An hour later Mayr had returned to his Munich barracks when the strange phone call came through. He picked up the receiver and identified himself. It was the Berghof again.
'Bormann speaking! Information has reached me that Lindsay has a rendezvous with an Allied agent at the Frauenkirche
The voice was oddly muffled. Mayr thought it hardly sounded like the Reichsleiter. Still, he was not a man whose identity it would be wise to question. The voice went on talking.
… the agent waits at the rendezvous at 1100 hours every Monday. Make your dispositions accordingly and on no account mention this call to anyone. By order of the Fuhrer.!'
Still mystified, Mayr replaced the receiver. Tomorrow was Monday. He would be waiting for this Allied agent at the Frauenkirche.
Chapter Twenty-One
'Just in time,' said Christa. 'Here we are, and we're clear of the street.'
'They'll search the whole area,' Lindsay warned. 'Checking on that tram was only the start…'
They were standing in a narrow alley between ancient walls and the only sign it was daytime was the thin avenue of sky way above their heads. There, was a smell of tomcat. The cobbles beneath their feet were slimy. The buildings had a condemned look. She extracted a key from her purse, inserted it into the lock of a new solid wooden door decorated with iron studs. and paused before she opened it.
'Kurt came here on leave and when he was on the run. His Aunt Helga lives here. As I told you, they took her husband for the labour battalions. She hates the Nazis Your uniform will frighten her. Wait on the third landing while I talk to her..'
It was so dark inside, Lindsay could see nothing when she had shut the outer door. He felt his way up the narrow staircase on his own, clutching the greasy banister rail. Counting the landings, he waited on the third while Christa went on up the fourth flight. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell; the place had an uninhabited feel. Was the aunt the only occupant, he wondered? Above him he saw light filter out as he heard a door open.
There was a whispered conversation which went with the atmosphere of the place., A pungent odour of urine drifted out from an open door on his landing. He peered inside and saw by the half-light a window smeared with dirt, a lavatory that had not been flushed for some time.
'Ian! Come up.'
Christa's voice. His hand slipped easily up over a section of recently polished banister. At the top, a middle- aged woman with strong features stood beside Christa. Ignoring the uniform, she frowned as she examined his face. 'He has some identification?' she demanded.
'Have you?' Christa queried. 'This is Aunt Helga. She is very cautious..'
'You need to be these days,' the woman interjected grimly. 'It is rumoured there is an underground network which smuggles allied fliers to Switzerland. The Gestapo use their own agents in the guise of British or Americans to try and infiltrate the network..'
'I have my RAF identity card,' Lindsay began.
'And why did they not take this document from you?' demanded the gaunt-faced woman as she took the folder from Lindsay and checked it carefully, comparing the photograph with its owner. 'Christa has told me you were a prisoner.. '
'They did…' Lindsay caught Christa's warning glance. He was to reveal only the minimum information. 'A Gestapo man called Gruber kept it for two days – doubtless to have it photographed for his files..'
'They let him have it back on orders from higher up,' Christa said quickly. 'He is a Wing Commander and I think they hoped to obtain valuable information from him..'
'Take it!' Helga had used her flowered apron to wipe it clean of her fingerprints and thrust it at him, holding it between the cloth of the apron. 'Come inside. I must insist you give me that uniform so I can burn it.'
'The smell will be foul,' Lindsay observed with an attempt at humour but Helga remained stern and aloof.
'We burn anything these days to keep warm. We live with foul smells.' She closed and locked the door of the apartment and went over to the stove where she picked up an iron poker, raised the lid and stirred the smouldering contents. He had the impression she had just armed herself with a weapon. Her next question confirmed his suspicion.
'Where did you obtain that SS uniform from?'
'Aunt Helga!' Christa protested. 'I got it for him – it doesn't matter how. You've got to trust him. I have been to England and I tested him when first we met. Show him the hiding-place.'
'The one Kurt made for himself and was never able to use?' she said bitterly. 'Very well, but I will need that uniform to burn piece by piece..'
The uniform seemed to be an obsession with her. Lindsay guessed she was younger than her weathered appearance. God knew what she had suffered.
'We will get warning this time,' Helga remarked, 'if there is an emergency. A good friend of mine in the country built a fresh door in the alley strong enough to resist cannon-shot. They have to ring the bell now and wait. When they came for Kurt they simply smashed the door in…'
The hiding-place was reached by an ingeniously camouflaged trap-door hinged in the roof alongside a cross- beam. Helga fetched a pair of steps from the kitchen, stood them in a certain place and climbed up, holding a thin- bladed knife.
'You insert the knife tip next to this hook on the beam,' she explained. 'Shove it up like you would your tool into a woman…' Lindsay glanced at Christa, who stared across the room, blushing. 'The knife tip,' Helga continued, 'impinges on a steel bar which Kurt attached to the trap-door. Push it up. So…!'
A square section of the seemingly continuous ceiling elevated to expose a dark hole. Helga dropped the trap in position and came back down the steps. She was carrying them back into the kitchen when she growled the invitation.
'If you are hungry I can provide some discoloured and tasteless liquid which we call soup. At least it will be hot..'
'You've been accepted!' Christa whispered.
At 3 pm precisely, one hour after their arrival at the spotless apartment of Helga, a police detachment called to search the whole building.
The clapper of the large bowl-shaped bell above the apartment door was hammering away like a machine- gun non-stop. Christa swallowed the remnants of her watery coffee and jumped up from the table.
'What the hell's that?'
'Front door bell in the alley,' Helga said laconically.
She opened a window and leaned far out beyond the dormer overhang to look down a sheer wall into the alley beneath. Waving a hand, she shouted something Lindsay, who had also stood up, did not catch. Withdrawing her head she walked into the kitchen and came back with the pair of steps.
'Looks like the whole Munich police force is down there. Stay in the attic until I tap three times on the trap with my broom-handle. Don't forget your cigarette pack, Mr Lindsay..'
He took the knife she handed him and shinned up the steps. He managed to operate the primitive opening device first time and reached down for his suitcase which Christa was holding. Helga was clearing the table of cups and plates, leaving only crockery she had used herself.
The bell started hammering again. Lindsay carted Christa's case up to the attic while the girl collected stubs of cigarettes, wrapped them in a piece of newspaper and shoved it inside her coat pocket.
'My cap…' Lindsay called down.
She rammed it on her head and climbed the steps, grabbing the hand the Englishman extended to haul her up inside the attic. Helga came back, took the steps away and reappeared holding a stick with a knobbly handle. She developed a limp as she went towards the door, looking up at the two faces peering down.
'Rheumatism,' she said drily. 'Takes me ages to get down those stairs..'
It was the nearest Helga had come to displaying a sense of humour since their arrival. Lindsay closed the flap
