“I had nothing to do with the selection,” Porthos said. “Phillip lured the quarry. I simply closed the trap.”
“We mustn’t waste too much time talking,” Phillip said earnestly. “That uniform may do one of us for a while, but the rest of us need clothes and papers. We’re running a risk every hour we spend in Paris without clearance papers.”
“You must calm yourself,” Aramis said. He shook his round blond head seriously. “These Germans are completely without imagination or brains, as they were a hundred years ago when we ran them through so often and easily that it grew monotonous. You must not worry to© much about them; they don’t deserve such concern.”
“But there are many of them,” Athos said thoughtfully. “They are well prepared and equipped. I agree with Phillip. We are not in the best of situations. We must not underestimate our enemy.”
“Let’s see which of us this uniform fits,” Phillip said. “The officer’s papers and identification are all here. Perhaps one of us can assume the identity of the German officer.”
THE uniform was too tight for Aramis, too large for Phillip, hopelessly too small for the mighty Porthos, but it fitted Athos almost perfectly. When he was completely dressed, from glistening black boots to peaked cap he looked at them for approbation.
“Am I the perfect German type?” he smiled. He glanced down at his swastika-emblazoned blouse and grimaced. “I don’t feel clean when I look at that thing,” he said.
“Then don’t look at it,” Aramis said.
Athos leafed through the officer’s papers, then stuffed them into his pocket.
“For the time,” he smiled, “I am Oberleutnant Mueller of Bavaria, detailed in Paris for an indefinite period to help enforce the beauties of the New Order.”
“Now we must arrange something for the rest of us,” Phillip said. “The underground is doing its best to procure for us papers that will give us the freedom of the city. But they work very slowly. We must make an effort ourselves to get identification papers. Without them we haven’t got a chance.”
“Tomorrow is another day,” Aramis yawned. “Time enough then to start worrying.” He looked disgustedly about the small, dismal room. “The thought of sleeping again in this sty is nauseating, but,” he shrugged, “I suppose it must be borne.” His thoughts shifted to another subject. “Has anyone made plans for breakfast? We have only a small piece of cheese and half a loaf of stale bread left. I’d trade my sword for a bottle of wine,” he said wistfully.
Porthos laughed, a rumbling chuckle that set the thin walls trembling.
“This does my soul good,” he said. “To see the dainty Aramis, the pet of the women of Paris and the chief support of half the lace-makers and perfumers in the kingdom starving in a garret and sleeping on a pile of straw. D’Artagnan would enjoy the spectacle.”
“I wish D’Artagnan were with us,” Aramis said bitterly. “He wouldn’t put up for a minute with this foul stinking hole. He would have silk sheets and red wine if he bad to run through all the Germans in Paris to get them.”
“Gascon D’Artagnan,” Athos smiled. “I wonder if we shall ever see our headstrong cavalier again? I wonder where he is now and what he is doing?”
“Wherever he is,” Porthos said, “you may be sure his friends are happy and his enemies are miserable. And you may also wager that with him can be found excitement, danger and a good laugh.”
PHILLIP was listening to the conversation, but he was also listening subconsciously for any sound outside their small room. And suddenly he held up one hand warningly, “Listen,” he whispered.
From the street below, a faint shout, harsh and authoritative drifted to their ears. Athos looked significantly at the other three and then stepped quietly to the window that overlooked the street.
Aramis pinched out the candle as Athos drew back the heavy window covering and peered down into the darkness of the street. He turned away a moment later, replaced the window covering and smiled thoughtfully at his three companions.
“The street is being searched,” he said. “Every room will be inspected.” He lit the candle and watched its flickering flame for a moment. “They will be here very shortly,” he murmured.
As he spoke, they all heard a tramp of feet on the steps that led to their room.
“It will take them a little while to search the floors below us,” he said quietly.
Phillip said, “They probably discovered the body of the German officer.”
“Yes,” Porthos said, glancing at Athos who wore the dead officer’s uniform, “and that makes that uniform useless. You’d better get out of it and throw it into the street before they arrive here.”
“I don’t think so,” Athos said quietly. “It isn’t likely that they have identified Oberleutnant Mueller as yet. And throwing away the uniform would gain us nothing. There are men in the street below who would see from where it fell.”
“The rest of us are caught,” Aramis said. “Without papers we won’t have a chance. But you must manage to get away Athos; for,” he grinned wickedly, “it will be your task to pry us loose from their clutches.” He chuckled. “I don’t envy you, friend Athos. We will sit quietly in warm cells, eating comfortably while you go about the unpleasant job of liberating us.”
Athos smiled at him.
“Thank you, Aramis,” he said quietly. “Deserting one’s friends is not easy to stomach. You are making it slightly easier for me to leave. If I am lucky I can escape from here, but saving you from them may be impossible.”
“You are talking like an old woman,” scoffed Porthos. “When a thing is impossible it just takes a little longer to accomplish.”
There was a sudden clatter of boots on their landing and a harsh voice cried,
“Open immediately!”
