i 16b0d473103b6aa5 (33 page)

“No, don’t bother, I’ll take a taxi. Had I better take the rug with me?”

“No, why? It’ll be all right in the car—I’ll throw it in the back.”

“Well, don’t lose it, Klaus. I shall see you this evening, then.” The guards at the gate of

the camp stood to attention as the Chief of Police drove his car past them and up the drive. He

pulled up outside the Commandant’s office and went in without delay; he had various matters to

attend to besides the welfare of the Beckensburgs, with whom he wanted a short interview. He

also wanted a much clearer idea than he had previously had about the way the camp was run, it

would be quite impossible to make even the simplest plan for getting the Beckensburgs out until

he knew exactly what he had to cope with. Induce the Commandant to talk, that’s the idea. Quite

a decent fellow, by all accounts, considering his job.

Hambledon was so deep in thought that he saw without noticing a prisoner who was

wandering about the drive with a sack over his shoulder, armed with a stick which had a long

steel spike at the end, his job was to collect any stray bits of paper which might be blowing

about. The prisoner recognized the Chief of Police, and his face lit up, but he made no move to

attract Hambledon’s attention and merely went on with his work while the Chief of Police

disappeared within doors.

The sun shone and the wind blew. Two warders came up with two prisoners, father and

son, the Beckensburgs, summoned to an interview with the Herr Polizei Oberhaupt. The guards

at the gate left off looking up the drive and turned their attention elsewhere, in the distance a line

of men were digging, watched by armed warders. Their bodies moved rhythmically, their spades

flashed in the sun; a peaceful scene if one did not know what was hidden behind it. The man with

the spike worked gradually nearer to the car.

Presently a raucous bell clanged from a turret on the top of the office; the diggers

straightened their backs, shouldered their spades, and marched off out of sight. All over the camp

unhappy men ceased work and gathered in long sheds with trestle tables down the middle, for it

was the hour of what passes for supper in a concentration camp.

The scavenger ceased work with the rest, cleared a few fragments of paper from his steel

spike into the sack, and walked towards the car, he had to go that way, there was nothing

suspicious about that. When he was close to the Opel he cast an anxious glance at the guards by

the gate, but Providence prompted an enthusiastic young Air Force officer, passing overhead, to

loop the loop at that moment, and the men were watching him. The prisoner dodged round the

car, opened one of the rear doors, and shot in, taking his sack and his unpleasant-looking weapon

with him. He threw himself on the floor and, by putting one foot against the door-post, managed

to shut the door properly without slamming it. After that, he covered himself, the sack and his

tool completely with Frau Rademeyer’s rug, made himself as small and flat as possible, and

waited with a beating heart for the car’s owner to return.

Unendurable ages dragged past before he heard footsteps and voices, the Chief of Police

being seen off by the Camp Commandant in person. They stood on the doorstep while the

Commandant talked about his pet system of checking prisoners several times a day. “There is

one call-over almost due now,” he said, “at the end of supper; would it amuse you to see it? It is

rather—”

“If he does,” thought the prisoner, “if he does I shall be missed, they will hunt, I shall be

found here, God of mercy, make him say no. Make him say no—”

“—staggered times for guard-changing,” continued the Commandant, “so that there is no

moment of the day or night when all the guards at once are distracted from their duty.”

“Admirable,” said the Chief of Police, “quite admirable. The organization and

management of this camp should be a model for every such camp in Germany. But no, my dear

fellow, I mustn’t stay any longer, taking up more of your valuable time. Besides, I also have one

or two unimportant matters to see to this evening—”

“I have detained you too long—”

“On the contrary—”

“I bore everybody with my systems—”

“Everything I have seen has been of absorbing interest.”

“But where is your driver?” asked the Commandant, laying his hand on the handle of the

rear door.

“I drive myself,” said the Chief of Police, “whenever possible. It fidgets me to sit in state

in the back of a car with someone else driving.”

