Читать книгу Green Hazard - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 8

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Charles Denton was recalled from leave to another meeting at the Foreign Office a fortnight after the first. He found the head of the department sitting as usual in the swivel armchair behind his big desk, on which were three sets of papers; from time to time he glanced at these with an expression of mingled incredulity and amusement not without a trace of exasperation. Wilcox was leaning against the mantelpiece, rubbing his hair with the palm of his hand, and a retired colonel, who had come up from his Sussex cottage on purpose to be present, was sitting staring out of the window at white clouds floating in a blue October sky over St. James’s Park. Denton greeted his friends, dropped into the most comfortable chair available, and waited to hear why he had been summoned.

“Now we’re all here,” said the Foreign Office man, “I will give you some rather curious news I have received. I should like your opinions upon it.”

“Hitler got a new secret weapon?” asked the colonel.

“Performing seals trained to tie sponge bags over the periscopes of British submarines,” said Denton instantly. “They distinguish British submarines from German ones by the smell of carbolic soap used by the crews.”

“It’s a lot funnier than that,” said Wilcox.

“It could be, easily,” conceded Denton.

“That is, if it’s funny at all,” said their chief. “I am not quite sure. This is it. Four days ago I had a call from one of the British directors of the Heroas Wagon Company of Zurich. He had heard from Zurich that they had received an order from Berlin—a very large order—for meter-gauge contractors’ tipping wagons. He wanted to know if they should fulfill it. They are in a position to do so from stock, as they had made them some time ago for an order from England, and of course they can’t deliver them here now.”

“Those little truck things?” said the colonel. “See ’em when they’re making embankments.”

“Very polite of them to ask our permission,” said Denton, “but wouldn’t it be all the same whatever we said? I mean, a firm must live. I said that before, I’m sure I did. It sounds familiar.”

“You did,” said Wilcox. “Here. Last time.”

“I agree,” said the Foreign Office man. “I mean that they would have carried out the order in any case. Their politely asking permission was only a pretext for coming here to tell me that the Berlin agent who forwarded the order is Herr Theophilus Hartzer, of Zurich.”

“That was Hambledon’s alias,” said the colonel.

“It can’t be Hambledon,” said Denton. “It must be the——”

“One moment,” said the man at the desk. “I shouldn’t have called you back from leave merely to tell you that. I have more. I told you at our last meeting that I had sent out a routine instruction to all our agents to look out for Hambledon or Hartzer. Yesterday morning I got a report from one of our fellows in Berlin that somebody with Hambledon’s Hartzer passport is living in an expensive flat in the Uhland Strasse, a turning off the Kurfürstendamm.”

Denton sat up. “Tommy’s passport? Impossible. He had it on him when he went up to Ulseth’s place; I know he did. I saw him put it in his pocket.”

“It’s in Berlin now. Our man saw it.”

There was a short silence, which the colonel broke by remarking reminiscently that Hambledon always did like living in comfort, and Wilcox snorted.

“Even that is not all,” said the Foreign Office chief. “Late last night—and this was the point at which I telephoned to you—I got a message from your father-in-law, Denton. He calls himself Weber, Colonel; he keeps a tobacconist’s shop in Spandauer Strasse in Berlin.”

“I remember,” said the colonel. “His real name is Keppel; he comes from Loch Awe.”

“Yes. I ought to explain that though this message reached me last it was actually sent off before either of the others. It took some time coming. He said that on Tuesday of last week the Herr Professor Ulseth came into——”

“Ulseth?” said Denton.

“Ulseth came into his shop with a couple of S.S. men as escort—bodyguards, warders, or guides; Weber wasn’t sure which. Anyway, Ulseth seemed on the best of terms with them. He asked for American cigarettes, and Weber said he was out of them. Ulseth then introduced himself—Weber hadn’t seen him before—and said that though his main interest in life was explosives he still preferred cigarettes that didn’t behave—or taste—like fireworks, as most of the German ones do. Or so he said. He said saltpeter is all right in gunpowder but could easily be overdone in tobacco.”

