by John Creasey
He did not move on immediately, but when he walked away Palfrey followed, Brian took second place, Conroy brought up the rear. They walked for some time, an aimless kind of procession. They had little difficulty in keeping each other in sight.
Twice they passed the gabled houses lining the quays of Nyhaven, and then approached them a third time. Into one of the old houses, once the city’s greatest attraction for sightseers, the little German turned quickly. Palfrey followed him, the others crowded into a small hall.
Schlesser closed the door.
‘We have not been seen,’ he said with confidence. ‘We are all right. Come, please!’ He led the way up a flight of narrow stairs and waited for them on the landing. ‘Listen, please!’ he said in a whisper. ‘There are three lots of stairs—one—two—three.’ He pointed to each flight, and in the near-darkness they were just discernible. ‘If anyone comes up one flight, we go down the other.’ He opened a heavy oak door, waited for them to follow him inside, then closed the door and switched on a light.
Like Orleck’s, Schlesser’s appearance did not inspire great confidence.
‘Well, Colonel,’ said Palfrey, breaking the silence. ‘You know that we’re here to try to get at Erikson?’
‘Yes,’ said Schlesser promptly. ‘It will not be easy, it is a task of great difficulty. But I think it can be done.’ He hesitated. ‘It will cost much money.’
Palfrey thought: ‘Graft, yes.’ Aloud he asked: ‘How much?’
‘At least five hundred kroner,’ said Schlesser promptly. Tor myself, nothing. My reward is revenge.’ His face was quite expressionless yet his voice seemed to carry in its timbre the story which Thorvold had told them. ‘For three German uniforms with which you can enter the Palace of Charlottenborg, one hundred kroner each. For the guards who watch Erikson and Ohlson, fifty kroner each. Then there is the money for the car. I will have instructions to allow three German officers to have a car for one hour tomorrow afternoon. The time for Erikson’s exercise is half-past three tomorrow, you understand? The car will be outside the gates which you can unfasten from the inside. You will deal with the guards as you think fit—they will accompany you into the yard where the men take their exercise, but if you have paid them their fifty kroner, then they will not telephone the Kommandant to say that the visitors are inside.’
‘You’d better know our plans,’ said Palfrey. ‘We’ll take Erikson and Ohlson out under guard. At the station we’ll be less noticeable. We’d better travel on a train which will be crowded and which has lavatory accommodation, where we ran change our clothes. What time are the trains?’
‘From Copenhagen there will be a train for Nyborg at five o’clock,’ said Schlesser. ‘I presume to advise. I would take a train from Osterbro, they are less likely to see you there.
There is a train at five-thirty which is slow, but will be safer. Many more people get in and out. You will reach Nyborg some time after dark, when you will have a better chance in all ways. Is that satisfactory?’
‘Thanks, yes!’ said Palfrey. ‘Where do we get the uniforms?’
‘You go from here to Kongens Nytorv,’ said Schlesser, ‘where all the roads meet. You take the third turning—the third turning, please to understand, from the large air-raid shelter. At the third turning again—along that road, you understand—you will turn and at the seventh house along, the seventh, you will tap four times. It is a house of ill-fame. You will be invited to enter and you will be asked to pay ten kroner each for admission. There you will get food, rest, company if you wish it.’ Schlesser shrugged his thin shoulders.
‘There’s one thing before we go,’ said Palfrey. ‘Several Danes have been taken from Copenhagen and other towns—men of the same stamp as Erikson. You know that?’
‘Of course I know it,’ said Schlesser.
Palfrey said: ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’
Schlesser gave the impression that he was on edge and did not want to waste time, but he replied courteously enough that he had no idea – they had been removed with great secrecy and by members of the Gestapo. ‘Under the direction,’ he said, ‘of Count von Otten, who was one of Himmler’s most able lieutenants.’
Palfrey tapped four times.
There was a pause before the sound of a bolt being drawn back broke the quiet of the night. A harsh, feminine voice bade them enter. They crowded a little passage, the door was closed. A monstrously fat woman blocked their path when they were able to see after a light was switched on. Her plump, beringed hand was thrust in front of them and the first words she said were: ‘Ten kroner each.’
