Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (84 page)

The following afternoon
he was sent for, and taken down to a room that had two wire screens fixed
across it with a space of six feet between them. It was the room in which
prisoners were allowed to see such visitors as they were permitted. On the
other side of the far screen a tall, dark young man, dressed in clothes that
had obviously been cut in Savile Row, was standing. The Duke guessed at once
that his assumption of Sir Pellinore’s identity had come off, and brought an attaché
from the Legation post-haste to see him. But this was very far from being the
private interview on which he had counted.

The young man gave him
one quick glance, and said: “I’m afraid there is some mistake. This is not—”

Instantly De Richleau cut
him short. “There is no mistake. Tell your Minister that six German Corps are
being dispatched—”

Before he could get any
further the two warders who had brought him there flung themselves upon him.
One clapped a hand to his mouth and between them they hustled him from the
room.

Up in the sanatorium
again, he cursed his ill luck. Evidently his visitor knew Sir Pellinore, or had
been given a description of him, and no one could possibly mistake the slim,
dark-haired prisoner for the grizzled, six foot four inches tall baronet. But
worse, although the young man had not actually denounced him as an impostor, he
had got as near to it as made no difference. Anyway, he would report that to be
the case to his Legation, so no help would now be forthcoming from it on
Monday.

With fury in his heart,
De Richleau realized that in his anxiety to procure a swift release, he had
hoist himself on his own petard. Had he given his name as Tom Brown, no one at
the Legation would have been in a position to say if he was or was not that
person. When his case came up again the British representative would at least
have given him the benefit of the doubt and asked for a further adjournment
while inquiries were made. That might have provided an opportunity to tip him
off about the real facts of the case. But no such heartening prospect could now
be hoped for. The German Consul would meet with no opposition, and the wretched
prisoner would be hauled off to Germany to meet his fate. And he had not even
the consolation of knowing that he had passed on his all-important news.

The forty-eight hours
that followed were black ones for the Duke, and they culminated on Friday night
in a most appalling nightmare. In it he saw again Major Tauber sprawled over
the table in the pullman car: but now the German would not die. He lifted his
bloody head, from one side of which a horrible mess of brains and splintered
bone protruded. Slowly he stood up. De Richleau fired again. His bullet had no
effect. The Major stretched out a pair of claw-like hands. Again and again the
Duke fired, until the pistol he held was empty. The shots passed through the
living corpse without making it even quiver. The clawing hands stretched out
and up, until they closed about his neck. He awoke with a groan and found
himself drenched with the sweat of terror.

During the five days and
nights since his killings on the train his mind had been so fully occupied with
his own urgent problems that he had managed to keep it fairly free from the
memory of his terrible deed, and thought of it only at odd moments with a
shudder of repulsion. Now, in total darkness, and with the nightmare fresh upon
him, he strove once more to reassure himself that it had been absolutely
necessary. Cold logic told him that it was no worse than having shot two
enemies from an ambush. In war time no soldier needed any excuse for that; and
he had been impelled to it by a stupendous issue that made two human lives a
bagatelle. If justification were needed, he had it a thousand times over in the
French and British lives he had saved by influencing the removal of six German
Corps from the Western Front. But, all the same, he knew that, should he
escape, it would be months, if not years, before he could entirely free his
mind of that midnight journey from Wartenburg to Berlin.

In an effort to do so
now, he began to think of Ilona. It was well over a fortnight since she had
left for Hohenembs. The mountain air, rest and proper treatment under Bruckner
should already be having its effect. She had promised him that she would stay
there until she was really well. Franz Ferdinand and other members of her
family had been cured of consumption, so there was every hope that she would
be, too. Now that all the main armies were locked in a death struggle, the war
situation should soon clarify. They could not continue such all-out efforts for
very long without exhaustion setting in. One side or the other must soon
achieve major victories, and that might lead to peace negotiations. Most people
were convinced that the war would be over by Christmas. If it were, in another
four months or so he could be with her again, and by that time she might be
cured.

He began to wonder how
the war would affect them in other respects. As long as she remained in Austria
her royalty would always debar them from being much together, on account of
scandal; but once the war was over she might travel again. That would make
things easier, although they would still have to be very circumspect. Perhaps
she could use her illness as an excuse for a long convalescence in Switzerland.
She would be out of the public eye there and could probably arrange for him to
occupy a position in her household. That would be marvellous—as long as it
lasted. But how long would it last?

There was the question of
her marriage. It had been postponed so often already and could not be put off
indefinitely. Again and again he had been tempted by the glorious dream of
persuading her to marry him, but had refrained from any attempt to do so on
account of her having told him that to marry morganatically would bring
disgrace on any woman of her rank. The war would alter many things, and perhaps
it would alter her views on that. But such happiness seemed too much to hope
for. He must be content to consider himself blessed in her love, and with the
prospect that once the war was over they could at least snatch joyous hours
together from time to time.

Then, as he lay there in
the darkness, the grimness of his present situation seized upon him again. By
Monday death would assuredly be waiting for him on the other side of the
frontier, and his sole hope now of evading being taken back there under escort
lay in provoking some change of attitude in the British Legation, with which he
was not allowed to communicate.

On Saturday, at mid-day,
after two almost sleepless nights, his prison sentenced ended; but he was not
given his liberty. Instead, he was taken in the Black Maria back to the police
station, and confined there in a cell to await the hearing of his case on
Monday.

