The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  At a point where the road curved sharply round a great rock von Ziegler drew up, ran the car backwards and forwards several times until he had got it placed absolutely to his satisfaction, and got out. Then he turned off the spotlight and dimmed the other lamps with covers which he took from a pocket of the car.

  Gregory wondered if von Ziegler had come there for a secret meeting with another Nazi agent, but he asked no questions, and when von Ziegler got back into the car they proceeded to talk. The airman was a pleasant and amusing person when he was in a good temper and Gregory could not help liking him for his dash and devil-may-care courage but, unfortunately, he possessed all the true Prussian ruthlessness as well as having been tarred by the Nazi brush so Gregory was troubled by no scruples about the fact that he was there to sabotage his plans.

  It was bitterly cold up on the bleak mountainside, but Gregory had filled his flask with the Norwegian Punch when he was down at the hotel and the airman had another which was two-thirds full of Branntwein, so they were able to stall off the chill by swapping pulls at each other’s flasks.

  They had been there for over an hour when von Ziegler said, ‘Hush!’ and, sitting forward, began to listen intently. Gregory, too, listened, and the low note of a distant aircraft became increasingly distinct.

  ‘That’s one of ours,’ said von Ziegler, and he switched on the spotlight again.

  From the second Gregory had caught the sound of the plane he had tumbled to the idea. They were in the dark phase of the moon, so it was black as pitch all round them, but down in the valley he could just make out the distant lights of Hamar, some of which shimmered on the waters of the lake. That gave him his direction and he realised that von Ziegler had carefully oriented his car so that it was pointing due south down the valley, and that from their position high up in the mountains a light would have a clear field for many miles in the direction of Oslo. With swift, well-practised fingers von Ziegler began to flash the spotlight rapidly on and off, and Gregory knew that he was signalling to the German plane somewhere up there in the dark skies to southward.

  For a split second it occurred to Gregory to pull his gun and stop the German, but an instant’s reflection convinced him that he would be crazy to do so. If he killed von Ziegler some other Nazi would be sent in pursuit of King Haakon—someone whose intentions he would not know and so would have no chance of frustrating. It was sounder to let von Zeigler go ahead, learn his plans and then take every possible measure to wreck them.

  Almost at once a pinpoint of light showed in the sky. Von Ziegler’s signal had been seen and acknowledged. For several moments his fingers pressed the switch swiftly up and down. Gregory knew Morse and he tried to read the message, but soon found that it was in code so it was quite useless for him to follow it any further. The plane was much nearer now as it winked again several times before roaring high overhead. It then turned and sped back towards Oslo.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said von Ziegler cheerfully. ‘Now for some sleep. We’ll find a sheltered spot somewhere down in the valley outside the town,’ and he proceeded to get his engine running.

  ‘You told them that we’ve located the King?’ Gregory said.

  ‘Yes. And since he’s too closely guarded for us to get at him I’ve given them instructions to …’ Von Ziegler’s sentence was never finished. While he had been backing his car to turn it down the narrow road another car had come hurtling around the corner behind them. It pulled up with a scream of brakes.

  Next second there was a blinding flash in the darkness. A bullet whistled over their heads and angry orders were shouted in Norwegian. Several men had sprung out of the other car and were running towards them brandishing revolvers. One man yelled in German as he ran:

  ‘We saw you ruddy Nazis signalling to that plane when we were three miles away. Hands up, both of you! Hands up!’

  The appearance of the newcomers had been so startlingly swift that neither von Ziegler nor Gregory had had time to draw their guns. As they raised their hands above their heads the horrid thought flashed into Gregory’s mind that the next few moments might see him shot—as a German spy.

  7

  ‘Think Fast, Herr Oberst-Baron’

  The running figures flung themselves at the car. Two of them tackled von Ziegler, a third thrust an old-fashioned revolver into Gregory’s face and the fourth dragged him out into the roadway. The light from the dashboard and the shaded headlamps was sufficient to show that they were Norwegian police.

  The man who seized Gregory was a huge fellow with hairy hands and he did not use them lightly. Wrenching Gregory’s wrists behind his back he clapped a pair of handcuffs on to them, then lifting his great boot he gave him a kick on the behind that sent him flying head first into the ditch under the rock wall. His yowl of pain was cut short as the fall drove the breath out of his body and, since his hands were secured behind him, he went down flat on his face, cutting his cheek badly on a stone. For the next minute he was practically out and when he got back his wits he found that he had been lugged to his feet.

  Von Ziegler had evidently fared no better, as between gasps of pain he was cursing fluently in German. The two of them were thrown into the back of the airman’s car and the big fellow sprawled on the seat, planting his huge feet on top of them, while another policeman took the wheel. The car started with a jolt and began to run down the road towards Hamar.

  ‘Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!’ thought Gregory. ‘To be pinched while operating as a British agent against the Germans is the fortune of war, but to be caught and shot as a German spy is a bit too thick! What the devil do I do now?’

