‘Now I know why I left Montana, boss.’ His voice held something of the dazed quality on his face. ‘It wasn’t because of the horses after all.’
‘Your mind on the job if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.’ Smith looked thoughtfully after the girl, rubbed his chin and said slowly: ‘Barmaids know more about what’s going on in their own manor than any chief of police–and that one looks as if she might know more than most. Yes, I’ll do that.’
‘Do what?’ Schaffer asked suspiciously.
Try to get next to her.’
‘I saw her first,’ Schaffer said plaintively.
‘You can have the next dance,’ Smith promised. The levity of the words were belied by the cool watchful expression on his face as his eyes constantly travelled the room. ‘When you get your drinks, circulate. See if you can hear any mention of Carnaby or Reichsmarschall Rosemeyer.’
He caught sight of an empty chair by a corner table, moved across and sat in it, nodding politely to a rather bleary-eyed Alpenkorps captain deep in what appeared to be rather ù patronising conversation with two lieutenants. The captain showed no more than a brief recognition of his presence and, as far as Smith could tell, no other person present was showing the slightest interest in either himself or his companions. The accordion band finished its stint more or less on the same note and at the same time and the singing of ‘Lili Marlene’ died away. For long seconds there was a profound and nostalgic.silence, four hundred men alone with Lili Marlene under the barrack gate lantern, then, as if on cue, a babel of voices broke out all over the room: four hundred men with unfinished litre jugs do not remain sentimental for overly long.
He caught sight of the girl returning with six Steinbechers on a tray, pushing her way through the crowd and fending off admirers with a practised hand. She gave drinks to Smith’s men who immediately but unostentatiously broke up and began to wander away into different parts of the room. The girl looked around, located Smith, smiled brightly, crossed to his table, and put the Steinbecher on it. Before she could straighten, Smith put his arm around her waist and pulled her on to his knee. The Jager captain across the table broke off his conversation, stared’ across in startled disapproval, opened his mouth as if to speak, caught Smith’s discouraging glance, decided to mind his own business and resumed his conversation. Smith,, in his turn, looked away, squeezed the girl’s waist, patted her knee and smiled what he hoped was a winning smile.
‘And what might your name be, my Alpine rose?’ His voice had a slightly slurred edge to it.
‘Heidi.’ She struggled to rise, but didn’t really put her heart into it. ‘Please, Major. I have work to do.’
“There is no more important work than entertaining soldiers of the Fatherland,’ Smith said loudly. Holding Heidi firmly to forestall any attempt at escape, he took a long pull at his beer, then continued, quietly now, the mug still in front of his face: ‘Shall I sing you a song?’
‘What song?’ Heidi asked warily. ‘I hear too much singing.’
‘I whistle better than I sing. Listen.’ He whistled, very softly the first two bars of ‘Lorelei’. ‘Do you like that?’
Heidi stiffened and stared but immediately relaxed and smiled at him coquettishly.
‘It’s very nice, Major. And I’m sure “you have a beautiful singing voice, too.’
Smith put his Steinbecher down with an unsteady bang that brought more disapproval from the other side of the table then lifted his hand to wipe the froth from his lips. Heidi smiled down at him, but the wary eyes weren’t smiling.
Smith said from behind his hand: “The men at the bar? The civilians? Don’t turn round.’
‘Gestapo.’ She made another apparently futile attempt to free herself. ‘From the castle.’
‘One’s a lip-reader.’ Smith had the Steinbecher in front of his face again. ‘I can tell. They’re watching. Your room in five minutes. Hit me good and Heidi stared at him in bewilderment, then yelped in pain as he pinched her, far from gently. She drew back, her right hand came over in a round-house swing and the sound of the slap could be heard clear across the crowded room, cutting sharply through the deep buzz of conversation. The voices died away, Steinbechers remained poised half-way towards lips, and every eye in the room turned until it was focused on the scene of the disturbance. Smith now had the exclusive and undivided attention of close on four hundred German soldiers which was exactly how he wanted it: no man anxious to avoid attention at all costs would ever do anything to incur the slightest risk of drawing that unwanted attention.
