The Schirmer Inheritance

9

George’s experience of extreme danger had been gained in the cockpits of heavy bombers and in circumstances for which he had been carefully prepared by long periods of training. Of dangers such as those which lurk behind doors in Macedonian hotels, dangers unrelated to the wearing of a uniform and the organized prosecution of a war, he had had no experience, and neither Princeton nor Harvard Law School had done anything to prepare him for one.

As, therefore, he raised his hands obediently and put them behind his head, he was suddenly aware of an overwhelming, unreasoning, and quite impracticable desire to run away somewhere and hide. He struggled against it for a moment; then the man spoke again and the desire went as suddenly as it had arrived. The blood began to pound unpleasantly in his head.

“That’s right, chum,” the voice was saying soothingly. “Now just go over to the window there and pull the shutters to. Then we’ll have a little light on the scene. Slowly does it. Yes, you’ll have to use your hands, but watch what you do with them or we’ll have an accident. Don’t try calling out or anything, either. All nice and quiet. That’s the ticket.”

George pulled the shutters to, and at the same moment the light in the room went on. He turned.

The man who stood by the light switch, watching him, was in his middle thirties, short and thickset, with dark, thinning hair. His suit was obviously a local product. Just as obviously he was not. The rawboned, snub-nosed face and the sly, insolent eyes originated, as did the Cockney accent, from somewhere within the Greater London area.

“That’s better, eh?” the visitor said. “Now we can see what’s what without the neighbours across the street getting nosy.”

“What the hell’s the idea of all this?” said George. “And who the hell are you?”

“Easy, chum.” The visitor grinned. “No names, no pack drill. You can call me Arthur if you like. It’s not my name, but it’ll do. Lots of people call me Arthur. You’re Mr. Carey, aren’t you?”

“You should know.” George looked at the papers strewn over the bed.

“Ah, yes. Sorry about that, Mr. Carey. I meant to clear it up before you came back. But I didn’t have time for more than a glance. I haven’t taken anything, naturally.”

“Naturally. I don’t leave money in hotel rooms.”

“Oh, what a wicked thing to say!” said the visitor skittishly. “Tongue like a whiplash, haven’t we?”

“Well, if you’re not here for money, what are you here for?”

“A bit of a chat, Mr. Carey. That’s all.”

“Do you usually come calling with a gun?”

The visitor looked pained. “Look, chum, how was I to know you’d be reasonable-finding a stranger in your room? Supposing you’d start yelling blue murder and throwing the furniture about. I had to take precautions.”

“You could have asked for me downstairs.”

The visitor grinned slyly. “Could I? Ah, but maybe you don’t know much about these parts, Mr. Carey. All right”-his tone suddenly became businesslike-“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You promise not to start calling up the management or getting Charlie with me, and I’ll put the gun away. O.K.?”

“All right. But I’d still like to know what you’re doing here.”

“I told you. I want a little private chat. That’s all.” “What about?”

“I’ll tell you.” Arthur put his gun away inside his jacket and produced a packet of Greek cigarettes. He offered them to George. “Smoke, Mr. Carey?”

George produced a packet of his own. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to these.”

“Chesterfields, eh? Long time no see. Mind if I try one?”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He fussed about the business of giving George a light like an over-anxious host. Then he lit his own cigarette and drew on it appreciatively. “Nice tobacco,” he said. “Very nice.”

George sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look,” he said impatiently, “what exactly is this all about? You break into my room, go through my business papers, threaten me with a gun, and then say you only want a private chat. All right, so we’re chatting. Now what?”

“Mind if I sit down, Mr. Carey?”

“Do anything you like, but for Pete’s sake come to the point.”

“All right, all right, give us a chance.” Arthur sat down gingerly on a cane-backed chair. “It’s a private sort of a matter, Mr. Carey,” he said. “Confidential, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t like it to go any further,” he persisted maddeningly.

“I’ve got that.”

“Well now”-he cleared his throat-“I have been given to understand by certain parties,” he said carefully, “that you, Mr. Carey, have been making certain inquiries of a confidential nature in the town.”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon you had a certain conversation with a certain woman who shall be nameless.”

“Madame Vassiotis, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why say she shall be nameless?”

“No names, no pack drill.”

“Oh, all right. Get on.”

“She gave you certain information.”

“What about it?”

