Surprisingly, Frankie shook her head.
“We have no time and we cannot get to the place where it is. We must try again.”
The Saint gave her a long incredulous stare. It was not like Frankie to give up so easily.
“All right,” he said finally. “Let’s get out of here then. I have my own special entrance and exit.”
He led her up the main staircase.
He had intended dealing with the trooper outside the secretary’s office in the same way as he had handled the soldiers guarding the dungeon, but the man was no longer there. Simon turned to lead Frankie into the office, and then the door opened.
They found themselves staring into the muzzle of a Mauser machine pistol held by a grim-faced SS corporal.
3
The man lowered his weapon at the sight of the Saint’s uniform, and his eyes widened when he saw Frankie.
“Was geschieht, bitte?” he asked.
“I am from Central Kontrolle,” Simon replied easily. “I have been sent to take the Frau Gräfin back with me. She is an important prisoner. Air Marshal Göring himself wishes to see her in Berlin.” He leered professionally. “She is a pretty woman, yes? And the Marshal likes the girls. Perhaps that is the reason.”
The soldier remained suspicious.
“Your papers, please sir,” he demanded respectfully but firmly.
There were some papers in the inner pocket of the tunic the Saint was wearing, but Simon felt sure there was no point in trying to pass himself off with them: they would undoubtedly include a photograph which would not resemble him in the least. He must stick to his role of an emissary from Berlin.
“My papers are in my car,” he said brusquely. “If you will come along with me to the courtyard I will show them to you.”
“To the courtyard?” repeated the corporal.
“Certainly, to the courtyard. I was on my way to see your chief. He will be interested to know why my visit has been delayed.”
For a moment the soldier looked uncertain.
“You say you come from the Air Marshal in Berlin, sir?” he asked. “But he is...”
A curious look came into his eyes and he did not finish his sentence.
“Exactly,” said the Saint crisply, “and therefore my mission is urgent. I wish to see your superior officer.”
The man smiled, and the Saint did not like that smile. It was the expression of someone who knows something to his own advantage and to someone else’s detriment. The someone else in this case could only be the Saint. At any rate, that was the way Simon figured it, and he had a habit of being right.
“Very well, sir,” said the soldier, “then we will go together.”
He motioned with his gun for the Saint and Frankie to precede him down the stairs.
Simon did not budge.
“I understand this is his office,” he said coldly.
“It is, sir, but he is not there. I have just been to look for him myself. We will go to the Kommandant’s office. He is the man you should be seeing anyway.”
His eyes were cunning and malicious. The Saint liked him less and less and felt sorry for his wife. But then perhaps her eyes were cunning and malicious too. The corporal had the self-satisfied air of one who could already feel the stripes of a Feldwebel on his sleeve.
Suddenly, Frankie took off on her own. The Saint cursed inwardly. A moment later he did so outwardly. Frankie dashed for the stairs and the soldier fired a shot in the air.
Simon had to admire the way the man kept his head. It would obviously be awkward for him if he had to report that he had killed this prize prisoner, but it would be even more awkward if he had to announce that she had escaped. If the warning shot failed to halt her, he would have to try to do so by shooting her in the leg.
Frankie kept on going. The soldier aimed his gun at her.
There was nothing for it. The Saint saw what he must do. People were always amazed at how quickly such a big man could move when he wanted to. Greased lightning wasn’t in it. Greased time was more like it. One moment he was standing some feet from the soldier and the next, without any apparent movement, he was astride his prone body. The soldier would never be able to recall exactly what had happened, but for some time his slumber would be untroubled by that problem.
Simon grinned rather mirthlessly at Frankie, who had halted in her tracks.
“Magnificent,” he said. “Also magnificently stupid. And for Christ’s sake, will you stop sticking your neck out and hoping that I’ll manage to catch the axe.”
He was interrupted from elaborating the lecture by shouts from above and the clattering of feet on the stairs.
They had no choice but to flee downwards. They dashed down the stairs into the front hall. This did not solve their dilemma. They could go through one of the doors which led to other parts of the castle and try to hide somewhere, but it was certain that there would be a thorough search of the whole premises and that would inevitably lead to their capture. It looked as if there was nothing for it but to carry on into the courtyard and hope somehow to be able to bluff the sentry at the gate.
The Saint opened the great front door and they slipped through. He closed the door instantly behind them, in the hope that the pursuit would be left briefly without a clue as to which way they had gone.
“Take it easy, old girl,” he said to Frankie. “Pretend we belong here.”
“But I do,” Frankie said with a smile.
Simon took her arm and marched her boldly out from the sheltering archway into the open courtyard.
His first impression was that there was a Staff car parked in the shadows on one side of the square, with a chauffeur in Luftwaffe uniform industriously polishing the windshield. This was corrected when he realised it could not possibly be a Staff car, since it was a Delage D8 100 Mouette saloon with the famous special body by Henri Chapron — not the sort of car which an ordinary officer of the German army, or even the SS, would have at his disposal. It must belong to someone special.
The Saint scanned the courtyard as he walked towards it. Aside from the parading guard by the gate the place was empty. Then suddenly a door in the side wing on his left opened and two men came out.
One was a slim elegant figure in an SS uniform with a colonel’s insignia. Simon guessed he was the Kommandant of the Castle. He indicated by his posture and general manner extreme deference towards his companion, a large jolly-looking man in a peaked cap and a greatcoat with two rows of medals hung on it in violation of the usual regulations for the wearing of decorations.
There was no mistaking the Prime Minister of Prussia, Chief of the Luftwaffe, and, so rumour had it, Director of the Four Year Plan for War Preparations. And he knew now why that officious corporal had become so smug.
For Simon Templar it was suddenly spring. It was a lovely day and everything was happening just right. There was nothing that would lend more zest to that moment than an encounter with one of the most formidable chiefs of the Nazi Reich. It struck him that the Air Marshal’s presence in the Castle could even be connected with the Hapsburg Necklace. Simon’s earlier improvisations might have hit the nail on the head. The Nazi leader might want to find the Necklace for the benefit of the Third Reich, but he was also known to be a greedy and insatiable collector of art and antiques. The Necklace might well end up round his wife’s neck — or perhaps even his own, in view of his well-known liking for decorations. Unless they knew what it was, nobody would ask any questions. Even if anyone did, this man’s power and influence were sufficient to ensure that such questions were not asked out loud.