Codeword Golden Fleece

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Quick!’ whispered the Duke, who was already leading the way towards Teleuescu’s gate. ‘Into the garden! We haven’t a moment to lose!’

  But it was already too late. As he reached the grilled iron gateway he saw through it the lighted front door of the house standing half-open and the two Germans coming down the steps towards the path.

  15

  Street Battle

  There was no time now to get into the garden unseen. The passing of odd pedestrians, the courting couple, the servant with the dog, the reluctance of the chauffeur to leave his own car and the inquisitive policeman had all conspired to delay the execution of the first part of their plan.

  The policeman was still no great distance away, and his attention would be caught by the slightest cry. Even if he glanced back over his shoulder he could scarcely fail to see any scuffle that might be going on outside Teleuescu’s mansion. Yet there seemed no alternative now but to attack the Germans in the open.

  ‘It’s the first plan we thought of or a shooting match,’ de Richleau whispered angrily, as he took a quick catlike step back into the shadows. ‘Rex, you take the wheel of the car; Simon and I will tackle them as they get in.’

  The car was not dead opposite the iron gate, so Rex was able to run to it and scramble into the driver’s seat unseen. De Richleau had picked him for the part because in the indifferent light his peaked cap made him look not unlike the chauffeur. As he huddled himself down into his seat to disguise his height the Duke and Simon ran round to the far side of the car and stooped down behind its body so as to be out of sight of the approaching Germans.

  When they emerged from the gate Rex saw with relief, out of the corner of his eyes, that there were only two of them. The many unforeseen delays in carrying out the first part of the plan had put it badly out of gear, but things would have been infinitely worse if there had been a third member of the enemy party.

  They were walking almost abreast, with von Geisenheim slightly in the lead. He was carrying a black leather brief-case, and the short fat man beside him, no doubt the Commercial Attaché, was speaking to him in an unctuous, deferential voice that oozed satisfaction.

  De Richleau had the far door of the car very slightly open, ready to pull it back and spring on the first of them to step inside, He waited there, hardly breathing, like some huge, grey cat. Simon was crouching behind him. The palms of his hands suddenly became unpleasantly moist, and he felt terribly jittery, as he did on all such occasions when violence was about to be employed. He just caught the Duke’s whisper:

  ‘Slip round the back, Simon. Force them into the car at the point of your gun. As soon as you can grab the option, run for it.’

  As the Germans reached the car von Geisenheim stepped in front of his companion and spoke sharply to Rex. Evidently he was accustomed to having the doors of cars opened for him.

  ‘Schlaffun sie da!’ he exclaimed angrily, but Rex, taking the cue, just mumbled something and shook himself as though he had been asleep.

  The General impatiently pulled the door open for himself and, with a curt order to Rex to drive to his Legation, stepped inside.

  De Richleau gave him just time to sit down, then wrenched the opposite door open, jumped in, thrust his pistol into the astonished General’s face, and cried:

  ‘If you open your mouth I’ll kill you!’

  The fat Attaché was half in and half out of the car. As he made to draw back, Simon came running up behind him; but he tripped on the kerb, lost his balance and staggered against the car with such force that his gun was knocked out of his hand.

  Seeing what had happened, Rex leaned right out and caught the German a glancing backhander on the side of the head. The blow was just in time to stop the shout that was already rising in his throat. On drawing back he had half turned, but the heavy smack on the ear knocked his head back inside the car again.

  Recovering his balance, Simon suddenly dived forward, seized the man by both ankles and, exerting all his strength, pitched him head foremost through the doorway. As the German rolled over and opened his mouth again to shout, the Duke lifted his foot and jabbed it down hard on his face.

  To do so he had had to take his eyes off von Geisenheim for a second. The General saw his chance, grabbed the Duke’s gun-wrist and forced it up, but he could not draw his own pistol because with his other hand he was still clutching the brief-case.

