The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘I must send for the inspector,’ said the sergeant cautiously.

  Gregory shook his head. ‘Sorry, there’s no time for that. This matter is of the utmost urgency, so you must make the decision yourself. My friend and I have excellent reasons for wanting to be outside this station as soon as possible, and the information will be no good to you unless you act on it at once. If you haven’t made up your mind in two minutes the deal is off.’

  The sergeant was a much more intelligent-looking man than the old inspector and he did not waste further time beating about the bush. Instead, he said quietly: ‘in that case you must give me your information and leave yourself in my hands. If I consider that the information is really worth it I’ll let the two of you go.’

  The man had an open, honest face and Gregory knew that the only thing that he could do was to trust him, so he said: ‘All right; I’ll take your word for that. We were signalling, as you saw, to one of our planes. It went back to Oslo with the information that King Haakon has taken refuge in the château here and with orders for three squadrons of bombers to come up and blow the place to hell. There is no means of cancelling the order, so you’ve got about twelve minutes left to warn the King and get the inhabitants out of the town.’

  ‘Right,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re free. Out you go—both of you!’ Then he yelled an order in Norwegian to the astonished warder and raced for the telephone. A moment later Gregory and von Ziegler stood out in the street mopping the perspiration from their brows—but free men.

  ‘Mein Gott! You handled that well,’ sighed von Ziegler. ‘And you were right; we should have been crazy to stay there and let ourselves be blown to bits. Now we’re free again we’ll get the King tomorrow and still live to wear Iron Crosses of the First Class for the job.’

  His car was still standing outside the station and he ran towards it. As he started it up and swung round the wheel Gregory jumped in beside him, yelling: ‘Hi! Not that way—back to the hotel! I want to collect my car.’

  ‘We haven’t much time,’ muttered the airman.

  ‘Time enough for that,’ replied Gregory, ‘and it may prove useful.’

  ‘Schön!’ Von Ziegler put his foot on the accelerator and the car sped down the street. Realising that at that time of night the garage would be locked, they drove straight to the hotel entrance. When Gregory raced up the steps he heard a fire-alarm ringing loudly; a warning had just been telephoned to the hotel and the night-porter had had the sense to set the alarm going as the quickest way of rousing the guests.

  The bedless crowd who had settled down in the lounge to get what sleep they could were already hurrying to the cellars and other people in their night-attire were running down into the lounge from the rooms above. After one hasty glance round, Gregory saw the night-porter and grabbing him by the arm demanded the key of the garage. The man took it off its hook and thrust it into his hand. Without losing an instant he ran out of the hotel again and jumped on to the footboard of von Ziegler’s car, so that the airman could run him round to the garage gates.

  The open space outside it was blocked with the cars of refugees who had selected the hotel as a temporary shelter for the night, and when Gregory got the door open he found that the garage also was jammed to capacity with cars; so he did not bother to look for his own, as it might have taken him a quarter of an hour or more to get it out. Instead, he ran his eye swiftly down the front line and selected a car of the same make, which his ignition key would fit. Thrusting it in, he turned on the engine, then glanced at his watch; there was still about five minutes to go. Getting into the car, he sat back and lit a cigarette.

  He waited there, keeping an eye upon the minute-hand of his watch and listening with all his ears for the sound of aeroplane engines. Three minutes passed, then von Ziegler came dashing in.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘Come on! What the hell are you waiting for?’

  ‘A11 right,’ Gregory called back. ‘I’ve been trying to find my own car but it must be somewhere at the back, and it’s only just occurred to me to take this one instead.’ As he spoke he drove slowly out of the garage, but directly he got the car on to the road he stopped again and, getting out, lifted the bonnet to examine the engine.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted von Ziegler. ‘They’ll be over in a minute!’

  ‘Right,’ yelled Gregory. ‘Let me just fix this,’ and he pretended to tinker with the carburettor. He had been at it for about a minute when he caught the faint hum of aeroplanes, ‘There they come,’ he thought. ‘Just like the old Boche—punctual as a clock.’ And slamming down the bonnet he jumped back into the car.

  Von Ziegler’s car was already in motion and he was cursing furiously. He had meant to drive north out of the town immediately they left the police-station, and so get ahead of the Royal party, as it was a hundred to one that the King would renew his flight in that direction. But Gregory’s insistence on collecting his car had necessitated their going to the southern end of Hamar, and now it was too late to drive back through the town. Unless he was prepared to risk being caught in the open street he had to take the road south: which was just as the crafty Gregory had intended that it should be.

  They were hardly outside the town when the planes roared over. Three parachute flares dropped; a second later the first stick of bombs landed with a frightful crash in the grounds of the château. The speeding cars felt the impact but they were now far enough away to be out of danger from a direct hit, though there was still a chance that they might be caught by a flying piece of metal. Realising this, both of them pulled up and, jumping out, scrambled down into a ditch.

  The earth shook and quivered as flight after flight of planes came over and salvo after salvo of bombs hurtled down half a mile to north of them. A number of people who had fled immediately on receiving the warning were out there on the roadside near by, but others who had lingered had been caught, and from where they were they could hear the screaming of the wounded.

