The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  For every second of the time since he had heaved the motor-bike over the parapet of the bridge, his exertions had been of the utmost violence, but the whole episode had occupied less than two minutes, so his exhaustion was purely temporary. The moment he got his wind back he was ready for anything. His brain began to race again, exploring the possibilities of this entirely unexpected situation.

  As he washed the dirt off his hands in the lavatory basin, he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. There was a good chance that Messrs. Nicolai and Steinhauer would not be found till the following morning and, even if they were, he considered it improbable that they would be in any state to tell what had happened to them for many hours to come. The sentry had seen him take the motor-cycle, but he had passed him at well over fifty yards’ distance, and in the uncertain light it was unlikely that the man would have seen his features, or even noticed that he was wearing an Austrian uniform. The bike had been sunk without trace, so inquiries about it would lead nowhere. When the doctors did succeed in getting some sense out of his concussed victims the hue and cry would start with a vengeance; but even then the very last place that anyone would look for him was on the train. He recalled the saying that ‘God helps those who help themselves’, and, while his escape from immediate peril was due to his own wits and resolution, he gratefully acknowledged that he owed to Providence this splendid chance of getting clean away.

  He began to consider if it would be better to remain hidden for the night, then drop off the train when it had carried him several hundred miles to the west, which offered the prospect of being able to disappear entirely; or face his fellow travellers and give them some plausible explanation for his sudden appearance on it.

  From Wartenburg to Aix-la-Chapelle by rail was, he knew, between seven and eight hundred miles. The train was a special, but as it did not carry a C.-in-C. it was unlikely to have the highest grade of priority, and the war had caused an enormous increase in railway traffic, so he thought it probable that it would not average much more than forty-five miles an hour. If so, it should reach Berlin about seven o’clock in the morning, and Aix at about five the following afternoon.

  As it was nearly empty he thought his chances of remaining hidden on it good while darkness lasted. But he could not stay in the lavatory indefinitely, and if he concealed himself in one of the empty sleeping berths there was a big risk that the train attendants might carry out a routine clean up in the morning, which would lead to his discovery. To explain his presence then would be extremely difficult, so if he hid at all he must drop off the train when it slowed up somewhere before reaching Berlin. That would mean losing many precious hours before he could hope to reach Holland.

  And there was another thing. Having got on the train, he once more had the chance of carrying out his plan for attempting to influence von Moltke. That could be done only if he arrived at Aix in the special as an officer on official business from the Eastern Front. If, as he believed, he had managed to disappear from Wartenburg without leaving a single trace, the attempt he meditated entailed no more risk than it would have done had Nicolai never become suspicious of him. On the other hand, to have any considerable hope of swaying the mind of the Chief of the German General Staff, he must first somehow get rid of Major Tauber.

  That was going to prove a very difficult business, and must once more involve him in the gravest dangers. But France’s need was desperate. Ever since he had joined von Hötzendorf’s staff, he had regarded himself as a soldier on active service in the midst of the enemy. His life had been in constant jeopardy and, if the worst came to the worst, he had been prepared to sell it as dearly as possible at any moment. If he lost it in this attempt, that would be no worse than having done so had he failed to escape from Nicolai. And the prize was tremendous. If he could succeed in getting troops withdrawn from the Western Front at this critical hour, the value of such an action might prove incalculable. Few of the ten million men now under arms would ever be given an opportunity to risk their lives for such a great result. Almost instantly he decided that he could not possibly ignore it.

  The train was still at a standstill. He had been in the lavatory for about three minutes. He had not as yet the faintest idea how he was going to eliminate Major Tauber, but he realised that if he were to make his presence known at all he must not linger where he was any longer. Taking his little automatic from its hiding place under his arm, he put it in the right hand pocket of his tunic, so that he had only to slip his hand in and could fire with it through the cloth. Then, after giving himself a final brush down, he opened the door and went boldly out into the corridor.

