Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (80 page)

Anyone coming upon this
grim charade would be certain to draw the inference that the Major had shot the
Baron through the heart, then blown out his own brains. But why? Why? Why? What
possible motive could be suggested to account for the Major having killed a man
he hardly knew?

Money? No—out of the
question. A drunken quarrel? No—middle-aged staff officers do not behave like
dock-side roughs. A woman? No— the social circles in which they moved were
poles apart. But yes! Why not?

As the idea struck him,
the Duke snapped his fingers with excitement, then padded swiftly down the
pullman and along the corridor of the next coach. The only light there came
from Lanzi’s sleeping compartment. It was easily identified as his soldier
valet had unpacked his rich silk dressing-gown and night things for him.
Slipping inside it, the Duke seized Lanzi’s already open kit bag and began to
rummage among its contents. In a moment he found the thing he was after. It was
Lanzi’s ‘Bible’, containing the photographs of the eight beauties who made up
his scattered harem. De Richleau took out his handkerchief, and with it
carefully removed the one of Mitzi Muller. To his joy he saw that it had the
imprint of a Berlin photographer along its bottom edge. That was quite enough
to infer that she was a German. Sliding the window back a little, he threw the
album with its photographs of the other seven beauties out into the night.
Then, diving his hand into the kit bag again, he fished out one of Lanzi’s
books of pornographic pictures. With that and the photo of Mitzi, still held in
his handkerchief, he hurried back to the pullman.

Laying the book on the
table in front of Lanzi, he picked up the dead man’s hand and made the finger
and thumb hold the upper edge of the photograph. The bottle of brandy, still
two-thirds full, was standing near the window. Having poured half the remaining
contents into his own tumbler, he tipped about a wine-glassful slowly on to
Tauber’s neck just below the ear, so that it should run down under his stiff
uniform collar towards his chest. Then he replaced the bottle, now four-fifths
empty, on the table.

Stepping back, he
surveyed his work with the dispassionate eye of a stage-manager. Temporarily,
the thought that he was responsible for this awful tableau of death and blood
had entirely passed from his mind. For several moments he remained there, his
glance roving over every detail of it, to make certain that he had not
overlooked some little thing which might incriminate himself.

He knew that his
fingerprints were scattered everywhere. But that could not be helped. No doubt
a thorough examination of the scene of the crime might produce various awkward
questions which he would find it difficult to answer, but he hoped to prevent
such an examination from taking place, and to be out of the country before
suspicion could fall on him. The one thing which might have damned him before
he could get away was Mitzi’s photograph, as that would be exhibit No. 1, and
the first to be tested for prints. That was why he had been so careful not to
touch it with his naked fingers.

Picking up the tumbler of
brandy, he carried it along to the sleeping-car, found his apartment, and sat
down on the bunk. He suddenly felt very cold and noticed that he was shivering,
so he slowly drank about a third of the brandy, then threw the rest out of the
window.

Feeling better now, as
the spirit made the blood course more quickly through his veins, he carefully
examined his clothing for spots of blood. But he could find none, so he
undressed, got into bed, and put out the light. He did not even try to sleep,
as he did not think for one moment that he would be able to. Perhaps for that
very reason, sleep came to him almost immediately.

He was woken by the
sliding back of his door, and a scared voice saying, “Pardon,
Herr Oberst.
Please to come at once. There is
trouble on the train. A very serious matter. Murder! Suicide! I do not know.
Please to come quickly.”

The man in the doorway
was a fat fellow in a sergeant’s uniform, who was evidently acting as train conductor.
De Richleau stared at him owlishly for a moment, blinked several times and
muttered irritably:

“What the devil are you
talking about?”

On the sergeant renewing
his pleas and exclamations, the Duke got out of bed, slipped on his
dressing-gown and slippers, and followed him down the corridor to the pullman.
He saw at once that nothing had been altered in the grisly scene he had
arranged. The soldier-servants of the two dead men were standing a few feet
from the bodies, and with them was the orderly who had brought the drinks the
previous night.

With an exclamation of
feigned amazement and horror, the Duke halted; then stood there regarding the
two dead officers. After a brief pause he asked; “When did this happen? Did any
of you hear the sound of shots?”

“Nein, Herr Oberst
,”
replied the three men in chorus, and the sergeant added: “I think it must have
happened last night. The blood from the
Herr Major’s
head is already thickly congealed.”

De Richleau nodded. He
knew very well that no officer of the German army would have dreamed of
discussing such a matter with other ranks, so he proceeded to analyse the crime
and talk, as though to himself, meanwhile.

The brandy he had poured
over the Major’s neck and collar had dried without leaving any trace except for
a rich aroma, as he had known would be the case. With a loud sniff, he
remarked:

“They must both have been
drunk. I had only one tot out of that bottle, so they drank almost the whole of
it between them.”

He then flicked open the
book, so that the men standing near him could catch a glimpse of one of the
bawdy pictures it contained; but closed it again quickly with a frown, and
said: “They were looking at that together when I left them. What the devil
could have happened afterwards?”

Leaning forward, he
grasped the Major’s dead hand, levered back the stiffened fingers, and took the
pistol from it. By so doing he neatly accounted for any of his own fingerprints
that might be found on the weapon. After examining it, he laid it back on the
table. “Two bullets gone. I thought as much. The Major fired both shots.”

Craning his neck sideways
a little, he peered down at the photograph of Mitzi, and asked: “Do any of you
know this young woman? Might she by chance be the Major’s daughter, or his
niece?”

