The Legion of the Lost

by John Creasey

  The vision of the child’s face grew larger and more insistent; there was appeal, desperate appeal, in her gentle eyes.

  When they entered the hall of Number 11, Frau Witt came out of her parlour, a vague figure in the darkness.

  ‘No one has come,’ she said.

  They went up the stairs and into the big room. Conroy closed the door, then leaned against it. The black-out was up at the windows and they switched on the light; the low-watt bulb suspended by the single wire from the middle of the ceiling spread a poor, yellow glow about them and cast grotesque shadows on all the walls.

  Palfrey said slowly: ‘There’s one thing I can’t understand, just one thing! Why did he tell us? He thinks we’re Swiss. He knows that there must be limits to what we’ll take.’

  Conroy said slowly: ‘The man was mad. His brain’s turned, he wants to tell everyone he meets. That’s why.’

  ‘You know,’ said Palfrey, ‘the trouble is that we don’t think enough about oddities. It struck me as strange, an admission of that kind to Swiss delegates. Out of keeping. Almost as if—’ he paused again, his eyes glowing – ‘as if it were a deliberate effort to get the information out of the country. Of all the delegates we should react most unfavourably, we should feel it most. Because, no matter what Karl said, we’re a free country. We haven’t the same reason for being brow-beaten into submission to it. There’s an inverted kind of trap here, but we haven’t seen it yet. It could be big, and—’

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. It was the hurried tread of Frau Witt. Palfrey turned to the door, turned the key; Frau Witt almost fell against him.

  ‘Herr Professor,’ she gasped. ‘Herr Professor, someone is coming, I don’t know who. With two cars, Herr Professor, two cars! And there is an escort of motor-cyclists. I thought you should know.’

  Palfrey said slowly, stiffly: ‘Yes. Thank you, Frau Witt. I should go down again now if I were you.’

  Before her footsteps faded heavier footsteps grew audible. There were several men down there, Palfrey judged, and he regarded the others with the faintest of wry smiles on his lips.

  ‘What about the window?’ Brian said quickly. He stepped towards it, but Palfrey took his arm.

  ‘No use, Bry. If they’ve come for us the window won’t help, they’ll have the place watched. No last minute rushes, it would just bring the end a little quicker. As it is, we can try to bluff. Of course,’ he added softly, ‘it might be that the Count has come to take us to a party.’

  Before any of the others spoke there were footsteps on the landing, then a heavy fist thundered on the door. Palfrey stepped towards it and called: ‘Come in!’

  It opened on his words, to admit four hard-faced, hard-eyed men. None of them were young, all had the stamp of the Gestapo about them. Palfrey’s heart leapt, then he felt an agonising weight of depression. He forced himself to look curiously into the face of the leader, who glared about him, as if enjoying the effect of his entry.

  ‘Fräulein Berg—come with me!’ he said harshly.

  Palfrey, startled out of his poise, said quickly: ‘But the Fräulein—’

  ‘Quiet!’ rasped the man. ‘Fräulein Berg!’

  Drusilla hesitated. Brian took a step towards her, then was pushed aside by Conroy, who fell against him as if accidentally.

  Drusilla said quietly: ‘What do you want with me, Herr Kommandant?’

  ‘His Excellency the Count von Otten wishes your company for the evening,’ said the man without blinking. ‘At once, please.’ He made a clumsy pretence at a bow.

  Drusilla went forward, not stopping when Palfrey broke his silence while trying to think just what this meant.

  ‘I do not understand,’ Palfrey protested, ‘the Fräulein Berg was to—’

  ‘Quiet!’ rasped the Gestapo official. ‘I have told you why the Fräulein is wanted.’ He took a grip on Drusilla’s arm and led her to the door, although the other three men did not move. Palfrey stared after Drusilla, his hands clenched.

  He had to let her go—

  The cause was always more important than the individual—always more important.

  At the back of his mind there was an awareness of the dull gaze from the other three Gestapo men. He swallowed hard, turned, and looked at Conroy and Brian.

  Palfrey said: ‘I—I cannot understand it. Why should the Count want the Fräulein without us, Cattorn? I am at a loss. If he wished for her company for an evening, surely Herr Stolte—’ he stopped and raised his hands helplessly.

