by John Creasey
Von Otten bowed at last, extended his hand, took Drusilla’s and drew it to his lips. Drusilla smiled faintly and von Otten sat down next to her, growing immersed in conversation. Conroy muttered something under his breath, making Stefan smile a little.
Then the lights went out.
It happened with an abruptness which caught Palfrey completely unawares, making him exclaim in surprise and push his chair back. The band stopped abruptly; there was a hush over the whole room until a woman screamed for no apparent reason. The fat conductor’s squeaky voice was raised, bidding the orchestra to play, and a few bars of a waltz began, uneven and ragged. Then someone in front of Palfrey lit a match.
The light dazzled him at first, but he had time to see two men approaching von Otten, who was sitting upright; Palfrey could not see the expression on his face. Then Stefan exclaimed and moved past Palfrey, who saw a knife raised in the hand of one of the two men. Stefan passed in a flurry of legs and arms and hooked von Otten’s chair from under him. The Count went crashing to the floor and the table rocked. Stefan, a grotesque shape against the lighted match, was invisible when it went out suddenly. Palfrey knew that he was fighting, heard the scuffling and the sound of heavy breathing.
Someone else pushed past Palfrey.
He saw light, then – a torch was flashed on and more matches were struck. Stefan was struggling with two men, holding each at arm’s length. One was trying to strike at him with a knife; Palfrey saw it move towards the Russian’s wrist when Brian went up and struck the hand away. Then others came from the doors towards their table and Palfrey grew aware of a new threat.
The lights came on again.
That happened as suddenly as they had been switched off. Palfrey, though blinking in the glare, saw five or six dark-clad men approaching, all of them wearing scarves over the lower parts of their faces. That mattered little; what counted was the hand-grenade in the hand of one of them. It was there for a moment, then the fellow tossed it towards him, von Otten, and the table. It curved over Stefan’s head. Brian made an absurdly wild attempt to catch it, shooting a hand up above his head like first slip trying to make a difficult catch. He just touched the grenade, which dropped towards Palfrey. He shot out a hand and swept it upwards, away from him.
It was all he could do.
There was a hush over the whole of the room.
It was broken when a woman screamed again. Then, as if worked by clockwork, fifty people rose to their feet and rushed towards the door. The grenade went upwards and struck against the ceiling. Palfrey saw that, then ducked. He caught a glimpse of Conroy pulling Drusilla down to the table level, and of Karl dragging at Hilde’s arm. He did not see Stefan or Brian or the two men Stefan had caught, for a red flash forced itself through his eyelids and he heard the roar of the explosion. It drowned all the cries from the people thronging the exits. The orchestra had given up all attempts to play, but there was a rending, crashing sound, as if a dozen instruments had been flung on the floor at once.
Pieces of plaster and metal flew about the room; Palfrey felt them shower over his head. One or two hit the wooden floor with dull thuds, following a tinkling sound – as if lamp-bulbs were being broken, for they were preceded by sharp but small explosions. Then the noise became a background of hushed voices. He straightened up and looked about him for the first time.
Von Otten raised himself simultaneously; they were facing each other, and their heads bumped gently. Palfrey drew back, surprised to see a faint smile on the German’s face.
Stolte was dancing about from one foot to the other, crying out orders which no one seemed to understand and which certainly no one heeded. The crush in the doorways was being thinned out by uniformed men who came in from the passages, whirling batons about them. Stefan was standing upright and holding a man in each hand – his adversaries had given up the struggle and hung limply from his grasp. Brian was sitting on the floor, looking dazed. No one near them appeared to have suffered. There were one or two people on the floor further away, stretched out as if unconscious. Everywhere there was a litter of plaster and small pieces of metal sticking up from the wooden floor. Fully half of the lamp-bulbs had broken, but the light remained bright from the wall-lamps.
Von Otten looked first at Stefan, then Palfrey, then back at the Russian.
