so.
Scott watched until there was nothing remaining visible. Satisfied that the car was gone he turned and walked back along the dirt track. Just before he reached the main road, he turned into a gateway, and cut across the fields. In the distance he could see a large barn, and just beyond there was a small farmhouse. There he would find food, and somewhere to rest for the night.
Slowly he approached the house. It was in complete darkness, and there wasn’t a sound. As far as he could see the house was empty. Quietly he walked around to the back of the property. He tried the back door. It was locked. All of the windows were tightly shut. Reluctantly he decided that he would have to take a risk, and break a window. He bent down and picked up a large stone, and without further delay he struck the window hard. The glass remained intact. He struck once again. Once more the glass remained intact. He threw the stone to the ground, and started to hunt for another, something with a sharp point.
A few moments later and he saw exactly what he was looking for. He struck the glass once again. This time it shattered into dozens of pieces, falling noisily to the ground. Scott ducked down below the window sill, and kept very quiet and still, and waited, not daring to breath. Nothing happened. Nobody came. He stood up reached through the shattered glass, and turned the catch to open the window. Cautiously he climbed through, into the room beyond. It was a small sitting room of some kind. In the fireplace he could see the still glowing embers from the fire. He then realised that the house was occupied, but the occupants must have gone to bed. He knew that he had been fortunate so far, but he could not afford to hang around.
He had to move, and move quickly. He walked to the door, and quietly opened it. Placing his ear to the door he stood listening. There was no sound. He opened the door a little further, and peered into the adjacent hallway. Still there was no sound. He walked into the hallway, and turned into the next room. It was the kitchen, and there, sitting on the kitchen table was the remains of what he assumed had been the occupants’ supper. Without further hesitation Scott picked up a small joint of ham, and the remains of the bread lying there.
He quickly walked back into the sitting room, and climbed out of the window. As he did so, he stumbled, and fell against a small chair, sending it crashing backwards onto the floor. He quickly scrambled through the window, and ran as fast as he could. As he ran he looked around back toward the house. Lights had come on in the upstairs room.
As he ran his leg began to hurt badly. He had to rest. He knew that it was a risk, but he decided to get into the barn, and hide there for a few hours at least. The occupants of the house would expect any intruder to get as far away as possible. Nobody in their right mind would pick a hiding place so close. He reasoned that perhaps, just perhaps, he would get away with it. He quickly ran to the barn. As he arrived he noticed that the downstairs lights of the house were now on. The barn door was shut, but not secured. He quickly entered, carefully closing the door behind him. He then made his way to the first floor gallery in the barn, and hid in the straw. He lay down, ate his meal, and within a few moments fell into a deep sleep.
The following day a routine report reached the Inspector. It concerned a break in at a farmhouse in a remote village, some thirty miles south of the Danish border. There were no details, and no description. It was probably one of the many homeless refugees now roaming the countryside, as a result of the war. The report was logged in by the Duty Officer, noted, and then filed away.
* * *
At about that same time Scott was woken by the sound of people outside. He quietly stood up, and walked over to the small window in the end wall of the barn. He cautiously peered out. It was still quite early, and the sun was only just rising. He checked his watch. It had stopped at three twenty. He looked up at the sky, and judged that it was probably about six thirty. He could just see two people standing at the corner of the barn. As he watched they started to walk back in the direction of the house. Silently he descended the loft ladder, and walked over to the main door. He opened it a little way and looked out through the small slit. The people had gone. He pushed the door open and stepped out of the barn. Carefully watching the house he walked to the corner of the barn, and turned down the side away from the house.
Quickly he ran across the field, and into a narrow laneway. He looked back at the farm. There was no-one around. He continued walking along the lane, as fast as he could. In the distance he could see a church spire, and a number of houses. His leg was paining quite badly. It had also started bleeding again. Probably as a result of falling over that chair, he concluded. The leg needed treatment, and soon. He needed bandages, a cream of some kind, and some painkillers. He decided to head for the village, and find the local pharmacy.
Forty five minutes later he arrived at the village. There in the centre of the main street was what he was looking for, the general store and pharmacy. The street was deserted, although he could hear people stirring in the nearby houses. Moving to the back of the shops he found the rear entrance to the pharmacy. Although the door appeared to be secure, the doorframe was not. A few well aimed strikes with a discarded brick, and the frame fell away, and the door flew open. Scott entered the building and quickly went into the shop section. He soon found the items he needed, and quickly made his getaway, out of the village.
Scott never realised that he had been seen through the shop window. Michel Shaffer, the local milkman, had almost finished his round when he arrived at the front of the chemist shop. At the time he thought nothing of what he had seen. He thought it was the chemist making an early start, nothing more. The significance of what he had seen became much clearer when the damaged door frame was discovered almost one hour later.
* * *
“Sir we have just received a report of a robbery at a village pharmacy,” the sergeant announced as he entered the Inspector’s office. “A man was seen inside the shop at about seven thirty this morning.”
