They suddenly stiffened and looked at each other. They heard a voice, excited, hurried. The heavy measured tread of the Nazis’ boots broke into a run. The voice was giving directions; they could hear the tone, but not the exact words. Van Cortlandt looked inquiringly at Richard, who shook his head. No, that wasn’t von Aschenhausen. So there was still another on the list. They waited, their bodies tense, their minds alert. The commands had been given. There was a loud “Zu Befehl!” That at least they could hear, that and the sound of running feet, clashing on the stones of a courtyard. And then the noise of motor bicycles ripped the silence.
“Two, I think,” murmured van Cortlandt. They edged to the front of the bushes, and saw the roadway which approached the entrance of the castle. The two motor bicycles had already passed through the large gates, and were sweeping down the broad road. There was something peculiarly ominous in their speed.
“I don’t like it,” said van Cortlandt. “It’s only a hunch, but I think we should get going.”
The failing light helped them. They moved silently, one by one, from the shrubbery over to the castle wall and, keeping close to its shadow, edged towards the kitchen door. They heard a sound of movement inside as Thornley’s nail-studded shoes slipped on a stone at the side of the path. They stretched themselves more closely against the roughness of the wall. Thornley slid the gun out of his pocket and held it by the barrel. The kitchen door opened, and a broad beam of light streamed down the path to the kitchen garden. They could see the edge of a white apron, as the cook halted on the threshold.
“I heard you. You can come in. Where did you find the parsley? In the red-currant bushes, I bet.” He stepped out of the doorway, peering towards the darkness of the garden. “Hermann. God in heaven! I’ve always to do everything myself.” His thin, high voice rose. “Hermann!” He sprawled forward as the revolver butt thudded dully against his square head.
He was a heavy man. It took the three of them to lift him back into the kitchen. Thornley locked the door and then stood guard at the only other entrance—a door which led into a passage— while van Cortlandt helped Richard to gag the man and tie his hands and feet. Then they thrust him unceremoniously into his own store-room, and locked its heavy door. Richard pocketed the key, and nodded; they moved silently into the passage.
Thornley whispered, “There was a room which seemed to be interesting.”
Richard looked sharply at him. Had he heard something while he had waited? A cry? His speed increased.
The passage led to the main entrance hall, a large, square, imposing place, with a broad stairway curving up the panelled walls. Richard had stopped, and looked again at Thornley. Where was the room? Thornley pointed above their heads to the first floor.
They mounted the staircase slowly, carefully, because of the nails in Thornley’s shoes. Richard was thankful for the second time in two days that his shoes were soled with rubber. At any moment he expected the door above them to open and a volley of shots to pin them against the staircase wall… But the door didn’t open. Its double panels remained shut. It was only when they had reached them that they could hear the voices from within. A man’s voice, and then another man’s voice. Again the first voice. Richard looked at the two men beside him and nodded. This time the voice was von Aschenhausen’s.
He was speaking in German, his voice as angry as the other man’s had been. They were not arguing with each other. They were talking to a third person; talking savagely. Von Aschenhausen had raised his pitch. Richard closed his eyes: he could see the two scars ridging the cheek. The words reached them in waves.
“…regret your stupidity…advantage of my humanity. In two hours my young barbarians, as you called them, will return. I shall turn you over… If that fails…Gestapo…murderess and dangerous spy.” The voice was clearer now, as if the man’s anger were becoming cold and cruelly calculating.
“Your remaining days will not be pleasant. We shall catch Myles just as surely as we caught you. And your stupidity will be quite in vain.” The voice altered again. This time it was speaking in English, rapidly, persuasively.
“You know how I have always regarded you. Otherwise I should not have brought you here: you would have been at the official Gestapo headquarters as soon as I had found you. Instead I bring you here, but do not mistake my feelings. I will find out. If you accept my offer you will only remember these days as a bad dream. Otherwise any unpleasantness which you have suffered will be nothing, nothing to what is to come, and I am not being melodramatic.” There was a pause. Von Aschenhausen spoke again. “You fool, you stupid little fool. Don’t you see I must, I will, find out? My patience is limited. Kurt, try some more of your persuasion. This is really tedious. You have only one…”
They had heard enough…two men in there. Richard saw the others were watching him, waiting. Van Cortlandt’s mouth had an ugly look. Thornley was fingering the revolver thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. Richard nodded his head towards the door. Van Cortlandt put his hand gently on the handle. He was feeling it; it was unlocked. He shoved both panels violently open. He and Richard entered as one man with Thornley just behind them.
