there. There were broken plates, glasses, a stain where wine had been spilt and food lying about. The German plumped me up against the wall.
“‘Now then,’ he shouted, ‘there is some secret about this place. There’s money here or stolen goods. What is it? Where is it? No good your twitching about like that. You’ll tell the truth or you’ll go where your cousin has gone.’
“‘Have you killed him?’ I asked.
“He grinned at me. When I think of that grin I can forgive myself for everything!
“‘You can look for him when I’ve done with you, if you can crawl so far,’ he sneered. ‘You didn’t think when you left him your revolver that I might take a fancy to it, eh?’
“It was then, at that moment, Herr Mildenhall—Herr Blute,” Fritz continued, “that my brain began to work a little. The German’s eyes were red, his face was all patchy. The bottle of wine we had brought, the beer bottles and the brandy bottle were all lying on the floor empty—except for the brandy. There was just that much left of the brandy,” Fritz went on, holding up three fingers. “The German was still half drunk but he was terribly determined. I was sure that he had murdered Johann. There was bloodshed in his eyes when he looked at me. I think he was aching to swing that revolver up into line and shoot me. He began to shuffle a little nearer.
“‘I know nothing about this place,’ I told him. ‘I brought the gentleman who sent you your supper up here. He’s been living in this room.’
“The German jeered at me.
“‘Him live here? What for? To guard something. If he lived here in a hole like this, there’s treasure about. I’ll—’
“He hiccuped. He made noise enough doing it to awaken the dead,” Fritz went on, his face whiter than ever, his eyes glaring. “Then he retched and vomited right across the room. The effort made him stagger. He dropped the revolver.”
They were all three very quiet indeed. Their eyes were fixed upon the chauffeur.
“It was a clumsy thing,” he said. “It rolled over on the floor. I am good on my feet. I jumped. Oh, it was a long jump! I hit my leg against something as I landed. I fell on the revolver—it was in my hand—he was slipping about looking like a great angry devil. There were two chambers gone—four left. I emptied all four into him. The first one only grazed him but the second, third and fourth all went into his chest. He hiccuped once more—and that was the end of him.”
There was silence in the room. Patricia was deathly pale. Blute was wiping the sweat from his forehead. Charles threw open the window.
“Well done, Fritz!” he said calmly. “You were a fool to leave the revolver with your cousin. The rest of your story is good. Now, what about Johann?”
“When I saw that the German was dead,” Fritz went on, “I hurried over to the screen. Johann was lying across the bed. I think they must have been playing cards in that spot for half the pack was scattered about the floor. He had a bad wound on the head and a bullet wound through his shoulder, but he was still breathing. I got him to swallow a little brandy. Then he opened his eyes. I bathed his head and gave him some of the hot coffee. He sat up. Then he told me that the German had stolen up behind him and hit him a blow with a bottle whilst he was sorting his cards. He had taken the revolver, all his money and refused to believe that Johann did not know what treasure was hidden in the place. Johann knew no more than the German did, so in the end, in a sort of half-drunken fury, he shot him.”
“What became of the body?” Charles asked quietly.
“Johann is still alive,” Fritz concluded. “I dragged him out, put him into my cab and drove him to one of the hospitals. I said that I had picked him up on the doorstep of a gay house early this morning. I gave a false name and address, and they took him in.”
“How badly are you hurt, I wonder?”
“I am not hurt much,” Fritz replied. “A bruised leg that will make me limp for a few days—that is all.”
“You have given us matter for thought,” Charles declared, after a brief silence. “Go and sit in your taxicab and read the news, but be sure to keep your car out of sight.”
Fritz took his usual respectful leave.
“Good thing this didn’t happen before,” Charles observed, as soon as the door was closed. “Now tell me, Blute, are there any houses about on the other side of the lane?”
“There couldn’t be a lonelier spot than the district around that extraordinary building,” Blute confided. “Mr. Benjamin refused to sell a yard of the land anywhere near the palace, fortunately.”
Charles drew a sigh of relief.
“Then for a short time,” he proposed, “let us leave the disposal of the dead Gestapo for further consideration. We ought to go right on with the general scheme.”
Patricia looked up from her desk.
“I quite agree,” she said. “I think the next thing we ought to consider is making arrangements for the guards who are travelling with the caskets.”
“Even before that,” Blute suggested, “we must make sure first of securing the van.”
“Where will you make for first when you have crossed the frontier?” asked Charles, studying the map.
“Once in Switzerland,” Blute answered, “I think we might pause and try to find out Mr. Benjamin’s whereabouts. By then I imagine we shall be getting to the end of these heaven-sent resources of yours, Mr. Mildenhall.”
Charles acquiesced.
“It seems a queer thing to me,” he reflected, “that Mr. Benjamin should have succeeded in disappearing so completely.”
“He has disappeared because he is the wisest and most sagacious man I ever met,” Marius Blute said emphatically. “No possible inducement ever succeeded in leading him to commit himself politically in any way. His whole life was an enigma to the Nazis. All that they knew was that long before they were sure of getting hold of Austria he was working like an alchemist getting rid of his fortune and his investments and distributing them all over the world. I know because it was I who was doing it for him, and their agents were on my track every day.”
Charles sauntered to the window and looked across once more at the church clock.
“I suppose you’d think I was mad, Blute, if I suggested that Miss Grey and I take a little stroll,” he remarked.
Blute’s expression for a moment was almost savage. He was, without a doubt, angry.
“In forty-eight hours,” he said, speaking very slowly and very distinctly, “we may be absolutely free to do exactly what we like, we may be in a fortress, we may be dead or we may have brought off one of the most amazing coups the secret service of the lay world has ever known. The greatest danger we have to face is association of the one with the other. How you, Mr. Charles Mildenhall, whom I should call the directing brains of the enterprise, can suggest that in this spot, which is the very centre of Nazi espionage, you and Miss Grey—who is well known as having been the private secretary of Mr. Benjamin—should be seen together in friendly conversation, defeats me.”
“I