“Do we have any details?” asked the Inspector. “A description maybe?”
“We certainly do, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “Five feet ten inches tall; one hundred and fifty pounds; and dark hair.”
“Sounds like our man,” said the Inspector. “Anything else?”
“Well Apart from money, he stole antiseptic creams, and bandaging,” the |Sergeant replied. “It sounds like he could be injured.”
“At last, a break-through,” said the Inspector, enthusiastically. “Where is that village, sergeant?”
The police officer placed a map on the desk, and started to examine it. “There it is sir,” about thirty miles from the border,” he said.
“Get a squad up there as quickly as you can, and seal the area. He’s heading for Denmark. Alert the border authorities,” ordered the Inspector. “Tell them we’re on our way. Get my driver.”
* * *
Scott’s knee was now in a very bad state. It was substantially swollen, and there had been a lot of bleeding. He had applied some of t
he cream, and dressed it as best he could. There was a small improvement, though he knew that he really needed professional help. He needed a doctor, but that was not going to be possible until he got across the border into Denmark. “It’s my only hope,” he thought. He must get across that border. It was only a little over twenty-five miles away, but it seemed like a thousand. He would never walk that distance, and he was unable to drive with the pain of his leg.
“I need a train,” he told himself. With that thought in mind he slowly made his way around the edge of the village, until he found the station. There was a train heading north in a little over an hour’s time. Scott had no choice but to wait. He purchased his ticket, and then found a small trackside shed close by. It was a perfect hiding place whilst he waited for the train. Fifty minutes later Scott returned to the station. The platform was deserted. Two or three people were waiting on the opposite side, heading south, back to Hamburg. One of them looked over at him for a brief moment, and then turned back to their newspaper.
A sudden shriek from the engine startled Scott, as it signalled the arrival of his train. As the train pulled in he was gratified to see that it was generally empty. He climbed aboard, found a compartment, and sat down. It felt good to take the weight off of his leg. The train started to move away from the platform, gradually increasing speed. Another thirty minutes he would be in Denmark.
He laid his head back, and glanced out of the window. On the opposite platform a young police officer was talking to the three people, and one of them was pointing directly at the train.
* * *
The train had travelled a little over twenty miles, when it began slowing down. At the same time the compartment door opened, and the ticket inspector entered.
Scott handed him his ticket. “Why are we stopping?” he asked.
The Inspector was very sorry, but he did not know. He checked the ticket, handed it back, and left the compartment.
Scott went to the window, and looked out. Instantly he withdrew, and ducked below the sill line. There were a number of police officers by the side of train, walking along the track. Scott had no doubt that they were looking for him. He had to get away. He judged that he was no more than three or four miles from the border. They were not going to catch him, not now.
He made his way into the corridor, and walked over to one of the doors on the opposite side of the train. The train was continuing to slow down. Scott opened the carriage door, and glanced along the track. This section was deserted. Quickly he jumped from the train, and rolled down the adjacent bank, landing in a shallow ditch. The train rumbled slowly past. He was sure that no one had seen him.
He climbed out of the ditch and made his way across the field, over to the main road. There was no one in sight, and the road was deserted. Scott knew that he had no choice but to start walking. About a half mile further on a car drew up alongside. The driver rolled down the window, and asked if he would like a lift.
“I’m heading to Denmark, if that is any use to you,” he said.
Scott thanked him and got into the car, and it sped away. Just over a mile later the driver saw the roadblock ahead, and started to slow down. ‘They’re looking for someone who robbed a village shop,” said the driver, turning to face Scott.
Scott was holding a revolver. “Stop the car,” he ordered. “And get out, now.” The driver stopped the car, and got out as he had been instructed. Scott then put his foot hard down on the accelerator, and drove away at speed. The car smashed through the roadblock, amid a hail of bullets from the Police. One bullet hit Scott in the left side, just below the collarbone.
Another bullet hit the petrol tank. Less than a mile later the car ran out of fuel. Scott abandoned the car, and continued on foot, cutting across open fields. His knee was now becoming extremely painful, and swollen, and blood was now pouring from his gunshot wound. The Police were very close behind him. Walking was becoming more and more difficult. He stumbled and fell several times, struggling to keep his footing. He was losing blood fast, and becoming very weak.
He was now very close to border, no more than a thousand yards. He could see the border fence. Not much further now, must keep going. He could see the police, maybe three or four hundred yards behind him. They were beginning to close in. He must go on, can’t stop now. Badly limping, he slowly, painfully, shuffled forward. He fell once again.
There were only six hundred yards to the wire, maybe less. Got to go on. He tried to get up but he was now becoming too weak. He began to drag himself forward, inch by inch. A light rain started to fall. He suddenly felt very cold. He slowly turned his head and looked up.
