The Dragonfly Pool

Baron Gambetti arrived in Stiefelbreich’s room through the back entrance of the Blue Ox. He was extremely nervous; his goatee beard trembled slightly and he was sweating, but when he entered the room and saw the colonel he took heart. The bodyguards at the door, the glittering medals, the man’s air of importance were reassuring. In encouraging the Gestapo to come to the aid of Bergania he was doing the right thing, Gambetti told himself. He was saving his country from the king’s foolish obstinacy. The future lay with the people that Stiefelbreich represented.

“Heil, Hitler!” said the colonel, and Gambetti cleared his throat and said, “Heil, Hitler,” in a slightly squeaky voice.

“I have messages for you from our headquarters. The chief of the Gestapo is appreciative of the information you have sent to us. I take it there has been no change?”

“Not as far as I know, Colonel,” said Gambetti.

“Good. Good. In that case I think it is time for us to act for the good of your beautiful country. We have great affection for Bergania—I used to come skiing here with my family when the children were small. It will be a pleasure for us to rescue the country from the king’s obstinacy and folly.”

Baron Gambetti nodded. “It seems impossible to make him see that there is no future for countries that oppose the might and strength of Germany. We must join the great German Reich or be trampled underfoot. But the king is obstinate—his prime minister, too, old von Arkel. He will never give in to Herr Hitler’s demands, which are, after all, not unreasonable. As a Berganian patriot I feel it is my duty to help you,” he said.

“Quite so,” said Stiefelbreich. “In that case we had better get down to details.”

An hour later Gambetti let himself into his villa behind the botanical gardens and found his wife in her dressing room.

“I hope you didn’t weaken, Philippe,” she said. “If we dither now, we are lost.”

“No, I didn’t weaken. But I hope he means what he says. That everything will be . . . civilized . . . an orderly takeover without any bloodshed or violence.”

“Of course he means it,” said his wife, taking the curlers out of her dyed blonde hair. “It will be perfectly simple. And you will at last have the honor and glory you deserve. I’m sure he promised you your reward.”

“Yes, he did. Only . . .”

“Only what? For heaven’s sake—why can’t you be a man?”

“I am being a man,” said Gambetti plaintively. “But it isn’t easy to do this—the king has been good to me.”

“Bah! Milksop,” said the baroness. “Thank goodness you are married to somebody who isn’t afraid of a bit of adventure. Now pass me my hairbrush, please.”

Back in the Blue Ox, Stiefelbreich was questioning his bodyguards.

“Find out if Stilton has arrived—he should be here by now.”

“He has, sir,” said Theophilus. “Checked in to room twenty-three, on the third floor. Next to the attic . . .”

Stilton, like Earless, was an Englishman. He had led a perfectly normal life for many years, working as a sanitary engineer who specialized in bathroom fittings, so that he earned good money, but after a while he decided it was his duty to travel around the simple peasant houses of Europe and persuade their owners to get rid of their old-fashioned outdoor toilets—just a hole in a wooden bench—and order a proper, indoor, flush sanitation system.

But that wasn’t all he did. Stilton had a hobby—more of a skill, really—and it was because of this that Stiefelbreich had tracked him down. Now, hearing that Stilton had arrived safely, the Nazi smiled and rubbed his hands, knowing that everything would go exactly as planned.

There was only one more thing for Stiefelbreich to do. He picked up the phone and put a call through to the German consulate.

“I take it you have my instructions about the German children at the campsite? I have made inquiries and they are quite unsuitable. Children like that should never have been sent to represent our glorious country and the new order that Herr Hitler has established.”

He listened, frowning, to the voice on the other end. The man seemed to be arguing, almost pleading.

“I’m afraid that has nothing to do with it,” Stiefelbreich barked. “Please see that my orders are carried out without delay.”

Satisfied that the matter was settled, he ordered a large beer. The middle-aged waitress with ginger hair who brought it to him was unfriendly—but it didn’t matter. This infuriating country was about to get a lesson it would not forget.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Dragonfly Pool