by Desmond Cory
“No, what did he say?”
“He said…” Johnny glanced downwards at his pistol, and slid it impatiently back into its shoulder holster. “He said, ‘Give my regards to your Herr Dolan, darling.’’’
“To…?”
“I tell you that’s what he said.”
“He must have been raving.”
“I suppose so. He looked sane enough, though.” Johnny wiped his hands on his handkerchief and reached out to feel Helmut’s pulse. “… He’s dead all right. You know, that’s the first time I’ve felt bad about having to kill a Nazi.”
“It was so sudden.” Marie-Andrée’s face was still very pale. “I… Well, I thought he’d got you cold.”
“It was as near as I like it.” Johnny walked quickly over to the window, and peered out. “Go out into the corridor and take a look round. If there’s anybody else in the house, they must have heard that racket. And be careful; Helmut may not have been the only fellow around here with a popgun.”
Marie-Andrée got up, and went out without a word. She returned in a little more than a minute, to find Johnny replacing the rifled case in the drawer whence it had come.
“It’s all right,” she said. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody in the building. But… but Frau Mann and the boy are just coming back from the village. I could see them from the window.”
“All right; that’s fine. We’ll wait and hear what she’s got to say.”
“… I don’t want to say anything,” said Eva Mann-Mayer-Hitler-Braun. And she sank tiredly into a chair.
She was having great difficulty keeping her eyes away from the small figure stretched out over the floor. Johnny, who was not completely without delicacy in these matters, had covered Helmut with a blanket taken from one of the beds; but even so, the body seemed to exercise a strange fascination over Frau Mann. Perhaps she was reflecting on her first husband, who – five years after his death – was still apparently capable of strewing the corpses of his friends wholesale across the world. And perhaps she wasn’t.
“Maybe I ought to clarify our position,” said Johnny, fingering his chin. “Neither I nor my wife are representatives of any national organisation whatsoever; we’re purely private citizens. And personally, we have nothing against either you or your son. – Where is he, by the way?”
“In his room, I believe.”
“Good. This discovery that we’ve inadvertently made… As far as we’re concerned, nobody else need ever know about it… providing you’re sensible enough to be cooperative. The person we are really anxious to see is your husband, Herr Mayer.”
She looked at him evenly. “My husband's name is Mann.”
“As you wish. Do you know where he is?”
“He is at his office in Linz.”
Johnny picked up the photograph of the late Führer of the Third Reich, surveyed it with distaste, and put it down again. “… While I see you have a copy of your marriage registration with this gentleman, you don't have a copy of a second registration. Are you married to Herr Mann – as he now calls himself?"
“No.”
Johnny looked at Marie-Andrée with the glimmerings of a smile: “How immoral,” he said.
“Herr Mann is my guardian,” said Eva Hitler stiffly. “He was so appointed by the Führer himself. He was charged to conduct me from Berlin to Austria, and to remain as a guard to myself and my son. When we were in danger of discovery in 1946, we agreed to live as husband and wife in order to divert suspicion. Herr Mann has always been thoughtful, considerate and competent.” She spoke as though dictating a testimonial to Herr Mann’s Commanding Officer. “He has fulfilled his duties admirably.”
“Up to now,” said Johnny softly.
“Of late, he has had many other duties to perform. In his absence, the Baron von Knopke assumed his responsibilities. And I see that he was killed while attempting to safeguard our interests.”
“His death was quite unnecessary,” said Johnny. “You’re setting rather too high a value on yourself, you know. A very common human failing.”
“You are impertinent.”
“Possibly. You have not, then, at any time had reason to believe that Herr Mann’s name was not Mann at all?”
“He was introduced to me by the Führer himself, as Kurt Mann of the 9th Standarte. That was immediately before our escape. I had never seen him before, and it’s possible that his real name was… something else. If so, doubtless the Führer had the best of reasons for keeping his true identity a secret.”
