No Entry

by Manning Coles

  “Thank you very much,” said Hambledon.

  The Chief looked at him, but, as it was evident that there was nothing more forthcoming, he put back the card, shut the drawer again, and asked what Hambledon proposed to do now.

  “Dispense with shaving, trail about in Kirsch’s old dressing gown, and hope that someone may come who does not know him personally.”

  Two days later, in the evening as the light was going, a knock came at Ludwig Kirsch’s front door. Hambledon, with the grey dressing gown on over his shirt sleeves, no collar, a two-day stubble on his face, a spare pair of Kirsch’s glasses on his nose and bedroom slippers on his feet, opened the door cautiously. A small neat man stood on the mat outside and said, in an enquiring tone: “Herr Ludwig Kirsch?”

  Kirsch’s glasses were very strong and Hambledon could not see through them at all; he let them slip down his nose and peered at his visitor over the top of them.

  “That is my name,” he said, not attempting to move.

  “Lorenz Grober,” said the small man, introducing himself. “May I come in?”

  “I suppose so,” said Hambledon grumpily. He showed Grober into the sitting room and waited to lock and bolt the door before following him. “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you. You do not know me, Herr Kirsch——”

  “You are perfectly right, I do not.”

  “Perhaps I might show you my passport,” said Grober, and opened it to display the stamp of entry into Western Germany from the Soviet Zone at Helmstedt, dated that day. Hambledon dropped his glasses and managed to steal a glance at the page before putting them on again. He stared owlishly at the passport and then at his visitor.

  “I do not like dealing with strangers,” he said abruptly. “Where is Bauer?”

  “Has the Herr not seen Bauer?”

  “Of course I’ve seen him. Repeatedly.” Hambledon knew that Bauer’s passport showed frequent transits across the frontier at Helmstedt. “I do not like this at all. Who are you to be asking me questions about Bauer? I was expecting him. One moment. That curtain gapes a little.” Hambledon got up and arranged, with meticulous care, one of the window curtains which did not quite meet its fellow. “I detest gaping curtains when I have lights on in the rooms. Now tell me why Bauer has not come. I was expecting him before this.”

  “We greatly fear,” said Grober, “that something has happened to Bauer. He crossed at Helmstedt three days ago with the intention of calling upon you the following day, but he has not returned to us and now you say that he did not come here. It does look as though something has hap——”

  “Nothing irritates me more,” said Hambledon, so energetically that his glasses fell off his nose into his lap, “than this stupid and inaccurate habit of using a vaguely harmless circumlocution in place of a definite statement. If you mean that you think Bauer has been picked up by the police, why not say so in plain terms? Accuracy, accuracy.”

  “But he may not have been arrested,” pleaded Grober. “He may have been taken ill—met with an accident—been run over in the street.”

  “It is possible. These are all possible suggestions, now that you have applied your mind to formulating your ideas. Well, at least it is clear that Bauer was on his way here and has failed to arrive.”

  “Yes. That being so, I have had the honour to be sent in his place, and the substance of my message concerns the Smirnov Plan, which, as you know, was stolen from the late General Vedovitch. The papers have not been found on our side and it is thought increasingly likely that they were brought across the frontier here. I am to urge——”

  “Quite right. They were.”

  Grober sat up. “You know that, for a fact?”

  Hambledon replaced his spectacles—Kirsch’s spectacles—firmly on his nose. The effect was to make Grober’s face look like a large, pink bath sponge, but that could not be helped.

  “Have I, then, a reputation for making inaccurate statements?”

  “Heaven forbid, Herr Kirsch! Quite the reverse. My remark was more in the nature of an exclamation of pleased surprise.”

  Hambledon sneered and Grober went on hastily:

  “That being so, I am to urge upon you the imperative necessity for locating them and securing possession of them at the earliest possible moment. The Soviet Army authorities lay the greatest possible stress upon the importance of their being regained at once, as the utmost inconvenience and damage would be caused if they fell into West German or British hands.”

  Hambledon sat with his hands lightly folded in his lap, waiting patiently until Grober should have completed his sentence. When it was quite clear that there was no more to come he moved his head just enough to make his spectacles flash like the eyes of the witch in “Hänsel und Gretel” and remarked:

  “I already have them.”

  Grober bounced in his chair.

  “You—already—have—them?”

  “I wish Bauer had come instead of you. He at least did not expect me to repeat even my simplest statements twice.”

  Grober also wished that Bauer had come; presumably, long acquaintance had taught him how to deal with this peppery old horror. He himself was not enjoying the interview at all.

  “I beg your pardon. I was surprised, that is——”

  “Surprised? That I was told to regain possession of certain plans and have actually done so? Why should that surprise you?”

  Grober drew out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

  “Gnä’ Herr, I beg——”

  “Go on. What do you beg?”

  “Permission to say that whatever may be the case with an inexperienced young man like myself, my superiors at least will not be surprised. The Herr has no idea—can have no idea of the extraordinarily high value which Russian Intelligence places upon his services. The Herr’s reputation is unsurpassed.”

