The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  'All these personnel to catch one Englishman?'

  Bormann was aghast. Always sure of how to proceed, the Reichsleiter was completely nonplussed by this development. The Fuhrer didn't even hear his mild intervention as he spoke briskly, his voice growing in power.

  'This way we have three independent forces on their tails - the Gestapo, the SS and the Abwehr. If one of them cannot track down this subversive group we might as well pull down the shutters and close the shop! Bormann, you will furnish them with all the funds, facilities and weapons they need. Stay up all night if necessary!'

  He stopped pacing, folded his arms and stared hard at the group of men listening in silence. This was no moment to interrupt the Fuhrer.

  'I expect you all to be in Vienna before dawn - then you have all day to scour the city. And remember, gentlemen, the Gestapo is already there - one jump ahead of you …'

  His arms still folded, Hitler waited with a stern expression as the men hurried from the room. Once alone with Bormann, his mood changed dramatically. Throwing himself into a chair he spread his arms wide and shook with laughter.

  'Bormann, did you see their expressions! It's like a race - who will catch the Englishman first? Nothing gingers up men like competition. And you know who I predict will track down our target?'

  'Gruber.'

  'Of course not!' The idea sent Hitler into another paroxysm of mirth. 'Hartmann; he gasped out when he had recovered. 'That wily Abwehr type knows a thing or two - he even gave the others a clue and they were too thick to grasp it...' His manner changed yet again. His face stiffened, he sat up erect, his voice harsh. 'What are you still doing here? They will be waiting for you downstairs, Bormann! You are holding up their urgent departure...'

  Bormann, short and stocky, a ridiculous figure in his jackboots when he skipped hurriedly across the polished floor, paused at the door.

  'Mein Fuhrer, you said Hartmann gave them a clue?'

  'The cases they left behind! The cases full of expensive clothes for a woman. Now, hurry!'

  He listened to the fading scurry of Bormann's boots tip-tapping down the curved staircase and then relaxed in his chair with a broad smile. He spoke quietly to test her hearing.

  'Eva, you can come in now, you little minx. They've all gone. You've been eavesdropping again, haven't you?'

  It was 2 am when the Condor transport plane carrying Jaeger, Schmidt and Hartmann landed at the aerodrome outside Vienna. A car was waiting to take them into the Austrian capital. Bormann was a strange man, but his enemies - which included almost everyone except the Fuhrer - all admitted he was a superb organizer.

  Schmidt sat in the front beside the driver while Jaeger and the Abwehr officer occupied the rear seats. During the longish drive into the city Hartmann remained deep in thought. His silence irked the more extrovert SS colonel.

  'How are you going to set about this impossible task?' he asked.

  'Where are you going first?' countered Hartmann. 'To SS headquarters, for a consultation with Kahr. You are welcome to attend our meeting.'

  'Would you think it discourteous if I asked you to drop me off at the Westbahnhof?' Hartmann suggested. 'I imagine the luggage they left behind is still there?'

  'I presume so. What can that tell you?'

  'I won't know till I see it, will I?' Hartmann replied. 'You're a close-mouthed bastard,' Jaeger commented amiably.

  'But, if I may say so,' Schmidt added, turning round in his seat, 'a shrewd one, too...'

  Schmidt sensed a certain fellow-feeling with the ex-lawyer. His methods were not unlike those Schmidt had employed as a police chief in those far-off days in Düsseldorf. It all seemed a century ago.

  Hartmann alighted from the car outside, the station. It was exactly 2.30 am. He made his way to the luggage store, extracting from his wallet a document he had obtained from Bormann. It gave him powers to question anyone, regardless of rank. By order of the Fuhrer.

  'I'm just going off night duty,' the baggage store supervisor remarked and his manner was surly.

  'This is my authority,' Hartmann told him crisply. 'Are you the man who received the luggage impounded by the SS?'

  Yes, he was the man. Yes, he could provide a description of the passenger who had deposited the

  luggage. Hartmann smoked his pipe and listened in silence as the supervisor described the chauffeur. It was not a positive identification but he felt convinced Lindsay had been inside that uniform. He asked to see the bags.

