The Fifth Man Page 7

  Colemore dropped the argument, and the interview came to an end. Two days later he was transferred from his prison camp to Liesensee, where he made the acquaintance of the other four Englishmen, Little, Abbott, Nicholls, and Tanner. They told him frankly that they were all in this with the one aim, to get home again, and that they were going to give themselves up immediately upon landing. Colemore himself had other views. If the Germans themselves introduced him into their spy ring, well, so much the worst for them.

  The five who were going to England had, of course, to look perfectly ordinary in the matter of dress when they arrived. No foreign cut or alien cloth for them. Their measurements were accurately taken by a fellow student who had been a tailor in the days of his innocence, and these were sent to an English tailor in Berlin. The English tailor himself had naturally been consigned to an internment camp long before, but well-trained assistants remained to clothe the Nazi bosses in mufti of the best London cut. Even the Nazis admit that London can cut a suit. In due course the garments came, were fitted, altered where necessary, and finally delivered.

  “These are beautiful suits,” said the Nazi officials enviously. “Even our leaders have none better than these.”

  “It’s an excellent fit,” said Abbott, regarding himself with pleasure. “I’ve never had a better, even in England.”

  “They’ll pass in a crowd,” said Colemore, looking critically at his overcoat lapels. Tanner shook himself comfortably into his; he said nothing, but the strain in his expression relaxed a little as though he felt himself halfway home.

  “To look at you,” said the Germans, “one would say that you were a manufacturer of munitions at least, if not a secretary at one of the more important ministries. No ordinary man can obtain clothes like these.”

  “They are quite everyday suits for England,” said Nicholls bluntly.

  Colemore strolled thoughtfully away. His plan seemed to have become not easier, but a trifle less impossible.

  He had the luck one day to find a Party badge lying on a path where someone had dropped it. He let his handkerchief fall over it and picked up both together. One never knew, it might prove to be of use.

  Finally they were issued with temporary identity cards to last them until thsy left the Continnent. The cards bore their photographs and a full description of them; on the outside was printed: “On Special Service for the Reich.”

  Colemore counted his blessings. Not much money, but an imposing suit with creases down its trousers, a Nazi Party badge, and a Special Service card. The card would be better if it had not the name of Aylwin Brampton inside, but it was written in an odd shade of purple ink, and he could see no way of altering it.

  A few days before the end of the course he had another interview with the grey-haired German.

  “We regard you as the leader of this party,” he said. “These others, though they will be extremely useful, are not of your intellectual calibre, Major Brampton. You will reassure them if they appear nervous. You will remind them, if they waver, of the fate in store for those who belray the Reich. And I may as well add that what will be done to them will be as a gently rocking to sleep compared to what will happen to you if you fail us,” he added, and his lip lifted like a wolfs.

  Colemore thought it wiser to ignore this, and the German unrolled a large-scale map of the southwestern coast of England.

  “You will all be landed about here,” he said, pointing at Bridport. “Not all in the same place, but singly; all within a few miles of each other. There are five suitable spots, here.” His pencil pointed them out. “Singly you can be landed easily; the whole party together would increase the risk. The landings will be made on the night of January eighth. The tides and the moon will then be suitable. You will be met on landing by a man who will say, ‘How far have you come?’ You will reply, ‘Forty-seven miles as the crow flies.’ Then he will say, ‘But it’s sixty-three miles by road.’”

  “Forty-seven, sixty-three,” repeated Colemore.

  “Good. You will all be taken separately to a house near London where you will meet again, and it is then that I look to you to establish your mental supremacy over the other four and encourage them to maintain their purpose.”

  “Our purpose, you mean.”

  “Our purpose, it is well said. I can see, Major Brampton, that your services will be invaluable to the Reich and you will find Germany not ungrateful.”

  Colemore wished the German would not talk so exactly like a leading article in Das Reich. He made one attempt to obtain the address of the house near London. “Suppose anything goes wrong and I am not met on landing,” he said. “Where do I make for?”

