The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Don’t allow him to intimidate you, Inspector,’ Gregory cried. ‘This man is a Gestapo agent and it is people such as he who are at this moment signalling with lights to the aircraft that are killing honest Dutch citizens with their bombs. If you deal with him according to his deserts he won’t be alive to tell any lies about you by the time the Nazis get here.’

  But the Inspector was badly shaken. It was not even certain yet that his Government would decide to fight, and even if they did, how could thirteen million Dutch stand up to eighty million Germans; particularly when those Germans had the mastery of the air? Privately he doubted if the Dutch Army could hold out for very long even with Allied aid, and after that Government, officials and people would have to submit to the Nazi bosses whom the Germans sent them. He had got a wife and children to think of and, after all, the German was not asking to be released, only that a higher official should be sent for to hear what he had to say. What the Chief Inspector might decide was not the Inspector’s business, and by sending for him he could relieve himself of the whole unpleasant business.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered sullenly. ‘Chief Inspector Van der Woerden is in the building somewhere, I think.’

  ‘How nice,’ sneered Grauber, in his thin falsetto, ‘and how fortunate for all concerned.’

  While the Inspector left them they stood there in the charge-room, to and from which policemen and civilians were now constantly hurrying. In the next few moments the news came through that German troops had crossed the Dutch frontier and that Amsterdam was now being bombed. The sound of the cannonade down by the harbour increased in violence, and the irregular rat-tat-tat of machine-guns was added to it. Just as they heard that the aerodromes at Brussels and Antwerp were also being bombed the Inspector returned with his superior, a short, stocky man with a grey moustache.

  Grauber clicked his heels and bowed. ‘I regret to have taken you from your duties at such a time, Chief Inspector,’ he said formally, ‘but your police are holding me upon a very minor charge which cannot easily be substantiated. If I give you my word to hold myself at your disposal, will you permit that I am released at once?’

  ‘He’s a German agent!’ cut in Gregory; ‘I insist that you should hold him here, otherwise he’ll engineer further death and destruction among your people.’

  The Chief Inspector glanced coldly at Gregory and said in a toneless voice: ‘I know this gentleman. I am perfectly aware that he must now be considered as one of Holland’s enemies, but it so happens that he is a member of the staff of the German Embassy; therefore he has a right to expect certain diplomatic courtesies.’

  ‘He’s no more a member of the Embassy staff than I am,’ Gregory cried, ‘and even if he were you’d be insane to let him loose in Rotterdam tonight. If you do he’ll go straight down to the docks and give all the help he can to the enemy troops there who’re trying to capture your city.’

  With barely veiled hostility the Chief Inspector replied smoothly: ‘Kindly mind your own business and refrain from attempting to interfere in mine. The affair at the docks will soon be settled and Holland is not yet at war with Germany.’ Then he turned to Grauber. ‘I accept your word, Herr Gruppenführer, that you will report to the Dutch authorities within twenty-four hours if you are called upon to do so. You may go.’

  ‘I thank you, Chief Inspector.’ Grauber clicked his heels again, bowed from the waist and without a glance at Gregory walked quickly out of the station.

  It was about the clearest instance of a Gestapo tie-up with a foreign police official who was on their books as a reliable Fifth Columnist that it could have been possible to witness. Gregory was absolutely wild with rage and the old scar on his forehead stood out a livid white. He turned furiously upon the Chief Inspector. ‘How dare you let that man go! He’s a murdering Gestapo thug, and you know it, you damned Fifth Column traitor!’

  Suddenly, in his white-hot anger, before anyone could stop him he snatched up a heavy round ebony ruler from a nearby desk and struck the Chief Inspector with it a terrific blow across the head.

  For a second Van der Woerden’s eyes started from their sockets, round, goggling, horrible. His mouth fell open, blood began to ooze from a jagged line across his temple and he slumped to the floor without a sound.

  With shouts of surprise and dismay the group of policemen flung themselves upon Gregory. There was a short, violent struggle, and as they wrenched him erect, with his arms pinioned behind him, the Inspector who had fetched Van der Woerden knelt down to examine him.