“It seems to have been a very full report,” said the colonel.

“It was. I got the impression that our good Weber was a little excited. After that, Ulseth made some excuse to send his escort out of the shop and immediately told Weber to ask M.I.5 at once for the name of a reliable laboratory assistant with experience of explosives. The man should preferably come from Holland or Belgium. It was urgent. While he was talking he placed the thumb and four fingers of his right hand, severally and seriatim, on the lid of a polished cigarette box, rolling them slightly as he did so. Then he beamed upon Weber, who does not seem to have said anything—I imagine he was speechless—and asked again for American cigarettes. Weber found him some this time. Ulseth went out of the shop and could be seen outside sharing his cigarettes with his guides—or guards. Then they went away together. Weber photographed the fingerprints and sent them over with the message. Gentlemen, the prints are those of Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon.”

Denton shut his mouth, which had been hanging regrettably open, rose to his feet, and took several turns about the room. “Hamble——” he began, swallowed, and started again. “So Hambledon is alive,” he said slowly. “He is Ulseth. I suppose he blew up Ulseth and—— But why go to Germany? It’s the last place he meant to visit; we all know that. He——”

“Yes,” said the departmental head. “It’s much too dangerous. But listen. Who are the other two? Hartzer with the passport in the Uhland Strasse, and Hartzer of the Heroas Company with an office in the Schönebuerger Strasse buying tipping wagons for the German Government? Is Hambledon all of them?”

“He seems to have been blown into three pieces,” said the colonel, “all going strong. I thought you said, Charles, that the Nazis had walked off with Hambledon’s luggage.”

“I said I supposed it was they. And they are quite capable of impersonating Hartzer in Berlin to get wagons out of the Heroas people,” said Denton. “And the commission, of course. This may be the explanation of the wagon agent. But the fellow in the Uhland Strasse flat—a real Nazi wouldn’t use a faked passport in Berlin——”

“You’re getting mixed up,” said Wilcox. “If Hambledon walked out of Ulseth’s place before or after blowing it up——”

“Before,” said Denton. “Nothing walked out of that place after it.”

“Before, then. Why shouldn’t he pick up his own luggage?”

Denton merely looked at him.

“And proceed to Berlin by the first available train and start business as the Heroas Company’s representative.”

“Tommy would never go to Germany of his own free will,” said Denton positively. “Not while Goebbels is still with us, anyway. He must have been taken there, and taken so suddenly that he had no chance to communicate with me, I tell you, if he walked up the stairs at the Trois Couronnes he only had to take five paces to the left and he would have been at my bedroom door. It wasn’t Hambledon who came that night.”

“Unless he saw an opportunity for abducting Goebbels in a tipping wagon and blowing him up with TNT,” said the colonel distractedly. “This business makes my head ache. Which is Hambledon?”

“We know definitely that he is posing as Ulseth,” said the departmental head. “Fingerprints are definite evidence. He may also be the man in the Uhland Strasse flat, on account of the passport. It is less likely that he is the Heroas man; as Denton has pointed out, that might be any Nazi on the make who got hold of Hambledon’s luggage from the Trois Couronnes. Of course he might have collected it himself, as Wilcox said, but he can hardly be all three, and this one has the least evidence of connection.”

“But Ulseth was a chemist,” said the colonel. “Hambledon wasn’t, in spite of the short course you told us about.”

“Oh, quite. Hence his demand for a laboratory assistant.”

“Have you found him one?” asked Denton.

“Oh yes. A nice young man named Grautz, from the University of Leyden. He has been useful to us before, but the Nazis don’t know that, of course. Stevens recommended him.”

“Poor Stevens,” said the colonel.

“Hambledon must be having a wonderful time,” said Denton, “stalling off real chemists who want to talk shop. He doesn’t know the difference between a sulphide and a sulphate.”

“If anybody can do it, he will,” said Wilcox with conviction.

“Is there anything more we can do to help him?” asked the colonel.

“Not at the moment, I think,” said the Foreign Office man. “Weber and others have been warned to stand by him, and we are trying to get more details about the two Hartzers. I will let you know at once when I get any more news.”

