card out of the window. ‘Captain Süssmann is expecting me.’
The Vopo examined the card by torchlight and nodded. ‘Straight on to the main courtyard. I’ll telephone through and tell them you’re on your way.’
Van Buren drove on, along the dark tunnel. There was a barrier at the far end, another sentry who examined his identity card again before raising the pole and allowing him through. Security was thorough enough, or so it seemed.
He drove across the inner courtyard and braked to a halt at the foot of a row of wide stone steps rising to a massive wooden door
which stood open. A small group of Vopos waited to greet him. Two privates holding lanterns, a sergeant and a young man whose uniform carried a captain’s tabs.
The captain saluted as Van Buren got out of the car. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Herr Professor. Hans Süssmann.’ He nodded to the sergeant, a large, brutal-looking man. ‘Becker.’
Van Buren looked up at the dark bulk of the Schloss. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘The place has its own power plant from the days when it was an army group headquarters. The dynamo is giving trouble. Nothing serious. There are a couple of electricians working on it now.’
Van Buren took out a leather case and selected a cigarette. Süssmann offered him a light. The American said, ‘You’ve had your orders from Colonel Klein? You understand the situation here?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘How many men have you got?’
‘Twenty. All hand picked.’
‘Good. Let’s go in.’
The entrance hall was impressive, a marble staircase lifting into the darkness above. A silver candelabrum stood on the table in the centre with half a dozen lighted candles in it. A short, stocky man stood there. His dark beard was flecked with grey, his hair tangled, and the elbows of his old tweed jacket were crudely patched.
‘This is Berg,’ Süssmann said. ‘The caretaker. The place hasn’t been occupied for any official purpose since the war.’
Van Buren said to Berg, ‘We spoke on the telephone earlier. You’ve done as I said?’
‘Yes, Herr Professor.’
‘Good – I’ll see Conlin now.’
Süssmann nodded to Berg, who picked up the candelabrum and led the way up the marble stairs. As they followed. Van Buren said, ‘What’s the situation in the village?’
‘Population, one hundred and fifty-three – agricultural workers in the main. The local innkeeper is the mayor – George Ehrlich. He’s Berg’s brother-in-law. There has never been any trouble here – not from anyone. Oh, there
are a handful of monks in the old farm at the bottom of the hill by the river.’
‘Good God!’ Van Buren said, genuinely astonished.
‘Franciscans. Berg says they supply the village with milk.’
They were passing along an upper corridor now, the light from the candelabrum in Berg’s hand throwing shadows on the walls.
At the far end, two guards stood outside a door. Süssmann unlocked it. Van Buren said, ‘I’ll see him alone first.’
‘As you wish, Herr Professor.’
Süssmann opened the door for him. Van Buren took the candelabrum from Berg and moved inside.
It was a fairly ornate bedroom with a painted ceiling. Conlin was crouched at the end of the bed, his wrists handcuffed to one of the legs. He glanced up, blinking in the sudden light. Van Buren stood there, the candelabrum held high, looking down at him. He placed it carefully on the floor and
squatted, taking out a cigarette and lighting it.
‘I understand you smoke rather heavily.’
‘It’s been said.’
Van Buren placed the cigarette between the old priest’s lips. ‘Enjoy it while you can. The last for a long time. My name is Harry Van Buren. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Oh yes,’ the old man said calmly. ‘I think you could say that. Thought reform – an interesting concept.’
‘You know what to expect then.’
‘You’re wasting your time, boy.’ Conlin smiled. ‘I’ve been worked on by experts.’
‘Not really,’ Van Buren said. ‘You only think you have.’ He took the cigarette from Conlin’s mouth, turned to the door and opened it. He handed the candelabrum to Berg and said to Süssmann, ‘We’ll take him below now.’
At the rear of the main staircase in the great hall an oak door gave access to the lower reaches of the Schloss.
As he unlocked it. Berg said. ‘There are three levels, as I explained to you on the telephone, Herr Professor, dating back to the fourteenth century.’
They descended a long flight of stone steps and then a tunnel which sloped into darkness before them. Berg led the way, holding a lantern, and Van Buren and Süssmann followed, Becker bringing up the rear with Conlin between two Vopos.
Berg had to unlock two gates to reach the lowest level. It was very cold now and damp. He paused finally at an iron-bound door and unlocked it. The passageway stretched onwards into darkness.
Van Buren said, ‘Where does that go?’
‘More tunnels, Herr Professor. Dungeons, storage cellars. The place is a rabbit-warren.’
Berg opened the door. Van Buren followed him in and the caretaker held up his lantern. The cell was very old, stone walls smoothed by time, shining with damp. There was no window. The floor was stone-flagged and the only furnishing was an enamel bucket in one corner and an iron cot with no mattress. The
door had a small flap at the bottom for food to be passed through.
‘Is this what the Herr Professor wanted?’
‘Exactly.’ Van Buren turned to Süssmann. ‘Let’s have him inside. No shoes – shirt and pants only and leave the handcuffs on.’
He moved out, ignoring Conlin as Becker and the two guards hustled him in. ‘Nothing to say, Professor?’ the old man called.
‘Why yes, if you like.’ Van Buren turned to face him through the open doorway. ‘Frances Mary. Will that do?’
Conlin’s face sagged, he turned white. Becker and the two guards came out, the sergeant closed the door and locked it.
‘I’ll take the key.’ Van Buren held out his hand for it. ‘And I want a sentry here at all times – understood?’
‘Yes,’ Süssmann said.
‘He stays in here for a week.
