Codeword Golden Fleece

by Dennis Wheatley

  It was the best part of twenty-five miles away, and normally he would either have gone by train or hired a car; but, with the uneasy idea never far from his thoughts that the police might be on the look-out for him, he decided not to risk arriving right on the frontier by such conspicuous means, and set out to hitchhike again.

  On leaving the city the road crossed a low range of hills and wound down again to the River Pruth, all the land beyond which had been Russian territory up to 1918. Just after Rex had crossed the river a lorry picked him up, and from his slightly higher elevation beside its driver he saw that the country both in front and to the right of him was one vast level plain. The lorry was going into Grodek, but he saw the huge internment camp that was still in process of being erected to house the Poles long before they came to it, and slipped off at one of its barbed-wire entrances, hoping that the lorry-driver would think that he was a Pole who was visiting the camp to look for a friend.

  Indeed, that was the rôle he would have adopted had he been able to speak any Polish, but, as it was, he had to content himself for the time being by just looking up and down the road as though he did not know which way to go, then setting off at a fast walk parallel with the wire as if he had made up his mind that the entrance he wanted was further along.

  It took him over an hour to circle the great camp, but by the time he had done so he had a pretty good idea of its lay-out. The Poles had not just been dumped down in the centre of the open plain, and, in view of the desolate country thereabouts, the site of the camp had been well chosen. Its main feature was a group of buildings about three-quarters of a mile from the road, which appeared to consist of an old manor house surrounded on three sides by stabling and farm buildings. At its back there was a wide stretch of almost treeless parkland, and it was here that the machines of the Polish Air Force had been parked. In front of the group of buildings there was an avenue of elm trees, and on each side of it a number of wooden hutments formed the nucleus of the camp, while many more were in process of erection.

  Apparently the Poles had been given the task of guarding themselves, as only sentries in Polish uniforms were to be seen at the gates and loitering outside the wooden guard-house that stood near each of them. But on the side of the camp nearest to Grodek Rex saw that there was a Rumanian military airfield with permanent buildings and under canvas near by what he estimated to be a battalion of Rumanian Infantry.

  He wondered if all the Polish planes had been rendered inoperative by the removal of some of their essential parts, but considered it unlikely, as, even while he watched, Rumanian aircraft in the sky above were shepherding new Polish arrivals down into the park that had been made a temporary aerodrome for them. He thought it probable that the Rumanians were quite content to have their Polish visitors behind the wire, as, once there, they were under the discipline of their own senior officers, and it was most unlikely that any of them would attempt to fly out again.

  On a rough count he estimated the Polish aircraft to number at least two hundred, and practically any of them would serve his purpose provided it had enough petrol in its tanks. That and getting into the camp were, he foresaw, going to be his main difficulties. After their tragic defeat the Poles themselves would undoubtedly be depressed and slack. There was no reason why they should even set a guard upon their aircraft now that they were no longer in a position to use them. Probably the most they bothered to do was to post a small picket as a formality, and that would be quite inadequate to prevent a trained big-game stalker, such as Rex, getting away with one of their machines at night.

  He noted where the latest arrivals were being parked, as it was less likely that they would have had their petrol drained out of them by nightfall. If he could once get to the machines there was a good stretch of level ground facing the front row, so he did not think he would have any difficulty in taking off.

  The question was, how to get into the camp? He noticed that all the men arriving at the gateways, whether on foot or by car, had to show passes before they were allowed inside. But quite a lot of them were civilians, as a considerable number of workmen was supervising and assisting in the erection of the new hutments.

  Clearly his line was to try to get in as one of these workmen, perhaps the following morning, then hide somewhere in the camp when they left at night. It seemed, though, that he would have to show some sort of pass. Perhaps that evening in the town he would be able to contact some of the workmen and either buy or steal the pass he needed.

