by Janice Law
“It’s too cold for you. You’re feverish, and you need that wound cleaned.” I thought the stable would surely have iodine, and, with the fatal smell of horse already tickling my nose, I dragged him into the tack room, hoping that the grooms, if they slept in the stable, were safely up in the loft. In the dim light, I found bottles lined up on a shelf. Liniment from the smell of the first couple. Whiskey in another. I stuck that in my pocket. Iodine in the next? I thought so. I put that bottle in Oskar’s jacket for the moment. Horse iodine was strong; it would burn like hell and maybe he’d scream. Not here!
I found a bridle and lifted one of the saddles from its rack, took a deep breath, and went into the corridor between the stalls to look for a strong, placid horse. Such as my father used to put me up on, placid being his only concession to the fact that horseflesh swelled my eyes and closed up my lungs. Poor Francis has asthma, Nan would say. Nonsense! The boy’s a born malingerer. That was Pater, of course, who, like the oberst, didn’t take suggestions easily. It’s all in his head.
Much as I hated to agree in any way with my father, tonight I had to pretend that he was right. I knew how to tack up a horse, and I knew how to ride. I was going to put Oskar on the back of what looked to be a fine Hanoverian. I was going to take him to the ferry dock, where I would dump what I hoped was horse iodine on his leg and get him to safety. That was the plan, and though I sneezed uncontrollably once, I got the horse ready, tied it at the door of the stable, and maneuvered Oskar to the mounting block.
After a fine struggle and a momentary faint from Oskar, I got him onto the horse. I climbed into the saddle, and with his arms locked around my waist, I took up the reins and clucked to the horse. It threw its head up and down in irritation before setting off into the woods and onto the gravel road. My eyes were already itching, but I knew better than to rub them. Fortunately, I had picked wisely. The horse seemed to know the way and, although my eyes were soon watering so that I could hardly see, we moved smartly along the track until we joined the road to the Stralsund ferry. “We’re going to manage this,” I told Oskar.
He groaned in reply, his head slumped against my shoulder, and by the time we saw the glitter of the Baltic and the silhouette of the ferry port and the keeper’s house, anxiety about Oskar had almost replaced my fear of discovery. At the ferry dock, I pulled up the horse, slid down, and lifted a semiconscious Oskar from the saddle. The horse ambled to the verge and began to crop the grass by the side of the road, while I half-carried and half-dragged my friend to the ferry keeper’s house. I pounded at the door. Helfen Sie mir! Helfen Sie mir!
At last, a man with his trousers pulled up over a nightshirt appeared. In the light of his oil lamp, I saw a bony face, a broken nose, and hair and eyebrows so light as to appear white, although he seemed quite young. My friend has been badly injured, I told him, shot, an accident with a gun. Fever, infection—I threw in everything but the oberst and the pursuit of killer dogs. I must have seemed convincing despite, or maybe because of, my filthy appearance and streaming eyes. He set down the lamp and helped me carry Oskar into the house, where we laid him on a battered couch. I held up the bottles I’d filched to the light. One was indeed iodine. The other was whiskey. I gave the ferryman the first drink and took one myself.
Believe me, on my empty stomach it went right to work. Thus fortified, I rolled up Oskar’s trouser leg to reveal the bandage, already a mess of blood and not nearly as clean as I’d hoped. The ferryman held up his hand and told me to wait. He got a pot, pumped some water, then lit his stove. He found a knife, and once the water had warmed up, we soaked and cut the bandage from the wound.
“Bad,” he said. “This needs a doctor.”
“Is there anyone on the island?” I regretted that I’d released the horse. I could perhaps have gone for assistance.
He shook his head. “I can take you across to the hospital at first light.”
I thought that with luck, the oberst and his monster dogs would not be out before dawn.
We cleaned up Oskar’s head, the ferryman cutting away some matted hair, and dumped iodine on both wounds, producing a shriek loud enough to wake half the island. After this treatment, Oskar deserved the last of the whiskey, and I produced the loaf, rather the worse for our adventures, and cut off a piece for each of us. Oskar managed a few mouthfuls before he passed out again.
