Be Shot For Six Pence

by Michael Gilbert

  The sweat was dry on me, and I was beginning to think. I went into the Station Buffet and bought myself a coffee. What had happened was now reasonably clear to me. The little man on the bridge had spoken the truth when he had said that his private life was catching up with him. It was catching up with me too. He was clearly a professional criminal. That the only reliable messenger in Cologne known to Colin should be a professional criminal was a piece of bad luck. That the police should have been planning to pull him in that morning was worse.

  When they saw him stop and talk to me I became an object of suspicion too; and no wonder.

  Were they still on my tail? It is easy to imagine you are being followed, but in this case I thought not. They would have had to be exceptionally quick and lucky to have picked me up as I came out of that maze of alleyways; and they would have needed a car at the exact spot to follow the tram.

  Suppose for the moment I was all right. There were two flies in the ointment. The first was that I was too clearly a foreigner. The man in the car at the far end of the bridge had seen me closely enough to be sure about that. They may even have been able to identify me as an Englishman. The other thing was that I had a very healthy admiration for the German control of hotels. Registration was no mere formality, as it is in England. It was an efficient system designed to keep tabs on all strangers. It worked. I knew; I had had some before.

  Regretfully I bade farewell to a suitcase full of new clothes, paid for my coffee, and made my way out. I knew just what I wanted. There is a large, new, department store on the Bendlerstrasse which specialises in men’s clothes. Also it has dressing rooms.

  When I came out in half an hour’s time I was wearing (starting from the bottom) brogue flap-tongue shoes, white knitted stockings, cutaway leather shorts, a checked shirt, a bumfreezer jacket and a rather saucy Tyrolean hat with a synthetic badger’s tail in the turned up brim.

  My own clothes were neatly packed into the rucksack on my back. I carried a stick with a hartshorn handle.

  I wondered for a moment if I had overdone it, but my fears were quickly dispelled. No one spared me a glance. The Germans, like the Americans, take kindly to fancy dress. Indeed, to wear a uniform of any sort is to classify yourself, and the Germans are keen on classification.

  Organise yourself, organise your country, organise the world. Bless their orderly little hearts.

  I bought a third class ticket for Baden which was in the right direction and seemed a logical place for a hiker to go to. I was in no particular hurry. It was Saturday. It was summer. The Continent was in front of me.

  Late on Monday morning, after five more changes of train and two changes of clothes I saw Steinbruck for the first time.

  We had left Graz at dawn. East of Volkermarkt the train pulls out of the plain and drags itself up for a few miles into the foothills. This small amount of extra height gave depth and meaning to the scene. From then on it was a journey of enchantment.

  I studied the large-scale map I had bought in Klagenfurt.

  Steinbruck is an outpost. It sprawls between the foothills and the Raab, its frontage the river, its backcloth the magnificent semicircle of purple mountains which delimits the borders and meeting place of the ancient kingdoms of Hungary and Austria with the infant republic of Yugoslavia.

  The mountains to the south had on their summer dress, laced along their lower slopes with the green vineyards.

  But there was snow on the high tops and in the corries. As the train swung round a bend I was able to pick out the Klein-Oos and to follow its wandering course upwards. First through a cluster of red roofs which must mark the village of Kleinoosberg. Then up and up again, into the pine trees until – yes, there it was – topping the highest tree, built on to and into its pinnacle crag; the Schloss Obersteinbruck.

  I could see what Colin meant when he told Henry it was a fairy palace. Without doubt Snow White had lived there. The Sleeping Beauty had lain in its tower-room and wolves still howled through the dark forest at its foot.

  The train gave a derisive hoot, swung south again, and snorted down towards the town. I got out into the sunshine.

  A long, straight avenue, bordered with plane trees, leads from the station to the town. Steinbruck is a relic from another age, an Edwardian-German spa, decayed but unchanged. There was the Kurhaus; there the mineral water fountain; there the tea garden. The covered stand for the orchestra. The concert room; the Tissichhaus and the Schlossgarten, their plaster flaking, their paint peeling, but still indomitably committed to the rigours of holiday-making.

