“Two years at the University. Courtesy of the—um—Foreign Office.”
Kramer shook his head. “I still don't understand—”
“Sorry. We're going.”
“In fact, we're off,” Schaffer said. “Read all about it in the post-war memoirs of Pimpernel Schaffer—”
He broke off as the door opened wide. Mary stood framed in the doorway and the Mauser was very steady in her hand. She let it fall to her side with a sigh of relief.
“Took your time about getting here, didn't you?” Smith said severely. “We were beginning to get a little worried about you.”
“I'm sorry. I just couldn't get away. Von Brauchitsch—”
“No odds, young lady.” Schaffer made a grandiose gesture with his right arm. “Schaffer was here.”
“The new girl who arrived tonight!” Kramer whispered. He looked slightly dazed. “The cousin of that girl from the—”
“None else,” Smith said. “She's the one who has been helping me to keep Willi-Willi happy for a long time past. And she's the one who opened the door for us tonight.”
“Boss,” Schaffer said unhappily. “Far be it for me to rush you—”
“Coming now.” Smith smiled at Rosemeyer. “You were right, the books weren't all I wanted. You were right, I did want company. But unlike you, Reichsmarschall, those I want have a high regard for their own skins and are entirely without honour. And so they will come.” His gun waved in the direction of Carraciola, Thomas and Christiansen. “On your feet, you three. You're coming with us.”
“Coming with us?” Schaffer said incredulously. “To England?”
“To stand trial for treason. It's no part of my duties to act as public executioner ... God alone knows how many hundreds and thousands of lives they've cost already. Not to mention Torrance-Smythe and Sergeant Harrod.” He looked at Carraciola, and his eyes were very cold. “I'll never know, but I think you were the brains. It was you who killed Harrod back up there on the mountain. If you could have got that radio code-book you could have cracked our network in South Germany. That would have been something, our network here has never been penetrated. The radio code-book was a trap that didn't spring ... And you got old Smithy. You left the pub a couple of minutes after I did tonight and he followed you. But he couldn't cope with a man—”
“Drop those guns.” Von Brauchitsch's voice was quiet and cold and compelling. No one had heard or seen the stealthy opening of the door. He stood just inside, about four feet from Mary and he had a small-calibre automatic in his right hand. Smith whirled round, his Luger lining up on the doorway, hesitated a fatal fraction of a second because Mary was almost directly in line with von Brauchitsch. Von Brauchitsch, his earlier gallantry of the evening abruptly yielding to a coldly professional assessment of the situation, had no such inhibitions. There was a sharp flat crack, the bullet passed through Mary's sleeve just above the elbow and Smith exclaimed in pain as he clutched his bleeding hand and heard his flying Luger strike against some unidentified furniture. Mary tried to turn round but von Brauchitsch was too quick and too strong. He jumped forward, hooked his arm round her and caught her wrist with the gun and thrust his own over her shoulder. She tried to struggle free. Von Brauchitsch squeezed her wrist, she cried out in pain, her hand opened and her gun fell to the floor. Von Brauchitsch seemed to notice none of this, his unwinking right eye, the only vulnerable part of him that could be seen behind Mary's gun, was levelled along the barrel of his automatic.
Schaffer dropped his gun.
“You shouldn't have tried it,” von Brauchitsch said to Smith. “An extremely silly thing to do ... In your circumstances, I'd have done exactly the same silly thing.” He looked at Kramer. “Sorry for the delay, Herr Colonel. But I thought the young lady was very anxious and restive. And she knows precious little about her native Dusseldorf. And she doesn't know enough not to let people hold her hand when she's telling lies—as she does most of the time.” He released the girl and half turned her round, smiling down at her. “A delightful hand, my dear—but what a fascinating variation of pulse rates.”
“I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care.” Kramer gave vent to a long luxurious sigh and drooped with relief. “Well done, my boy, well done. My God! Another minute—” He heaved himself to his feet, crossed over to Schaffer, prudently keeping clear of von Brauchitsch's line of fire, searched him for hidden weapons, found none, did the same to Smith with the same results, handed him a white handkerchief to stem the flow of blood, looked at Mary and hesitated. “Well, I don't see how she very well can be, but ... I wonder. Anne- Marie?”
