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a job of work in Germany, but not even they know that I’m the Chief of Police. Only one other

man knew that till you spotted me to-night, and I may say that if I’d known you were coming I

should have been detained at the office, by heck I should, even if I’d really had to stay there all

alone with the charwoman. I didn’t even know you’d come back to Berlin.”

“They seemed to like me,” said Dixon Ogilvie, “when I was here two years ago, and I

certainly like them, so when another tour in Germany was suggested I was very pleased to come.

Though I certainly never expected to meet an old friend in such an exalted position.”

“And now you have,” said Hambledon with all the emphasis at his disposal, “you will

please forget it completely and utterly. Put it right out of your mind, never allow your memory to

dwell upon it for a single instant. Speak of it to no one, not even your uncle—incidentally, that

was why you were arrested in such a hurry last night, so that you shouldn’t have time to tell

him.”

“Of course not, sir—”

“You see, it’s not only my personal safety that’s at stake, though I admit that’s a matter in

which I take a delicate and restrained interest. The really important thing is that I’m useful to the

Department here, so it’s desirable I should live as long as possible.”

“The Department?”

“Ironmongery, at the Army & Navy stores. Occasionally we transfer to the Chemist’s

section and sometimes to the Books, Maps, etc. We all deal in Blinds, of course, but never, never

—or practically never—in Fancy goods. Sit down, Ogilvie, why are you still standing?”

“You didn’t tell me I might sit,” said Ogilvie with a laugh.

“Great heavens, does the awe I tried so hard to inspire last so long? And when I’m eighty,

if I live so long, which is very dubious, will hale old men of sixty-five spring alertly to attention

from their club armchairs as I dodder past, leaning on the delicate arm of my fair-haired

granddaughter?”

“Have you got a granddaughter, sir?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Well, they wouldn’t allow her in the club, anyway.”

“Then I shan’t pay my subscription. You know, Ogilvie, it is a damn long time since I sat

like this and said the first thing that came into my head. Not since Bill and I parted off Ostende,

you remember him?”

“Bill?”

“Michael Kingston to you. Ever see him after the war?”

“No, but I met his widow once or twice.”

“Oh, really? What’s she like?”

“Tall willowy woman who looks at you soulfully out of large eyes. They call her Diane

the Wise.”

“Is she so clever?”

“No. Because she asks such a lot of them.”

“Why—oh, I see. Whys. Bill would have loved that, no wonder they parted. Well, look

here, I hate to sling you out but I’ve got some work to do. I shall see you again—how long are

you staying?”

“May I stay on, sir?”

“Of course, why not? Lor’, I’ve caught it now. Ogilvie, you will remember what I said

about my identity?”

“I will, sir. Uncle Alec and I were hoping you and Fräulein Rademeyer would dine with

us one night?”

“Delighted. Ring us up, will you?”

Hambledon stared at the door for some moments after his guest had gone out. Nice

fellow, that, very. Got a nice line, too, a musician like that could wander into any country and

meet all sorts of people without anyone thinking twice about it, he might be very useful.

Hambledon shivered slightly, useful, till he slipped up or somebody let him down, and then a

great musician would be destroyed because of The Job, a pity, that, couldn’t be done. But he had

wonderful opportunities.

“No,” said Hambledon firmly, “it wouldn’t do anyway, he’s far too unpractical. One must

be practical. Now, if only Denton could play a concertina—”

Hambledon pursued his investigations into the matter of Ginsberg, and found that the

practice of allowing Jews to take about twenty per cent of their movable cash over the frontier in

exchange for the other eighty per cent was not merely a local custom at Aachen, but a full-sized

racket at every exit from Germany. His determination to break down the practice hardened;

though he had just as much loathing as any German for the foul type of Jew who had battened on

the miseries of Germany in the bad years, his sense of justice revolted at making helpless and

harmless people suffer for the sins of the rich and powerful. Besides, it was to safeguard these

robbers and racketeers that Ginsberg had died, and they should pay for it. Besides again, it was

against the law, and it was his business to see the law was obeyed. Finally, it would annoy the

Nazis, and he was coming increasingly to dislike the Nazis. The exercise of power is a touch-

stone to character, and by that test there was very little pure gold in the Nazi Party. “A lousy lot,

when you get to know ’em,” said Tommy vulgarly to himself.