  The Attaché swallowed two teeth and let out a muffled, choking cry. With the edge of his left palm De Richleau hit von Geisenheim a sharp crack on the wrist. The General winced and relaxed his grip. Simon had snatched up his pistol by the barrel from the pavement. The Attache‘s stumpy legs were still flailing wildly in the open doorway of the car. With an effort he jerked them in and strove to sit up, while the Duke was still struggling with von Geisenheim; but Simon was too quick for him. Jumping on to the running-board, he lifted his gun and brought its butt smashing down right in the centre of the German’s square forehead.

  De Richleau had now got his pistol-hand free and was pointing his weapon at the General’s head again. As Simon’s gun-butt smacked on to the Attaché’s skull Rex’s voice reached them, a hoarse, urgent whisper through the windscreen:

  ‘Got that brief-case, Simon? Come on, man! For Mike’s sake make it snappy!’

  Simon was still sprawling on top of the now unconscious Attaché. Reversing his pistol, he thrust it in his pocket and stumbled to a kneeling position on his victim’s chest.

  ‘There it is! There!’ cried the Duke, pointing to the brief-case, which von Geisenheim was endeavouring to push behind him. Leaning across the General’s knees, Simon grasped the case and hauled upon it. The case came towards him, slowly, reluctantly, as the General’s arm straightened from the pull upon it.

  Rex’s voice came again. ‘Come on, can’t you! Shoot if you’ve got to, but get that case!’

  Von Geisenheim’s arm was now almost fully extended. De Richleau lifted his hand again and brought the side of it smacking down on the General’s other wrist. With a gasp of pain he let go the case and Simon, still clutching it, almost fell out of the car backwards.

  ‘Hell!’ exclaimed the Duke, as he saw what it was that had brought Simon up with a jerk. The brief-case was fastened to the General’s wrist by a chain such as bank messengers wear when carrying wallets containing money or negotiable securities.

  At that instant the car suddenly slid forward. Simon rolled over in the empty seat, and de Richleau, who had been crouching with his back to Rex, was flung forward on to the General.

  Von Geisenheim gave a shout, but it was half stifled by the Duke’s shoulder, which had fallen across his face.

  As they picked themselves up the car gathered speed. Simon still had the brief-case and was tugging upon it, but he let go with one hand to slam to the door. De Richleau, his face pressed close to his enemy’s ear, snarled: ‘If you try to shout again I’ll blow your head off!’ Then he heaved himself up, pushed down the small seat opposite the General and lowered himself into it.

  The car raced round a corner, and they heard Rex shout: ‘Look out of the back window. See if we’re being tailed?’

  Simon squirmed round and peered through the square pane above the back seat.

  ‘No!’ he shouted back, after a moment. ‘Don’t think so. Can’t see anything.’

  ‘Why in thunder did you drive off like that?’ the Duke flung over his shoulder.

  ‘Had to!’ The boom of Rex’s voice came in reply above the humming of the engine. ‘That darned cop had turned round and was patrolling towards us. I tipped you off as soon as I spotted him, and he was within ten yards of us before I slid in the clutch. Hope to glory he didn’t catch sight of what was going on inside there.’

  For the first time von Geisenheim spoke, his cold eyes on the Duke. ‘It is always a tragedy when a gentleman turns thug. I am sorry to see an old acquaintance, such as yourself, in the guise of a gangster.’

  De Richleau raised his ‘devil’s’
eyebrows. ‘It surprises me, Herr General Graffs to find that you still retain memories of those now distant happier days when we were both guests at Schloss Werzenstein, for the shooting. I should have thought that all niceties of conduct had long since been eradicated from your mind by the gangster you have made your master.’

  Von Geisenheim shrugged. ‘Adolf Hitler may not be one of us, but he has served the end for which he was placed in power. Germany is no longer weak and a beggar among the nations. The Great General Staff, which has now come into its own at last, at least owes that to Hitler.’

  ‘And you will throw him aside like a worn-out boot when he is no longer of any use to you,’ commented the Duke. ‘I’ve always suspected that you Junkers were the real power behind that neurotic, blustering puppet.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ von Geisenheim shrugged again. ‘But he is a man to be reckoned with all the same.’