  Very soon the flames from the burning buildings lit the surrounding countryside almost as brightly as daylight, and as Gregory crouched beside the author of this havoc he watched the drawn, bitter and terrified faces of the people about him. One man was muttering to himself unceasingly, and although Gregory could not understand what he said he knew that the poor fellow was solemnly and persistently, from the bottom of his heart, cursing Hitler and all his workers, while near him lay a woman who was sobbing quietly.

  At first the bombing had been down on the lake-shore, then it had shifted to the railway station, Which was on higher ground, and along the road to the north, over a mile away from them; but soon the German airmen, having thoroughly plastered their first targets, began to attack any buildings that they could see by the fight of the flames, and some of the bombs fell very much nearer.

  The noise was positively deafening as out of the night sky the planes shrieked down, practically on to the roof-tops, before letting go their bombs. Hamar was totally undefended and the raiders had nothing whatever to fear from diving right on to their objectives. A large bomb caught the last house to the south of the village and the whole building seemed to dissolve in a sheet of flame and smoke while brickbats and pieces of metal hurtled hundreds of yards through the air in all directions. One lump of rubble caught a woman who had injudiciously raised her head above the level of the ditch and she let out a piercing scream as she slumped sideways.

  At last the pandemonium subsided and, locking their cars, Gregory and von Ziegler walked back among the crowd to the entrance of the town. The havoc that had been created was absolutely frightful. Hardly a building was left standing, and those that remained were in flames. Burning beams, steel girders and masses of rubble choked the roadway, and it was some small consolation to Gregory to see that the bombers had done their work so thoroughly that it was now impossible for von Ziegler and himself to get through the town in their cars until the road was cleared. He could only hope that the King and the Crown Prince had managed to get
away to the north before the air-raid started.

  As everybody was speculating on what had happened to the King it was not difficult to get news of him, and von Ziegler soon learnt from people in the crowd that he had succeeded in getting clear of the château but had been caught at the railway station. It seemed that he had gone there believing that a train, for which he had given orders to take him farther north first thing in the morning, was already in the siding. The station was almost a total wreck but the building in which the Royal party took shelter had escaped the first attack, and immediately afterwards they had been bundled into a car that had managed to get away before the Germans bombed the road to the north.

  Gregory hid his satisfaction while condoling with von Ziegler, who was furious; not so much at the King’s having got away, for he had more or less reckoned that the warning of the raid would give him time to do so, but at the fact that with the road blocked he would be unable to follow him, perhaps for many hours.

  When they had confirmed these rumours Gregory remarked: ‘Don’t you think it would be wise for us to get out of the town again? It’s true that the sergeant gave us our freedom but we might find ourselves in a nasty mess if we were recognised by one of those ferocious policemen. Now that they know we’re German officers it’s quite on the cards that they might turn the mob on us, and if that happens we’ll never see Berlin again.’

  ‘You’re right,’ von Ziegler agreed. ‘Come on; let’s get out of this.’ And they began to pick their way south again over the heaps of rubble, among which the inhabitants of Hamar were already searching for their belongings and endeavouring to cope with the innumerable fires that were destroying the remnants of their property.

  ‘I think the best thing is for us to sleep in the cars until morning,’ the German added. ‘With refugees still streaming north from Oslo they’ll have to clear the main street, as there is no way of getting round the town except by a long detour through the mountains, so with luck the road may be passable again soon after dawn.’

  Even down there in the valley it was very cold, once they were away from the area of the burning houses, but they had thick overcoats and, fortunately, there were rugs in both cars, so when they reached them they curled themselves up on the back seats and settled down to get some sleep.

  Gregory was pretty tired after his twenty-two-hour day but before he dropped off he reviewed the situation. The war had now started in deadly earnest by the German invasion of Norway that morning; and he had a fine little private war on his hands into the bargain. So far he had kept his end up. Twice in fifteen hours he had saved King Haakon from capture or death and secured him another clear start; but von Ziegler was no mean opponent, and Gregory wondered for just how long he would be able to continue to outwit him.

  8

  To Catch or Kill the King

  Von Ziegler woke first and roused Gregory. Full day had come and the sun was shining. During the night many refugees in other vehicles had pulled up near them. Evidently the road through Hamar was not yet clear, as the long line of cars and vans was stationary and their owners were either lounging about near them or busy preparing picnic meals for themselves at the roadside.

  When they went forward to have a look at the town they found that, with the exception of one big fire which was still raging near its centre, the place was now only a blackened ruin. Many of the walls were still standing but there was hardly a roof to be seen and most of the houses were just empty shells or huge piles of rubble which had collapsed in the roadways However, quite a considerable amount of progress had already been made in clearing the main street and gangs of townsfolk reinforced by a number of refugees were hard at work shovelling away the great heaps of brick and dragging clear the fallen beams.

