Leisurely he took out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter on which the lightning insignia of the SS was prominent. He took a luxurious drag.
“Now, Dr. Marcus,” he said evenly, “these are my questions. First — who else besides you and Krebbs is trying to escape? Secondly — who helped you? And thirdly — what were your plans?”
Marcus stared at the young Gestapo officer. Inside he shriveled up in dread. There were no others. Only he and Willi. No one had helped. And they'd had no plans — except to get away. He suddenly realized how utterly naïve they'd been. But how? Oh, Josef-Maria, how could he convince this Gestapo Lieutenant of that?
He stared at him, not knowing what to do.
“First,” the young Lieutenant said. “Who else is trying to escape?”
“There were only Willi — Dr. Krebbs — and me,” he whispered, fear constricting his throat.
Scharff did not change his expression. Slowly he nodded. “Secondly. Who helped you?” he asked pleasantly.
“No one helped us, Herr Obersturmführer," Marcus breathed.
“So,” the SS officer said. “And last — your plans?”
“We — we had no real plans,” Marcus stammered. “We — we just wanted to — to get away.”
Scharff smiled at him. He took a deep puff on his cigarette. Slowly he brought out his lighter. He turned to the soldiers. “Strip him!” he ordered curtly.
At once the soldiers hauled Marcus to his feet. They tore his jacket off and ripped his shirt until he stood trembling, naked to the waist.
Scharff nodded toward the cart. “On the wheel,” he said.
Two of the SS men slammed Marcus against the huge cartwheel; the other grabbed a bridle from a hook and ripped it apart. With the straps they tied Marcus to the wheel, his arms stretched out and lashed to the top of the rim. His legs buckled under him. He could neither stand nor kneel. He hung against the spokes.
Scharff contemplated him. If the man knew anything, he, Scharff, would have to get it from him. Now. While the pursuit was fresh. There was no time for a — eh, proper interrogation. He would have to improvise. He was good at it. He flipped the tinder wheel on his SS lighter. A flame flared up at once.
“Now, Dr. Marcus,” Scharff said almost kindly, “has your memory improved?” He smiled at him.
Marcus stared at the lighter. He was stiff with terror. He shook his head in desperation. “Please, Herr Obersturmführer. There was no one else. I am telling you the truth. No one…”
Scharff suddenly stretched out his arm. The flame from the lighter touched the hair on Marcus’ chest — and it flared up, shriveling into black curls as it burned.
Marcus screamed. The flash-fire seared his chest. The sickening stench of burning hair assailed his nostrils and made him retch.
“Well, Herr Doktor?” Scharff asked pleasantly.
Marcus stared at him in horror. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please. There — was — no one… Please. I swear…”
Scharff sighed. With deliberate care he tapped the ash from his cigarette. He inspected the glowing tip. Slowly he inched it toward Marcus’ chest.
Marcus strained against the wheel, trying to shrink away from the fiery point.
Suddenly Scharff jabbed it lightly on his hairless, already blistered skin.
Pain shot through him. He cried out.
“Who else, Dr. Marcus?” The question was asked in a low, almost silken voice. “Who else?”
Marcus shook his head, too terrified to speak. Again Scharff touched the burning cigarette to his skin.
“Who helped?”
Marcus was petrified. He made no reply. He only whimpered softly in abject fear.
Suddenly Scharff jabbed the glowing cigarette at him and ground it into his skin.
A searing flash of agony shot through him.
He screamed.
The sweet stench of burning flesh retched him. He gagged. He heaved — and the vomit spewed from his mouth. It ran down his chest, acid in the fresh wounds.
“Your plans?” Scharff demanded.
“We — had no plans. Oh, Josef-Maria, we — had — no — plans…” He collapsed, hanging in limp agony, crucified on the wagon wheel.
Meticulously Scharff tapped another cigarette from his pack and lit it. He gave the petrified Marcus one of his special smiles.
“There is one specific little spot,” he said affably. “A spot that is especially sensitive. It is usually regarded as being particularly — eh, effective in persuading females to remember, Dr. Marcus. Reserved for them. I think you will find it interesting to experience that it is equally effective — equally sensitive — on a male.” He smiled. “I am, of course, referring to the nipple.”
Marcus stared at the burning cigarette. It filled his world. His mind whirled in a turmoil of anguish. Why would the man not believe him? There had been no one else! There were no others. Only he and Willi. There was nothing to tell.
“Once more, Herr Doktor,” Scharff said softly. “I ask you once more.” He held the fiery cigarette tip close to one of the terrified man's nipples. Marcus could feel it distend in the heat.
“Who — else?”
Marcus pulled his chin rigidly into his chest. His bulging eyes stared down at the glowing red ember so close to him.
“No — no one,” he croaked.
Scharff jabbed the burning cigarette end into his nipple, gouging and grinding it into the tender flesh.
Marcus screamed.
A fiery shock seared through him. He arched against the wheel, the leather straps cutting into his arms. A million white-hot needles burned into his chest. Through a world of cotton he heard a dreaded sound. The click of the lighter being flipped.
Oh, Jesus God! No more! No more…
And he heard the voice of the Gestapo Lieutenant.
“Who, Dr. Marcus? Who?”
He felt the searing tip touch his already inflamed nipple. Agony shot through him. Agony he could not bear. And the voice—
“Manfried? Dr. Manfried?”
“Yes!” he screamed. “Yes!”
Again the fiery touch.
“Wertheim?”
“Yes!”
“Schaufuss?”
“Yes!”
“The — director?”
“Yes! Oh, Mother of God — yes!”
And he shrieked. A hideous sound that threatened to tear his throat asunder. Slowly, bit by bit, Scharff bored the fiery cigarette ember into the tortured flesh of the nipple, charring it, prolonging the agony as long as possible.
He ground it out.
“You are a fool, Dr. Marcus,” he said contemptuously. “And a liar. I do not like being lied to.”
He flipped the dead cigarette away.
“Take him down,” he snapped at the SS men.
They cut the leather straps. Marcus fell to the floor. He lay whimpering, adrift on a sea of pain… of anguish — and self-contempt.
Scharff lit another cigarette. This one to be enjoyed in the conventional way. Scornfully he looked at the heap of sniveling humanity sprawled at his feet. It had been a waste of time. And of cigarettes. And not ersatz. Real ones! The idiot had been telling the truth. The two of them — Krebbs and Marcus—had been alone.
“Take him back,” he ordered.
The SS men dragged Marcus to his feet.
Scharff gave him one of his special smiles.
“I suggest you do not try anything like this again,” he said. He blew a puff of smoke into his face.
“I shall not forget you—Herr Doctor Theodor Marcus!”