  Having gathered all the information he could from outside the cage, Rex walked into Grodek. The sight of the place positively horrified him. It consisted of a single row of board shanties patched up with hammered-out petrol tims. Its poverty and filth beggared description. Beyond it lay the broad sluggish sweep of the Dniester and on the far bank a continuance of the seemingly endless windswept plain. During the snows and gales of winter it must have been sheer purgatory to live there, but at least the snow would have mercifully hidden some of its filth and decrepitude.

  Its population consisted entirely of the poorer-class Jews that Rex had seen in Cernauti on the preceding day, yet these, if possible, looked still more dirty and destitute. The shacks that passed for houses and shops were even more tumbledown than those inhabited by the very poorest class of negro in the Southern States.

  Outside the hovels, which displayed pathetic little assortments of shoddy goods for sale, swung painted signs showing that the population of the place was so backward that a good part of it could not even read, and he doubted if any slum in Europe or the United States could show evidence of such dire and universal poverty. The people of the place, red-haired Jews without exception, apart from a handful of uniformed officials, crept rather than walked about, their greasy caftans hanging in tattered rags, their faces pinched, their dark eyes furtive, and stinking to high heaven.

  In spite of its poverty this nightmare township boasted several rather larger hovels that did duty for inns. Rex visited them all in turn, and selecting the least repulsive, ordered himself a meal. Somewhat to his surprise, there did not appear to be any Polish refugees in Grodek, so he could only assume that, after crossing the frontier, they all gave the place one horrified look, shuddered, and hurried on to Cernauti. There was, however, one Polish officer, whom Rex assumed to be on pass from the camp. He was a thin-but muscular-looking fellow as tall as Rex himself, with china-blue eyes and fair smooth hair.

  Rex got into conversation with him in the hope of picking up some information about the regulations governing permits to enter the camp. He found that the Pole spoke French and a little English, and said that he came from Radom.

  While the shadows lengthened they ate the indifferent fare the place provided together, and, after a while, Rex learned to his annoyance that none of the men in the Rumanian working parties were local people. They had been imported from further south and both worked and slept in the camp.

  Rex saw that he would have to bide his time until he could get in touch with some of them in their off-duty hours when they took a stroll outside the cage, or think of some other way of entering it. After his meal, with great reluctance he booked a bed at the inn, but it was still early yet and dusk had not long fallen; so he thought it would be a good idea to stroll up to the camp again to see if it were as well guarded at night as it was in the daytime.

  Having paid for the tall Polish airman’s dinner as well as his own Rex wished him good-night and went out into the street. Turning south, he set off between the two lines of dismal buildings towards the camp. The place boasted no pavement of any kind, and there were no street lamps. The only light came from guttering candles set in bottles which could be seen glimmering through some of the grimy windows that he passed.

  After he had covered a couple of hundred yards he suddenly got the impression that he was being followed. There were very few people about, so once on the qui vive he was soon able to identify his shadow by the simple process of alternately quickening and slowing his pac
e. It was the Polish officer with whom he had been feeding, and there was no doubt that the fellow was following him, as each time Rex paused to light a cigarette or peer into one of the ill-lighted windows the tall airman stopped too.

  Rex had always been so confident in his own strength that, forgetting about his injured arm, he was not the least perturbed, and when he reached the end of the town walked briskly on into the darkness of the open country. He had covered another quarter of a mile when he caught the soft footfalls of his shadow, who was now evidently hurrying as quickly but as quietly as he could to catch up with him.

  Even then Rex only wondered vaguely what he wanted, and surmised that perhaps the poor fellow was going to ask him for a small loan, having been ashamed to do so in the public room at the inn.

  When the footsteps were only a few yards behind him Rex turned and said: ‘Hello! Que voulez-vous?’

  To his amazement, instead of replying, the man crossed the remaining space between them in two swift bounds, whipped out a black-jack and slashed with it at his head.

  Taken by surprise, he jumped aside only just in time. But his assailant struck again, and the second blow caught him on the side of the head above the ear.

  It was only as he reeled back half blinded by pain that he remembered his injured arm, and strove in vain to jerk it out of its sling.

