He said then: “I am not going to tell you why I have . . . changed. You would not understand. I am telling you only that I have changed. When I found that I had changed, I did not know what to do. Again you would not understand, so I am telling you only what I have decided. I have decided that I cannot betray you and the others in this country who serve the Reich. I have decided that I must warn you, and then allow you ten days—that is the time you have told me—to get them and yourself out of this country. After the ten days I shall tell in the Capitol all that I know—everything. And that is a great deaclass="underline" it is all the names of the officers—and where they are—and all the Plans, including Plan Six—and the names of the Staff Council and where they are to be found—and much more! Enough to be sure that when they know, the authorities of this country will at once be able to seize all of you. . . . Do you fully understand what it is that I am saying?”
Rudolph Altinger nodded his head. His eyes were sharp and bright again. They seemed darker than ever Otto had seen them.
Otto said: “I could have spoken to you more quickly in German. But I do not wish to do this—again for reasons which you will not understand. But you will understand this: I am not going to speak anything of what I know, to anybody, until the eleventh day from to-night. I have not told anyone anything which would make them know the names or plans. I have left nothing written which would tell anything. What I know is in my head and only there. So that it is now a . . . battle between us, between myself alone and the whole of the Staff Council and their units. That is not a battle which is equally matched—but the balance is over upon your side so that I can never say to myself that I changed and was a traitor to the men I had been with before I changed. You do not understand that feeling, but you do understand what I am saying? Nod your head, or shake your head.”
Rudolph Altinger nodded his head.
Otto said: “I am taking this advantage only—that I have planned before what I shall do, and have put you there, like that, so that you are unable to do anything until someone frees you, and you will therefore not be able to set your men and yourself after me so soon that I should have no chance against the numbers. But that is only a little advantage for me—it leaves the balance down upon your side still.”
He stopped speaking. He looked at Rudolph Altinger for a long time. He said at last, in a different tone, and much more quickly than he had been speaking:
“I could have killed you. I have the thought that perhaps I should have killed you. But that would be against the plan I have made for myself.”
Altinger’s eyes were staring into his. They said to him:
“You’re a damned fool not to kill me. I shall kill you!”
Otto said: “I am going now. It is my ob—objective to be in Washington upon the eleventh day from to-night and telling all that I know.”
He did not look at the man again. The Lüger from the desk-drawer was in his pocket, and in it was a full clip of cartridges. He turned away and went swiftly to the door and turned out the light and in a moment was out of the suite and had locked all the doors behind him and was going softly down the stairs.
He left the building by the back door and went through the paved yard and into the alleyway and came out on to June Street at the end of the block. Before he crossed into Gate Avenue, he turned and looked up at the window of Altinger’s inner office. The blind was down and there was no light behind it; he knew there would not be, but it was no harm to make certain.
He went down Gate Avenue with a quick, sure stride in which the limp was barely perceptible. He felt light and hard and almost gay. He found his car where he had parked it and drove off, not too fast, towards his apartment house. He heard himself whistling—and realized with a little shock that the air was something from the Offenbach Parisienne ballet.
He stopped three blocks away from the house and parked inconspicuously upon a dirty, narrow by-street. He walked the rest of the way and reached his apartment without so much as being seen by anyone else in the house. He locked the outer door and stripped and took a shower. But he did not shave, although the beard was beginning to be stubbly upon his face, and when he dressed himself it was in the faded sweater and dungarees which he had bought in the waterfront store.
He put his money in his belt and some socks and two worn shirts and a toothbrush in the duffel bag which went with the clothes. He took a light, long polo-coat from its hanger and tied it up in an ugly bundle which he strapped to the duffel bag. He was ready—a full seventy-five minutes ahead of his careful schedule. He was smiling as he went softly out of the apartment door and reached the rear stairs, still with no one seeing him, and made his way down them and thence to the street behind the house.
He was very careful as he went to his car by devious ways. He was not followed and knew he could not be so soon, but he wanted to leave no impression upon any eyes which saw him.
The by-street was empty when he got into the car and drove away. He look off the greasy peaked cap and set it on the seat beside him and was secure in the thought that the street-lights were not strong enough to show any incongruity between his clothes and the car.
He had a long time before his next move, and there was no point in picking up the U-Drive car any earlier than was necessary. He determined to eat, and found, with some surprise, that the thought of food had made him voraciously hungry.
He went to Panama Pat’s, which is dirty and crowded and filled with the riffraff of the port, but which is completely unknown to sightseers and serves meals both admirably cooked and enormous.
He parked the car two hundred yards away and presently drifted into Pat’s and was safely lost among the throng. He had a drink at the bar and then sat down in one of the narrow single-seater booths and ordered a steak.
He was half-way through it when he heard the voices from the bigger booth at his back. Whether the men had been there all the time or had just sat down he did not know. He heard the rustling of a newspaper, and then the first voice.
“See they pinched his wife now,” it said, and mentioned a famous Nazi name.
“So what?” The second voice was scornful. “That won’t help ’em any.”
“Maybe not. But they done it jest the same. They pull that all the time!”
“Yeah. Regular standard Nazzy trick. They figure th’ bes’ wayta make surea gettin’ a guy’sta grab his dame or his kid ’n then he’ll cometa them without no more trouble!”
Otto heard no more. His heart seemed to stop beating and then to start again with a shaky, irregular thumping.
He had not even considered the possibility!
He fought against blind panic and began to think. Was there any chance—any chance at all—that they would somehow guess at what Clare meant to him? Was there any way in which the thought of her might occur to them? Because, even if it were just the thought, with nothing to base it on save her very existence, they might try! They would have to use any and every potentiality! They might try!
But would they even get the thought? Altinger had seen her, of course. . . .
And so had Carolyn Van Teller! So had Carolyn Van Teller!
He closed his eyes—and he could see the smile with which Carolyn Van Teller had looked at Clare as they both stood by his bed. . . .
He pushed his plate away and rapped upon the table for the dirty-coated Chinese waiter. His mouth was dry and his heart was thudding somewhere up in his throat and he felt as if he were going to vomit.