  ‘So the horse is becoming master of the rider, eh? And you are afraid there will be times when this little Austrian corporal may try to interfere with your strategy?’

  ‘You need not worry, Duke, the Stabscorps is perfectly capable of taking care of itself.’

  ‘I wonder? It is a dangerous business to call up the Devil and try to make him your servant.’

  ‘As long as the German Army continues to be victorious there will be no clash of opinion, and it will continue to triumph to the end. After that—well, we shall see.’

  ‘You would not be there to see yourself if that little bounder could hear you. He has fifty times more gunmen than Al Capone ever had and, it seems, seeks far less excuse to use them.’

  ‘Yes. Most of these Nazis are unspeakable brutes straight out of the gutter, and it certainly is not wise to air one’s opinions anywhere they are likely to get wind of them. However, this fool,’ the General gave a contemptuous kick at the body of the unconscious Attaché, ‘is as near dead as makes no matter, so during this little ride we can talk quite openly as friends and equals.’

  ‘Equals, perhaps, but hardly friends,’ corrected de Richleau. ‘It is surely unnecessary to remind you that our countries are at war.’

  ‘Oh, the war! It may result in the killing of a few hundred thousand of our respective nationals, but what difference does that make? I was thinking of much broader issues, and in those you and I inevitably find ourselves on the same side. The future holds only one question of real significance. Is our caste to continue its task of maintaining civilised order among the masses, or is the world to be given over to the dictates of a blood-soaked Bolshevik rabble?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that in recent years Germany has set an example of maintaining civilised order?’

  ‘That is only a phase. Hitler’s thugs and their filthy concentration camps are a necessary evil to purge the State of its irresponsible elements.’

  De Richleau shook his head. ‘I think there are very few British people, whatever their caste, who would not prefer to take their chance with the blood-stained mob for masters rather than stand by passively while such horrors are perpetrated as has been the case in Nazi Germany.’

  ‘Then they are bigger fools than I thought. Obviously they cannot appreciate the sort of fate that would be in store for them. Yet the writing on the wall is plain enough for you all to see. Look how the brutal Russian giant has licked the wounds we inflicted on him last time and is getting to his feet in an attempt to crush us all. Does not the fact that Stalin has felt himself strong enough to send an army into Poland mean anything to you?’

  ‘It means that he is barring his front door against the possibility of future German aggression. And, after all, he did not seriously embarrass your campaign in Poland.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Von Geisenheim laughed a little bitterly. ‘That was hardly more than an exercise, and Stalin would be getting a bloody nose by now if he had attempted to go in before he did. That reminds me. I have a score to settle with that big American rough-house man of yours. I should have been commanding one of the armies that were sent into Poland if it had not been for him. He put one of his accursed bullets through my shoulder. That’s why, instead of doing my proper job, I have been sidetracked and sent on this mission to Bucharest.’

  ‘It is regrettable,’ said the Duke sarcastically, ‘that we should have been the cause of interfering with such a distinguished career. Perhaps, though, your absence from the front resulted in quite a few less of those unfortunate Poles being murdered.’

  ‘My career does not matter,’ von Geisenheim replied quietly. ‘But the success of the German Armies does. It is the only thing which stands today between the world and Bolshevism. As for the Poles, they are a stupid, pigheaded lot, and since they would not co-operate with us, what does it matter if a few thousands more or less of them get killed?’

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed de Richleau. ‘I do wish we had a professional psychologist with us. It would interest me greatly to hear his report upon a brain which shows such callous indifference to suffering as yours. How can you be quite so inhuman when you have every reason to fear that we are taking you to your own death?’

  The General shrugged. ‘It is just that which makes me speak so frankly. If you don’t kill me the loss of the paper that you mean to take from me will probably result in my having to face a firing squad when I get back to Berlin. As I now regard my days as numbered I am taking the opportunity of trying to make you face the wider issues that lie behind the present conflict. You have influence with your people. If you succeed in getting home, for God’s sake tell them to ignore this mountebanke Hitler for another year or two, and line up with us Germans to save all that we value in this world from being trodden underfoot by the Bolshevik scum.’

