The Legion of the Lost, стр. 48

‘I agree,’ said Palfrey.

‘But he has his uses,’ said von Otten musingly. ‘He is very faithful to the Reich, my friend.’

‘Ah,’ said Palfrey. The man gave the impression that he was baiting him both deliberately and skilfully. A sudden fear flashed across Palfrey’s mind lest this man knew his real identity.

‘Nothing can discourage him,’ said von Otten. ‘He has the soul of a child.’

Had that startling statement come from anyone else, Palfrey would have laughed, but he did not feel that anything von Otten said was intended to be humorous. The cold grey eyes were searching every feature of his face.

‘Indeed?’ said Palfrey.

‘He believes,’ said von Otten, ‘everything he is told. A most trusting man! You will have to forgive him if at times he is a little crude. I shall tell him that he must not annoy Fräulein Berg. Now, my friend, what do you think of the League?’

‘Your Excellency jokes,’ said Palfrey.

Von Otten smiled, but was not amused.

‘You think so? But of course I am taking too much for granted; news does not reach the far extremities of the Reich, and in Switzerland there is much to learn. Here in this room, Herr Professor, is the nucleus of the League of Nations, the new, real League.’ Mockery was in his smile; he did not mean a thing that he said. ‘You are a man of perception, judging from all I am told, and you will have seen representatives of so many nations here. They are the members of their country who will spread the truth about the New Order in their own homes—and, you will perceive, that is why I invited you. There is room for much improvement in the spreading of the truth in Switzerland, Herr Professor.’

It can quickly be learned,’ said Palfrey.

‘I’m glad you think so. I have a most charming tutor for you in Berlin—the young woman behind me.’ He smiled when Palfrey looked surprised. ‘You will have other tutors, of course, but Fräulein Silversen will initiate you into much which you will find mystifying at first. She has been with us only a few days, but her enthusiasm is contagious.’ Von Otten’s lips curled. Palfrey grew more than ever afraid that this conversation was nothing more than a trap to catch him.

‘With what?’ wondered Palfrey hopelessly.

Should the Marquis have given them more information? Had they been misinformed?

‘The new League of Nations,’ repeated von Otten. ‘Herr Professor, I am glad to have had this opportunity of meeting you. I should like to say just one thing. I sympathise with your opinion of Stolte—he has reported most faithfully on what you have said and done to him; I think you have injured his dignity. But remember, please, that Stolte acts for me. You will be reasonable with him.’ He raised his eyebrows, then stood up. ‘Fräulein Berg!’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, most charming!’

Stolte came panting up; he was red in the face and perspiration beaded his forehead; one fat hand clutched Drusilla’s arm. He inclined his gross head.

‘Excellency, I have the honour to present—’ he gabbled the introduction, then backed away.

An odd moment, thought Palfrey. Von Otten and Drusilla were taking each other’s measure, both calm-eyed and self-possessed. Palfrey felt for the first time that he could stand back and enjoy a little relief – the full pressure of the man’s personality was removed from him. He wished he knew more of what lay behind the man’s sardonic innuendo, the talk of the League of Nations. He tried to remember that he should consider what was said as a Professor from Berne who was a good Swiss Nazi – not as an Englishman, nor as a German. It was easy to imagine that von Otten had taken some pleasure in saying something that would cause the real Pienne disquiet; probably that was what he had tried to do.

Von Otten bowed at last, extended his hand, took Drusilla’s and drew it to his lips. Drusilla smiled faintly and von Otten sat down next to her, growing immersed in conversation. Conroy muttered something under his breath, making Stefan smile a little.

Then the lights went out.

It happened with an abruptness which caught Palfrey completely unawares, making him exclaim in surprise and push his chair back. The band stopped abruptly; there was a hush over the whole room until a woman screamed for no apparent reason. The fat conductor’s squeaky voice was raised, bidding the orchestra to play, and a few bars of a waltz began, uneven and ragged. Then someone in front of Palfrey lit a match.

The light dazzled him at first, but he had time to see two men approaching von Otten, who was sitting upright; Palfrey could not see the expression on his face. Then Stefan exclaimed and moved past Palfrey, who saw a knife raised in the hand of one of the two men. Stefan passed in a flurry of legs and arms and hooked von Otten’s chair from under him. The Count went crashing to the floor and the table rocked. Stefan, a grotesque shape against the lighted match, was invisible when it went out suddenly. Palfrey knew that he was fighting, heard the scuffling and the sound of heavy breathing.

Someone else pushed past Palfrey.

He saw light, then – a torch was flashed on and more matches were struck. Stefan was struggling with two men, holding each at arm’s length. One was trying to strike at him with a knife; Palfrey saw it move towards the Russian’s wrist when Brian went up and struck the hand away. Then others came from the doors towards their table and Palfrey grew aware of a new threat.

The lights came on again.

That happened as suddenly as they had been switched off. Palfrey, though blinking in the glare, saw five or six dark-clad men approaching, all of them wearing scarves over the lower parts of their faces. That mattered little; what counted was the hand-grenade in the hand of one of them. It was there