  “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “But the man might have a heart attack or get run over on his way to the beach.”

  “Then another will take his place.”

  “It certainly seems as though you have plenty of your people about,” said Colemore with a laugh.

  “Messenger boys, as I said before, messenger boys. You will meet no one of importance until you reach the house of which I spoke. Then you will receive detailed instructions.”

  “It is well,” said Colemore solemnly.

  Three days later they were all five conducted to Berlin by train, a crowded local train. They had two guards with them, but they were quite friendly, and the party was a cheerful one.

  “Quite an end-of-term feeling about it, isn’t there?” said Abbott

  Chapter VI. Disappearance in Berlin

  IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE for Colemore to make any definite plans in advance since he had no idea how their journey was to be arranged. He merely filled his mind with readiness to seize any opportunity which offered itself and waited.

  As the train drew in through the suburbs of Berlin their guards rose to their feet and collected their belongings, telling the five Englishmen to do the same.

  “We have not long between trains,” they said. “This one is so crowded that if we wait our turn to alight we may miss the connection.”

  “We’re going on by train, then, are we?” asked Abbott. “Where to?”

  “Brussels.”

  Colemore managed to place himself next the door into the corridor; he had only a small attach^ case in his hand. The guard turned to him and told him to try to work his way along the corridor to the exit door at the end of the coach. Continental trains do not have doors at intervals along the railway coaches as British carriages do. “Try and make a way for us,” added the guard. “Herrgott, what a press of people.”

  Colemore nodded and slid, with apologies, round the person of a fat lady with many parcels. In passing he kicked over one of her baskets and the contents fell out. She expressed loud exasperation and stooped to pick up the things; no cork in the neck of any bottle ever fitted better than did her portly form the narrow corridor. Colemore, apparently unaware of what he had done, went on. By the time the train was slowing down at the platform he was only the third from the door. Two young men in front of him dropped out while the train was still moving, and Colemore followed them.

  The guards had the tickets; he must bluff his way past the barrier without one. He strode, a masterful and confident figure, towards the gate, slipping the Nazi Party badge into his buttonhole as he went. The ticket collector held out his hand.

  “My servant has the tickets,” said Colemore imperiously. “He is coming behind with my baggage.”

  The man hesitated, noticed the well-cut clothes and the Party badge, met the hard stare in Colemore’s eyes, and yielded. The Englishman passed him, walked straight across the entrance hall into the street, and kept going. The hunt for him would be up in ten minutes’ time; the first necessity was to get out of Berlin. A train going west for a start.

  He paused at a street corner to get his bearings and saw a man in S.S. uniform apparently staring at him. Without hesitation Colemore turned into the first shop which offered itself; it happened to be an optician’s.

  He spent some minutes choosing a mono
cle. It should have one of those almost invisible clips which attach themselves to the eyebrow and thus increase stability. It should also have a broad black ribbon. By the time the distinguished Herr was suited the Nazi outside had strolled away. Colemore adjusted the monocle, tilted his grey Homburg hat slightly to the left, and walked out.

  He swung himself onto a tram which appeared to be going in the right direction. When the conductor asked where he wanted to go he said, “All the way,” in a bored voice and offered a five-mark note. The conductor grumbled at having to give so much change but eventually produced it, and the tram rumbled on. Streets became more suburban, an occasional field appeared, the tram emptied, and the conductor went forward and wound round the destination indicator, ready for the return trip. This was evidently the terminus; when the tram stopped Colemore immediately alighted.

  Just beyond this point another tramline continued; upon it, ready to start, stood one of those country trams which serve Germany’s rural districts so well, if so unpicturesquely. It had a powered car in front and a string of two or three towed coaches behind; its route board gave the names of several places Colemore had never heard of, ending with Bechen. He decided that Bechen would do.

