The Heights of Zervos Read Free Page B

action necessary. Thin-faced, a shorter man than Macomber, he was in his early forties and he wore a similar leather coat and a similar soft hat. Behind rimless glasses his eyes were unblinking as he gestured for the Scot to sit at the far side of the bed.
    'If we're going to talk in here may I take off my coat,' Macomber began, 'and then you can start telling me what the hell this is all about.'
    The thin German nodded and issued no further warning about being careful; he simply held his pistol levelled and watched the slow careful movements of taking off the coat. Macomber had noted the rubber overshoes peeping out of his visitor's own coat pocket, which explained his mode of entry -he must have used a skeleton key to open the street door, must then have taken off his overshoes and stepped over the doorstep without disturbing the snow. A man who thought of everything - or almost everything. The Scot hung his coat on a hook at the end of the huge wardrobe which was the other main item of furniture in the room, taking up so much space with the double bed that he had to squeeze his way round in the morning when dressing. He hung the coat carefully to conceal the instability of the wardrobe, the fact that it wobbled easily on its rotting plinth, and he hung the coat with one pocket outwards, the pocket containing the Luger. When he turned round the German reacted instantly. 'You have a gun inside your jacket - take it out very carefully and drop it on the bed, Herr Wolff.'
    Macomber used his fingertips to extract the second Luger by the butt, keeping his index finger well away from the trigger as he eased the weapon out of the shoulder holster and let it fall on the bed. The shock had gone, his brain was working again, and at least this manoeuvre had succeeded - by drawing the German's attention to the second gun he had distracted his attention from the coat. The German used his left hand to pick up the Luger and slip it into his pocket. 'Now sit on your side of the bed, Herr Wolff. Incidentally, your German is quite flawless. I congratulate you. My name is Dietrich. Of the Abwehr, of course.'
    'Then why the devil do you want to see me?'
    Dietrich said nothing while he closed and locked the bedroom door to guard against the arrival of an associate of Macomber's. The precaution taken, the Abwehr man leaned against the door as he began his interrogation.
    'It has been a long time to this moment, Herr Wolff -I will call you that until you decide to tell me your real name.'
    'My real name?' Macomber stared at Dietrich as though he must be mad. 'I am Hermann Wolff...'
    'It has been a long time since January 1940,' the Abwehr man continued as though he hadn't heard the Scot. 'A long way, too, from Budapest to this apartment. I almost caught up with you once in Gyor, but I made the mistake of letting my assistant come for you. What happened to him? We never saw him again.'
    'As a citizen of the Reich...'
    'You demand to be taken to police headquarters?' Dietrich was amused and smiled unpleasantly. 'Do you really think you would enjoy that experience - particularly if I take you to Gestapo headquarters instead?'
    'I shall complain direct to Berlin - I know people there,* Macomber growled. 'I am a German businessman sent here by my firm in Munich and I have correspondence with me to prove this...'
    'I'm sure you have," Dietrich replied sarcastically. 'I'm also sure that it would stand up to superficial examination - until we checked back with your so-called employers. You nearly had me killed tonight, Herr Wolff - and by my own people. I was inside that Mercedes the Wehrmacht opened fire on and I had to drive like a maniac to stay alive, so I decided it might be interesting to come straight here - in case you escaped^ I have been following you for some time but I lost you this evening on your way to the railyard.'
    'I still haven't the least idea what the hell you're talking about,' Macomber told him coolly. He re-crossed his legs and