Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens

by Michael Gilbert

  As soon as they were past, Mr. Calder started to wriggle backwards, keeping in the shadows, and as flat as possible on the ground. Hans came with him. When they were behind the tent Mr. Calder said, his mouth close to Hans’ ear, “Get into the tent. Squeeze in under the canvas. See if you can find me one of those field telephones.”

  Hans nodded, and wormed his way into the tent. Five minutes passed before he reappeared, pushing the instrument in front of him. Meanwhile Mr. Calder had been making a reconnaissance. The ground was uneven and he led the way, still keeping flat, down a shallow depression, under the wire and out of the camp. After this they continued their advance on hands and knees until a clump of bushes hid them. By this time they were nearly a hundred yards from the camp. Mr. Calder noted that Hans had not opened his mouth. It confirmed his good opinion of the boy.

  He said, “Now we must find the telephone line. I think it was laid on the left-hand side of the track.”

  They found it without difficulty. He said, “You know how to use this thing?”

  Hans nodded. He was already baring the insulation with his jack-knife, and twisting in the wires from the terminals. Then he put on the headset, and spoke softly into it. Softly, but to no purpose. He said, “The line is dead.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Mr. Calder. “But we had to try it first. They will have cut out a section of the wire. It might take all night to find it. We’ll have to go for the cars. You heard them arrive. How far down the track?”

  “Two hundred metres I would judge.”

  There were three bulky Steyr touring cars and a smaller Volkswagen, parked in a line. As they came up they could see the man who had been left to guard them. He was sitting in the front seat of the leading car, and he was smoking.

  “No time for finesse,” said Mr. Calder. He stalked up to the car and shouted, in German, “That’s no way to stand guard, you lazy lout.”

  As the man scrambled out Mr. Calder hit him scientifically and he went down flat on his face.

  “Take his boots off,” he said. “We’ll use the laces to tie him up. And gag him with his scarf.”

  “Then we take the little car, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Calder. “But we don’t start it up here. It’s much too close to the camp. We’ll have to push it.”

  They turned the light Volkswagen without much difficulty, pushed it up the track for ten yards, and then had the benefit of a short downhill run. Ahead of them the track rose steadily for about a hundred yards to a crest. After that, as he knew, they would have a free run down for about the same distance.

  Mr. Calder thought about it. They were now about three hundred yards from the camp. The night was very still. With any luck they would not have been missed. What they needed to do was to complete their getaway as inconspicuously as possible.

  “We shall have to push the car over that next crest,” he said. “We’ll set the wheels as straight as we can, and both get behind her. And we won’t try to do it all at once. I’m not as young as I was.”

  Mr. Calder soon realised one thing. Hans was the right man for this job. Mr. Calder himself had surprising reserves of strength in his barrel chest and thick arms, but Hans was twice as strong as he was.

  It would have been easier if the surface of the track had been harder and smoother. After forty yards, Mr. Calder demanded a breather. The sweat was pouring down his body inside his shirt.

  He said, “Did you ever play rugby football?”

  “Rugby football,” said Hans. “I have watched it. It seemed a very rough game.”

  “You’d be an asset to any team in the second row of the scrum.”

  “Those are the ones who put their heads between the bottoms of the other ones and push?”

  “That’s right.”

  The thought seemed to amuse Hans. He said, “Perhaps I will try it.”

  Then they resumed their labour. Mr. Calder thought with sympathy of Sisyphus. By the time they reached the second halt, some twenty yards from the crest, something seemed to be troubling Hans. He said, “Have you considered, Herr Calder, that the keys of the car are missing. How shall we start it?”

  “You don’t need keys to start a car. Just a small piece of wire.”

  “Is that so? That would be the way in which a car thief would operate?”

  “Certainly. I’ve stolen a lot of cars in my time.”

  “Indeed?” said Hans. Clearly his opinion of Mr. Calder was now very high.