He was back on the road marching through Italy. There up ahead lay Salerno. He could see the German troops in the distance, maybe three hundred yards away; he could hear their guns echoing over the valley. Their mortar shells were falling close by.
“Sarge,” he called out, “where are you? Bartelli, are you there? It’s getting dark, guys. I can’t see a thing.”
Once more he struggled to get up, but he was far too weak, and he slumped back down. “Terry,” he called out. “I’m so tired. Must rest, Sarge, can we stop for a while?”
He laid his head back. “I can’t go any further, Sarge.”
The gently falling rain mingled with the blood seeping from his wound. Must get some sleep, just for a little while. Five minutes, no more. He closed his eyes, for the last time.
Shortly afterwards the Police arrived, and surrounded him, their guns drawn, and aimed at the body lying in front of them. “Don’t move,” they ordered. He did not move. He was dead.
Chapter Thirty
Ernst Richter – Lake Kammersee
For the past week Ernst Richter had been unable to sleep. He could not forget the things Hartman had said to him, the things Hartman wanted him to do. Worry and stress were beginning to take its toll. He was becoming more and more anxious. He was irritable, impatient, moody. He became aggressive, bad tempered. His friends stopped coming to see him. His customers cancelled their lessons. Neighbours avoided him whenever possible. If they needed to speak to him at all, it was done as quickly as possible, and then they would be on their way.
There was no one that he could turn to for help. What could he possibly say to them, anyway? I’m being blackmailed, by a complete stranger, over something that I didn’t in fact do. As a consequence, I have to kill two other complete strangers. There was nothing unusual in that, quite a normal everyday occurrence. They would understand perfectly, wouldn’t they?
At best they would think I was playing around, always joking. At worst, they would think I was going mad. No he couldn’t tell anyone anything about it. It was too fantastic. The more he thought about it, the more fantastic it became. It is fantasy. The whole thing is a horrible, crazy dream. That’s it, it’s only a dream. It isn’t real. What was he worrying about? He began to feel a little better. Gradually he started to relax. He had been worrying for no reason. Then he saw the buff coloured folder lying on his table, and the stark reality sank in. It wasn’t fantasy. It was all too true. There was no denying it. It was not a dream after all.
He decided he had to get away, to get out of Gmunden for a while. He decided to go to Kammersee ahead of time, to try to work things out. He was due to go in a matter of days anyway. He needed to see if he could make any sense out of this situation. He said nothing of his plans to anyone. No one would know of his whereabouts. He had very few friends remaining, and had lost all of his customers. No one would be at all concerned about him anyway. The neighbours couldn’t care less, he ruefully admitted. He was completely alone now.
* * *
He had arrived at Kammersee a few days early, and had set up a small camp. He had then spent some time exploring the area. There was the waterfall that Hartman had mentioned. It was exactly as Hartman had described. Just behind the waterfall he could just see the narrow crevice and the cavern where he was to place the two men after he had killed them.
No, n
o, this isn’t happening. It can’t be. He had never actually killed a man before, not face to face as it were. His mind was in turmoil. He kept thinking of his meeting with Hartman. He still couldn’t believe it. It was some kind of a nightmare. It had to be. He went over the conversation in his mind. He came to the same conclusion each time. He had to admit that the situation he was in was actually happening. It was not some cruel joke. It was real.
Nonetheless, there had to be some action he could take. There must be a way out, he reasoned, something that he could do. There had to be. The main problem, obviously, was the file, the document itself. There was the key to his problem. The file had to be discredited somehow. That shouldn’t be too difficult. It was a definite forgery wasn’t it? Something dreamed up by Hartman himself. That much was certain. There was no disputing that fact. He knew it, and he knew that Hartman knew it. He had admitted as much, hadn’t he? Surely the authorities would realise it was all a fake. They’ve only to look at it. It would be seen to be a fake in no time.
They couldn’t possibly take it seriously. No, he thought, they couldn’t. I’m completely in the clear. All I have to do is go to the police, and tell them the whole story, from start to finish. They would naturally ask some questions. That would be quite reasonable. Of course they would certainly want to question Hartman. They would see through his deception, easily. They would see that I was telling the truth. Then he hesitated. Or would they?
Suppose Hartman never came forward, and could not be questioned. Suppose he could not be found. That wouldn’t look good for me, would it, Richter thought. Would it be so simple to discredit the document, without Hartman’s testimony? Hartman was hardly going to admit anything was he? Richter had read through the document a number of times now. He knew that there was a lot of truth contained in the document. The dates, times, places and people, they were all there, every detail. And every item was one hundred per cent correct. It was true that he had been the planner for all of those operations. It was also true that all of the operations that were detailed had all gone wrong. As a result many of his friends from the Resistance had been captured. Many had been subsequently tortured, and many had, sadly, been executed. All of these facts could easily be checked and verified. It had all been well documented by the German authorities, and the records were now in the hands of the Allied powers. There was no dispute; those facts were all true.