  After a moment he looked up and said: ‘That blow will cost you your life. He’s dead.’

  15

  Prison for the Killer

  Within a second of having struck the man Gregory had sobered up and the struggle with the police was not due to resistance on his part but owing to the fact that so many of them had all attempted to seize him at the same time.

  Normally he despised people who lost their temper, as he maintained that those who were stupid enough to give way to anger placed themselves at a disadvantage, and if ever he had to fight he always fought with a cold, calculating ferocity, which was infinitely more dangerous than any whirlwind attack delivered without plan through loss of control. But, in this instance, his feeling of indignation and disgust had been so overpowering that he had virtually been affected by a brain-storm.

  Such a thing had never happened to him before and it frightened him a little. He felt that perhaps the strain he had been through in the last eight and a half months was beginning to tell and that he was losing his grip. But as he stared down at the dead police chief he did not feel the least remorse at what he had done.

  To have struck the official in such circumstances would have been bad enough, but to have killed him was infinitely worse. He knew that his act might cost him his life; and not as the price of something for which he might have been willing to give it, such as settling accounts once and for all with Grauber or dealing some major blow at the Nazis, but without anything to show for it, as a convicted murderer in a prison yard. Nevertheless, apart from the personal peril into which the act had brought him, he would not have undone the deed even had he had the chance.

  Van der Woerden had known that his country was being invaded by the Germans. Even as he had stood there he was aware that the Nazi forces which had entered the port in secret were killing the very men who looked to him as their own officer for leadership and the citizens whom it was his duty to protect; yet he had deliberately allowed a German secret agent to go free so that he could continue his nefarious activities and inevitably bring about the loss of more Dutch lives. The man had been that lowest of all human beings—a proved traitor to his own country—and he deserved to die.

  The Inspector stood up and gave an order in Dutch. Gregory was hurried down a corridor and thrown into a cell. The steel door clanged-to behind him.

  He was quite calm again now and already thinking about what measures he should take. Producing pencil and paper from his pocket he wrote out two telegrams; the first was to Sir Pellinore:

  ‘HAVE EXECUTED DUTCH POLICE INSPECTOR ACTING AS GESTAPO AGENT STOP UNDER ARREST ROTTERDAM STOP PLEASE INFORM FOREIGN OFFICE AND GET LEGATION TO DO THEIR BEST TO POSTPONE TRIAL TILL SITUATION CLARIFIES.’

  The second, which he addressed to the British Minister at The Hague, ran:

  ‘HAVE KILLED DUTCH POLICE INSPECTOR BELIEVING HIM TO BE GERMAN AGENT STOP UNDER ARREST ROTTERDAM STOP KILLING JUSTIFIED ON GROUNDS THAT IT TOOK PLACE AFTER INVASION AND VICTIM WAS ACTIVELY RENDERING ASSISTANCE TO ENEMY STOP SEND LEGATION OFFICIAL TO RECEIVE DETAILED PARTICULARS STOP PELLINORE GWAINE-CUST LONDON WILL GUARANTEE MY BONA FIDES.’

  On reading these through he thought that they were pretty good. There was nothing like carrying the war into the enemy’s camp and surely the first line of defence against murder was to state categorically that it was not murder at all but justified killing in the execution of one’s duties. Officially, of course, the British Legation could not give
any assistance to a secret agent but, for once, he felt that his entirely unofficial position should stand him in good stead. His situation was that of an ordinary British citizen travelling in Holland who had got himself into trouble, and it was incumbent on his Legation to investigate the matter and see that he received fair play.

  Sir Pellinore would probably storm and rage when he got his telegram. Anxious as Gregory was, he smiled as he imagined the sort of thing that the elderly baronet would say: ‘There’s that damned feller—can’t move ten yards without killing somebody or getting them killed on his account, and now he’s had the impudence to drag me into it.’ But Gregory felt quite certain that however annoyed Sir Pellinore might be he would get on to the Foreign Office immediately and pull every available wire which might ring a bell in that most intelligent and powerful of British institutions.