A heavy knock sounded on the door, repeated instantly by several more. Phillip looked uncertainly at Athos. “Open the door, Phillip,” Athos said.
PHILLIP stepped to the door, quickly opened it, and two husky German soldiers strode arrogantly into the room, their eyes suspicious and alert. Guns were in their hands.
They swept the room with their glances and when they saw Athos in an Oberleutnant-s uniform, standing coolly in the center of the room, surveying them with a cold questioning gaze, their arrogant confidence fell from them like a shabby coat.
Their jaws dropped and the guns in their hands wavered uncertainly.
“Well?” Athos said curtly. His voice was like the rasp of steel in winter and his eyes were scornful and arrogant. “What do you want?”
The Germans awkwardly shifted their guns to their left hands and saluted nervously.
“We are searching this section, Herr Oberleunant,” one of them said stiffly. “By whose orders?” Athos asked. “Colonel Rinehart has ordered a completely search of this neighborhood. A German has been found dead in an alley near here, stripped of all clothes and identification. The colonel thinks the slayers are in this area.”
“Silence!” Athos said harshly. He glared angrily at the two confused Germans. “Are you presuming to tell me what Colonel Rinehart is thinking? What company are you from?”
“We are members of the 403rd from Berlin,” one of the soldiers answered woodenly.
“I might have known,” Athos said disgustedly. “That company has a reputation from one end of Europe to the other for stupidity, incompetence, negligence and inefficiency. Get out of here! You are a disgrace to der Fuehrer!”
The soldiers flushed painfully and shifted from one foot to the other but they did not move.
“We have orders from the colonel to search this district,” one of them said stolidly.
Phillip knew that Athos’ bluff had failed. For a moment he had hoped it might work, but he knew enough of the German temperament to realize that these two soldiers would carry out their colonel’s orders to the letter. And when he glanced furtively at Athos he saw that the musketeer knew it also.
“Very well,” he said, shrugging, “get
on with your work. Where is your Colonel Rinehart?”
“He is at the head of the block in a staff car,” the German soldier said. “He is waiting for reports on the search.”
“The head of the block? That is to the left, is it not?” Athos asked.
“Yes it is, Herr Oberleutnant,” one of the soldiers answered respectfully, but Phillip noted a curious look on the man’s face. “I thought the Herr Oberleutnant would know that,” he said, and the curious expression on his face was slowly crystalizing to one of open suspicion.
“I am not interested in what you thought,” Athos said, and his voice was like the crack of thin ice. “Must I remind you again that your job is not to think?’”
His cold eyes dominated the German soldier. The man straightened and stared ahead, his face wooden.
“I am sorry, Herr Oberleutnant,” he said.
Athos stared at the man for an instant and then turned to the door.
“I am going to pay my respects to the colonel,” he said, “and tell him of the oafs he has in his command. Although,” he added bitterly, “I am sure he is aware of that.”
HE OPENED the door, looked once at his three companions with a lingering, expressive glance, and then his boots sounded briskly on the wooden stairs.
The German soldiers waited until his footsteps had faded away before turning their attention to the others in the room. All of their initial arrogance had returned almost magically.
“Your papers!” one of them barked.
Phillip knew they would have to stall somehow, to give Athos a chance to get clear of the neighborhood. When the soldiers learned that none of them had papers, they would instantly mention the officer who had been in their company and a drag-net would instantly be thrown about the section.
He looked blankly at the two German soldiers.
“What?” he said. His voice was like an idiot’s, slurred and dull.
“You heard me,” one of the soldiers snapped. “Your papers!”
“Papers?” Phillip repeated vaguely. “Oh yes,” he said, his face brightening, “papers.” He looked down at the floor and frowned painfully. “We have so many,” he said, shaking his head laboriously. “We have our identification papers,” he said, holding up his fingers and ticking them off as he counted, “we have our papers for bread, for meat, for clothes, for shoes, for wine—”
He paused and regarded the German accusingly. “Such a little wine you allow us.”
“Stop babbling!” one of the soldiers shouted. “We want your papers, all of them.”
“I have all of them but my tickets for bread,” Phillip said slowly. “I lost those yesterday. I was coming from work and when I paid my fare on the street car the bread ticket fell from my hand. It fluttered out the door. I asked the conductor to stop, but he said—”
“I don’t care what he said,” one of the soldiers roared. “If you don’t produce your papers in ten seconds I will have you thrown in jail.”
“Oh, that mustn’t happen,” Phillip said, “I will get them for you right away.”
“We will get ours too,” Aramis said. “We do not wish to go to jail. But I have lost my papers for procuring shoes. But there are no shoes in shops anyway, so I suppose it makes no difference.”
“And I have lost my work identification,” Porthos said unhappily. “My foreman is preparing a new one for me, but it is not ready yet.”
“Silence, all of you!” one of the soldiers shouted. “We are not here to listen to an inventory of your losses. I have never seen such a collection of stupid, drooling, clumsy oafs.”
PHILLIP was fumbling in his pockets.
