Assignment Gestapo (32 page)

‘I did,’ said Stahlschmidt, irritably. ‘You know I did. You know it’s me that sees to all that sort of thing. God knows, there’s no one else I can rely on . . .’

Rinken laughed, sardonically.

‘Speaking of relying on people, I’ve been relying on you, Stahlschmidt, to pay me back that 100 marks you owe me. You hadn’t forgotten it, I hope? One hundred marks, plus 24 per cent interest.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten it. I never forget my debts, especially to friends. But the thing is, Rinken, I’m not too flush at the moment. I’ve – I’ve had a lot of extra expenses. A couple of new uniforms and a pair of new boots. You know how it is . . . you can’t go round in rags. Not when you’re a Stabsfeldwebel. And then the prices they charge these days are ridiculous! I had to pay four times more for those boots than I should have done . . . And in any case, you know, you lent me that money as a friend. Without interest. You never said anything at the time about 24 per cent.’

‘Really, you astound me,’ said Rinken, coldly. ‘First of all you ring me up with wild tales of forged passes and two raving mad criminals running in and out of your prison with no one even asking their names, and then you start babbling about new uniforms and outrageously expensive boots and expecting me to pay for them, and finally you try to deny ever borrowing any money from me!’

‘No, no, only the interest!’ protested Stahlschmidt.

‘You owe me 100 marks plus 24 per cent interest,’ said Rinken, stubbornly. ‘You deny the interest and you refuse to pay me back the 100 marks. That’s more than enough for me. I shall speak to Colonel Segen about you. You can’t expect to do that sort of thing and get away with it, you know.’

There was a click and the line went dead. Rinken had hung up. Stahlschmidt sat a moment, staring aghast at the telephone, wondering how it was that the affair had backfired so disastrously.

‘What did he say?’ asked Stever, taking a few hesitant steps away from the door and back into the room.

‘Mind your own bloody business!’ snarled Stahlschmidt.

He paced furiously up and down a few times, kicking any object that was unfortunate enough to lie in his path, smashing his fist into the filing cabinet, spitting on the photograph of Himmler. And then he suddenly lunged back towards his desk and clawed up the telephone again.

‘Paul? Is that you, Paul? It’s Alois here.’ His voice flowed gently, sweetly, coaxingly down the line. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about that money I owe you. You’re quite right about the 24 per cent, of course you are, but you know how it is . . . one protests as a matter of principle! We all do it, don’t we, Paul? It’s just habit, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean I’m trying to wriggle out of it . . .’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Rinken, coldly. ‘All I’m interested in right now is getting my money back. I’ll give you until mid-day tomorrow and not a moment longer. One hundred marks plus the interest.’

‘Look, I swear to you,’ said Stahlschmidt, ‘I swear to you, Paul, you’ll have it all back. I’ll put it in a plain envelope and send Stever round with it’

From the far corner of the room, Stever shook his head violently to and fro. Stahlschmidt ignored him.

‘All I ask, Paul, is that for the sake of our friendship you tell me how the devil I’m to get out of this fix! It’s all been a ghastly mistake, but there must be some way out.’

‘As far as I can see, there are only two things you can do,’ said Rinken, still very cold and curt. ‘You can either go to your C.O. and make a clean breast of it, and hope he’s fool enough to swallow it – which he probably won’t be, and then he’ll start poking around and asking questions and you’ll be worse in the shit than ever. Or else, of course, you can take the bull by the horns and ring straight through to the Gestapo. Only thing is, you’ll need to be very very careful what you say to them. Have a rehearsal first, I should, if I were you. And even then, of course, you’ll have had it if the pass turns out to be genuine. Bielert will come down on you like a ton of bricks. And then again, on the other hand, if it IS a forgery you’ll be in even worse trouble, because then they’ll want to have a word with the two guys you let in, and you can imagine how pleased they’ll be when they’ve discovered you’ve let ’em go . . .’

There was a moment’s silence. Stahlschmidt sat chewing a pencil, holding it between his back teeth and gnawing at it.

‘Paul,’ he said, at last. ‘Are you there, Paul? I just had a new idea. Mightn’t it be simpler if you just forgot I ever rang you in the first place? Come round tonight for dinner. I’ll invite one or two of our pals. Feldwebel Gehl might be able to dig up some girls from somewhere. Come round about eight and we’ll—’

‘Hang on,’ said Rinken, suspiciously. ‘Did you say FORGET it? A man in my position?’

