The Legion of the Lost

by John Creasey

  None of the others had seen the letter.

  Palfrey slipped it into his pocket, knowing that it would not be wise to open and read it there. The possibility that it was another message from the Marquis loomed large in his mind’s eye. He played with the idea of going to the cloakroom to read it covertly but he heard the puffing of an engine and saw the extra carriages being shunted along.

  There was a concerted rush of people from the centre of the platform to the far end.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Berlin

  Drusilla was sandwiched between Stefan and Brian, and Conroy squeezed up against the corner next to Palfrey, but they had the satisfaction of sharing that end of the compartment between them. For a while the passengers were too busy regaining their breath to look about them. Before the compartment had really settled down the train jolted into motion.

  It was a little after seven o’clock; the train started punctually.

  ‘Something over four hundred miles to go,’ mused Palfrey. ‘And we’ll be lucky if we don’t have to change.’

  He fancied that he could feel the letter pressing against his side, although that was absurd. A dozen times he imagined that he saw the big eyes of Dross’s niece and ached to get at his pocket, although doubting whether it would be wise, since all eyes would be turned on anyone making a nuisance of himself.

  After a little more than two hours they drew into a large town. Palfrey was not sure of its identity, but as he looked out of the windows he was aghast. It had evidently once been a large port. Now it looked as if a giant hand had swept all important buildings to ground level; there was nothing standing except a few solitary walls and, incongruously enough, two large cranes.

  They passed that scene of desolation and entered the station. There was evidence enough of bomb damage there, but the houses and shops nearby did not seem greatly affected, although there were large gaps torn in them. He caught a glimpse of the name-board and realised with a sense of shock that it was Lubeck.

  They stopped there only for a short while, and were a long time going across the plain of north-west Germany, gradually drawing nearer to Berlin. The train made an average speed of about thirty miles an hour, Palfrey judged. The compartment grew hot and stuffy and smelly; it was a long time since he had experienced the fetid smell of unwashed bodies. Clothes, hands and faces were dirty – dirtier by far than they had been in Oslo or Copenhagen. Soldiers and civilians alike had grey faces and red-rimmed eyes; they looked like denizens of a lost world.

  Palfrey’s party had a few sandwiches, which they took out furtively, one by one, the other passengers doing the same.

  The silence was remarkable – hardly a dozen words were exchanged the whole time – and because of that the journey seemed never-ending. The unvaried scenery, with only a few hills and stretches of wooded land, added to their boredom.

  Palfrey began to look at his watch every five minutes, seeing the hands crawl along. Until midday the time went fairly fast; after that it seemed to stand still. He grew parched and hungry in spite of the few sandwiches, but could not get at some packets of chocolates in his pockets.

  Three o’clock. Four o’clock. Five.

  He tried to doze off, did in fact fall into a troubled sleep, only to be woken up by a grinding jolt as the train stopped. He heard shouts from the guards and saw two or three of them walking along the track, but although he craned his neck he could not find out what had happened. There was a delay of an hour or more before the train started off again at a slow speed.

  Fifty yards further along he knew what had caused the hold-up.

  On the other track stood an engine with a great hole in its side. Some goods wagons were attached to it but further beyond it a dozen others were on their side, tins and packets and machinery were strewn about the side of the track. A few dozen oldish men were laboriously removing the mess, stacking the salvage in great piles. One of the soldiers in the compartment broke the long silence with three pregnant words: ‘Those damned Tommies!’

  A great load seemed to lift from Palfrey’s heart. It no longer mattered that they were cramped and uncomfortable and that the journey seemed never-ending. The R.A.F. had come as far as this on one of its daylight intruder patrols; in consequence another engine was useless, more equipment destroyed. He leaned back more comfortably than for some time, fancying that he saw a satisfied smile in Drusilla’s eyes.

  After that the journey continued without noticeable delay for a while, although there were times when the train crawled along at little more than ten miles an hour. The sun sank lower and lower into the western sky. There was no need for the black-out to be drawn, for there were no lamps.