  Hambledon was not surprised; he had himself formed a high opinion of Kirsch’s capabilities. He thought it time to unbend a little.

  “ ‘I use only the best butter,’ ” he murmured, and allowed his grim expression to relax slightly.

  “Indeed, indeed, it is not flattery,” protested Grober. “Would the Herr care to tell me something of how the plans were recovered? My superiors will be so eager——”

  “It was nothing. Perfectly simple. That fellow Andrey Lentov brought them across and I took them from him. That is all. It was, surely, known from the outset that Lentov had them?”

  “Of course, yes. General Vedovitch was so ill-advised as himself to give Lentov the plans to take to headquarters, and the young man was not seen again.”

  Hambledon made a shocked noise and added: “Imbecile. Criminally imbecile. I take it that General Vedovitch has been suitably dealt with?”

  “He committed suicide, mein Herr.”

  “Good. Most suitable for a high-ranking Army officer.”

  “Yes, indeed. And where is Lentov now?”

  Hambledon raised his eyebrows.

  “In Hell, presumably, if the theologians have their facts right.”

  “Then he——”

  “I shot him myself, as a matter of fact,” said Hambledon casually. “He was a traitor.”

  He took his glasses off to rub his eyes. The strong lenses were straining his sight. “Be so good as to report that also to your superiors,” he added. “And apologise on my behalf for depriving them of the pleasure, but circumstances were a little pressing at that moment.”

  “Certainly, certainly. And the Smirnov Plan—you have it here?”

  “What? In this house? Himmel, no! I do not consider this house altogether safe. I think the police take a little interest in it sometimes.” He replaced the spectacles and peered at Grober over the frame. “One cannot be too careful. One of my assistants was arrested and the other has taken fright and run away.”

  Grober seemed to grow smaller where he sat.

  “Then you think—do you think——”

  “Frequently,” snapped Hambledon. “And
, if I may say so, intelligently. On this occasion I think I want a new assistant.”

  “But the man who was arrested, will he not talk?”

  “Do dead men talk?”

  “Oh, he is dead. You did not say that, you only said he had been arrested and——”

  “Blistering nincompoop,” roared Hambledon, “do even you suppose that I should be sitting here quietly in my own house if my late assistant were wagging his tongue off at Police Headquarters? You are a fool.”

  “Evidently,” said Grober faintly, “evidently. But the Russians are very eager to have the plans back.”

  “I do not insult them by suggesting that they would expect me to hand them over to you—a man I have never seen before in my life. If Bauer had come——”

  “But you do not know any of us except Bauer, now that Groenfeld is dead,” said Grober desperately. “I applaud—we all applaud—your extreme caution in never crossing to our side, in having no dealings with the usual Communist clubs, in never attending meetings, in never having people at your house here except the occasional visitor like Bauer, even your care with the drawn curtains—all admirable. But I am sent to beg you to come over so that we may see what manner of man has served us so well. Bauer brought you the passes, did he not?”

  Hambledon got up and took a turn up and down the room, waving his glasses in his hand. Grober, of course, had to stand also.

  “He did, yes, and I still have them. I am gratified at this courteous desire to make a fuss over me, but I have always refused to come across for the simple reason that once I was noted as having crossed your frontier I should be marked down as being in touch with the Soviet Zone, whereas at present I am not tainted with any political affiliation. I think that is quite simple and clear.”

  “Perfectly, and we——”

  “But the present emergency is quite serious. The Smirnov Plan papers are of the greatest importance—I am aware of that—and the Russians should have them back at the earliest possible moment, but to hand them over to a total stranger! No, no, I cannot bring myself to do it.”

  Grober had enough tact to hold his tongue and wait.

  “I see no help for it,” said Hambledon finally. “It seems that this course of action is forced upon me. I only hope that I shall not have to regret it,” he added, from the bottom of his heart.

  Grober, in fluent phrases, expressed himself as being overjoyed at the prospect of being able to take back with him such good news as that the famous, nay, the illustrious Herr Ludwig Kirsch was actually——

  “Make sure that you do get back with it and do not fall into oblivion on the road like poor Bauer,” said Hambledon. “Now, the passes Bauer brought me provide for a train journey to Magdeburg and back to Helmstedt. That will not do at all because I shall be travelling by car. My car. And I cannot be confined to any particular route. I must be able to choose any road which I think best.”

  “But——”

  “Triple-damned idiot,” snarled Hambledon, “do you seriously suppose that there is no anti-Communist organisation on your side?”

  Grober knew very well that such organisations did exist and was obliged to admit it.

  “Very well, then,” said Hambledon. “I drive my own car——”

  “I shall be asked,” said Grober timidly, “your excellent reasons for not wishing to travel by train.”

  “Because I shall be carrying the Smirnov Plan.”

  Grober’s face lit up. “It will, of course, be concealed in the car?”

  “You have your brighter moments.”

  “Thank you, indeed. The necessary passes shall reach you within twenty-four hours.”

  “I shall not be ready to come across for a couple of days. I told you the plan is not here, it is hidden. I must go and get it and I may have to watch my moment for taking it from where it lies hid. Let us say two clear days to be on the safe side—I have a mania for being on the safe side——”

  “How wise! How right!”

