The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  That morning the German Consul at Maastricht had made no protest at de Richleau’s release, but, all the same, the Duke knew that he would not be really safe until he was on the ship and it had actually sailed. By this time it was certain that the Germans would be hunting high and low for him. If, during the day, he had been linked up with the deserter who had crossed into Holland six nights earlier, the German Minister in the Hague would have been instructed to apply for his extradition on a charge of murder. As neutrals, the Dutch could not ignore such a demand; so it was possible that, knowing him to be British, the police might be waiting to arrest him if he attempted to leave by the ship that was sailing for England at midnight.

  Their plan was to drive the car up as close to the ship as possible. De Richleau and Jack McEwan would then get out, leaving Mrs. McEwan in it. If she saw that the police were preventing the Duke from boarding the ship, she was to scream, and later say that a wharf-rat had sneaked up to the car and tried to snatch her pearls. Her screams would provide an excuse for the two men to run back to the car. McEwan was to get in the way of anyone who attempted pursuit while de Richleau dashed straight for it. The car was technically a part of the Legation, so British soil; and, once in it, the Duke could not be arrested. They would then drive him back to the Hague and he could remain unmolested at the Legation until a new plan had been worked out for him to cross to England in disguise.

  The thought that there is ‘many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’ made de Richleau rather silent during the drive, but when they reached the dock nothing occurred to alarm them. The Duke had been furnished with a diplomatic laissez-passer, and the officials let him through with a polite greeting. At the foot of the gangway he thanked Jack McEwan again for his help and said good-bye to him; then went on board and claimed a cabin that had been booked for him in the name of ‘Rogers’. Returning to the rail, he stood there anxiously for a quarter of an hour, while his friends in the car a hundred yards away kept watch on him.

  At last the mooring ropes were cast off and the ship slowly eased out from the dockside. Calls of ‘bon voyage’ came from the car. In reply he waved, and blew kisses to the beautiful Mrs. McEwan. Eight hours later he landed at Harwich.

  At eleven-thirty on Tuesday morning, 1st September, he was shown into the library at Ninety-nine Carlton House Terrace.

  Whatever resentment he may have felt against Sir Pellinore, as the original cause of his becoming involved in so many repugnant acts, faded away at the sight of him. The tall, blue-eyed baronet received him, literally, with open arms. Clasping de Richleau’s shoulders with his leg-of-mutton hands, he gave him an affectionate shake, grinned down into his face, and bellowed to his butler to bring a magnum of champagne and tankards. Then he pushed his visitor into a chair and cried:

  “Gad! but I’m glad to see you again. You’ve no idea how the thought of you has been weighin’ on my conscience. Now tell me everything.”

  It took the Duke an hour to cover the ground since they had last met in Vienna, and when he had done Sir Pellinore exclaimed:

  “Stap me! The very moment I saw you, I knew you were a feller in a million. Six Corps eh! Six Corps! And a photograph of the little Archduchess into the bargain—not to mention an Austrian decoration.”

  He then fell silent for quite a minute.

  At length de Richleau glanced out of the tall windows, across the Mall and the Horse Guards Parade to the stately buildings of Whitehall, and said:

  “Well! Oughtn’t this information to be passed on to Hankey, or the War Office, as soon as possible?”

  Sir Pellinore sighed. “Yes. We’ll do that. But I’m afraid—I’m afraid it won’t be of much use to us. It comes too late.”

  Chapter XXVII

  The Fortieth Day

  ‘Too late’. Those are the most tragic words in the English language. After all the Duke had gone through, he heard them with peculiar bitterness. For a moment he stared at Sir Pellinore; then he exclaimed:

  “It can’t be true! I heard from Sir Alan Johnstone yesterday that the French Army was in a bad way, and that Paris is threatened. Surely you don’t mean that they’ve surrendered overnight?”

