The Legion of the Lost

by John Creasey

  The Herr Professor told her that she need not fear being underpaid.

  There was one bath, its enamel flaking and showing the tidemarks of countless visitors. Only cold water ran, but all of them bathed. A little later the Hausfrau came to tell them that their luggage had arrived. That was an event they had forgotten, and when they found five large suitcases waiting for them on the ground floor they were excited and eager. The cases were labelled with their new names—Professor Pienne for Palfrey, Fräulein Berg for Drusilla, Herren Aarlack, Cattorn and Dentz for Andromovitch, Conroy and Brian. They carried them up to the bedrooms; clothes and other necessities piled up on the beds—Drusilla used one side of Palfrey’s for that occasion. Stefan, expecting to find things much too small for him, widened his eyes when he saw a shirt of the size that would probably fit him. In silence they put on outer clothes; the fit was almost perfect. Palfrey scratched his head, and Stefan said softly: ‘Certainly the Marquis has done a good job, Sap.’

  ‘Er—yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It couldn’t be a coincidence that the clothes of the others should fit us all,’ said Stefan, ‘obviously the Marquis arranged to get at the cases.’

  ‘A comforting thought!’ said Palfrey.

  The clothes were serviceable, all marked with the names of well-known Swiss stores – nothing had been left to chance. In the bottom of the cases were boxes of tobacco and cigarettes, slab chocolate, some packets of coffee, tins of meat and soup powders. The Marquis, Conroy said with approval, had done them well. Obviously the Hausfrau, who introduced herself on her third visit as Frau Witt, thought so too. Palfrey did not trust her with all the coffee, but passed on one packet, together with a small slab of chocolate and two tins of meat.

  ‘For—for me?’ gasped Frau Witt.

  ‘It is all we can spare, I am afraid,’ said Palfrey, ‘but it will help you a little.’

  ‘Is Switzerland so well stocked with food?’ whispered the drab woman. Then she seemed to see Drusilla for the first time, because Drusilla was wearing a simple linen frock of navy blue. The woman stepped towards her and fingered the cloth, muttering what seemed to be an incantation under her breath. Then she backed away as if she were in the presence of royalty.

  They changed their underclothes and felt as if they were fit to tackle any problem in the world. Palfrey had passed on the warning from von Lichner, but there had been few comments. Even the news that they were suspected to be in Berlin by others than the Baron’s particular faction seemed of little importance then.

  Precisely at six o’clock Herr Stolte reappeared.

  He declared that he was at their disposal; he had been told to guide them about Berlin and they could be assured that even in Berlin there was much gaiety and night-life – they must not believe all that they heard, for there were many places where tired Party men could rest and recuperate – as well as visitors, of course! And they need not be afraid – wherever he took them there would be good air-raid shelters. He looked nervous as he gave them that assurance. Later, when they were in the street amid the gathering shadows of the evening, which covered all traces of the dirt and drabness, they saw him looking towards the sky. When a bus in the Kurfuerstenstrasse changed gear and made a grating noise Stolte gasped and turned towards them.

  ‘The sirens—’ he started, then stopped, gulped and forced a laugh at himself. ‘No, no, I joke!’ he assured them. ‘I joke.’

  But his voice trembled.

  He began a tour of Berlin’s night spots which left Palfrey with a feeling of nausea and seemed to delight only the German.

  There were few places open and the black-out was at least as good as London’s. Very few people were in the streets, but the little signs indicating air-raid shelters seemed to be everywhere. Stolte put his pursuit of pleasure even above his fears of being caught out in a raid, although every unaccustomed sound made him start.

  Near the huge Scala Cinema, a shrouded mass of cement, he took them along a side street, through a narrow doorway and then down a flight of narrow steps. The lighting in the room which opened out in front of them was poor. A few dozen tables were dotted about the room and some ‘girls’ who had long since passed the prime of life were putting on a leg-show: they were trying to imitate the Folies Bergères, failing singularly, for they were scrawny, scraggy creatures. A few members of the Party were sitting about, glum-faced. Thin beer was brought to their table – it had a foul, bitter taste. There was no hope of getting Schnapps here, Stolte told them, but he knew a place – yes, he knew a place! Meanwhile, perhaps the men would like to dance? He and Fräulein Berg would make fine partners, he was sure.

