To Catch a King Read Free

now, forcing her back toward the mouth of the alley behind. There was the sound of a car door slamming and she saw a man emerge from the rear of the Mercedes and start across the street.
    “That's enough,” he called softly through the rain.
    He was of medium height, wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat. A cigarette dangled from the left-hand corner of his mouth.
    Her interrogator scowled ferociously. “Clear off, if you know what's good for you. This is police business.”
    “Is that so?” the man said calmly. “Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?”
    “She's a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.”
    “And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?”
    His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the dueling scar on one cheek, and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.
    “Yes,” she said.
    A hand grabbed Schellenberg's arm and shook him furiously. “Clear off—now. Unless you want your face kicked in.”
    Schellenberg wasn't in the least put out. “Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren't you?”
    He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread: Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff.
    Schellenberg said, “A lesson is needed here, I think.” He took the girl by the arm. “Fräulein.”
    As he guided her firmly across the road toward the car, there was the sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.
    It was fifteen minutes later when the Mercedes pulled in to the curb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.
    “So, this is where you work?” He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. “ 'Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.' Sounds interesting. I must come one night.”
    She said calmly, “I'm Jewish, as you very well know, and as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we'd be of much interest to a member of the master race.”
    He smiled gently. “Shall we go in?”
    “I use the stage door.”
    “And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.”
    He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly-looking man, with a shock of gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses, who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.
    At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forward.
    “Hannah, my love, what's happened? You are in trouble?”
    “I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.”
    “Herr Winter,” Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.
    She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and black hair worn unfashionably long.
    He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. “And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act—isn't that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.”
    He raised her hand to his lips, and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.
    “Herr Winter.”
    He went out, and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. “Uncle Max—what is it?”
    “That man,” he whispered. “Where did you meet him? Don't you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS