The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  Erika shook her golden head. ‘No; I haven’t the least idea, but we’ll talk to Stefan about it tomorrow and see if he can find out anything.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Gregory agreed. ‘You had better arrange for him to meet me somewhere for a quiet chat in the afternoon. One of the parks would probably be the best place. Then go out yourself so as to leave me free to slip away from my duties for an hour.’

  ‘I’ll telephone Stefan in the morning and tell him to meet me by the Tritton Fountain in the Hare Leopold at three o’clock; then you can turn up in my place.’

  ‘Good. I heard that he got on splendidly with old Sir Pellinore.’

  ‘Who could fail to do so?’ Erika laughed. ‘What an amazing person he is! Nowhere else in the world but England could have produced such a character. His education is appalling. He shouts at foreigners in English and takes it for granted that they will understand him. To hear him talk one would think that he knew nothing about anything at all except the idiosyncrasies of women, sport, food and drink; yet he has a flair for going straight to the root of any question and underneath it all such a shrewd brain that if he were pitted against Ribbentrop, Litvinov and Laval together I believe he’d have all three of them tied in knots. I thought him charming and I fell for him completely.’

  Gregory grinned and stood up. ‘I can see that it was quite time for me to reappear on your horizon. And now, d’you know what I’m going to do to you? I’ll give you three guesses.’

  With a mocking smile she put her arms round his neck. “How could I possibly guess, my sweet? But something tells me that I was a very rash woman to remain alone in my flat for the evening with such an attractive, forward butler.’

  ‘You’ve guessed it in one, angel,’ he laughed, and swinging her off her feet he carried her from the room.

  At three o’clock the following afternoon Gregory was seated on the rim of the fountain in the Parc Leopold, reading an early edition of the evening paper. He noted that the British withdrawals in Norway were having a deplorable effect on the world press and that the little countries were, in consequence, getting into a worse state of jitters than ever through the fear that Germany would next attack one or other of them.

  The Swedes had been in a state of unofficial mobilisation ever since the Germans had gone into Norway, nearly a month before, but they were still keeping up as bold a front as possible and shooting down any German planes that flew over their territory. Carol of Rumania was singing a very small song again and promising Hitler further commercial advantages to the detriment of the Allies. Hungary, sandwiched between Italy and Germany, had now given up all attempt at playing one off against the other and was pretty obviously doing exactly as she was told by Berlin; while the Dutch and Belgians were calling up more and more classes of conscripts and now frantically building road barriers as a precaution against a sudden invasion. Yet a strong feeling still seemed to run through the people of both countries that if only they kept their heads and refrained from giving offence to Hitler he might yet spare them, as being more useful to him while going concerns from which he could draw considerable quantities of foodstuffs and other supplies than as conquered areas of devastated territory.

  By the time Gregory had scanned the most important news items Kuporovitch put in an appearance. The Russian looked very well and prosperous, having, apparently, equipped himself with a new wardrobe since his arrival in Brussels.

  ‘Hullo!’ exclaimed Gregory. ‘You are looking a swell!’

  Kuporovitch beamed. ‘You also. We might be different people from the two men who met in Kandalaksha. I like Brussels; it is much more pleasant for me than Oslo, because everybody here speaks French; it might almost be Paris—but not quite. But it is very expensive.’

  ‘Naturally,’ smiled Gregory, ‘if you get your clothes at the best tailors and stay at the Astoria.’

  The Russian shrugged eloquently. ‘What would you? I had meant to live quietly on my savings, but everything here is a temptation to me. How can I resist having of the best and spending the money necessary to mix with elegant people when for a quarter of a century I have lived in the so-called workers’ paradise, where there is not even anyone interesting to talk to? I must not go on in this way, though, otherwise in a year or so I shall have spent all my money and have to take some filthy job. Being a General does not fit one for becoming a commercial traveller or a pen-pusher in an office.’

  ‘You needn’t worry, Stefan; you have a job already. I told you that when I got back to England I would somehow manage to refund any expenses to which you had been put on Erika’s account, but I intend to make good your own expenses as well and give you a fat cheque for the excellent work you’ve put in; so you can consider your savings as still intact and that you’ll have money in hand into the bargain.’

  ‘Sacré Nom! That is good news indeed; because this job is very different from the degrading occupations that I have been visualising for myself—and, let me tell you, the little Paula improves immensely upon acquaintance. She was born with a great aptitude for loving, but she is a far more accomplished amoureuse now that I have had a little time to train her. But tell me about yourself.’

  For some twenty minutes Gregory gave a graphic outline of his doings, after which he asked what Kuporovitch knew of Madame de Porte, alias the Black Baroness.

  The Russian had never heard of Madame de Porte, but he said that mentions of the Black Baroness had been made by Paula’s friends from time to time. He recalled that when Paula had broken the news to him that she was leaving Norway she had said: ‘I understand that the Black Baroness has a new job for me in Holland,’ and a Belgian politician, who had recently returned from a visit to France, had stated quite casually that after a dinner-party given by a French Cabinet Minister he had had a most interesting conversation on the political situation with the Black Baroness; but Kuporovitch could not recall definitely any other occasion upon which her name had cropped up. Without any grounds to justify the idea he had assumed that the woman referred to had acquired her nickname because she was a half-caste or Creole from one of the French African colonies or Martinique.