Heidi pushed herself to her feet, rubbed herself tenderly, snatched up the note which Smith had earlier placed on the table and stalked haughtily away. Smith, his already reddening face discomfited and tight in anger, rose, made to leave the table then halted when confronted by the Jager captain who had already risen from his side of the table. He was a spruce, erect youngster, very much of the Hitler Jugend type, punctilious and correct but at that moment rather suffering from the effect of too many Steinbechers. Beneath the redly-dulled eyes lay a gleam which bespoke the not uncommon combination of self-importance and officious self-righteousness.
‘Your conduct does not become an officer of the Wehrmacht,’ he said loudly.
Smith did not reply at once. The embarrassed anger faded from his face to be replaced by an expressionlessly penetrating stare. He gazed unwinkingly into the captain’s eyes for so long that the other finally looked away. When Smith’s voice came it was too quiet to be heard even at the next table.
‘Herr Major, when you talk to me, little man.’ The tone was glacial: so now were also the eyes. ‘Major Bernd Himmler. You may have heard of me?’
He paused significantly and the young captain seemed to shrink perceptibly before his eyes. Himmler, head of the Gestapo, was the most feared man in Germany. Smith could have been any relative of Himmler, possibly even his son.
‘Report to me at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning,’ Smith said curtly. He swung away without waiting for an answer. The Alpenkorps captain, suddenly very sober indeed, nodded wordlessly and sank wearily into his chair. As Smith strode towards the door the hubbub of conversation resumed. For the soldiers stationed in that remote military outpost, drinking beer, very large quantities of beer, was the only pastime: such incidents were no sooner seen than forgotten.
On his way to the door Smith stopped briefly by Schaffer and said: ‘Well, I fouled that one up.’
‘You could have handled it differently,’ Schaffer conceded, then went on curiously: ‘What did you say to him? The young Alpine Corps captain, I mean.’
‘I gave him to understand that I was Himmler’s son.’
‘The Gestapo boss?’ Schaffer asked incredulously. ‘God above, you took a chance.’
‘I couldn’t afford to take a chance,’ Smith said cryptically. ‘I’ll go try the “Eichhof”. Better luck there, maybe. Back in ten minutes. Less.’
He left Schaffer looking uncertainly after him, made an urgent negative move of his hand towards Carraciola, who was approaching him, and passed outside. He moved a few paces along the wooden boardwalk, stopped and glanced briefly up and down the snow-filled street. It was deserted in both directions. He turned and walked quickly up a narrow alleyway which paralleled the side of ‘Zum Wilden Hirsch’. At the rear stood a small wooden hut. Smith checked again that he was unobserved, opened the door quietly.
‘Eight o’clock,’ he said into the darkness. ‘Come on.”
There was a rustle of clothes and Mary appeared in the doorway. She was shivering violently, her face blue-tinged with the extreme cold. She looked questioningly at Smith but he took her arm without a word and led her quickly to the back door of the Gasthaus. They entered a small hallway, dimly lit by an oil lamp, crossed it, climbed a flight of stairs, moved along a corridor and stopped at the second door on the right. They passed swiftly inside, Smith closing the door behind him.
It was a small room, plainly furnished, but from the chintz soft furnishings and toilet articles on a dressing-table, very obviously a feminine room. Mary sat down on the bed, hugging herself tightly to try to restore some warmth and looked up at Smith without any admiration in her face.
‘I hope you’re enjoying your little game,’ she said bitterly. ‘Seem to know your way around, don’t you?’
‘Instinct,’ Smith explained. He stooped over the low-burning oil lamp by the bed, turned up the flame, glanced briefly about the room, located a battered leather case in one corner, swung it to the bed and snapped open the lid. The case contained women’s clothing. He pulled Mary to her feet and said : ‘Don’t waste time. Take off your clothes. And when I say that, I mean your clothes. Every last stitch. Then get into that top outfit there. You’ll find everything you need.’.