  ‘I cannot understand,’ he repeated.

  ‘I hope to help you soon, Herr Professor,’ said a voice from the door.

  They knew that it was von Otten before the man stepped in, a fastidious affectation in his manner. He glanced about the room distastefully, flicking his coat sleeve with a glove he held in his hand. Then he looked at Palfrey; there was a smile in his eyes which held mockery, evil, perhaps knowledge.

  ‘Knowledge,’ thought Palfrey.

  ‘I am taking you and your companions to visit a friend,’ said the Count sardonically. ‘You will have a little talk with him, and afterwards—then perhaps I will be able to explain more fully. Do not be alarmed,’ he added, without sincerity. ‘If you are as loyal as you have pretended then you need have no fear. Loyalty should put you above fear.’ His smile widened. ‘Come, Herr Professor—with your companions.’

  He turned and led the way towards the head of the stairs. The three men fell in behind them, clamping down. Palfrey fancied that he caught a glimpse of Frau Witt as they passed her room; a moment later he was in the street. The sidelights of a car were glowing opposite the door and the rear-light of another was disappearing round the corner.

  ‘You will at least have the pleasure of a comfortable journey,’ said von Otten.

  He did not speak again until they were all sitting in the back of the car which, judging from the luxurious upholstery, was large and powerful. But Palfrey felt no comfort, only an unbearable tension.

  ‘We are going to see this friend of yours in the prison at the Potsdamer Plate,’ said von Otten as the car started off. ‘I want you to hold a little conversation with him in my presence, Herr Professor. I want to make quite sure how well you know him, and whether you have been a party to his activities. It is a fine place, the new prison! It should be an experience for you to visit it!’

  The car moved swiftly through the dark night, motor-cycles roaring ahead of it and on both sides.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The New Prison at Potsdamer Platz

  The racket of the cycles stopped, as one engine after another cut out. The big car slid to a silent standstill. A door opened and a torch was shone on the running-board. Brian and Conroy climbed out first, and when Palfrey joined them he saw the shadowy figures of their guards standing nearby. He heard the steady tramp of a man who came into sight out of the darkness; a faint, illuminated sign showed his head and shoulders, and his fixed bayonet in silhouette.

  Only then did the full significance of the truth sink into Palfrey’s mind.

  This was the new prison at Potsdamer Platz, the prison where Ridzer and Machez were probably imprisoned. The fact struck him like a physical blow—with an effect like the exploding of a delayed-action bomb.

  ‘But,’ thought Palfrey, ‘what an opportunity!’

  The lighting in the entrance hall was poor, but in the passage beyond it was too bright. In spite of that, Palfrey caught a glimpse of the door – it was fully six inches thick, and constructed of concrete. He pursed his lips, then stepped along the passage, appearing to walk vaguely while in reality looking about him. He passed several of the blank concrete doors, being stopped by two armed guards at the far end of the passage. When that door was opened they entered a wide room where a dozen men were sitting at desks and tables. Two telephones were ringing, three men were banging frenziedly on typewriters.

  They were led across the room, through another door, and then to a flight of steps leading downwards. Palfre
y began to understand the implications of the word ‘impregnable.’ This place seemed so solid that nothing could break it down; to get through the doors would be an impossible task unless they had the password and the full co-operation of the guards. Heavy-hearted, he counted the steps as they walked down. There were twenty in all, and for half that distance what seemed to be a concrete floor was cut away so that there was room for their heads. The floor was at least six feet deep, Palfrey judged.

  Then came another passage, with others intersecting – he counted a dozen in all. He had no idea of the area covered but an awareness of the size of this underground fortress grew upon him. It added to his depression, so that he almost forgot the full dangers which would confront them when they saw the ‘friend.’

  By then he had come to the conclusion that it could only be Stefan, could see no way in which he could deny their earlier association or evade the questions von Otten would put to him.

  At the last passage, they turned right.

  At every corner and in every passage there were guards, middle-aged men mostly, holding automatic rifles. There were two machine-gun posts put at strategic points, heavy-browed men standing by them. They were accompanied all the time by one of the guards from the entrance hall, and he called at last to one of the resident guards.

