The Legion of the Lost, стр. 22

One of the crew came towards them.

‘Just about right now, sir.’

There was a long wait before the man said: ‘About to open, sir.’

A cold wind swept into the cabin, for they were travelling at two hundred miles an hour and at a height of four thousand feet; the cold cut at Palfrey like a knife.

He went through, feet first.

The fall was gentle yet he hit the ground with a surprising jolt. He lay there for a moment, then with a small trowel, brought for that purpose, he scooped a hole in the soft earth, put the parachute in and covered it up. He trod the earth down firmly, glad of the movement because it helped him to get warm. He took off his coat and turned the sleeves inside out, then put it on again; it looked like a lumber-jacket of civilian type; dressed thus he would occasion no comment in Denmark.

He could see and hear nothing except when a gust of wind swept from the south-west, bitingly cold. He took a compass from his pocket and set his course – due north from that spot. He walked briskly over the uneven, rising land, the fertile soil of Denmark, for perhaps twenty minutes. Then he reached a road, turned left along it but still heading north. In some ten minutes the outline of a barn rose up against the night sky.

Before dawn they heard movement along the road. After a while two horse-drawn carts appeared, making a clanking noise from battered cans of milk which were being brought to Korson for the hospitals. There were two men, both old fellows, with the little convoy. They stopped by the barn and Palfrey went out.

The first man greeted him in a low-pitched voice in Danish.

‘Why did you not advise me of your coming?’ asked the man in the same hushed voice.

‘You have been advised by others than myself,’ said Palfrey.

‘Ah, that is good!’ The other spoke more confidently. ‘There are three of you—yes, I see the others now. We will take you to the station and there you will be able to mix with the crowd. That is what you expect?’

At half past three, feeling stiff and starved, they left the train at the terminus and stepped into the street after their passes had been examined and stamped at the barrier. The crowd had been so great that little more than a cursory examination had been given.

Conroy said in a whisper: ‘Not so many Huns, Sap.’

‘There are enough,’ said Palfrey, although it was true that there were fewer Germans about than in Oslo.

He went purposefully along, spending little time in looking right or left, until he reached the Langebro Bridge. With the others he stood half way over the bridge looking down into the water, conscious of the hurrying crowd and the gulls which curled about their heads in a patient search for crumbs and bread. They had been there for less than five minutes when a tall, white-bearded man came up to them. He stood for some moments in silence, as if absorbed as they were in the scene. Then he said in a slow voice: ‘There are fewer gulls this year.’

The death rate is high,’ said Palfrey.

‘Not so high as in other places,’ objected the bearded man.

‘That is a question of doubt,’ said Palfrey.

The man smiled; Palfrey looked at him squarely for the first time, seeing thin cheeks and the pallid complexion which told of lack of nutriment; but there was a friendly glow in the other’s eyes which cheered him.

‘Yes, I think so,’ he said. ‘I am Thorvold. I am glad to know that you are safely here, Dr. Palfrey, and I have some news for you. Both Erikson and Ohlson are still working in the Charlottenborg Palace. They sleep there, also, but once a day they are allowed to take exercise in the yard. For half an hour—no more. The times are altered daily.’

‘How long have they been as closely watched as this?’ asked Palfrey uneasily.

‘For several months now,’ said Thorvold. ‘It is not a new thing, they are not suddenly afraid that they might make an attempt to escape, if that is what you are thinking. In fact it is only of late that they have been allowed to walk in the grounds, as a reward for their good behaviour.’

‘Oh,’ said Palfrey a little aimlessly. ‘How do you get messages to them?’

‘By one of the guards,’ said Thorvold. ‘They are also very easy to bribe and you can get word to and from Erikson quite easily. And, of course, Ohlson. We have assured both men that we will lose no time in making good their escape, but—what is it you say? A hard nut yes, it is a hard nut. I cannot help as much as I would wish. We are watched very carefully now, it is most difficult for us to get cars or petrol.’

Leaning across Palfrey so that he could hear what was being said, Conroy declared sardonically: He’s a real little apostle of hope, isn’t he?’

‘I must tell you the truth,’ said Thorvold simply. ‘You do not perhaps realise the stranglehold which the Germans have over us—it is bad and it gets worse. But amongst the staff of the German Occupying Forces there is a Colonel who is well disposed towards us. He will perhaps be able to help. He is going to the theatre tonight. My chief message for you is that he will be by the statue of Ludvig Holberg after the performance and will discuss the situation with you when you meet him.’

‘His name?’ asked Palfrey.

‘Kurt Schlesser. And you need have no fear, he is certainly one of us,’ said Thorvold. ‘There are not many Germans disloyal to their leader, but Schlesser—’ he paused. ‘His wife was half Jewish and she has suffered much, as well as his children. He did not learn that until he last went to Berlin. You understand?’

It was too dark to distinguish one building from