  Gregory disabused him about that and asked him to tackle Paula on the subject as he wished to find out the Baroness’s present whereabouts with the minimum possible delay.

  Afterwards they talked for a little about Paula’s set and it transpired that Kuporovitch was having the time of his life. In spite of war conditions which had to some extent affected the capital of neutral Belgium it was far less depressing than Oslo had been, and the vortex of this strange, unnatural gaiety while the outer world stood grimly to its arms was Hitler’s ‘Secret Weapon’. There were an even greater number of German, Austrian and Hungarian women, all picked for their looks and with ample funds at their disposal, who had big apartments in which night after night they gave extravagant private parties for their co-workers and the Belgians of their acquaintance. In addition to looking after her own special lover of the moment it was part of each girl’s job to get to know as many Belgians of good standing as possible and, since all the girls were of good birth and living outwardly respectable lives, they were permeating all the higher strata of Brussels society, which enabled them to collect an immense amount of information for the Gestapo.

  After an hour with Kuporovitch, Gregory went back to Erika’s flat to take up his duties as butler, and when the two maids were sound asleep that night he discussed with her plans for the following day.

  They considered it would be unwise for them to risk being seen together about the city, so Gregory suggested that they should take a picnic lunch and eat it in the Park of Laeken, which is outside the capital and is to Brussels what Kew Gardens is to London; so on the following morning she told her maids that she would be out for the day and left the flat about eleven o’clock.

  Gregory was in the pantry cleaning silver. Having given her a quarter of an hour’s start to buy their lunch at a delicatessen store he removed his baize apron and took
down his black coat from its hook on the door.

  The maid, Jacqueline, looked at him in surprise and remarked: ‘Where are you going at this time of day, Monsieur Pierre?’

  ‘Somewhere where unfortunately I cannot take a pretty girl like you, Mademoiselle Jacqueline,’ he replied mysteriously, ‘and I shall not be back until about six o’clock this evening.’

  She preened herself at the compliment, but persisted: ‘Madame would not be pleased if she knew that you were neglecting your work during her absence to go out on your own affairs—and for the whole day too!’

  ‘But she will not know,’ he smiled mischievously, ‘because you, my pretty one, are not going to tell her and you are going to see to it for me that Cook does not tell her either.’

  ‘You take a great deal for granted, Monsieur Pierre.’

  ‘No. I am a psychologist and I can tell from your features that you are as kind-hearted as you are good-looking.’

  She bridled again. ‘Monsieur Pierre, you are a flatterer! But what about your work? There’ll be a fine row if the dining-room’s not put ship-shape and the silver’s still uncleaned when Madame gets back.’

  ‘Yes. I might get the sack; and that would be most unfortunate, because I like it here. I am an artist, you see, and it makes a world of difference to me if I work in a place with a girl like yourself who has good taste in hats.’

  ‘What do you know about that, Monsieur Pierre?’

  ‘I saw you come in the night before last, Mademoiselle Jacqueline, and I thought that little black affair you were wearing quite ravishing. It occurred to me this morning that you might like to buy yourself another.’

  ‘And why? Hats cannot be bought every day on a lady’s-maid’s wage, Monsieur Pierre, and, as a matter of fact, it was Madame who gave me the black one that I was wearing on Monday.’

  ‘How wise of Madame; I am sure that it suits you infinitely better than it suited her,’ lied Gregory.

  ‘Now you are being foolish,’ replied Jacqueline loyally. ‘As well as being a very kind lady, Madame is most beautiful—in fact, I do not think that there is anyone so beautiful in all Brussels.’

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Gregory. ‘What a tribute for one woman to pay another! I knew from the shape of your little nose, which turns up so attractively, that you were a girl with the most generous instincts. But this hat we were speaking of—a new one of your own choice. I had a little legacy not long ago from my poor old uncle, who was valet to a French marquis, so I am in funds.’ He produced a hundred-franc note and toyed with it a moment. I was wondering if I could persuade you to do my silver for me and tidy the dining-room and, as a very small return, buy yourself that little hat out of this?’

  Jacqueline was in fact a generous girl, and as he had got on the right side of her she would quite willingly have done his work for him on this occasion, but Gregory knew that there might be others and that unless he was prepared to make love to her—which he was not—she certainly would not be willing to make a habit of doing his jobs while he went out, presumably to amuse himself elsewhere. That was why he had invented the legacy, as ordinarily she would probably not have liked to take money from another servant; but believing that he had just come in for a nice little sum she would feel that if he chose to spend it on getting his work done for him by somebody else, that was his affair.

  With a shrug and a smile she took the proffered note. ‘All right; run along, then, and I’ll put things right with Cook for you. Are you sure, though, that you can spare this money? It seems a lot for so small a service.’