  “No; but they’re pretty well all in. Too far gone to launch a counter-offensive. Over a week ago Sir John French telegraphed that we ought to fortify our main base at Le Havre. Winston, with his usual flair, declared that the way things were going we’d be crazy to waste armaments and troops on such a half-measure; and that we’d better shift at once to St. Nazaire. Two days later the War Office agreed. The French have taken an even gloomier view. They’ve moved their Government to Bordeaux. There’s darned little fight left in ’em.”

  De Richleau groaned. “But what is the reason for this catastrophe? Even the Germans admit that the French troops have been fighting magnificently.”

  “True. But they’ve been fighting in the wrong place. Those idiots at Grand Quartier Général are to blame. D’you know anything about the French High Command?”

  “Not much. It is a long time since I was in the French Army.”

  “Well, this is the form. Three years ago—time of Agadir—General Michel was their top boy. Very sound feller. He believed the Germans would adopt the Schlieffen Plan. To counter it, he proposed to place his great mass—half a million strong—between Lille and Avesnes; another mass of 300,000 men between Hirson and Rethel; and to hold a further 200,000 in Paris as a general reserve. He considered the fortress line, Verdun-Toul-Belfort, strong enough to look after itself. That’s what we were told the French meant to do, and we’ve never been notified of any change in their intentions.”

  Sir Pellinore took a swig of champagne, and went on: “But it’s come out now that General Michel’s plan didn’t tally with the notions of his colleagues. They didn’t believe the Germans would violate Belgium. They were not prepared to stand on the defensive. So they managed to get him sacked.”

  “Yes. I remember hearing he had gone. The present C.-in-C., Joffre, was appointed as his successor.”

  “That’s right. At first Joffre wasn’t in the runnin’. Galliéni was the obvious choice, but the War Minister wanted a chap called Pau. Then Pau made demands about the appointment of Generals to which the Government wouldn’t agree; so they used the pretext of his age to rule him out. That ruled out Galliéni too, as he was even older. So Joffre was given the job.”

  “I’ve never understood why,” remarked the Duke. “He was an engineer with a sound reputation, but no more. He is a stolid, unimaginative man. I don’t think he has even commanded an Army on manœuvres, and he was only a junior member of the War Council.”

  “I’ll tell you. He got the job because he is a bone-head who couldn’t do any harm to anyone. He’s never mixed himself up in politics. For three years he held his post under four Governments without upsettin’ anybody. And he has no religious views, so they knew that he wouldn’t favour either the Catholics or the Atheists. Naturally, an old plodder like that, with no notions of his own, was easy meat for all the young hot-heads of the French General staff. They are a powerful lot, and call themselves the Young Turks. God knows why! Anyway, they’re all apostles of the offensive. They persuaded the old fool to scrap General Michel’s plan. Instead, they produced a suicidal document called Plan XVII. Its object was to take advantage of the very temporary superiority in numbers that the French would have in the first stage by launching a million men in an all-out attack at the earliest possible moment.”

  De Richleau’s face fell. “Then the French have frittered away their resources.”

  “Frittered!” repeated Sir Pellinore angrily. “Chucked, would be a better word. Twelve days ago Joffre began destroyin’ his own army as surely as if he were a god with a grouse and a hatchet. Division after division was thrown in like coconuts against an iron Aunt Sally. Those lunatics chose the virtually impregnable fortress of Metz for the central point of their attack. Of course, they were influenced by all this sentimental clap-trap about liberating Alsace-
Lorraine. Instead of exercisin’ a reasonable patience, they’ve gambled their whole country against a chance to run the French flag up in Strasburg. Naturally the artillery in the Hun fortress line bowled them over as though they were ninepins. In five days fightin’ that fat imbecile they call ‘papa’ Joffre caused the slaughter of 300,000 French soldiers; and he hasn’t even got a German town to show for them. That’s why no advantage can be taken of this marvellous news you’ve brought about the transfer of the six Corps to East Prussia.”

  The Duke’s head reeled under the magnitude of the blow. Three hundred thousand men gone in five days. It was one fifth of the whole French Army. At that rate it must either surrender or cease to exist within a fortnight. After a moment he murmured:

  “Could nothing be done to stop this madness?”

