Walking to the door he opened it. The hallway was empty. Stan walked toward the back of the house and found a balcony with a flight of steps leading to the garden below. He wondered what would happen if he walked down those steps and into the garden. With a grin on his lips he did just that.
Stepping off the last step he strolled into the garden. No one challenged him, so he walked around the house. He was standing looking out into an alley lined with trees. Suddenly a man stepped out from behind a wall and bowed to Stan.
“Luncheon is ready,” the man said in perfect English.
Stan noticed, as the wind whipped open the man’s coat, that he was wearing a heavy shoulder holster. He smiled. The man reminded him of a Chicago gangster he once had seen captured.
“I was just going in,” he said. Turning about he entered the house. Herman appeared at once and bowed. Stan followed him into Domber’s library. A table had been set before an open fire. Domber was seated in an easy chair, puffing on a cigar.
“Have a pleasant stroll in the garden?” he asked.
“You certainly requisitioned a nice place for yourself,” Stan remarked.
“Oh, I have owned this for years,” Domber said. “This is my home.”
That accounted for the hated looks the people on the street had given Domber as he passed. He was a Dutch Quisling, a traitor to his own country. Domber seemed to read Stan’s thoughts.
“I always have been credited with having brains enough to take care of my business and my own comforts,” he said dryly. Then he smiled. “But sit down. We will see what we have for luncheon.”