  The man came forward.

  ‘Visitors to Cell 132,’ said their escort.

  ‘Cell 132,’ repeated the other; both men gave a quick Nazi salute. The resident guard took keys from his pocket – all of them long and slim, unlike a jailer’s keys. He pushed one into the door of the room outside which they were crowded like a little group of bewildered spectators, and thrust it open.

  The cell was small and square, furnished with a minimum of comfort; there were chains hanging from a ring in one wall. Palfrey noticed it at first because the man who rose from a wooden – no, thought Palfrey bemusedly, concrete – bench knocked against it.

  Then Palfrey forgot everything but the prisoner.

  It was not Stefan, nor von Lichner, nor the club-footed youth. It was no one of whom Palfrey had dreamed as a worker against von Otten.

  It was the Count’s aide, the Leutnant Karl Bohn, who stood staring at them, the expression in his eyes not unlike that when Palfrey had last seen him declaring passionately the evil purpose of the Nazis. Everything else about him was different; Palfrey caught his breath at what they had done to the man, yet even that took second place to the fact that it was Karl Bohn.

  He wore trousers and a jacket which sagged open and revealed a bruised and bloody chest. He was bare-footed; on one foot Palfrey saw a clot of blood. His face was cut about, one side more than the other, and there were burn marks on his right cheek. Yet he did not give the impression of being cowed or subdued, and Palfrey was reminded of the expression in the eyes of the chemist Dross. A sudden revulsion of feeling, a realisation of the fact that Karl had worked against the Nazis instead of for them, passed through his mind; with it a full understanding of the man’s outburst to the ‘Swiss’ delegates. He had wanted to warn them.

  ‘My dear Count, what—what has happened? I recognise the man, of course, he was with us last night. But—’

  Von Otten said: ‘It is time you understood that lies won’t help you, Pienne. This man was in touch with you before you left Switzerland. Don’t lie about it!’

  ‘But—but I assure you—’ began Palfrey.

  Only then did he realise that there might be some truth in it; Karl might have been in contact with the real Swiss delegates; it was a contingency which no one could have foreseen. He swallowed a lump in his throat, eyeing von Otten helplessly.

  Karl said in a low-pitched voice: ‘You damnable vermin! You come from a peaceful country to try to bring it under Nazi domination. I told you all that was going to happen, I thought you would have some shame left, that you would take the message back and make sure that it did not happen. Instead, you betrayed me—’

  ‘Be quiet, Karl!’ said von Otten softly. ‘You have suffered quite enough through talking wildly. Why make it worse for yourself? You were in touch with these men before they left Switzerland?’

  ‘I wish I had been!’ said Karl bitterly.

  ‘I—I am completely at a loss,’ said Palfrey, unsteadily. ‘I assure your Excellency that I had no idea that this man was a traitor. No idea at all. The cause—’

  Karl said viciously: ‘Traitor? Traitor! You dare use the word, you do not shrink from it? It ought to make you writhe and burn with shame, it ought—’

  The resident guard, who had been standing stolidly by, moved forward at a gesture from von Otten. He raised a hand and struck Karl across the face, making the man reel back and hit against the wall. The blow reopened a cut in his cheek, bringing blood.

  ‘It is remarkable,’ said von Otten smoothly. ‘I am almost disposed to believe you, Herr Professor. But Karl was in touch with subversive elements in Switzerland, there is no doubt at all about that. And you appeared to be the most likely people. I wonder,’ he added softly, ‘if Karl could be pretending? I wonder if he knows that you are agents working against us and that by this show of defiance he hopes to save you? It could be,’ the Count mused. ‘It would be quite clever and even amusing.’

  ‘Excellency!’ gasped Palfrey. ‘I assure you—I have never—the man was a complete stranger. He—I—’ Palfrey drew a deep breath and turned and pointed a dramatic finger at Conroy and Brian. ‘If you do not believe me, ask my colleagues!’

  He uttered the last words with a ring of triumph, giving the impression of being almost simple-minded in the conviction that von Otten would be convinced by such sympathetic witnesses. He did it so well that von Otten regarded him with a faint tinge of contempt, touched with malice.