Palfrey paid up and the woman slipped the coins into the neck of her silk dress – she was better dressed than anyone Palfrey had seen that day – and then performed the almost incredible feat of turning her vast bulk in the passage and leading the way up a narrow flight of stairs; her buttocks touched the wall on one side and the banister rails on the other, yet she contrived to walk with a flouncing gait which fascinated Palfrey. On a square landing she stopped and said breathlessly: ‘Supper, twenty kroner each, pay for it when it comes. Company, forty kroner each; virgins, sixty-five kroner; order if you wish.’ She was as precise and colourless as Schlesser had been. ‘Beds ten kroner each in one room, twenty kroner each for separate room; order when you wish, there will be accommodation. That room there.’ She pointed to a closed door and flounced away, leaving them alone.
The house was silent until a burst of laughter, feminine, high-pitched and raucous, sounded with a jarring note. That faded; Palfrey moved to the door and turned the handle.
A brighter light was shining inside.
Palfrey stepped in and was the first to see the man sitting at a long table, quite alone and with a set of patience cards in front of him. He looked up with a wide smile, and did not move. Palfrey stopped quite still, his heart almost turning over.
Stefan rose to his feet, his vast hands gripped Palfrey’s and Brian’s, then Conroy’s.
‘A little surprise,’ he said. ‘I could not resist it, Sap; I asked them not to tell you. Now, come in, tell me all of the news.’
Chapter Eleven
The Palace of Charlottenborg
They had thin soup and coarse fish, with large quantities of black bread, and finished a large pot of what was called coffee and tasted like nothing on earth.
Stefan had told them how he had contrived to get away before the worst had happened in Oslo, reaching Sweden and making contact with English agents. Like all of them he knew the men who could give help in emergency and, assuming that Copenhagen would be their next port of call, had managed to get across the Cattegat in company with some fishermen being allowed to unload their catches at fantastic prices in the markets of Denmark. He had located Thorvold. Thorvold was far too cautious, Stefan thought, but since he was on the Marquis’s books he was presumably reliable.
‘While things go well, yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I don’t think he would stand much pressure. But our money’s on Schlesser.’
‘And who is Schlesser?’ demanded Stefan.
Palfrey went into a detailed explanation. When he finished, Stefan leaned back and the chair creaked under his weight. He straightened up with a grimace, then said thoughtfully: ‘I can see nothing better to do, Sap, than what you suggest. I think perhaps’ – he frowned in concentration – ‘I had best get on the train at Osterbro, not meeting you again until later. If there is trouble I can cause a diversion. You can manage in the palace? They are not very powerful, the Germans here. Most of them are old men. As soldiers go,’ he added, ‘they are both old and weary. A good sign!’
‘You wait at Osterbro,’ agreed Palfrey, ignoring the aside.
They went into further detail with the plans and preparations, but there was little more to say.
‘How do we ask for our rooms?’ asked Palfrey.
‘There is a bell,’ said Stefan.
The woman whose name they did not know came along in her elephantine way, her head on one side, her
beady eyes on Palfrey’s. Her plump hands, so fleshy that there was hardly a crease in the palms, were held out as if she was tentatively hoping for another order and the kroner in advance. She showed no disappointment when they elected to have a room between the four of them, but said quickly: ‘Yes, follow me.’
They trailed along the passage after her, climbing another flight of steps. She pushed open a door on the next landing without using her hand or slackening her pace – just bore down on it and sent it flying open with a kick – then stood in the middle of a wooden-walled, bleak-looking room with four camp beds.
She bustled out and the others grinned at each other, waiting with the door ajar until she returned; then Palfrey, catching the first glimpse of her, hurried forward. She was carrying a pile of blankets which rose high and wide in front of her, doubling her mighty bosom and hiding her face; yet she stamped along as if unburdened. Palfrey grabbed an armful of the blankets and felt something hard beneath the top one.
She dumped the rest on one of the beds and wheezed: ‘I will return,’ and off she went again.
Palfrey, moving one of the blankets which he had taken, looked up with an absent smile.