  Time no longer meant anything at all.

  But it began to reassert itself, for there was soon a faint light in the eastern sky. After a while he realised that the glow was the first light of morning. They were in a built-up area, and it dawned on him, when he passed a devastated stretch like that at Lubeck, that they were in Berlin. Even that realisation did not give him any sense of satisfaction, for the train went on and on, creeping along at no more than five miles an hour.

  Then, in broad daylight, when the passengers were beginning to wake up, they drew into Friedrichstrasse Station.

  Their rendezvous was an apartment house off the Kurfuerstenstrasse and they reached the long, wide boulevard after ten minutes or so of walking. There was no question at all of getting a taxi, there seemed to be no way of transport except cycles and a few horse-drawn vehicles, although several times single-decker buses, dangerously overloaded, passed them at a slow pace. Dirt and dreariness were everywhere. The centre of Berlin, once as bright and clean and gay as Paris, in some ways as imposing as London, was stripped of its facade and stood revealed for what it was – a city without tradition, one which, when put to the test, could not stand up to the disasters which had come upon it.

  There were huge gaps in the houses, some of the biggest buildings were no more than empty shells. No attempt had been made to clear them up, as in London; only the streets were clear of debris.

  They turned right off the boulevard and found themselves in a network of narrower streets. There were few people about; those whom they saw looked at them with lack-lustre eyes. It was grotesque – the abode of the Herrenvolk turned to dust and dirt. Palfrey managed to wonder how much of their depression was due to their travel-weariness and hunger, but when they reached Number 11 Kelstrasse, a small turning linking two wider ones, he only thought of getting somewhere to sleep. Yet he seemed more awake than any of the others except Stefan. As they reached the door and knocked on it he realised the danger of this situation – they were Swiss nationals about to take up the reservations made for them by the Nazis, so they had to act the part.

  When a thin, drab woman opened the door, Palfrey said: ‘I am Professor Pienne and his party, from Berne. We are expected.’ He yawned realistically.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said, looking at them sourly. ‘Come with me.’ She counted them as they entered, aloud. ‘One—two—three—four—five.’ Then in a tone of disgust: ‘One hundred marks. One hundred!’ She muttered under her breath and led them up a flight of narrow stairs, past the first and second landing to the third, which was dark and gloomy and the floor of which creaked as they walked. She pointed to several doors only just visible in the gloom.

  ‘Share as you like,’ she said. ‘These are your quarters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Palfrey. ‘Thank you!’ Her disgusted ‘one hundred marks’ came back to him as if from a long distance. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a twenty-mark note. ‘For your trouble,’ he said, handing it to her.

  Her eyes lighted up; for the first time some expression showed on her face. She nodded her untidy head, then walked past him and opened one of the doors.

  ‘There is food on the table,’ she said, ‘and—Mein Gott!’

  Vaguely, Palfrey wondered why she exclaimed.

  As vaguely, he saw her standing in
the doorway and staring into the room. He did not know what was there, did not greatly care until she turned and hurried past him, going down the stairs with such haste that twice she stumbled.

  The five stared at one another as Palfrey, licking his lips and suddenly filled with something more than vague alarm, stepped towards the door. Stefan moved with him. Simultaneously they saw the man sitting at a table and staring towards them, a gross-bellied man whose paunch seemed to rest upon his knees, his face florid and fat, with little porcine eyes and a wide, badly-shaped mouth, parted in what was presumably intended for an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Welcome to Berlin!’ he said, rising unsteadily, his uniform tight about him. ‘Heil Hitler!’ He put up his hand in a casual salute; Palfrey and Stefan responded automatically.

  ‘And which, please, is Herr Pienne?’ demanded the fat German. ‘Herr Pienne,’ he added. There seemed some underlying threat in the words. Some distant awareness of danger and the possibility of a trap was in Palfrey’s mind as he said stiffly: ‘I am Professor Pienne.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes. Professor.’ The gross creature smiled more widely, then he caught sight of Drusilla. His eyes widened, he stared at her and licked his lips. ‘The Herr Professor will be good enough to introduce me,’ he said.