  ‘That is hardly necessary,’ he said. ‘I am sure they would support you.’ He regarded Karl with a sneering smile, then as the young officer straightened up again, shot out a gloved hand and sent him reeling backwards. ‘You’ve dealt with these men!’ he roared. ‘You’ve had dealings with them for months past. You wanted to get them back to Switzerland at once. You have admitted telling them everything, you wanted to give them full warning. Admit it, you dog, admit it!’

  Karl said, thickly: ‘I wish it were true!’

  ‘But this—this is distressing!’ gasped Palfrey. ‘Excellency, you have admitted yourself that this man has suffered enough. I—I am not used to such violence, I must beg of you to desist.’

  Karl shouted at him suddenly: ‘Not used to violence—-no, you smug hypocrite, you filthy vermin! You get a miserable pittance for helping the enemies of your country, you know that you are trying to damn them. You’ll cause every individual worse horror, greater agony, than they can ever make for me—and you say you don’t like violence! You don’t like—’ he took a step forward, his hand raised, but the guard sent him reeling back at another sign from von Otten.

  The Count said smoothly: ‘But for one thing I would find this most convincing, Pienne. I am afraid that poor Karl is not capable just now of hiding his true feelings. Certainly he has no regards for you. But I understand from Stolte that your fourth colleague has returned to Switzerland. The fat fool did not take your passports as he should have done.’

  ‘Why, yes, he has gone back. His wife is ill—’

  ‘You mean he has gone to report what he has heard!’ shouted von Otten. ‘Answer me—has he gone to do that? Has he—’

  ‘Please!’ protested Palfrey, drawing himself up with an air that held a frightened dignity. ‘I am not used to such treatment, Excellency, nor to having my word doubted. Aarlack is distressed about the illness of his wife. Except that we were all present last night, when Aarlack played a not inconsiderable part in saving our lives, he has done nothing in Berlin. He was not fortunate enough to visit the Fräulein Silversen.’

  ‘The little bitch!’ snapped Karl fiercely. ‘I thought she might have some decency, but—she calls herself a Norwegian and she consorts with swine like von Otten! She wo
rks to betray her own people! I won’t be quiet!’ he shouted as von Otten started to speak. ‘If I can make any one of you begin to think what devils you are, what sadistic, in human swine, it will be something. There must be a spark of decency left in you somewhere.’ He turned wildly to Palfrey. ‘Get away from Berlin! Tell your people what I’ve told you, have the news sent to England, get it—’

  Von Otten struck him.

  Palfrey was amazed at the man’s strength; the fierceness of the punch which rocked Karl back on his heels. His eyes rolled, there was a thud as the back of his head struck the wall; then he slid down, lying unconscious at their feet.

  Von Otten turned to the guard.

  ‘He will be shot, with the others, tomorrow morning.’

  They walked along interminable passages, Palfrey forcing himself away from reflection on Karl’s true worth to study the layout of the place and wonder where Ridzer and Machez were housed. As they neared the foot of the steps, he ventured to say: ‘Excellency, this a remarkable building. I have seen nothing like it.’

  ‘There is nothing like it,’ said von Otten shortly. ‘It is the strongest prison in the world. It is where all our prize prisoners are kept—those who might do more harm than any others if they were to get to England, but who are best kept alive because one day they will realise the hopelessness of refusing to co-operate and will be useful. The only people whom we keep alive are those who will be useful,’ he added. This time he was not smiling, but neither was there viciousness in his voice; he stated the fact as a simple matter of policy.

  Palfrey knew, then, that he had found the Legion of the Lost.

  ‘You seem impressed, Herr Professor,’ said von Otten ironically. ‘You are not used to keeping such company, I presume.’

  ‘Such—such company?’ mumbled Palfrey. ‘Convicts, you mean. No, Excellency—’

  He wished von Otten would look away from him, disliking the expression in those light grey eyes. Von Otten was about to speak again, Palfrey having an absurd impression that he was signalling to the guards as he raised his hand to rub his cheek, when there was a sharp noise behind them, followed by a high-pitched shout.