Free Be Shot For Six Pence by Michael Gilbert Page A

War in command of a Panzer Division, but his reputation as an intellectual had diverted him from commanding troops and looking after Districts to more confidential, and, in the outcome, more harmless fields of work. He had steered clear with equal skill of the Assassination Plot, and the War Crimes Trials and if he had had an ounce of military ambition he could have had a top job in the new German Army. Colin had often spoken of him and I looked at him with interest. He regarded me blankly in return through his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
    Gheorge was talking earnestly to Lady (who had confirmed my worst suspicions by putting on a dinner jacket with dark green velvet facings); and at that moment Lisa came in.
    “All here,” announced the Baron, I could see him practically licking his lips. He jerked the bell beside the fireplace and a servant, who had evidently been waiting on the mark, swept open the inner doors and we passed, in an orderly rush, into the dining-room, Lady leading with the Frau Baronin, followed by the Baron and Lisa, Gheorge and myself, with the General whipping in.
    Accounts of what other people eat are generally boring, so all I will say is that the food at this and every other meal I had at Schloss Obersteinbruck was perfect beyond modern understanding. I am a parsimonious eater at the best of times, and the bulk and succession of the dishes was a little daunting but nobody worried if you said ‘No’. There was always something else to follow. I could understand how Colin had put on weight.
    Until the very end of the meal we drank nothing but Tokay. Gheorge, who sat on my left, said, “The Baron is a great lover of wine. He imports his Tokay himself from Hungary.”
    “And his girls from Yugoslavia,” said Lisa, in what was meant for a confidential aside, but fell embarrassingly into a gap in the conversation. Gheorge frowned at her.
    After dinner we took our brandy with us into the drawing-room, where a card table had been set up.
    “I am told you play bridge,” said Lady.
    “Why, yes,” I said. I may have sounded a little surprised.
    “Before you came,” explained Lady, “we were in a quandary. Three of us here are extremely fond of the game.” He indicated the General and Gheorge, who were both smiling.
    Well, at last my usefulness was being appreciated.
    The General spread the cards and we cut for partners. I found myself with Gheorge.
    Bridge is a game that no one can really understand except its devotees, and they can live in it. Normally, perhaps, rather sombre and uninteresting characters, at the card table they come to life. During the magic hours when the game has them in thrall they attack and defend, plot and counter plot, use all the weapons of diplomacy and bluff, display their strengths and weaknesses, and lay bare their innermost souls. All in the deft handling of fifty-two pieces of pasteboard.
    Gheorge was a sound player of a painstaking sort. General Milo was a scientist, pure and simple. But Lady had a touch of genius. He was neither to have nor to hold. After two rubbers I thought I had pinned him down to one particular deceptive play – only to find to my cost, during the third, that he had planted the idea with motives of his own. It occurred to me to wonder, for an uneasy moment, what stakes we were playing for, but the two following rubbers redressed the balance.
    The sixth rubber was long and very evenly contested. Finally the cards came down decisively in my favour, and sweeping aside the proffered sacrifices of the enemy we rode through to six hearts and victory. I got to my feet feeling curiously stiff.
    “Bed time?” said the General, regretfully. I nodded and looked at my watch, I thought for a moment it must have stopped. It showed five o’clock.
    Walking over I drew open the heavy curtain. The window looked out over the tops of the trees. Mist and shadows filled the valley, but light had come back into the upper sky.
    I have a faint recollection of