He took a penknife from his pocket. He pushed its point into the lining of the old lady’s expensive luggage and tore a ragged gash in the white silk. He heard Juel grunt with surprise at the sudden violence of the gesture. Peter ran his hand beneath the ripped lining. To his dismay, nothing was hidden there.
He did the same to the businessman’s leather case, with the same result. The second businessmen’s cardboard suitcase had no lining, and Peter could see nothing in its structure that might serve as a hiding place.
Feeling his face redden with frustration and embarrassment, he cut the stitching on the leather base of the colonel’s canvas duffel and felt inside for concealed papers. There was nothing.
He looked up to see Braun, Juel, and the detectives staring at him. Their faces showed fascination and a hint of fear. His behavior was beginning to look a little crazy, he realized.
To hell with that.
Juel said languidly, “Perhaps your information was wrong, Flemming.”
And wouldn’t that please you, Peter thought resentfully. But he was not finished yet.
He saw Varde watching from the departure lounge, and beckoned him. The man’s smile looked strained as he contemplated the wreckage of his customers’ luggage. “Where is the mailbag?” Peter said.
“In the baggage office.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Bring it here, idiot!”
Varde went off. Peter pointed at the luggage with a disgusted gesture and said to his detectives, “Get rid of this stuff.”
Dresler and Ellegard repacked the suitcases roughly. A baggage handler came to take them to the Junkers. “Wait,” Peter said as the man began to pick up the cases. “Search him, Sergeant.” Conrad searched the man and found nothing.
Varde brought the mailbag and Peter emptied the letters on the ground. They all bore the stamp of the censor. There were two envelopes large enough to hold a newspaper, one white and one brown. He ripped open the white one. It held six copies of a legal document, some kind of contract. The brown envelope contained the catalogue of a Copenhagen glassware factory. Peter cursed aloud.
A trolley bearing a tray of sandwiches and several coffeepots was wheeled out for Peter’s inspection. This was Peter’s last hope. He opened each pot and poured the coffee out on the ground. Juel muttered something about this being unnecessary, but Peter was too desperate to care. He pulled away the linen napkins covering the tray and poked about among the sandwiches. To his horror, there was nothing. In a rage, he picked up the tray and dumped the sandwiches on the ground, hoping to find a newspaper underneath, but there was only another linen napkin.
He realized he was going to be completely humiliated, and that made him madder.
“Begin refueling,” he said. “I’ll watch.”
A tanker was driven out to the Junkers. The detectives put out their cigarettes and looked on as aviation fuel was pumped into the wings of the aircraft. Peter knew this was useless, but he persevered stubbornly, wearing a wooden expression, because he could not think what else to do. Passengers watched curiously through the rectangular windows of the Junkers, no doubt wondering why a German general and six civilians needed to observe the refueling.
The tanks were filled and the caps closed.
Peter could not think of any way to delay the takeoff. He had been wrong, and now he looked a fool.
“Let the passengers board,” he said with suppressed fury.
He returned to the departure lounge, his humiliation complete. He wanted to strangle someone. He had made a complete mess of things in front of General Braun as well as Superintendent Juel. The appointments board would feel justified in having picked Juel instead of Peter for the top job. Juel might even use this fiasco as an excuse for having Peter shunted sideways to some low-profile department such as Traffic.
He stopped in the lounge to watch the takeoff. Juel, Braun, and the detectives waited with him. Varde was standing nearby, trying hard to look as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. They watched while the four angry passengers boarded. The chocks were removed from the wheels by the ground crew and thrown on board, then the door was closed.
As the aircraft moved off its stand, Peter was struck by inspiration. “Stop the plane,” he said to Varde.
Juel said, “For God’s sake. .”
Varde looked as if he might cry. He turned to General Braun. “Sir, my passengers. .”
“Stop the plane!” Peter repeated.
Varde continued to look pleadingly at Braun. After a moment, Braun nodded. “Do as he says.”
Varde picked up a phone.
Juel said, “My God, Flemming, this had better be good.”
The aircraft rolled onto the runway, turned a full circle, and came back to its stand. The door opened, and the chocks were thrown down to the ground crew.
Peter led the rest of the detectives out onto the apron. The propellers slowed and stopped. Two men in overalls were wedging the chocks in front of the main wheels. Peter addressed one of them. “Hand me that chock.”
The man looked scared, but did as he was told.
Peter took the chock from him. It was a simple triangular block of wood about a foot high-dirty, heavy, and solid.
“And the other one,” Peter said.
Ducking under the fuselage, the mechanic picked up the other and handed it over.
It looked the same, but felt lighter. Turning it over in his hands, Peter found that one face was a sliding lid. He opened it. Inside was a package carefully wrapped in oilcloth.
Peter gave a sigh of profound satisfaction.
The mechanic turned and ran.
“Stop him!” Peter cried, but it was unnecessary. The man veered away from the men and tried to run past Tilde, no doubt imagining he could easily push her aside. She turned like a dancer, letting him pass, then stuck out a foot and tripped him. He went flying.
Dresler jumped on him, hauled him to his feet, and twisted his arm behind his back.
Peter nodded to Ellegard. “Arrest the other mechanic. He must have known what was going on.”
Peter turned his attention to the package. He unwrapped the oilcloth. Inside were two copies of
Juel looked at the papers, then up at Peter.
Peter stared at him expectantly, saying nothing, waiting.
Juel said reluctantly, “Well done, Flemming.”
Peter smiled. “Just doing my job, sir.”
Juel turned away.
Peter said to his detectives, “Handcuff both mechanics and take them to headquarters for questioning.”
There was something else in the package. Peter pulled out a sheaf of papers clipped together. They were covered with typed characters in five-letter groups that made no sense. He stared at them in puzzlement for a moment. Then enlightenment dawned, and he realized this was a triumph greater than he had dreamed.
The papers he was holding bore a message in code.
Peter handed the papers to Braun. “I think we have uncovered a spy ring, General.”
Braun looked at the papers and paled. “My God, you’re right.”
“Perhaps the German military has a department that specializes in breaking enemy ciphers?”
“It certainly does.”
“Good,” said Peter.
6
Hermia Mount was about to get the sack.
