The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  But my memories of that afternoon are necessarily vague, in view of what the night was to bring forth. Briefly, I stayed at the palace all day, being unconscionably bored, and impatient to get Lola by herself, which looked like being damned difficult, there was such a crowd always in attendance on her. From time to time we had a word or two, but always with others present, and when we dined I was halfway down the table, with the fat Baroness Pechman on one side of me, and an American whose name I’ve forgotten on the other.23 I was pretty piqued with Lola for this; quite apart from the fact that I thought I deserved a place near her at the table top, the Yankee was the damnedest bore you ever met, and the giggling blonde butterball on my other side was infuriating in her shrieks of amusement at my halting German. She also had a tendency to let her hand stray on to my thigh beneath the table—not that I minded the compliment, and she would have been pretty enough in a baby-faced way if she had weighed about six stones less, but my mind was on the lovely Lola, and she was a long way off.

  Being bored, I was careless, and didn’t keep too close an eye on my glass. It was a magnificent dinner, and the wines followed each other in brilliant succession. Everyone else punished them tremendously, as the Germans always do, and I simply followed suit. It was understandable, but foolish; I learned in later years that the only safe place to get drunk is among friends in your own home, but that evening I made a thorough pig of myself, and the long and short of it was that “Flashy got beastly drunk”, to quote my old friend Tom Hughes.

  Not that I was alone; the talk got steadily louder, faces got redder, jokes got coarser—the fact that half those present were women made no difference—and eventually they were roaring and singing around the table, or staggering out to be sick, no doubt, and what conversation there was consisted of shouting at full pitch. I remember there was an orchestra playing incessantly at one end of the hall, and at one point my American companion got up unsteadily on to his chair, amid the cheers of the multitude, and conducted them with a knife and fork. Presently he tumbled down, and rolled under the table. This is an orgy, thinks I, but not a proper orgy. I got it into my head—quite understandably—that such a bacchanalia should be concluded in bed, and naturally looked round for Lola. She had left the table, and was standing off in an alcove at one side, talking to some people; I got up and weaved my way through such of the guests as were standing about—those who were fit to stand, that is—until I fetched up in front of her.

  I must have been heroically drunk, for I can remember her face swimming in and out of focus; she had a diamond circlet in her dark hair, and the lights from the chandelier made it glitter dazzlingly. She said something, I don’t recall what, and I mumbled:

  “Let’s go to bed, Lola. You an’ me.”

  “You should lie down, Harry,” says she. “You’re very tired.”

  “Not too tired,” says I. “But I’m damned hot. Come on, Lola, Rosanna, let’s go to bed.”

  “Very well. Come along, then.” I’m sure she said that, and then she turned away, and I followed her out of the din and stuffiness of the banqueting chamber into a corridor; I was weaving pretty recklessly, for I walked into the wall once, but she waited for me, and guided me to a doorway, which she opened.

  “In here,” she said.

  I stumbled past her, and caught the musky sweetness of her perfume; I grabbed at her, and dragged her to me in the darkness. She was soft and thrilling against me, and for a moment her open mouth was under mine; then she slipped away, and I lost my balance and half-fell on to a couch. I called out to her to come back, and heard her say, “A moment; just in a moment,” and then the door shut softly.

  I half-lay on the couch, my head swimming with drink and my mind full of lustful thoughts, and I believe I must have passed into a brief stupor, for suddenly I was aware of dim light in the room, and a soft hand was stroking my cheek.

  “Lola,” says I, like a moon-calf, and then there were arms round my neck and a soft voice murmuring in my ear, but it was not Lola. I blinked at the face before me, and my hands came in contact with bare, plump flesh—any amount of it. My visitor was Baroness Pechman, and she was stark naked.

  I tried to shove her off, but she was too heavy; she clung to me like a leech, murmuring endearments in German, and pushing me back on the couch.

  “Go away, you fat slut,” says I, heaving at her. “Gehen Sie weg, dammit. Don’t want you; want Lola.”