‘A truly remarkable physique!’ he said. ‘A worthy Party member, Herr Professor! And I have to thank you as well; you have an admirable presence of mind as well as an acute perception.’
Until that moment he spoke in leisurely fashion, but then he moved to Stefan and struck one of the helpless men with the back of his hand, a swift metamorphosis from the suave gentleman to the violent Prussian. He struck again, making the man cringe. Stefan released him and said sharply: ‘The man is hardly conscious!’
‘He will be in a much worse condition when I have finished with him,’ said von Otten, striking again.
Stefan released the fellow, who dropped in a crumpled heap on the floor. They measured each other with their eyes, neither Stefan’s nor von Otten’s dropping. Palfrey guessed what anger stirred in the Russian, but at the same time knew that this was yet another dangerous moment. Stefan had saved the Count’s life – there was no possible doubt of that – but nothing in von Otten’s manner suggested that he would let gratitude outweigh personal affront; certainly Stefan was affronting him then.
Palfrey stepped forward, sounding apprehensive.
‘Is it not time the others were caught, Excellency? They may have other weapons.’ He looked nervously about the room. ‘I saw a number of them.’
‘They are being attended to,’ said von Otten, and added thinly: ‘Whoever allowed it to happen will answer for this. Karl!’ His voice carried to every corner of the room, although Karl was just behind him. ‘Get them together, get them all together! Find out who they are!’
The men who had dared that attack were rounded up; their dark clothes and the fact that they still wore the masks identified them. Their masks were stripped from their faces, but Palfrey, seeing them, knew that not one of them felt afraid. He saw in particular one youth, no more than seventeen or eighteen, who had a clubbed foot. He looked thin, yet there was a hardiness about him which Palfrey respected. Palfrey hated to think of what would happen to him and his fellows, but obviously there was no opportunity for them to interfere. Since the challenge between Stefan and von Often, Stefan had released the other man and was standing stiffly by the table.
Palfrey glanced at him, and a half smile of apology showed on Stefan’s face. Then the club-footed youth was hauled before von Often, who had turned a table into a judicial bench and was sitting behind it. He looked in his element, thought Palfrey. The only thing wanted to complete the picture was a huge swastika on the wall behind.
To his surprise, von Often spoke softly to the prisoner.
‘You are too young for such things,’ he said, with a note almost of sympathy in his voice. ‘Why did you—’
The youth said clearly: ‘I came to kill you and to avenge my friends. I would come again and again to kill all of you. Schwartz, Urdson, Todt—all of you in this accursed league.’ He reeled off another half dozen names, not all of them German, and half way through uttered one which brought Palfrey up with a jerk.
‘… Pienne!’ shouted the youth wildly, ‘every accursed traitor in my country, and in others!’
‘Pienne!’ thought Palfrey. Then absurdly: ‘Me!’
Von Often turned to look at him, lips parted in a sardonic smile.
In that devastating moment Palfrey realised the danger and how it had come about. This man knew ‘Pienne’ – Pienne and others at the Palace of Gold were known by some of their compatriots as traitors. Others besides the club-footed youth might know the real Pienne, but to Palfrey, whose mind worked swiftly and whose heart began to race while von Often turned towards him, it did not matter how many others could denounce him as an impostor if this youth once betrayed his knowledge.
That, an
d more, flashed through his mind as he saw the German’s lips curling and heard him say: ‘You see, Herr Professor, you are not popular! You are yet another prophet without honour in your own country.’
The German was looking at Palfrey, the eyes of the youth were also turned towards him. That was surely the moment of betrayal. Palfrey’s face hardened, he stepped swiftly forward hoping to wrest safety even at that last moment, but unable to see how it could be done.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Youth with the Club Foot
The silence was uncanny.
The moment before, a dozen people had been talking at the same time; someone else had been moaning, the guards were cursing one or two of the prisoners, there was Bedlam in the big chamber. But as Palfrey stepped towards the club-footed youth, his eyes glittering and one hand clenched and raised, there was a hush which made Palfrey feel that every eye was turned towards him.
