Laughing, she took the parcel and said, “Come back at five, or five-fifteen,” then closed the door in his face.
Peter, sensing that his face was flushed, returned to the Horche and headed again for Onkel Tom Strasse.
What I will do tonight, after I see the Protocol idiot, is go to the Hotel Adlon. The Knight’s Cross is usually enough to motivate some patriotic fräulein there to visit your room for its view.
The way my luck is running, there will be no rooms in the Adlon. Maybe the Hotel am Zoo. The one thing I will not do is be back at 35 Beerenstrasse at five or five-fifteen.
“Is that the only uniform you have with you, von Wachtstein?” Oberst Howze asked, annoyance in his voice.
“Herr Oberst, I regret that it is. The teletype said nothing about uniforms.”
“You are having luncheon at the Foreign Ministry tomorrow,” Howze said. “That uniform is inappropriate. Something will have to be done.”
“Herr Oberst, if I may?” Oberstleutnant Huber said.
Oberst Howze nodded.
“May I suggest, Herr Oberst, that under the circumstances, his uniform may be very appropriate. It is the uniform worn by officers who are flying every day against the enemy. In that sense, it may be viewed as a token of respect for the late Hauptmann Duarte; that we are taking a man from the lines, so to speak, as a token of our respect.”
Oberst Howze grunted.
“At least get your trousers pressed and get rid of those boots,” Howze said to Peter.
“Yes, Sir. Herr Oberst, may I inquire?”
“All I know, von Wachtstein, is that if you pass muster at luncheon tomorrow, you will be traveling to Argentina as the Assistant Military Attaché for Air. And escorting the body of an Argentine who killed himself at Stalingrad, flying a Storch.”
“Sir…”
Howze held up his hand impatiently to stop him.
“It will all be explained to you tomorrow, von Wachtstein,” he said, and added to Oberstleutnant Huber, “Go with him. Make sure he has at least decent shoes. He can’t have luncheon at the Foreign Ministry in flight boots!”
At almost exactly five o’clock, after failing to obtain an explanation from Oberstleutnant Huber either about the luncheon or about Argentina, Peter went back to the Horche, dropped a new pair of low quarter shoes from the Officers’ Sales Store onto the passenger seat, and drove out of the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe complex.
The more he thought about it, the chances of his finding a room at either the Adlon or the Hotel am Zoo seemed remote. If he’d had a couple of days to telephone ahead, it might have been different. That left taking a room in one of the smaller hotels around the Zoo, or off the Kurfürstendamm. They catered these days to a warm-sheets clientele; but that would be all right, in a pinch. Or he could go to the bar of one of the better hotels, and with luck he might find a patriotic fräulein with an apartment. Or as a last resort he could take her to a small hotel. But that would not solve the problem of the pressed trousers.
There was, of course, always Frau Nussl. She had said to come back.
Her maid! Certainly her maid could press my pants!
He drove back down Onkel Tom Allee and ultimately to 35 Beerenstrasse.
This time Frau Nussl herself opened the door to him.
“I couldn’t have you in with Frau Leiss here,” Frau Nussl greeted him.
“I understand,” Peter said.
“The cognac is marvelous!” Frau Nussl said. “I started without you, the minute she was out of the door.”
“I have a friend in Paris who sends it to me,” Peter replied idly, and then asked, “Your maid is gone, I take it?”
“You seem disappointed,” Frau Nussl said.
“I have to have my trousers pressed,” Peter said.
“Really?”