  So far, so good, but there were two thoughts which made Gregory extremely uneasy. He had seen quite enough of the new German methods of warfare in Norway to be under no illusions as to how a Blitzkrieg worked. The Germans were already attacking Rotterdam from the sea and bombing the Dutch airports; within a matter of hours landings by parachute-troops could be expected and these together with the innumerable Fifth Columnists that the enemy had established in Holland, would be destroying all communications; so it was highly probable that neither of his telegrams would reach its destination. Further, while he was sitting in his cell, Queen Wilhelmina was probably signing a proclamation placing the country under martial law. In that case any civilian who killed a member of the armed forces or of the police would be liable to be tried by court-martial and summarily shot. By morning, therefore, he might find himself in the last and stickiest corner of a career which had already had far more than its fair quota of sticky corners.

  Having given the police time to cool down he banged upon his cell door and, on the warder’s appearing, asked him to fetch the Inspector, whose name, he learnt, was Fockink. Some quarter of an hour later the Inspector arrived and inquired what he wanted. He produced the two telegrams that he had written out, together with a 50-gulden note, and asked for them to be sent off at once.

  The Inspector, like most educated Dutchmen, could understand English. He read the messages through and was visibly impressed on seeing that one asked the assistance of the British Foreign Office, and that the other was addressed to the British Minister at The Hague. He had not forgotten the manner in which Grauber had threatened him if he refused to send for his superior and the fact that bombs were still falling did not make him feel any love at all for the Germans, so he said quite civilly:

  ‘I’ll send these off if I can, but there’s so much trouble in the city now that I’m afraid it’s very doubtful if they’ll get through.’

  ‘Have the Germans succeeded in penetrating from the harbour to the centre of the town, then?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘No; but they must have had scores of agents living here, as fighting seems to have broken out in half a dozen places. One party has seized the broadcasting station and another attempted to storm the telephone exchange. Troops and police are trying to round them up now but they must have had secret stores of arms as they’re all carrying tommy-guns and hand-grenades. Each group, too, appears to be trained in street-fighting and properly led so it’s a very different matter to putting down an ordinary riot, and we’re not organised to contend with this sort of thing.’

  Gregory shrugged. ‘Even if you were, you wouldn’t stand much chance if many of your senior officers are like that fellow Van der Woerden—just waiting for the opportunity to sell you to the enemy.’

  ‘Are you quite sure that German was not on the Staff of their Embassy?’

  ‘Certain of it; I know him well; he’s the Gestapo Chief, Gruppenführer Grauber. And even if he had been an accredited diplomat, that’s no possible excuse for letting him go at a time like this when his country has just invaded yours without the slightest provocation.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘You’re right there. I wish now that I’d refused to send for the Chief Inspector. Still, as I did, the fact that he died from your blow means you’ll have to stand your trial for murder.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregory smiled suddenly, ‘but in the meantime I’d like to know how you propose to treat me. Am I to be regarded as a sailor who has killed a man in a drunken brawl or as a political prisoner who may have acted rashly but was working in the interests of your country as well as his own?’

  Inspector Fockink hesitated a second, then he said: ‘Quite unofficially, of course, I don’t mind confessing that I understand your motive and that you have my sympathy. In any case, I’m prepared to give instructions that you shall receive such amenities as the station affords. If you’ve got money, so that you can pay for them, you can send out for any food you want, cigarettes, drink, etc. You may smoke as much as you like and have paper and pencils to write letters or prepare your defence—in fact any reasonable request you care to make will be granted.’

  That’s decent of you,’ Gregory replied. ‘How about news? I’m naturally pretty anxious to know what’s going on.’

  ‘You can have any papers that you like to send for.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not much good; I can’t read Dutch, and at a time like this I imagine it’s extremely doubtful as to whether the English and French papers will come in as usual.’