The surprise was complete.
In the flickering candlelight of the room they saw von Aschenhausen sitting on the edge of a large desk. His eyes were fixed on the other man standing over the girl roped to a chair as he himself paused in the lighting of a cigarette. The match was still burning as Richard’s full weight knocked him backwards pinning him against the desk. As he tried to throw Richard off the grip on his throat tightened. He struggled but the increased pressure warned him. He lay still, choking. It was his only chance.
Frances felt the hand of iron release her aching shoulder. She tried to get her face away from the glare of the powerful lamp in front of her as she heard the rush of feet, but the light still pierced her eyelids with a dull-red burning. She heard the flat sound of a hard fist meeting solid flesh. She heard someone cursing loudly and exultantly with each blow. She knew the voice… Van Cortlandt. Henry. She struggled weakly against the rope which held her. And then there was Bob’s voice too. Beside her. She heard the lamp fall, and the glaring circle of light had gone. The ropes had suddenly stopped cutting into her breast and thigh. Her body was falling forward, but an arm caught it before it slipped off the chair. The arm held her there gently. Bob’s voice was telling her to move slowly, to get the blood in circulation again. She was not to worry; everything was all right. Everything was all right. So Richard must be safe too. Richard must be safe.
In front of her she could hear the heavy breathing of the two men as they fought, the half groan, half gasp from the man Kurt as van Cortlandt landed, his blows. She forced her eyes half open. She could see Thornley’s face as a white blur, gradually steadying, slowly shaping into lines she could recognise. He was watching the punishment which van Cortlandt was dealing with a look of admiration mixed with pleasure, watching the man as he staggered under the hard punches. The man was trying to gain a moment. A gun, thought Thornley, but before he could yell his warning the man had side-stepped a blow successfully and his hand reached into his hip pocket.
Van Cortlandt had seen the movement in time: his hand gripped the man’s wrist and twisted. The bullet dug into the panelled wall, and then the revolver was wrung out of the man’s hand. It fell at their feet. Thornley, watching the man’s bleeding face, contorted with rage, slipped his free hand into his pocket; that type knew all the tricks, he thought grimly. It came as he expected. As van Cortlandt tried to knock the gun out of reach, the man kicked suddenly, viciously. Van Cortlandt doubled up with a groan, and the man’s hand was over the gun. Thornley’s revolver flashed first. There was no doubt about that bullet. The man lay as he had fallen.
Frances heard Thornley say something, but his voice was so low that the words eluded her. Then he was speaking to her, his voice once more calm and clear.
“Can you hold on now, Frances? I’ll come back.”
She nodded and
watched him as he helped van Cortlandt to sit up against the wall where he had fallen. She could see more clearly now; she could see van Cortlandt’s face twisted with pain as he doubled over.
“Trusting fellow you are,” Thornley said gently, and was glad to see the attempted smile on van Cortlandt’s lips.
The American spoke, his words coming in spasms. “How’s that son of a bitch over there?”
“Passed out a minute ago.” It was Richard’s voice, “Frances… all right?”
“Richard.” She tried to rise from the chair.
“Easy now, Frances,” said Thornley, and moved quickly back to her. She was glad of his firm grip. He had picked up the rope which had bound her and coiling it loosely round his right hand he threw it towards the desk.
