His hollow eyes had followed the Carpathians and were fixed on the eagle doors. Sourly, the soldier turned away and spat on the floor. As he hunched forwards to hawk, his upper body shook badly. Having emptied his throat and nose, he sank back slowly into the couch.
'This is absurd,' Ewers said. 'Such foolishness will not go unrewarded, Herr Poe. Of that you can be ...'
The clerk emerged again and looked at them.
'Ach,' Ewers was delighted, 'at last.'
'Baumer,' the clerk said, voice ringing. 'Feldwebel Paul Baumer.'
Ewers was enraged at being passed over again. He looked about for the unfortunate sergeant, ready to breathe fire in his face.
'Paul Baumer,' the clerk said again.
No one came forwards. Poe looked at the soldier and saw the last flutter of his closing eyes.
'I think this man is Baumer,' he said, looking.
The clerk tutted disapproval as his attention was called to the messenger from the front.
'Feldwebel Baumer,' he said, 'you may go in now.'
Baumer's shoulders moved but he could not lift himself. His despatch slipped from under his arm and plumped on to the marble floor.
'This is absurd,' Ewers said, as if Baumer were personally blocking his path to Dr Mabuse's office.
Poe could tell, from the change in the smell of Baumer's blood, that the man had died. His grip on his stomach relaxed and his arms eased away from his wet midriff. An insect landed on his hand and opened its wings, showing itself to be a butterfly. The clerk brushed the butterfly away as he checked the man's stilled pulse. He summoned attendants to remove the corpse. Blood pooled in the indentations Baumer left in the couch. The diplomat, indifferent to the death, caught the butterfly in his hand, considered its markings, then popped it into his mouth.
The desk seemed to cover the breadth of a tennis court. Dr Mabuse's chair was elevated so he could peer over his expanse of polished wood and gaze down on the heads of those seated on the other side. The Director of the Press and Intelligence Division displayed an obvious need for others to look up to him. Poe noted him to be a man of small stature.
Dr Mabuse had white, flyaway hair and the red eyes of a newborn who drinks too much. He wore a surgical white tunic, the Imperial Order of the Iron Cross on a black ribbon around his neck. To the evident disgust of Ewers, the director exclaimed in delight at meeting Herr Edgar Allan Poe.
'I no longer use my stepfather's name, Doktor. Edgar Poe was I born, and am I again. The memory of John Allan need trouble us nevermore.'
Dr Mabuse's eyes gleamed. 'You were an inspiration to me, Herr Poe. Your tales, "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" and "Mesmeric Revelations", excited my fascination with the hypnotic arts.'
Before the war, before turning, Mabuse had been an authority on the subject of mesmerism, lowering himself to public displays. Naturally, a man of his talents and influence was in charge of propaganda.
'All wars need heroes, Herr Poe. This war most of all. Since they tend by nature to be unforthcoming, all heroes need to be publicised.'
Dr Mabuse spoke as if delivering a speech. Lamps on his desk made a shadowed mask of his face, bringing out the glow in his eyes. Early in the war, Dr Mabuse had toured gymnasia, addressing students. It was not uncommon for an audience to enlist en masse following one of his lectures.
'You have heard, of course, of Manfred von Richthofen.'
'The flier?'
'The flier. Our premier warrior of the air. Seventy-two victories.'
Poe had always been interested in the possibilities of man-powered flight. When warm, he had written The Balloon Hoax', and in The Battle of St Petersburg he had predicted the use in battle of airships and fighter aeroplanes.
'It is the crowing claim of the Allies that they are our masters in the air over the Western Front,' said Dr Mabuse, lips curving in a one-sided smile. 'Before spring, that will change.'
'Germany has better aeroplanes,' Ewers muttered.
'Germany has better men. This is the secret of our victory. No matter what mechanical devices are ranged against us, we Germans will prevail through the strength of our spirit.'
Dr Mabuse took a document from his desk drawer and slid it across his desk. Poe caught it and looked.
It was the mock-up of a book cover. Der rote Kampfflieger, by Manfred, Rittmeister Freiherr von Richthofen. The Red Battle Flier. The rough illustration showed a batwinged red shadow over a falling enemy aeroplane.
'Richthofen has written his autobiography?'
'The Freiherr is a fighter, not a man of letters. If his story is to be told, it will require a great spinner of tales. You, Herr Poe.'
He began to understand what was to be asked of him.
'You want me to ghost this book?'
'To "ghost"? Exactly. You shall be Richthofen's ghost.'
Ewers hovered in the shadows of the office. Poe wondered what his part in this was. If H.H. Ewers was so great a writer, why was he not clamouring for this honour?
'Herr Ewers will be on hand as a native German-speaker to serve as editor, should you need him.'
Ewers's brows contracted darkly. His pretended importance evaporated by the moment. It seemed he was less doppelgänger than messenger boy.
'Transport has been arranged to the Château du Malinbois, where Richthofen is stationed with his Jagdgeschwader 1. Our modest hero has consented to be interviewed at length. Use his words if you can, but work them up into something more than a set of dry war stories. To be frank, my experience is that true heroes tend to the tedious. Capture the truth but put your own shine on it, Herr Poe. Let us have some of the spirit of your tales. Thrilling battles, extreme characters, hairsbreadth escapes. The book will be useless if nobody wishes to read it.'
Anonymity did not bother Poe. Considering his current doubts, it might be best if this were not generally known to be his composition. He was unsure if he could even manage low hack-work. But he had always been as much a journalist as a poet. If anything remained of his ragged muse, it could be stirred to this purpose.
'You must to work fast. Events are moving swiftly, as you will find when you reach the front ...'
The front! The Château du Malinbois was in the thick of the war. He would be in the glory of battle. Not as a soldier, but as a poet, he would take himself to war. This was a chance to right the wrong of The Battle of St Petersburg. If the world disappointed him, the world must be shaped to his liking.
'You must catch Richthofen's past but also tell of his present. As Germany retakes the air, you will be there to set the victories in stone for posterity.'
The director's voice was soothing and persuasive. Poe felt stirrings in his breast. A door opening in his mind: words would soon pour from him again. He stood to attention and saluted.
'Dr Mabuse, I shall endeavour to perform my duties, for the glory of the Kaiser and to the betterment of the cause of the Central Powers.'
'Herr Poe, that is all we can ask of you.'
11
What Kate Did Next
She did not give the warm fellows cause to notice her, but her nosferatu senses were athrill. With the distraction of the air raid, Charles and his associate, Edwin Winthrop, should not catch her out. However, the tall, heavily moustached vampire watching over them was formidable. It was hard to stay on the track and not get mixed up with Dravot's boots. Of old, the sergeant was often found near Charles. Now his attentions were transferred to the younger officer. In itself, that was suggestive.