  Bechen, when he reached it two hours later, proved to be a pleasant small place with a large and comely inn. It was upon a wide main road. Just against the inn at the village crossroads stood a signpost of which one arm said, menacingly, Berlin, while the opposite one offered a friendly choice of Stendal, Obisfelde, Lehrte, and Hanover. Colemore looked at it with approval and went into the inn for lunch.

  The innkeeper said that certainly the distinguished Heir could lunch on such poor food as the war permitted. There were soup and game; for a sweet his wife would make an omelet. Let him help the gracious Heir to remove his overcoat; there was a table by the fire where he would warm and clear of draughts. This chair, now, could be recommended. A small glass of something to settle the stomach after a cold journey; there was still a very little cherry brandy left. One small minor formality with which he must trouble the Herr—his identity card? It was necessary, as everyone knew, to make an entry in the hotel register of all visitors.

  Colemore did not know it, and it was an awkward moment. The process of circularizing the police to locate and detain the body of Aylwin Brampton was doubtless already in motion; before long the local constable in every village within a hundred miles of Berlin would be examining hotel registers. A man, they would say accurately, must eat, especially in winter. He hesitated for a moment, turned a confidential gaze upon the innkeeper, and said in a lowered voice, “I will show you this.”

  He drew out his identity card and displayed its cover with the swastika large and black upon it, below which came the useful words: “On Special Service for the Reich.”

  The innkeeper saw it and bowed. “One saw at once, naturally, that the Heir was no ordinary man. It is not for me to suggest, but it would perhaps be more discreet if no entry were made in the register?”

  “You are a man of no common discernment,” said Colemore. “I may presently call upon you to help me in another small matter. In the meantime I am, as you say, cold. I think a glass of cherry brandy would go down very pleasantly.”

  He hinched before the fire, not without qualms whenever heavy footsteps approached the door, and reflected upon the truth of the saying that clothes make the man.

  He was well aware, as who was not, of the notorious congestion of Germany’s railway system. Enormous quantities of supplies, especially those of an urgent or perishable nature, he knew were sent by road; and this was the main artery to the west from Berlin. If he could get a lift on a convoy bound for Holland, make his way to Flushing, and get in touch with Van Drom, the worst part of his journey would be over. Van Drom would arrange for his transfer to England or put him in touch with somebody who would. At the last moment, when it was too late to stop him, he would send a message to German Intelligence that he was on the point of crossing to England as an escaped prisoner who really had escaped. Once there, he would be ready to take up his duties. If this performance didn’t impress them with his outstanding capabilities, nothing would. To escape them and then deliberately to get in contact with them again would prove bis good faith.

  Having thus established himself upon an unassailable pedestal, he would get in touch with British Intelligence. He should be a pretty useful sort of recruit, and perhaps someday the authorities could be persuaded to forget about that unfinished visit to Maidstone Jail.

  He finished his lunch, lit one of the perfectly horrible cigarettes which had been sparingly issued at Liesensee, and summoned the innkeeper.

  “I have an urgent and highly confidential journey to make,” said Colemore. “It was inadvisable to take my own car; it might be recognized, you understand.” The innkeeper nodded wisely, and Colemore continued, “The trains are much too slow for my purpose. If I could happen upon a fast-moving convoy going through to the west, that would serve my purpose admirably.”

  The innkeeper understood. Oh, absolutely. There were, in fact, many such convoys passing through Bechen, especially towards evening, since they liked to travel principally by night. The accursed British Air Force—exactly. He knew some of the regular drivers quite well; they often dropped in for a last nip to keep out the cold on the long night’s run. There would certainly be some along presently; let the gracious Heir be at rest, matters would certainly arrange themselves.

  “As soon as possible,” urged the gracious Herr, who was feeling anything but restful and becoming more fidgety with every passing moment. How long before the search reached Bechen? “I said the matter is not only secret but extremely urgent.”

  “At the earliest possible opportunity,” agreed the man. “I will go now and look out.”

