by Colin Forbes
'If there is an alarm out they'll be looking for two people - a man and a girl. We must separate...'
'All right..
No more arguments as she continued walking, opened her purse and instructed him.
'We board the same tram. I get on first - so you can see what I do. Here is the coin you'll need for the fare. You get on at the front - off at the back. So find a seat behind me.'
Again it amazed him. She was so incredibly cool when the pressure was on, thinking ahead; every little detail. That brief lapse after the killing of the SS officer. Who wouldn't get the urge to vomit - the macabre sight of the German stepping backwards with the knife sticking out of the middle of his chest.....?
'I'm going-ahead now,' she warned. 'Oh, my. God! Look - the SS are arriving! Don't lose me..
The SS were: indeed arriving in force. Responding swiftly and efficiently to Bormann's personal call, the SS chief, Mayr, was deploying his troops round the main station.
'Swamp the place!' he had ordered. 'Throw a cordon round the whole district! Check all papers - pay particular attention to personnel in SS uniform already there. You are looking for an officer - with a girl. The Reichsleiter himself says they must be captured...'
Proceeding systematically, the first truckload was spilling out troops at the main entrance at the very moment Christa, followed by Lindsay, walked out of a side entrance.
She headed straight for a tram where the last passengers were filing aboard. Climbing inside she bought her ticket and walked along the crowded central corridor. There were no seats left so she stood.
Lindsay was the last passenger to board the tram. Collecting his ticket, he made his way towards a position behind where Christa stood. A lame man with his leg thrust out into the corridor looked at the new arrival apprehensively and slowly stood up, offering his seat.
The Englishman very nearly told him to sit down and then remembered the uniform he was wearing. He sank down in the seat and gazed ahead. Staring over her shoulder, Christa gave a sigh of relief. The doors closed, a warning bell rang and the tram moved off.
It was turning in front of the station to proceed down a main street when - through the rear window - she saw an SS man standing in front of the next tram to stop it moving off. New truckloads of SS were passing the tram in the opposite direction, horns blaring as the drivers forced other traffic to the kerb.
Three motorcycles with. side-cars filled with more SS reinforcements roared past towards the station.
Should they get off at the next stop before whoever was in command thought of sending those motorcycles in pursuit of their tram, Christa wondered?
She had never known a tram seem to move more ponderously. She forced herself to keep an expression of indifference on her face as she noticed a man in army uniform watching her. He stood up.
'Take my seat, Fraulein. You look tired. You have had a long journey?'
'Thank you.' She gave him a brief smile. 'But I'm getting off at the next stop..'
The short encounter was unfortunate, could even be dangerous. The German sergeant who had taken a fancy to her - she had seen it in his eyes - would remember her if questioned later. Worse, he would remember the stop where she alighted.
The tram was stopping. She picked up her case and walked past the sergeant without a glance in his direction. Lindsay waited until she was descending the steps, got up quickly and followed her. He was behind her on the crowded pavement when he glanced back. The tram they had travelled aboard was surrounded by army motorcycle patrols. An SS officer was entering the vehicle with the obvious intention of questioning everyone aboard.
The Fuhrer's moods were always unpredictable. He took the news that the two fugitives had escaped from the train at Munich with surprising calm, even caution. Removing his spectacles - he was never photographed wearing them - he laid aside the papers he had been studying and listened as Bormann
ranted on.
'Mayr did not move fast enough. That phone call from him at the Munich station proves it. They travelled in the mail-van. They killed the SS officer Bruckner whose body was found in the mail-van and fled..'
'Army deserters often travel in mail-vans,' Hitler observed.
'Mayr also reported a tram which had just left the station was stopped by motorcycle patrols. Witnesses aboard provided very clear descriptions of two passengers who had just left it, one man in the uniform of an SS officer and a girl who sounds exactly like Christa Lundt..'
'Now he tells me...'