“Easy does it, Mr. Carey. Your inquiries were re a certain German N.C.O. named Schirmer. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Do you mind telling me why you are making the said inquiries, Mr. Carey?”

“If you were to tell me first just why you wanted to know, I might tell you.”

Arthur digested this reply for a moment or two in silence.

“And, just to make matters simpler, Arthur,” George added, “I’ll tell you that, although I’m a lawyer, I’m quite capable of understanding ordinary English. So what about letting your hair down and coming to the point?”

Mr. Arthur’s low forehead creased with the effort of thinking. “You see, it’s confidential, that’s the trouble, Mr. Carey,” he said unhappily.

“So you explained. But if it’s so confidential that you can’t talk about it, you’d better go home and let me get some sleep, hadn’t you?”

“Now, don’t talk like that, Mr. Carey. I’m doing my best. Look! If you were to tell me what you want to know about this chap for, I could tell certain persons who might be able to help you.”

“What persons?”

“Persons with information to give.”

“You mean information to sell, don’t you?”

“I said give.”

George examined his guest thoughtfully. “You’re British, aren’t you, Arthur?” he said after a moment. “Or is that confidential?”

Arthur grinned. “Want to hear me speak Greek? I speak it like a native.”

“All right, then. You’re a citizen of the world, then, eh?”

“Goldsmith!” said Arthur unexpectedly.

“Pardon?”

“Oliver Goldsmith,” repeated Arthur; “he wrote a book called The Citizen of the World. We had it at school. Lot of crap about a Chinaman who comes to London and sees the sights.”

“What part of London do you come from, Arthur?”

Arthur wagged a finger coyly. “Ah, naughty, naughty! That would be telling!”

“Afraid I’ll check up on the British War Office lists of troops reported missing in Greece and find out which ones came from where you came from?”

“What do you think, chum?”

George smiled. “O.K., Arthur. Here it is. This man Schirmer I’ve been inquiring about was entitled to some money left by a distant relative of his in America. He was reported missing. I came here really to get confirmation of his death, but I’d also like to know if he ever had any children. That’s all. I found out today that he’s dead.”

“From old Ma Vassiotis?”

“That’s right. And now I’m on my way home.”

“I get it.” Arthur was thinking hard now. “Much money, is there?” he said at last.

“Just enough to make it worth my while coming here.”

“And that little bit of homework you’ve got with you?”

“Miss Kolin, you mean? She’s an interpreter.”

“I get you.” Arthur came to a decision. “Supposing-just supposing, mind-that there was a bit more information you could find out about this German. Would it be worth your while to stay another couple of days?”

“That would depend on the information.”

“Well, supposing he’d had a wife and kids. They’d be in line for the cash, wouldn’t they?”

“Did he have a wife and kids?”

“I’m not saying he did and I’m not saying he didn’t. But just supposing-”

“If there was clear, legal proof of that to be had, I’d certainly stay. But I’m not staying just in order to listen to a lot of unconfirmed hearsay, and I’m not paying out another cent to anyone.”

“Nobody’s asked you to, have they?”

“Not so far.”

“Nasty suspicious nature you got, eh?”

“Yes.”

Arthur nodded gloomily. “Can’t blame you. Tricky lot of sods in this part of the world. Look, if I give you my sacred word of honour that it’ll be worth your while to stay a couple of days, will you do it?”

“You’re asking rather a lot aren’t you?”

“Listen, chum. You’re the one that’s going to get a favour done. Not me!”

“That’s what you say.”

“Well, I can’t do more. Here’s the proposition. Take it or leave it. If you want the information my friends have got, stay here and do what I tell you.”

“And what might that be?”

“Well, first of all, you don’t say one word to that little bastard of a Captain you were chin-wagging with last night. O.K.?”

“Go on.”

“All you do is go to that big café with the yellow blinds next door to the Acropolis Hotel between four and five tomorrow afternoon. Just sit there and have a cup of coffee. That’s all. If you get no message from me while you’re there, it’s all off. If you do get a message, it’ll be an appointment. Just say nothing and keep it.”

“What about the interpreter?”

“If she keeps her mouth shut she can come too.”

“Where would the appointment be?”

“You’d be taken to it by car.”

“I see. Just one question. I’m not exactly timid, but I would like to know a bit more about these friends of yours before I do anything about meeting them. Would they be ELAS people, for instance?”