  I walked down a green allée towards the central square. One side of it was formed by the Casino. It did not look like a place where play would be high. More space would be given to family games of Dreizig-Vierzig than to baccarat. The pillars of the portico were cracked and along the front stood orange trees in tubs. To the right the road runs up the foothills; to the left, down to the river (“To the Island of Pleasure” says a notice board. “Season tickets, or by the day”).

  An air of solid, contented, melancholy sits on the place, like a veil on the face of an elderly nun.

  I went into the nearest Espresso and ordered coffee. It took a long time to come. Nothing moves fast in Steinbruck. I looked again at my map. The castle was three or four miles from the town, and more than a thousand feet above it. I sought out a garage and hired myself a car.

  I have no recollection of the drive. My mind was ahead of me. Would Colin be there? What was it all about? Why had he stretched out this thread across Europe? It was a thin thread, tenuous and easily broken, but a twitch on it had been enough to bring me running.

  We ground up the final ascent, and pulled to a stop, steam jetting from our radiator, before an iron studded door let into the living rock.

  The driver hooted. A huge dog, lying in the sun, scratched itself. The driver climbed out and pulled at a bell.

  For a long time nothing happened. Then, quickly and surprisingly quietly, the door opened. A tiny man, in some sort of livery, peered politely out.

  The moment had arrived.

  I took a sealed envelope from my pocket – it contained the original cutting from The Times – and handed it without a word to the gnome.

  He looked me quickly up and down, then said, in German, “Would you like to wait inside?”

  I said yes to that, and paid off the car, which made a shuddering turn and started coasting down the hill. I reckoned he wouldn’t have to use his engine until he got back to the outskirts of the town.

  I turned and followed my guide up a sloping cobbled passage, and out into the courtyard at the end of it.

  Chapter IV

  LISA PRINZ AND MAJOR PIPER

  From the inner courtyard the size of the place became more apparent. Colin had been accurate in his description. It was a palace, not a castle.

  I am not good at buildings, but I shouldn’t have said that it was much more than a hundred or maybe a hundred and fifty years old. Something older may very likely have been pulled down to make room for it. The fortress-like outer keep suggested a more ancient past. The inner portion looked like a hotel designed by an architect with illusions of grandeur.

  I was shown into a small room on the left of the entrance portico, which might have been labelled “Reception”. When the door opened, I think I half expected a hall porter in uniform.

  Instead, it was Lisa!

  “Phee-leep,” she said. (‘Said’ is a most inadequate word. Lisa screams like a seagull when she is excited.) She came darting over and gave me a peck on the cheek.

  Considering that it was thirteen years since I had set eyes on her she was very little changed. Somewhat sharper, a bit more angular, less ingenuous, more experienced, but the same darting eyes and wide mouth.

  “This is a nice surprise,” I said sincerely. “Were you expecting me?”

  “The last man in the world.”

  “Lisa, be truthful.”

  “Quite, quite truthful. When August came and said
to me, ‘There is a visitor – an Englishman, I think’ – I had no idea. It might have been Anthony Eden –it might have been General Montgomery—”

  “What a let-down,” I said. “When it was only me.”

  Lisa said: “Well, it was rather. But how nice that it should have been just you and no one else.”

  “Is Colin here?”

  “Well—no.”

  Something cold settled on my heart.

  “How long is it since you have seen him?”

  “Would you like to come and talk to the boss?”

  “In a minute. How long since you saw Colin?”

  “Philip! Two minutes and you start to bully.”

  “I’m not bullying. But I’ve come a long way to meet him, and I want to know.”

  “Today it is Monday. Last Monday was a week ago. Then another week. Then four days before that.”

  “He was here a fortnight ago last Thursday, then?”

