Faked Passports (13 page)

“Right,” said Freddie, and pushing open the door they went into the small, dimly-lit station hall.

The booking-office was closed and only two people were in sight; an elderly porter and an officer of the S.S. in a smart black uniform. What this Nazi official was doing there at such an hour Gregory had no idea but he did not by the flicker of an eyelid show his alarm at this inconvenient meeting. Striding up to the porter he said with abrupt authority befitting his rank:

“What time does the next train go to Berlin?”

“Five-twenty,” mumbled the porter.

“Is there a waiting-room here where we can sit in comfort?”

The porter jerked his head in the direction of a door leading out of the small hall. “You can wait in there,
Herr Oberst,
but
there's no fire.” And having given them this depressing information he slouched out on to the platform.

The officer of the S.S. had been eyeing them curiously. Freddie had on the grey-green officer's greatcoat in which Gregory had left Berlin but he did not look like a German officer and he was still wearing his flying-helmet. Lifting his hand in a casual half-salute the Nazi said to Gregory:

“You are up early,
Herr Oberst.
”

Gregory frowned. “My car broke down just outside the town—it's this filthy
Ersatz
petrol—otherwise I should have gone straight through to Berlin by road. As it is, my business is urgent so I left the chauffeur with the car and walked in to catch the first train.”

“You've over two hours to wait yet,” said the Nazi, “and you'll find it icy-cold in that waiting-room. I think you'd better come along with me to Party Headquarters.”

Gregory remained quite still for a moment, but his brain was revving over like the engine of a dynamo. Was this a casual meeting and the Nazi only acting with friendly intentions? or had this man, after the news of the fray in the woods had been telephoned through, left his bed for the purpose of picketing the station and bringing in any suspicious characters who might have slipped past the police on the main road?

There was nothing suspicious about Gregory himself, since his uniform, although somewhat mud-stained, was perfect and his German irreproachable; but Freddie Charlton in his bizarre get-up was quite another matter. Flying-officers do not wear army officer's greatcoats, and if the coat were once undone it would reveal the service kit of a British Flight-Lieutenant. The Nazi was alone, so although he was armed there was a fair chance that the two of them would be able to overcome him before he could secure help. On the other hand, if they attacked him and had a fight in the station-hall it was certain that the porter would hear and report it—which would put an end to any hope of their being allowed on the Berlin train when it came in. Yet for what other reason could the Nazi be there at three o'clock in the morning, if not to bring in suspects? If that was so, and they once allowed him to take them to the Party Headquarters, Gregory knew that it would mean a firing-squad for him the following morning.

His hand moved towards his gun.

Gregory had raised his hand only a couple of inches when, evidently entirely unsuspicious of his intention, the S.S. officer produced his cigarette-case with a flourish and flicked it open.

“A cigarette,
Herr Oberst
?” he said, offering the case with a friendly smile.

It was touch and go. In another second Gregory would have whipped out his automatic to hold the Nazi up. As it was, with a polite “
Danke. Herr Ober-Lieutenant
” he accepted the cigarette, and Charlton, being offered the case, took one too, refraining from speaking but smiling his thanks.

As they lit up the Nazi went on: “It's just as you like. You can remain in the waiting-room if you prefer, but it's devilishly cold in there and you know how late the trains are running these days. I doubt if yours will be in before half past six. I've just finished the job that brought me out tonight but I'm still on duty. At Party Headquarters I could fix you up with a drink and make you quite comfortable in the Mess.”

Once more Gregory hesitated. Was this a trap because they were two to one and the Nazi wanted to get them inside quietly without having to risk his life tackling two desperate fugitives? Or was his offer of hospitality genuine?

If the Nazi really had no inkling that they were on the run a refusal of his offer was the very thing best calculated to arouse his suspicions. No-one but a fool, or a man who had something to hide, would willingly kick his heels in an icy station waiting-room for three hours in preference to sitting in a warm Mess. It was a horrible dilemma but Gregory was a shrewd judge of character and the bluff, fair-faced
Ober-Lieutenant
was not the type that makes a good actor; so he was now inclined to think that of the two risks it would be better to enter the lions' den.