Arthur grinned. “Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“Maybe not. But I’m not half-witted. You say these friends of yours don’t want money for their information. O.K., what do they want? For that matter, what do you want?”

“Sweet Fanny Adams,” said Arthur cheerfully.

“Let’s quit kidding.”

“All right. Maybe they want to see justice done.”

“Justice?”

“Yes. Ever heard of it?”

“Sure. I’ve heard of kidnapping too.”

“Oh, blimey!” Arthur laughed. “Look, if you’re as nervous as that, chum, forget it.” He stood up. “I’ll have to be getting along now. If you want to come, be at the café tomorrow like I said. Otherwise-” He shrugged.

“O.K. I’ll think about it.”

“Yes, you do that. Sorry to mess up all your papers like that, but I expect you’d sooner tidy them up yourself, really. Bye-bye for now.”

“Good-bye,” said George.

Almost before the word was out of his mouth, Arthur was out of the room and shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

It was not his uncertainty about bedbugs that kept George from sleeping soundly that night.

The café with the yellow blinds was in an exposed position on a busy corner, and everyone sitting in it could be clearly seen from anywhere in the main square: It was, George thought, the very last place he would have associated with the transaction of clandestine business. But then, he was not a practised conspirator. The café’s air of having nothing to conceal was probably its greatest asset. In Arthur’s world, no doubt, such matters were elaborately calculated.

Miss Kolin had listened blandly to George’s account of his interview with Arthur and accepted without comment his decision to postpone their departure. When, however, he had gone on to say that, in view of the possible risks involved, he would leave her to decide for herself whether she would accompany him or not, she had been quite obviously amused.

“Risks, Mr. Carey? But what sort of risks?”

“How should I know?” George was irritated. “The point is that this isn’t exactly the most law-abiding part of the world and this guy Arthur’s way of introducing himself for a cozy chat wasn’t exactly according to Emily Post, was it?”

She had shrugged. “It served its purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Frankly, Mr. Carey, I think that it was a mistake to give the Vassiotis woman so much money.”

“From my point of view, she’d earned it.”

“Your point of view, Mr. Carey, is that of an American lawyer. The points of view of the Vassiotis and her friends are different.”

“I see. You think that this Arthur proposition is just another shakedown then?”

“I do. You gave that Captain a hundred dollars and the Vassiotis fifty. Now Mr. Arthur and his friends would like some dollars, too.”

“He emphasized that there was no question of money involved. I told you.”

“You believed him?”

“All right, then, I’m the prize sucker. But, for some reason, I did believe him. For some reason, equally idiotic no doubt, I still do.”

She had shrugged again. “Then you are right to keep the appointment. It will be interesting to see what happens.”

That had been over breakfast. By lunch-time his confidence in his first estimate of Arthur’s intensions had completely evaporated. Sitting in the café with the yellow blinds, glumly sipping coffee, he had only one consoling thought in his head: no matter what happened, no matter what they did, neither Arthur nor any of Arthur’s friends was going to get one red cent for his trouble.

It was after five o’clock now. The café was three parts empty. Nobody who looked as if he might conceivably have a message to deliver had been near them.

George finished his coffee. “All right, Miss Kolin,” he said, “let’s pay and go.”

She signalled to the waiter. When his change came, George noticed a fold of grey paper underneath it. He put it in his pocket with the change. When they had left the café, he took out the paper and unfolded it.

The message was written in a careful schoolboy hand and in pencil:

A car with the registration number 19907 will be waiting for you outside the Cinema at 20.00 hrs. [it said]. If anyone wants to know where you are going you are going for a drive to get some air. The driver is O.K. Ask no questions. Do what he tells you. Wear comfortable shoes. Arthur.

The car was an old open Renault that George remembered having seen once before in the town. On that occasion it had been piled high with furniture. Now it was empty, and the driver stood beside it, cap in hand, gravely holding open the door for them. He was a fierce, sinewy old man with a long white moustache and skin like leather. He wore a patched shirt and a pair of old striped trousers belted in at the waist with lighting flex. The back of the car showed signs of having recently carried vegetables as well as furniture. The old man scooped up a handful of decaying stalks and threw them in the road before getting into his seat and driving off.

Soon they had left the town and were on a road with a signpost pointing to Vevi, a station on the railroad east of Florina.