Hitler, seated on a couch, looked at Jaeger and Schmidt while he played with the spectacles in his lap. Keitel and Jodl, who had returned to clear up a point arising from the midday conference, were also present. So far they had preserved a discreet silence.
'What do you think, Keitel?' the Fuhrer asked suddenly.
'They won't get far..'
'Mayr is instituting a search of the whole city..', Bormann burst out. 'I agree with the Field Marshal..'
'That's because neither of you knows what you are talking about,' Jaeger intervened bluntly. 'Mayr has a monumental task.
'So,' the Fuhrer commented, using a phrase which expressed his general attitude and summed up the secret of his rise to power, 'a way can be found for everything …'
An hour later Mayr had returned to his Munich barracks when the strange phone call came through. He picked up the receiver and identified himself. It was the Berghof again.
'Bormann speaking! Information has reached me that Lindsay has a rendezvous with an Allied agent at the Frauenkirche
The voice was oddly muffled. Mayr thought it hardly sounded like the Reichsleiter. Still, he was not a man whose identity it would be wise to question. The voice went on talking.
.... the agent waits at the rendezvous at 1100 hours every Monday. Make your dispositions accordingly and on no account mention this call to anyone. By order of the Fuhrer.!'
Still mystified, Mayr replaced the receiver. Tomorrow was Monday. He would be waiting for this Allied agent at the Frauenkirche.
Chapter Twenty-One
'Just in time,' said Christa. 'Here we are, and we're clear of the street.'
'They'll search the whole area,' Lindsay warned. 'Checking on that tram was only the start...'
They were standing in a narrow alley between ancient walls and the only sign it was daytime was the thin avenue of sky way above their heads. There, was a smell of tomcat. The cobbles beneath their feet were slimy. The buildings had a condemned look. She extracted a key from her purse, inserted it into the lock of a new solid wooden door decorated with iron studs. and paused before she opened it.
'Kurt came here on leave and when he was on the run. His Aunt Helga lives here. As I told you, they took her husband for the labour battalions. She hates the Nazis Your uniform will frighten her. Wait on the third landing while I talk to her..'
It was so dark inside, Lindsay could see nothing when she had shut the outer door. He felt his way up the narrow staircase on his own, clutching the greasy banister rail. Counting the landings, he waited on the third while Christa went on up the fourth flight. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell; the place had an uninhabited feel. Was the aunt the only occupant, he wondered? Above him he saw light filter out as he heard a door open.
There was a whispered conversation which went with the atmosphere of the place. ,A pungent odour of urine drifted out from an open door on his landing. He peered inside and saw by the half-light a window smeared with dirt, a lavatory that had not been flushed for some time.
'Ian! Come up.'
Christa's voice. His hand slipped easily up over a section of recently polished banister. At the top, a middle-aged woman with strong features stood beside Christa. Ignoring the uniform, she frowned as she examined his face. 'He has some identification?' she demanded.
'Have you?' Christa queried. 'This is Aunt Helga. She is very cautious..'
'You need to be these days,' the woman interjected grimly. 'It is rumoured there is an underground netw
ork which smuggles allied fliers to Switzerland. The Gestapo use their own agents in the guise of British or Americans to try and infiltrate the network..'
'I have my RAF identity card,' Lindsay began.
'And why did they not take this document from you?' demanded the gaunt-faced woman as she took
the folder from Lindsay and checked it carefully, comparing the photograph with its owner. 'Christa has told me you were a prisoner.. '
'They did...' Lindsay caught Christa's warning glance. He was to reveal only the minimum information. 'A Gestapo man called Gruber kept it for two days - doubtless to have it photographed for his files..'
'They let him have it back on orders from higher up,' Christa said quickly. 'He is a Wing Commander and I think they hoped to obtain valuable information from him..'
'Take it!' Helga had used her flowered apron to wipe it clean of her fingerprints and thrust it at him, holding it between the cloth of the apron. 'Come inside. I must insist you give me that uniform so I can burn it.'
'The smell will be foul,' Lindsay observed with an attempt at humour but Helga remained stern and aloof.
