Einholtz then went on to the real purpose of his visit. He said that von Osterberg, although more normal, was still far from well, but that if he were given a few days more should be in far better shape to make the trip. He therefore proposed that they should cross the lake on the night of the thirteenth. “Unless,” he added with a smile, “you are superstitious and would prefer to make it the fourteenth, as an extra day will make little difference to the conditions we may expect.”
“No,” replied Gregory, “I’m not superstitious. Let’s make it the thirteenth. But I’d like to hear the programme that you have in mind.”
“Even if it is a clear night with no cloud,” Einholtz told him, “the moon is not due to rise until just before dawn. I suggest that we should start about ten o’clock. I have watched the Swiss patrol boats go by so often that we should have no trouble with them. By midnight we should be off the German coast. It will be too late then for many people to be about. Owing to the headland that juts out into the lake some miles to the east of Friedrichshafen we should have no difficulty in finding Freiherr von Lottingen’s summer villa, since it is only just round the corner. There were three cars in his garage last time we visited it, and as that was only about six weeks ago there is every reason to suppose that at least one of them will still be there. We borrow it, as before, and drive to Niederfels; but not to the Schloss itself. We make for the home of the tenant-farmer who hid Kurt and myself. Having spent so long with him I have no doubt at all that he will prove willing to shelter us again for a few nights. Using his farm as our base, we begin to make our enquiries for the Countess. When we have found her we wait for another dark night and return by the same route.”
“That sounds all right,” said Gregory. “In fact I don’t see how it can be improved upon.”
As they drank two steins of laager they talked about the war. At their first meeting Gregory had taken a malicious delight in watching the German squirm, as he forecast disaster to the German armies in Russia.
That had, at first, been his only reason for letting himself go on the subject, since, at that time, he was ninety-eight per cent convinced that Einholtz really was an anti-Nazi refugee and that anything said to him was most unlikely to reach the enemy. However, with caution, his final statement that the Soviet Reserve Army Group was situated south of Moscow and would strike north-west to shatter the German central front had been pure invention.
It had been inspired simply by the fact that the most serious inroads into the defences of Moscow were being made from the northwest, and if during the final phase of the attack the Wehrmacht could be induced to withdraw large formations from that area to reinforce the southern end of their central front Moscow might yet be saved. At the time he had felt that the odds against what he had said ever reaching the German High Command and causing it to alter its dispositions were terrific; and, even now that he knew Einholtz to be a Gestapo man, he considered that the chances of his casually thrown out remarks having a disastrous effect on German strategy were still extraordinarily small.
Today, however, with no even vaguely ulterior motive in mind, and with even more gusto, he was able to enjoy a good half-hour’s sport dwelling lightly but pointedly upon just how disastrous America’s entry into the war must ultimately prove for Germany. He was able to do so quite pleasantly on the assumption that Einholtz was an anti-Nazi who desired the speedy defeat of Hitler in order that a free German Republic might be more speedily reborn. Realising this, Einholtz was forced to suppress his gall and painfully screw up a series of false, twisted smiles of agreement.
In spite of the seething rage that inwardly consumed him he managed to prevent himself from giving way to an outburst that might have betrayed his real feelings, and they parted ostensibly good friends, pledged to risk their lives together on a most dangerous expedition.
On the Tuesday morning Gregory went down to see Kuporovitch. At midday they took a motor-bus going west along the lake-shore to the little town of Arbon. There they bought a picnic meal and took it down to the harbour, where they hired a motor launch. As the weather was chilly and there was a slight drizzle the boat-owner thought them insane, but Gregory did not seek to disguise the fact that he was English, knowing that on the Continent the legend still persists that all Englishmen are mad, and that it had often served to excuse his apparent vagaries in tricky situations.