  Gregory nodded, ‘Yes; I could really have afforded a good holiday, but I prefer to keep in work providing that I can arrange matters so that I have a little time to attend to my own affairs.’

  She laughed. ‘I do not mind work, and it is always nice to have the opportunity of earning a little extra money.’

  ‘Bien. Au revoir, Mademoiselle Jacqueline.’ Bunching the finger-tips of his right hand he kissed them to her while winking his left eye. It was a curiously un-English gesture but absolutely in keeping with the part that he was playing and, fully satisfied that he had got the maid just where he wanted her, he went out to keep his appointment with his mistress.

  On Sunday, May 5th, his last day in London, the sun had suddenly appeared in all its glory to revivify a Europe which had suffered from the severest winter within living memory and now, three days later, it was still shining; so it really seemed that summer had come. For the last two days it had been as warm as June and the women of the Belgian capital were already bringing out their light summer frocks, which lent an air of gaiety to the city that was extraordinarily refreshing to Gregory after his many months in Finland and Norway. Erika had dressed very simply for the occasion in order that her clothes should not contrast too strongly with the neat but ready-made black jacket and pin-striped trousers which Gregory had bought for himself on the morning that he had come to her as her manservant.

  Out at Laeken they admired the gorgeous Chinese pavilion and the Japanese pagoda made of carved woodwork specially brought from Japan. They were not allowed inside the Royal Palace but entry was permitted to the great conservatories with their fine array of tropical plants and flowers. The azaleas were in blossom and smelt quite heavenly. Afterwards, on a grassy bank in the great park, they ate the things that Erika had provided for their picnic lunch, while the children played happily in the near distance. Then all through the long hours of the sunny afternoon they lay there side by side, quite oblivious of anything except each other, as is the habit of lovers the world over.

  It was a new experience for the Frau Gräfin von Osterberg, spoilt the German aristocracy, to be kissed and lie with her head pillowed on the chest of a man in a public park; but after her first shocked protests ‘that people were looking and that that sort of thing positively was not done’ she had to admit that it was done by the great majority of young women even in the most civilised countries and—as Gregory laughingly told her—if she chose to come out with her butler she must accept the canons as to what was and was not done in a butler’s normal sphere of lite. After that she threw her hat on the grass and settled down to enjoy herself, thinking what a marvellous man Gregory was at finding good reasons for everything he wanted to do, and how clever it had been of him to provide a totally new setting for their love-making instead of allowing them to waste this precious afternoon in sitting decorously looking at each other.

  By seven o’clock they were back in Brussels, separating before they reached the flat so that Gregory could go in first and resume his duties before she arrived; and although they were unable to speak together privately during the evening it passed for both of them with the happy feeling of two children who had played truant from school for the day and managed to get away with it.

  On the following morning, May the 9th, a note arrived by hand from Kuporovitch to Erika. In it he said that Paula had made various tactful inquiries the previous day and informed him, when he had seen her at night, that the Black Baroness was staying under the name of Madame de Swarle, at the Hotel Weimar in Rotterdam.

  When Erika had passed the note to Gregory he whispered to her to go out and ring him up, then to come back to the flat about an hour later as though she had been doing some local shopping. When she rang up he answered the telephone and for Jacqueline’s benefit put on an act as though he had just heard the most disconcerting news. He told her that his old aunt was dying and that he must get leave from Madame at once to go to her as there might be another nice little legacy involved in the matter, which, could he have but known it, gave added impetus to an idea that had entered Mademoiselle Jacqueline’s pretty little head the day before.

  It was obvious that he liked her and not only was he a very attractive man but he had money of his own with which he was very generous; therefore it might not be at all a bad thing if she tacttuiiy inspired him with the idea of proposing marriage. She knew that if she once started an alfair she would be treading on dangerou
s ground, because it was quite certain that such a good-looking fellow had had plenty of affairs with other women, so he would almost certainly try to seduce her. She was well aware that men who seduce girls don’t usually marry them afterwards; but she felt that if only she could manage to keep her head everything would be all right; which was unfortunate because in point of fact she had no reason at all to worry herself one way or the other.

  Quite unaware of the agitation he had aroused in the breast of his pretty co-worker, Gregory met Erika in the doorway when she returned and, with voluble protestations as to his desolation at inconveniencing Madame, begged to leave to rush off to the bedside of his dying aunt.

  The leave was duly granted and a quarter of an hour later, carrying a small suit-case which contained all his possessions in the character of butler, he left the flat. By a curious coincidence Erika went out again a few minutes later and, as she expected, found him waiting for her a few hundred yards down the street. Together they drove to the Hotel Metropole where Gregory had parked his own baggage on his arrival in Brussels, under his German pseudonym of Colonel-Baron von Lutz. Taking a room under the same name he went upstairs so that he could change into one of his own tailored suits, while she spent five minutes sitting in the lounge, then took the lift up to join him.

  ‘What d’you intend to do, darling?’ Erika asked, trying to keep out of her voice the new anxiety she had felt.

  He looked unusually thoughtful as he replied: ‘To tell you the truth, my sweet, I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s up to me to put the Black Baroness out of action, somehow.’