The Legion of the Lost, стр. 61
‘There is nothing like it,’ said von Otten shortly. ‘It is the strongest prison in the world. It is where all our prize prisoners are kept—those who might do more harm than any others if they were to get to England, but who are best kept alive because one day they will realise the hopelessness of refusing to co-operate and will be useful. The only people whom we keep alive are those who will be useful,’ he added. This time he was not smiling, but neither was there viciousness in his voice; he stated the fact as a simple matter of policy.
Palfrey knew, then, that he had found the Legion of the Lost.
‘You seem impressed, Herr Professor,’ said von Otten ironically. ‘You are not used to keeping such company, I presume.’
‘Such—such company?’ mumbled Palfrey. ‘Convicts, you mean. No, Excellency—’
He wished von Otten would look away from him, disliking the expression in those light grey eyes. Von Otten was about to speak again, Palfrey having an absurd impression that he was signalling to the guards as he raised his hand to rub his cheek, when there was a sharp noise behind them, followed by a high-pitched shout.
A door was open. A wild-faced man ran out, with blood streaming down his face. He was gasping for breath, looking desperately in all directions. Behind him staggered a man in German uniform, a gun in his hand. Palfrey expected him to shoot.
But as the fellow came forward he faltered.
Palfrey saw that as something bit at his own eyes and nose and made him start coughing. Palfrey half turned. The man who had rushed from the room lost his footing and fell forward. The smell of gas – tear-gas, Palfrey thought wildly, as it bit at his eyes and nose and mouth, making him retch instead of cough.
He staggered towards the stairs and up a few steps. The others, including von Otten, were just behind him. He saw tears rolling down their faces, as they did down his. Then the door at the head of the stairs opened and men came rushing down. The Count’s party made their way to the upper floor and stood in the passage for a while, gasping, wiping their eyes.
It was five minutes before they had recovered sufficiently to talk, and Palfrey gasped: ‘What—what was that, Excellency?’
Von Otten had clung to his dignity in spite of the gas and a paroxysm of coughing. Red-eyed, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he said hoarsely: ‘A prisoner broke out of his cell. There is only one way to get out safely—failure to exert pressure at a given spot always releases the gas when the door is opened. That applies to every cell.’ He coughed again as he hurried along the room where the desks were still occupied by busy men; only two or three troubled to glance at the party.
‘Come with me!’ said von Otten.
Still accompanied by a guard they went into a wash-room and bathed their eyes with tepid water. They washed, and after ten minutes Palfrey felt little the worse, although his eyes smarted and he was irritated by a little cough. Von Otten appeared to have recovered fully as he said sardonically: ‘No one has ever escaped from this building, and no one ever will.’
‘It is superb!’ exclaimed Conroy. ‘Gas, then, is placed in every cell. Every cell!’
‘It circulates throughout the prison as would hot water,’ said the Count, ‘and the dose is administered through a valve which operates when the doors are opened by unauthorised persons. There is not much we have not done, you see?’
And Palfrey thought: ‘Ridzer and Machez are here, and the Legion of the Lost.’
They reached the open air at last, and it was good to draw it down into their lungs.
Palfrey cleared his throat as they waited for a car to come up, and said: ‘Excellency, the Fräulein Berg is quite safe, I hope?’
‘Quite safe!’ said von Otten. ‘Had you been convicted of treachery I would, perhaps, have found the Fräulein a most interesting companion for a short while. She would doubtless have imagined that she was prising my secrets from me!’ He laughed, mirthlessly. ‘To reward you we shall go to my apartment and dine together,’ he said. ‘There you shall be joined by the Fräulein, and your minds shall be set at rest. You will not be going back to Kelstrasse,’ he added. ‘I shall lodge you in a more commodious apartment with the other delegates, and you will not find food so unappetising.’
‘That is good of your Excellency,’ said Palfrey, humbly.
But as they climbed into a car and were driven away under an escort of motor-cyclists again, he knew that it was the worst thing possible short of complete disaster.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One Way Out?
The apartment was luxurious; beneath the block of flats – all of them occupied by some of von Otten’s officials and their families, and the delegates to the infamous conference – there was a commodious air-raid shelter.
There was no chance of safe contact with Stefan, and Palfrey did not want to see him except on a matter justifying the risk. There was little chance of getting to Attanstrasse and the headquarters of the organisation to which the club-footed youth had belonged. Even the prospect of von Lichner getting word to them seemed negligible.
The complete hopelessness of their position was made the more depressing by the series of lectures which, in company with delegates from the other countries, they listened to day by day – once in the morning, once in the early evening.
Rabid Nazis gave the lectures. All of the delegates – with, perhaps, one or two exceptions – had been ardent collaborationists and had taken part in reprisals and betrayals which would brand them for life. It was their life or that of their country, and they plumped for their own. Palfrey was sickened