'We burn anything these days to keep warm. We live with foul smells.' She closed and locked the door of the apartment and went over to the stove where she picked up an iron poker, raised the lid and stirred the smouldering contents. He had the impression she had just armed herself with a weapon. Her next question confirmed his suspicion.
'Where did you obtain that SS uniform from?'
'Aunt Helga!' Christa protested. 'I got it for him - it doesn't matter how. You've got to trust him. I have been to England and I tested him when first we met. Show him the hiding-place.'
'The one Kurt made for himself and was never able to use?' she said bitterly. 'Very well, but I will need that uniform to burn piece by piece..'
The uniform seemed to be an obsession with her. Lindsay guessed she was younger than her weathered appearance. God knew what she had suffered.
'We will get warning this time,' Helga remarked, 'if there is an emergency. A good friend of mine in the country built a fresh door in the alley strong enough to resist cannon-shot. They have to ring the bell now and wait. When they came for Kurt they simply smashed the door in...'
The hiding-place was reached by an ingeniously camouflaged trap-door hinged in the roof alongside a cross-beam. Helga fetched a pair of steps from the kitchen, stood them in a certain place and climbed up, holding a thin-bladed knife.
'You insert the knife tip next to this hook on the beam,' she explained. 'Shove it up like you would your tool into a woman...' Lindsay glanced at Christa, who stared across the room, blushing. 'The knife tip,' Helga continued, 'impinges on a steel bar which Kurt attached to the trap-door. Push it up. So...!'
A square section of the seemingly continuous ceiling elevated to expose a dark hole. Helga dropped the trap in position and came back down the steps. She was carrying them back into the kitchen when she growled the invitation.
'If you are hungry I can provide some discoloured and tasteless liquid which we call soup. At least it will be hot..'
'You've been accepted!' Christa whispered.
At 3 pm precisely, one hour after their arrival at the spotless apartment of Helga, a police detachment
called to search the whole building.
The clapper of the large bowl-shaped bell above the apartment door was hammering away like a machine-gun non-stop. Christa swallowed the remnants of her watery coffee and jumped up from the table.
'What the hell's that?'
'Front door bell in the alley,' Helga said laconically.
She opened a window and leaned far out beyond the dormer overhang to look down a sheer wall into the alley beneath. Waving a hand, she shouted something Lindsay, who had also stood up, did not catch. Withdrawing her head she walked into the kitchen and came back with the pair of steps.
'Looks like the whole Munich police force is down there. Stay in the attic until I tap three times on the trap with my broom-handle. Don't forget your cigarette pack, Mr Lindsay..'
He took the knife she handed him and shinned up the steps. He managed to operate the primitive opening device first time and reached down for his suitcase which Christa was holding. Helga was clearing the table of cups and plates, leaving only crockery she had used herself.
The bell started hammering again. Lindsay carted Christa's case up to the attic while the girl collected stubs of cigarettes, wrapped them in a piece of newspaper and shoved it inside her coat pocket.
'My cap...' Lindsay called down.
She rammed it on her head and climbed the steps, grabbing the hand the Englishman extended to haul her up inside the attic. Helga came back, took the steps away and reappeared holding a stick with a knobbly handle. She developed a limp as she went towards the door, looking up at the two faces peering down.
'Rheumatism,' she said drily. 'Takes me ages to get down those stairs..'
It was the nearest Helga had come to displaying a sense of humour since their arrival. Lindsay closed the flap and felt for the bolt. He rammed it home and waited. The trap-door was made of knotted wood like the rest of the ceiling. Poor Kurt had made a skilful job of concealing the trap-door. Christa switched on a small torch she had brought from the kitchen.
The attic had a Disney-like character - roofs slanting at steep angles instead of walls. The floor was boarded over the rafters. Two tiny dormer windows had been masked with heavy curtains which let in no daylight. There were even two sleeping-bags and Christa had settled herself on one.
'Get on the other sleeping-bag,' she warned. 'The floorboards creak..'