  “That is right. A fortnight back from last Thursday. Come along now.”

  “Has anyone heard from him since he left?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps. Lady will tell you.”

  “Lady?”

  “Ferenc Lady. He is the leader here. Did you not know?”

  “I know nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  As we walked towards the door Lisa gave my hand a little squeeze. We climbed together the broad stairs which led from the hall to the first-floor landing. Facing us was a double door of carved, unpainted, lime wood. Lisa went in without knocking and I followed. It was a big ante-room. A young man with a pale face and sad eyes behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses, sat at a desk. He was snipping a paragraph from a newspaper and pasting it into a giant scrap book. A pile of mutilated paper lay on the floor behind him.

  He looked politely at us.

  “Gheorge,” said Lisa. “This is Philip.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Philips.”

  “Well—actually Philip—”

  “Mr. Philip.”

  I gave it up.

  “This is Gheorge Ossudsky. He is Ferenc Lady’s private secretary – and watch dog.”

  Gheorge said, seriously, “You over-rate my capabilities, Lisa. And why should Lady need a watch dog. He is well able to watch after himself.”

  “Is the great man busy?”

  “I do not think so. Perhaps I will go in and ask.”

  “If you ask him, of course he’ll say he’s busy. Just announce Philip. Say that he has come from England with a message for him.”

  “Hey—” I said.

  “That is all right. You want to talk to him, I suppose. ‘

  “I suppose so,” I said, weakly. Gheorge disappeared. There was a murmur of voices behind the partition. He reappeared and beckoned. Lisa gave my arm another little squeeze. I recognised it. It was just the sort of squeeze my mother used to give me before I walked into the dentist’s surgery.

  The inner room was small, but well proportioned. A drawing-room in the scheme of things, I guessed; but the original furniture and carpets had been turned out and replaced by a desk, a conference table, and a number of chairs. On the walls, where the pictures and tapestries had once hung, were maps – huge maps, in thick relief and in bold colour; the sort of maps which my mind associated with a military headquarters.

  Ferenc Lady had got up from behind the desk as I came in. My first reaction was plain surprise; my next, something akin to dismay. It was the build-up that was to blame. I had been expecting a pocket Mussolini. What I saw was a small, petulant looking gentleman wearing one of the most terrible drape jackets I have ever seen off the West End stage. His small featured, sallow face would have been good- looking if he had not been so obviously irritated. I judged him to be as young or younger than me.

  “Do I know you?”

  He was, as I discovered afterwards, trilingual. On this occasion he spoke in his native Hungarian. I answered him in the same tongue.

  “I am afraid you do not. But the score is level, because until five minutes ago I had no idea you existed, either.”

  His teeth flashed in a smile of pure ill-humour.

  “Perhaps you would like to sit down and tell me about yourself?”

  As he jerked his head, a little waft of something-or-other-of violets reached me. I felt sure I was going to love him.

  “When did you learn to speak Hungarian?”

  “During the War. I spent a year in Hungary.”

  “A spy?”

  “Certainly not. An escaping prisoner of war.”

  “You are not very fluent. Your vocal sounds are too thick and you use the English word order. A Hungarian would say, ‘A year in Hungary I spent. ‘”

  “Would you prefer to talk in English?”

  “As you like.”

  He switched smoothly into English. There was a touch of Belsize Park about it, but he was perfectly fluent and even colloquial.

  “What brings you here?”

  I told him about Colin Studd-Thompson and the advertisement. It didn’t sound terribly convincing, but I’ve often found that’s the way with the truth. It never sounds quite as reasonable as a good, logical, well-constructed lie.

  Lady listened in silence. The only animation he showed was when I told him about my contact in Cologne getting picked up by the police. He made me describe the man again; then the details of his arrest.

  “How did you know they were police?”

  “All police look alike,” I said. “It’s a sort of beefy, stolid, holier-than-thou look. Once seen never forgotten.”