  I might as well have tried to move St Paul’s; she was all over me, trying to kiss me, and succeeding, her fat face against mine. I cursed and struggled, and she giggled idiotically and began clawing at my breeches.

  “No, you don’t,” says I, seizing her wrist, but I was too tipsy to be able to defend myself properly, or else she was strong for all her blubber. She pinned me down, calling me her duckling, of all things, and her chicken, and then before I knew it she had suddenly hauled me upright and had my fine Cherrypicker pants round my knees, and was squirming her fat backside against me.

  “Oh, eine hammelkeule!” she squeaked. “Kolossal!”

  No woman does that to me twice; I’m too susceptible. I seized handfuls of her and began thrusting away. She was not Lola, perhaps, but she was there, and I was still too foxed and too randy to be choosy. I buried my face in the blonde curls at the nape of her neck, and she squealed and plunged in excitement. And I was just settling to work in earnest when there was a rattle at the door handle, the door opened, and suddenly there were men in the room.

  There were three of them; Rudi Starnberg and two civilians in black. Rudi was grinning in delight at the sight of me, caught flagrante seducto, as we classical scholars say, but I knew this was no joke. Drunk as I was, I sensed that here was danger, dreadful danger when I had least expected it. It was in the grim faces of the two with him, hard, tight-lipped fellows who moved like fighters.

  I shoved my fat baroness quickly away, and she went down sprawling flabbily on her stomach. I jumped back, trying to pull up my breeches, but cavalry pants fit like a skin, and the two were on me before I could adjust myself. Each grabbed an arm, and one of them growled in execrable French:

  “Hold still, criminal! You are under arrest!”

  “What the devil for?” I shouted. “Take your hands off me, damn you! What does this mean, Starnberg?”

  “You’re arrested,” says he. “These are police officers.”

  “Police? But, my God, what am I supposed to have done?”

  Starnberg, arms akimbo, glanced at the woman who had climbed to her feet, and was hastening to cover herself with a robe. To my amazement, she was giggling behind her hand; I wondered was she mad or drunk.

  “I don’t know what you call it in English,” says he coolly, “but we have several impolite names for it here. Off you go, Gretchen,” and he jerked a thumb towards the door.

  “In God’s name, that’s not a crime!” I shouted, but seeing him silent and smiling grimly, I struggled for all I was worth. I was sober enough now, and horribly frightened.

  “Let me go!” I yelled. “You must be mad! I demand to see the Gräfin Landsfeld! I demand to see the British Ambassador!”

  “Not without your trousers, surely,” says Rudi.

  “Help!” I roared. “Help! Let me loose! You scoundrels, I’ll make you pay for this!” And I tried in frenzy to break from the grip of the policemen.

  “Ein starker mann,” observed Rudi. “Quiet him.”

  One of my captors shifted quickly behind me, I tried to turn, and a splitting pain shot through the back of my head. The room swam round me, and I felt my knees strike the floor before my senses left me.

  I wonder sometimes if any man on earth has come to in a cell more often than I have. It has been happening to me all my life; perhaps I could claim a record. But if I did some American would be sure to beat it at once.

  This awakening was no different from most of the others: two damnable pains, one inside and one outside my skull, a stomachful of nausea, and a dread of what lay ahead.
The last was quickly settled, at any rate; just as grey light was beginning to steal through the bars of my window—which I guessed was in a police station, for the cell was decent—a uniformed guard brought me a mug of coffee, and then conducted me along a corridor to a plain, panelled room containing a most official-looking desk, behind which sat a most official-looking man. He was about fifty, with iron grey hair and a curling moustache, and cold eyes flanking a beaky nose. With him, standing at a writing pulpit beside the desk, was a clerk. The guard ushered me in, bleary, unshaven, blood-stained, and in the fiend’s own temper.

  “I demand to be allowed to communicate with my ambassador this instant,” I began, “to protest at the outrageous manner in which—”

  “Be quiet,” says the official. “Sit down.” And he indicated a stool before the desk.