'You know this place well?'
'Yes.' She nodded, her expression wistful. Lindsay reflected she had spent time with Kurt in this tiny, hidden world. He had eased himself on to the sleeping-bag next to the trap-door when they heard voices below, voices they could hear with surprising clarity. The police had arrived.
In the room below, Helga was chiding police sergeant Berg, a man of fifty-eight with an ample stomach and a flowing moustache. He had two men with him and instructed them to start the search.
'A body can't even finish her meagre meal without you invading her privacy,' Helga growled, leaning on her stick. 'There ought to be a law against it..'
'We are the law,' Berg reminded her amiably.
'Then there ought to be a law against the law!'
'We're looking for a man and a woman,' Berg explained in a conciliatory tone. 'The man is wearing an SS uniform..'
'I would let the SS into my place! Give him a meal - make him feel at home! Like bloody hell I would..'
'Now, Helga, I'm only doing my duty.'
'Then tell them to be careful in my kitchen. I can hear them messing about with crockery.'
It was at that moment when the knot of wood fell from the trap-door into the room below. Lindsay had pressed his ear to the trap to hear more clearly and was appalled. He distinctly heard it ping on the floor of the room below during a brief pause in the conversation. He heard Berg's reaction.
'What was that?'
The Englishman saw Christa's hand clench before she switched off the torch. Without touching the woodwork, he peered down with one eye through the hole the fallen knot had left. He had a clear view of the room.
Berg had been standing looking out of the window with his back to Helga when the knot fell. Helga sighed and moved her stick four inches, covering the knot with the tip of her stick. Berg had turned round and was looking suspiciously at her. There was no smile on his face now. He had become the official policeman.
'The stove, of course!' rasped Helga. 'Sometimes,' she went on with withering sarcasm, 'I get hold of a piece of wood I can actually burn in it! Is there a law against that too?'
Through the spy-hole Lindsay watched and held his breath. The knot of wood was larger than the tip of her stick. Berg had only to look down... His next move would be to look up. And since the policeman was not wearing glasses his eyesight was pro
bably excellent.
Helga, her mouth tight and surly, held Berg's gaze, then she went on talking, her manner aggressive. 'You haven't looked inside that big cupboard yet. Maybe I have your SS man hidden away behind my few clothes. There's plenty of room, dumb-head!'
Berg was so annoyed he went to the cupboard and opened both doors. Helga stooped quickly, picked up the knot of wood and hobbled over to the stove. She used one hand to lift up the lid with the poker and with the other flipped the knot inside. Berg closed the doors of the cupboard and swung round.
'Helga, I don't like this any more than you do. The man wearing SS uniform is British..'
'I know! He has a hooked nose and a scar on his right cheek.'
'You've seen him!'
'Berg, you fell for that one, you old fool!' She cackled, waving her stick at him in a mock threatening gesture. 'Time they put you out to grass!'
She glared as the other two policemen reappeared respectively from the bedroom and the kitchen. They both shook their heads. Pointing her stick at the door to the outer landing, Helga growled at them.
'You know the way out, or have you forgotten the layout of this luxurious apartment?'
Berg made a gesture for them to leave, closed the door and came back into the room. He stood exactly beneath the hole in the trap-door. He only had to glance up... Lindsay tensed. Did he know of the existence of the attic?
Berg reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a round tin which he presented to Helga. 'My brother came on leave from Tunisia a week ago. They captured an English truck which had lost its way in the mountains. Stacked with the stuff - English coffee. Lyons. Something for the trouble you've been caused..'
'Bribery! Black market, too!' Helga's claw-like hand reached out and grasped the tin. 'You're a villain, Berg. You know that? I may drink your health with the first cup.'
'I'll be going — but to save you more trouble I'll leave this document which confirms this building has been searched.' Producing a piece of paper he spread it on the table, dated and signed it and gave it to her. 'If the SS arrive wave this in their faces. It's signed by the Munich chief of police as well as myself.'