  He realised that there was nothing to stop him producing his British passport and disclosing to the Norwegians the real reason for his being with von Ziegler; but at the back of his mind persisted the nasty, worrying thought that they might not believe him. Von Ziegler was carrying a pass to which he obviously had no right, so Gregory felt sure that when they were searched the Norwegians would also regard his passport as a forgery.

  In ordinary times he would at least have been allowed to get in touch with the British Consul and would have been assured of a proper trial at which steps could have been taken to prove his true identity, but from that morning of Tuesday, April the 9th, the times in Norway had become extraordinary. After a hundred years of peace the people had suddenly woken to the unbelievable—they were at war—a full-scale invasion of their country was taking place. Under cover of darkness, foreign troops had entered all their principal cities. Screaming shells, hurtling bombs and spates of machine-gun bullets were exploding and spattering amongst them. They had been taken entirely off their guard, and were now fighting for their very existence. With such an upheaval in progress all normal judicial procedure would have been thrown overboard and they were living from minute to minute while they took such steps as they could for their protection. Two enemy spies, caught red-handed, would almost certainly be shot after the barest formalities. Gregory did not at all like the look of things.

  The cars pulled up in the main street of Hamar and the two captives were lugged into the police-station. For the time being they were allowed to sit on a worn pitch-pine bench while the German-speaking police sergeant who was in charge of the party that had caught them held a long telephone conversation. The other policemen stood round eyeing them malevolently, and only waiting for a chance to give them another beating-up should they show the least signs of any attempt to rush the door which led to a short passage and the street.

  Gregory’s bottom hurt him abominably where the big fellow’s boot had landed, and he had to sit sideways on the hard bench, which was extremely uncomfortable, but the cut on his cheek was not deep and the blood had already dried. Von Ziegler, he noticed, had a lovely black eye which was beginning to colour up, and his white collar had been torn away from its stud where somebody had grabbed him at the back of the neck.

  After about twenty minutes the dumb-looking, walrus-moustached inspector arriv
ed whom they had seen outside the house occupied by King Haakon. The sergeant made his report and the inspector stared grimly at the prisoners, after which he gave some order and the other men moved towards them.

  Von Ziegler stood up and, squaring his shoulders, began to talk quickly but firmly. He went on for about five minutes, while the men scowled angrily at him, but the old inspector seemed considerably troubled by what he said and, when he had finished, gave another order; upon which his men led both the prisoners away and locked them up in a fairly roomy cell with two beds and a wash-place.

  ‘Well?’ asked Gregory, who had not understood a single word of all that had been said.

  ‘They were going to shoot us out of hand,’ said von Ziegler, ‘but I managed to get the old boy rattled. He’s just a country policeman and I imagine he’s reached the rank of inspector only by doing his job conscientiously for the best part of forty years, and avoided any responsibility unless his little book of rules has given him chapter and verse for taking it.’

  ‘How did you manage to get him scared?’ asked Gregory curiously.

  ‘I admitted quite frankly that we were German officers in civilian clothes. I also admitted that we were communicating with the enemy—there was no sense in denying that, seeing that we were actually caught on the job—and that as we were not in uniform the penalty for our offence was death; but I told him that the police had no power to pass or to carry out such a sentence. I insisted that, however brief our trial, it must be held by the military and that sentence and execution must be carried out by them.’

  Sitting down gingerly on one of the beds Gregory lit a cigarette. ‘That was a damned clever line. I take it that you were gambling on the fact of there not being any troops in the town? I wonder, though, that he believed you.’

  Von Ziegler grinned. ‘He didn’t at first—I could see that in his rheumy old eyes—but I told him that it was quite definitely a piece of international law. I pointed out that at four o’clock this afternoon Oslo had surrendered to General Count von Falkenhorst and that our troops were also in possession of Stavanger, Bergen, Trondheim and Narvik; that his people, therefore, hadn’t a hope in hell of holding the rest of the country and that we should be in full possession of it inside a week. I reminded him that immediately afterwards an investigation into events in every town would be carried out with our usual German thoroughness and that we had plenty of sympathisers in Hamar as well as in other places; that if he liked, therefore, he could have us taken out into the back yard and shot, but that he would never be able to cover it up; it would be reported directly German troops arrived here and perfectly legal reprisals would be carried out against him. Our Gauleiter would have him shot, with the whole of his firing-squad that shot us, and all their families would be sent to a concentration-camp in Germany. After all, that’s perfectly true, you know—except the part about its not being legal for police to shoot enemy spies. These Norwegians can’t go shooting German officers like you and me and not expect to pay for it; so really I’ve done the old boy a good turn by scaring the wits out of him.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘Yes; our comrades would inflict pretty sweeping penalties for the loss of an Air Attaché and a Staff-Colonel. I think you handled the situation magnificently. Unfortunately, though, the bluff you put up has only saved us temporarily. Our lives are still banging by a hair; the moment any troops turn up we shall be handed over to them and promptly executed.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said von Ziegler, by no means happily, ‘maybe; but things will start to happen long before any Norwegian troops come on the scene,.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ asked Gregory. ‘Have you got some Fifth Column people among those ferocious-looking policemen who will come and let us out later on, when the excitement has quietened down?’