  Keeping careful watch for the police, they set about trying to find some breakfast, but not a shop was left where they could buy anything and none of the people whom von Ziegler questioned had anything to sell, so they had to content themselves with cigarettes and a few pulls from their flasks. It looked as though the road would be clear by mid-morning and, as they had no wish at all to run into one of the policemen who had caught them the night before, they retired to the cars, where Gregory, curling up in his, managed another two hours sleep.

  Shortly after eleven o’clock von Ziegler roused him again to say that the long line of vehicles was on the move and, joining the procession, they set off. The going was now even slower than it had been the day before as the cars were able to pass through the partially-cleared streets of the town only in single file; the pace of the column was that of its slowest member and there were constant halts for no apparent reason. At last, when they got on the clear road to the north they were able to go a little faster, as both cars had the police notices stuck on their windscreens and the refugees gave passage to them wherever possible.

  About five miles farther on von Ziegler pulled up on a grassy stretch at the roadside and produced a map which he consulted while Gregory joined him for a cigarette. It was a large-scale map of German origin and every building was marked upon it. The airman pointed to a solitary square that stood a little apart from a cluster of rectangles, denoting the village of Jesnes.

  ‘That’s the place I’m looking for,’ he said. ‘It can’t be far now; judging by the contours, it’s just round the next bend. We’ll find friends there and if these blasted refugees haven’t eaten them out of house and home we’ll get some breakfast.’

  They crawled on for another mile and round the bend entered Jesnes, where von Ziegler turned right, up a steep, winding side-road, until he reached the gates of a chalet which stood about a hundred and fifty feet above the village. Here they got out and the airman tinkled a bell, upon which a flaxen-haired, fresh-cheeked maid with voluminous petticoats, came out of the house and along a short path of chipped stones to ask them what they wanted.

  On the previous night they had had their guns taken from them but they had not been searched after the inspector’s decision to hand them over to the first troops that arrived in Hamar, so von Ziegler still had his Norwegian police pass on him. He showed it to the girl and asked to see Professor Elvdalen, but it proved unnecessary for her to fetch her master as at that moment he appeared on his own doorstep.

  The Professor was a plump, rosy-faced man of about forty, and on the girl’s showing him von Ziegler’s pass he asked them to come inside. The house was a well-kept but unpretentious place with the type of furnishings that are bought on the hire-purchase system, and Gregory judged that Elvdalen was probably a minor official of some kind—perhaps to do with the fisheries or the forests—as the only thing which made the living-room into which their host conducted them at all out of the ordinary was that on one wall there was a number of large-scale maps of the district, which had evidently not been pinned up recently for they were yellow from exposure.

  When the girl had gone about her housework von Ziegler spoke to Elvdalen in Norwegian, upon which the plump man immediately straightened himself up and gave the Nazi salute. Having acknowledged it von Ziegler introduced Gregory, and it was found that the Norwegian could speak a little German but not very much, so von Ziegler did not use that language for giving him instructions.

  These resulted in the Professor’s going out to give some orders to his maid and then settling down to make a number of telephone calls. While he was still at it the maid came in bearing a heavily-laden tray with hot coffee, eggs, cold meat and preserves. Except for the Brötchen in the hotel at Hamar, Gregory and von Ziegler had had nothing at all to eat for over thirty hours, so they set to with a will. They were still eating when Elvdalen finished his telephoning and came over to report. The King had reached Lillehammer, about thirty miles farther north, in the small hours of the morning and there was reason to suppose that he intended to stay there, for the time being at all events.

  ‘Why?’ asked Gregory, and the airman replied:

  ‘Because it is at the entrance to the great Gudbrandsval Valley and there is no town
of any importance farther north until one reaches Trondheim. He can’t go there because we have already occupied it, and if he’s going to continue any attempt to govern the country he must make his headquarters in a town where communications will be reasonably easy with the other large towns that the Norwegians are still holding.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘From what I remember of the map, the valley is over a hundred miles in length, so there are plenty of places where he could go into hiding in it; but, of course, if he did that he’d have great difficulty in keeping any control over the situation at all.’

  ‘Exactly. And the thing that makes me pretty certain that he intends to establish permanent headquarters at Lillehammer is that he is staying with the Sandvigs.’

  ‘What has that to do with it?’

  ‘It was old Sandvig who fathered the collection of Norwegian peasant arts. He went in for the gaily-printed chests and cupboards that they have in their houses, and for silver-work and embroidered costumes, but his interest didn’t stop there. He also collected the most interesting specimens of the ancient Norwegian log-houses with their oriental-looking gables and had them re-erected round the shores of a small lake on his estate at Maihaug, outside Lillehammer. Elvdalen learnt from his informant that there has been great activity going on out there all this morning and that they are fitting up these old show-houses with beds, wash-basins, etc. As the houses are fairly well scattered over the estate the people who occupy them will naturally be much safer from air-raids than they would be if they were concentrated in two or three large buildings in the town, so it looks to me as if the King intends to house his Ministers and staff in them while he stays with the family who own the place.’

  ‘I see. And what do we do now?’