He got between the youth and von Otten and began to speak, hardly knowing what to say, trying to find some way of making the youth understand why it was necessary for him to hold his peace. Before a word passed his lips, however, the silence was broken, for Conroy shouted: ‘Look—watch him!’
The American suddenly dived forward towards the crowd. Palfrey, his mind crystal clear, knew that the other had sensed the danger and was deliberately creating a diversion. Stefan and Brian jumped forward, their minds working no less swiftly than Conroy’s. Palfrey did not know whether von Otten’s attention was distracted, but he hoped for the best. He reached the youth and gripped his throat, not tightly – the other was too startled to do more than gape at him. The guards, leaving him to Palfrey, went to the general mêlée.
Palfrey said in a hoarse whisper: ‘I am Pienne, do you understand? I am Pienne.’ Then he flung the youth away from him, sent him staggering to the floor.
He swung round to find von Otten turned away from the hunt which Conroy had started, a faintly surprised expression on his arrogant face.
‘This man must be questioned!’ cried Palfrey. ‘How does he know that I am here? Answer me that, how does he know?’ He glared at von Otten as if it were the German’s sole responsibility. He was relieved to see the other’s smile widen and grow more sardonic. The moment of crisis was past; now everything depended on whether the Swiss youth realised the importance of maintaining the deception, and whether anyone else there would recognise the ‘false’ Pienne.
‘Calm yourself, Herr Professor,’ said von Otten gently. ‘He will be questioned with them all. I agree that we must find out how he knows so much. You need not worry about that, he will be persuaded to talk.’
He looked at the youth, who was on the floor peering up at them both and licking his lips. The fire and the defiance had died away from him, his eyes were dull and lack-lustre.
‘You see, he is not nearly so brave now,’ sneered von Otten. ‘He realises now what he has done.’
Palfrey said harshly: ‘I will find out what he knows, whatever I have to do to him.’ He was thinking then with a swift anxiety that if it were in any way possible, he must help the youth – he needed no telling of the methods von Otten would use and shrank from victimising the youth to save himself.
It was more than that.
He knew it, yet it was difficult to admit it. He knew that even if he were denounced it would not ease the lot of the youngster on the floor, and – there was still more. The issue was so much greater than individuals; whatever the cost to himself or the others, he must try to maintain his freedom of movement, his precarious position in Berlin. By a tacit admission that he was Pienne the youth would bolster up his pretence; at great cost to the assailant, Palfrey might be made safer than had seemed possible a few minutes before.
The guards with the youth returned. Palfrey saw that Conroy and Stefan were struggling with a tall man in S.S. uniform, other guards were about them, the crowd had surged away from the door and the mêlée in it. That was all he did see, for von Otten shouted: ‘Be careful, Pienne!’
Palfrey half turned.
The club-footed youth had risen from the floor with an agility none would have suspected in him. He launched himself at Palfrey. The glare in his eyes gave the lie to the dullness he had shown a moment before. He thrust von Otten into Palfrey, who had no time to steel himself against the onslaught and was carried backwards. It happened too quickly for anyone to come immediately to his rescue. He felt the youth’s hand at his throat, the thumbs searching for the jugular artery; for a moment thought that the other believed him to be Pienne.
The youth’s voice whispered in its turn, close to Palfrey’s ear, as they turned over in the mock struggle.
‘You will not be betrayed,’ he said. ‘You will not be betrayed. Attanstrasse, Number 8. Attanstrasse, Number 8.’ Then he began mouthing curses, kicking and struggling as the guards dragged him away.
Palfrey straightened up, pushed a hand through his hair, and stared at the youth in a bewilderment and confusion not wholly assumed. It had happened almost too swiftly for him to fully comprehend it; only later did he appreciate the quick-wittedness of that club-footed lad.