Lanzi’s valet nodded, and
said with tears in his voice: “It is the Fraulein Muller, whom the
Herr Oberst Baron
visited whenever we passed through
Berlin.”

Then Tauber’s servant
replied woodenly. “May it please the
Herr Oberst,
I was new to the
Herr Major’s
service, and know nothing of his
private affairs.”

The Duke shrugged his
shoulders and muttered: “I think it fairly clear what happened. The Baron was
showing his book of pictures to us. After I left he must have produced the
photograph of the young woman he was going to meet in Berlin. By an evil chance
it happened that she was some relative of the Major’s, or perhaps a very dear
friend. In any case the sight of her photograph in connection with the pictures
in the book must have proved so great a shock to him that he temporarily lost
his reason. When I left he was already a little drunk. Possibly the girl is his
relative, and he felt his honour to be impugned. While the victim of a brain
storm, he pulled out his pistol and shot the Baron. Then, when he realized what
he had done, he shot himself.”

De Richleau’s audience
solemnly nodded acceptance of his theory, and he had no doubt at all that they
would pass it on to whoever questioned them about the crime. Abruptly he asked
the sergeant:

“What time do we get to
Berlin?”

The sergeant took out a
turnip watch. “It is now nine minutes past six,
Herr Oberst.
We should arrive about twenty
before seven.”

“Then get me paper, pen
and ink. I must write a report of this terrible occurrence for the police.”

When the sergeant returned
with the writing materials, De Richleau gave him a piece of paper and said: “Make
a sketch of the table and mark the position clearly of everything upon it.” Then
he turned to the others. “Get some sheets to cover the bodies, and pails of hot
water to clear up the mess.”

On mobilization, the
Germans followed the simple course of retaining every specially qualified man
at the job he understood, but put him into uniform. In civil life, therefore,
the sergeant had been a pullman car conductor, so he was well acquainted with
the proper procedure when a crime had been committed on a train.

Automatically resuming
his civilian outlook for a moment, he said: “Pardon,
Herr Oberst.
Nothing must be touched. When we
reach Berlin this car will be shunted on to a siding for police examination.”

Turning very slowly, De
Richleau looked at the sergeant as though he could hardly believe his ears;
then he said icily, “When I require your advice I will ask for it. I am
proceeding to Kaiser’s Headquarters on an urgent mission from my Emperor. That
their Imperial Majesties’ business should be delayed for the convenience of the
police is unthinkable. I have no intention of waiting in a Berlin station while
another car is found for me. We shall deposit the bodies and leave at once. Now
draw that plan of the table instantly, or you will hear more of this.”

The Duke knew his
Germans, and the way to treat them. At his very first glance the sergeant had
resumed his military outlook. He stood stiffly to attention as if he had a ramrod
down his throat, and the sweat began to ooze out of his fat face.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst!”
he gasped,
“Jawohl!”
and set to drawing a rough plan of the table as though his life depended on it.

Sitting down at the far
end of the coach, the Duke wrote a brief report, giving the bare facts as he
might be presumed to know them. When he had done, and the sergeant had
completed the sketch, he turned to the servants and orderlies who were standing
by. On his instructions the two bodies were wrapped in sheets and carried out
to the lobby of the pullman. The pistol, the photo, the book, the bottle and
the cards were collected and put into a cardboard box. Then the men were set to
work with their pails of water, cloths and scrubbing brushes, to obliterate all
traces of the crime.

They were only just
completing the job when the train ran into a suburban junction outside Berlin.
Lanzi was to have alighted there, then it was scheduled to go round the
outskirts of the city until it got on to the Hanover line. De Richleau had
counted on the deaths of Lanzi and the Major being discovered in sufficient
time for him to put the right ideas into the heads of the train staff, and to
get most of the evidence done away with, before the train reached the capital.
He now felt that things could hardly have fallen out better, as there had been
time enough for him to do all he required, but little over for the men to
discuss the tragedy among themselves.

On the platform, with the
usual German efficiency, a relief engine-driver and fireman were waiting to
take over, and a Railway Transport Officer, to see that the staff officers who
were travelling in the special had everything they required. De Richleau, still
in his silk dressing-gown, alighted and went up to the R.T.O.

With haughty abruptness
he said: “I am
Oberst Herzog von Richleau
of the Imperial Austrian Army. There has been a most regrettable occurrence on
this train. A drunken quarrel between two officers resulted in their deaths. I
am on my way to Kaiser’s Headquarters. You will understand that I must proceed
on my journey without a moment’s delay. Here is my report. I propose to leave
the sergeant conductor of the train and the servants of the two officers to
give the police such details as they can. Should it be deemed necessary, I
will, of course, return here to attend the inquest as soon as my duties permit.
Be good enough to take charge of the bodies and such evidence as we have
managed to collect.”

No people in the world
have such a slavish respect for titles as the Germans. On finding that he was
being addressed by a Duke, the
Oberleutnant
R.T.O., who had been a railway inspector in civil life, positively radiated
deference and desire to earn a word of praise. The sheet-shrouded bodies were
carried out and laid on a truck, the cardboard box containing the pistol and
other items were handed to the
Oberleutnant,
the kits of Lanzi and Tauber were placed in his charge, the fat sergeant and
servants were turned over to him. Within five minutes of the train having
pulled in, it pulled out again on its way to Aix-la-Chapelle.