‘Well, you could,’ urged Stahlschmidt. ‘Couldn’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Rinken, slowly. ‘I do have my situation to think about, you see. I have no desire to be sent off to a disciplinary company at this stage of my career . . .’

‘But nobody would know,’ whispered Stahlschmidt.

‘Well . . . well, no, perhaps you’re right. Except that I still want an official report, mind . . . However, I accept your invitation to dinner. Eight o’clock, I think you said?’

‘Eight o’clock,’ confirmed Stahlschmidt. I’il provide the wine, the food, and the entertainment . . . You’re a good chap, Paul, I’ve always said so . . . I think I’ll just tear up this damned pass and forget it ever happened.’

‘I shouldn’t do that,’ said Rinken. ‘I don’t think that would be at all wise. If it is official, there’ll be copies galore all over the place. And if it isn’t – well, quite honestly, I think you should do a bit of discreet checking. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay if ever the story comes out.’

‘You’re right,’ said Stahlschmidt, sweating heavily round his collar. ‘You’re quite right. I’ll telephone my C.O. He’s as thick as pigshit, he won’t ask any questions.’

‘I think you ought to get it cleared up once and for all,’ said Rinken. ‘I’ll keep quiet at this end until I hear from you.’

‘That’s good of you,’ murmured Stahlschmidt, hating Rinken more with every minute that passed.

‘Mind you,’ said Rinken, in jocular tones, ‘I shouldn’t fancy being in your shoes right now. It would never surprise me if tonight’s blow out didn’t end up as a farewell party . . . you might even end up in one of your own cells!’

‘My God,’ said Stahlschmidt, ‘if that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t think much of your sense of humour. With friends like you about, I don’t need enemies.’

Rinken’s happy laughter rang down the telephone.

‘And anyway,’ said Stahlschmidt, irritably, ‘they’d never do a thing like that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Rinken. ‘In any case, it’s always nice to be with old friends . . . you could talk about the good old days when you were in charge of the prison and they were as the dust beneath your chariot wheels . . .’

Chuckling to himself, Rinken put down the receiver. Stahlschmidt sat staring at the telephone, wondering for a moment if he were sickening for some disease. The room was spinning about his ears, he felt sick and giddy and a cold perspiration had broken out all over his body. And you never knew, in these days of war. So many odd diseases seemed to be going round . . . He groped for his pulse and turned to Stever.

‘I think I shall have to pay a visit to the M.O. I feel really quite ill . . . You can take over for a few hours. Or a few days, it might be, if they keep me in bed.’

Stever began to tremble.

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Herr Stabsfeldwebel. Surely Greinert is more qualified than me? In any case, he’s been here longer than I have.’

‘Greinert’s a fool.’

They sat staring at each other a while, then quite suddenly Stahlschmidt picked up the telephone and asked to speak to Major von Rotenhausen, the prison governor.

‘Sir? Major Rotenhausen, sir? It’s Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt here, sir.’

‘Well, Stahlschmidt? What is it?’

I have to report, sir, that two men of the 27th Armoured Regiment – a Willie Beier and an Alfred Kalb – visited one of the prisoners today on a pass that I now think might be a forgery.’

There was a long silence, while Rotenhausen tried to take in what had been said to him and tried to think of a pertinent question to ask. At last he found one.

‘Who did they visit?’

‘Lt. Bernt Ohlsen . . .’

‘Who’s he? Whose prisoner is he?’

Stahlschmidt closed his eyes. He sank in upon himself, huddling up in his chair.

‘The Gestapo . . . IV/2a . . .’

His voice was the barest whisper.

‘And who signed the pass?’

‘Standartenführer Paul Bielert,’ said Stahlschmidt, and almost fell off his chair.

Rotenhausen hung up. He gave no indication of what he intended to do, or even if, indeed, he intended to do anything at all. Once again Stahlschmidt was left with a silent telephone receiver in his hand. He replaced it helplessly in its cradle.

‘Well,’ he said to Stever, in tones of bracing joviality, ‘we’re in the shit and no mistake . . . What the devil do we do now?’ Stever looked at him, a hump of immovable misery. ‘That bloody Rinken!’ railed Stahlschmidt. ‘Who does he think he is, jumped up bag of skin and bones! Just because he helps his sodding C.O. put on his overcoat every day . . .’ Stahlschmidt turned and spat vehemently in the direction of the over-turned waste paper basket. ‘You know what he used to do before the war, don’t you? He was a bloody milkman, that’s what he was! And you can bet your sweet life that’s what he’ll be again as soon as the war’s over . . . Ah, come on, Stever, get your brain to work, man! Don’t stand there like a solidified turd, start thinking!’