  “On the sixth day it stopped itself. The four Armies on the French right were too punch-drunk to take any more punishment. So ‘papa’ Joffre and his Young Turks thought they would launch an offensive in another direction. The two remainin’ French Armies and the British were ordered to close up and attack northward. But they were spread out wafer-thin compared with the great mass of Germans pourin’ down on ’em—and already in full retreat. The only card left lay in a new Army of odds and ends that was being got together by General Maunoury in the neighbourhood of Amiens. That’s the spot where Joffre ought to have had the 300,000 men he’s squandered. He might have rolled up the German flank then. But they were dead, dyin’ or prisoners. And Maunoury’s lot had no chance to get going. They were pushed back with the rest.”

  “Is there no hope left, then?”

  “Hope!” boomed Sir Pellinore suddenly. “Of course there’s hope! Bags of it! War’s only just started. The Ruskies have taken a nasty knock at some place called Tininberg, and the French have made a shockin’ muddle. But this is only the beginning. Britain rules the waves, my boy. The world’s our oyster. We’ve got the men, we’ve got the ships, we’ve got the money, too. The Empire’s capable of putting five million men in the field, and we’ve got the markets of the world to buy supplies in. Britain wins the last battle in every war, and the Kaiser’s a dunderheaded fool to have forgotten it.”

  “I meant, there is little hope now for France.”

  Sir Pellinore considered for a moment, then he rumbled, “There’s one. Paris, with its great ring of forts, is the strongest fortress in the world. Can’t possibly be taken by a straightforward assault—any more than the 800,000 men Joffre threw into his offensive could take Metz. The Huns will have to bring up their siege trains and invest the city. To subdue it will take weeks—if not months. That should give the French Army a breather. They’ll be able to get their Empire troops over; and so shall we. The allies may be able to form a solid front along the Seine—if only Paris holds out.”

  “The Germans may decide to by-pass it. They know their business, and I’m sure their objective is the destruction of the French Army.”

  “True. But if they do, it will mean splittin’ their forces. Von Kluck’s Army, on their extreme right, and probably von Below’s which is next to it, would have to pass west of the city. They’d be entirely cut off from their pals. They’d be very vulnerable to a counter-offensive then—if only the French can still find the troops to make it.”

  The Duke was silent for a moment in his turn, then he said glumly: “All the older people in Paris—the members of the Government and the High Command—remember the horrors of the siege in 1870. They may not be prepared to face starvation and riots again, and a far more terrible bombardment. Instead of holding Paris, they may decide to declare it an open city, and let the Germans walk through.”

  “Ah! That’s the rub! If so, I fear the French goose is cooked. France will be forced to surrender. That will make it a darned long business; and we’ll have to take our Army off. But don’t worry. We’ll go back again. We always do.”

  The butler then arrived to announce lunch, so they went downstairs. Over the meal de Richleau gave his host a more detailed account of some of his doings. Then, after the port, Sir Pellinore said:

  “This afternoon I’ll look in on a few people. Tell ’em about these six Corps of yours. Never say die, eh? Meantime I expect you’d like to get yourself some decent clothes. Better make your headquarters here for the time bein’. I’d be delighted to have you. I’ll be back about six and let you know the form.”

  They went out together and separated in Pall Mall. The Duke walked up to his tailor’s, where he always kept a trunkful of clothes, and soon made himself more presentable. Then he spent an hour or so strolling round the West End.

  There were quite a number of officers and men about in khaki, but otherwise it looked little different from when he had last seen it. After an almost complete stoppage of business, trade had begun to recover, and many of the shops had printed slogans in their windows carrying the words ‘Business as Usual’.

  In a few brief bulletins the public had been informed that the B.E.F. was in contact with the Germans and had inflicted heavy losses upon them; but not one in ten thousand had the vaguest idea what was happening in France, so the well-dressed, well-fed crowds showed no sign of depression. On the contrary, there seemed a new buoyancy and cheerfulness about them. Kitchener, so the Duke learned, had been made War Minister, and no appointment could have given greater confidence to the nation. On every hoarding there were pictures of him with a pointing finger, and the legend under it ‘Your country needs YOU’. He had called for a million volunteers, and from boys of fifteen to elderly men who were dyeing their white hair black in order to be taken, Britons from every city, town and village, and from every country in the world were flocking to the colours.

