that?”
Heidi stiffened and stared but immediately relaxed and smiled at him coquettishly.
“It's very nice, Major. And I'm sure you have a beautiful singing voice, too.”
Smith put his Steinbecher down with an unsteady bang that brought more disapproval from the other side of the table then lifted his hand to wipe the froth from his lips. Heidi smiled down at him, but the wary eyes weren't smiling.
Smith said from behind his hand: “The men at the bar? The civilians? Don't turn round.”
“Gestapo.” She made another apparently futile attempt to free herself. “From the castle.”
“One's a lip-reader.” Smith had the Steinbecher in front of his face again. “I can tell. They're watching. Your room in five minutes. Hit me good and hard.”
Heidi stared at him in bewilderment, then yelped in pain as he pinched her, far from gently. She drew back, her right hand came over in a round-house swing and the sound of the slap could be heard clear across the crowded room, cutting sharply through the deep buzz of conversation. The voices died away, Steinbechers remained poised half-way towards lips, and every eye in the room turned until it was focused on the scene of the disturbance. Smith now had the exclusive and undivided attention of close on four hundred German soldiers which was exactly how he wanted it: no man anxious to avoid attention at all costs would ever do anything to incur the slightest risk of drawing that unwanted attention.
Heidi pushed herself to her feet, rubbed herself tenderly, snatched up the note which Smith had earlier placed on the table and stalked haughtily away. Smith, his already reddening face discomfited and tight in anger, rose, made to leave the table then halted when confronted by the Jäger captain who had already risen from his side of the table. He was a spruce, erect youngster, very much of the Hitler Jugend type, punctilious and correct but at that moment rather suffering from the effect of too many Steinbechers. Beneath the redly-dulled eyes lay a gleam which bespoke the not uncommon combination of self-importance and officious self-righteousness.
“Your conduct does not become an officer of the Wehrmacht,” he said loudly.
Smith did not reply at once. The embarrassed anger faded from his face to be replaced by an expressionlessly penetrating stare. He gazed unwinkingly into the captain's eyes for so long that the other finally looked away. When Smith's voice came it was too quiet to be heard even at the next table.
“Herr Major, when you talk to me, little man.” The tone was glacial: so now were also the eyes. “Major Bernd Himmler. You may have heard of me?”
He paused significantly and the young captain seemed to shrink perceptibly before his eyes. Himmler, head of the Gestapo, was the most feared man in Germany. Smith could have been any relative of Himmler, possibly even his son.
“Report to me at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning,” Smith said curtly. He swung away without waiting for an answer. The Alpenkorps captain, suddenly very sober indeed, nodded wordlessly and sank wearily into his chair. As Smith strode towards the door the hubbub of conversation resumed. For the soldiers stationed in that remote military outpost, drinking beer, very large quantities of beer, was the only pastime: such incidents were no sooner seen than forgotten.
On his way to the door Smith stopped briefly by Schaffer and said: “Well, I fouled that one up.”
“You could have handled it differently,” Schaffer conceded, then went on curiously: “What did you say to him? The young Alpine Corps captain, I mean.”
“I gave him to understand that I was Himmler's son.”
“The Gestapo boss?” Schaffer asked incredulously. “God above, you took a chance.”
“I couldn't afford to take a chance,” Smith said cryptically. “I'll go try the ‘Eichhof’. Better luck there, maybe. Back in ten minutes. Less.”
He left Schaffer looking uncertainly after him, made an urgent negative move of his hand towards Carraciola, who was approaching him, and passed outside. He moved a few paces along the wooden boardwalk, stopped and glanced briefly up and down the snow-filled street. It was deserted in both directions. He turned and walked quickly up a narrow alleyway which paralleled the side of “Zum Wilden Hirsch”. At the rear stood a small wooden hut. Smith checked again that he was unobserved, opened the door quietly.
“Eight o'clock,” he said into the darkness. “Come on.”
There was a rustle of clothes and Mary appeared in the doorway. She was shivering violently, her face blue- tinged with the extreme cold. She looked questioningly at Smith but he took her arm without a word and led her quickly to the back door of the Gasthaus. They entered a small hallway, dimly lit by an oil lamp, crossed it, climbed a flight of stairs, moved along a corridor and stopped at the second door on the right. They passed swiftly inside, Smith closing the door behind him.
It was a small room, plainly furnished, but from the chintz soft furnishings and toilet articles on a dressing- table, very obviously a feminine room. Mary sat down on the bed, hugging herself tightly to try to restore some warmth and looked up at Smith without any admiration in her face.
“I hope you're enjoying your little game,” she said bitterly. “Seem to know your way around, don't you?”
“Instinct,” Smith explained. He stooped over the low-burning oil lamp by the bed, turned up the flame, glanced briefly about the room, located a battered leather case in one corner, swung it to the bed and snapped open the lid. The case contained women's clothing. He pulled Mary to her feet and said: “Don't waste time. Take off your clothes. And when I say that, I mean your clothes. Every last stitch. Then get into that top outfit there. You'll find everything you need.”
Mary stared at him.
“Those clothes? Why on earth must I—”
“Don't argue. Now!”
“Now it is,” she said resignedly. “You might at least turn your back.”
“Relax,” Smith said wearily. “I have other things on my mind.” He crossed to the window, stood peering out through a crack in the chintz curtains and went on: “Now, hurry. You're supposed to be coming off the bus from Steingaden that arrives in twenty minutes' time. You'll be carrying that case, which contains the rest of your clothes. Your name is Maria Schenk, you're from Dusseldorf, a cousin of a barmaid that works here, and you've had T.B. and been forced to give up your factory job and go to the mountains for your health. So you've got this new job, through this barmaid, in the Schloss Adler. And you have identity papers, travel permit, references and letters in appropriately post-marked envelopes to prove all of it. They're in that handbag in the case. Think you got all that?”
“I—I think so,” she said uncertainly. “But if you'd only tell me—”
“For God's sake!” Smith said impatiently. “Time, girl, time! Got it or not?”
“Maria Schenk, Dusseldorf, factory, T.B., cousin here, Steingaden—yes, I have it.” She broke off to pull a ribbed blue wool dress over her head, smoothed it down and said wonderingly: “It's a perfect fit! You'd think this dress was made for me!”
“It was made for you.” Smith turned round to inspect her.
“36-26-36 or whatever. We—um—broke into your flat and borrowed a dress to use as a model. Thorough, that's us.”
“You broke into my flat?” she asked slowly.
“Well, now, you wouldn't want to go around like a refugee from a jumble sale,” Smith said reasonably. He looked at the dress with an approving eye. “Does something for you.”
“I'd like to do something for you,” she said feelingly. Her eyes mirrored her bafflement, her total lack of understanding. “But—but it must have taken weeks to prepare those clothes—and those papers!”
“Like enough,” Smith agreed. “Our Forgery Section did a very special job on those papers. Had to, to get you into the lion's den.”
“Weeks,” Mary said incredulously. “Weeks! But General Carnaby's plane crashed only yesterday morning.” She stared at him, registering successive expressions of confusion, accusation and, finally, downright anger. “You knew it was going to crash!”
“Right first time, my poppet,” Smith said cheerfully. He gave her an affectionate pat. “We rigged it.”
“Don't do that,” she snapped, then went on carefully, her face still tight with anger: “There really was a plane crash?”
“Guaranteed. The plane crash-landed on the airfield H.Q. of the Bavarian Mountain Rescue pilots. Place