Visibility on the lake was poor, but the weather cleared somewhat in the late afternoon, so they got a fairly good view of the smoke-belching chimneys of the great munition plants at Friedrichshafen and of the coast up to the headland to south-east of it. Through a pair of binoculars that Gregory had bought in St. Gall, they could make out a rambling building just west of the headland that they felt certain must be Freiherr von Lottingen’s summer villa; but on their attempting to go nearer in, a German patrol boat came out and turned them back. As soon as she had left them Gregory took several compass bearings, which he carefully noted down. They then returned to Arbon, and so to their respective domiciles.
On the Wednesday Gregory worked at his house-planning for the best part of the day, then, when darkness had fallen, again went down to Kuporovitch’s cottage. By half past seven they were in Arbon talking to the boat-owner, whom, without difficulty, they had traced to a wharfside café. At first, he was most loth to hire them his launch on a winter’s night, suspecting that it could be required only for some illegal purpose. But, luckily, the night was fine and starlit, and Gregory finally succeeded in jollying him into it by playing the rich, eccentric English “Milor”, and offering him an outrageous price with a definite promise to bring the launch back by midnight.
At their first attempt to get out into the centre of the lake they were turned back by a Swiss patrol boat, but on their second they succeeded in getting to within two miles of the German coast without interference. They could have gone further in but did not wish to risk the possibility of landing themselves in serious trouble. So Gregory took some more compass bearings of the blast furnaces and such other lights as were visible, and they then turned back to Arbon.
On the morning of Thursday the 11th, Gregory sent a telegram which read: FALLSTRÖM. VILLA OFFENBACH, STEINACH, BEI RORSCHACH. IS THIRTEENTH DEFINITELY AGREED ON. SALLUST.
By midday the reply reached him. YES, ALL SET FOR THIRTEENTH, FRITZ. He had spent the morning completing the plans of the house he might one day build, although he doubted if he would ever do so, as he felt that he would greatly prefer an old house with well-grown trees in its garden, if he could find one that he really liked; but drawing the plans and making things fit had proved an excellent and amusing distraction. In the afternoon he slept.
At five o’clock he set off for Kuporovitch’s cottage. The Russian was expecting him and, being a very passable amateur cook, had prepared an excellent meal. They washed it down with some bottles of Chambertin, and afterwards sat talking cheerfully together until a quarter to eight.
Then they went out and walked along the grass verge of the road towards the Villa Offenbach. As they neared it Kuporovitch dropped a few paces behind and halted in the deep shadow made by the angle of the porch, while Gregory stepped forward and rang the frontdoor bell.
After he had rung a second time it was opened by Einholtz. Seeing his visitor, the German’s face expressed surprise, but Gregory did not give him a chance to ask any questions. He had been holding his automatic ready in his overcoat pocket. Pulling it out, he jabbed it into Einholtz’s stomach and said:
“Stand still! Come on, Stefan!”
Kuporovitch pushed past them holding a length of cord, one end of which was already prepared in a slip-noose. Grabbing one of Einholtz’s wrists, he slid the noose over it and jerked the cord tight. Seizing the German’s other arm, he wrenched it round behind his back and swiftly secured the two wrists together. The whole action had been so rapid that Einholtz had his hands tied behind him almost before he had time to begin letting out a spate of curses.
As Kuporovitch pull
ed out his own gun, Gregory turned away and walked down the hall. The Russian dug the barrel of his pistol into Einholtz’s ribs and said the one word, “Follow!”
Still dazed from the shock of his swift capture, and all the fight temporarily gone out of him, the Gestapo man walked down the passage after Gregory to the sitting-room. All three of them entered it and Kuporovitch closed the door behind them.
Von Osterberg was sitting in his usual chair. He looked up with a start as they came in, and nervously shuffled to his feet.
“Good evening, Count,” said Gregory. “There is no need to be alarmed. As you see, your gaoler is no longer in a position to harm you.”
“I—I don’t understand!” stammered the Count.