“You seem unlucky in your choice of married names,” said Johnny unpleasantly. “You’ll be telling me next you didn’t know your first husband’s name was Schicklgruber.”
Eva Hitler went pale with suppressed venom. “I do not like your sense of humour, Herr Videl. You wouldn’t have been quite so courageous ten years ago, when your wretched little country was in ruins at your feet.”
Good heavens, thought Johnny; she even remembers his speeches.
“Ah, well. Perhaps my remarks are in bad taste; if so, I apologise. Let’s get back to Herr Mann; whatever his shortcomings in comparison with his illustrious predecessor, he does possess the virtue of being alive at this moment – which makes him of absorbing interest. Where has he gone, incidentally?”
“I’ve told you that, to the best of my knowledge, he is in his office at Linz.”
“When is he returning?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he say he would be returning?”
Eva Hitler’s mouth closed like a determined goldfish’s. “I do not wish to answer any more of your questions.”
Johnny sighed. “You’d rather see Martin spend the rest of his life as a political prisoner?”
Her eyes became vacant, but her lips remained closed in a firm, tight line.
“You can think it over,” Johnny said. “But I’m rather pushed for time… We’ll go to our room now, and we’ll give you exactly ten minutes to make up your mind. If you haven’t appeared before those ten minutes are up, then I’ll start making telephone calls. Your time starts… now.”
“She changed so,” said Marie-Andrée sadly. “I quite liked her, before. But, now she’s suddenly so… so snooty, so stuck-up, I felt like shaking her.”
Johnny was lying flat on his back on the bed, a thin tendril of smoke floating upwards from the cigarette in his mouth. “That was predictable. I was expecting it. As Frau Mann, she’s nobody in particular; she can be as natural as she pleases. As the relict of the late A. Hitler, she’s got the old man’s name to think of, so she’s got to tilt her nose up and be firm with the peasants. Oh, I was expecting it… But you know what I’m afraid of?”
“What?”
“That she really does know damn-all. I thought she was telling the truth about Mann, you know; I can’t be sure, but I really think she was. It’s perfectly possible that she doesn’t know a thing. And, when you come to think of it, why should she? – She always was the perfect Kraft durch Freude dumb blonde; I can’t visualise her as the life and soul of any neo-Nazi Party. If I were Mayer, I wouldn’t let her know where I put my false teeth at night.”
“Does he wear false teeth?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. That was purely an illustration, intended to convey an impression of little Eva’s general inutility. You’re much too literal-minded.”
“But if she’s as hopeless as all that,” asked Marie-Andrée reasonably, “why should they go to such fantastic lengths to look after her?”
Johnny fanned smoke from the air with the flat of his hand. “Our beloved Führer’s personal property, of course. The old, old story. Poor old Mayer probably feels he’s the Keeper of the Holy Grail.”
“How’s the time going?”
“She’s got three minutes more,” said Johnny, answering the implication rather than the question.
“Are you… are you really going to chuck them to Western Defence, if she won’t help us?… It seems rough on the kid. After all, it�
�s not his fault; he couldn’t help his parents.”
“She’ll help all right,” said Johnny. “As far as she’s able. I didn’t want to force her, though – it’s always better when they talk voluntarily; and after ten minutes with von Knopke she’ll be nicely softened up. She didn’t like the look of him a bit.”
“Callous brute,” said Marie-Andrée.
Johnny went on smoking and eyeing the ceiling perplexedly. And then there was a tap on the door; regular, but gentle and subdued. Johnny half-rolled on the bed, and his pistol was in his hand before he had finished the movement.
“Herein,” he suggested.
The door opened. And in came Martin.
“… Well,” said Johnny, replacing the gun. “This is a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Perhaps not.” Martin regarded him stonily from underneath his eyebrows. “My mother tells me that you have been annoying her, Herr Videl.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Johnny admitted.
“I should prefer you to talk to me. It is not chivalrous to attempt to browbeat women. Such is not the custom in this country.”
