‘You are of the SS, monsieur?’ Dissard asked.
‘I should think that was obvious,’ Schellenberg told him.
‘But the premises have already been inspected, monsieur, the other day. An officer in a similar uniform to your own.’
‘Do you recall his name?’
‘He said he was a major.’ The old man frowned, trying. ‘His face was bad on one side.’
Schellenberg said calmly, ‘Berger? Was that his name?’
Dissard nodded eagerly. ‘That’s it, monsieur, Major Berger. His French was very bad.’
Asa said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘He’s telling us someone’s been here before us. An SS major named Berger,’ Devlin said.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Oh, intimately, particularly his nose, but I’ll explain later.’
Schellenberg said, ‘Then you are aware that these premises are required in the near future. I would appreciate a conducted tour.’
‘The Chateau has been closed since nineteen forty, monsieur. My master, the Comte de Beaumont, went to England to fight the Boche.’
‘Really?’ Schellenberg said drily. ‘So, let’s get on with it. We’ll go upstairs and work down.’
The old man looked up the staircase in front of them. There were innumerable bedrooms, some with four-posters, the furniture draped in sheets, two doors leading to separate wings so long disused that the dust lay thick on the floor.
‘Mother of God, is this the way the rich live?’ Devlin asked as they went down. ‘Have you seen how far it is to the bathroom?’
Schellenberg noticed a door at one end of the landing above the entrance. ‘What’s through there?’
‘I’ll show you, monsieur. Another way into the dining hall.’
They found themselves in a long dark gallery above a massive room. The ceiling had arched oaken beams. Below was a massive fireplace in a medieval pattern. In front of it was an enormous oak table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Battle standards hung above the fireplace.
They went down the stairs and Schellenberg said, ‘What are the flags?’
‘Souvenirs of war, monsieur. The de Beaumonts have always served France well. See, in the centre there, the standard in scarlet and gold. An ancestor of the count carried that at Waterloo.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Devlin commented. ‘I always thought they lost that one.’
Schellenberg looked around the hall, then led the way out through high oak doors back into the entrance hall.
‘I have seen enough. What did Major Berger say to you?’
‘That he would be back, monsieur.’ The old man shrugged. ‘One week, maybe two.’
Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No one must know we have been here, my friend, especially Major Berger.’
‘Monsieur?’ Dissard looked puzzled.
Schellenberg said, This is a matter of the greatest secrecy and of considerable importance.’
‘I understand, monsieur.’
‘If the fact that we had been here came out, the source of the information would be obvious.’ He patted Dissard’s desk with his gloved hand. ‘This would be bad for you.’
The old man was thoroughly frightened. ‘Monsieur _ please. Not a word. I swear it.’
They went out to the Kubelwagen and drove away. Devlin said, ‘Walter, you can be a cold-blooded bastard when you want to be.’
‘Only when necessary.’ Schellenberg turned to Asa. ‘Can we get back to Berlin tonight?’
The light was already fading, dark clouds dropping towards the sea and rain drifted in across the wet sands.
‘Possible,’ Asa said. ‘If we’re lucky. We might have to overnight at Chernay. Get off first thing in the morning.’
Devlin said, ‘What a prospect.’ He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and lit a cigarette. ‘The glamour of war.’
On the following afternoon, Devlin was delivered to the UFA film studios for his appointment with the chief makeup artist. Karl Schneider was in his late forties, a tall broad-shouldered man who looked more like a dock worker than anything else.
He examined a passport-type photo which Devlin had had taken. ‘You say this is what they’ve got on the other side?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s not much, not for a policeman looking for a face in the crowd. When would you be going?’
Devlin made the decision then for himself, for Schellenberg, for all of them. ‘Let’s say two or three days from now.’