  Walking along it, he passed an empty coupé and went through the door to the main pullman. Lanzi and Major Tauber were sitting at a table half-way down it. The train was staffed by special railway troops, and an orderly stood near the table, holding a tray, from which he was in the act of putting glasses and a bottle in front of the two officers. As de Richleau appeared, the orderly showed his surprise and Lanzi sat back with a gasp.

  “Gott in Himmel, Duke! Where have you sprung from?”

  De Richleau frowned. “It is no thanks to you, Baron, that I did not miss the train altogether.”

  Lanzi spread out his hands. “I’m terribly sorry. It wasn’t our fault. There was some silly muddle. The moment the Major and I got aboard, the darned thing started. I pulled the cord and it came to a halt. The engine driver said he had been told that only two officers were travelling, and that as soon as they were on the train he was to move off. By the time it pulled up we had covered a few hundred yards, but it didn’t seem worth shunting back, as we had your baggage on board and you could easily have seen the rear lights from the siding. We waited nearly twenty minutes; then the driver said we must push on or he would be held up all along the line, and be in the devil of a mess from goods trains having got in ahead of him. That’s what is hanging us up now, I expect. We thought by that time that you must have been detained by something very important, and couldn’t be coming at all; so we told him he could go ahead. What the devil kept you?”

  “It was that idiot, Nicolai,” muttered the Duke angrily. “He kept me hanging about for nearly ten minutes while he added a postscript to the letter he wanted me to take to Main Headquarters. When I got to the siding the train had gone. I saw the rear lights, but thought they belonged to the train on the other siding that is kept in readiness for General Hindenburg.”

  “How did you manage to catch us then?”

  “Colonel Nicolai was with me. He said that the train was almost certain to be held up for a few minutes going through the junction. So we nipped into a car, and he drove me down to the station. My luck was in, as it had only just passed, and we saw it pull up on the far side of the level crossing. I ran along the line and hopped on to it. What did you do with my baggage?”

  It was Major Tauber who replied. “We thought of putting it out, Herr Oberste. But we were afraid that, if we did, you might not find it in the wood, there; or it might be stolen. We thought it certain that you would be coming on to Main Headquarters to-morrow, so I volunteered to take charge of it till you arrived. It is still where it was stowed, in one of the sleeping compartments.”

  “Thank goodness for that!” sighed de Richleau, sitting down. He noticed that the bottle on the table contained liqueur brandy but he felt like a long drink. Glancing at the orderly, who was still standing there, he said: “Bring me a large glass and some mineral water.”

  As the man clicked his heels and turned away, it occurred to the Duke that his having been present during the recent explanation was a piece of luck. It was certain he would repeat what he had heard to his companions, so the train staff would now have no cause to wonder at the mysterious appearance of a third officer. A few minutes later, he returned with a tumbler and a pint of Apollinaris. With a nod of thanks, de Richleau took them and mixed himself the drink of which he was much in need.

  It did not take him long to realise that Lanzi and the Majo
r had not been getting on exactly like a house on fire. They were, in fact, oil and water.

  Lanzi was just a simple person who happened to have been blessed with a great name and immense riches. He considered it right and proper that anyone in the station to which God had called him should enjoy the pleasures which, all his life, had spread as a long and happy vista easily within his grasp. But he was not in the least a selfish man. He liked everybody about him to enjoy themselves, too. He even gave time and thought, as well as a great deal of money, to providing his wife and children with every material thing which might help to make their lives as enjoyable as his own.

  Major Tauber, on the other hand, had had a hard life; and now that he had reached a position in which he exerted a certain authority over others, he thought it right that they too should have a hard life. He was a gross, thick-necked Prussian, with a nature that lacked both humour and generosity. But he had brains—of a kind. Although he had neither private money nor influence, he had worked his way up to that Mecca of the German Army, a Stabs Corps appointment. He was no puritan and indulged his lusts occasionally without a qualm of conscience, but quickly, like an animal, so that he could get back to his work and help to increase the efficiency of the Army, which was the only thing he lived for. But his fat, overworked wife trembled before him, and his sons stood rigidly to attention when he addressed them. He was tactful to the point of servility when in the presence of his superiors, but, as he held the entire Austrian army in great contempt, he did not regard an Austrian Colonel as his superior.