“Ah,” said Johnny. “But mother is different – remember?” The boy pulled awkwardly at the sleeve of his coat, and Johnny relented. “All right,” he said. “If you’ve got anything to say, you can say it. Like to sit down?”
“Thank you; I’d rather stand.”
Johnny shrugged. “Just what do you want to tell me, Martin?”
“Suppose you tell me what it is that you wish to know.”
“All right.” Johnny twisted himself up to a sitting position, and stubbed out his cigarette. “I want to know where Herr Mayer is going; and when; and how. I want to catch up with him as quickly as possible. That’s all.”
The boy’s frown was now one of puzzlement. “I’m sorry. I do not know any Herr Mayer.”
“… Herr Mann, then.”
“Herr…? But I told you this morning, he has gone to Linz. I don’t know when he will be returning.”
Johnny sighed.
“Listen to me, Martin. Herr Mann is a Nazi agent whose real name is Mayer. I don’t know if you have any sympathies with what’s left of the Nazi Movement; but whether you have or not, I know you have a deep regard for your mother. And if I don’t succeed in catching Mayer, then I’ll have to take you to the local authorities of the Western Powers; and life will be made considerably less pleasant for you and your mother than, I trust, it is at the moment. You see the situation?”
“I will do all that I can to help you, Herr Videl. I promised my mother I would, and that’s why I came to see you. But I can’t tell you anything I don’t know.”
This reproof was uttered with a severe boyish dignity which took Johnny somewhat aback.
“All right,” he said, recovering. “Let’s see if we can’t meet you somewhere nearer halfway… The thing is, I’m quite certain that Herr Mann has not gone to Linz. Instead, he’s climbing the Old Man, and should by now have reached the first hut. He’ll be going on up as far as the third hut, and as far as I can see there’s not a hope of our catching him; he’s got too much of a start. What’s more, before he went he took the precaution of murdering the only reliable guide in the village; just to make chasing him doubly difficult. All right. The only thing for us to do—”
“Do you mean Hans Aigen?”
“That’s right.”
“He killed Hans Aigen?” Martin’s composure was temporarily disturbed, and badly. “I find it very hard to believe.”
“It’s very easy to prove,” said Johnny gently. “The local police seem to be pretty slow movers, but they should be investigating the matter before long.”
“I’ll accept your word for it. You were saying…?”
“… That the only thing for us to do is to wait for him to come down, and to try to grab him then. Now, you know the country round here very well. Can you think of the most likely way that he would choose – bearing in mind the fact that he’ll want to travel as inconspicuously as possible?”
Martin thought for a few moments, then made a gesture of despair. “There are any number of ways, Herr Videl. Any number. You ask me another impossibility.”
Johnny nodded resignedly and started to speak, but the boy interrupted him at once.
“—But listen. You say he is going as far as the third hut? – You know that for certain?”
“That’s the one certain thing in the whole business,” said Johnny grimly.
“But then… then… And you wish to catch him, Herr Videl, if necessary before he gets there?”
“If possible before he gets there.”
“… It can be done.”
Johnny took the cigarette-case from his pocket, and helped himself to a fresh cigarette. “Go on, Martin. You’re beginning to interest me.”
“… It can be done. Have you ever been mountain-climbing, Herr Videl? Have you any experience at all?”
“No.”
“None at all? That’s a pity. You see, it would take a very good climber to do the thing I’m thinking of.”
“If you’re trying to tell me,” said Johnny, “that you know of a way to the top of the Old Man that takes less than three days’ climbing – let me assure you that I can do it and that I’ll do it if I have to pull myself up by my eyebrows. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly. There is a route by means of which a good climber can reach the third hut in about thirty-six hours. I discovered it myself; I, and a school friend of mine who is now in Switzerland. It was… our secret way, you understand.”
Johnny smiled. “I understand perfectly.”
