much, Herr
Deputy Lehmann.”
“I—this is a frightful sight,” gasped Klaus, but in his mind he was seeing another fearful
blaze, a country house burning among trees, and a dead man on the floor of a laboratory reeking
with paraffin.
“Then I am a murderer,” he thought, but had enough self-control even in that moment not
to say it aloud. “I have killed somebody, who was it?”
He closed his eyes and did not hear the man suggesting that if His Excellency would but
sit down on the pavement a moment—
“Hendrik Brandt,” thought Lehmann. “I remember now, I am Hendrik Brandt from
Utrecht, with an office in the Höhe Strasse in Köln.”
His knees trembled so much that he sat down upon the ground regardless of kind people,
glad to be doing something, who passed the word back for a glass of water, a deputy was taken
ill—a judge of the Supreme Court had fainted—the President of the Reichstag was dying. His
mind raced on.
“I am not really Hendrik Brandt either, I am Hambledon, an agent of British Intelligence.
Bill, where is Bill?”
There was a crash and a roar of flame as one of the floors fell in, and Hambledon looked
up. That was the Reichstag burning. “Good God,” he thought, “and now I am a member of the
Reichstag. It’s enough to make anybody feel faint, it is indeed.”
Somebody handed him a glass of water, he sipped it and began to feel better, which was
as well since in a few moments he was pulled to his feet and dragged back with the recoiling
crowds as more fire-engines came rocketing down the Dorotheen Strasse and swung into the
Reichstag entrance.
“If the Herr Deputy is feeling better,” suggested his anonymous friend, “perhaps Your
Excellency could manage to pass back through the crowd and a cab could be summoned—”
“You are too kind,” said Hambledon, pulling himself together, “but there is no need. It
was a momentary weakness—I ran all the way here. I will rest a few minutes longer and then I
must go in and see the President.”
“I wonder who could possibly have done such a wicked thing,” said the man.
“They say it was the Communists,” said another voice. “They will be found out and
punished whoever they are,” said Hambledon authoritatively, wondering, as he spoke, whether
perhaps Bill had done it himself, Bill Saunders, who fired the Zeppelin sheds at Ahlhorn. He
thrust the idea from him, mustn’t think of things like that just now, he was Klaus Lehmann, a
member of the Reichstag, and he had to go and see Goering, the President.
Brown-shirt guards at the gate directed him to a spot near the President’s house, where
stood a group of men which included Franz von Papen, Hermann Goering, President of the
Reichstag, and the new Chancellor of the Reich, Adolf Hitler, talking earnestly together; they
looked round as Lehmann came up and greeted them. “This is a frightful thing,” he said.
“It is indeed a monstrous crime,” said the leader solemnly. “Yes, isn’t it?” said von Papen
cheerfully. “The same thought occurred to me as soon as I saw it,” and Goering burst out
laughing. “Is it known who did it?”
“The Communists did it, of course,” said Goering. “One of them has been caught—a
Dutchman, I believe.”
Lehmann’s heart almost stopped. A Dutchman—Bill Saunders had passed for a
Dutchman when they were working together for British Intelligence in Cologne during the war.
Klaus had been Hendrik Brandt, the Dutch importer, and Bill his young nephew Dirk Brandt
from South Africa.
“Who is he—is anything known about him?”
“His name is Van der Lubbe, I understand,” said Goering, indifferently. “A member of
some Communist gang in Holland, according to his papers. I don’t know any more about him.”
“Lubbe,” said von Papen in his light way. “A stupid name, it means ‘fat stupid’ in
English, you know.”
“Perhaps the English sent him,” suggested the Chancellor. Hambledon
Deputy Lehmann.”
“I—this is a frightful sight,” gasped Klaus, but in his mind he was seeing another fearful
blaze, a country house burning among trees, and a dead man on the floor of a laboratory reeking
with paraffin.
“Then I am a murderer,” he thought, but had enough self-control even in that moment not
to say it aloud. “I have killed somebody, who was it?”
He closed his eyes and did not hear the man suggesting that if His Excellency would but
sit down on the pavement a moment—
“Hendrik Brandt,” thought Lehmann. “I remember now, I am Hendrik Brandt from
Utrecht, with an office in the Höhe Strasse in Köln.”
His knees trembled so much that he sat down upon the ground regardless of kind people,
glad to be doing something, who passed the word back for a glass of water, a deputy was taken
ill—a judge of the Supreme Court had fainted—the President of the Reichstag was dying. His
mind raced on.
“I am not really Hendrik Brandt either, I am Hambledon, an agent of British Intelligence.
Bill, where is Bill?”
There was a crash and a roar of flame as one of the floors fell in, and Hambledon looked
up. That was the Reichstag burning. “Good God,” he thought, “and now I am a member of the
Reichstag. It’s enough to make anybody feel faint, it is indeed.”
Somebody handed him a glass of water, he sipped it and began to feel better, which was
as well since in a few moments he was pulled to his feet and dragged back with the recoiling
crowds as more fire-engines came rocketing down the Dorotheen Strasse and swung into the
Reichstag entrance.
“If the Herr Deputy is feeling better,” suggested his anonymous friend, “perhaps Your
Excellency could manage to pass back through the crowd and a cab could be summoned—”
“You are too kind,” said Hambledon, pulling himself together, “but there is no need. It
was a momentary weakness—I ran all the way here. I will rest a few minutes longer and then I
must go in and see the President.”
“I wonder who could possibly have done such a wicked thing,” said the man.
“They say it was the Communists,” said another voice. “They will be found out and
punished whoever they are,” said Hambledon authoritatively, wondering, as he spoke, whether
perhaps Bill had done it himself, Bill Saunders, who fired the Zeppelin sheds at Ahlhorn. He
thrust the idea from him, mustn’t think of things like that just now, he was Klaus Lehmann, a
member of the Reichstag, and he had to go and see Goering, the President.
Brown-shirt guards at the gate directed him to a spot near the President’s house, where
stood a group of men which included Franz von Papen, Hermann Goering, President of the
Reichstag, and the new Chancellor of the Reich, Adolf Hitler, talking earnestly together; they
looked round as Lehmann came up and greeted them. “This is a frightful thing,” he said.
“It is indeed a monstrous crime,” said the leader solemnly. “Yes, isn’t it?” said von Papen
cheerfully. “The same thought occurred to me as soon as I saw it,” and Goering burst out
laughing. “Is it known who did it?”
“The Communists did it, of course,” said Goering. “One of them has been caught—a
Dutchman, I believe.”
Lehmann’s heart almost stopped. A Dutchman—Bill Saunders had passed for a
Dutchman when they were working together for British Intelligence in Cologne during the war.
Klaus had been Hendrik Brandt, the Dutch importer, and Bill his young nephew Dirk Brandt
from South Africa.
“Who is he—is anything known about him?”
“His name is Van der Lubbe, I understand,” said Goering, indifferently. “A member of
some Communist gang in Holland, according to his papers. I don’t know any more about him.”
“Lubbe,” said von Papen in his light way. “A stupid name, it means ‘fat stupid’ in
English, you know.”
“Perhaps the English sent him,” suggested the Chancellor. Hambledon
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