The Legion of the Lost, стр. 47
On the arm of a tall, well-built S.S. man was Hilde Silversen, looking up into a handsome and smiling face, her mouth wide open with laughter, her cheeks flushed. She was one of the few in evening dress; hers was black. Round her neck was a single string of pearls which threw her face into fine relief. Her braided hair looked like spun gold.
Then she drew nearer the table and saw them.
There was only the faintest hint of recognition which was gone in a flash. Palfrey and the others stood up and bowed stiffly. The S.S. man gave them a haughty glare and pulled a chair aside for Hilde. She was sandwiched between Brian and the German and, in spite of the circumstances, Palfrey’s lips puckered into a smile.
It was soon gone.
A tension came upon him then, caused by the vacant chair between him and Conroy. Somehow that chair was filled with menace, its emptiness seemed a sign of ill omen. He began to wish that he had managed somehow to avoid coming here. While a deep-breasted woman sang airs from Lohengrin in a voice which held many spell bound, he kept looking from her towards the chair and wondering who would take it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Count von Otten
Hilde and her companion were deep in conversation, Hilde appearing to have surrendered herself entirely to the charms of the German. In normal times there would have been grounds enough for it. He was a good-looking fellow, no more than thirty, who looked healthy and hardy. Now and again he frowned when he saw Brian staring towards Hilde. Palfrey caught Brian’s glance and wondered whether Brian was going to forget himself. He already had more than a suspicion of Brian’s soft spot for Hilde; now that this had materialised he might make a slip. Palfrey grew obsessed with that idea, forgetting the empty chair and wondering how to get a word with Brian without disturbing the table too much.
Stolte gave him the oportunity.
The man rose clumsily to his feet and bowed to Drusilla, hoping that now she was in the very best place in Berlin she would give him the pleasure of a dance. There were limits to refusals. Drusilla smiled mechanically and stood up. Palfrey was momentarily amused by the sight of the enormous creature waddling by Drusilla’s side. He forgot that as he took Stolte’s place next to Brian.
‘Go easy with Hilde!’ he said. ‘You’re looking like a disappointed lover. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you call him out.’ He smiled amiably. ‘She’s acting well.’
‘Er—Great Scott! Yes!’ said Brian. ‘Was I really as bad as that?’ He whispered, but so far forgot himself as to speak in English, drawing a scowl from Stefan on his other side. In a louder voice and speaking German, he said: ‘I can’t say I think so much of this spot, after all!’
The man with Hilde heard and looked across at him, frowning. But that was unimportant compared with the fact that a man was approaching, obviously making for their table. Palfrey did not recognise him. He was tall and suave and he looked not unlike Ribbentrop. He was apparently a person of some consequence, dressed in a glittering uniform more suited to the days of peace than war. On his good-looking face there was a faintly supercilious smile. He bowed towards Hilde and her companion, but bore down upon Palfrey.
Palfrey stood up.
‘I am delighted to meet you, Herr Professor,’ said the other influent German, but Palfrey detected the sarcastic undertone in his voice. ‘You are, I trust, being well attended?’
‘Thank you, yes!’ said Palfrey stiffly. ‘I have not the pleasure of knowing you.’
He was fully alert now; the ill-omened vacant seat had come to mean something, for this man put a hand on the chair and pulled it out. He was dangerous, Palfrey felt; his very expression, the glint in his cold grey eyes, both proclaimed that. So did his self-possession, his conscious superiority, the fact that everyone bowed and cringed before him. Everything in Palfrey warned him against the fellow; he had never been more impressed by the need for being on his guard.
The man turned and looked at Hilde’s companion, who was also standing.
‘You hear that, Karl?’ he said. ‘The Herr Professor does not know me. Have the kindness to correct such a dreary state of affairs!’ As he smiled more widely, but still with a supercilious expression, Palfrey felt a little easier; the man was inordinately conscious of his ‘superiority’ over a Swiss professor with some obscure qualifications.
‘Karl’s’ heels clicked.
‘Count von Otten, I have the pleasure to present Herr. Professor Pienne, of Berne.’ He clicked his heels again. Hilde was staring at the taller German with respect, even a hint of adulation: Hilde was being very good indeed, thought Palfrey; the Marquis had been right again. But all those things were unimportant compared with the major fact – this was the dreaded von Otten.
Palfrey bowed, outwardly unperturbed.
‘I am glad to meet your Excellency. Of course, I know of you. Your kind invitation to Berlin is much appreciated.’
‘Don’t mention it!’ murmured von Otten’. He sat down, the signal for two waiters to appear. ‘Schnapps for the Herr Professor and his friends, and for me.’
‘At once, Excellency!’ They scrambled off. Von Otten pulled a pair of white gauntlets from his hands, tossing them casually on to the table. ‘Sit down, Karl!’ he said. Palfrey was already seated and von Otten looked at the other members of the party. Palfrey introduced them; there was much clicking of heels as each of them sprang to attention in turn.
‘And where is the fifth member of your party?’ asked von Otten.
‘She is dancing,’ said Palfrey.
‘So?’ Von Otten looked towards the dance floor, where no one appeared to have noticed his entry. His plucked eye brows rose. ‘With the faithful Stolte? You permit her to—’ he shrugged. ‘But of course, a duty dance. She is not to be wasted on