The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  The appearance of a General created quite a stir among the women and boys who were working there, and an elderly hunchback shuffled forward to ask the Herr General’s pleasure.

  It appeared that Herr Julius was making an inspection of some of his local vineyards that morning, as the vintaging was now very near and was, in fact, expected to start the following week. Introducing himself as Klein, the hunchback immediately offered his services as guide upon Gregory’s saying that he wished to see Herr Rheinhardt as soon as possible, and they went out to the car together.

  Beyond Traben the slope of the hill rose gently, being almost surrounded by a bend of the river, and the whole of it was covered with tall vines, differing from the low, French variety in that each was trained up a five-foot stake.

  The car bucketed up a bumpy track until the hunchback called a halt and, getting out, clambered on to a low, stone wall from where he could get a view over the surrounding vineyards. Gregory followed, and climbed up beside him.

  ‘Ha! There is Herr Julius,’ exclaimed the little man, pointing. ‘You can just see the top of his hat.’ He was about to shout, but Gregory stopped him.

  ‘One moment. It is no distance; I will walk through the vineyards to him. You are to remain here. Go back and sit in the car.’

  Herr Klein obeyed without a murmur, and Gregory slipped down from the wall into the vineyard and went forward between two rows of tall vines.

  It was intensely hot in the vineyard; much hotter than up on the open road, owing to the slate which was scattered all over the ground to catch the sun’s heat and reflect it up on to the bunches of grapes below the leaves so that they should ripen properly. After he had covered a hundred yards Gregory took off his cap to mop his bald, perspiring head and began to peer about among the vines for Herr Rheinhardt. As he moved the state clinked beneath his heavy boots, so he began to tread cautiously, making as little noise as possible. Advancing a little further he caught the sound of Herr Rheinhardt’s tread and a moment later saw a heavy, elderly man approaching down an adjacent lane between the vines, stopping here and there to examine a bunch of grapes with a professional eye.

  Gregory drew back a little putting another vine between himself and the winegrower. He had no introduction or credentials and it was absolutely essential that Herr Rheinhardt should be made to talk. He knew that in disclosing himself he ran a grave risk that Herr Rheinhardt might believe that he was being led into a trap, and would therefore promptly hand his unusual visitor over to the police in order to protect himself.

  It was for this reason that Gregory had decided to tackle him while he was out here alone rather than wait until they had got back to the town, since should Rheinhardt react unfavourably the fact that he was out in the country would at least assure him of a flying start. Everything, he felt, hung upon Herr Rheinhardt’s first reactions, so he had made up his mind to startle him out of his wits and take the consequences.

  When the portly German had approached to within a couple of yards of him he said distinctly in English: ‘You may vintage this crop, Herr Rheinhardt, but do you think you will live to drink the wine you make from it?’

  He waited, holding his breath, to see what the reply would be.

  7

  Within Sound of the Guns

  ‘Himmel!’ The stout man swung round as though he had been shot.

  ‘Wer ist das?’ he added, peering anxiously between the vines, and Gregory caught the glint of sunlight on his thick-lensed spectacles. Swiftly he followed up his advantage, speaking still in English.

  ‘Someone who could put you in a Nazi concentration camp tonight and have you shot tomorrow if he were not a friend, Herr Rheinhardt.’

  ‘Wer ist das? Wer ist das?’ Brushing the vines swiftly aside with his thick, podgy hands the winegrower stumbled forward. His mouth was hanging open and his fat, pleasant face was contorted by acute fear.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, my friend,’ said Gregory, reverting to excellent German. ‘No harm is coming to you. I have sought you out only to obtain information regarding your end of the movement in which we are both interested.’

  ‘What movement? I know of none,’ Rheinhardt stammered, deferentially removing his hat as he caught sight of Gregory’s badges of rank. ‘Anyone will tell you, Herr General, that I am a good German. I concern myself solely with my wine business and have no interest in politics.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that,’ Gregory replied with a cynical half-smile. ‘All the same, you and I are going to have a chat together.’

  ‘At your service. But may I know to whom I have the honour of addressing?’

  Gregory clicked his heels together and bowed sharply from the waist. ‘Franz von Lettow, General of Engineers,’ he rapped out formally.

  ‘Why, then, did you address me just now in English?’ asked the winegrower.

  ‘I used English with the idea of letting you know at once that my business does not concern ordinary military matters.’

  ‘It is not good to talk English any more.’

  ‘You regret that?’

  ‘England is the best market for my wines, Herr General. Nearly half my business is done there and I have English friends of many years’ standing. I am no less loyal a German because I tell you that I know the English much too well to believe that they deliberately plotted the encirclement of Germany with the object of destroying the German people.’

  Gregory decided that Herr Rheinhardt was not such a fool as he looked. He was at all events astute enough to express sentiments natural to one in his position instead of spouting a lot of nonsense about the British plot to strangle Germany. After a moment he said:

  ‘I, too, know the English well. At heart they, like ourselves, are easy-going, home-loving people; slow to anger but bitter and tenacious enemies once they are aroused. I fought against them in the last war.’