“It is quite simple,” Gregory replied firmly. “We know what has been going on here. The Gestapo forced you to write those letters, to help in trapping Erika, and to attempt to trap me. But the trap has worked the other way—this time. I repeat that you have no more to fear from this man Einholtz, and I now want you to tell me as clearly as you can exactly what did happen when the two of you took Erika into Germany.”
Kuporovitch had given Einholtz a push that sent him sprawling into an armchair, so that with his hands tied behind him he could not get up without considerable difficulty.
Von Osterberg stared at him wild-eyed, then looked back at his captors and gasped:
“Do you—do you mean—that I’m free?”
“More or less,” said Gregory laconically. “Come on now! I’ve got no time to waste, and I want your story.”
For a moment von Osterberg remained silent, evidently trying to collect his wits. Then he began to talk in short, jerky sentences. He told them everything, just as it had happened, from the time of his first being intimidated into serving the Gestapo, right up to Erika’s capture and the infamous supper-party which had followed at Schloss Niederfels.
“So that’s how Grauber learned about the three things that I had gone to Russia to find out,” commented Gregory. “What did they do with her then?”
“They locked her up in one of the dungeons,” replied the Count slowly. “It wasn’t too bad a prison, as it was quite dry. At one time we had used it as a store room. Next day they gave her a bed and a few pieces of furniture and they continued to keep her there. She was still there when we came back here.”
“Do you think she is still there, now?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. As they had kept her there for the best part of two months there doesn’t seem any reason why they should have moved her since.”
“All right.” Gregory stepped over to an open desk upon which were some sheets of writing-paper and a pencil. He gave them to von Osterberg and added: “Now you will be good enough to draw for me a series of plans of the Castle—particularly the part of it in which this dungeon is situated.”
With pencil and paper before him the Count seemed to take on new life. For twenty minutes he sketched and wrote rapidly, while Gregory sat beside him watching and asking questions from time to time. At length Gregory was satisfied, and sweeping up the papers put them in his inner pocket. Then he said:
“Before the Gestapo got to work on you, you were doing a job at the experimental station at Peenemünde, weren’t you?”
Von Osterberg nodded.
“What was this experimental work that you were engaged on?”
The Count shook his head. “I cannot say.”
“Oh, yes you can,” Gregory said threateningly “Come on now! What was it?”
At the same moment Einholtz spoke for the first time. “Keep silent, Kurt. If you speak you will live to regret it.”
Von Osterberg stood up. “I am a German,” he declared, “and a patriot. I refuse to talk.”
“Well said, Kurt, well said,” cried Einholtz.
Gregory, too, stood up. Looking the Count full in the face he said: “I don’t care what you are. You’re going to tell me what you know.”
“Nothing will make me do that. Nothing!”
Gregory hit him a resounding slap across the face. “Talk, damn you!” he roared. “Or I’ll beat you to a jelly.”
Von Osterberg crumpled up and fell back in his chair, but he still violently shook his head and refused to speak.
“I suppose you’re still scared of Einholtz,” Gregory muttered. “All right; we’ll deal with him first.”
Turning to the Gestapo man, he ran quickly through his pockets. Among their contents were the handcuffs, a special pass showing him to be an S.S. Lieutenant-Colonel, and a wad of a dozen letters. Gregory put the whole lot in his own pocket, and snapped:
“Stand up!”
Einholtz struggled to his feet. “You’ll pay for this in the long run,” he growled. “Herr Gruppenführer Grauber will see to that.”
“Never mind Grauber now,” Gregory said with menacing quietness, “I am dealing with you. Do you know about this work that is going on at Peenemünde?”
“Yes, I do.” Einholtz gave a twisted grin. “Not much, but enough, at all events, to be certain that all your hopes of Russia are pure moonshine, and that with this wonderful new weapon we shall destroy all your English cities long before America can come to your aid.”
“Are you going to tell me about it? To talk might be worth your while.”
“Is it likely?” Einholtz sneered.
“You can take your choice. You are either going to talk or die.”