  At the top of the rise the passage of vehicles in either direction had thrown up a low ridge of packed earth.

  “We’ll have to move that,” said Mr. Calder. “There should be a kit of sorts in the back.”

  Armed with a jack handle and a large spanner they started to dig out the obstruction.

  The men in the tent were taken totally by surprise. The first sign was the eruption of fifteen armed men into the marquee. A hard voice said, in German, “You are advised to make no stupid moves,” and repeated this in English.

  Everyone swung round.

  Captain Bruckner said, “Who are you? You have no right here. Lay down those arms at once.”

  When the newcomers made no move to obey him, Lieutenant Brunz, who was the only man who was armed at that moment, put his hand onto the gun in his hip holster. The man who had spoken raised his own machine pistol, and shot the lieutenant through the shoulder.

  “You see,” he said, “we mean business. We do not shoot to kill, unless we have to. But a bullet in the shoulder or the knee can be painful. It can also cripple you. If anyone wishes to try whether I mean what I say, he is at liberty to make the experiment.”

  His men had spread themselves along the far side of the tent, and were covering every angle of it.

  Mr. Behrens stepped forward slowly. He said, “You will all do exactly what this man tells you. There is a first-aid box in the corner. Albert, would you get it, and see what you can do for the lieutenant.” Brunz was sitting on one of the chairs by the table. His left hand was clasping his right shoulder and his face was contorted.

  The leader of the newcomers had been looking curiously at Mr. Behrens. He said, “I think I know you. But I have forgotten your name.”

  “I have not forgotten yours, “said Mr. Behrens. “You are – or you were – Obersturmfuehrer Otto Lessner. You were, for a time, in charge of the guard at Ravensbruck camp. I did my best to get you hanged. I am only sorry that I was unsuccessful.”

  Lessner came forward and peered into Mr. Behren’s face. He was smiling. It was not an agreeable smile, more a lifting of the lips.

  “Behrens, of course,” he said. “This is indeed a reunion. Where is your inseparable friend Calder?”

  “He died two years ago, otherwise I’m sure he would have been happy to be here. It would have given him great pleasure to see you in such an uncomfortable position.”

  “Uncomfortable, Herr Behrens?”

  “Certainly. You have shot and wounded a police officer in the presence of a number of witnesses. Forty years ago you might have got away with it. Not now, my friend. Not now.”

  Lessner had taken off his left-hand gauntlet, and was holding it loosely in his right hand. Now he swung it, hitting Mr. Behrens in the fac”Running true to form,” said Mr. Behrens. “A bully and a coward.” He was speaking in German, loud enough for the newcomers to hear. They were a curious mixture, some of them hardly more than boys, others as old as Lessner, or even older. Mr. Behrens ran a sardonic eye over the representatives of the resurgent Nazi movement. “This is a curious platoon you’ve brought along, Obersturmfuehrer. Half from the kindergarten and half from the old folks’ home.”

  Lessner’s face was dark red and his hand was sliding towards the butt of his machine pistol when he stopped.

  He said, “I know you, Herr Behrens. I know your ways. You are an old fox. Why do you seek to provoke me? I answer my own question. You are playing for time. You expect assistance. It will not come. We have taken all necessary steps to ensu
re that. Nevertheless, we will waste no time exchanging compliments with you. Maybe when we have finished our work, we will have a little sport.”

  He signalled to two of the young men, who laid down their weapons and stepped forward smartly. Mr. Behrens saw that one of them was carrying a length of wire rope fitted with a shackle. Evidently Lessner had studied Rudolf Sperrle’s manuscript and had come prepared.

  The rope was passed under the exposed block of cement and fastened. The two men pulled. The block lifted a little, and fell back.

  “Two more,” said Lessner. The remaining gunmen spread themselves out to maintain their arc of fire. Four men pulling together lifted the block clear of the hole and swung it onto the floor of the tent. Two of them unloosed the rope. The other two went outside and returned with a sledge hammer and a heavy steel chisel.