“But… if you’ve never done any climbing, it is simply impossible. There is a five-hundred-foot stretch of blue ice that has always been considered beyond the capabilities of anyone. I have discovered a chimney, you see, but… it is out of the question for you to scale it. An ice chimney requires a considerable technique to be safely traversed.”
Johnny said, “Exactly what is a chimney?”
“Well… It’s a crack, a vertical crack, in the cliff face, and its narrow enough to be spanned by your body. You climb it by bracing yourself against one side of the crack with your feet against the other, and wriggling upwards… You create your own pressure, you see, and so you need no hand- or foot-holds at all. But you can imagine what it’s like when the sides of the chimney are of ice. It’s like holding yourself to the ceiling.”
“We’re going up it, Martin. You and I.”
“Es geht nicht, Herr Videl. You are not imagining it in your own mind. An ice ceiling with a drop of five hundred feet and more… It is no joke. I refuse to take you.”
“You’re going to take me,” said Johnny; and no mountain chimney could have been as icy as his voice.
“I tell you I won’t. It is suicide. Don’t you see…? We are roped together, Herr Videl; if you should slip – as you are absolutely certain to do – I would not be strong enough to hold you. We would both fall; you would drag me with you.”
“Then,” said Johnny, “we climb without a rope.”
“But that’s against all the rules of mountaineering. The rope is one’s only safeguard. One cannot—”
“I’m not interested in rules, I’m interested in getting to the top. By God, Martin, either you take me up or—”
“But Herr Videl, you do not understand—”
“Please,” said Marie-Andrée, suddenly and cuttingly.
They both paused, and looked at her.
“… Martin’s right, darling. You just can’t do it. It’s not that you’re not brave enough, or strong enough; you just haven’t the experience. Martin knows what he’s talking about.”
“It’s true,” said the boy earnestly. “You wouldn’t have a chance. If there were someone to hold you up, like my… like Herr Mann…” He realised the absurdity of this suggestion, and smiled shyly. “I am just not strong enough. And I am most certainly not brave enough.”
Johnny stared thoughtfully at him. “How about Herr Biel?”
“Ah! That is another matter. Herr Biel is a very fine climber, and as strong as a horse. I would be willing to take him up. Or even the other gentleman, Herr Gruber; he has done some good climbs, I am told… If only you had some experience, you see, I would climb with you. It’s entirely a matter of experience and technique.”
“I didn’t mean him instead of me. I meant the three of us. You, I and Biel… Or the four of us, if Gruber wants to come. How about that?”
“… It might work. Yes. I think we would have a chance.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“A reasonable chance.” Martin continued to muse. “With Biel and Gruber at each end, we should have a strong double anchor. And yet, on ice… without any belays… May I ask how heavy you are, Herr Videl?”
“About a hundred and sixty pounds.”
“Not very heavy. We should be safe enough, if we keep the rope to the shortest possible run-out… If the gentlemen agree to come with us, then I will take you.”
“Right. When do we start?”
“If we can get away this evening, then we can bivouac for the night at the foot of the Lovers and begin the climb early in the morning.”
“Good,” said Johnny. “All right. I’ll see Biel and Gruber and tell them what’s proposed; you get going right away and get together the equipment we’ll need. Come back here as soon as you’re ready.”
Martin looked at him; and there was something like admiration in the boy’s eyes. At first, Johnny thought that this was due to the firm incisiveness with which he had rattled out all his orders. But—
He stood for a moment in the doorway, five foot six inches of potential political dynamite; and then went out soundlessly.
Part III-The Mountain
THE TALL man in Chekist uniform tapped cautiously at Makarov’s door; paused for a moment, and then went in. The electric clock behind the desk and beneath the portrait of Stalin indicated the time to be half-past ten in the evening, but the NKVD chief was still busily engaged in the study of a voluminous file. One works extremely long hours in the Commissariat of Internal Affairs; or one does, if one wishes to stay alive. And this Makarov certainly did.