  Palfrey thought in a sudden panic: ‘What’s Drusilla’s name? What’s her name?’ On the tip of his tongue was her real name, ‘Blair’; it nearly came out. There seemed to be a long pause before his mind worked. Then he remembered that her name was Berg, not Blair.

  He bowed.

  ‘Fräulein Berg, may I have the honour of introducing—’ he paused and began to boggle again. What was the fellow’s name? What was his name? He’d forgotten that, too. Damn it, there was no reason why he should know!

  ‘I am Stolte, plain Herr Stolte—no Professor!’ declared the fat German with a greasy laugh. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein, we shall get on well. It is my privilege to be your guide for your first days in Berlin.’ He laughed again. ‘A greater privilege than I expected, I will admit!’

  Palfrey said, trying not to sound testy: ‘We shall sleep for our first day in Berlin, nothing more, Herr Stolte. And eat—’ he looked towards the table. There was a bowl of faded-looking lettuce, more like cabbage, some black bread and what looked like liver sausage cut into thin wafers. Yet, even such fare looked appetising. ‘We can discuss other matters later, Herr Stolte.’

  ‘You are tired, yes,’ said Stolte, standing up and pawing at Drusilla’s shoulder. ‘Yes, yes, Fräulein, I can see that. Perhaps I can arrange for you to have more comfortable quarters than these, they are all right for the men, you understand, but for you—’ he leered at her.

  Palfrey said stiffly: ‘Fräulein Berg is one of our party, Herr Stolte, and she will remain with us.’ He wanted to kick the beast, but feared that any further sign of hostility would lead to serious trouble. Somehow Drusilla persuaded the German to go, but he promised to be back that evening when they had rested.

  Palfrey and the others finished the food which had no definable taste, then looked about the suite of rooms. There were four, including a small single room with an iron bedstead, a bedroom with two double beds, a room which was empty of all furniture, that which they had first entered, and a bathroom. None of them troubled to wash; Palfrey was almost asleep before he remembered the letter which the little girl had delivered.

  He was sharing a bed with Brian when he jerked up to a sitting position, reaching out for his coat which was hanging on the foot of the bed. He found the letter, took it out, pushed it beneath the mattress, then lay back with a gasp of sheer fatigue.

  He did not know how long he slept, but he was the first to wake up. Confusedly he blinked about him, parched and stiff. Then he saw Stefan and Conroy on the other bed, Conroy’s dark head small and compact beside Stefan’s. He yawned and groaned, stretching his arms above his head: then climbed out of the bed and sat for a few seconds on the edge. He remembered Drusilla and the letter at the same time. He searched for the letter, getting in a panic when it did not come to hand immediately, then, holding it, he stepped across to the door.

  Drusilla was in the small single room, and he wondered whether it had been wise to leave her there alone.

  Neither Brian nor Conroy had stirred, but Stefan was awake and looked at him without blinking.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. Lisa gave me a letter yesterday,’ Palfrey whispered.

  ‘What was in it?’ asked Stefan.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Palfrey, holding the letter up.

  ‘Wait a moment!’ said Stefan. He climbed out of the bed and tiptoed to the door, a mammoth figure in his underclothes, wearing shorts and a singlet, his fine muscles rippling. He reached the door and flung it open.

  ‘Good morning!’ gasped Herr Stolte from outside.

  Palfrey stepped in Stefan’s wake and said gently: ‘Herr Stolte, I do not like your behaviour. I shall find it necessary to complain to the Party unless you conduct yourself very differently. I shall be prepared to talk to you’ – he paused – ‘this evening. No earlier!’

  Stolte licked his lips, creased his face into a strained smile.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Herr Professor! I was coming to inquire, that was all, coming to inquire.’ He backed away, bobbing his head. He was a gross, grotesque hulk of a man; obviously, firm measure would be most effective with him. But, thought Palfrey as he watched him go downstairs, he might easily prove dangerous.

  Stefan closed the door.