  The car had been speeding along at a good pace, first through streets of houses, then through a less built-up area. It was now on the edge of the open country, and, slowing down, Rex turned it into a narrow lane between two orchards. Having run along the lane for a hundred yards, he brought the car to a stop.

  ‘Herr General,’ said de Richleau seriously, as the car halted, ‘I am afraid that tonight you have failed in both your missions. May I have the key to that brief-case which is still attached to your wrist?’

  ‘So be it.’ Von Geisenheim thrust his free hand into his breast pocket. ‘It is quite pointless for me to make a fight; and, after all, the Stabscorps still has some power where the protection of its own Generals is concerned. This may mean no more than retirement for a few months. If so, I may yet be able to play a hand against you pig-headed British in the war.’

  ‘You seem to have gained a sudden confidence in the belief that we do not mean to kill you. Perhaps it would be better if we did.’

  ‘No. You would shoot me if I put up a fight, but you would not murder me unarmed as I am. I congratulate you, Duke, on your triumph. Here is the key to—Sieg Heil!’

  At the end of the sentence the German raised his voice to a sudden shout. On his cry of ‘Sieg Heil!’ he whipped from his pocket, not the key of the brief-case, but a small flat, snub-nosed automatic. In one swift movement he had it levelled straight at the Duke’s heart.

  During the first few minutes of their drive de Richleau had kept his pistol pointed at von Geisenheim’s head, but in a moving car it is not easy to keep an upraised arm steady, so for the latter part of the journey he had let the pistol rest on his knees. He was still holding it there. Only a flick of his wrist was needed to jerk the barrel round and send a bullet into the General, but before he even had time to flick his wrist the General might now send a bullet into him.

  For once the Duke had made the fatal error of underrating his opponent, and it looked as if his carelessness was going to cost him his life. During the split second that he stared down the small deadly muzzle of von Geisenheim’s little pistol he was bitterly conscious of how easily he had let himself be tricked.

  They never knew if it had been the German’s intention to kill the Duke first and take his chance with the other two afterwards or if he meant to attempt to
barter de Richleau’s life for his own freedom.

  The pistol flashed, making, small as it was, an ear-splitting crash in the confined space of the car. But whether he deliberately squeezed the trigger, or the gun went off because his hand was jolted, remained uncertain.

  Throughout the German’s conversation with the Duke, Simon had sat quietly in his corner, a cynical and watchful listener. All his native suspicion had been instantly roused on seeing von Geisenheim’s hand go to his pocket. The General and the Duke were so engrossed with each other that neither of them saw him lift his own pistol; but as the German’s hand left his coat Simon’s weapon swung in a swift, vicious back-hander, crashing sideways against their enemy’s face.

  As the spurt of flame issued from the pistol-barrel de Richleau flung himself sideways. The bullet streaked over his shoulder and crashed through the glass screen of the car just where Rex’s head had been a moment earlier.

  Before von Geisenheim could fire again Simon had flung himself upon him and brought his gun smashing down, once, twice, thrice, on the German’s head.

  A muffled cry came from outside, but it was drowned in the thudding of the blows, and none of those inside the car heard it.

  ‘Phew!’ whistled the Duke, as he picked himself up from off the unconscious Attaché. ‘That was a near one. Thanks, Simon, you can let him be now. What a lesson not to talk politics with old friends.’

  ‘Let me finish him off,’ Simon panted, lifting his arm again.

  ‘No!’ De Richleau caught the raised arm swiftly. ‘You have had your cut at him now. So has Rex. If he recovers from those head wounds, and Hitler spares him, we may come across him again. And he is my meat next time.’

  Von Geisenheim was now slumped in his corner. He had dropped his little automatic; blood was streaming from his nose and trickling through the grey hair in two places on his scalp. It looked as if it would be a long time before he was capable of making further trouble for anyone.