  “Well rehearsed,” thought Mr. Behrens. He looked down quickly at his watch. Thirty minutes had passed. It might take them another thirty to crack the cement. Not quite long enough.

  The men were using the hammer and chisel cautiously. It was more than half an hour before the metal canisters had been broken free of their concrete shell and were standing on the ground.

  Mr. Behrens said, “Would it not be of interest to all of us, to ascertain at least that the recordings of the Fuehrer’s voice have survived.”

  He noted the stir of interest which this produced from the listening gunmen.

  “No doubt it would be interesting,” said Lessner, “but unfortunately we have not brought the necessary apparatus with us.”

  “I have,” said Mr. Behrens. He went to the back of the tent, opened a suitcase, and brought out an old-fashioned dictaphone. “The description of the wire spools was detailed enough for me to be able to procure a machine which should enable us to play them. Would you care to try?”

  There was no doubt about the sentiments of the audience, German and British alike.

  “Ninety-nine per cent in favour,” thought Mr. Behrens.

  Lessner hesitated. Then he said, “We have the night in front of us. I see no reason not to humour you in this matter.”

  The canisters were fastened with stout padlocks which had rusted solid and which, as Mr. Behrens had hoped, took a lot of removing. In the end, the shanks had to be sawn through. The first cylinder contained bundles of papers, tightly packed, each wrapped in oil skin.

  “It would seem that what we are looking for must be in the other one,” said Mr. Behrens smoothly.

  Lessner hesitated again, and glanced down at his watch. He did not overlook the possibility that someone might have escaped and gone for help. But the nearest effective help was nearly fifty kilometres away, and all the camp vehicles had been immobilised.

  He smiled thinly, and said, “Very well.”

  This time they knew what they were about, and less time was wasted. There were packets of papers in the second canister. Under them was a wooden box, the size of a larger cigar box.

  “Allow me,” said Mr. Behrens. He had set up his machine on the table, and now took one of the spools from the box and fitted it into the machine. He tried not to appear hurried, but he was wasting no time, because he had already heard the noise he was hoping for. It was faint as yet. Probably he only picked it up because he was listening for it. The attention of every other person in the tent was on the apparatus on the table.

  A voice filled the tent. Harsh, staccato, unmistakable.

  “To the people of the great German Reich, your Fuehrer speaks.”

  Mr. Behrens looked round. The youngsters, newcomers and police were attentive. The older men were much more than attentive, they were rapt, spellbound. He noted, with sardonic amusement, that Captain Bruckner was holding himself rigidly to attention.

  “We stand at one of the turning points of history. The storm clouds are rolling up, from the East and from the West. At this moment the sky overhead looks black.”

  For God’s sake, thought Mr. Behrens, they must hear it soon. The three giant Hercules transporters had cut their engines as they came in at two thousand feet.

  “But do not fear. Be of good courage. The sun will break through.”

  At the last moment Lessner realised what was happening. He switched off the recorder, and raced to the entrance of the tent. Fifty parachutists were already on the ground. Another hundred were floating gently to earth under the full moon.

  “I confess I was surprised that he dared to shoot that policeman,” said Mr. Behrens. “He couldn’t hope to get away with it. Unless he killed us all and buried us. Which seemed improbable.”

  “If he had secured the contents of those canisters,” said Mr. Fortescue, “he’d have had every chance of getting away with it. I understand, unofficially, that there was enough material there to embarrass two of their High Court judges, a police chief, and a number of very successful industrialists. With material like that he could have bought his way out of trouble easily enough.”

  “Do you think the authorities will use it?” said Mr. Behrens.

  Mr. Calder said, “You remember what Sperrle said? ‘Put it to no evil use.’ Forty years is a long time. Let the dead bury the dead.”

  Mr. Fortescue said, “It is a decision for them, not for us. But I hope that you are right.”

