The Legion of the Lost, стр. 49
It was all he could do.
There was a hush over the whole of the room.
It was broken when a woman screamed again. Then, as if worked by clockwork, fifty people rose to their feet and rushed towards the door. The grenade went upwards and struck against the ceiling. Palfrey saw that, then ducked. He caught a glimpse of Conroy pulling Drusilla down to the table level, and of Karl dragging at Hilde’s arm. He did not see Stefan or Brian or the two men Stefan had caught, for a red flash forced itself through his eyelids and he heard the roar of the explosion. It drowned all the cries from the people thronging the exits. The orchestra had given up all attempts to play, but there was a rending, crashing sound, as if a dozen instruments had been flung on the floor at once.
Pieces of plaster and metal flew about the room; Palfrey felt them shower over his head. One or two hit the wooden floor with dull thuds, following a tinkling sound – as if lamp-bulbs were being broken, for they were preceded by sharp but small explosions. Then the noise became a background of hushed voices. He straightened up and looked about him for the first time.
Von Otten raised himself simultaneously; they were facing each other, and their heads bumped gently. Palfrey drew back, surprised to see a faint smile on the German’s face.
Stolte was dancing about from one foot to the other, crying out orders which no one seemed to understand and which certainly no one heeded. The crush in the doorways was being thinned out by uniformed men who came in from the passages, whirling batons about them. Stefan was standing upright and holding a man in each hand – his adversaries had given up the struggle and hung limply from his grasp. Brian was sitting on the floor, looking dazed. No one near them appeared to have suffered. There were one or two people on the floor further away, stretched out as if unconscious. Everywhere there was a litter of plaster and small pieces of metal sticking up from the wooden floor. Fully half of the lamp-bulbs had broken, but the light remained bright from the wall-lamps.
Von Otten looked first at Stefan, then Palfrey, then back at the Russian.
‘A truly remarkable physique!’ he said. ‘A worthy Party member, Herr Professor! And I have to thank you as well; you have an admirable presence of mind as well as an acute perception.’
Until that moment he spoke in leisurely fashion, but then he moved to Stefan and struck one of the helpless men with the back of his hand, a swift metamorphosis from the suave gentleman to the violent Prussian. He struck again, making the man cringe. Stefan released him and said sharply: ‘The man is hardly conscious!’
‘He will be in a much worse condition when I have finished with him,’ said von Otten, striking again.
Stefan released the fellow, who dropped in a crumpled heap on the floor. They measured each other with their eyes, neither Stefan’s nor von Otten’s dropping. Palfrey guessed what anger stirred in the Russian, but at the same time knew that this was yet another dangerous moment. Stefan had saved the Count’s life – there was no possible doubt of that – but nothing in von Otten’s manner suggested that he would let gratitude outweigh personal affront; certainly Stefan was affronting him then.
Palfrey stepped forward, sounding apprehensive.
‘Is it not time the others were caught, Excellency? They may have other weapons.’ He looked nervously about the room. ‘I saw a number of them.’
‘They are being attended to,’ said von Otten, and added thinly: ‘Whoever allowed it to happen will answer for this. Karl!’ His voice carried to every corner of the room, although Karl was just behind him. ‘Get them together, get them all together! Find out who they are!’
The men who had dared that attack were rounded up; their dark clothes and the fact that they still wore the masks identified them. Their masks were stripped from their faces, but Palfrey, seeing them, knew that not one of them felt afraid. He saw in particular one youth, no more than seventeen or eighteen, who had a clubbed foot. He looked thin, yet there was a hardiness about him which Palfrey respected. Palfrey hated to think of what would happen to him and his fellows, but obviously there was no opportunity for them to interfere. Since the challenge between Stefan and von Often, Stefan had released the other man and was standing stiffly by the table.
Palfrey glanced at him, and a half smile of apology showed on Stefan’s face. Then the club-footed youth was hauled before von Often, who had turned a table into a judicial bench and was sitting behind it. He looked in his element, thought Palfrey. The only thing wanted to complete the picture was a huge swastika on the wall behind.
To his surprise, von Often spoke softly to the prisoner.
‘You are too young for such things,’ he said, with a note almost of sympathy in his voice. ‘Why did you—’
The youth said clearly: ‘I came to kill you and to avenge my friends. I would come again and again to kill all of you. Schwartz, Urdson, Todt—all of you in this accursed league.’ He reeled off another half dozen names, not all of them German, and half way through uttered one which brought Palfrey up with a jerk.
‘… Pienne!’ shouted the youth wildly, ‘every accursed traitor in my country, and in others!’
‘Pienne!’ thought Palfrey. Then absurdly: ‘Me!’
Von Often turned to look at him, lips