I went through his wallet. Between us, we had enough for the ferryman, and as soon as the sky began to lighten, he was as good as his word. Either he was an early riser or my ill-concealed nervousness had transmitted itself to him. Probably both, for the ferryman would surely know Oberst Weick and the boys of der Bund. He might even have recognized the horse, and nothing good was going to come of the midnight arrival of a wounded man on one of the oberst’s animals.
We carried Oskar to the boat wrapped in an old blanket. The ferryman started the engine, and we sailed into a dank sea breeze that cleared my lungs of hay and horses. On the Stralsund dock, the island ferryman had an extended confab with his onshore counterpart. The upshot was that we parted with our last marks and were put into the hands of a local carter. He was due to deliver supplies to the island, but he put Oskar on top of the load and, with me on the seat beside him, made a detour to the hospital.
I worried that, broke as we were, Oskar wouldn’t be admitted, but when I said that his father was a professor, the carter snorted. “Insurance for him, not to worry. All workers and dependents.”
That was a huge relief. I made up a cock-and-bull story for the admitting resident and saw Oskar safely stowed in a ward. I took advantage of a hospital washroom to improve my appearance and to turn my filthy sweater inside out. Next step on the program: telegrams and breakfast, because I was feeling light-headed. Fortunately, the area near the ferry and the hospital was full of carters and porters and gents with business on their minds, one of whom caught my eye. He was stout, prosperous, and middle-aged with graying hair and bright black eyes that I found attractive. We easily came to an agreement. Thanks to Uncle Lastings, I’d learned a thing or two in Berlin.
But first, a detour to the telegraph office, where I composed a message to Oskar’s father. Short, quick, and cheap: Oskar injured Stop In Stralsund Hospital Stop. And one a little more difficult to Miss Fallowfield: Thin ex-military who whistles possible mole Stop Visited Oberst Weick on Rügen Stop Weick knows you Mac Stop Will return Berlin Stop. I handed over the coins and winked at my gent, who was quite satisfactory and treated me to a bang-up breakfast of wurst, sausage, bread, cheese, and a big stein of beer later at the station.
When I had my return ticket in my pocket, everything seemed so in order that I decided to take a later train to Berlin, even if it was a local, to see how Oskar was doing. He was resting comfortably said the attending doctor, small and Jewish with very white hands and a melancholy expression on his long, thin face. He nodded his approval when I said I’d sent a telegram to Oskar’s father.
“Very good. If the wound stays clean, he will recover nicely.”
I didn’t like that if. “And if not?”
He looked down and touched the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “Your friend could be very ill—or lose his leg.”
I was horrified, especially because I felt that I had somehow caused Oskar’s injury.
The doctor patted my shoulder gently. “We can have hope,” he said. “The iodine must have been very strong because it burned the wound. Still, the best thing you could have done under the circumstances. And his father is coming. That is good, too. Now, I must see to my rounds.” He gestured for me to enter the ward, a big drafty room with a high ceiling and tall windows that brought in the cool Baltic light. Only a couple of beds were occupied, and there was a chair free, which I pulled over next to Oskar’s bed.
His head was wrapped in a white turban, and they had a rack of some sort under the covers to keep the weight of the sheets off his injured leg. Despite his
beautiful tan, he was pale, and his face seemed to have grown thinner and sharper in the night. One of his hands was lying outside the blanket. I put my hand on it, then touched his forehead. He did not seem quite so hot. Perhaps he would be all right. He had to be.
I sat there for what seemed like a long time, and I was beginning to think I must get to the station, when Oskar opened his eyes. “Francis.” He mumbled something in German that I could not catch.
“You’re in the hospital,” I said. “The doctor says you are doing fine.”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was again in German; apparently, English was now too difficult for him to manage. “I was shot.”
“Yes. Do you know who shot you?”
