The Legion of the Lost, стр. 30
At last Stefan and Erikson came within the circle of light and the torch was pushed into Stefan’s face. After a few questions he was allowed to pass. He was so tall and massive that no one put a hand to him. He stayed near the barrier.
Erikson blinked in the brilliance of the torch and began to answer questions. There were two references to the photograph. Palfrey expected him to be marched away, expected the cry of triumph from the officer. Instead, Erikson was bundled out to join Stefan.
The cheek-pads, the fuller face, and the altered contours all aided the deception in the poor light, otherwise discovery would have been inevitable. Palfrey saw Stefan and Erikson go towards the exit of the station, but he waited for Ohlson and Conroy. He did not doubt then that Ohlson would have the same good fortune as Erikson.
Ohlson blinked as a dozen others had done. Palfrey, relaxing for a moment, expected him to be pushed through. Instead there was a bellow from the officer at the table and a snapped command: ‘Seize him!’ Two men jumped forward and took Ohlson’s arms, the officer rose to his feet and bellowed: ‘You are Hans Ohlson, recently from Copenhagen, fugitive from justice!’ He gave Ohlson no chance to reply, but bellowed: ‘Don’t lie to me, you are Ohlson! Where is the other man? Where—?
Palfrey took a step forward, Brian put a restraining hand on his arm. Ohlson stuttered an unconvincing denial.
Conroy, not two yards away from the nearest guards, suddenly launched himself forward. Two guards went flying, their legs kicked from under them, and Conroy roared to Ohlson: ‘Run, run hard!’
He pulled at the Dane as the German officer snatched at the gun lying on the table. Conroy put his hands beneath the edge of the table and heaved it upwards, then ducked and began to run, with Ohlson already two yards from the table, racing desperately for the exit.
Then the guards began to shoot.
Chapter Fourteen
The Partial Failure
Two volleys rang out; a man scurrying towards the exit gasped and pitched forward on his face. The crowds surged forward, trying desperately to get away, some slipped in their haste and fell, taking others down with them. In a few seconds there was a struggling, yelling, hopeless mass in one of the doorways, growing larger every moment.
Then Ohlson stopped running.
He was so near the door that two more yards would have taken him to temporary safety; but he stopped and pitched forward. Two guards were close behind him and they pounced, shouting in triumph. The officer, a tall, uncouth man in that half-light, stalked towards them.
Palfrey said: ‘A job for me, Brian. You see if you can give Alex some help, but don’t ask for trouble. I’ll see you later—you know where to go?’
‘Yes, but—’ Brian began to object.
‘They’ll want a doctor,’ said Palfrey. ‘Off with you!’
Suddenly the officer roared: ‘A doctor—is there a doctor?’
‘Signal for me,’ thought Palfrey. He went forward tentatively from the fringe of the crowd. His papers covered him; he did not think there was much danger and in any case, he wanted to find out how badly Ohlson was hurt. He reached the soldiers who stood aside for him.
Ohlson had been turned so that he now lay on his back, without moving and with his eyes closed. The officer stirred him with his foot; Ohlson’s body only moved sluggishly; he did not jump nor open his eyes.
Palfrey said nothing, but went down on one knee. The officer snapped: ‘He is pretending to be unconscious.’ He swore obscenely. ‘Make him come round, at once! I have questions to ask him.’
Palfrey rose to his feet and said: ‘No, Herr Lieutenant, it cannot be done. No one can do it. He is dead.’
The German looked stupefied; Palfrey wondered what instructions had been sent through, assuming that Ohlson had been wanted alive and that the man was afraid of the consequences now that he had died. Brutality and fear – I always the same, no matter where you went in Europe. Brutality and fear—
He drew in a sharp breath, for the officer turned and drove his boot into Ohlson’s yielding body, moving the little Dane more than a foot. Then he began to shout orders to his men, telling them to clear the main exit gates. He ignored Palfrey, who went towards the gates but was stopped when the man caught up with him, gripped his arm and swung him round.
‘Who told you to go?’ he roared. You will ask permission first!’
Palfrey said evenly: ‘Have I the Herr Lieutenant’s permission to attend to the injured in the doorway? Many have been hurt.’ It was half-past six before Palfrey managed to get away.
Trenborg was a little fishing village near Fredericia, made into a suburb as the little port had grown larger and more prosperous; but fishing remained its chief industry. There was a market square with a statue of King Gustav; opposite the statue was a narrow, cobbled street, called Torva, and halfway along Torva a little inn, the Ludvig Holberg.
The door of the Ludvig Holberg was open, a thin, haggard-faced woman was washing the front step.
‘Good morning!’ Palfrey greeted her. ‘I wish to see the proprietor.’
‘A moment,’ the woman said. She scrambled to her feet and hurried into the inn. After a few minutes a voice called him. He went along a narrow, ill-lit passage into a room on the right. An old, bearded man in his shirtsleeves was sitting in front of a tiny wood fire. The woman was by the door; she went out and closed it as Palfrey entered.
Palfrey said with a smile: ‘There are fewer gulls this year.’
‘The death rate is high,’ said the old man evenly. His calm blue eyes searched Palfrey’s face.
‘Not so high as in other places,’ objected Palfrey.
‘That is a question of