  Palfrey said stiffly: ‘None of us will dance here.’

  ‘No, no, of course not, Herr Professor,’ said Stolte. He swilled down the remainder of his drink. ‘You do not like it, no? Ah, there is a place—such a place!’

  And so it went on.

  Tawdriness, beastliness! Stolte was obviously well known, but he paid mammoth prices for what little drink he obtained – the ‘Swiss’ declared themselves to be abstemious although Palfrey was tempted to soak the German as heavily as he could; the trouble was that it would take years of practice to get used to the stuff called beer in Berlin. Inwardly Palfrey felt exhilarated; the evidence of the decline of morale even amongst the Party men was good to see.

  It was early morning when Stolte, quite unaffected by rebuff after rebuff, stood up from a table and declared: ‘Now, now I take you to the great place of Berlin! It is good—so good you will hardly believe it. It is in the Unter den Linden. You are not too tired?’ He shook his head to answer himself before leading them out again into the dark night. On the street he whispered: ‘This is the Palace of Gold. It is wonderful, so wonderful—only those who are well-favoured can gain admittance. You admit I do you well, yes?’

  ‘You do your best,’ said Palfrey grudgingly.

  He would have preferred to be at the little apartment house, but it was necessary to go with Stolte, to get acclimatised to Berlin. Although every place to which they went increased the risk of their being seen and recognised, they had to take the chance.

  Outside a door Stolte said: ‘I am instructed to take you to this place at four o’clock, otherwise we should have come earlier. Ah-ha, you will wait to see!’ He went through the necessary formalities at the door, led the way down a wider flight of stairs than at any of the previous places, and into a foyer which was better lighted than any he had seen. Through swing doors came music which sounded gayer, more like the real Berlin which Palfrey had known in the days of peace, It was a Strauss waltz, light, lilting and lovely. But he was wary now – there was probably a reason for this visit.

  He heard laughter when the doors were opened – the first time he had heard anyone laugh freely since he had been in Berlin. He was dazzled by the bright yellow light which came through the doors when Stolte held them open. It was mostly reflected light but gave some justification for the name ‘Palace of Gold’. The tables were freshly painted, there was a prosperous air about the place. Palfrey, gradually getting accustomed to the light, saw that, although it was crowded, the air did not have the fetid smell which had sickened him in the others.

  One thing grew obvious immediately.

  There were few Germans there – and what few he saw were all in S.S. uniform. Most of the people were foreigners – French, Italian, he fancied he saw Greeks, was sure that there was a party of Croats, also fair-haired Danes and Norwegians. It was a melting-pot of the conquered nations – but there was no gloom. A smartly-dressed orchestra sat on a raised dais, where a plump little man conducted. The women dancing were well dressed, some few of them in evening gowns. It was like a breath of new life – or of the old life, come back to them. There was gaiety and light-heartedness, and Palfrey was at a loss to understand it.

  ‘A fine place, yes?’ whispered Stolte.

  An old, white-haired man led them to a large table where places were reserved for them; three
other places were set at the table and on one chair was a woman’s handbag. Palfrey, wondering who their companions were to be, ordered beer and was surprised when it came quickly and had a good head.

  It was the nearest thing which had approached on the tour to good German lager.

  He watched the dancing, idly at first, vaguely aware of the fact that they had an appointment, although they did not know with whom. He tried to tell himself that he should be more on the qui vive, yet failed to take the warning too seriously. He fancied that the others felt the same.

  The dancing stopped and the crowd on the small floor broke up. Three or four couples made their way to Palfrey’s table. Palfrey suddenly went hot and cold, although there was no need for alarm.

  On the arm of a tall, well-built S.S. man was Hilde Silversen, looking up into a handsome and smiling face, her mouth wide open with laughter, her cheeks flushed. She was one of the few in evening dress; hers was black. Round her neck was a single string of pearls which threw her face into fine relief. Her braided hair looked like spun gold.

  Then she drew nearer the table and saw them.