I thought he would say the oberst, but I was wrong. “Underwood. His name is Underwood. He is English, I think. Maybe Irish.”
That was an unwelcome surprise. I thought I had understood what was up, but apparently not. “Why, Oskar?”
“Because I recognized him. I need to tell you something, Francis, then you must leave and stay away.”
“I’m on the next train to Berlin.”
He struggled to sit up, but the effort made him clutch his head in pain. I helped him lie back down.
“Rest and don’t worry,” I said.
He seized my hand in agitation. “Don’t go to the Eldorado. Don’t go near it.”
“Why not, Oskar?”
“We were watching the club.”
“Der Bund, you mean?”
He moved his head a fraction and winced. “Underwood paid me. To tell him who were the regulars. Especially British or foreign regulars. I think he killed your friend.” He pressed my hand. “I am so sorry, Francis. I did not know what they had in mind. They threatened to have me arrested for dealing snow. And because the oberst has some in with the police, I think he could have made it happen. That would have about killed my father.”
“I sent him a telegram. He had to know you’re in the hospital.”
Oskar closed his eyes for a moment as if deeply pained. I was not sure I would have wanted my father summoned if our positions had been reversed, but a respectable father would be about the best protection Oskar could have.
“You’ll be all right,” I said and rose to go, but he gripped my hand.
“Underwood was there the night of the murder. I saw him talking with the big drag queen. Then a couple customers came up, and by the time they were gone, so were Underwood and your friend. I told myself it was coincidence.”
I could believe that. I’d probably have told myself the same thing. “But why would he shoot you now? The investigation hasn’t produced anything.”
“I think it was because of you, Francis. I was told to bring you to Rügen. I thought it would be like with me, that they would pay you to watch people at the Eldorado. But I think now it was because of your uncle. Oberst Weick and Underwood were arguing about something when they saw me. Underwood was startled.” Oskar raised his hand like a gun. “Long. There was something long on the pistol. I heard a small noise and”—he moved his hand—“then nothing. I must have fallen down the stairs, but I don’t remember anything until I was back in the attic and I saw you sit up on the cot.”
“Yet you were not killed.”
“No. The oberst would have been against it. Your friend was foreign, a Pole, possibly a Jew. The police would not exert themselves. I would be a different case. I think the oberst explained that to Underwood.”
Oskar sank back on the pillows, and this time when he closed his eyes, I saw that he had fallen asleep. I sat for a few moments, anyway. Underwood had been nervous enough to shoot Oskar more or less on sight. Yet just hours later, he was out practicing his putting as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Had the oberst convinced him that Oskar was dying or dead? Or had Underwood planned to dispatch my friend—and maybe me, too—later and farther away from the oberst’s estate? If so, what Nan would have called our midnight flit had disrupted that plan.
Hopefully permanently, I thought. I stroked Oskar’s forehead and stood up with real regret. I liked him, although I now suspected that all along I had been less a romantic interest than a target. I might have been angry about that if poor Oskar hadn’t paid so dearly for the deception. A head injury, possibly a damaged, even a lost, leg. And all because of a martinet like the oberst and a weasel like Underwood, not to mention a whole lot of patriotic hot air. Save me from drums and uniforms, I thought, and with one more regretful glance—even now he was still a prince—I left the ward.
Chapter Eighteen
I got a cup of coffee at the station buffet to be sure I would be awake when the Berlin train arrived. I wanted to get away from Stralsund as soon as possible, even though I felt guilty about leaving Oskar, and frightened for him, too, because the hospital had people coming and going at all hours. My best hope was that his father would arrive soon, full of Prussian efficiency and Berlin attitude. I could imagine that reunion all too well, and my presence would not be required. At least, that’s how I rationalized my run to Berlin, where His Majesty’s Secret Whatever would surely spirit me away from Prussian reformatories and political fanatics.
I went out onto the platform the minute the intercity was announced. I was watching the disembarking passengers and looking for the third-class carriages and generally feeling bad and nervous and impatient, when someone touched my shoulder.