  Hartmann spent some time carefully sifting through their contents, being careful to replace things as he found them. He was naturally tidy and both cases contained a woman's complete travelling wardrobe. The clothes were smart, very expensive. He paused when his agile fingers touched a folded Astrakhan coat and matching hat.

  An Astrakhan coat and hat …' The detailed report of the rescue group in front of the Frauenkirche had mentioned a man clad in just such an outfit, the 'man' in the rear of the green Mercedes who had hauled Lindsay inside. Except that it had not been a man - it had been a woman....'

  'Found any clues, Major?'

  Hartmann glanced over his shoulder and saw Schmidt standing behind him. The SS officer smiled and made a friendly gesture as he spoke.

  'Jaeger sent me to find out what you are up to. I was nothing loath to come - I'm equally curious...'

  'The Baroness Werther - her impersonator - was at the Frauenkirche massacre. This is the coat and hat she wore - the hat doubtless well pulled down over her head. Hence no one, realized she was a woman.

  She has now abandoned all her finery. What does that suggest to you, Schmidt?'

  'That she has no further use for it...'

  'Carry that thought to its logical conclusion,' Hartmann pressed.

  'I'm road-blocked...'

  'We shall find the Englishman not by concentrating on Lindsay - we must out-guess the Baroness, as I shall continue to call her. A worthy opponent, I suspect. Schmidt! She is changing her level, moving on a different plane. So far she has travelled as an aristocrat. She may be going to the other extreme - to the peasant level.'

  'To confuse us? So we have the wrong description ….'

  'Partly that,' Hartmann agreed. His dark eyes gleamed and he reminded Schmidt of a bloodhound who has picked up the scent. 'But this fact may point to her general destination - she may have to assume a new appearance because of her surroundings. You would not resent a suggestion?'

  'My God! No.'

  'Warn the watchers at all bus depots and the captains of all ships plying the Danube to look for a peasant group - three men and a girl. And there is another station here, I believe...'

  'The Sudbahnhof. Trains to Graz - and Yugoslavia beyond...'

  'Watch that station.'

  Schmidt glanced at the huge clock suspended from a girder. It was 2.45 am.

  Everything in the Sudbahnhof district was worn-out, derelict - or at best shabby if a building was occupied - when you could see anything through the sour fog which clung to the area like a plague. Gaunt wrecks of buildings like huge rotting teeth loomed in the dirt-laden mist. It reminded Lindsay of a no-man's-land abandoned long ago by battle-weary armies.

  Paco and Lindsay had travelled in a taxi which sagged to one side, the Monstrous synthetic fuel attachment making the vehicle look distorted. She paid off the taxi in the middle of what appeared to be a desert of rubble and waited until it vanished in the grey pall.

  'We walk the rest of the way,' she said briskly, 'then if the cab driver is picked up and questioned he can't lead them to us...'

  'Lead them to where?' Lindsay wondered how she knew the direction to take. 'This isn't my idea of Strauss's Vienna at all...'

  'It's one of the poor districts,' she said, striding out. 'Quite possibly Hitler knew it well in his younger days. You can see how it could drive a man on to get somewhere in the world...'

  They were treading across an open area of rubble when two youths loomed out of the fog. Shabbily dressed, cap-less, they had an ugl
y look. One carried a length of iron pipe. The youth with the pipe hoisted it to strike Lindsay's skull a shattering blow.

  The Englishman stopped Paco with his left hand. He jerked up his right foot and kicked his assailant between the legs with all his strength. The youth screamed, dropped the weapon, crouched over, moaning horribly. The other youth vanished. Raising his foot again, Lindsay placed it on the shoulder of the crouched youth and shoved hard. The youth spun over backwards and sprawled among a debris of stones and broken glass. Blood oozed from his head.

  'Move!' Lindsay snapped. 'And put that thing away...'

  That thing was a short-bladed knife Paco had produced — Lindsay wasn't sure where from. They hurried through the night as he went on talking.

  'If you knifed one of them the police would have started swarming. That we can do without...'

  'I know. This way...'

  'And get rid of that knife...'

  'I didn't expect...'