It was getting dark now and the old man turned on a single headlight. He drove to save gasoline, coasting down the hills with the ignition switched off, and starting up again only just before the car rolled to a standstill. The battery was down, and when the motor was not running, the headlight dimmed until it was useless. With the disappearance of the last of the daylight, every descent became a hair-raising plunge into blackness. Fortunately, they met no other traffic, but after one particularly sickening moment George protested.

“Miss Kolin, tell him to go slower down the hills or keep the motor running for the light. He’ll kill us if he’s not careful.”

The driver turned right round in his seat to reply.

“He says the moon will be up presently.”

“Tell him to look where he’s going, for God’s sake!”

“He says that there is no danger. He knows the road well.”

“All right, all right. Don’t say any more. Let him keep his eyes on the road.”

They had been driving for nearly an hour, and the promised moon had begun to rise, when the road joined another coming from the north. Ten minutes later they turned to the left and began a long, steady climb through the hills. They passed one or two isolated stone barns, then the road began to get steadily worse. Soon the car was bouncing and sliding along over a surface littered with loose stones and rocks. After a mile or two of this, the car suddenly slowed down, lurched across the road to avoid an axle-deep pot-hole, and stopped dead.

The lurch and the sudden stop flung George against Miss Kolin. For a moment he thought that the car had broken down; then, as they disentangled themselves, he saw that the driver was standing there with the door open, motioning them to get out.

“What’s the idea?” George demanded.

The old man said something.

“He says that this is where we get out,” reported Miss Kolin.

George looked round. The road was a narrow ledge of track running across a bleak hillside of thorn scrub. In the bright moonlight it looked utterly desolate. From the scrub there came a steady chorus of cicadas.

“Tell him we’re staying right here until he takes us where we’re supposed to go.”

There was a torrent of speech when this was translated.

“He says that this is as far as he can take us. This is the end of the road. We must get out and walk on. Someone will meet us on the road beyond. He must wait here. Those are his orders.”

“I thought he said it was the end of the road.”

“If we will come with him he will show us that he speaks the truth.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait here, Miss Kolin?”

“Thank you, no.”

They got out and began to walk on.

For about twenty yards the old man walked ahead of them, explaining something and making large dramatic gestures; then he stopped and pointed.

They had indeed come to the end of the road; or, at least, to the end of that stretch of it. At some time a big stone culvert had carried a mountain stream beneath the roadbed. Now the remains of it lay in a deep boulder-strewn gully that the stream had cut for itself in the hillside.

“He says that it was blown up by the Germans and that the winter rains have made it bigger every year.”

“Are we supposed to cross it?”

“Yes. The road continues on the other side and there we will be met. He will stay by the car.”

“How far on the other side will we be met?”

“He does not know.”

“That advice about comfortable shoes should have warned me. Well, I suppose that now we’re here we may as well go through with it.”

“As you wish.”

The bed of the stream was dry and they were able to pick their way over the stones and between the boulders without much trouble. Clambering up on the far side, however, was less easy, as the gully was deeper there. The night was warm and George’s shirt was clinging stickily to his body by the time he had helped Miss Kolin up to the road.

They stood for a moment getting their breath and looking back. The old man waved and went back to his car.

“How long do you think it would take us to walk back to Florina from here, Miss Kolin?” George asked.

“I think he will wait. He has not been paid yet.”

“I didn’t hire him.”

“He will expect you to pay all the same.”

“We’ll see about that. We’d better do what he says, anyway.”

They began to walk.

Except for the chirruping of cicadas and the grating of their own footsteps, there was no sound on the road. Once they heard the faint tinkle of a distant sheep bell, but that was all. They had been walking steadily and in silence for some minutes when Miss Kolin spoke quietly.

“There is someone on the road ahead.”

“Where? I can’t see anyone.”

“By those bushes we are coming to. He moved out of the shadow for a moment and I saw the moonlight on his face.”

George felt his calves tightening as they walked on. He kept his eyes fixed on the bushes. Then he saw a movement in the shadows and a man stepped out into the road.

It was Arthur; but a rather different Arthur from the one George had talked to in the hotel. He wore breeches, a bush-shirt open at the neck, and a peaked cap. The thin pointed shoes had been replaced by heavy ankle boots. There was a pistol holster on the broad leather belt round his waist.

“Evening, chum,” he said as they came up to him.