  There was only the faintest hint of recognition which was gone in a flash. Palfrey and the others stood up and bowed stiffly. The S.S. man gave them a haughty glare and pulled a chair aside for Hilde. She was sandwiched between Brian and the German and, in spite of the circumstances, Palfrey’s lips puckered into a smile.

  It was soon gone.

  A tension came upon him then, caused by the vacant chair between him and Conroy. Somehow that chair was filled with menace, its emptiness seemed a sign of ill omen. He began to wish that he had managed somehow to avoid coming here. While a deep-breasted woman sang airs from Lohengrin in a voice which held many spell bound, he kept looking from her towards the chair and wondering who would take it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Count von Otten

  Hilde and her companion were deep in conversation, Hilde appearing to have surrendered herself entirely to the charms of the German. In normal times there would have been grounds enough for it. He was a good-looking fellow, no more than thirty, who looked healthy and hardy. Now and again he frowned when he saw Brian staring towards Hilde. Palfrey caught Brian’s glance and wondered whether Brian was going to forget himself. He already had more than a suspicion of Brian’s soft spot for Hilde; now that this had materialised he might make a slip. Palfrey grew obsessed with that idea, forgetting the empty chair and wondering how to get a word with Brian without disturbing the table too much.

  Stolte gave him the oportunity.

  The man rose clumsily to his feet and bowed to Drusilla, hoping that now she was in the very best place in Berlin she would give him the pleasure of a dance. There were limits to refusals. Drusilla smiled mechanically and stood up. Palfrey was momentarily amused by the sight of the enormous creature waddling by Drusilla’s side. He forgot that as he took Stolte’s place next to Brian.

  ‘Go easy with Hilde!’ he said. ‘You’re looking like a disappointed lover. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you call him out.’ He smiled amiably. ‘She’s acting well.’

  ‘Er—Great Scott! Yes!’ said Brian. ‘Was I really as bad as that?’ He whispered, but so far forgot himself as to speak in English, drawing a scowl from Stefan on his other side. In a louder voice and speaking German, he said: ‘I can’t say I think so much of this spot, after all!’

  The man with Hilde heard and looked across at him, frowning. But that was unimportant compared with the fact that a man was approaching, obviously making for their table. Palfrey did not recognise him. He was tall and suave and he looked not unlike Ribbentrop. He was apparently a person of some consequence, dressed in a glittering uniform more suited to the days of peace than war. On his good-looking face there was a faintly supercilious smile. He bowed towards Hilde and her companion, but bore down upon Palfrey.

  Palfrey stood up.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you, Herr Professor,’ said the other influent German, but Palfrey detected the sarcastic undertone in his voice. ‘You are, I trust, being well attended?’

  ‘Thank you, yes!’ said Palfrey stiffly. ‘I have not the pleasure of knowing you.’

  He was fully alert now; the ill-omened vacant seat had come to mean something, for this man put a hand on the chair and pulled it out. He was dangerous, Palfrey felt; his very expression, the glint in his cold grey eyes, both proclaimed that. So did his self-possession, his conscious superiority, the fact that everyone bowed and cringed before him. Everything in Palfrey warned him against the fellow; he had never been more impressed by the need for being on his guard.

  The man turned and looked at Hilde’s companion, who was also standing.

  ‘You hear that, Karl?’ he said. ‘The Herr Professor does not know me. Have the kindness to correct such a dreary state of affairs!’ As he smiled more widely, but still with a supercilious expression, Palfrey felt a little easier; the man was inordinately conscious of his ‘superiority’ over a Swiss professor with some obscure qualifications.

  ‘Karl’s’ heels clicked.

  ‘Count von Otten, I have the pleasure to present Herr. Professor Pienne, of Berne.’ He clicked his heels again. Hilde was staring at the taller German with respect, even a hint of adulation: Hilde was being very good indeed, thought Palfrey; the Marquis had been right again. But all those things were unimportant compared with the major fact – this was the dreaded von Otten.

  Palfrey bowed, outwardly unperturbed.