“The only thing that puzzles me,” he said to one man he was interrogating, “is why they

are allowed to get away with twenty per cent. It’s quite a lot, twenty per cent. It’s one-fifth.”

“Quite right, Herr Polizei Oberhaupt, it’s too much. But if we charge more they won’t

give any at all. They just die and the money vanishes.”

“So you think half a loaf is better than no bread.”

“Four-fifths of the loaf,” said the man with a grin.

The further Hambledon traced the threads of this organization the higher in rank were the

Nazi officials whom he found to be involved, till he began to wonder who really was at the top or

whether he had better cease his inquiries before he found out more than was good for him.

He came home to the flat one evening and was horrified to find Ludmilla Rademeyer in

floods of tears, the maid Agathe hovering round with handkerchiefs, smelling-salts and cushions,

and Franz walking distractedly about with a glass of brandy in one hand and a hot-water bottle in

the other.

“Aunt Ludmilla, for heaven’s sake what is it? Have you had an accident? Agathe, out of

my way and don’t drop things all over the floor. My dear, what is it? Franz, give me that brandy

and put the hot-water bottle under the Fräulein’s feet. Drink this and for pity’s sake don’t upset

yourself like this, tell me about it.”

“Christine,” said the old lady, and sobbed afresh.

“Has there been bad news?” asked Hambledon of Franz.

“Evidently, sir, but we have no idea what it is. The gracious Fräulein had a letter brought

by hand—”

Ludmilla pulled herself together with an effort and clung to Hambledon’s hand. “Send

them away,” she whispered, and the servants left the room. Ludmilla produced a crumpled letter

from one of her numerous pockets and gave it to Hambledon.

“ ‘Ludmilla, my old friend,’” he read, “ ‘my husband was taken away this morning by

S.S. men who came to the house and said they were taking him to a concentration camp because

he was a Jew.’ Is that true?” he asked.

“His mother,” said Ludmilla unsteadily, “came of a Jewish family, but nobody thought

any the worse of her for that, a nice fat old thing, endlessly kind. She was a Christian, and one

can’t help how one is born.”

Hambledon went on reading. “ ‘I was made to give up all our papers and all our money

except twenty marks. I gave them everything they asked, I thought if I was patient they would let

Ludovic go, but they took him away. Then the men who remained said our house was too good

for a Jew’s wife, and they turned me out in the street and locked the door.’”

Hambledon paused in his reading and stared before him, hammering with one clenched

hand upon his knee, while Ludmilla looked in amazement at the beloved face so lit with fury that

she could hardly recognize it. He continued after a moment.

“ ‘I thought I had better go to my son Hugo for advice, so I walked to Albrecht Strasse—’

“

“All that way, and she so lame!”

“ ‘—only to find’—I cannot read this, her writing is suddenly so bad—‘my daughter-in-

law Magda coming to me with the children, because they have taken my son also, they have

taken my son also, and the children were crying—’ There is a piece here I can’t read, something

about Gottlieb’s horse?”

“Gottlieb is the baby, he had a toy horse on wheels—”

“I see. She goes on, ‘They were also turned into the street, and when Magda said she did

not know what to do, one of the men made a suggestion I will not repeat’—God blast them!”

said Tommy Hambledon, and Ludmilla said, “Amen.”