“You’ll need this,” he said to Richard. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He helped Frances back towards the chair. He looked over his shoulder at van Cortlandt. The American was all right. He had slowly and painfully stretched out his legs, and was leaning against the wall with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Richard looked at von Aschenhausen lying limply across the desk. He was unconscious, and his arms, with which he had tried to grip Richard, sprawled inert over the dark wood. One hand fell over the edge of the desk; the other pointed helplessly towards the glimmering candles in their heavy-silver base. Richard picked up the rope with one hand, still keeping a firm grip with the other on von Aschenhausen’s throat, but one hand was not enough; he sensed his mistake even as he caught hold of the rope. The split-second warning was too short. Before he could use both hands again von Aschenhausen had swept the branched candlestick in his face. As he stumbled back under the weight of the blow, rubbing the burning wax from his left eyelid and cheek, he saw von Aschenhausen’s hand come up from the drawer with a gun, and he heard the shots.
Frances saw the long barrel point towards Thornley and herself. She was pushed violently aside even as the gun crashed twice. The echo of the shots stabbed her head. Or was it an echo? Von Aschenhausen stiffened and slid grotesquely from the desk. His revolver thudded dully on the thick carpet. Richard was still on his knees where he had dropped as he had thrust her aside. Van Cortlandt alone was smiling, and with a grim satisfaction, as he held his still smoking revolver pointed at the crumpled figure.
For a moment they looked at each other… All safe.
Frances heard van Cortlandt’s voice saying “I’m a quick learner, Bob,” and Thornley’s not very successful laugh.
Richard had picked up the fallen gun, and was coming towards her, his hands to his face. She raised her arms, and then she felt the burning pain. The men saw the expression on her face change to one of amazement, like that of a child who has fallen and only realises it is hurt when the blood begins to flow. So Frances looked as the searing pain showed her a neat groove in her left arm. Unbelievingly she watched the blood as it welled up and overflowed the wound in a slow-moving stream. And then she felt the real pain; with each heart-beat it seemed to throb farther down her arm and claw her shoulder.
Richard was beside her. She wondered if she looked as white as he did. He was looking at her arm, but he didn’t speak.
Van Cortlandt nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, they know me well by this time. That means the car we’ve got is dangerous.” He dug his hands into his pockets and walked slowly across the room to the desk.
“We’ll have to find another car—that’s all—or travel by train, or if the worst comes to the worst we’ll have to climb over the pass together.” He stopped suddenly, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Say, Richard, what’s the thing these boys use when they want to sneak into a country without having their baggage examined?” He prodded von Aschenhausen’s body with his foot contemptuously. Frances tried to remember desperately: there had been something which fitted into all this. Richard was saying that there wasn’t much chance for them that way, but van Cortlandt could take a look in the desk and see what was there. Henry was already searching von Aschenhausen’s pockets. He had found some keys.
“Do you smell burning, any of you?” van Cortlandt asked, as he tried the drawers in the desk. One was locked; it needed two different keys to open it. Inside the drawer lay a folder containing papers, a neatly bound note-book, and a seal and a rubber stamp.
Thornley, holding Frances’ arm while Richard bandaged it, looked up and said, “Probably the candles on the rug.” Van Cortlandt was too engrossed as he examined the documents in the folder. He whistled and then looked towards Thornley.
“As a newspaperman I find this all very interesting.” He waved a sheet of paper in the air. He was almost excited. He looked at the rug. “Yes,” he replied to Thornley, “and a nice little fire is just about to start in the waste-basket. Just like the Reichstag… Such ideas these boys put into your head…”
Frances heard the amusement in his voice, and opened her eyes. It was true. The waste-paper basket was smouldering, and even as she looked she saw the first sign of flame. It was fantastic. There was Henry, reading the papers he had found in the desk as calmly as if he had just made a remark about the weather. Then on the desk she saw the crumpled envelope, still lying where von Aschenhausen had thrown it contemptuously. Money wouldn’t help them, he had said.
Richard was looking at her intently.
“The money,” she said, “is on the desk. That’s it. They— searched me,” she finished lamely. Richard said nothing, but his mouth tightened. Frances thought again of the moment when the money had been discovered. Money wouldn’t help them. Oh, if only she could think straight. Money wouldn’t help them. What was it he had said then? He had twisted the envelope and thrown it on the desk.