But the devil of it was that once they reached the Nazi Mess
Charlton would have to remove his greatcoat and reveal his R.A.F. service kit. That was the awful snag; but Gregory decided that there was only one thing for it: to risk his friend's freedom on a line that he had already thought out for use in an emergency, and to gamble once again upon the audacity which had served him so well in the past.

“You are most kind,” he said, “and nothing would suit me better than to doze in one of your arm-chairs for an hour or two. But I must first ask you if you are willing to take into your custody a British officer.”

Freddie had picked up enough German from von Lutz during the past two and a half weeks to be able to follow the gist of the conversation and when he heard Gregory's request he was utterly staggered. On the face of it Gregory was trying to sell him out and preserve his own liberty at the price of handing his friend over to the Nazis. Such an act of treachery seemed too horrible to contemplate but he felt sure that he had not misunderstood what Gregory had said. It was only with a great effort that he had managed to control his feelings and the muscles of his face while he waited with acute anxiety to see what would happen next.

“A British officer!” exclaimed the Nazi, suddenly switching his surprised glance to Charlton. “Is that him there?”

“Yes.” Gregory drew calmly on his cigarette. “The cold is so bitter that we had to provide him with a greatcoat, but he's still wearing his service uniform underneath it. D'you think you can find him a cell?”

“Why, certainly, if you wish. But why isn't he in a prisoners-of-war camp?”

“Because his plane was only shot down early tonight, over Essen.”

“I see. But Essen's a long way away—nearly five hours from here by road. Why wasn't he interned locally?”

“He was shot down at about nine o'clock,” Gregory shrugged, “and as he was flying a new type of plane the anti-aircraft people handed him over at once to Intelligence. He's rather an unusual type for a flying-officer and I think, if he's handled properly, we may get something out of him. Anyhow, we immediately telephoned Berlin about this new type of machine he was in and it aroused such interest at the Air Ministry that Marshal Goering said he would like to see him personally. That meant at once, of course, and it was not a job that could be passed on to a junior officer so I set off with him by car straight away.”

Gregory felt that he had explained away rather neatly the fact of such a high officer as a full colonel being in charge of a single prisoner, and he was gratified to see the immediately favourable reaction which the name of Field-Marshal Goering provoked in the Nazi, who said promptly:

“In that case,
Herr Oberst,
our Party Headquarters are entirely at your disposal. Let us go there at once.” Then clicking his heels and bowing sharply from the waist he formally introduced himself: “Wentsich.”

Gregory followed suit by barking: “Claus,” and added: “My prisoner's name is Rogers—Flight-Lieutenant Rogers.”

As they left the station Gregory made Freddie walk in front of him while he talked to the Nazi about the progress of the war. Ten minutes later they entered the main square of the town and after going up a few stone steps passed through a black-out light-lock into the big hallway of a fine old building which had been taken over as the local Nazi headquarters, on Hitler's coming to power.

Gregory looked warily about him, his hand never very far from the butt of his automatic. The
Ober-Lieutenant
of Black Guards had not betrayed the least sign that he suspected them but Gregory still felt that they might be walking straight into a trap. A dozen Storm-Troopers might come running at the
Ober-Lieutenant's
first call but the cynical Englishman meant to see to it that, if that happened, the
Ober-Lieutenant
himself never lived to profit by the results of his strategy.

Except for a couple of clerks working in a downstairs room, the door of which stood open, no-one was about, and the Nazi led the way upstairs without giving the signal that Gregory so much dreaded. But, even now, he feared that they were only being led further into the snare so that there should be no possible chance of their shooting their way out and escaping from the building.

