A little distance away loomed a large building. He could barely make out a sign on the front.
JÄGERHOF.
The hotel.
It was a chance he had to take….
The night porter rose from a chair behind the reception desk when he saw the two men enter the empty hotel vestibule. He began to button the green collar on his threadbare dark-blue tunic, but stopped when he got a better look at the two late visitors. They were hardly potential guests. He eyed them suspiciously.
“Guten Abend,” Kieffer said pleasantly.
“Was wollen Sie?” the porter said sourly. “What do you want?”
He scowled at them with mean little eyes; he had bushy brows and an equally luxuriant mustache — a real Schnurrbart.
“I wonder if you could be of help to us,” Kieffer said politely. “We are trying to locate a gentleman named Decker. Johann Decker. He is an important man. With important friends. He is to leave town tomorrow morning early, and we are supposed to fetch some boxes from his house. For storage.”
He glanced at the porter. The man looked bored. Unfriendly. He went on.
“Unfortunately, we have forgotten the number of his house. It is, however, on Ostbahnhofstrasse. Perhaps you know this man? Perhaps you could tell us where he lives?”
The porter shook his head impatiently.
“I know no such man,” he said coldly.
Kieffer sighed.
“That is too bad.” He carefully pulled out a half-full pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and placed them on the counter. The porter's beady eyes grew round. He stared at the treasure.
“Herr Decker is a generous man,” Kieffer said. “He gave us a whole pack of real American cigarettes. On account. He had them from the colonel who took them from a war prisoner.” He laughed. “They are lucky, die Kerle—those fellows who get to the Ami prisoners first — not so…?”
The porter nodded — mesmerized by the crumpled pack of cigarettes.
“Ah, well,” Kieffer sighed again. “It is pity you cannot help us.”
He picked up the cigarettes and started away.
“Moment mal!” The porter's voice was hoarse with greed. “Just a moment!”
Kieffer turned back. He held the pack of cigarettes in plain view.
“Yes?”
The porter scratched his mustache.
“Decker,” he mused aloud, “Decker…”
He looked pointedly at Kieffer.
Kieffer placed the cigarettes on the counter once again.
“Die Witwe Decker—the Widow Decker,” the German said eagerly. “In number one thirty-two. Perhaps—”
“Vielen Dank,” Kieffer interrupted. “Many thanks. We shall try there.”
He turned and left with Marshall.
He did not have to see the cigarettes disappear into the porter's blue tunic.
Ostbahnhofstrasse No. 132 was a modest three-story apartment building. There were name plates in the entry hall on the street level. But no Decker.
Kieffer pressed the little wall button marked LICHT, which would provide a dim light on the stairs for a measured time only. They started up the steps.
A yellowed porcelain plate on a door on the second floor read: S. DECKER
There was a white bell button next to the entrance.
Kieffer motioned Marshall to one side of the door. He reached for the bell button.
The light went out.
Kieffer swore under his breath.
He groped his way in the dark to the landing wall, found the LICHT button and pressed it. They would have another two minutes of light.
He returned to the door.
He pressed the bell button.
Inside, a rasping sound could be heard.
And silence.
Again he pressed the button. Again the rasping sound.
He waited.
He glanced at the dim light bulb overhead on the landing. How much time left? Come on, he thought. Answer the damned bell!
Suddenly a man's voice called from behind the door.
“Wer ist da? — Who is there?”
Kieffer tensed. Automatically he glanced down at the wrinkled civilian raincoat he was wearing.
“Kieffer,” he answered. “Martin Kieffer, Herr Decker.” He took a deep breath. “I am an American Intelligence Officer. I should like to speak with you!”
There was a pause.
Not a sound was heard.
Tensely Kieffer waited.
Suddenly the door opened.
Silhouetted against a dim light in the hallway beyond stood a man.
He wore the long, wide-lapeled, leather greatcoat of a Wehr-macht officer. In his hand he held a gun — aimed directly at Kieffer's belly.
And the light on the landing went out.
3
Kieffer stared at the German.
There was a thin, enigmatic smile on the man's lips. Softly he said:
“I suggest you stand perfectly still.”
Kieffer's mind whirled. Who was this German officer? Why was he there?… Marshall! He almost turned to look for his companion still standing out of sight on the landing. What would he do? Please, no heroics, he prayed. Or I'm dead….
The German slowly backed toward a small side table in the hallway. On it stood a telephone.
Kieffer's thoughts churned.
He watched the German move toward the telephone. The action seemed to be played out in slow motion, a sinister somnambulistic ballet.
He frowned in concentration.
There was something — something he had sensed but not yet consciously recognized. Something out of context.
Suddenly he knew. The hallway floor was bare wood. But there was no sound of the German officer's boots as he moved. Only a soft shuffling.
He looked down.
Below the leather greatcoat he could make out the bottoms of thin, striped pants. And felt slippers on bare feet.
The German reached for the telephone.
“Wait!” Kieffer said, his voice urgent, strained.
The German hesitated.
“You are Professor Decker?” Kieffer asked quickly. “Professor Johann Decker?”
The German nodded curtly.
“I am,” he said.
He picked up the telephone receiver and placed it on the table. His gun never wavered from Kieffer. He gave the handle a short crank, picked up the phone and listened.
He gazed steadily at Kieffer; his enigmatic smile returned.
“Give me the Gestapo!” he said into the phone.
Kieffer acted.
In two strides he was at the table. He pressed down on the phone jack, at once cutting off the German. He reached out and took the receiver from the unresisting man's hand. He replaced it.
The German backed away a step.
Kieffer stared at him. He was suddenly aware that Marshall was crouched in the open doorway behind him, covering the German.
The officer looked back at Kieffer.
“Did you really find this necessary, meine Herren?” he asked bitingly “Did I pass your little test?”
He placed his gun on the table.
“Have I proven my loyalty to your satisfaction?” He sounded bitter.
“Herr Professor,” Kieffer said quietly, “I am an American.”
Without turning around, he continued.
“Jerry. Close the door. Keep him covered.”
He heard the soft click as the front door to the apartment was closed.
The German stared at him, white-faced, his little smile gone.
“I–I do not believe you,” he said, obviously shaken. “You are the Gestapo’ Trying to trick me into betraying pro-American sentiments which I do not possess. You are not—Americans!.. It is impossible!”