  “How true. Well, now, today is Tuesday, is it not?”

  “Certainly, gnä’ Herr.”

  “Wednesday, Thursday. I will cross the frontier at Helmstedt between fourteen and fifteen hours on Friday and you will be there to meet me, Grober. Understand? If you are not waiting at the Soviet Zone barrier when I drive up, I turn straight round and drive back again. It is still true that I do not know nearly enough about you but at least I shall recognise your face. I absolutely refuse to be landed with an unknown escort who may be a member of your subversive underground movement only waiting for a lonely stretch of road to cut my throat.”

  Grober made clucking noises.

  “Do you realise,” said Hambledon, with his most terrifying scowl above the spectacles, “that even now you may be a member of that organisation who has wormed himself in here—having cut Bauer’s throat on the way—to penetrate my obscurity and betray my secrets?”

  “Herr Kirsch,” said Grober, in a voice trembling with sincerity, “believe me, if I were not perfectly genuine I should have fled long ago.”

  “If I had not believed you genuine you would never have left the house. Let us before all things be accurate: you would never have left the garden. Why are we standing up? Sit down.”

  Grober sat down with a bump and Hambledon sank slowly into his chair, settling his dressing gown about him. One of the pockets bulged and a weight inside dragged it down, it contained Hambledon’s Luger, and Grober’s eyes had been nervously upon it.

  “I think that is all, is it not?” said his terrifying host. “Unless you have anything further to tell me, I need not detain you.”

  Grober sprang up again.

  “Only the car number, mein Herr, for the pass, the number and make and colour of your car.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, the number is GS 13579, you had better make a note of that. As for the make, that is a little more difficult. You see, it was built—you had better come out and look at it.”

  Hambledon took a small electric torch from a drawer and led the way into the entrance hall, where he unlocked and unbolted the door and switched the ceiling light out before opening the door.

  “It is not really dark outside,” he said, stepping out confidently. “It is a strange thing, but in the dark I can see better without my spect——What have you done? Please do not make so much noise.”

  “I fell over—I think, the scraper,” said Grober, getting up painfully and rubbing his shin, but Hambledon had not waited for him and could dimly be seen at the garage door. A key turned in a lock, the door swung open, and the light of Hambledon’s little torch could be seen inside. Grober limped after him.

  “This car was constructed by a local mechanic at a time when cars were hard to come by. Long before I came here, of course. I am not a specialist in automobile construction but I understand that the—the underframing and the engine are of one make, the bonnet and the radiator are of another, a Renault radiator, is it? And the body is an extremely comfortable coupé. I like it.”

  Grober looked at the car and blinked, for he did know something about automobiles. The original chassis had belonged to a full-length saloon car of some sort. The coupé body was much too short to cover it and the rear end of the frame members with the transmission shaft, differential, back axle, and what Hambledon in his own mind called “all the rest of the gubbins” stuck out behind in naked majesty. The general effect was of a sedan chair perched upon a secondhand bedstead, but the car was clean and well cared for and the paint in reasonably good condition. Hambledon patted the bonnet affectionately.

  “It goes very well,” he said casually. “Now you have seen it do you think you will recognise it again?”

  He gave Grober full marks for keeping every trace of emphasis out of his voice when he said that he would.

  “Now,” added Grober, “I think I need not inflict my company upon you any longer.” He stepped back while Hambledon shut and locked the garage door. “Your valuable time—I have taken up too much already. In
taking my leave——”

  “Be quiet!” hissed Hambledon, and listened intently. “Back in the house.”

  He hustled Grober into the dark hall and took some pains to close and fasten the door silently.

  “What——” breathed Grober. “Police?”

  “Yes, but the fellow on duty tonight is hard of hearing. I think he may not have heard you. It will be better to wait a little. Come in and sit down.”

  Grober would have given much for a drink, but probably the Herr Kirsch only drank at breakfast time or when the moon changed. In any case, he did not suggest it. Grober’s head was beginning to ache and his shin was abominably painful, but he eased the trouser leg away from it and composed himself to listen while Herr Kirsch talked about the car, which appeared to be his one human weakness.

  “You will understand,” he said eventually, “that, since I am passing here as nothing more than a retired teacher of mathematics, I cannot afford to appear well-to-do. Quite the reverse. So when I saw this car pushed away into the back of a garage with an absurdly low price upon it, I seized the opportunity. The car——”

  But Grober really felt as though he could not stand any more car.

  “I must, finally, refer once more to my boundless admiration for your far-seeing caution,” he said. “Your cover is so good, this artistic simulation of a quiet student writing a book of algebra for boys——”

  Herr Kirsch sprang from his chair. He was not a tall man, but to Grober’s alarmed eyes he appeared to tower like the tall Agrippa in the Struwelpeter his grandmother used to show him on Sundays.

  “Simulation?” he stormed. “You suggest I am pretending? Come with me.”

  He seized Grober by the ear and dragged him into the further room, the little study.