“Francis! Francis Wood, I believe.”
I turned and almost jumped out of my skin. Underwood stood there, tall, thin, and one hundred percent ex-military. An attaché case instead of a putter this time. He wasn’t whistling, either, but there was no doubt that this was the gent who’d practiced his golf on the oberst’s lawn and who’d shot Oskar the night before. I would have given myself away if I hadn’t been momentarily rendered speechless.
I pulled away from him. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” I said.
“My apologies!” He was suddenly all flutter and charm, a classic twit act hiding something lethal. “I’ve been following your career with such interest. Of course, I’ve processed your documents and photos.” He stuck his hand out. “Aubrey Underwood, British embassy. At your service.”
I doubted that very much, but there was nothing to do but shake his hand. “You are here on a holiday?”
He laughed, a big false laugh showing the worst of British dentistry. “No, no. I’m here for you. There was anxiety at the embassy. Now, we must talk.” He put his hand on my shoulder and attempted to steer me toward the station buffet.
Even if my telegram to Miss Fallowfield had been delivered instantly, and even if she had somehow misunderstood my message, there would not have been time for the treacherous Underwood to have caught the Berlin train and made the three- or four-hour journey to Stralsund. “Really? How did the embassy know where I was?” I tried to sound like an only mildly paranoid citizen.
“Trade craft, Francis. I can call you Francis, can’t I?”
I didn’t respond.
“There was concern, you can be sure, when you went missing. Perhaps, we thought, he is off on a Bummel—wonderful Deutsch word, don’t you agree? Or with der Wandervogel? I wouldn’t have thought the outdoor life your style, but perhaps there were compensations.” Here he gave me a keen look.
“So I cut work. I don’t think the Eldorado called the embassy.” As I spoke, I edged back toward the platform.
“Your inestimable landlady contacted us.”
I was startled by this and wondered if I had calculated the train times incorrectly; Nan always said that my mental arithmetic needed improvement. Worse, maybe Miss F. and Mac and Harold—Harold, whom I disliked and had never trusted—had decided that I was more trouble than I was worth.
Fortunately, Underwood was too busy playing up his all-so-innocent concern to register my alarm. “The blotter, don’t you know, tells the t
ale. And your habit of writing to your old nanny! It does you credit, Francis, but it leaves a record.”
I understood then. My description of a jolly trip to the island had left a reverse imprint on the blotter—just the sort of thing Miss F. would spot. But that meant she had alerted the embassy before my telegram. I hadn’t been betrayed after all, and I just had to keep my head.
“This train returns to Berlin in a few minutes. I need to be on it. My job’s kaput if I’m not at work tonight.”
“We need to talk,” he repeated and took hold of my arm.
I planted my feet and shook my head. “Talk to me on the train.”
“You’re not the only one involved,” he said, and added in an undertone, “Oskar Schafer. He is of interest to the embassy. We have been keeping an eye on him, but he did not return with the rest of der Bund. Where is he?”
I jerked my arm away, and if I’d had a weapon I’d have injured him. “Oskar is dead. Murdered.” I let my voice rise, causing a couple travelers to turn and look.
Underwood bit his lip, which told me that he did not want a scene. Could I rely on that to get him onto the train—and keep Oskar temporarily safe? It was worth a try. In my loudest, coarsest German I denounced him as a sugar licker and suggested a number of interesting things he might do to himself.
Underwood flushed scarlet and, seizing my arm again, propelled me toward the train. I protested but not so vigorously that we were prevented from entering a first-class carriage. He pushed me into an empty compartment.
“That little scene was quite uncalled for,” he said, putting his attaché case at his feet. I could see that he was torn between the desire to maintain his pose as my concerned friend and a strong impulse to thump me a good one.
“Was it? You want to keep me in Stralsund when my friend is dead. I’m not safe here.”
“Of course, of course. That is quite, quite understandable.”