“They should be right here,” he said, frowning, “I always keep my papers. You never know when somebody is liable to ask to see them.” He went through all of his pockets carefully, turning them inside out and staring with vague puzzlement at the flecks of lint that drifted to the floor. “I can’t understand—” He looked up suddenly, his face suddenly bright. “How stupid of me,” he cried. “I remember now. I took them from my pocket when I came in tonight. They are across the room under my bed. I will get them for you.”
“Stand where you are,” one of the Germans snapped. He motioned to his companion. “Get his papers,” he ordered. “We have wasted enough time here already. It is time for action.” The other soldier crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the narrow cot.
“Where are they?” he asked, scowling at Phillip.
“Under the pillow,” Philip answered, but when the German pulled aside the pillow, he suddenly cried, “No, forgive me, I have forgotten. They are at the foot of the bed, inside the mattress.” The soldier swore and turned to the foot of the bed. His nose wrinkled as he dug into the depths of the stale straw mattress. He fished about for several minutes.
Phillip slowly released the breath he had been holding. His whole body relaxed. He knew the game was up but he was also sure that Athos was out of the immediate section by now.
The soldier turned from the bed, his face ugly.
“There are no papers here,” he said. “So!” the other soldier cried, “you have been lying to us.”
He stepped forward quickly, drew back his hand and slapped Phillip stingingly across the mouth. Porthos moved forward instinctively, his great hands clenching, an angry rumble in his throat, but the German swung his gun to cover him.
“Stand where you are!” he said icily. “I would like to shoot you. It would please me if you give me the chance.” He stared angrily, bitterly at the three men.
“You have tried to make fools of us,” he snapped. “You will regret that, I promise you.”
His comrade was standing by the bed and there was a helpless, sick expression on his face.
“The Oberleutnant,” he said weakly. “He was with them.”
The two Germans looked at each other and their eyes were apprehensive and filled with sudden terror.
“If he was an imposter,” one of them said feebly, “we shall be on our way to the Russian front by this time tomorrow.”
Aramis chuckled softly.
“I hope you gentlemen like cold weather,” he murmured.
“Your friend will not get far,” one of the Germans said. “And you,” he added, smiling sadistically, “will go no further than the nearest concentration camp.”
He gestured to the door with his gun.
“March out with your hands over your heads,” he ordered. “Colonel Rinehart will wish to talk with you. And that,” he added grinning with ugly bitterness, “is as close as you can come to hell before you die.”
CHAPTER III
THE musketeers and Phillip spent that night in a dank cramped cell. The next morning, after a meager breakfast, a guard opened their cell door and ordered them into the corridor.
“Colonel Rinehart wishes to talk with you,” he said. “Follow me. And don’t try any tricks.”
He led them up several flights of iron stairs, down a long corridor and finally stopped at a huge door that was guarded by a squad of back-clad soldiers of the Elite Corps.
The guard knocked and the door was opened by a small black-haired orderly.
“Have them come in,” he said.
The room was huge, decorated in white, and the sun was pouring in from several windows. A huge swastika hung at one end of the office and before this was a large desk.
A man was seated behind the desk.
He glanced up when the prisoners filed into the room. He smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“Step up closer, please,” he said pleasantly. “We are civilized human beings, and it is easier to talk without having to shout to be understood.”
Phillip stopped several feet from the desk, Aramis at his right, the hulking Porthos at his left. He had a good opportunity to study Colonel Rinehart at close range.
The colonel was a man about forty, of medium height, thin and spare. His skin fitted his skull without a wrinkle. His hair was graying at the temples; his eyes were a deep
shade of blue. He wore a monocle that seemed almost part of his face. When he smiled, hard sharp white teeth were visible under thin lips. An indication of the man’s character was evident in the painfully neat desk, the ordered appearance of everything in the room. A rack of fine gleaming fencing foils hung against one wall, but it was the only thing that broke the stark cold design of the office. And even the gleaming steel foils seemed to fit into the icily sharp order of the room.
THE colonel was leaning back in his chair regarding them smilingly.
“You may relax, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “If you care to smoke, there are cigarettes on my desk. There is no reason why any of us should be uncomfortable.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the shining surface of the desk. “You will find that I am not quite the ogre I am painted to be. I am a reasonable man, fair and just, I think, but on occasion I can be firm.” He pronounced the last word with a peculiar emphasis. “Now,” he said, picking a typewritten sheet of paper from the desk. “I have here a complete report on you gentlemen. Complete, that is,” he smiled, “as far as it goes. You are probably part of the underground movement that is operating in France. That much we know. You will probably be deported to concentration camps on my recommendation. However,” he said, leaning back again in his chair and placing his fingertips carefully together, “I would very much like to have the name and description of the man who was masquerading as a German officer and whom my stupid soldiers allowed to slip completely away from them. For that information I would be willing to pay considerable. In fact,” he smiled slowly, “I would even order that you three be sent to one of the more pleasant and livable camps in France where you would be granted certain special privileges that would make life more endurable. But if you are not willing to cooperate with me I shall have to be firm.
He paused and watched them carefully.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 206