how do you expect me to proceed?”
He briefly outlined his plan, while, inside, the king recited an Ottoman poem from the last century. Several of the servants had already begun snoring quietly beneath their turbans.
IIEAPQRX
Two weeks later, I stood in a lightweight black overcoat, with a top hat and a riding whip, at Munich Central Rail Station, waiting for the four o’clock afternoon train. Count Dürckheim had found out from his informants in the Ministry of the Interior that von Strelitz would be staying in Munich under the name of Alfons Schmidt. The Ministry had assured the special Prussian envoy that a horse-drawn cab and driver would be sent for him. It couldn’t have been easy for Dürckheim to find out which cab company had been commissioned to supply them. But once he had done it, fifty marks had been enough for him to change the cabby for someone of his own choice.
Me.
Little beads of sweat prickled on my forehead, and not because of the sultry September day. I was expecting police officers to run toward me any moment and take me into custody in my cheap disguise. But nothing like that happened. The four P.M. train came into the station, whistling and puffing, the doors were opened, and out poured busy travelers from Berlin, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. Most of them were middle-aged men in rigid bowler hats, with the gold chains of their watches dangling from their fashionable double-breasted suits. There were also a few women among the passengers; they wore elaborate hats and full-skirted dresses with bustles, and they twirled parasols between their fingers as thin, badly shaved porters took care of their mountains of baggage.
I recognized Strelitz by his lean figure, tall top hat, and neatly shaped side-whiskers. Count Dürckheim had shown me a photograph of the Prussian agent the day before. He carried a small traveling bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. His overcoat billowed in the smoke of the locomotive, its whistle still blowing, so that for a moment he reminded me of a big black bat. He looked around, searching for the cab he had been told to expect.
“Herr von Str—” I began, but bit the name back just in time and called out loud for a Herr Schmidt. Von Strelitz turned to me, and for a brief moment I thought he had seen through me. Dark eyes examined me as he thoughtfully twirled his black mustache.
“Are you the driver I ordered?” he asked in the tone of a man used to command.
I nodded diligently. “I am,
monsieur.
I am.” As if I were performing on stage in a theater, all my agitation had gone away as soon as I slipped into my part. “If you are Herr Schmidt from Berlin, then I’m your driver,
monsieur.
Always at your service.” I put my hand to my top hat and bowed slightly. “Shall I take your bag?” I indicated the small bag that Strelitz was carrying, but the agent shook his head.
“It stays with me. Drive me to Maximilianstrasse first. We’ll be picking someone up there.”
“Very good, sir.”
We left the station building, which was not far from the city. Porters and cabdrivers ran back and forth, shouting and offering their services. A small boy was selling fragrant, warm pretzels from a handcart larger than himself. Von Strelitz shook off a few begging children, obviously with disgust, and followed me to my horse and carriage. I had tied the horse up to a pillar on the left of the station.
“Drive quickly, please,” he growled, climbing into the back of the cab. “The gentleman we’re picking up doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I cracked the whip and prayed that the horse would obey me. I was a reasonably good horseman, and I had driven a coach a few times, but guiding a horse-drawn cab weighing some thousand pounds through the traffic of a large city like Munich was another matter.
The horse trotted off, whinnying, and we passed through the great gate of the Karlstor, beyond which the city itself began. Children ran across the road,
He briefly outlined his plan, while, inside, the king recited an Ottoman poem from the last century. Several of the servants had already begun snoring quietly beneath their turbans.
IIEAPQRX
Two weeks later, I stood in a lightweight black overcoat, with a top hat and a riding whip, at Munich Central Rail Station, waiting for the four o’clock afternoon train. Count Dürckheim had found out from his informants in the Ministry of the Interior that von Strelitz would be staying in Munich under the name of Alfons Schmidt. The Ministry had assured the special Prussian envoy that a horse-drawn cab and driver would be sent for him. It couldn’t have been easy for Dürckheim to find out which cab company had been commissioned to supply them. But once he had done it, fifty marks had been enough for him to change the cabby for someone of his own choice.
Me.
Little beads of sweat prickled on my forehead, and not because of the sultry September day. I was expecting police officers to run toward me any moment and take me into custody in my cheap disguise. But nothing like that happened. The four P.M. train came into the station, whistling and puffing, the doors were opened, and out poured busy travelers from Berlin, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. Most of them were middle-aged men in rigid bowler hats, with the gold chains of their watches dangling from their fashionable double-breasted suits. There were also a few women among the passengers; they wore elaborate hats and full-skirted dresses with bustles, and they twirled parasols between their fingers as thin, badly shaved porters took care of their mountains of baggage.
I recognized Strelitz by his lean figure, tall top hat, and neatly shaped side-whiskers. Count Dürckheim had shown me a photograph of the Prussian agent the day before. He carried a small traveling bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. His overcoat billowed in the smoke of the locomotive, its whistle still blowing, so that for a moment he reminded me of a big black bat. He looked around, searching for the cab he had been told to expect.
“Herr von Str—” I began, but bit the name back just in time and called out loud for a Herr Schmidt. Von Strelitz turned to me, and for a brief moment I thought he had seen through me. Dark eyes examined me as he thoughtfully twirled his black mustache.
“Are you the driver I ordered?” he asked in the tone of a man used to command.
I nodded diligently. “I am,
monsieur.
I am.” As if I were performing on stage in a theater, all my agitation had gone away as soon as I slipped into my part. “If you are Herr Schmidt from Berlin, then I’m your driver,
monsieur.
Always at your service.” I put my hand to my top hat and bowed slightly. “Shall I take your bag?” I indicated the small bag that Strelitz was carrying, but the agent shook his head.
“It stays with me. Drive me to Maximilianstrasse first. We’ll be picking someone up there.”
“Very good, sir.”
We left the station building, which was not far from the city. Porters and cabdrivers ran back and forth, shouting and offering their services. A small boy was selling fragrant, warm pretzels from a handcart larger than himself. Von Strelitz shook off a few begging children, obviously with disgust, and followed me to my horse and carriage. I had tied the horse up to a pillar on the left of the station.
“Drive quickly, please,” he growled, climbing into the back of the cab. “The gentleman we’re picking up doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I cracked the whip and prayed that the horse would obey me. I was a reasonably good horseman, and I had driven a coach a few times, but guiding a horse-drawn cab weighing some thousand pounds through the traffic of a large city like Munich was another matter.
The horse trotted off, whinnying, and we passed through the great gate of the Karlstor, beyond which the city itself began. Children ran across the road,
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