  Michael Gilbert Titles in order of first publication

  All Series titles can be read in order, or randomly as standalone novels

  Inspector Hazlerigg

  1. Close Quarters 1947

  2. They Never Looked Inside alt: He Didn’t Mind Danger 1948

  3. The Doors Open 1949

  4. Smallbone Deceased 1950

  5. Death has Deep Roots 1951

  6. Fear To Tread (in part) 1953

  7. The Young Petrella (included) (short stories) 1988

  8. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) 1997

  Patrick Petrella

  1. Blood and Judgement 1959

  2. Amateur in Violence (included) (short stories) 1973

  3. Petrella at Q (short stories) 1977

  4. The Young Petrella (short stories) 1988

  5. Roller Coaster 1993

  6. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) 1997

  Luke Pagan

  1. Ring of Terror 1995

  2. Into Battle 1997

  3. Over and Out 1998

  Calder & Behrens

  1. Game Without Rules (short stories) 1967

  2. Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens (short stories) 1982

  Non-Series

  1. Death in Captivity alt: The Danger Within 1952

  2. Sky High alt: The Country House Burglar 1955

  3. Be Shot for Sixpence 1956

  4. After the Fine Weather 1963

  5. The Crack in the Teacup 1966

  6. The Dust and the Heat alt: Overdrive 1967

  7. The Etruscan Net alt: The Family Tomb 1969

  8. Stay of Execution and Other Stories (short stories) 1971

  9. The Body of a Girl 1972

  10. The Ninety-Second Tiger 1973

  11. Flash Point 1974

  12. The Night of the Twelfth 1976

  13. The Empty House 1979

  14. The Killing of Katie Steelstock alt: Death of a Favourite Girl 1980

  15. The Final Throw alt: End Game 1982

  16. The Black Seraphim 1984

  17. The Long Journey Home 1985

  18. Trouble 1987

  19. Paint, Gold, and Blood 1989

  20. Anything for a Quiet Life (short stories) 1990

  21. The Queen against Karl Mullen 1992

  Synopses (Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’ Titles)

  Published by House of Stratus

  After The Fine Weather

  When Laura Hart travels to Austria to visit her brother, vice-consul of Lienz in the Tyrol, she briefly meets an American who warns her of the mounting political tension. Neo-Nazis are stirring trouble in the province, and xenophobia is rife between the Austrian
s who control the area and the Italian locals. Then Laura experiences the troubles first-hand, a shocking incident that suggests Hofrat Humbold, leader of the Lienz government is using some heavy-handed tactics. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he is unwilling to let one little English girl destroy his plans for the largest Nazi move since the war, and Laura makes a dangerous enemy.

  Anything For A Quiet Life

  Jonas Pickett, lawyer and commissioner of oaths is nearing retirement, but still has lots of energy. However, he leaves the pressure of a London practice behind to set up a new modest office in a quiet seaside resort. He soon finds that he is overwhelmed with clients and some of them involve him in very odd and sometimes dangerous cases. This collection of inter-linked stories tells how these are brought to a conclusion; ranging from an incredible courtroom drama involving a gipsy queen to terrorist thugs who make their demands at gunpoint.

  Be Shot For Sixpence

  A gripping spy thriller with a deserved reputation. Philip sees an announcement in The Times from an old school friend who has instructed the newspaper to publish only if they don’t hear from him. This sets a trail running through Europe, with much of the action taking place on the Austro-Hungarian border. The Kremlin, defectors, agitators and the People’s Court set the background to a very realistic story that could well have happened …

  The Black Seraphim

  James Scotland, a young pathologist, decides on a quiet holiday in Melchester, but amid the cathedral town’s quiet medieval atmosphere, he finds a hornet’s nest of church politics, town and country rivalries, and murder. He is called upon to investigate and finds that some very curious alliances between the church, state and business exist. With modern forensic pathology he unravels the unvarnished truth about Melchester, but not before a spot of unexpected romance intervenes.