“Hullo,” said George. “Miss Kolin, this is Arthur.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss.” The tone was humbly respectful, but George could see the shrewd, insolent eyes summing her up.

Miss Kolin nodded. “Good evening.” Her hostility was clearly audible.

Arthur pursed his lips at the sound. “No trouble getting here, I hope, Mr. Carey?” he asked anxiously. He was suddenly like a week-end host apologizing for the inadequacies of the local train service.

“None to speak of. Will that old man wait for us?”

“Oh, you don’t want to worry about him. Shall we go?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“It’s not far. I’ve got transport. Just up the road here.”

He led the way. They followed in silence. About a quarter of a mile further on, the road ended again. This time the obstruction was due to a landslide from the hill above, which had obliterated a section of about fifty yards. However, a narrow track had been beaten out over the debris, and they stumbled along this cautiously until the road reappeared. That is, George and Miss Kolin stumbled; Arthur went forward as sure-footedly as if he were on a city street. He was waiting for them when they got back to the road.

“Only a little way now,” he said.

They walked on for another quarter of a mile. There were tamarisks growing out of the hillside here, and the moonlight cast their distorted shadows across the road. Then the shadows became solid and Arthur slowed down. Parked on a section of road which was wide enough for a vehicle to turn was a small covered truck.

“Here we are, chums. You hop in the back.”

He shone a flashlight below the tailboard as he spoke. “You first, miss. Now careful. We don’t want to spoil the nylons, do we? See that stirrup there? Well, just put your foot-”

He broke off as Miss Kolin climbed easily into the back of the truck. “I have been in a British army truck before,” she said coldly.

“Have you now, miss? Well, well! That’s nice, isn’t it? By the way,” he went on as George followed her, “I’m going to have to do the canvas up. It’ll be a bit warmish, I’m afraid, but we haven’t got far to go.”

George groaned. “Do you have to?”

“Afraid so, chum. My pals are a bit touchy about people knowing where they are. You know-security.”

“This had better be worth while. All right. Let’s get on.”

George and Miss Kolin sat on two box-shaped fixtures in the body of the truck, while their escort lashed down the canvas flaps. When he had finished, they heard him get into the driver’s seat and start up. The truck lurched off over the stones.

Arthur was a forceful driver and the truck bucked and swayed about fantastically. Inside, it was impossible to remain seated and they stood crouched under the canvas top, clinging to the metal supports. The air inside, which was soon mixed with exhaust fumes, became almost unbreathable. George was dimly aware of the truck turning several hairpin bends and he knew that they were climbing steeply, but he quickly lost all sense of direction. After ten minutes or more of excruciating discomfort, he was beginning to think that he would have to shout to Arthur to pull up, when, after yet another turn, the truck ran on to a comparatively smooth surface and stopped. A moment later the rear canvas was unlashed, moonlight and air streamed in, and Arthur’s face appeared at the tailboard.

He grinned. “Bit bumpy, was it?”

“Yes.”

They climbed out stiffly and found themselves standing on what had once been the flagged courtyard of a small house. All that remained of the house itself was a ruined wall and a pile of debris.

“ELAS boys did that,” Arthur explained; “the other lot were using it as a stronghold. We go this way.”

The ruined house was on the summit of a pine-clad hill. They followed Arthur along a track which led from the house down through the trees.

They walked silently over pine needles for about fifty yards, then Arthur halted.

“Wait a tick,” he said.

They waited while he went on ahead. It was very dark under the trees and there was a strong smell of pine resin. After the atmosphere in the truck, the soft, cool air was delicious. A faint murmur of voices came from the darkness ahead.

“Did you hear that, Miss Kolin?”

“Yes. They were speaking Greek, but I could not distinguish the words. It sounded like a sentry challenging and receiving a reply.”

“What do you make of all this?”

“I think we should have left word with someone where we were going.”

“We didn’t know where we were going, but I did what I could. If we’re not back by the time the femme de chambre cleans my room in the morning, she’ll find a letter addressed to the manager on my bureau. In it there’s the number of that old man’s car and a note of explanation for the Captain.”

“That was wise, Mr. Carey. I have noticed something-” She broke off. “He’s coming back.”

Her hearing was very acute. Several seconds went by before George was able to hear the soft rustle of approaching footsteps.

