A Despicable Profession by John Knoerle

know. Ambrose was behind me when we climbed the back stairs. I called his name. He appeared shortly, zipping up his trow.
    â€œHere I am.”
    The Colonel filled his pipe from a leather pouch and didn’t bother to turn his head. “Tell your friend to sit somewhere where I can keep an eye on him.”
    â€œThe name’s Ambrose sir,” he said, perching on the arm of a wing chair that faced the couch.
    I took the matching chair next to him. “And I’m Harold Schroeder.”
    â€œSo I have been informed,” said the Colonel pleasantly.
    Huh? A British Colonel knew my name? And what was he a Colonel of anyway? MI6, had to be.
    â€œColonel, Ambrose and I would like to express our profound thanks for...”
    â€œHauling your chestnuts out of the fire?”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œHappy to be of service dear boy. Happy to be of service.”
    He loosened his brightly striped tie from Oxford or Cambridge or one of those. He lit his pipe with a gold Ronson and sat back and looked content. The chauffeur entered from the back door, hung his cap on a peg and lumbered off to the kitchen. It felt like a scene that had taken place a hundred times before.
    â€œWe need you cheeky Yanks, don’t you see?” said the Colonel suddenly. “Britain is spent, defeated by victory, the French haven’t been worth a fig since Waterloo. Only you cheeky Yanks, only you batboys can keep the Red Army from crossing the Elbe. Where
is
the bloody tea Sedgewick?”
    Sedgewick let the whistling kettle answer for him. The Colonel puffed his pipe impatiently. I had heard this doomsday scenario before, from the CO. But he was a Gloomy Gus. That this jolly Brit thought likewise made it seem more real.
    â€œI don’t know much about the big picture sir, Ambrose and I are just pawns in the game...”
    â€œPawns in the game who would like to know, sir, how you knew to come to our rescue,” said Ambrose, brashly.
    The Colonel shrugged his considerable eyebrows and sat very still. Ambrose leaned forward on his perch.
    There are few tasks in life more thankless than being a referee. I learned this while mediating disputes between my strict Catholic parents and my wild kid sister Beth. This was the like. A brazen Mick versus a Limey toff. Just what I didn’t need.
    â€œI don’t believe I am under any obligation to tell you,” said the Colonel.
    â€œOf course not, sir,” I said. “It’s just...”
    â€œBut what’s the harm?” grinned the Colonel. He had good teeth for an Englishman. “Horst Schultouer stopped by last evening, had a bit too much refreshment and confided to one of our ladies that he was meeting with some Yankee gunrunners the following day.”
    Ambrose pricked up his ears. “What ladies?”
    â€œThe ladies in the coach house,” said the Colonel, craning his neck toward the kitchen.
    â€œThis is a whorehouse?” said Ambrose. Sedgewick approached with a wheeled cart draped in linen.
    â€œThis is my private residence,” said Norwood crossly. “The building at the rear of the property is a whorehouse.”
    Sedgewick poured dark aromatic tea into china cups. The act, the ritual, seemed to relax Norwood. He placed his pipe in a gnarled wood receptacle designed for the purpose and said, “Though we prefer bordello. Darjeeling anyone? It’s fresh off the boat.”
    Sedgewick served us steaming cups of tea, with cream. Real cream that clotted in the cup.
    I took a sip and pondered. Norwood’s disclosure explained how he knew of our meet with the Gestapo Captain. It didn’t explain how the Soviets knew. Or how he knew they knew. I could hear Ambrose toting up the same sum. It was a question that needed asking, but not yet. I spoke up before Ambrose could queer the pitch. Or tried to.
    â€œColonel, you suggest that...”
    â€œThe Red Army is poised to cross the Elbe? Precisely! The Soviets