  ‘It has occured to me,’ he said as if there had been no interruption, ‘that the message might tell us not to come to Berlin, Sap.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Palfrey. ‘I did have that idea myself.’ He slit open the envelope with his forefinger and took out the note; then he frowned, for it was not from the Marquis. Nor was it signed or headed. It was written in German characters, carefully printed in a mauve-coloured ink. It ran:

  Dr. Palfrey, I have done all that it is possible to do in Trenborg, but I cannot protect you in Berlin. Others know that you will be going there. There is a suspicion that you are going to try to release Professors Ridzer and Machez. I would advise against it. And be very wary of Count von Otten.

  That was all.

  Stefan and Palfrey, reading it in silence together, stared at each other. Palfrey formed his lips in a soundless whistle. Stefan ran a hand over his hair and said softly: ‘Still very accommodating of the Baron, Sap!’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Palfrey. ‘But that isn’t all. By a long way.’ He began to curl some hair about his forefinger. ‘If they know we’re after Ridzer and Machez it won’t be so easy. It might even be impossible.’

  ‘That might be what the Baron wants us to believe,’ said Stefan.

  ‘Isn’t it time we learned more about von Otten?’ asked Conroy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Herr Stolte’s ‘Conducted Tour’

  It was past time they knew more about von Otten, Palfrey agreed; he left the house soon afterwards on an errand of inquiry. Not far away was a little general shop, which he visited and where, before long, he was talking to a German who had been on the Marquis’s pay-roll for years. A vague, indeterminate-looking man, he discussed von Otten with a passionate intensity which made Palfrey realise how much the man was hated.

  Next to Himmler, it seemed, von Otten was then the most powerful member of the Gestapo. As far as was known his work concerned the occupied and neutral countries. It was certain that delegates from both of these were either in or on their way to Berlin – the purpose of it was not known.

  Those who crossed von Otten’s path, said the little man, were always taken to the new prison on the Potsdamer Platz. He knew little about the place except that the Germans considered it impregnable. A number of prisoners from other places – Germany as well as occupied countries – had been taken there recently, together with large numbers of political prisoners. No one had been known to come out of the prison alive; what happened inside was
a complete mystery.

  Palfrey liked nothing of what he heard.

  There were other things which made a better impression. He learned something of the activities of the anti-Nazi faction in Berlin. Sabotage was increasing and a great deal of supplementary damage was done during the R.A.F. raids, when it was easier to get about the city. Palfrey said nothing about the courage of those who braved the perils of a raid to put even more apparent destructiveness into the bombing. The little man talked all the time without a vestige of humour, only an all-transcending hatred of the Nazis.

  ‘Yes, we do much,’ he told Palfrey, ‘and all the time we improve. We have a chemist amongst us who has been able to prepare a gas—oh, a harmless one!’ he added quickly when Palfrey began to speak. ‘It is a kind of ether, it induces sleep for a few minutes. One of our number goes into important offices and allows the gas to escape, then others follow wearing masks. Much damage has been done to important papers.’

  Palfrey nodded. ‘I’d no idea!’ he admitted.

  ‘We do much,’ repeated his informant, ‘and we are prepared to do more, much more. One day, when an opportunity arises, we can create a great disturbance, for we have men in all positions—why, even in the high offices of what you call Civil Defence. Everywhere they are, waiting for some event of great importance to take action. You are here for such an event, perhaps?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Palfrey.

  He was deep in thought as he walked back to the apartment house in the Kelstrasse, to pass on the information about von Otten and the other things.

  They had been given a much better meal than when they had arrived, won out of the drab-looking Hausfrau by another twenty marks. She looked positively coy when Palfrey gave it to her and asked her what she could do in the way of food. There was, she said, a special permit for her to buy for the Swiss lady and gentlemen, but what she bought depended on what money she had. She was supposed to house and feed them for twenty marks a week each; it was all the Party were prepared to pay. She was second to none in her loyalty to the Party, but such payment did not make it easy – she was sure the Herr Professor would understand.