  His foot caught in something, and he lost his balance. With silent ferocity the man leapt upon him and bore him to the ground.

  Next moment, with not the faintest conception as to why he had been attacked, Rex found himself fighting for his life.

  17

  Unequal Combat

  As Rex went over he fell backwards on to the grassy verge at the roadside. The Polish airman came down on top of him, driving the breath out of his body; he had thrust out his left hand to get a grip on Rex’s throat, and his right, in which he still grasped the black-jack, was raised for another blow.

  Gathering his great strength, Rex suddenly hunched up his knees and lifted his shoulders, throwing his antagonist off. But the man came at him again like lightning and forced him back on to the grass before he could even struggle to his knees.

  Rex knew that normally there were few men, apart from professional boxers and wrestlers, who could have bested him in a physical combat, but his injured arm robbed him of a great part of his powers, and the Pole was not only as tall as himself but extremely muscular and fit. He could not for the life of him imagine why the fellow had attacked him, yet he cursed himself for having been caught unawares. He had known for a good ten minutes that the man was following him, and on a lonely road at night in an area given over to a defeated army he should have realised that there might be desperate characters about, and at least have had the sense to pull out his gun as the man came up with him.

  He thought now as he lay on his back writhing under his assailant that if he could only get at his gun he might yet put a swift end to the combat in his own favour. But he had only one free hand, and he needed that to protect his head.

  As the Pole swung the black-jack up again Rex caught his wrist and gave it a savage twist. With a grunt of pain the Pole let the weapon go, but it fell only to dangle from his arm by a leather thong. Next second he had smashed his left fist down into Rex’s face.

  Rex flinched under the blow, but hung on to his opponent’s wrist. Jerking it towards him, he gave it another violent wrench, at the same time heaving himself over sideways. To save his arm from being broken the Pole let his body follow through and was flung right over Rex’s head. As his shoulders and back descended heavily on Rex’s wounded arm, Rex let out a yell, but for the moment he had freed himself.

  With an effort he jerked himself up into a sitting position and reached for his gun, but the Pole was up too, on his knees, and hit him a stunning blow with his clenched fist on the side of the head.

  Rex heeled over under the impact. He was being attacked now on his crippled side and was thus almost defenceless The Pole slogged at him again, and before he could grasp the butt of his gun he was forced to snatch his hand from his pocket to protect his head.

  The Pole, seeing his advantage, struck with both fists alternately, raining a hail of blows at him. As the only way of avoiding them Rex flung himself backwards again on to the grass, and once more thrust his hand down to his pocket in an attempt to pull out his pistol.

  Suddenly the Pole jumped to his feet and delivered a terrific kick at Rex’s body. It got him under the ribs. The pain, was excruciating, and the breath was driven out of his lungs. Gasping for air, he rolled over in the hope of getting away; but his attacker ran at him and kicked him with all his force again. This time the man’s heavy boot landed on Rex’s head.

  Stars, circles and flashes flickered and gyrated in the intense blackness that abruptly veiled his eyes. His head was singing like a kettle, he was still fighting for breath, an agonising pain was tearing at his ribs, his skull seemed to be opening and shutting, there was the salt taste of his own blood in his mouth. New pains stabbed at him as he lay, now inert and helpless, and ne knew subconsciously that the Pole was ruthlessly kicking him into unconsciousness. Then the pain eased and he passed right out.

  When he came to he lay quite still for a time, staring at the starlit sky above his head and wondering what had happened to him. Then memory trickled back. The Duke riddled with bullets, Simon arrested, himself left as the sole hope of getting the Golden Fleece safely through to London, his journey to Cernauti, the tall, blue-eyed Polish airman and the bitter, uneven struggle.

  There was a dull ache in his side, and his head hurt intolerably. Suddenly he shivered and realised that he was very cold. Next moment the reason seeped into his still bemused and pain-dulled mind. He was lying there on the grass in his pants and vest. While he was unconscious he had been stripped of all his outer clothes.