He had revealed the uniform of a Nazi officer and the hard thing he had felt was the belt, not of leather but of some ersatz material which was already cracking at the sides. Hidden beneath the others were the two uniforms for N.C.O’s and three Mauser revolvers.
They breakfasted off thin porridge which had little taste, and further copious draughts of the ersatz coffee, with a small ration of black bread.
‘Are we going out this morning?’ Conroy asked as they finished and while the fat woman whisked the dirty crockery from the table in the room where they had first met.
‘You would not be such fools as to go out,’ said the fat woman expressionlessly. ‘You have an important task. I wish you well. Tell Erik Erikson—’ she let her lips open more widely and Palfrey realised that she was achieving a grotesque smile; it was as if she had not smiled for years and her muscles were stiff for want of practice. ‘Tell Erik Erikson,’ she repeated, ‘that Olga Loffler helped him to get away.’ Her smile widened, she put a tray of crockery on the table and placed her chubby hands on her enormous uncorsetted stomach and laughed, a mountainous upheaval which fascinated all of them. ‘Tee-he-he’ she wheezed, ‘tell Erik Erikson that Olga Loffler helped him to get away. He will laugh, oh, he will laugh! Tee-he-he!’
A clock struck three.
Palfrey walked along a side turning for a few yards, and approached the main doors of the huge palace. Behind him, Brian and Conroy walked stiffly; all three had revolvers, none had rifles. They presented their papers to a little bald-headed sergeant just inside the door. He looked at the signatures, hesitated, then said in a thin voice: ‘Whom do you wish to see?’
‘The Dane, Erikson,’ said Palfrey harshly.
‘Erikson, yes. I have an instruction—’ The sergeant ran through the papers littered in front of him on a baize-topped table. ‘The Hauptmann Pretz and two men—yes, that is all right. You know the way, perhaps?’
‘How should I know the way on my first visit?’ demanded Palfrey. The bald-headed man apologised quickly, called: ‘Holler!’ and then, when a frail-looking man who looked nearer sixty than fifty came up: ‘Show the Herr Hauptmann to Room 104. Hurry!’
It was even more gloomy and sombre inside than it appeared from the street and it was alive with drab grey uniforms. Palfrey and the others were not questioned as they followed their guide. A few seconds later they stood in a group outside Room 104, while Holler knocked.
A stocky little Bavarian opened the door.
‘What do you want?’ he growled. When he saw Palfrey, he straightened up and saluted. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Hauptmann!’
‘I come to interrogate Erik Erikson,’ said Palfrey. ‘I am in a hurry.’
‘Yes, Herr Haptmann.’ The man stepped aside, Palfrey, Brian and Conroy followed, Holler was dismissed. ‘He is about to be exercised with Ohlson, but it can be delayed.’ He glanced away from Palfrey to a small, tidy desk in a small room; Palfrey knew that he was looking at the telephone, an old-fashioned candlestick type.
‘Here are my papers of authority,’ said Palfrey.
The man looked at them, and Palfrey snapped: ‘Take them, you cannot read them like that!’
The sergeant obeyed and opened the card; inside were two silver fifty-kroner pieces. There was no expression on the man’s face but he became suave and obliging.
‘Thank you, Herr Hauptmann, they are quite in order. You will please say if you wish to see them in their room or in the yard. Whichever you wish, Herr Hauptmann, although my instructions have been that they should be exercised at three-thirty.’ He talked as if the men were dogs. ‘But just as you desire.’
‘It is a fine day,’ said Palfrey. ‘The yard will suit me.’
‘Thank you, Herr Hauptmann.’ The sergeant turned and with remarkable dexterity slipped the two silver pieces into his pocket. Then he stepped to another door and opened it.
The room beyond was a large one.
There were two desks and a small laboratory bench fitted in it. On a table by the biggest window Palfrey had seen in Copenhagen, were dozens of small bottles and what looked like squares of butter or margarine and lard. Some of the bottles were filled with a bluish-white substance not unlike watered milk. By the further door, which was locked, stood a corporal, staring at the newcomers without expression. The door dwarfed him; it was a mammoth one, the ceiling of the room was lost in its own height. There were intricate carvings on the ceiling, the door and the window-frames and a faded tapestry hung on one wall.