Arthur appeared out of the darkness. “O.K., chums,” he said. “Here we go. We’ll have a bit of light on the scene in half a tick.”

They followed him down the path. It was getting less steep now. Then, as it levelled off, Arthur switched on a flashlight and George saw the sentry leaning against a tree with his rifle under his arm. He was a thin, middle-aged man in khaki drill trousers and a ragged singlet. He watched them intently as they went by.

They were clear of the pine trees now and there was a house in front of them.

“Used to be a village down the hill there,” said Arthur. “Wiped out by some of the boys. All flat except our place, and we had to patch that up a good bit. Left to rot, it was. Belonged to some poor bastard of a deviationist who got his throat cut.” He had become the week-end host again, proud and fond of his house and wanting his guests to share his enthusiasm.

It was a two-story building with stuccoed walls and broad overhanging eaves. The shutters over the windows were all closed.

There was another sentry by the door. Arthur said something to him and the man shone a light on their faces before nodding to Arthur and motioning them on. Arthur opened the door and they followed him into the house.

There was a long narrow hall with a staircase and several doorways. An oil lamp hung from a hook by the front door. There was no plaster on the ceiling and very little left on the walls. It looked like what it was, a house which had been gutted by bomb blast or shellfire and temporarily repaired.

“Here we are,” said Arthur; “H.Q. mess and anteroom.”

He had opened the door of what appeared to be a dining-room. There was a bare trestle table with benches on either side. On the table there were bottles, glasses, a pile of knives and forks, and another oil lamp. In a corner of the room, on the floor, there were empty bottles.

“Nobody at home,” said Arthur. “I dare say you could do with a snifter, eh? Help yourselves. The you-know-what is just across the hall on the right if anybody’s interested. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

He went out of the room, shutting the door after him. They heard him clattering up the stairs.

George looked at the bottles. There was Greek wine and plum brandy. He looked at Miss Kolin.

“Drink, Miss Kolin?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured out two brandies. She picked hers up, drank it down at a gulp, and held the glass out to be filled again. He filled it.

“Pretty strong stuff this, isn’t it?” he said tentatively.

“I hope so.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to be taken to a place like a military headquarters. What do you think it is?”

“I have an idea.” She lit a cigarette. “You remember four days ago in Salonika there was a bank robbery?”

“I remember something about it. Why?”

“Next day, in the train to Florina, I read the newspaper reports of it. It gave an exact description of the truck that was used.”

“What about it?”

“We came here in that truck tonight.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“No.” She drank some more brandy.

“You’re mistaken then. After all, there must be dozens, hundreds maybe, of these British army trucks still about in Greece.”

“Not with slots for false number-plates.”

“What do you mean?”

“I noticed the slots when he was shining the flashlight for me to get in. The false plates were on the floor in the back of the truck. When we stopped, I put them where the moonlight would shine as we got out. The part of the number I could see was the same as the one in the newspaper report.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I do not like it any more than you, Mr. Carey.”

But George was remembering something that Colonel Chrysantos had said: “They are clever and dangerous and the police do not catch them.”

“If they get half a suspicion we know anything-” he began.

“Yes. It could be most disagreeable.” She raised her glass to drink again and then stopped.

There was the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

George drank his brandy down quickly and got out a cigarette. The learned judge, whose secretary he had been, had once said that it was impossible to practise law for very many years without learning that no case, however matter-of-fact it might seem, could be considered entirely proof against the regrettable tendency of reality to assume the shape and proportions of melodrama. At the time, George had smiled politely and wondered if he would be given to making such half-baked generalizations when he became a judge. Now he remembered.

The door opened.

The man who came into the room was fair and deep-chested, with heavy shoulders and big hands. He might have been any age between thirty and forty. The face was strong, with muscular cheeks, a determined mouth, and cool, watchful eyes. He held himself very erect and the bush-shirt he wore stretched tightly across his chest. With the revolver belt at his waist he looked almost as if he were in uniform.

He glanced swiftly from George to Miss Kolin as Arthur, who had followed him in, shut the door and bustled forward.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Arthur said. “Mr. Carey, this is my chief. He speaks a bit of English-I taught him-but go easy on the long words. He knows who you are.”

The newcomer clicked his heels and gave the slightest of bows.

“Schirmer,” he said curtly, “Franz Schirmer. I think you wish to speak with me.”