politics, there’s a dear fellow,” Lascelles begged. “I don’t know where the Germans got the idea from,” he added, looking round, “but they always think that Englishmen—especially if they are connected with diplomacy in any way—are nothing but ‘gasbags/ This place is a favourite rendezvous of the Royalists—the few of them that are left. I should think we are certain to have a visit from the Gestapo, unless Victor succeeds in keeping them away. Wish I were going back with you, Charles. Central Europe is getting on my nerves.”
The caviar arrived and with its many et ceteras absorbed the attention of the two men for a time.
“There is no vodka like this in the world,” Lascelles remarked as he sipped it slowly. “Soft as velvet, isn’t it?”
“It’s marvellous,” his friend agreed. “Perfect food, perfect wine and glorious women. Think what would happen to us if anything went wrong with Vienna!”
Lascelles’ face seemed suddenly to have lost all expression. His fingers were toying with the flask of vodka.
“Gestapo!” he murmured under his breath. “The one thing I regret in Vienna just now is the passing of the polo. Since the Hungarian team broke up there hasn’t been a decent game.”
“It’s the County cricket I miss through travelling so much,” Mildenhall observed with equal seriousness. “I saw Yorkshire play twice last year but I missed the West Indian Test Match. Free hitting and lots of it—that’s the type of cricket I like to see.”
Four members of the Gestapo—brawny, muscular young men with evil faces—stood in the middle of the restaurant talking to a very solemn-faced Victor. One of them detached himself and strolled in leisurely fashion about the place gazing insolently at the diners. Before one of the least conspicuous tables, where a man was dining alone, he stopped. The man continued to eat, taking apparently no notice of what was going on around him. The intruder knocked on the table with his knuckles. The diner looked up and asked what seemed to be a simple question. The S.S. man shouted at him angrily. His voice was heard all over the room.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Behrling—Antoine Behrling,” was the distinctly spoken reply.
“Your papers!”
The man looked up.
“It is not necessary for me to carry papers,” he said. “I am Viennese.”
“You are a Jew,” the other declared angrily.
The diner shrugged his shoulders.
“I am nothing of the sort,” he answered. “I am a Catholic.”
“We’ll see about that!”
Victor came hurrying across the room. It evidently cost him an effort to speak politely.
“This gentleman,” he said, “is a well-known lawyer. His name is Behrling and he is not the kind of person you are looking for at all.”
“How do you know?”
Victor turned away. The man looked after him scowling.
“If you’re a lawyer, why didn’t you say so?” he asked, turning back to the table.
“You did not ask me my profession.”
“Do not leave your place until I give you permission!”
The Nazi swaggered across the room towards where his companions were standing. They had a final look round, discussed Behrling for a moment but the apparent leader of the little band shook his head.
“A lucky night for you, Victor,” one of the younger men remarked.
“Not particularly,” was the quiet reply. “It is not a matter of chance at all. I have no patrons who would be likely to interest you.”
“No impudence!” the sergeant snapped, pointing to a table. “Send us four glasses of beer over there.”
“I regret,” Victor said, “that we do not serve beer in this restaurant.”
“You’ll serve what I order!” was the angry retort.
It was several moments before Victor spoke again. When he did so his voice seemed to have faded away. It was raised scarcely above a whisper. It was none the less impressive.
“We natives and citizens of Vienna,” he said, “are well aware of the danger in which we stand. In a very short time you may be within your rights in forcing your way into a hundred-year-old restaurant and demanding that its rules shall be broken and that you shall occupy a table unbecomingly clothed. But tonight I am still master here. The Chief of the Police of the city has booked a table here to-night and is already due, so you will be able to state your grievances in a few minutes. Until that time comes you will kindly take your leave.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. The situation was beginning to present difficulties.
“What if we order champagne?” one of the men blustered.
“I should still refuse to serve you here as guests,” Victor announced. “I should also warn you that my champagne is very expensive.”
Herr Antoine Behrling seemed to have been entirely forgotten. The four men swaggered out of the place. Victor watched them leave, waiting until he heard the door close behind them. Then he returned, making his way towards his office. Lascelles leaned forward towards him as he passed their bôite. The words of congratulation, however, died away upon his lips. He could see that the restaurateur was still shivering.
“Bravely done, Victor,” he said pleasantly. “We shall enjoy all the more your most wonderful dinner.”
“I have never tasted anything to compare with your young deer,” Mildenhall declared. “As for your Chateau Mouton-Rothschild—it has a fault.”
Nothing could have galvanized Victor more suddenly into his ordinary self.
“It was perhaps a little overwarm?” he suggested anxiously.
“Not in the least, my friend,” his patron assured him. “But for wine drinkers—”
“Yes?”
“One bottle!”
A smile broke across Victor’s lips. He was himself again. He drew a little silver thermometer from his pocket.
“Five minutes, gentlemen. It shall be no longer,” he assured them. “I will guarantee you exactly the same temperature.”
On their way out the Archduke summoned them. He shook hands with both.
“My friend Lascelles I often see,” he remarked. “We play bridge sometimes at the club. You, Mr. Mildenhall, are more of a stranger. I believe, though, that we have met.”
“I have had the honour of dining with you, sir, two years ago, after a shooting party near your Schloss>,” Mildenhall reminded him.
“Of