Palfrey took it all in at a glance, then paid attention to the other two men.
He did not know which was Erikson and which Ohlson but guessed that the tall, gaunt one with a completely bald, egg-shaped head, was Erikson; he looked much more the professor type. He was standing by the bench, his hands empty, and looking at the visitors dully. By his side was a short, rotund man – yet despite the fact that in comparison with the taller one, he looked fat, actually his clothes sagged loosely about him and there were bags of skin under his chin. At one time, obviously, he had been very fat.
Neither of them spoke.
The shorter man’s eyes were a curious, lively blue, at variance with his set expression. The taller man looked at Palfrey from beneath narrowed lids. His face was so thin that the bones stuck out and the flesh of his cheeks fell in; he was like a living skeleton of a man.
‘You will now take your exercise!’ the sergeant said sharply. ‘The Herr Hauptmann will talk to you then.’ Palfrey was quite sure that he looked meaningly towards the corporal and that the latter’s suspicious expression relaxed; it was if a telepathic message concerning the fifty-kroner pieces had been flashed from one to the other.
The gaunt man put a hand to his eyes; his fingers were trembling. The lively, alert eyes of his companion turned towards him and the man said as sharply as the sergeant had spoken: ‘I protest! Herr Erikson is not well enough to be bothered with questions.’
‘I have my orders,’ said the sergeant stolidly. ‘Your protest will be reported.’ There was a sneer when he said ‘reported’ and Palfrey fancied that the man who had once been so fat licked his lips as if he knew exactly what it would mean; and that it would not be pleasant.
It was a walled-off section of the main grounds of the palace. The wall, six or seven feet high, was topped with barbed wire and steel spikes; there was no chance at all of scaling it in a hurry. There was one large door on the far side of the wall, arched and heavy; he could see the bolts from where he stood.
The tall man blinked in the strong light; Ohlson – Palfrey hardly noticed that his guess had been right – took a grip on his friend’s arm. The guards stayed by the door; the two prisoners began to walk. Brian and Conroy stood rigidly at attention by the sergeant and the corporal.
When they were out of earshot, Ohlson said: ‘Herr Haup
tmann, I must apologise if I seemed offensive, but I am quite sure that Herr Erikson is not well enough to be questioned. He has been ill of late and I have applied unsuccessfully for treatment. It is a miracle that he is alive now. They give him’ – there was bitterness in his voice – ‘just enough to keep him alive and allow him to work part of the time. No more than that.’
Palfrey said in German, but without expression: ‘He is diabetic, isn’t he? I can help him. Please do not look up and do not speak! Do not show any surprise.’
Erikson missed a step; Ohlson tightened his grip on the other’s arm, shot Palfrey a single startled glance, then waited. They walked in silence for perhaps a minute before Palfrey went on, still speaking German: ‘A car will be outside shortly. When it arrives my companions will overpower your guards and we shall go out. It will be a difficult journey and there will be a certain amount of risk. My instructions are to try to make sure that you are both released, but you should be warned.’
Ohlson said in a gentle voice: ‘Who are you? English, of course? Erik, you hear that?’
Erikson’s voice was barely audible. His hooded eyes, once so lifeless, looked at Palfrey with an expression of incredulity. ‘I must warn you also, I shall not be able to stand the strain of a long journey without—without—’
‘Insulin, I know. You’ll be all right once we’re outside.’ He stopped. Ohlson began to ask questions, none of them requiring any answer. They passed the guards, Conroy and Brian, and nothing was said. Then, as they drew near the heavy gate, they heard the sound of a car drawing up outside.
Palfrey turned and raised a hand to Brian.
Chapter Twelve
A Journey by Train
The corporal and the sergeant saw the sign and appeared to take it as a signal to them; they both stepped forward. Conroy slipped behind them, Brian closed in on the other side. Their hands clutched the men’s throats to prevent them from crying out; there was a brief struggle and only a slight, scuffling sound. Conroy’s man, the sergeant, went down first; he did not move when he hit the flagged courtyard. Conroy bent over him and was stuffing a handkerchief in his mouth, as Brian’s man collapsed.