“If I were Hambledon,” said the colonel, rising stiffly and picking up his hat, “I should give up espionage after this and take to walking a tightrope across Vesuvius. It would be so much less dangerous.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Wilcox.

As the police car drove off from Ulseth’s place Hambledon, between two gendarmes in the back seat, was feeling far from well. He was stunned and shaken by the proximity of that appalling explosion; he was sore and bruised all over by flying fragments and falling debris; he had cut his face and made his nose bleed rolling down the steps, and finally there was the kindly gendarme’s morphia tablet. He was, in fact, little more than half-conscious. He was vaguely aware that he was extremely lucky to be alive at all, and he had an indistinct idea that somebody had said something about a hospital. Bed. Nurses. Kindly attentions. Peace and quiet. Excellent ideas; let them be imple—implicated—implemented. That’s the word, implemented. Agricultural implements. Speed the plow. If only his head didn’t ache so ...

Hambledon slept.

He was awakened by being thrown roughly forward when the car skidded to a standstill, and only the prompt action of his two gendarmes prevented him from slamming his unfortunate nose again on the back of the front seat. The car door was thrown open, and a rush of cold night air revived him and made him shiver. He shivered again for another reason when he heard a peremptory German voice saying, “Out, please.”

“They’ve got me,” said Tommy to himself. “They’ve got me at last. One of them spotted me in Servatsch, and this is the end.” Nevertheless he retained enough self-control to slump back in his seat, and did not open his eyes even when a shot was fired close by and one of his fellow passengers rolled out in the road with a groan.

“Lift out the Herr Professor,” said the German voice. Herr Professor? Why Herr Professor? Probably the brutes were being sarcastic. Now for it.

But he was lifted out gently enough, carried across to a waiting car, and deposited, with tender care, in the back seat. Rugs were wrapped round him, cushions were placed where they would do most good; apparently he was not to be shot just yet.

“Is the Herr Professor in much pain?” asked someone.

Hambledon half opened his eyes, moaned feebly, and relaxed again. Still this Herr Professor business, whatever it meant.

“He is unconscious,” said the same voice to somebody else.

“Of course he’s unconscious,” said the rasping voice which had ordered the gendarmes out. “What did you expect? If he wasn’t as tough as old boots he would be dead. Drive on, Georg.”

The car moved off in the direction of Servatsch, passed through the village again, and took the left-hand fork two miles beyond it. Hambledon had been waiting for this, but when they actually took that turning he nearly fainted in earnest.

“We shall be in Germany in an hour,” he said to himself. “If I had a gun I’d shoot the driver. If I had a hand grenade I’d wreck the car. I should go out too, but not in Germany.” He wriggled feebly, and the man beside him patted his arm and said, “Patience, Herr Professor. All will yet be well.”

Hambledon sighed and lay quiet again. Who was it who said “the Herr Professor” somebody a little while ago? In a bare room with a big table in the middle, and a man looking at himself in a mirror——Ulseth, that was it. The Herr Professor Ulseth. Got it. “My hat, I believe they think I’m Ulseth. Of course I had his passport and things; besides, that was the idea. To make out I was Ulseth.”

The car sped on toward the German frontier.

Hambledon waited till he saw ahead, in the growing light of dawn, a house or two at the side of the road. He then stretched himself painfully, threw up his arms, and slid off the seat. He lay crouched on the floor of the car and whimpered at every attempt his escort made to raise him.

“Stop the car!” said the man beside him. “The Herr Professor is taken seriously ill.”

The man beside the driver turned and shone a torch on Hambledon, who squinted alarmingly.

“My orders are not to stop the car till we get to Germany,” he said doubtfully, and the driver slowed down a little.

“We could, perhaps, obtain some water at one of these houses,” he said.

“No,” said their leader decidedly. “No stopping at houses. Pass them and pull up at the side of the road further on.”

“Water,” said Hambledon feebly.

“There,” said the driver. “That’s what he wants.” He slowed down yet more.