“ ‘So we got on a tram and went to old Marthe, who you will remember was my

children’s nurse when they were little; it is a tiny house, we meant to leave the children there but

she would not let us go since they have taken my son also. Magda will find some work to do

even if it is only scrubbing, but I am so helpless I can only mind the children and do a little

sewing if our friends have any work to give out. Do not come to see me, it might not be safe for

you to be seen with us. Marthe’s son will take this note, I do not trust post or telephone. I would

not mind for myself but Ludovic is in need of care at his age, and there is Hugo and the children.

Magda is so brave, but if they had to punish Ludovic and me I do not think they need have taken

my son also.’”

Hambledon’s voice ceased and there was silence for a space till Ludmilla said, “No doubt

I am too old and stupid to understand, and these people are your friends, my dear, but, oh, Klaus,

this is wicked! Dear Christine, who never did anything but kindness in all her life! I would not

turn out a dog on the streets like that. What will they do? Klaus, this is a vile thing. I can’t

admire people who are so cruel. I don’t like our present leaders, Klaus, I don’t like a lot of things

that have happened lately. I hate these loud-voiced bullying young men who swagger

everywhere and order people about, the old Germany wasn’t like this. I don’t trust your Nazi

Party, Klaus. I’ve never said so before because they are your friends—”

“No, they are not!” said Hambledon furiously. “I have acted a part to you long enough,

but this is the last straw. The Nazis are a set of lying, cheating bullies, out for what they can get

for themselves, with neither honesty nor conscience. They did a great work for Germany to start

with and I helped them, but now they are a scourge to Europe and a blot on humanity. I was on

their side once, but now if I can pull down this foul regime in blood, God helping me, I’ll do it!”

“Klaus, I am so glad. It’s been such a grief to me to have you hand in glove with those

dreadful people—”

“It’ll be more of a grief to them before I’ve finished, don’t you worry!”

“Klaus dear, be careful! One hears such dreadful stories, one hopes they are not true, but

—”

“I hope that whatever you have heard has been an understatement,” said Hambledon

grimly.

The old lady sighed. “Yet they are Germans who carry out these dreadful orders, how can

they? Why don’t they refuse? Germans used to be such nice people before all this happened—

except the Prussians, of course, no one ever liked the Prussians—but now they’re all

Prussianized, I think. I don’t like Germany any more, Klaus, I would rather go and live

somewhere else. I think I’d like to live in England, Klaus.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I knew an Englishman once, when I was very young. He was at Heidelberg University

with my brother, who brought him home once or twice—to the white house at Haspe, Klaus,

where you came to me. He used to tell me about England, I thought then I would like to go there

some day.”

“What was he doing over here?”

“Oh, studying things, and learning the language. He was going to be a schoolmaster, my

family thought that was funny because people in our class wouldn’t be schoolmasters in those

days.”

“Unless they were in reduced circumstances, like us in Dusseldorf.”

“Ah, that was different. My brother used to make great fun of him, saying he would

spend the rest of his life teaching little boys their ABC and making them blow their noses

properly. But nothing Georg said made any difference to the Englishman, he said that it was a

great and noble task to train the minds of future citizens.”

“Are you sure he said ‘great and noble’?”

“Of course not. He said ‘vitally important, really,’ but that was what he meant. He said

that not only would he do that himself, but if he had a son he hoped he’d do the same. It is only

my fancy, I know, but you seem to me to have a look of him sometimes, Klaus.”

“Oh, oh,” said Klaus, “and I thought you loved me for myself alone! Now I realize I’m

only a relic—”

“Klaus!”

“Only a faded rose. No, a bit of dried seaweed—”

“Klaus, I shall throw my knitting at you in a minute. Oh, how heartless we are to laugh

like this, think of Christine.”

“It won’t help Frau Christine if you make yourself ill fretting over her. Tell me, what

became of this Englishman?”

“He never came back. We heard that he became a schoolmaster and also a minister of the

Church, but he wouldn’t be both, surely?”

Hambledon’s mind went back to the country Rectory where he was born, a white house

not unlike that at Haspe, with a garden full of roses, striped carnations, and hollyhocks high in