  In a somewhat more cheerful frame of mind the Duke returned to Carlton House Terrace, but Sir Pellinore did not get back by six o’clock, nor seven, nor eight: so at half past eight de Richleau sat down to a solitary dinner. It was nearly ten before his host joined him, and said abruptly:

  “Sorry to have left you on your own. Had the hell of an afternoon. To start with I couldn’t get hold of anyone I wanted. No good goin’ to little people on a thing like this. Sir Bindon was at a meetin’ of the Committee of Imperial Defence that didn’t break up till five. He’s very grateful to you, and inclined to be optimistic. He says the withdrawal of those six Corps might still make all the difference. But Kitchener poured cold water on me. He’s very under the weather these days, and who can blame him? He confirmed though that, since the 26th, German troop trains have been leavin’ Belgium for the Russian front. The size of the transfer surprised him, and he’ll pass the information on with the latest M.I. reports. But he feels that it’s up to the French, and doubts their ability to do anything. Felt I must let ‘Mr. Marlborough’ know, so I barged in on him at dinner. He took a very different view. He said, ‘Now is the hour! This secret intelligence is the one thing which might stiffen the backs of the French and save the situation. We’ve got to make them dig their toes in’. So you and I are off to France first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What!” exclaimed the Duke.

  Sir Pellinore nodded. “Yes. Unofficial mission, of course. But somebody’s got to talk to ‘papa’ Joffre, and hammer what this means into his thick head.”

  “I quite see that; but I’m afraid that I can’t possibly go with you.”

  “Oh, yes you will!” Sir Pellinore’s chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re the feller who knows the facts. They’re much too down in the mouth to take any notice of mere hearsay. But when they learn that you had it straight from the horse’s mouth—actually heard old von Moltke give the order—they’ll believe it. Then with any luck they’ll get their peckers up.”

  “I see that, too,” replied de Richleau unhappily. “But you have evidently forgotten that I was exiled from France. Directly I tell them my name, they will arrest me.”

  “Oh, no they won’t! They’ll not dare to lay a finger on you. I’ve thought of that snag already. You’re coming with me dres
sed as a British Brigadier-General.”

  De Richleau laughed. “Well! That is quite a promotion from an Austrian Colonel.”

  “I’d give you a higher rank if I didn’t feel that would be overdoin’ it,” grinned the baronet. “But we want to impress these fellers as much as we can. They’ll take a lot from a soldier that they wouldn’t from a civilian. If they think we think enough of you to have made you a Brigadier, they’ll take what you have to say about the stuff you picked up in Germany pretty seriously.”

  “All right, then. I’m taking it for granted that you will protect me from the wrath of the British Army if it hears about this. But what about uniform?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Hundreds of young chaps are being granted temporary commissions overnight now. The shops are full of ready-made tunics and breeches. My man will measure you. Then I’ll telephone Sir Woodman Burbridge. Old friend of mine. He’ll send one of his people down to Harrods before the store opens to-morrow. They’ll get you everything you want up here by nine o’clock. That’ll be plenty of time. We’re leavin’ on the ten-thirty for Dover. Make a list out, and don’t forget to put on it a couple of rows of medal ribbons. The more the merrier!”

  So, at ten-thirty next morning, a very tall grey-haired gentleman with a fine cavalry moustache, and a slim, dark-haired Brigadier-General left Charing Cross. Overnight the Admiralty had made all arrangements for them, so they were met at Dover by a young R.N.R. officer, who took them along the harbour and on board a destroyer that was acting as a fast ferry several times a day, to run staff officers to and fro across the channel.

  They landed at Calais well before two; but were held up there for a while, as the Admiralty was short of cars and a special arrangement had to be made for them to be provided with a military car and driver. But by two-thirty they were on their way to Bar le Duc, in the department of the Meuse, where Grand Quartier Général was established.