Free Be Shot For Six Pence by Michael Gilbert Page B

staggering to my room where I pitched into sleep; sleep bedevilled by dreams of wolf-men and witches, with the faces of Lady and Lisa Prinz, who played cards for stakes beyond my understanding.

 
     
Part II
THE MIDDLE GAME
     
    “And pat, and pitter-pat; too soft to feel How cunningly the velvet pads conceal
    Five cruel hooks of steel . . .”
    Battle of the Beasts.

 
Chapter V
MAJOR MESSELEN
     
    When I woke it took me more than the usual two moments to remember where I was. My watch, which I had forgotten to wind, had stopped at half-past six.
    I climbed out of bed, padded across to the window, and pulled at the cord which operated the long heavily lined curtains. They slid back and I stood for a moment held by the picture.
    The mountains filled the eye; from the eastern side, where they ran up low, kindly, covered in vineyard and olive grove, through a quarter circle to the wolf fangs, which stabbed the sky to the south.
    The sun was so high that it could not have been short of midday. I dressed and ran down. The drawing-room and dining-room were empty. I walked through them, into a smaller drawing-room and so out, on to the broad stone balcony.
    The Baron was perched on a wicker chair. He held in his hand a pair of field glasses which he lowered from his eyes when he heard me coming.
    “You are already up?”
    “I thought I should be the last,” I said.
    “More probably the first. Except for myself and Herr Lady no one rises here before afternoon. For myself it is no hardship to rise early. I have an interest in bird study.”
    The only sign of life in the landscape was a group of young girls who were beating out washing on the stones of one of the mountain streams.
    The Baron smiled, “Charming, are they not,” he said, and handed me the glasses. (They were, as I had guessed by their looks, a most efficient pair of high magnification.)
    “Such shoulders and buttocks,” said the Baron. “You would suppose them professional wrestlers. But interesting.”
    I agreed that they were interesting.
    “It is a lovely view from here.” The Baron elevated his glasses from the washer-girls and swept the mountain circle. “We are within four miles of the Yugoslav frontier here, did you know? And six of the Hungarian.”
    “Well sited,” I agreed. “From an ethnographical point of view.”
    The Baron looked at me. The resemblance to the late Emperor Franz Joseph was quite remarkable.
    “Hungary,” he said, “is a dull country, justified by her wines. You appreciated the Tokay we drank yesterday?”
    “Yes indeed.”
    “As Yugoslavia is by its girls. You noticed the one who served the Tokay?”
    “I am afraid, Baron, that my mind was entirely on the wine.”
    “Then you must look at her tonight. Have you experience of Yugoslavian girls?”
    I was saved the necessity of answering by the arrival of Lisa. The Baron creaked to his feet and bowed. Lisa gave him a kiss behind the ear.
    “Would you care for coffee?” she said to me.
    There was nothing I could have cared for more. Lisa said, “Pull that bell and someone will come. The service here is old fashioned, but it works eventually.”
    I jerked at a ten yard strip of tapestry on the left of the fireplace and a minute or two later the door opened and a girl came in.
    “We should like coffee,” I said in German.
    “So should I,” said the girl, in the same language.
    At that I looked again, and felt myself blushing. She was young, with fair hair and a simple linen dress cut rather high across the throat.
    Lisa was laughing maliciously.
    “It is your ‘ jeune fille ’ appearance,” she said. “People all mistake you for the skivvy, do they not?”
    The girl performed a demure little musical comedy bob and said: “Is there anything I can do for Monsieur ?” This time in French.
    “Excuse my appalling gaffe,” I said, following her into the same language (which I speak clumsily), “and ask Lisa to introduce us.”
    “True Kethely,” said Lisa.