  “I think perhaps you jump to conclusions,” he said. “Tell me again about Studd-Thompson. A childhood friendship, you say?”

  “That’s right. We used to cry each other to sleep, every night at school.”

  “Really,” he said. “That sounds improbable.”

  I saw then, that it was no use trying to pull his leg. His skin was about two inches thick and satire-proof.

  “And apart from this fortuitous friendship, you have no connection with our enterprise here?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t even know what your enterprise is,” I confessed.

  This confession seemed to cheer him up no end. He got up and walked round the room. The idea seemed to be that I should walk behind him, so I obliged.

  “We are engaged,” he said, “in ethnographical research. Speaking ethnographically, we stand here at the centre point of Europe. You follow the colour scheme.” He pointed to the nearest map. “Dark blue is for the Germanic races. Light blue the Austro-Germans. Then we have the Magyars, the Slovaks and the Croats – each with its own subsidiary and mixed racial derivatives.”

  “I see,” I said, untruthfully.

  “You have made a study of these matters?”

  “I know as much about ethnography as I know about making rice pudding.”

  “Ah. Then you’ll excuse me asking this, I know. Why did Studd-Thompson want you to join us?”

  “That,” I said wearily, “is surely something that we can ask him, when he comes back from wherever he has gone.”

  Lady’s lips moved gently. I could see he was repeating my last few words.

  “When he comes back from wherever he has gone.”

  Then he said: “So you have no idea why he wanted you out here?”

  “None at all.”

  “But you are old friends?”

  “Our friendship started a long time ago.”

  “And he had never mentioned what he was doing here?”

  “Possibly he realised that I was not interested in ethnography.”

  Lady allowed himself something which, in a less tightly composed man, might have passed for a smile. A lifting of the upper lip.

  “That would be it, I expect,” he said. “Now, what are you going to do?”

  “Wait for Colin.”

  “Here?”

  I controlled myself.

  “If you can’t put me up,” I said, “I have no doubt that I can find a r
oom in one of the many hotels in Steinbruck. It looked a nice, cheerful, gossipy sort of place.”

  “No,” he said. “I am afraid I couldn’t allow you to stay in Steinbruck.”

  “How far away would you like me to go?”

  “I think I should like you to go back to England.”

  “Well, think again.”

  The trouble was, I realised, that I was losing my temper, whilst he was not. The disadvantages of such a situation are obvious. I made the necessary effort.

  “Let’s be rational,” I said. “I don’t know what the set-up is here, but you can’t turn me out of Steinbruck. I have a perfect right to be here. If I start asking questions round Steinbruck—”

  The alarm was carefully concealed, but it was there. I had found a tender spot.

  “On second thoughts,” said Lady. “I think you had better stay here.”

  “I think that’s one of the most gracious invitations I have ever received,” I said. “I really can’t refuse.”

  “Gheorge will allot you a room.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got a friend in the management.”

  Lady looked up sharply.

  “Who?”

  “A lady I had the good fortune to meet during the War.”

  “Lisa? Yes? Where?”

  “As I told you. I was a prisoner of war. I escaped from Germany into Poland. Then from Poland across Czechoslovakia into Hungary. I was a year in Hungary – some of it in prison. Then I got out, and was helped into Yugoslavia. Lisa was one of the people who helped me.”

  “Interesting,” said Lady. “She would have been at a romantic stage, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “You were friendly?”

  “Oh, very friendly.”

  He just looked at me. It didn’t matter to him. He wouldn’t have minded if I’d murdered her old mother. It would have been a Factor; something to be discounted, or overcome, or perhaps just ignored.

  “Then she will be a companion for you,” he said, “until Studd-Thompson returns. You had better ask her to fix you up.” As I turned to go he added: “There is one other thing. Here we are all of us guests. Our host is Baron Milo. We are free to do as we wish for the whole of the day, but he so far preserves the conventions of hospitality that he likes us to dine together at night. We meet at nine o’clock.”