spots in the cantons of Zurich, Luzern,
Unterwalden, Schwyz and Zug, in search of printers who would reproduce them as postcards in
six colours for sale to tourists. He stayed in an inexpensive hotel of the commercial type and
prosecuted his inquiries diligently but without haste, he was difficult to please as regards price
and quality, and it looked as though his mission would take him some time. Among the people
he interviewed was a very German-looking individual who kept a tobacconist’s shop in Spandau
Strasse near the Neue Markt. The tobacconist was a friendly soul, and invited Herr Dedler to sit
with him sometimes in his stuffy little room behind the shop, a room even more stuffy than it
need have been, since they talked with the window and doors shut though the summer days were
hot. The tobacconist’s daughter, in reply to a thirsty howl from her parent, used to come in with
wine, and glasses on a tray, and look at Herr Dedler with frank interest. Since she was
undoubtedly a comely wench, Herr Dedler also displayed appreciation, but as her father
invariably turned her out again at once and locked the door after her, the acquaintance did not
progress.
“I have no suggestions to offer,” said the tobacconist. “The Department asked me more
than a year ago to look into this, but I am no further forward than I was then. I know some of the
Nazi leaders personally, being a good Nazi myself,” he smiled gently, “though my unfortunate
health prevents me from taking an active part in their affairs—thank goodness. But several of
them are kind to me and buy their tobacco here since I take the trouble to stock the blends they
prefer. None of them look to me at all likely to be honorary members of British Intelligence. I
hope you will have more luck.”
“I don’t suppose so for a moment,” said Denton gloomily. “I have merely been sent over
because I used to know Reck. So I am walking about looking for him regardless of the strong
probability that he’s been in his humble grave at Mainz these twelve years. Reck. Have you ever
heard the name?”
“Never.”
“I don’t suppose you would. If he’s still alive he probably calls himself Eustachius
Guggleheimer now. Does anyone in Berlin keep silkworms?”
“Silkworms?” said the startled tobacconist. “Shall I open the window a moment? It is true
that the weather is hot, but—”
“No matter. I have walked about this blasted city in this infernal heat till my legs ache in
every pore and my feet feel the size of Grock’s, and I’m not a bit the wiser, at least, not about
that. There’s something up though, Keppel, there’s an uneasy excitement about which I don’t
like. Something’s going to happen, what is it?”
“You are perfectly right. There is a lot of jealousy between the old Brown Guards and
Hitler’s new S.S. men, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was trouble.”
“So. Well, it’s no business of mine, at least I hope not. At the first sound of alarm I shall
go to bed and stay there, I shall at least rest my feet. I’ll come and see you again shortly. You
wouldn’t like a nice picture of the Lake of Lucerne in six colours, would you?”
“I’d rather have a water-colour of the Pass of Brander as the sun goes down,” said Keppel
wistfully.
Denton lit his pipe and strolled towards his inconspicuous hotel as the evening was
drawing on, and noticed at once that the streets were curiously empty of people. He displayed no
interest at all in what he saw, but merely slouched along with his eyes down and his hands in his
pockets as one wrapped deeply in thought. He came at last within sight of the turning to his hotel
and saw, with an odd pricking sensation in the tips of his fingers, that there was a line of S.S.
men across the end of the street who were stopping cars and pedestrians and asking them
questions.
Denton quickened his pace slightly and walked on past the picketed turning only to
Unterwalden, Schwyz and Zug, in search of printers who would reproduce them as postcards in
six colours for sale to tourists. He stayed in an inexpensive hotel of the commercial type and
prosecuted his inquiries diligently but without haste, he was difficult to please as regards price
and quality, and it looked as though his mission would take him some time. Among the people
he interviewed was a very German-looking individual who kept a tobacconist’s shop in Spandau
Strasse near the Neue Markt. The tobacconist was a friendly soul, and invited Herr Dedler to sit
with him sometimes in his stuffy little room behind the shop, a room even more stuffy than it
need have been, since they talked with the window and doors shut though the summer days were
hot. The tobacconist’s daughter, in reply to a thirsty howl from her parent, used to come in with
wine, and glasses on a tray, and look at Herr Dedler with frank interest. Since she was
undoubtedly a comely wench, Herr Dedler also displayed appreciation, but as her father
invariably turned her out again at once and locked the door after her, the acquaintance did not
progress.
“I have no suggestions to offer,” said the tobacconist. “The Department asked me more
than a year ago to look into this, but I am no further forward than I was then. I know some of the
Nazi leaders personally, being a good Nazi myself,” he smiled gently, “though my unfortunate
health prevents me from taking an active part in their affairs—thank goodness. But several of
them are kind to me and buy their tobacco here since I take the trouble to stock the blends they
prefer. None of them look to me at all likely to be honorary members of British Intelligence. I
hope you will have more luck.”
“I don’t suppose so for a moment,” said Denton gloomily. “I have merely been sent over
because I used to know Reck. So I am walking about looking for him regardless of the strong
probability that he’s been in his humble grave at Mainz these twelve years. Reck. Have you ever
heard the name?”
“Never.”
“I don’t suppose you would. If he’s still alive he probably calls himself Eustachius
Guggleheimer now. Does anyone in Berlin keep silkworms?”
“Silkworms?” said the startled tobacconist. “Shall I open the window a moment? It is true
that the weather is hot, but—”
“No matter. I have walked about this blasted city in this infernal heat till my legs ache in
every pore and my feet feel the size of Grock’s, and I’m not a bit the wiser, at least, not about
that. There’s something up though, Keppel, there’s an uneasy excitement about which I don’t
like. Something’s going to happen, what is it?”
“You are perfectly right. There is a lot of jealousy between the old Brown Guards and
Hitler’s new S.S. men, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was trouble.”
“So. Well, it’s no business of mine, at least I hope not. At the first sound of alarm I shall
go to bed and stay there, I shall at least rest my feet. I’ll come and see you again shortly. You
wouldn’t like a nice picture of the Lake of Lucerne in six colours, would you?”
“I’d rather have a water-colour of the Pass of Brander as the sun goes down,” said Keppel
wistfully.
Denton lit his pipe and strolled towards his inconspicuous hotel as the evening was
drawing on, and noticed at once that the streets were curiously empty of people. He displayed no
interest at all in what he saw, but merely slouched along with his eyes down and his hands in his
pockets as one wrapped deeply in thought. He came at last within sight of the turning to his hotel
and saw, with an odd pricking sensation in the tips of his fingers, that there was a line of S.S.
men across the end of the street who were stopping cars and pedestrians and asking them
questions.
Denton quickened his pace slightly and walked on past the picketed turning only to
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