“All really good drivers feel that. Will you not have the rug over your knees? These May

evenings turn chilly.”

“No, thank you, your excellent Niersteiner—besides, it would be in the way.” Hambledon

started the engine. “
Auf wiedersehen
, Herr Commandant, and thank you.” He moved the gear

lever.

“A pleasure,” said the Commandant, standing at the salute, and at that moment the bell

rang again. “That is for the call-over, will you not—no.
Auf wiedersehen
, Herr Polizei

Oberhaupt.”

“Oh, God,” whispered the prisoner under the rug. “Oh, God, all this politeness; oh, God

—”

Hambledon let in the clutch, turned the car and went slowly down the drive. He had to

stop at the gate to let some traffic go by, and one of the guards came up to the car to say

something civil to the distinguished visitor. The prisoner broke into a perspiration so violent that

he could feel it running off his face, till at last the car moved off, turned into the road, changed

into second—third—top. Hambledon leaned back in his seat and said, “Thank God that’s over.

Foul place,” aloud, but the prisoner did not hear him, for he had fainted.

He came back to consciousness with a violent start from a dreadful dream that he had

been buried alive in a coffin too short for him, flung back the rug and sat up. The next instant he

remembered where he was and sank back again at once. There was, however, no need now to

stifle under the rug, at least not for the present, and he drew long breaths of the cool night air.

Street lights appeared and the traffic increased, they were approaching Berlin. “I ought to have

stopped him in the country,” thought the prisoner, “where we’d have been alone, it’s too late

now, too many people about. If he opens the door himself it’ll be all right, but if a servant opens

it—”

They passed swiftly through the streets, for the car of the Chief of Police was given

precedence, occasionally the prisoner risked a glance out of the window and recognized

buildings he knew. They went through the Government quarter without stopping. “Good,” said

the prisoner, “he’s going straight home.” He lay down again on the floor and arranged the rug

carefully over himself.

At last the car slowed down in a quiet street and came to a stop before the entrance to a

block of flats. The driver switched off the engine, opened the door, kneeled upon the seat where

he had been sitting, and snatched the rug off the prisoner with the words: “Hands up! I’ve got

you covered!”

The prisoner obeyed at once, for he could see an ugly but familiar object in Hambledon’s

hand.

“Now! Who are you, and what the devil are you doing in my car?”

“Squadron-Leader Lazarus, sir, and I’ve escaped from the camp.”

“Lazarus,” said Hambledon thoughtfully. “Lazarus. I’ve heard—”

“Sir, I must speak to you privately, I’ve something desperately important to tell you. Do

let me speak to you and then let me go, I’ll take my chance, I don’t want to be a bother to you.”

“Squadron-Leader Lazarus,” repeated Hambledon, in the voice of a man trying to

remember something. “Yes, better come up to my flat.” He opened the rear door of the car for

the man to get out and walked up the stairs a little behind him, still unostentatiously keeping him

covered with the automatic. “Ring the bell, will you?” said Hambledon, because it is not easy to

hold a latch-key and a pistol in the same hand at once, or to watch a prisoner and look at what

you’re doing at the same time. When Franz came to the door, however, Hambledon slipped the

automatic in his pocket, though he still kept his hand upon it.

“Franz, show this gentleman into the study, and bring in some—what’ll you drink?

Whisky and soda?”

“Don’t believe I’ve tasted it since ’18, I’d love some,” said Lazarus with a smile.

Hambledon’s face cleared, the reference to ’18 supplied the clue for which he had been

searching. “Of course,” he said, “of course, I remember now. You were at Darmstadt the day the

Allied Commission came to destroy your machines, Goering was there, you had a little trouble

with him if I remember correctly.”

“Were you also a pilot?” said Lazarus, staring at him. “I am so sorry—I ought to

remember you, no doubt—”

“No, no, I was—I merely happened to be there. I was not in the Air Force and had not the

honour of being presented to you.”