  As he struggled into a sitting position pain stabbed at him in a dozen places; his chin dropped heavily on his chest, and he moaned. Then the thought of the Golden Fleece came into his mind again. If that had been taken with his clothes it was the end, as he had not the faintest idea who his attacker was or any means of tracing him.

  With bruised and aching hands he fumbled at his waist. His wounded arm had been pulled from its sling when the Pole undressed him. As he moved it he felt a sharp twinge of pain above the elbow, but it seemed now the least of his hurts.

  Suddenly he let out a sigh of relief, and relaxed. The money-belt was still there, and he could feel the flat wad of the option in it. Fooled, beaten up and robbed as he had been, the worst had not happened. He had the bulk of his money in the belt, too, so once his pains eased a little he could buy other clothes and be able to carry on the big game, which was the only thing that really mattered.

  He did not think that he had been unconscious for very long, as the moon was only just rising above the flat horizon. Lifting himself painfully to his feet, he shivered again. Then as he looked round his eye lit on a tumbled heap of stuff a few yards away from him. Something on the top of the heap shimmered dully in the faint moonlight. Walking over, he saw that it was a button, and that the heap consisted of the Polish officer’s clothes.

  Turning them over, he found that the whole outfit was there; uniform greatcoat, cap, tunic and breeches, belt, shirt, collar, tie and even the black boots. The man had been his own height, so the clothes should fit him. Shivering again, he began to put them on.

  As he did so he formed an idea of the probable reason why he had been attacked. Many of the Poles were, he knew, splendidly stout fellows and had already expressed their determination to fight on, although their country had been overrun. Perhaps this chap had intensely resented the idea of beeing cooped up in an internment camp and made up his mind to get to France or Britain in order to join in the fight against the Nazis again as speedily as possible. He had spoken a little of both French and English, so the difficulties of the journey should not prove insurmountable if he could once get away from the area where his compatr
iots were interned. To do that his most urgent need would be a suit of civilian clothes. Meeting Rex, who was the same height as himself, and very vulnerable to attack through having one arm in a sling, must have proved too much of a temptation for him, and he had decided to knock him out and strip him as the most certain way of getting what he wanted.

  The uniform proved a little tight across the shoulders, but to Rex’s relief the boots were big enough; the cap, however, was a hopeless misfit, being at least three sizes too small.

  As he pushed it on the back of his head it suddenly came to him that his recent ill luck might in reality prove a blessing in disguise. Here he had been all the afternoon and evening battling his wits for a way to get into the camp, and a Polish officer’s uniform had now been thrust upon him.

  Regretfully now he thought how stupid it had been for the Pole and himself to fight it out when, had one of them only disclosed his desires to the other, they might have simply swapped clothes and parted the best of friends.

  The idea made him laugh, but directly he did so his mirth was checked by a dozen pains stabbing him. This caused him to make a careful examination of his hurts. His head was very sore, and the blood had congealed on top of two nasty cuts, but his thick, curly hair had saved his skull from being cracked. His side now throbbed dully, but he did not think any of his ribs were broken as the pain was well below them. The wound in his arm had opened and bled a little, but he knew that it would soon heal again if he refrained from using it. All things considered, he had come off far better than might have been expected. He knew that for some hours to come he would continue to feel sick and giddy, but he had sustained no serious damage that time and rest would not put right.

  He next debated whether to make his attempt to get into the camp that night, but quickly decided against it. For such an undertaking he needed all his wits about him, and, even if he pretended to be tight, so that it might be assumed that he had been mixed up in a drunken brawl, to arrive at one of the gates with blood all over his face was a sure way to invite questions from the guard, and, as he could not speak Polish, that was the one thing he must avoid. Still badly shaken and half-bemused as he was, it would have been madness to risk ruining the whole business through some stupid slip that he would not normally make when rested and more or less recovered from his beating up. Besides, there was no great urgency about getting hold of a plane, as only four days were gone out of the thirty for which the option was valid.