  Paco stopped in mid-sentence. She must be ruddy well played out, Lindsay thought. He knew what she had stopped herself saying: 'I didn't expect you'd cope with those two thugs...'

  'You're learning fast, Lindsay.' She linked her arm through his, and a trace of the normal Paco returned as she smiled mischievously. 'You may even survive.

  Now, you mustn't be able to identify this place we're staying for the night.'

  A fat chance of that, Lindsay almost retorted. The three-storey building they were approaching had plaster peeling off the drab walls. In the swirling fog he made out the word Gasthof but the name which had once followed it had peeled away.

  It was a slum. Torn curtains with ragged edges hung across the windows at crazy angles. Nearby he heard the muffled thump of engines shunting freight wagons. Were they that close to the Sudbahnhof? Then they were inside a gloomy hall and he shut the warped front door. An interesting contradiction - the hinges were well-oiled, making no sound.

  Paco went up to a plain wooden counter behind which a gnarled old man in a threadbare green waistcoat waited. The place had a musty, dank smell mingled with stale urine. 'Were they going to spend many hours in this hell-hole?'

  'You know me - Paco,' she said in a firm, confident voice. 'I am expecting two men...'

  'What kept you?'

  Bora appeared out of nowhere halfway down a rickety staircase. Behind him, smiling warmly, stood Milic. Bora ran lightly down the rest of the steps, making no sound. He paused at the bottom to stare hard at Lindsay. The Englishman had had enough of the arrogant Serb and stared back. Bora turned to Paco.

  'There has been some trouble in the area recently...'

  'Stop rattling your guts in public!' It was the old boy behind the makeshift reception counter who growled out the words. From his manner he had as little liking for Bora as had Lindsay. He turned to Paco, ignoring the Serb.

  'The police have already been. They looked at the register. They went away. They won't be back. They're looking for a killer.'

  'A killer?' Paco queried softly.

  'Two youths in civvies - they're probably army deserters. They attacked two soldiers and robbed them blind. Attacked them with lengths of iron piping. One soldier killed, the other in hospital. They got good descriptions from the one who survived. It's stirred things up round here, I can tell you.'

  'Where are the suitcases I left?' Paco interrupted brusquely.

  'Room 17. Your friends have already collected one. I've put them in Room 20. You two will be sharing...?'

  The question drifted off into space as the receptionist looked over Paco's shoulder at Lindsay who remained silent. Nothing lecherous in the old man's expression - just a straightforward enquiry.

  'We'll be sharing,' said Paco.

  'Money in advance...'

  'I know! This payment includes warning in time for us to escape if the police return. And that front

  door is still open..

  'It won't be!' Lifting a flap in the counter, the receptionist trudged to the entrance, inserted a large key in the lock, turned it and began shutting bolts. Lindsay counted four. The old man peered up at him and winked. 'Take a cannon to blow this door in. That's solid yew...'

  Paco counted out a large pile of banknotes. Picking up the key, she gestured for Lindsay to follow her. Bora and Milk preceded her up the stairs. She waited until they were alone at the end of a long corridor before speaking.

  'Bora, we're catching the 4.30 am train from the Sudbahnhof to Graz - so get what sleep you can. No problems on the way here?'

  'Our cab broke down - his scrap metal engine exploded. We walked two miles. This murdered soldier worries me. By morning the area could be swarming with Gestapo...'

  'So, we're catching the earliest train we can. Go to bed, Bora.'

  'Lindsay followed Paco along the narrow, bare- boarded corridor to Room 17. It was larger inside than he'd expected - dim light filtered through the un-curtained window. He went across and looked out. The view was restricted - a blank wall opposite, a thread of an alley below. He closed the curtains carefully and Paco switched on the light, a naked bulb the equivalent of forty watts.

  Paco sank on to the edge of the large bed. 'Thanks for keeping quiet about those two thugs we met - they must be the men who killed that soldier. The receptionist would have been alarmed. And Bora would have had a fit..

  'You gave that receptionist enough money. I was amazed. We can trust him?'

  'The price of secrecy. We can trust our money. Funny, isn't it, for that amount we could have stayed at the Sacher.