“There is a stream beside the road two hundred meters further on,” said the leader. “I have a cup on my flask; he shall have his water there.”

They passed the houses, and Hambledon could have cried. When they reached the stream the leader got out with his flask in his hand, dipped the cup, and came back to Hambledon’s door with it brimming in his hand. Tommy was still pathetically but strongly resisting all attempts to lift him.

“Better open the door,” said Georg, the driver. “It will be easier to get at him.”

The door opened, and Tommy immediately rolled out in the road, butting into the man with the cup and spilling the water. Hambledon straightened out as though actuated by a spring and lay perfectly stiff, rolling slightly from side to side.

“It is tetanus, Herr Gruppenfuehrer,” said Georg. “I have seen it before.” (So had Hambledon.) “I think the Herr Professor is dying.”

“I have some brandy,” said the Group Leader, pouring from his flask into the cup. “Lift his head, Hans.”

Hans, having emerged from the back seat, strained and grunted, and Hambledon rose up a few inches all in one piece like a wooden doll.

“Help him, Georg,” said the leader, and between them quite an appreciable dose of brandy went down Tommy’s throat. Would nobody come along the road? He could not hold his stiff pose another moment; with a grunt he collapsed so suddenly that the two men holding him banged their heads together, exclaiming “Ach!”

“Quickly!” said the leader. “Back in the car before he stiffens again.” Before Hambledon could do anything he was in the back seat again with Hans on one side and the Group Leader on the other, both holding him firmly.

“Get in, Georg, and drive like blazes. There is a nursing home at Singen. The sooner we get him there the better.”

“Suppose he dies on the way,” said the softer-hearted Hans.

“Then he dies,” said the Group Leader. “In any case, it is now the nearest place where he can receive proper attention. What good would it do to lay him out on the roadside? You are a fool.”

Hambledon thought he had better faint again, but even this did not affect the leader. As they approached the frontier post the side window was wound down and signals were flashed from an electric torch. The car went through without slowing, and Hambledon really lost track of proceedings till the car turned into the entrance of a large house in Singen and stopped.

Half an hour later, washed and with his more obvious wounds dressed, he was in bed with a doctor and a nurse leaning over him. He murmured something about nitroglycerin which he hoped would be noticed and went to sleep. At least he would now have a little time in which to think. At least he was out of that car and not too far from the Swiss frontier. It might be possible to escape from this place.

But when he woke up in the morning he was so stiff that he could not turn over in bed, and his face was so swollen he could hardly eat. When on the third day he had recovered enough to get up and stagger across the room, he noticed through the half-open door a chair in the passage outside, and on it was seated a man in the uninspired uniform of the S.S.

“Damn and blast,” said Hambledon to himself. “Always so thorough, these Germans.” He went back to bed.

In the afternoon the Group Leader was permitted by the doctor to pay a short visit, and Hambledon was distinctly snappish.

“I trust,” said the Group Leader in tones as pleasant as possible to a naturally unpleasant voice, “that the esteemed Herr Professor Ulseth finds himself recovering.”

“Recovering? Of course I’m recovering. No thanks to you. I am told I was brought here in a car direct from Servatsch. Why? It might have killed me. It ought to have killed me. There were nearer places than this to deposit a man who had just had a severe accident.”

“I regret extremely——”

“No use regretting, it’s done now and I have survived.”

“Only the urgency of my instructions——”

“I don’t know who was the mentally deficient baboon who instructed you to drag a half-dead man round the countryside in the middle of the night, but you can tell him from me that if I ever meet him I shall have pleasure in telling him my opinion of him. The callous, half-witted——”

“I think,” said the S.S. man, rising, “that the Herr Professor is not yet calm enough——”

“Calm? Calm? I’m perfectly calm. But if you suppose I’m going to put up with——”

The Group Leader left the room.

“That’s the line to take,” said Hambledon to himself. “These people are so used to being bullied that they just lap it down. I wish I knew why they abducted me. What on earth do they want with Ulseth? Do they really believe in him?”

The next day he sent for the Gruppenfuehrer and was a trifle more genial.

