Free Death in Berlin by M. M. Kaye

told them they were to leave the train, and Stella slipped into a silver-grey musquash coat and picked up her handbag: ‘Ready, Miranda?’
    They left the compartment and were ushered, with the other
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    passengers of the coach, along endless yards of wet platform under the curious gaze of the police guard and a sprinkling of unidentified bystanders, down a flight of steps, along a chill, vaulted passageway and, eventually, into a hastily cleared waitingroom where several officials and three British officers in uniform were grouped about a table. Suitcases, hatboxes, and other pieces of hand luggage that had accompanied the passengers on the sleeping coach, were neatly arranged against the wall.
    ‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ whispered Sally Page, catching at Miranda’s arm. Her blue eyes were wide and excited and she looked impossibly fresh and dewy - in marked contrast to the majority of her fellow-passengers, who appeared jaded and travel-worn: the men unshaven and the women weary.
    Mrs Leslie, huddled inside a shapeless coat of purple tweed and wearing a muffler and fur gloves, was looking cold and cross and managing to convey without words that in her opinion the wife of a commanding officer of a regiment should be entitled to more consideration. She said acidly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening: ‘I can see no reason why we should be kept here. It’s not as if I had even seen the man before.’
    Colonel Leslie was looking bored and resigned, Major Marson amused and Andy Page sulky, while Eisa Marson and Mrs Wilkin were talking earnestly together in undertones; discussing, incongruously enough, the respective merits of gas and electric cooking stoves. Mademoiselle, wearing an expression of the deepest suspicion, had ostentatiously taken up a position by her own and Charlotte’s luggage as though she feared that at any moment it might once again be reft from her.
    There was no sign of Lottie or the young Wilkins, but Simon Lang was there, standing with his back to the window; his slight figure dark against the grey daylight and his bland, actor’s face entirely expressionless. His eyes seemed to be focused on nothing in particular and he appeared to be relaxed and almost lethargic. He did not look at Miranda, or indeed appear in the least interested in the proceedings, but she had an uncomfortable conviction
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    that he missed no word or gesture or fleeting expression from anyone in that room, and that he was in fact about as relaxed as a steel spring.
    The proceedings were mercifully brief. Each passenger in turn produced a passport or identity card, gave the address to which they were going, and, in the case of the women, handed over their handbags for a cursory inspection. Sally Page’s, Mrs Leslie’s and Stella’s each contained a cigarette lighter, and these were taken away and put into envelopes marked with the owner’s name. Robert, Andy Page and Colonel Leslie also handed over lighters, which were treated in the same manner and added to a row of six torches that lay on the table and had evidently been removed from the passengers’ luggage.
    A small snapshot had fallen unnoticed from among the jumbled contents of Sally Page’s bag, and Miranda, seeing it, stooped and picked it up: ‘Here, Sally, you’ve dropped this.’ She held it out, and Sally turned, and glancing at it, snatched it from her hand and crumpled it swiftly in her own.
    ‘Oh … thank you.’ Her cheeks were scarlet, and Miranda was seized with a sudden and uncomfortable suspicion as to who had been the subject of the snapshot. She looked thoughtfully across the room to where Robert stood talking in an undertone to one of the British officers, and as though he felt her gaze, Robert looked up at that moment, and catching her eye grinned at her. Miranda flushed guiltily, ashamed of her suspicions, and Simon Lang saw the flush and misinterpreted it.
    The last handbag was returned to its owner and the passengers