  ‘I am glad to meet your Excellency. Of course, I know of you. Your kind invitation to Berlin is much appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t mention it!’ murmured von Otten’. He sat down, the signal for two waiters to appear. ‘Schnapps for the Herr Professor and his friends, and for me.’

  ‘At once, Excellency!’ They scrambled off. Von Otten pulled a pair of white gauntlets from his hands, tossing them casually on to the table. ‘Sit down, Karl!’ he said. Palfrey was already seated and von Otten looked at the other members of the party. Palfrey introduced them; there was much clicking of heels as each of them sprang to attention in turn.

  ‘And where is the fifth member of your party?’ asked von Otten.

  ‘She is dancing,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘So?’ Von Otten looked towards the dance floor, where no one appeared to have noticed his entry. His plucked eye brows rose. ‘With the faithful Stolte? You permit her to—’ he shrugged. ‘But of course, a duty dance. She is not to be wasted on a man like Stolte, Herr Professor.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘But he has his uses,’ said von Otten musingly. ‘He is very faithful to the Reich, my friend.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Palfrey. The man gave the impression that he was baiting him both deliberately and skilfully. A sudden fear flashed across Palfrey’s mind lest this man knew his real identity.

  ‘Nothing can discourage him,’ said von Otten. ‘He has the soul of a child.’

  Had that startling statement come from anyone else, Palfrey would have laughed, but he did not feel that anything von Otten said was intended to be humorous. The cold grey eyes were searching every feature of his face.

  ‘Indeed?’ said Palfrey.

  ‘He believes,’ said von Otten, ‘everything he is told. A most trusting man! You will have to forgive him if at times he is a little crude. I shall tell him that he must not annoy Fräulein Berg. Now, my friend, what do you think of the League?’

  ‘Your Excellency jokes,’ said Palfrey.

  Von Otten smiled, but was not amused.

  ‘You think so? But of course I am taking too much for granted; news does not reach the far extremities of the Reich, and in Switzerland there is much to learn. Here in this room, Herr Professor, is the nucleus of the League of Nations, the new, real League.’ Mockery was in his smile; he did not mean a thing that he said. ‘You are a man of perception, judging from all I am told, and you will have seen representatives of so many nations here. They are the members of their c
ountry who will spread the truth about the New Order in their own homes—and, you will perceive, that is why I invited you. There is room for much improvement in the spreading of the truth in Switzerland, Herr Professor.’

  It can quickly be learned,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I’m glad you think so. I have a most charming tutor for you in Berlin—the young woman behind me.’ He smiled when Palfrey looked surprised. ‘You will have other tutors, of course, but Fräulein Silversen will initiate you into much which you will find mystifying at first. She has been with us only a few days, but her enthusiasm is contagious.’ Von Otten’s lips curled. Palfrey grew more than ever afraid that this conversation was nothing more than a trap to catch him.

  ‘With what?’ wondered Palfrey hopelessly.

  Should the Marquis have given them more information? Had they been misinformed?

  ‘The new League of Nations,’ repeated von Otten. ‘Herr Professor, I am glad to have had this opportunity of meeting you. I should like to say just one thing. I sympathise with your opinion of Stolte—he has reported most faithfully on what you have said and done to him; I think you have injured his dignity. But remember, please, that Stolte acts for me. You will be reasonable with him.’ He raised his eyebrows, then stood up. ‘Fräulein Berg!’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, most charming!’

  Stolte came panting up; he was red in the face and perspiration beaded his forehead; one fat hand clutched Drusilla’s arm. He inclined his gross head.

  ‘Excellency, I have the honour to present—’ he gabbled the introduction, then backed away.

  An odd moment, thought Palfrey. Von Otten and Drusilla were taking each other’s measure, both calm-eyed and self-possessed. Palfrey felt for the first time that he could stand back and enjoy a little relief – the full pressure of the man’s personality was removed from him. He wished he knew more of what lay behind the man’s sardonic innuendo, the talk of the League of Nations. He tried to remember that he should consider what was said as a Professor from Berne who was a good Swiss Nazi – not as an Englishman, nor as a German. It was easy to imagine that von Otten had taken some pleasure in saying something that would cause the real Pienne disquiet; probably that was what he had tried to do.