  I wasn’t having this. “Don’t dare to order me about, you cabbage-eating bastard,” says I. “I am a British officer, and unless you wish to have a most serious international incident to answer for, you will—”

  “I will certainly have you whipped and returned to your cell if you do not curb your foul tongue,” says he coldly. “Sit.”

  I was staring, flabbergasted at this, when a cheerful voice behind me said:

  “Better sit down, old fellow; he can do it, you know,” and I wheeled round to find Rudi Starnberg lolling against a table by the door, which had hidden him from me when I came in. He was fresh and jaunty, with his undress cap tilted forward rakishly over one eye, smoking a cheroot in a holder.

  “You!” cried I, and got no further. He shushed me with a gesture and pointed to the stool; at the same time the official rapped smartly on his table, so I decided to sit. My head was aching so much I doubt if I could have stood much longer anyway.

  “This is Doctor Karjuss,” says Rudi. “He is a magistrate and legal authority; he has something to say to you.”

  “Then he can start by telling me the meaning of this dastardly ill-treatment,” cries I. “I’ve been set upon, my skull cracked, thrown into a filthy cell, denied the right to see my ambassador, and God knows what else. Yes, by the lord, I’ve been threatened with flogging, too!”

  “You were placed under arrest last night,” says Karjuss, who spoke tolerable French. “You resisted the officers. They restrained you; that is all.”

  “Restrained me? They bloody well half-killed me! And what is this damned nonsense about arrest? What’s the charge, hey?”

  “As yet, none has been laid,” says Karjuss. “I repeat, as yet. But I can indicate what they may be.” He sat very prim and precise, his cold eyes regarding me with distaste. “First, obscene and indecent conduct; second, corruption of public morals; third, disorderly behaviour; fourth, resisting the police; fifth—”

  “You’re mad!” I shouted. “This is ridiculous! D’you imagine any court in the world would convict me of any of this, on the strength of what happened last night? Good God, there is such a thing as justice in Bavaria, I suppose—”

  “There is indeed,” snaps he. “And I can tell you, sir, that I do not merely imagine that a court could convict you—I know it could. And it will.”

  My head was reeling with all this. “Oh, to the devil! I’ll not listen to this! I want to see my ambassador. I know my rights, and—”

  “Your ambassador would be of no help to you. I have not yet mentioned the most serious complaint. It is possible that a charge of criminal assault on a female may be brought against you.”

  At this I staggered to my feet in horror. “That’s a lie! A damned lie! My God, she practically raped me. Why, she—”

  “That would not be the evidence she would give before a judge and jury.” His voice was stone cold. “Baroness Pechman is known as a lady of irreproachable character. Her husband is a former Commissioner of Police for Munich. I can hardly imagine a more respectable witness.”

  “But … but …” I was at a loss for words, but a horrible thought was forming in my brain. “This is a plot! That’s it! It’s a deliberate attempt to discredit me!” I wheeled on Starnberg, who was negligently regarding his nails. “You’re in this, you rascal! You’ve given false witness!”

  “Don’t be an ass,” says he. “Listen to the magistrate, can’t you?”

  Stunned and terrified, I sank on to the stool. Karjuss leaned forward, a thin hand tapping the table before him. I had the impression he was enjoying himself.

  “You begin to see the seriousness of your position, sir. I have indicated the charges which could be brought—and without doubt, proved—against you. I speak not as an examining magistrate, but as a legal adviser, if you like. These are certainties. No doubt you would persist in denial; against you there would be at least four witnesses of high character—the two police officers who apprehended you, Baroness Pechman, and the Freiherr von Starnberg here. Your word—the word of a known duellist over women, a man who was expelled for drunken behaviour from his school in England—”

  “How the devil did you know that?”

  “Our gathering of information is thorough. Is it not so? You can guess what your word would count for in the circumstances.”