“He said,” she began slowly, her eyes closed—he had said so much, but there was something which could help van Cortlandt—“he said money wouldn’t help, that it was no use trying to hide where you had gone.” Her eyes opened, and the words were now faster as she remembered. “Even if you had got over the frontier, any frontier, you would be followed at once and brought back. It wasn’t the first time that escapers had been caught in Italy or Switzerland. He had all the powers and you had none. He held up some papers with one hand and hit them with his other hand, the back of his other hand, and all the time he was looking at me.” Her voice altered again. “These were some of his reasons to persuade me to be reasonable. He said that Kronsteiner had been caught, that Henry and Bob
It was Thornley who said, “On the inside, by God.” Van Cortlandt rose slowly, and limped painfully over to them.
“And a Luger,” he added quietly. “How close was your arm to your body?”
Frances remembered how close. That must have been the hot wind on her left breast just before she had heard the crash of the gun.
“I’d like a…” she began, but the word ‘drink’ evaded her. The men were going away from her, moving back towards the desk, down the lengthening room. It was like looking through the wrong end of binoculars, she thought, and felt the darkness smooth round her with its velvet touch. Then it was light again and the men were beside her, and Richard’s flask was at her lips, forcing her to drink more than she could swallow.
Someone said, “She’ll be all right. Better look at the arm.”
Richard was kneeling beside her, fumbling for his handkerchief. Van Cortlandt produced a very white one, and folded it methodically into a wad. Thornley went over to a table and came back with a decanter of whisky. She didn’t need that, she thought; not now. The clammy sickness had gone, leaving her tired, tired. But she must tell them…she must tell them, now. If only she could remember things in the right order, the important things first. She gripped Richard’s hands as Thornley poured whisky on the wound. She struggled to control her voice as she looked at van Cortlandt.
“They stopped your car at Jenbach and found your friend in it. They brought him back to Innsbruck. They ’phoned about it, and…that man”—she looked at Kurt’s body—“was told to go down and order the two troope
rs into Innsbruck. They were to trace your movements…” had admitted everything in order to save themselves, that our movements had been traced completely.”
Thornley wondered what other kinds of persuasion had been used as he noticed Frances’ wrists, the torn blouse showing the ugly marks on her shoulder, her right cheek which was swollen and red, the angry stripes already turning purple on her legs, her eyes. Again he thought of Tony’s letter, of Maria. At least Frances was alive and her body would heal, at least they had saved her from becoming a second Maria. Tony’s words ate into his heart like vitriol into flesh. He moved to the door. Better begin to leave, he thought.
“I’ll scout round, and find the garage,” he suggested. “Don’t wait too long in here: there’s the makings of a thoroughgoing blaze.”
Van Cortlandt looked up as the door closed. “Frances, did you see where he put those papers he was waving at your face?”
“He was at the desk. They must be there.” Unless, she thought, they were a lie, like the other things he had said. He had mixed lie with truth so cunningly. She watched van Cortlandt search once more and then relaxed as he suddenly smiled.
“Well, this might be twisted to suit us,” he said. Frances had never heard his voice so optimistic… And then the telephone rang.
The three of them looked at it as if it were a cobra.
“I might have known,” van Cortlandt said, and the optimistic voice was gone.
Richard left Frances, and walked quickly over to the ’phone. He lifted the receiver. Frances and van Cortlandt, motionless, scarcely breathing, watched him tensely. But the German which he spoke was that of von Aschenhausen. Van Cortlandt caught Frances’ eye, and nodded slowly, approvingly, before he went on with his careful writing. The waste-paper basket was flaming nicely; the thick-wool carpet smouldered where the fallen candles had burned three round black holes.
Again Frances had the same awareness of unreality which would sometimes grip her for a timeless moment in the middle of a dream, which would drag her back to waking and the hotness of a crumpled pillow. But this was no dream. The high, panelled room was now filled with a stronger light from the leaping flames in the basket beside the desk. The smouldering rug and the guttering candles, and the two bodies lying so quietly on the floor, the rich draperies and carefully arranged flowers, were all as real as the burns on her wrists and the blood which had flowed down her arm like a stream of warm red lava. She looked at the American, working at the other end of the desk; at Richard as he spoke in that excellent, rather hard German. So far, he had said little: he was listening to some story,