  He left the room, and Colemore wrapped himself in enforced patience. “‘Sister Anne,’” he murmured, “‘Sister Anne, is anyone coming?’” He could not sit still; he rose from the comfortable chair and wandered restlessly about the room. “I wish I were a hen; I could hop up and down without appearing eccentric. From the chair to the sofa and back .... Calm yourself, Anthony. You’ll give the show away.”

  When the innkeeper eventually returned the gracious Heir was sunk in the depths of the chair before the fire, looking half asleep. If the perspiration was shining on his forehead, doubtless the heat from the blazing logs was responsible.

  “I was almost dozing,” he said. “Your good fire ... Have you arranged something?”

  “There is a man here who is driving a staff car to Brussels for the use of the High Command there. It is a large limousine—the Herr will be more comfortable than in a lorry.”

  Anthony Colemore felt that he would be perfectly comfortable on a red-hot gridiron if only it were leaving the Berlin district at a sufficiently high speed. Brussels was not in Holland, but at least it was in the right direction. “It sounds very suitable,” he said carelessly. “I will speak to the man.”

  “I will bring him in,” said the innkeeper.

  The driver proved to be a sandy-haired young man with a red face and large hands with chapped knuckles. He gave the Nazi salute and introduced himself as Erich Feinberg, transport driver.

  Colemore did not give himself a name at all. The omission would add to the desirable mystery surrounding him and also save him the trouble of inventing one. Besides, what are transport drivers that they should be told names?

  “Well, Feinberg,” said Colemore pleasantly, “our friend here tells me that you are taking an empty car through to Brussels. You will be serving the Reich well if you will take me with you.”

  Feinberg looked attentively at him and evidently decided that here was one to be treated with respect.

  “It is as the Herr wishes,” he said. “It will be an honour to drive the Herr. When will Your Excellency be ready to start?”

  “At once, if possible.”

  “I will go and start the car,” said the driver. He saluted smartly and went
out.

  Colemore rewarded the innkeeper for his good works and followed in time to see Feinberg affixing to the small flagstaff on the bonnet of the car a blue pennon with a red bar across it. Colemore asked no question and walked to the door of the seat beside the driver.

  Feinberg hurried back. “Excuse me, the Herr will be more comfortable in the back seat.” He fussed round making Colemore comfortable, a performance which nearly sent him mad, and at last got into his own seat and drove off. Colemore leaned back, quite limp with relief, and found himself unexpectedly remembering quite a lot of the Te Deum.

  He became gradually aware that as night came on the traffic on the road steadily increased. Dim lights advanced and passed continually; Feinberg pulled out frequently to overtake half-seen vehicles rumbling along in columns. Sometimes lights were waved at them and the car slowed down; the beam fell on the little blue-and-red pennon and then switched to the impassive figure with the black-ribboned monocle and the grey Homburg hat in the back seat. After which they were hastily waved on; even convoys paused to let them pass. Again Feinberg explained.

  “It is very convenient to be able to mount the pennon,” he said. “Had I not had a distinguished passenger it would not have been permitted. Though doubtless I babble to the Herr of that which he has known all his life.”

  “I seem to have heard somewhere that there is such a custom,” admitted Colemore humourously, and the driver chuckled.

  Anthony began to wonder what he should do next. Berlin had been happily left behind, but he had no wish to go to Brussels. For one thing, it was in Belgium, whereas he wanted to go to Holland; and in anything but a staff car with a pennon on the bonnet there would be an examination of papers at the frontier.

  On the other hand, the sooner he was out of Germany the better; even an occupied country would be better than that, yes, even the wrong occupied country. He had heard, from recently arrived prisoners at his camp, stories of the very healthy resistance movements in the various countries; the White Brigade of Belgium, for example. But since their very existence depended upon their being difficult to find, it was not easy to see how he was to get in touch with them. Did one just knock at a door and say, “I am an escaped British prisoner of war, please help me”? Definitely a gamble.