  Herr Rheinhardt nodded, evidently unwilling to commit himself further. But seeing that Gregory remained silent, he asked: ‘If it was not upon some matter of supplies or billeting that you wished to see me, may I inquire the object of your visit, Herr General?’

  ‘I was given your name,’ replied Gregory, ‘by a mutual friend who must remain anonymous. I have reason to believe that you and I have the same ideas about this war; unorthodox views, but of great importance to Germany. It is essential, therefore, that we go somewhere where we can have a quiet talk. Afterwards you can let it be known that I came to requisition certain stocks of wine. If that were my real object in visiting you we should naturally return to your office, so it is best that we do not stay chatting here for any length of time.’

  ‘The Herr General is mistaken,’ said Herr Rheinhardt mildly. ‘I have no opinions on the war, orthodox or otherwise. I shall do my duty as a loyal German. Now that the die is cast there is nothing else that any of us can do, however much we may have hoped in the past that peace would be maintained.’

  Gregory saw that having failed to fluster the winegrower into any incriminating admission, he was now up against a blank wall. The man would certainly not talk unless credentials of some kind could be presented to him, and there was only one rather doubtful card left to play.

  From an inside pocket Gregory took out the small, golden, reversed swastika which had once graced the lingerie of Erika von Epp, and holding it cupped in the palm of his hand he silently displayed it to Herr Rheinhardt’s view.

  For a moment not a muscle of the German’s heavy face moved as he stared down at the little golden charm. Then, to Gregory’s infinite relief, he said: ‘The symbol of peace opens all doors among the right-thinking.’

  Gregory held his breath, and his momentary relief vanished as he wondered desperately whether the German’s murmured phrase was some kind of password to which he was expected to supply the countersign. If so he was again at a dead end; worse, the winegrower would know him for an impostor and, believing him to be a member of the Inner Gestapo, would warn all his friends against him, which would make his task n
ext to impossible. But Herr Rheinhardt went on quietly:

  ‘If you will lunch at my house we shall be undisturbed. In the meantime we had better talk about my stocks of wine to create the impression among my people that you are here for the purpose of commandeering some of them.’

  Gregory’s face showed no trace of his intense elation. He merely nodded and fell into step with the German, who had already turned and was walking towards the road, separated from him by a row of tall vines.

  Fräulein Schultz and the hunchback were waiting in the car. Herr Rheinhardt introduced the latter as his chief clerk, and as the car rattled down the hill the three of them talked of stocks, prices and vintages.

  When they drew up in the courtyard of Herr Rheinhardt’s house Gregory told Fräulein Schultz that she had better get herself some luncheon at the Hotel Clausfiest nearby and that she was to remain there until he sent for her. Having thanked him gratefully for the five-mark note which he handed to her she hurried away, while Gregory followed his host into the private portion of the house and Herr Klein was sent to fetch the stockbook to give cover to their deliberations.

  While Rheinhardt ordered luncheon Gregory sat in a low-roofed parlour, mainly furnished with heavy, old-fashioned pieces dating from the eighteenth century. The room had no carpet or parquet, but its board floor was polished like a mirror and everything in it was spotlessly clean.

  A copy of that morning’s Kölnische Zeitung lay on a side table, and he filled in the time by reading the latest news of the war.

  The Germans had now announced the fact that French troops were fighting on German soil. They could hardly have done less, as the evacuees from the Saar Basin would now be spreading the news all through the Rhineland, but the official statement made light of it, pointing out that the French had penetrated only the no-man’s-land between the Maginot Line and the Western Wall, which could be regarded as virtually neutral territory. It was stated with the utmost confidence that they would stand no chance whatever of advancing further once they had come up against the major defences embodied in the Siegfried Line.

  Gregory felt that the Germans were right about that. In the last war it had proved impossible to break the German trench systems without immense loss of life, and, even then, the blood-baths of the Somme and Passchendaele had resulted merely in the formation of salients which had no strategic value whatsoever as far as the speedier conclusion of the war was concerned. With the enormous superiority which modern weapons gave to defence over attack he estimated that it would need an advantage of five to one in man-power if the French were to force even a small sector of the Seigfried Line, and he hoped with all his heart that the Allied Generals were not going to repeat once again the crazy, tragic sacrifice of their men for gains of so little value.

  The major portion of the war news was devoted to the Polish Front, and while the official communiqués blared out a paean of triumph about Germany’s successes in the East they issued a warning that the people must not expect the Army to continue its advance at the speed which it had been making during the past few days.

  Gregory’s mouth twisted in a cynical grin as he read. As an old soldier he knew how necessary that warning was. In some cases the Germans had advanced 200 miles in ten days, a wonderful performance. But the fighting units must now be far in advance of their railheads. He had seen the great German drive for Paris in March 1918, when the British and French fronts were broken, peter out from just the same cause. After ten days’ desperate fighting the Germans had been forced to halt, although there were hardly any Allied troops left in that sector of the attack to stem them. They had covered only forty miles in that time, but even so reinforcements had been able gradually to consolidate the new Allied Line and the last great German war effort had failed in its objective.