“Certainly, Herr Colonel. It will be a pleasure. We've met before and she knows my methods. Don't you, my dear?” With a smile as nearly wolf-like as any beautiful Aryan could give, Anne-Marie walked across to Mary and struck her viciously across the face. Mary cried in pain, staggered back against the wall and crouched there, eyes too wide in a pale face, palms pressed behind her for support from the wall, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth. “Well?” Anne-Marie demanded. “Have you a gun.”
“Anne-Marie!” There was protest and aversion in Kramer's face. “Must you—”
“I know how to deal with cheap little spies like her!” She turned to Mary and said: “I'm afraid they don't like watching how I get results. In there!”
She caught Mary by the hair, pulled her to the side door, opened it and pushed her violently inside. The sound of her body crashing to the floor and another gasp of pain came together. Anne-Marie closed the door behind them.
For the next ten seconds or so there could be clearly heard the sound of blows and muffled cries of pain. Von Brauchitsch waved Smith and Schaffer back with his gun, advanced, hitched a seat on the edge of one of the big arm-chairs, winced as he listened to the sound of the struggle and said to Kramer dryly: “I somehow think the young lady would have preferred me to search her. There's a limit to the value of false modesty.”
“I'm afraid Anne-Marie sometimes lets her enthusiasm carry her away,” Kramer conceded. His mouth was wrinkled in distaste.
“Sometimes?” Von Brauchitsch winced again as more sounds filtered through the door, the crash of a body against a wall, a shriek of pain, low sobbing moans, then silence. “Always. When the other girl is as young and beautiful as herself.”
“It's over now,” Kramer sighed. “It's all over now.” He looked at Smith and Schaffer. “We'll fix that hand first, then—well, one thing about the Schloss Adler, there are no shortage of dungeons.” He broke off, the fractional widening of his eyes matching a similar slumping of his shoulders, and he said carefully to von Brauchitsch: “You are far too good a man to lose, Captain. It would seem that we were wasting our sympathy on the wrong person. There's a gun four feet from you pointing at the middle of your back.”
Von Brauchitsch, his gun-hand resting helplessly on his thigh, turned slowly round and looked over his shoulder. There was indeed a gun pointing at the middle of his back, a Lilliput .21 automatic, and the hand that held it was disconcertingly steady, the dark eyes cool and very watchful. Apart from the small trickle of blood from her cut lip and rather dishevelled hair, Mary looked singularly little the worse for wear.
“It's every parent's duty,” Schaffer said pontifically, “to encourage his daughter to take up Judo.” He took the gun from von Brauchitsch's unresisting hand, retrieved his own Schmeisser, walked across to the main door and locked it. “Far too many folk coming in here without knocking.” On his way back he looked through the opened door of the room, whistled, grinned and said to Mary: “It's a good job I have my thoughts set on someone else. I wouldn't like to be married to you if you lost your temper. That's a regular sickbay dispensary in there. Fix the Major's hand as best you can. I'll watch them.” He hoisted his Schmeisser and smiled almost blissfully: “Oh, brother, how I'll watch them.”
And he watched them. While Mary attended to Smith's injured hand in the small room where Anne-Marie had so lately met her Waterloo, Schaffer herded his six charges into one of the massive couches, took up position by the mantelpiece, poured himself some brandy, sipped it delicately and gave the prisoners an encouraging smile from time to time. There were no answering smiles. For all Schaffer's nonchalance and light-hearted banter there was about him not only a coldly discouraging competence with the weapon in his hand but also the unmistakable air of one who would, when the need arose and without a second's hesitation, squeeze the trigger and keep on squeezing it. Being at the wrong end of a Schmeisser machine-pistol does not make for an easy cordiality in relationships.
Smith and Mary emerged from the side room, the latter carrying a cloth-covered tray. Smith was pale and had his right hand heavily bandaged. Schaffer looked at the hand then lifted an enquiring eyebrow to Mary.
“Not so good.” She looked a little pale herself. “Forefinger and thumb are both smashed. I've patched it as