  ‘No; unfortunately I haven’t. These country folk are much more difficult to get at than the Norwegians in the towns. The thing I’m thinking of may give us an opportunity to escape, but on the other hand it may settle our problem for good and all.’ The airman began to pace a little nervously up and down the narrow cell, as he added: ‘Have you got that Will, Baron?’

  ‘Eh?’ Gregory almost said: ‘What Will?’ but he checked himself in time and replied instead: ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Only that you may need it, unless it goes up in smoke with you. This place is going to be bombed to blazes in less than half an hour.’

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ Swinging round, Gregory stared at him. ‘So that is what you were signalling about?’

  ‘Yes. I ordered three squadrons to come up at twelve-thirty and blow Hamar off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Phew!’ Gregory whistled. ‘The devil you did! But why, in God’s name? I thought you wanted to get the King alive?’

  ‘I did—this morning. But we couldn’t go into that château on the lake and carry the old man off now he’s surrounded by a lot of friends and loyal police—we wouldn’t have stood a chance—and from the policy point of view it doesn’t very much matter which we do—secure his person or kill him. The essential thing is that since he’s decided to fight we must render him powerless to inspire his people. It would have been fun to fly him to Germany, but once that became impossible, it was up to us to bring about his death in any way we could.’

  Gregory drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘I suppose the idea was that we should sit up there in safety on the mountainside while Hamar was blown to bits, then come down and inspect the ruins to make certain that he hadn’t escaped?’

  ‘That was the scheme; but, unfortunately, things have panned out rather differently. I told them to begin on the château, then to go for the road-junction and the railway station in case he escaped the first salvo and tried to get away; and lastly, to plaster the whole town in case he had taken refuge anywhere after leaving the château. I suppose this police-station is as solid a building as anything hereabouts, but if our Flieger do their stuff properly it’s not going to be a very jolly party for you and me now. Still, there’s a chance that part of the building will be damaged and that we may be able to escape in the ensuing confusion.’

  Gregory’s brain was working overtime again. The first thing was to get a warning to the King before the German planes came over, and that should not be difficult. He had only to bang on the cell door and start creating a fuss, upon which the German-speaking sergeant would be brought along; he could then tell the man what was intended, and it was quite certain that the police would not waste time inquiring why Gregory had chosen to give the warning, but would take immediate steps to see that the King removed himself to a place of safety.

  Such a course meant giving himself away to von Ziegler, but that was immaterial now that the German had done his worst and was a captive. They would both be removed to a place outside the town until after the air-raid, and von Ziegler would definitely be shot immediately troops arrived in that area, but Gregory might get off through having given the warning which had saved the King.

  On the other hand, he might not. It would probably be reasoned that he had given the warning only out of sheer funk for his own life, which did not affect the fact that he had communicated with the enemy for the purpose of bringing about the King’s death, and jointly with von Ziegler he would still be held responsible for the destruction of the town and for the deaths of any Norwegians who were killed in the air-raid. On further consideration he did not think that there was much chance of the Norwegians reprieving him because he had given away the fact that the raid was to take place. It was much more likely that he and von Ziegler would be torn to death by an infuriated mob in the light of the blazing ruins.

  Time was passing with horrifying swiftness and he knew that he had got to think mighty quickly if he was to get both the King and himself—not to mention the wretched inhabitants of Hamar—out of this ghastly mess, and for about ten agonising minutes he could think of no way out at all.

  Suddenly the idea came to him that it might be possible to use the information he possessed as a
bargaining counter, and he said quickly to von Ziegler: ‘This isn’t good enough. Our boys may get the King but they’ll probably get us too; and if they don’t, it’s a hundred to one that we’ll be lynched afterwards by a howling mob. I’m perfectly prepared to die for the Führer, but we can be much more useful to him alive.’

  The airman was a brave man, but the last ten minutes had done him no good at all. Little beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead and he had gone quite pale about the gills. He knew, just as well as Gregory did, what an extraordinarily slender chance they stood of getting out of that police-station alive, and he said after a moment:

  ‘Yes. It was one thing to take a sporting chance of being wounded or killed in an attempt to get the King, but it’s another to have to sit here waiting for almost certain death—as we now have to. I wasn’t reckoning upon being trapped like this. What d’you suggest?’

  ‘You’d better leave this to me,’ replied Gregory. ‘Just get me that police sergeant who speaks German.’

  Von Ziegler hammered on the door and when it was opened spoke to the warder, who shut it again and a moment later returned with the sergeant.

  ‘Look here,’ said Gregory, ‘my friend and I have been thinking things over. We fully realise that we shall be shot directly some of your troops turn up, and we’ve been wondering if we couldn’t save our lives by doing a deal with you. We are in possession of very important information; something which may change the whole fate of Norway. As a German officer and nobleman I give my word for that. My proposal is that we should give you this piece of information and that, in exchange, you should allow us to walk out of here immediately afterwards as free men. If you don’t agree—all right, we’re not talking; we’ll go to our deaths with our mouths shut—but you’ll regret it as long as you live.’