  The Poles were great fighters. In 1920 they had been forced back on Warsaw but had turned there and had held and broken the vast Bolshevik army which was then sweeping down into Europe. Now they had once more been forced back to their capital, but there seemed a good chance that in spite of the tremendous odds against them they would be able to hang on until the rains came and Poland was turned into a sea of mud which would put the German mechanised divisions out of action for the winter.

  Gregory’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of Klein with the stock-book. A few minutes later Herr Rheinhardt joined them, after which Gregory and his host devoted three-quarters of an hour to listing wines suitable for the German Army canteens; a solemn pantomime enacted solely for Klein’s benefit. They were just concluding the business when a plump servant-girl, in a tight-waisted bodice and with numerous petticoats ballooning over her large hips, came in to say that Mittagessen was ready on the terrace. The hunchback bowed himself out backwards and Rheinhardt led Gregory through a pair of French windows on to a terrace overlooking the river and shaded from the midday sun by espaliered vines.

  The first course consisted of delicious, freshly-caught Moselle trout, while on a side-table stood a big, glass bowl of peach Bola made of sparkling and still wine mixed and peaches which had been forked so that the wine should draw out their flavour.

  For a while Gregory almost forgot the strange circumstances which had led to his receiving the winegrower’s hospitality as he gave himself up to enjoying the simple perfection of such a meal in such a setting.

  Now that the middle hour of the day had come, the loading of the barges below them had ceased, and there was not a soul to be seen either on the river or on the towpath opposite, along which ran the half-mile of gabled houses that composed the waterfront of Trabach. The river was about as broad as the Thames at Richmond, but there were no craft upon it other than the moored barges and it flowed unbroken, a swift but not dangerous torrent, under the bridge further downstream and on to the Rhine. Beyond it and the houses on the other bank a valley broke the contour of the wooded hills and led up into the forests of the Hunsrück, where wild boar and deer could still be hunted, but except at that point the great curve of the river was encircled by an unbroken range of hills, on the highest crest of which, above the town, the ruined castle stood out clearly against the skyline.

  As is the case with so many of these small towns, cut off from the important centres of population by mountains and forests, both the town itself and the mode of life of its inhabitants could have altered very little in essentials, Gregory mused, since some robber Baron had lived in the castle and levied toll upon the passing merchants, who used the river as a highway for their goods long before the roads were made.

  When he went to war the robber Baron would have exercised his feudal right to take the young men of the township with him, and despite their absence life would have gone on just the same; but until a few centuries ago, when the Germans began to sell themselves as mercenaries to fight for any ambitious European King who would pay them, such wars were rarely more than local affairs.

  His mind still wandering down the vistas of history, it occurred to him that the Germans had always liked fighting, and still did, for that matter. Long after the youth of other nations had come to regard war as a terrible business to be entered into only under the dire necessity of protecting their countries and the things they loved, the young men of Germany were still brought up to believe that they should gladly give their lives on any battlefield to which they might be ordered.

  At their head today another robber Baron had arisen, but one who was not content to call only the young men to his standard. As Gregory gazed down at the peaceful river scene he knew that not a single house in the little town could escape paying forfeit for the Führer’s mad gamble with Germany’s destiny. Every man up to the age of forty had already been called up, soon other classes would be called until not a man remained, apart from the hopelessly unfit, under the age of fifty-five. Fathers and even grandfathers, as well as sons, would be dragged from their homes. Daughters would be pressed into women’s units. The produce of the vines would be taken for the Armies, and a grim winter on the mo
st meagre of rations would lie before those who were left.

  Herr Rheinhardt must have sensed the trend of Gregory’s thoughts, for he said: ‘I am afraid for the Fatherland. Men in your position and mine know that Germany has not the same powers of resistance as in 1914.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘Then, we at least started as a well-fed nation, and every man above the age of twenty had done his full period in the Army. Now, on the other hand, there is this appalling gap between old soldiers like myself and the young men who have been embodied in the army since Hitler decided on its expansion. Those who reached conscription age between 1919 and 1934 represent a very high percentage of Germany’s manhood yet, with comparatively few exceptions, they have had only a few weeks’ military service.’

  ‘Wirklich! Also, we then had our colonies, each of which distracted the enemy from his main effort during the early years of the war. Together, they succeeded in occupying great numbers of the enemy’s overseas troops, whereas now the whole weight of the French and British Empires can be thrown without hindrance against Germany herself.’

  ‘Unless Russia comes in with us,’ Gregory replied. ‘I can see no possible hope of victory.’

  Herr Rheinhardt shook his head despondently. ‘Russia would want her pound of flesh, and what good would her help do us if we had to go Communist? Our last state would be worse than our first.’

  Gregory gave a disillusioned laugh. ‘And to think that both the Army and industrialists like yourself gave Hitler their support because he promised to save us from the menace of Communism!’

  Herr Rheinhardt shrugged. ‘What are his promises worth? Those of us who have been in a position to travel in neutral countries and read a free, unbiased Press know that he has broken every promise that he has ever made. Yet, surrounded as he is by all the gangsters and criminals of the whole country, who spy upon everyone and everything, it will be no easy matter now to save Germany from him.’