  Evidently Lanzi had innocently disclosed his reason for going to Berlin and the Major had shown his frigid disapproval of the very idea that any officer, even an Austrian, should contemplate neglecting his duty to visit a kept woman. Lanzi did not understand this point of view, and thought it extremely bad manners on the Major’s part to propound it. Being too polite himself to say so, he merely laughed the matter off, but he made no attempt to conceal his pleasure that, by joining them so unexpectedly, de Richleau had relieved him of the necessity to spend several hours in the sole company of such an uncouth companion.

  The Duke came in only for the tail end of the argument, and while he agreed with the Major in principle, he felt a sneaking sympathy for Lanzi; so he thought it served the Major right when his old travelling companion, rather pointedly, engaged him in a conversation about Viennese society, of which the German knew nothing. For some moments Tauber sat looking at them in silence with a tight-lipped uncomfortable stare, then he took a quadruple set of miniature cards out of his valise and began an incredibly complicated game of patience.

  As Lanzi rambled cheerfully on with stories of Archdukes, partridge drives in Hungary and the more spicy episodes in the lives of well known ballerinas, it was easy enough for the Duke to think about the private problem to which, within the next hour or so, he had to find a solution. How was he going to deal with Major Tauber?

  On one thing he had already made up his mind. Major Tauber was not going to arrive at Main Headquarters next day—or any other day. He was never again going to arrive at any Headquarters. He was going to die.

  Chapter XXV

  Death on the Train

  Yes! Major Tauber had got to die. But how? That was the question. Since he was on duty, and the type of man he was, there was no conceivable way of getting him to leave the train of his own free will. If it had been going to stop at several stations it might have been possible to trick him into doing so, then leave him behind. But it was not. Therefore the first problem was, should he be pushed off, or left to continue on it as a corpse?

  In either case the deed had to be done before they reached Berlin. That was a pity, as Lanzi would still be on the train, and his presence might result in complications which could obviously not arise after he had left it. However, Lanzi was a simple soul, so it should not be difficult to pull the wool over his eyes, and the advantages of doing the job during the night, while the servants and train attendants were either asleep or dozing, were so self evident that it would have been positive madness to delay it until daylight.

  As de Richleau considered the matter, he saw that, even if he could have tricked the Major into getting off the train, that would be no guarantee against his upsetting the apple cart later. He would take the next train on to Main Headquarters and undo any success that his predecessor might have had in influencing General von Moltke. Again, to entice him to a door and push him out while the train was in motion would not necessarily prove one hundred per cent effective. If he were only injured he might reach the nearest house, or be found in the morning, and telephone to Aix a report of the murderous attack that had been made upon him. That would never do. Therefore, he had to die on the train, and the impression be given that he had committed suicide.

  But why? What reason could possibly be suggested for his having done so? De Richleau knew nothing of the Major’s private life, so for a moment he was at a complete loss to provide any plausible reason why he should take his own life.

  Then, in a flash, it came to him. It could be inferred that the Major had been the bearer of ill tidings from the Eastern Front; that he regarded the situation there as so grave that he believed a major defeat to be inevitable. It could be said that a few days before he had seen von Mackensen’s Corps break at Gumbinnen; had actually witnessed soldiers of the invincible German Army running for their lives before the Russians. The shame of having to convey such news to his Emperor had proved too much for him. He had preferred death.

  ‘That,’ thought the Duke, ‘was a really artistic touch, and it would add enormous weight to the story he meant to tell.’

