almost total darkness, felt his way across it to where the window at the back should have been, finally located it from the source of a faint wash of light. He pressed his nose against the glass but could see nothing, cursed softly as he realised a washroom window would always certainly be frosted, located the latch and slowly swung the window wide. With infinite caution, a fraction of an inch at a time, he thrust his head slowly through the window.
Nobody blew his head off. There were soldiers immediately to be seen, it was true, soldiers armed and at the ready, but they weren't looking in his direction: there were five of them, spread out in an arc of a circle, perhaps fifteen yards from the station entrance, and every machine-pistol was trained on that entrance. Waiting for the rabbits to bolt, Smith thought.
What was of much more interest was the empty truck parked only feet away from the window where he was: it was the reflected light from its side-lights that had enabled him to locate the window. Hoping that the truck was built along conventional lines, Smith armed the grenade, counted three, lobbed it under the back wheels of the truck and ducked behind the shelter of the washroom wall.
The two explosions—grenade and petrol tank—went off so almost simultaneously as to be indistinguishable in time Shattered glass from the window above showered down on his head and his ear-drums hurt fiercely both from the roar of sound and the proximity to the explosive shock-wave. Smith made no attempt to inspect the damage he had done, less from the urgent need for haste to leave there than from the very obvious fact that the remains of the truck outside had burst into flames and to have lifted his head above that window sill would have been a swift form of illuminated suicide: not that he could have done so in any event for the wind-driven flames from the track were already beginning to lick through the shattered washroom window. On hands and knees Smith scuttled across the washroom floor, not rising till he had reached the cloakroom. Schaffer, who had his hand on the key and the door already open a fraction of an inch turned at Smith's approach.
“To the hills, boss?” he enquired.
“To the hills.”
The track-side of the station was, predictably, deserted: those who had not automatically run to investigate the source of the explosion would have as automatically assumed that the explosion was in some way connected with an escape attempt or resistance on the part of the hunted men. However it was, the result was the satisfactory same.
They ran along the tracks till they came to the bumpers at the end of the line, skirted these and continued running until they were safely among the scatter of houses that rose steeply up the hill-side on the eastern side of the village. They stopped to take breath and looked back the way they had come.
The station was on fire, not yet heavily on fire, but, with flames rising six to eight feet and black smoke billowing into the night sky, obviously already beyond any hope of extinction.
Schaffer said: “They're not going to be very pleased.”
“I shouldn't think so.”
“What I mean is, they're really going to go after us now. With everything they have. They've Doberman pinchers up at the castle and I've no doubt they have them at the camp too. They've only to bring them to the station, sniff our gear, have them circle the station, pick up our scent and that's it. Smith and Schaffer torn to shreds. I'll take on the Alpenkorps by numbers, but I draw the line at Doberman pinchers, boss.”
“I thought it was horses you were scared of?” Smith said mildly.
“Horses, Doberman pinchers, you name it, I'm scared of it. All it's got to have is four feet.” He looked gloomily at the burning station. “I'd make a rotten vet.”
“No worry,” Smith assured him. “We won't be here long enough for any of your four-footed pals to come bothering you.”
“No?” Schaffer looked at him suspiciously.
“The castle,” Smith said patiently. “That's what we're here for. Remember?”
“I hadn't forgotten.” The flames from the blazing station were now licking thirty, forty feet up in the air. “You gone and ruined a perfectly good station, you know that?”
“As you would, say yourself,” Smith reminded him, “it wasn't our station to start with. Come on. We've a call to make then we'll go see what kind of reception awaits us at the Schloss Adler.”
Mary Ellison was Just at that moment discovering what the reception in the Schloss Adler was like. In her case it was none too pleasant. Von Brauchitsch and Heidi beside her, she was gazing around the great hall of the castle, stone walls, stone flags, a dark oaken roof, when a door at the end of the hall opened and a girl came towards them. There was an arrogance, a crisp authority about her r she marched, rather than walked.
But a very beautiful girl, Mary had to admit to herself, big, blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful. She could have been a pinup girl for the Third Reich. At the moment, the blue eyes were very cold.
“Good-evening, Anne-Marie,” von Brauchitsch said. There was a marked lack of cordiality in his voice. “This is the new girl, Fraulein Maria Schenk. Maria, this is the Colonel's secretary, in charge of all female staff.”
“Took your time about getting here, didn't you, Schenk ?” If Anne-Marie had a soft, lilting, mellifluous voice she wasn't bothering to use it just then. She turned to Heidi and gave her an icy up-and-down. “And why you? Just because we let you wait table when the Colonel has company—”
“Heidi is this girl's cousin,” von Brauchitsch interrupted brusquely. “And she has my permission.” The cold implication that she should confine herself to her duties was unmistakable.
Anne-Marie glared at him but made no attempt to press the point. Very few people would have done. Von Brauchitsch was just that sort of person.
“In here, Schenk.” Anne-Marie nodded to a side door. “I have a few questions to ask.”
Mary looked at Heidi, then at von Brauchitsch, who shrugged and said: “Routine investigation, Fraulein. I'm afraid you must.”
Mary preceded Anne-Marie through the doorway. The door was firmly closed behind them. Heidi and von Brauchitsch looked at each other. Heidi compressed her lips and the expression that momentarily flitted over her face about matched the one Anne-Marie had been wearing: von Brauchitsch made the age-old helpless gesture of lifting his shoulders high, palms of the hands turned up.
Within half a minute the reason for von Brauchitsch's helpless gesture became obvious. Through the door there came first the sound of a raised voice, a brief scuffle then a sharp cry of pain. Von Brauchitsch exchanged another resigned glance with Heidi, then turned as he heard heavy footsteps behind him. The man approaching was burly, weather-beaten, middle-aged and in civilian clothes: but although not in uniform he could never have been mistaken for anything other than an army officer. The heavy blue-shaven jowls, bull-neck, close-cropped hair and piercing blue eyes made him almost a caricature of the World War I Prussian Uhlan cavalry officer. That he was by no means as fossilised as he appeared was quite evident from the distinctly respectful manner in which von Brauchitsch addressed him.
“Good evening, Colonel Kramer.”
“Evening, Captain. Evening, Fraulein.” He had an unexpectedly gentle and courteous voice. “You wear an air of expectancy?”
Before either could answer, the door opened and Anne-Marie and Mary entered: Mary gave the impression of having been pushed into the room. Anne-Marie was slightly flushed and breathing rather heavily, but otherwise her beautiful Aryan self. Mary's clothes were disordered, her hair dishevelled and it was obvious that she had been crying. Her cheeks were still tear-stained.
“We'll have no more trouble with her,” Anne-Marie announced with satisfaction. She caught sight of Kramer and the change in her tone was perceptible. “Interviewing new staff, Colonel.”
“In your usual competent fashion, I see,” Colonel Kramer said dryly. He shook his head. “When will you learn that respectable young girls do not like being forcibly searched and having their underclothes examined to see if they were made in Piccadilly or Gorki Street?”
“Security regulations,” Anne-Marie said defensively.
“Yes, yes.” Kramer's voice was brusque. “But there are other ways.” He turned away impatiently. The engaging of female staff was not the problem of the deputy chief of the German Secret Service. While Heidi was helping Mary to straighten her clothes, he went on, to von Brauchitsch: “A little excitement in the village tonight?”
“Nothing for us.” Von Brauchitsch shrugged. “Deserters.”
Kramer smiled.
