Heil Harris!

“I was standing at the scene of the accident before he turned the corner, and I was thinking about Ernst Karsten’s death on precisely the same spot thirty years ago. It seems such a coincidence that I had to have a chat with someone...”
    “No coincidence,” said Colonel Hayburn. “You must have heard the motor-cycle three minutes before it reached you, and that would explain why you were thinking about Karsten’s death. I don’t believe in coincidence.”
    “Neither do I.” The cigar was slightly dry, rolled on the thigh of an older woman, but it passed with the large whisky that Hayburn produced. “What is a Werewolf?”
    “I’ve no idea.”
    He might as well have stayed at home and written some more of his memoirs. Then he would be able to forget about the past. He stayed with Hayburn for a few more minutes, remembering the days when the army had made a man of you, and then emerged into the fresh air of Swindon. Steed hated the barracks mentality, with its austere insistence on physical fitness, discipline and stupidity. Even the officers were retarded adolescents who had mentally never left Borstal.
    Steed bought an evening paper before climbing into his Speed Six Bentley and chugging comfortably back into the countryside. Maybe he’d have tea with the vicar to re-create the feeling of being civilised, or perhaps he’d ask that damned schoolmaster about the imperfect subjunctive. What kind of man can prefer the crude male companionship that Hayburn was trying to inculcate? Of course, the fellow had gained a dubious reputation at Sandhurst, constantly lurking round the showers and all that wrestling, then being beaten up by his sister. Steed relaxed gradually as the factory chimneys receded on the horizon.
    Ernst Karsten had also enjoyed barrack room company. He had been a founder member of the Brownshirts and a friend of Roehme.
    Hell! He was still chewing over the same old ideas, the product of an idle mind. Steed decided to stop off for an early supper at Percy Crabbe’s place on the A.4. He would have some of that lasagne al forno Piemontese. It would give him an interest in life. And a bottle of 1947 Barolo to heighten the perception. There was nothing to equal an Italian meal done by Percy Crabbe; every detail was authentic, even the washing up was done by a real Italian woman.
    Steed pushed through the swing doors into the heavy oak dining-room and waved to Percy. “No,” he said, “Fm not altogether blooming today. I5ve been wielding a bloody pen and I think it must have shattered the nerves.”
    Percy recommended a good meal.
    “Yes, but I’ll sit here and admire the view first. A fine Napoleon brandy will restore whatever needs to be restored.”
    But it didn’t. He stared across the valley until a waiter brought the brandy, and then he sat back to read the evening paper. “Swindon synagogue attacked with burning cross,” proclaimed the headlines. Underneath was the full story of daubed swastikas and anti-semitic slogans. JudenRaus, There was no escaping from the Third Reich.
     

“I know I’m not attractive”
     
    “I know I’m not attractive/’ said Frankenstein’s monster, “but I was made this way.”
    The Werewolf looked at him distastefully. “You should change your religion, old man. If you don’t like your maker you can always change him.”
    “Would that help?”
    “Not really, but it would give you something else to think about. I mean, look at Lucrezia Borgia, she’s a different woman since she became a scientologist. A year ago she’d never have fallen off her horse as she did this afternoon.” The Werewolf grabbed two whiskies from a passing flunkey. “I say, what will you do when the lights go out?”
    “I expect I’ll die,” said the monster. “I can’t bear these orgies.”
    Emma Peel stood behind them wondering what sort of friends she had, or what sort of friends her friends had. Two hundred people in a stateroom enjoying themselves, in fashionable conversation and caucus races. She wished Steed hadn’t insisted she come all this way out from London just to kill a fox.
    (But Steed, she’d argued, you know I don’t like the Throgmortons,, I wouldn’t have mentioned their invitation.... I’m sorry, Mrs. Peel., but there’s something in the air. What? I haven’t the slightest idea.)
    The young man in an S.S. uniform came up to her again. “Are you Emma Peel?” he asked.
    “I’m meant to be Dick Turpin.”
    “I gather you’re a