  He greatly disliked the horrible task that he had decided to undertake; yet he was not troubled by any moral scruples. Tauber was not only an enemy, but a dangerous enemy—a man who, if he lived, would prove very useful to the German General Staff. Such men were very necessary for the less spectacular, but absolutely essential skilled routine work of planning battles. In the final analysis their conscientious labours would cost the Allies many thousands of lives. Moreover, he carried a pistol, so was an armed combatant. If, without danger to himself, while lurking behind a bush, he could have shot dead a Frenchman, an Englishman or a Russian, he would undoubtedly have done so. In this case de Richleau proposed to be the man behind the bush. All the same, he was extremely glad that the Major had not proved to be a likable fellow.

  It was close on midnight when Lanzi yawned and said: “I think I’ll get to bed.”

  “Do,” replied the Duke. “I shall follow you shortly. But I want to see, first, whether the Major manages to get out his game of patience.”

  “Oh well!” Lanzi shrugged good-naturedly. “In that case I’ll keep you company for a bit longer.”

  De Richleau had the horrible business before him very much in mind, and was now anxious to get it over. Concealing his annoyance, he said with a smile: “Don’t bother about me. You’ve got be up by six, so I should get all the sleep you can. You want to be on the top of your form for to-morrow night.”

  Lanzi thought for a moment, grinned and stood up. “That’s true. All right; I’ll be off then.”

  When he had ambled away, the Duke turned his attention to the table and made a pretence of being interested in the Major’s game. With some disquiet he saw that it looked like ending sooner than he had expected. That was unfortunate, as he had wanted to give Lanzi time to get to bed before he acted. On the other hand, he could not afford to allow Tauber to pack up and go to his sleeping birth. It was certain that the three of them had been put in adjacent compartments. To kill him in his would entail a risk that Lanzi might hear sounds which it would be difficult to explain afterwards. The job must be done here, at the table.

  When Lanzi had been gone about four minutes, the Major had only three more cards left to turn up. De Richleau decided that he dared wait no longer. Getting to his feet, he said:

  “I see you are going to get out all right.”

  “I will if t
he last card is the ace,” muttered Tauber.

  They had taken off their belts before sitting down and put them up in the rack. Stretching over Tauber’s bullet head, de Richleau took the Major’s belt instead of his own. Then, just as he was about to put it on, he exclaimed: “How silly of me. I’ve taken your belt by mistake.”

  Tauber was still immersed in his game. “No matter, Herr Oberste” he replied, without looking up. “Put it on the seat. I shall want it in a minute.”

  Instead of putting it on the seat, the Duke laid it on the end of the table, and remarked: “You use a different make of pistol from us, don’t you?”

  “Yes. The German pattern is the better. Its ejector is less liable to jam.”

  “May I look?” asked de Richleau, and without waiting for an answer he took the Mauser from its holster. By its weight he knew at once that it was loaded, and on pretence of examining it he clicked a bullet up into the chamber.

  The Major gave a throaty chuckle, and made several quick moves. He knew now that the last card was the ace, so he was going to get out.

  De Richleau said quietly: “How stupid it is that we staff officers, who rarely come within miles of the enemy, should have to carry loaded weapons.”

  “It is an order,” replied the Major sententiously. “We are at war.”

  “Yes,” murmured the Duke. “We are at war.” As he spoke, he thrust the pistol to within an inch of the Major’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  Had the train been at a standstill, the crack of the weapon might have been heard beyond the pullman, but the special was moving at sixty miles an hour, and de Richleau was confident that its roar would have drowned the sound of the shot. For a moment he stood there contemplating his awful handiwork.

  The bullet had entered the Major’s head just above the ear, making only a neat little hole in the closely shaven scalp, from which a trickle of blood was issuing. But after passing through his brain it had smashed open the far side of his skull. Without a sound, he had slumped forward on to the table, scattering the patience cards in all directions, and from the horrible wound a mess of blood and brains was now seeping over them.