  “I don’t care!” I cried. “You can’t hope to do this! I’m a friend of the Gräfin Landsfeld! She’ll speak for me! By God, when she hears of this, the boot will be on the other foot …”

  I went no further. Another horrid thought had struck me. Why hadn’t the all-powerful Lola, whose lightest word was law in Bavaria, intervened by now? She must know all about it; why, the ghastly affair had happened in her own palace! She had been with me not five minutes before … And then, in spite of my aching, reeling head, the full truth of it was plain. Lola knew all about it, yes; hadn’t she lured me to Munich in the first place? And here I was, within twenty-four hours of meeting her again, trapped in what was obviously a damnable, deliberate plot against me. God! Was this her way of punishing me for what had happened years before, when I had laughed at her humiliation in London? Could any woman be so fiendishly cruel, hating so long and bitterly that she would go to such lengths? I couldn’t believe it.

  And then Karjuss spoke to confirm my worst fears.

  “You can hope for no assistance whatever from the Gräfin Landsfeld,” says he. “She has already disclaimed you.”

  I took my aching head in my hands. This was a nightmare; I couldn’t believe it was happening.

  “But I’ve done nothing!” I burst out, almost sobbing. “Oh, I galloped that fat trot, yes, but where’s the crime in that? Don’t Germans do it, for Christ’s sake? By God, I’ll fight this! My ambassador—”

  “A moment.” Karjuss was impatient. “It seems I have talked to no purpose. Can I not convince you that, legally, you are without hope? And, on conviction, I assure you, you could be imprisoned for life. Even on the minor charges, it would be possible to ensure a maximum sentence of some years. Is that clear? This, inevitably, is what will happen if, by insisting on seeing your ambassador, and enlisting his interest, you cause the whole scandal to become public. At the moment, I would remind you, no charges have been formulated.”

  “And they needn’t be,” says Rudi from behind me. “Unless you insist, of course.”

  This was too much for me; it made no sense whatever.

  “No one wants to be unpleasant,” says Rudi, all silky. “But we have to show you where you stand, don’t you see? To let you see what might happen—if you were obstinate.”

  “You’re blackmailing me, then!” I stared from the thin-lipped Karjuss to the debonair stripling. “In God’s name, why? What have I done? What d’ye want me to do?”

  “Ah!” says he. “That’s better.” He tapped me twice smartly on the shoulder with his riding-switch. “Much better. Do you know, Doctor,” he went on, turning to Karjuss, “I believe there is no need to trouble you any longer. I’m sure the Rittmeister Flashman has at least realised the—er, gravity of his situation, and will be as eager as we all are to find a mutually satisfactory way out of it. I’m deeply oblige
d to you, Doctor.”

  Even in my scared and bewildered state, I noticed that Karjuss took his dismissal as a lackey does from a master. He stood up, bowed to Starnberg, and with his clerk at his heels, strode out of the room.

  “That’s better too,” said young Rudi. “I can’t endure these damned scriveners, can you? I wouldn’t have troubled you with him, really, but there’s no doubt he explains legal technicalities well. Cigar? No?”

  “He’s explained nothing, except that I’m the object of a damned conspiracy! God, why do you do this to me? Is it that damned bitch Lola? Is this how she takes her revenge on me?”

  “Tut-tut,” says Rudi. “Be calm.” He seated himself on the edge of Karjuss’s desk, swung his legs a moment, and looked at me thoughtfully. Then he gave a slow chuckle.

  “It’s too bad, really. I don’t blame you for being annoyed. The truth is, we haven’t been quite honest with you. You’re sure you won’t have a cigar? Oh, well, here’s how it is.”

  He lit himself another weed, and held forth.

  “I think Karjuss has convinced you that you’re in a most devilish mess. If we choose, we can shut you up for ever, and your own ambassador, and your government, would be the first to say ‘Amen’. Considering the charges, I mean.”

  “Trumped-up lies!” I shouted. “False blasted witnesses!”

  “But of course. As you yourself said, a dastardly plot. But the point is—you’re caught in it, with no choice but to do as you’re told. If you refuse—the charges are brought, you’re convicted, and good-night.”

  And the insolent young hound grinned pleasantly at me and blew a smoke-ring.

  “You devil!” cries I. “You—you dirty German dog!”