Stever elaborately cleared his throat before speaking.

‘Herr Stabsfeldwebel,’ he said, ‘I’m quite sure you’ll be able to find a way out.’

And he looked Stahlschmidt straight in the eye, very firmly throwing the ball back in his court. Stever intended to make it quite clear that he had had nothing to do with the affair.

Stahlschmidt outstared him. He waited until Stever dropped his gaze, then grimly smiled.

‘If I go under, you’ll be coming with me,’ he murmured, too soft for the other to hear. ‘Make no mistake about that . . . I don’t drown alone!’

For ten minutes more he paced about the room, watched furtively by Stever, who had no desire to stay but was too scared to go.

The monotony was broken by the sudden screaming wail of the sirens. The two men looked at one another.

‘Here they come again,’ said Stever.

‘That’ll be the Canadians,’ said Stahlschmidt.

They stood listening a moment, then Stahlschmidt jerked his head towards the door and picked up the whisky bottle.

‘Come on. Down in the cellars and pray like heck they drop a bomb on the Gestapo.’

‘And Major Rotenhausen?’ suggested Stever.

‘And Major Rotenhausen,’ confirmed Stahlschmidt. ‘And Rinken, as well, if it comes to that . . . I should send a personal note of thanks to the head of the Candian Air Force.’

They hurried down to the cellars, stayed there for the duration of the air raid, approximately twenty minutes, and finished off the bottle of whisky between them. When they emerged, it was only to discover that the attack had concentrated on the southern area of the port and had been nowhere near the Gestapo. Or Major Rotenhausen, or Rinken.

‘Not even an indirect hit,’ mourned Stahlschmidt, as they returned to his office.

He looked at Stever and Stever looked back at him. There was no hope in that direction. Stever was not a man to come up with bright ideas.

‘Well, there’s only one thing for it . . . Ill have to take a chance and ring the bastards . . . see if I can’t explain it to them . . . It’ll be worse in the long run if they find out for themselves.’

The trembling of his hand as he dialled the dreaded number of the Gestapo – IO OOI – belied the bravado of his voice.

‘State Secret Police. Stadthausbrücke Section.’

Stahlschmidt swallowed a mouthful of saliva. Stumbling over his words, stammering, stuttering, gasping for air, he managed to stagger through his report.

‘Just one moment, Stabsfeldwebel. I’ll have you transferred.’

Stahlschmidt moaned gently and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. A new voice came on the telephone; crisp and sharp and authoritative.

‘Hallo, yes, can I help you? This is the Executive Service here,
IV/2a
.’

Once again Stahlschmidt tripped and tumbled through his story. Even to his prejudiced ears, it no longer seemed to have any ring of truth or probability about it.

‘So who signed this pass?’ the voice demanded.

‘Herr Standartenführer Paul Bielert,’ croaked Stahlschmidt, and he humbly inclined his head to the telephone.

‘You can drop the “Herr”!’ snapped the voice. ‘we gave up that plutocratic fawning a long time ago.’

Stahlschmidt at once let loose a flowing string of apologies and excuses, almost prostrating himself across the desk as he did so.

‘If you’ve quite finished?’ said the voice. I’ll hand you over to the Standartenführer himself.’

Stahlschmidt gave a terrified yelp. The telephone went dead. He looked at the hated instrument and knew a moment of intense desire. If he could only wrench it away from the wall and hurl it into the courtyard, might not all his troubles be ended? Or perhaps if he were to be taken suddenly ill . . . he felt ill. He did feel ill. He felt very ill—

‘Hallo?’

Stahlschmidt clutched in terror at his throat.

‘H-hal-hallo?’

‘This is Paul Bielert speaking. What can I do for you?’

The voice was low and agreeable; kind and soft and somehow inviting. For one rash, mad moment Stahlschmidt was almost tempted to make a full confession of his folly, to grovel and to sob and to go down on his knees. Instead, he opened his mouth and began jabbering the utmost futilities into the telephone. The story fell out pell mell, disjointed and rushing forth at a hectic pace. At one moment he was declaring on oath he had known straight away that the signature had been forged; the next moment he was flatly contradicting himself by saying that even now he was unsure on the point and wanted only to check up. He denounced Rinken, he denounced Rotenhausen, he denounced the entire prison staff. They were all lazy, useless, deceitful bastards and hadn’t a clue. He, Alois Stahlschmidt, was left to carry the can for everyone. He was left to—