“I was, perhaps, a little abrupt with you yesterday,” said Hambledon. “I still think you took a grave and unjustifiable risk in bringing me so far, but I must say this nursing home is a very excellent place.”

“The Herr Professor is not only kind but just,” said the gratified Group Leader. “This place is famous for its excellence in every respect—it was the first place I thought of when I realized how ill the Herr Professor was—none but the best would have been suitable——”

“The medical attention is beyond praise,” said Hambledon.

“I myself instructed the Herr Doktor that no pains were to be spared to——”

“The nurses, too. Gentle, intelligent, and comely.”

The Nazi smirked. “The Herr Professor’s powers of recuperation——” he began.

“And the view from the windows!” pursued Hambledon hastily. “Magnificent! Superb! Soul-in-the-highest-degree-uplifting!”

“To the disturbed nervous system inevitably soothing,” agreed the Gruppenfuehrer.

“Inspiring,” said Hambledon.

“Psychologically satisfying,” said the German.

“In short, I am your debtor for having brought me here, and when, in future, any of my friends are ailing, I shall insist on their coming here if I have to throw them into a car and bring them by force.” Hambledon laughed kindly, and the Gruppenfuehrer politely joined in.

“I shall return to Servatsch tomorrow,” said Hambledon carelessly, “taking with me a pleasant memory of your indefatigable kindness.”

The smile left the German’s face. “But why return to Servatsch?” he said. “I regret to inform the Herr Professor that his establishment was completely and utterly destroyed. Not a wall left standing—not a trace of his labors——”

“What?” cried Hambledon, rising in agitation. “All my notes—all my preparations——”

“All lost,” said the Nazi mournfully.

“But my servant——”

“I regret. Dead. More than dead. In-several-directions-disseminated.”

Hambledon covered his face with his hands, and there was a respectful silence.

“My poor Joachim.”

“He died in the noble cause of science,” said the Gruppenfuehrer consolingly.

“I must return at once,” said Hambledon energetically. “Today—this afternoon—this minute. Send out to the nearest shop for some clothes, and I will dress at once and go. Some of my notebooks may have escaped—they must—my life’s work——”

“A thorough search was made, not only among the ruins but all around. Nothing was found, nothing.”

This did not surprise Hambledon, who knew there was nothing to find.

“Nevertheless, I must myself make search, or I shall never sleep again. Clothes, Herr Gruppenfuehrer, clothes.”

“Listen,” said the German persuasively. “Why exhaust your valuable energies searching among ruins for what is not there? Why conceal in a remote corner of Switzerland the brilliant intellect which could assist a great nation in its hour of need? Come to Berlin, Herr Ulseth. Your fame has preceded you there——”

“Heaven help me,” said Hambledon to himself. “I was afraid it had.”

“A welcome awaits you from the most powerful, the most talented sections of our Reich. Facilities shall be placed at your disposal—I am authorized officially to say this—such as could not be equaled in any other capital in Europe. Or the world.”

“Very well,” said Hambledon after a moment’s pause. “A day—two days—to visit Servatsch and say a prayer over the grave of my servant, and lay a wreath to his memory, and I will come to Berlin at once.”

“It is inadvisable. I regret. The Herr Professor has forgotten—the Swiss police——”

“What about the police?”

“There was a little matter of a cow.”

“Bah! I will pay for the cow. I ought to pay for the cow. I am obliged to you for reminding me. I must return in order to pay for the cow.”

“The money can be sent,” said the German obstinately. “The wreath also. The Herr Professor is strongly advised to travel to Berlin at once.”

Hambledon saw it was no use arguing. He sank into his chair murmuring, “I am fatigued. Leave me alone, please; all this is very agitating. My poor servant! My precious formulas!”

The Nazi rose instantly. “Let the Herr Professor’s mind be at rest. He has chosen wisely. Tomorrow the clothes shall be obtained.” He left the room, and Hambledon looked anxiously after him.

“They are not going to let me go,” he said. “Well, I couldn’t very well bolt in pajamas, anyway. Perhaps something will occur tomorrow.”