The Legion of the Lost, стр. 3

with the book on the desk and with Drusilla sitting on his right and Stefan on his left, Palfrey began to look through the list. The first name on it was a familiar one to Palfrey, who read:

‘Jan Machez, Czechoslovakia. University of Prague. Doctor of Medicine. Special subjects: Infantile Paralysis, Paralysis—’

It did not make pleasing reading, for Dr. Jan Machez had been removed from his laboratory in the University of Prague to spend six months in Dachau. The mention of ‘Dachau’ was more than enough for all three of them to guess what he had suffered and what ordeals were stored up in his mind. The dossier went on: he had been released from the camp and taken to Breslau, where he was experimenting on the same lines as his earlier researches – the problem of infantile paralysis was important in the Third Reich. His address was given as the Research Hospital, Breslau.

‘It should not be impossible,’ mused Stefan.

‘No,’ said Palfrey, looking at the next on the list. It was the name of another doctor, a Norwegian of whom he had heard less than of the Czech, although the name was familiar. Erik Erikson was a younger man, about Palfrey’s age; he had specialised in mental diseases and the treatment of shock. There was a note on some of his suggestions and treatment, and his name was marked with a small red cross.

‘One of the stars,’ said Palfrey.

‘It is obvious why,’ said Stefan.

‘Ye-es.’ Palfrey looked at Drusilla’s eager face as she studied the list. ‘Yes, we’ll need all the specialists in shock before we’re through. And mental men, too—my oath, there’ll be a lot to put right!’

‘Until you contemplate it in the light of something like this, you do not understand it,’ said Stefan gravely. ‘I see there are educational specialists also, local government theorists, men of science, literature, the arts. It is perhaps not surprising that all the doctors are marked as the most important.’

‘No-o,’ said Palfrey slowly.

When he had talked with the Marquis he had seen much of the importance of the task ahead of them. He had been eager when he had learned what Brett had in store for him because it had given him an opportunity to help the plight of sufferers under Nazi domination, but also to prepare, in a small measure, for the work of reconstruction.

Stefan was right; the doctors held a high place.

But as he looked through the list, he saw that few activities had been neglected; it was catholic and comprehensive. He was a little amazed that such men, outstanding in their respective spheres, remained alive. Something of the impossibility of the Nazi aim to wipe out all but their own ‘good party’ intellectuals came vividly to him – that, and the fact that these men might, sooner or later, be useful to the Hun.

There was something else.

The Nazis must know that defeat was inevitable, but they clung to a faint hope. When that went there might be an outbreak of terror equalling, if not surpassing, the worst that had been done in Poland and Russia. The sadists in power might, in the last frenzy of their writhings, make another wholesale slaughter of innocents. Men like Machez, Raffleck, and Erikson would be mown down so that their powers could not be used to ease the pains of the agonised patient.

Every single individual brought to safety might achieve much; the rescue of a goodly number would be a boon to mankind great enough to make any and all danger worth while.

But for the visit of the little red-haired man, he would have been in high spirits.

‘Certainly we can try,’ said Palfrey. ‘We should sleep on it. We’ll know what Brian and Conroy think before long.’

He broke off before he finished what he was going to say, for there was a sharp knock at the front door. It startled all of them, but Palfrey, recovering quickly, jumped to his feet and said: ‘Brian, I expect. Or it could even be Conroy.’

When he opened the door as another knock sounded more impatient than the first, Stefan and Drusilla craned their necks to see who it was. They heard Palfrey say: ‘Brian! But—’

It was not an exclamation of welcome; there was surprise and even alarm in it.

A moment later they saw the reason, for the tall, fair-haired Englishman who stepped past Palfrey – it was Brian Debenham – had a long scratch on his right cheek, which was bleeding freely, and gave the impression that he had come straight from a free-for-all. But for the set expression on his face – a handsome one in spite of the blood – he might have presented a comical figure. His clothes were dishevelled, the knee of one trouser leg was torn; when he bent his knee the cap showed through, grazed and bleeding.

‘Go straight into the bathroom, Brian, I’ll clean you up.’

‘Never mind the bathroom,’ said Brian Debenham explosively, ‘I’m going to get the police busy without giving that little tyke a chance to get far away.’ He appeared not to notice Stefan although he did pause when he saw Drusilla, said, ‘Hallo, ’Silla!’ in a detached voice, then made for the telephone.

Stefan reached his side and put out a restraining hand.

‘Don’t be too hasty, Brian,’ said the Russian. Palfrey appeared on Brian’s other side to emphasise the warning. ‘Tell us a little more about the “little tyke”,’ Stefan went on. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘A little red-haired beggar who bowled me over with his motorcycle and then pretended to help me. I was a bit muzzy-headed or he wouldn’t have got away with it. The little tyke went through my pockets! He’s stolen my wallet.’

Chapter Two

Date of Departure

Palfrey eyed him soberly.

‘Was the letter from Brett in it?’

‘The one telling me to come here to see you?’ he asked. ‘No. I’d scrapped it after making a note of the day and time. I don’t think there was anything linking me with Brett or with you, for that