On the first floor the Nazi flung open one half of a tall, carved-wood door which gave on to a handsome
salon
overlooking the square. The room was comfortably furnished. A big china stove was hissing with heat in one corner and on a sideboard stood a fine array of drinks. To Gregory's intense relief the room was unoccupied. It all seemed too good to be true. There must be a snag somewhere.

“Come along in,” said the Nazi cheerfully. “What are you going to have?”

Gregory glanced at the bottles and away again. “Hadn't we better see my prisoner locked up first?”

“Need we bother?” the
Ober-Lieutenant
shrugged. “He'll stand no more chance of getting away from you here than he would if he were downstairs in a cell—and very much less than when he was alone with you walking to the station from the place where you left your car. Anyhow, it's so darned cold I expect the poor chap could do with a drink, too.”

At last Gregory's fears were set at rest. Things had panned out as he had desperately prayed that they might. He had suggested that Charlton should be locked up only in order that the S.S. man should more readily believe that he was an important prisoner.

“Certainly,” he agreed at once. “So long as my prisoner has no chance of getting away I'm perfectly satisfied, and I'm sure he'd like a drink. But he doesn't speak German. Do you speak any English?”

“No; a few words only—but enough to say ‘How d'you do', ‘Hard luck', ‘You will drink, yes?'” Wentsich smiled at Charlton.

At an almost imperceptible nod from Gregory, Freddie said: “Thanks. It's very kind of you; I'd love one.”

He had listened with anxious ears to every word that had been said and was now not only reassured about his own position but felt extremely guilty at his unworthy suspicion that Gregory had ever intended to leave him in the lurch. He could only admire the clever ruse by which his fellow-fugitive had accounted for his Air Force uniform and the audacity of this brilliant stroke which had led to their both being received as guests in the comfortable Nazi Party Headquarters—the last place in which their enemies would ever look for them.

When Wentsich had poured the drinks all three of them removed their greatcoats and sat down in deep arm-chairs near the roaring stove. At first the talk turned on the mythical episode of Freddie's having been shot down over Essen the previous evening. Fortunately, as Wentsich spoke very little English, Freddie was not called on to give any details of his forced landing direct, and Gregory rendered what purported to be a translation of the airman's sensations by drawing freely on his own experiences when they had actually been shot down nearly three weeks before.

Gregory then remarked that Wentsich must find life pretty boring stationed so far from the war-fronts or any of the great cities; upon which the S.S. man laughed and said:

“In the ordinary way it's pretty quiet here but after the recent
Putsch
we had plenty to occupy us and, as a matter of fact, I had it over the ‘phone half an hour before I met you that only tonight half a dozen of our fellows were killed rounding up a traitor-Baron about thirty miles from here.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Gregory, swiftly concealing his uneasiness. “I hope they got him.”

Wentsich shrugged. “We're not certain yet. The cottage in which he was hiding was burnt to the ground so if he was lying wounded there he was probably roasted to cinders, but he had two or three of his peasants with him and others came on the scene later to try to relieve the cottage when it was attacked. Our people shot several of them but the rest got away by a damned clever trick. In the darkness they managed to get hold of the truck in which our men had come out from Dornitz and they drove off in it. Whether the Baron—who is a colonel, by the way—got away with them we don't know. If he has, I expect we'll run him to earth before he's much older but I doubt if we'll be able to bring any of the peasants to book. They will probably have ditched the van somewhere and made their way back to their own cottages. As the schemozzle took place in darkness our people couldn't identify any of the men who attacked them, so I don't see how we're going to prove which of the locals' was in the show and which wasn't; and it's quite certain that all their wives will swear that they were safely in bed at home.”

These were really cheering tidings for the fugitives. Not only did it look as though the woodmen who had assisted them so loyally would come out of the affair all right but apparently the Nazis had no idea that the two airmen who had been shot down in the neighbourhood over a fortnight before had had any hand in the matter. Presumably they had both been written off as having managed to escape safely out of the district and, since no description could be circulated of either of them, nobody was bothering to try to trace them up any more.