  ‘All right, then. Most of the warders can speak quite good German. I’ll lift the regulation which forbids warders to carry on conversations with prisoners and each time they come into your cell they can give you the latest news.’

  “Thanks,’ said Gregory. I’m very grateful.’

  When the Inspector had left him, Gregory glanced at his watch and saw that it was five to four. Guns were still firing, machine-guns were still beating their horrid tattoo; occasionally there drifted through the barred window of the cell a distant shout or the sound of hurrying feet; but there was nothing more that he could do to aid himself and, locked up as he was, there was nothing that he could do to help the Dutch defend their city, either, so he decided to go to bed and try to get some sleep.

  In spite of the distant thudding and the rattling of the windows he managed to drop off about four-thirty but the warder woke him two hours later. He gave the man money to send out and buy him meals, drink, cigarettes, a war map to pin up on the wall of his cell and some English novels; and asked that his bag should be collected from the hotel; then he dozed again until the things arrived and, shortly afterwards, lunch was brought to him.

  The warder gloomily gave him the news. It seemed that most of the German commercial travellers who had descended on Rotterdam in recent weeks were really soldiers in disguise. Each of them had known exactly what to do and where to go when the moment came, so they had rapidly consolidated into definite units several hundred strong, and as they had seized certain buildings which readily lent themselves to defence it was proving a very difficult matter to turn them out.

  Since dawn the sky had been black with planes, and parachutists having captured the Schipol airport troop-carriers were now landing much greater numbers of Germans on it. An hour after the Germans had invaded Holland and Belgium they had gone into Luxemburg and launched a great offensive in the Moselle sector, where the Franco-German frontier and the Maginot Line proper ended. Both Holland and Belgium had appealed to the Allies for aid and at eleven o’clock it had been announced that the British and French would give them every possible assistance. It was reported that a Franco-British Army had already crossed the frontier and was wheeling through southern Belgium to meet the Germans.

  Gregory received these tidings with very mixed feelings. It was good that the two countries had decided to fight. Their Air Forces were, unfortunately, negligible but Holland could put 600,000 men in the field and Belgium the best part of 1,000,000. True, the Dutch equipment was not very up to date but they were a stout-hearted race who had proved their courage many times and took a place second to none in the annals of those natio
ns which had fought and endured to secure their independence. As a nation the Belgians were a much younger people and they were a mixed race of Flemings and Walloons, so Gregory doubted if they had the solidarity of the Dutch; on the other hand, their Army was not only larger but was said to have been greatly improved in recent years. Taking even the most cynical view, he felt that this 1,600,000 new enemies which Hitler had acquired overnight would at least inflict considerable damage on him before they could be put out of action—which was something definitely to the good.

  As against that, he well remembered the manner in which Sir Pellinore had laid down the law to him less than a week ago on the subject of strategy in the Low Countries. He had made it very clear that as long as the British stood upon the Franco-Belgian frontier it would be extremely difficult for the Germans to inflict a major defeat upon them; but that once they moved out of their fortified zone they would have to meet the Germans tank for tank, gun for gun and man for man.

  In the evening he learnt that in addition to innumerable Dutch and Belgian cities the Germans had also bombed Nancy, Lille, Colmar, Lyons, Pontoise, Béthune, Lens, Hazebrouck, Abbeville and Calais, but that the Dutch had blown up the bridges on the Yssel and Maas so that the first onslaught of the northernmost German Army had definitely been checked.

  The Germans were reinforcing their troops in Rotterdam harbour by landing men from seaplanes and they had captured the great bridge over the river, but the situation in the centre of the city remained obscure. Gregory did not think the fighting was very near, but salvoes of bombs were being launched from time to time near enough for him to hear them whistling through the air. At ten-past ten a big fellow falling about a hundred yards away shattered the window of his cell. It was not pleasant to remain locked up during almost continuous air-raids, but the Police Headquarters was a massive building and Gregory felt that he was infinitely safer there than he had been at Andalsnes and managed to get some sleep between raids.