Von Otten said softly: ‘Take him away. I will see him myself, later.’ He stood by as Palfrey scrambled to his feet and brushed down his clothes. The youth was led towards the doors by his two guards; only when the crowd had closed behind them did von Otten pay further attention to Palfrey.
‘Certainly you are not popular,’ he said suavely. ‘I regret that you have been subjected to such treatment, but the young fool will understand his folly better before long. Are you all right?’ He neither sounded nor looked solicitous. ‘Good!’ he added, also without feeling. ‘I am afraid that you will not be able to attend the interrogation, Herr Professor, but I shall send you a full report of what he says. And now—what have your friends been doing?’
Stefan, Brian and Conroy had finished struggling with the tall S.S. man, who was dwarfed by Stefan as they led him forward. The German looked frightened, his face was bruised, one sleeve was ripped open at the shoulder.
‘Excellency—’ he began.
‘Be quiet,’ said von Otten. ‘What did you see him do, Herr Aarlack?’
Stefan said: ‘I think—’
‘He pulled a gun,’ said Conroy harshly. ‘He didn’t make it look like a joke, Excellency. It was pointing this way.’
‘Indeed?’ said von Otten. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I saw the gun,’ said Brian swiftly.
‘Here is the gun,’ said Stefan simply, drawing a Mauser from his pocket.
‘Excellency—’ began the S.S. man desperately.
‘Go on,’ said von Otten, with dangerous quiet.
‘Excellency, I realised that there might be further trouble, I thought it best to be prepared. And then—’ he looked dazedly at Conroy and Stefan. ‘They were upon me and gave me no opportunity to explain!’
‘You fought back,’ said von Otten.
‘I—I did not realise they were friends of your Excellency,’ said the S.S. man, licking his lips. He swallowed hard; Palfrey had rarely seen a man so thoroughly frightened. ‘I assure you, Excellency, that it was no more than that.’
‘You should be more careful in showing a gun,’ said von Otten, then turned impatiently to Palfrey. ‘I think your friends were too zealous, Herr Professor.’
‘They know the need for care,’ said Palfrey.
‘Yes, yes!’ Von Otten sounded impatient. ‘We shall forget it. It does not look as if there will be more dancing tonight, they will need to clear the floor of debris. But it is unimportant. You will be escorted by Stolte. Tomorrow you will discuss further measures with the Fräulein Silversen. I shall not be forgetful of what you and your friends have done here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Palfrey.
Von Otten nodded, took his gauntlets from the table – from which practically everything else had fallen – then bowed towards Drusilla with a smile which Palfrey likened to Stolte’s.
‘I shall look f
orward to meeting you again, Fräulein,’ said von Otten. ‘Goodnight!’
Drusilla’s smile, as he turned away, was positively radiant.
A path was cleared for von Otten as he approached the door. By then the attackers had been led away. Although a few of the revellers had returned to their tables, there was no serious attempt to start the revelry afresh. Palfrey caught himself out in a yawn and realised that he had slept until twelve o’clock—if he were tired what did the others feel like? He glanced at his watch, to find that it was nearly seven a.m.
Stolte was hovering about him.
‘Are you ready to return, Herr Professor?’ he asked humbly.
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Yes, it’s past time.’
There was no chance of getting a taxi, Stolte said as they went upstairs, but it was not a long walk and the cool air of the morning would perhaps freshen them. He deplored that their enjoyment had been so spoiled, but congratulated them on establishing themselves in His Excellency’s good graces-it was no easy thing, he assured them. Palfrey grunted non-committally, and asked whether he knew Fräulein Silversen.
Stolte’s eyes lighted up; Drusilla caught Stefan’s eye; they smiled spontaneously.
‘But of course, Herr Professor! Of late she had been one of us—she is a great friend of Leutnant Bonn.’
‘Bonn?’ echoed Palfrey.
‘Leutnant Karl Bohn, who was with her tonight. He is one of the personal staff of his Excellency,’ said Stolte. His frown suggested that he did not think anything like so much of Karl Bonn as he did of Hilde Silversen.