The Squadron-Leader smiled bitterly. “I think that was the last day upon which it was an

honour to be presented to me,” he said. “Now I am only a Jew, and who says Jew says muck.”

“Is that the only reason why you were sent to that camp? Have a drink.”

The man nodded. “You can see it in the records. Not too much, please, I’m not used to it

now, and I have something to tell you.”

“Sit down and drink that first,” said Hambledon. “You look all in. Had a rotten time, of

course.”

“Not too bad,” said Lazarus. “I was lucky. The Commandant was one of my Flight-

Lieutenants, and he did make things as easy for me as he could. Never got anything really foul to

do, gardening most of the time, gave me cigarettes sometimes, and the guards looked the other

way if they caught me smoking behind the tool-shed—talk about catching me, how did you

know I was in the car?”

“Saw you reflected in the driving-mirror when you sat up,” explained Tommy. “Knew

you must have stowed away at the camp. Quite safe, nobody slays the driver of a fast car when

it’s moving. That’s why I drove so fast,” he added with a disarming smile. “I was wondering

whether you’d brought your spike with you, you were the man in the drive, weren’t you?”

Lazarus nodded. “It’s in the car, I had to bring it. And the sack, of course. Now, what I

had to tell you was this. You know, of course, that eight of Goebbels’ men are in the camp?”

Tommy smiled. “I should know, I sent them there.”

“Yes? Well, Goebbels came down to see them the other day, he talked to them in a

warders’ room there for privacy, but I was planting cabbages at the back and I heard a good deal

of what was said.” He repeated the conversation as accurately as he could, and Hambledon

listened intently.

“Schultz,” he said, when Lazarus had finished. “Schultz. It’s rather a coincidence that he

should be looking for me, because I am looking for him. I have a little bill to pay Herr Schultz. It

is also borne in upon me, Squadron-Leader Lazarus, that I am also deeply indebted to you. Even

if I’d seen Schultz, it might not have occurred to me that he was after my blood. Wonder how

he’ll set about it? Apparently I’m safe till we all arrive in Danzig—first I’ve heard of that, too.

Thank you. I must do something about you first.”

“If I could get out of the country,” said Lazarus eagerly, “into Switzerland, say, but it

doesn’t matter where, I’d be all right. I think I’d go to America and get a pilot’s job, fancy flying

again—”

“Of course,” said Hambledon slowly. “You can still fly, can’t you? One doesn’t get

hopelessly out of practice, does one? I know nothing about it.”

“No, at least, not for a long time, especially if you’ve done a lot, and I was a regular

commercial pilot till they pounced on me two years ago. I’ve kept fit, too, I told you I was lucky,

they never knocked me about, in the camp I mean.”

“Do you think you could fly a plane to Switzerland?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lazarus promptly. “I was on the Swiss route the last nine months I was

flying.”

“Good. You’ll have to hide up while I make arrangements, you may-have to fly two old

ladies across the frontier—this way up, handle gently, fragile, do not bump, eggs with care, you

understand?”

“They shall not know they’ve touched the ground,” said Lazarus with shining eyes, “till

the bus stops.”

“In the meantime,” said Hambledon, “it’s the loft under the roof for you, I’m afraid, but

we’ll make you as comfortable as we can. There’s a wireless set up there already, but we’ll add a

few more amenities. Come along and meet a friend of mine who’ll look after you; his name is

Reck.”

“So Goebbels is looking into my past and finding it inconveniently blameless,” said

Hambledon to Reck, when Lazarus had been fed, stowed away, and provided with a few

comforts. “I wonder how long it will be before it occurs to him to look up my fingerprints?”

The bedside telephone rang furiously. Tommy Hambledon awakened with a start and

reached out for the receiver, throwing at the same moment a reproachful glance at the clock,

which said with an air of apology that the time was 5.45 a.m. “Chief of Police,” grunted