Einholtz went very white. Then he moistened his lips and muttered, “I’ll see you damned first.”
Gregory lifted his pistol. “Are you quite sure? I mean what I say.”
“Certain,” gasped the German.
“Then, as you are a member of the Gestapo, which has wilfully inflicted terror, humiliation, unbearable pain and death on countless innocent people, I, taking this deed fearlessly upon my own soul, condemn you to die, in agony, yourself.”
Gregory squeezed the trigger of his pistol, and shot Einholtz through the stomach.
The German doubled up, slid to the floor with a screech of pain and lay there twisting and whimpering.
For a moment Gregory stood there watching him with complete detachment, then he put a second bullet through his head. Einholtz jerked and lay still.
Von Osterberg, gripping the arms of his winged chair, sat forward in it staring in fascinated horror at the bloody corpse on the floor. Gregory turned back to him and went through his pockets. They were completely empty.
“Now!” he said. “You see that Einholtz will never be able to repeat anything you may say. I give you my word that my friend and myself will never disclose the source from which we obtained our information; and if you will tell us what we wish to know I will guarantee that you shall be provided with ample funds to start life afresh in South America.”
But the Count only shook his head and, averting his eyes from Einholtz’s body, looked dumbly at the carpet.
“So you refuse to play,” Gregory snapped. “It’s time that I warned you, then. You’ve seen what happened to Einholtz. I’ve plenty of bullets left and I can quite well spare two for you.”
“Shoot me then,” gasped von Osterberg, in a half-strangled voice. “I have no future; and, for me, life is no longer worth living. Shoot me!”
At that cry from the heart Gregory knew that to persist further was useless. He was up against, not a man, but a wreck who no longer cared if he lived or died.
Switching over the safety-catch of his gun he put it back in his pocket, and said: “Stand up!”
Slowly the Count obeyed.
Putting his hand into another pocket Gregory drew out a silk handkerchief. Folding it carefully into a bandage the ends of which were formed by two of its corners, he wrapped it round the knuckles of his right hand, then clenched the part that was inside his palm so that the swathe across his knuckles became tight and firm.
He looked for a moment at von Osterberg, then he said:
“You regard yourself as a man of honour, don’t you; because you ha
ve just refused to betray your country’s secrets. Yet you betrayed the woman that you once loved and, like a veritable Judas, led her by the hand to torture and death. When Hitler and his gang are dead; when the brutal tradition of Bismarck and the harsh philosophy of Neitzsche are at last forgotten; when all that are left after this war of the stupid, brutal German people have been sent back to labour on the soil for five generations, then, and not before, we may hope to educate a new and cleaner race of Germans to share in the benefits of modern civilization. For you, civilization has meant the employment of your gifts upon a horrible weapon of destruction. For you, honour has meant the acceptance of such scars as I see on your cheek in senseless student duels. Well, I am going to give you another scar, and one that you will bear for all that remains of your miserable life. Each time you look at yourself in a mirror you will think of the betrayal of your wife, and remember that you received it for that as the brand of dishonour.”
As he finished speaking Gregory drew back his silk-covered fist and struck von Osterberg a glancing blow from temple to chin. The silk, catching under heavy pressure on the skin, ripped it open as though it had been slashed with a knife and blood poured from the gaping wound. It was a trick that Gregory had learnt, long ago in Paris, from an Apache.
With a cry like a wounded animal von Osterberg slumped backwards in his chair and buried his bleeding face in his hands. But Gregory stepped forward immediately, grabbed him by the arm, jerked him to his feet, and said:
“Where’s your bathroom? Pull yourself together and take us to it.”
Moaning and staggering, the Count led the way upstairs, supported by Gregory, who, when they reached the bathroom, pushed him inside it. As he collapsed on the floor Kuporovitch took the key out of the lock, reinserted it on the outside of the door, and locked him in. Then the two friends went downstairs again.
Come into my Parlour Page 44