However, as a prisoner
awaiting trial, he was allowed certain privileges that he had not enjoyed while
in prison. He was permitted to send out for better food, wine, newspapers, and
to have back his belongings, minus the pistols. His warders also chatted freely
with him, and he soon discovered that, from fear that at any time Holland might
suffer the same fate as Belgium, they were bitterly hostile to Germany.

One elderly man who had
lived for a long time in Malaya, and spoke English, proved especially
sympathetic. He obviously believed the Duke’s story that he was a Briton
escaped from Germany and, if he could do so without risking his job, seemed
prepared to help him.

De Richleau still had a
considerable amount of money on him; so he made up a wad of twenty-mark notes
equivalent to £25 and, when the sympathetic warder came to escort him to the
lavatory in the evening, he asked him in a whisper if he would accept it as the
price of carrying a letter to the Hague for him.

To his disappointment the
man shook his head. “No. I tare nod. If it contained information useful to the
Pridish an’ it afterwards discovered was thad I act as your messenger der
Shermans would never rest until they got me pud in brison for it.”

On the way back to his
cell De Richleau thought again. As the warder was about to lock him in, he
said: “All right then. Never mind about the letter. But I have two things here
which could not possibly incriminate you, and if they can be got to the British
Minister at the Hague in time they may enable him to save my life. The money is
beside the point. You are welcome to that anyway, for your sympathy.”

After a moment’s
hesitation, the warder asked: “What are der dings?”

De Richleau produced the
photograph of Ilona and the Austrian decoration. “Here they are,” he said; “and
I propose to write on a slip of paper to go with them, ‘In the event of my being
sent back to Germany please deliver to Ninety-nine Carlton House Terrace’.
Then, should you be caught with them, you cannot be accused of more than taking
charge of some things having a sentimental value for me, that I am anxious
should reach my family safely.”

The warder nodded. “Very
goot. If I am found out I cannod be greatly plamed for agreeing to such a
request. I am off duty until tomorrow evening. I can easily travel to der Hague
an’ back in the early part of der day.”

The Duke wrote the brief
message on a piece of paper that the warder provided, thanked him from the
bottom of his heart, and promised to treble the reward if the ruse procured him
his liberty. When the man had put the things under his coat, locked him in and
gone, he sat down on his truckle bed with a sigh of thankfulness.

It was much too early yet
to count on his release, but at least he could now hope. Ninety-nine Carlton
House Terrace was Sir Pellinore’s address. When the Minister received the
things he would surely be sufficiently intrigued to look the address up and,
finding it to be Sir Pellinore’s, begin to wonder who the false Sir
Pellinore—who was sending a photograph and a decoration to the real Sir
Pellinore—could be. Surely that would result in a telegram to London describing
the prisoner and the things. Sir Pellinore knew the Duke’s Austrian title to be
Count Königstein, and that name was on the back of the decoration. Even if the
people at the Legation missed that, any doubt about the identity of his
impersonator should be removed from Sir Pellinore’s mind by the portrait of the
Archduchess whom the Duke had kissed at Dorchester House. The clues could
hardly have been better, and if only the Minister sent Sir Pellinore a full
description of them, it was a certainty that he would act. Yes, if—.

For the first time for
several nights De Richleau got a fairly sound sleep; but all Sunday he was
plagued by the awful suspicion that the warder might have betrayed him. In the
wars in which he had fought he had often heard of cases in which the guards of
prisoner-of-war camps had deliberately made up to captives, taken heavy bribes
to help them to escape, and then done nothing about it. But evening brought
reassurance. When the warder came on duty at eight o’clock he gave a friendly
wink, and later said in a quick whisper:

“I did not tare say who I
was or where I come from. But I gave them to a young Herr who seem quite
pright, and told him that der barcel for der Minister was, an’ most urgent.”

Much heartened, but still
in awful suspense as to whether the description of his clues would reach Sir
Pellinore in time for the Foreign Office to instruct the Legation to come to
his assistance, the Duke managed, somehow, to get through Sunday night and the
early hours of Monday morning.

At ten o’clock he was
again taken to the Law Courts, but this time he had not so long to wait on the
hard bench with the other anxious prisoners, as his case was early on the list.
At twenty-five past ten he was led into court and put in the dock. As he stepped
on to the platform a stocky, red-haired young man stood up in the well of the
court and came over to him. With a friendly smile, the young man said:

“Hallo! Sir Pellinore. I
never expected to meet you in a place like this. You remember me, don’t you—Jack
McEwan?”

“Of course I do,” smiled
the Duke. “And I couldn’t be more delighted to see you.”

The rest was merely a
matter of formalities, and ten minutes later De Richleau was in his rescuer’s
car on the way to the Hague.

The car was a brand new
Rover, and a sports model that its owner drove himself with all the flair of a
born motoring enthusiast: so they sped at a fine pace along the flat, sunny
roads of Holland, while the Duke learned that the arrival of his parcel had
caused no small stir in the accustomed quiet of a Sunday afternoon at the
Legation. Sir Pellinore had been telegraphed to at once, a reply had come in
from him giving the facts, that evening; and it had been followed by another,
from the Foreign Office, urging that everything possible should be done to
secure the release of the prisoner and expedite his safe transit to London.

They lunched at Pilburg,
and over the meal discovered an affinity of interests in Gibbon and the great
civilization of Rome, which added to the pleasure of the latter part of the
journey. The Duke would have revelled in his freedom even if he had had to
travel with a Basuto in an ox cart, but the erudite wit of his companion added
just that touch needed to restore the serenity of his mind after the ordeal he
had been through, and make the sunny afternoon perfection for him.