The Legion of the Lost, стр. 23

A small man in German uniform came stamping along the pavement; unlike those in Norway he dared to walk alone. As he drew nearer, Palfrey saw a lined, sagging face, a bristling, greyish chin. Yet there was an air of swagger about the fellow which marked him ‘German.’

He slowed down, peered up in the semi-darkness of the night as if trying to see the inscription on the tablet beneath the statue, and then said softly: ‘Follow me, one at a time.’

He did not move on immediately, but when he walked away Palfrey followed, Brian took second place, Conroy brought up the rear. They walked for some time, an aimless kind of procession. They had little difficulty in keeping each other in sight.

Twice they passed the gabled houses lining the quays of Nyhaven, and then approached them a third time. Into one of the old houses, once the city’s greatest attraction for sightseers, the little German turned quickly. Palfrey followed him, the others crowded into a small hall.

Schlesser closed the door.

‘We have not been seen,’ he said with confidence. ‘We are all right. Come, please!’ He led the way up a flight of narrow stairs and waited for them on the landing. ‘Listen, please!’ he said in a whisper. ‘There are three lots of stairs—one—two—three.’ He pointed to each flight, and in the near-darkness they were just discernible. ‘If anyone comes up one flight, we go down the other.’ He opened a heavy oak door, waited for them to follow him inside, then closed the door and switched on a light.

Like Orleck’s, Schlesser’s appearance did not inspire great confidence.

‘Well, Colonel,’ said Palfrey, breaking the silence. ‘You know that we’re here to try to get at Erikson?’

‘Yes,’ said Schlesser promptly. ‘It will not be easy, it is a task of great difficulty. But I think it can be done.’ He hesitated. ‘It will cost much money.’

Palfrey thought: ‘Graft, yes.’ Aloud he asked: ‘How much?’

‘At least five hundred kroner,’ said Schlesser promptly. Tor myself, nothing. My reward is revenge.’ His face was quite expressionless yet his voice seemed to carry in its timbre the story which Thorvold had told them. ‘For three German uniforms with which you can enter the Palace of Charlottenborg, one hundred kroner each. For the guards who watch Erikson and Ohlson, fifty kroner each. Then there is the money for the car. I will have instructions to allow three German officers to have a car for one hour tomorrow afternoon. The time for Erikson’s exercise is half-past three tomorrow, you understand? The car will be outside the gates which you can unfasten from the inside. You will deal with the guards as you think fit—they will accompany you into the yard where the men take their exercise, but if you have paid them their fifty kroner, then they will not telephone the Kommandant to say that the visitors are inside.’

‘You’d better know our plans,’ said Palfrey. ‘We’ll take Erikson and Ohlson out under guard. At the station we’ll be less noticeable. We’d better travel on a train which will be crowded and which has lavatory accommodation, where we ran change our clothes. What time are the trains?’

‘From Copenhagen there will be a train for Nyborg at five o’clock,’ said Schlesser. ‘I presume to advise. I would take a train from Osterbro, they are less likely to see you there.

There is a train at five-thirty which is slow, but will be safer. Many more people get in and out. You will reach Nyborg some time after dark, when you will have a better chance in all ways. Is that satisfactory?’

‘Thanks, yes!’ said Palfrey. ‘Where do we get the uniforms?’

‘You go from here to Kongens Nytorv,’ said Schlesser, ‘where all the roads meet. You take the third turning—the third turning, please to understand, from the large air-raid shelter. At the third turning again—along that road, you understand—you will turn and at the seventh house along, the seventh, you will tap four times. It is a house of ill-fame. You will be invited to enter and you will be asked to pay ten kroner each for admission. There you will get food, rest, company if you wish it.’ Schlesser shrugged his thin shoulders.

‘There’s one thing before we go,’ said Palfrey. ‘Several Danes have been taken from Copenhagen and other towns—men of the same stamp as Erikson. You know that?’

‘Of course I know it,’ said Schlesser.

Palfrey said: ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

Schlesser gave the impression that he was on edge and did not want to waste time, but he replied courteously enough that he had no idea – they had been removed with great secrecy and by members of the Gestapo. ‘Under the direction,’ he said, ‘of Count von Otten, who was one of Himmler’s most able lieutenants.’

Palfrey tapped four times.

There was a pause before the sound of a bolt being drawn back broke the quiet of the night. A harsh, feminine voice bade them enter. They crowded a little passage, the door was closed. A monstrously fat woman blocked their path when they were able to see after a light was switched on. Her plump, beringed hand was thrust in front of them and the first words she said were: ‘Ten kroner each.’

Palfrey paid up and the woman slipped the coins into the neck of her silk dress – she was better dressed than anyone Palfrey had seen that day – and then performed the almost incredible feat of turning her vast bulk in the passage and leading the way up a narrow flight of stairs; her buttocks touched the wall on one side and the banister rails on the other, yet she contrived to walk with a flouncing gait which fascinated Palfrey. On a square landing she stopped and said breathlessly: ‘Supper, twenty kroner each, pay for it when it comes. Company, forty kroner each; virgins, sixty-five kroner; order if you wish.’ She was as precise and