  'Why didn't we? This place is quite a dump.'

  'Lindsay, you've stopped learning again. If by any quirk of fate they've traced us to Vienna they'll check the top hotels first - the places where the Baroness Werther would stay at. To say nothing of the problem of registration. And here we're a stone's throw from the Sudbahnhof. I'm dog-tired - get me the suitcase out of that big wardrobe...'

  The furnishings were simple - primitive might have been a better word. A large wardrobe with a door which didn't close properly, a cracked mirror. The large bed with varnish peeling off the headboard. A cracked wash-basin which exuded a peculiar aroma if you stood too close. He placed the case on the bed and sat at the top with the case between them.

  'We're peasants from now on,' she said. 'We change into our new clothes before we sleep - then if we have to leave quickly by the fire-escape we're dressed. It's at the end of the corridor ….'

  Dropping from fatigue, Lindsay changed into the outfit Paco had chosen for him - a thick shirt with a worn collar, a pair of green corduroy trousers which had been repaired many times and a heavy, shabby

  jacket.

  Paco was quicker and by the time he had changed she was in bed under the down quilt and fast asleep. Wearily he climbed in the other side, careful not to disturb her and lay down. Closing his eyes, he slipped into blessed oblivion.

  It was 3 am. At SS headquarters in Vienna all the men seated round the table could hardly keep their eyes open except for one. Gustav Hartmann seemed tireless and capable of going on for ever without

  sleep.

  Gruber was holding forth. By his side sat his new colleague, Willy Maisel, a thin-faced man of thirty with a thatch of dark hair who had a considerable reputation for shrewdness.

  'This Englishman and the subversives have now killed a German soldier near the Sudbahnhof!' He was working himself up into an excited state. 'This is the second time they have murdered..

  'Oh, for God's sake, interrupted Colonel Jaeger, 'don't get so bloody theatrical. Certainly not at this hour.'

  By his side Schmidt lifted his eyes to heaven and flung a pencil down on the table. In the brief silence the noise was like a pistol shot.

  'The evidence points in another- direction,' ventured Willy Maisel. 'We have precise descriptions of the two assailants, both youths who sound to me like deserters. Nothing at all to do with Wing Commander Lindsay and his friends.'

  'Thank you for your support,' Gruber said nastily. 'At leas
t I have taken some positive action, which is more than anyone else could claim, I suspect...'

  'Oh, what action is that?' Hartmann enquired jovially.

  'Gestapo agents and their network of paid informants are at this moment checking all the top hotels in the city. This pseudo-Baroness likes to live well, the murdering bitch...'

  'Good for you,' Hartmann replied with a straight face. 'I'm sure tying up your forces on that mission will prove highly profitable.'

  'I'm declaring this meeting closed.' Jaeger stood up and shoved his chair back against the wall with a hard kick of his boot. 'I want some sleep. We'll start again in the morning...'

  Schmidt strolled over to Hartmann, glancing back at the table to where Gruber and Maisel still sat with their heads together. The SS officer waited until they were in the corridor before he asked his question.

  'Do you think Gruber knows what he is talking about - this obsession with the Sudbahnhof?'

  'Maisel is the clever one,' Hartmann replied cryptically. 'He supplies the brains, Gruber the brute force.

  A perfectly balanced Gestapo team. They should go far!'

  'Which means you're evading my question,' Schmidt remarked without malice as they continued along the corridor.

  'The Sudbahnhof is a working-class area - one of the really poor districts. Good night...'

  Schmidt watched the Abwehr man disappearing down a flight of steps. He suspected Hartmann had been giving him a clue - but he was too exhausted to work it out.

  'Wake up, Lindsay, you lazy slug. You've had hours of sleep!'

  Lindsay's head was full of cotton-wool. He opened his eyes as Paco shook his shoulder again. He felt he had just gone to sleep. Would it never stop - this pushing on and on and on? Christ, he wished they'd been able to make Switzerland.

  'What time is it?' he asked as he sat up and forced his legs out of bed.

  'Four o'clock. Train leaves in thirty minutes. Get something inside you. I brought breakfast up.'