The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  The rain had stopped, and a few stars were showing through a break in the clouds. They gave just a little light, and owing to his brief sojourn in the boxroom Gregory’s eyes were by now accustomed to the darkness. He could see that he was standing upon a flat portion of the roof about two feet wide, and that it sloped sharply down on either side.

  A tall chimney-stack some fifteen feet away, where the Pastor’s house abutted on the next, showed as a patch of deeper blackness to Gregory’s left, beyond the skylight. Drawing himself up, he steped carefully towards it.

  As he moved there came a sharp challenge from the roof of the neighbouring house: ‘Wie gehts?’

  ‘Fritz,’ he called out quickly; that being the commonest German Christian name that he could think of on the spur of the moment; but the challenge showed him that his position was even more desperate than it had been in the boxroom a few minutes before. The Nazis had posted men on the adjoining roofs, and if they had done that they would certainly have surrounded the whole block also. In a moment the men below would be scrambling up behind him, and he would be caught between two fires. Even if he could break through and reach the street he would find himself faced by the men of the cordon while the others followed in hot pursuit. It seemed that nothing now remained but for him to sell his life dearly.

  ‘Fritz who?’ came the swift question.

  Instead of answering, Gregory asked another question in reply. ‘Where is he? Haven’t you seen him?’

  ‘No!’ shouted the other man.

  ‘Himmel! Are you deaf and blind?’ Gregory cried urgently. ‘He came up out of the skylight less than a minute ago.’

  ‘He’s somewhere on the roof, then. Must be behind you,’ said the German, moving forward and disclosing his position near the chimney-stack.

  Already the sounds of feet below warned Gregory that the Nazis had forced the door of the boxroom and were streaming into it. Another moment and they would be dashing up the ladder. This was no time for scruples; raising his gun he pointed it at the dark shadow by the chimney-stack and fired.

  A gasp was followed by the sound of feet slithering on slates, the fall of a heavy body and then a shriek of fear as the Nazi on the adjoining roof lost his balance and went hurtling over until he pitched off over the gutter.

  One of the men inside the boxroom sent a pot-shot crashing through the skylight. Lowering his weapon and firing blind, Gregory emptied all the bullets left in his automatic down through it, aiming at the spot where he knew the ladder to be, A whimpering moan followed by the thud of someone falling to the floor told him that one of his bullets had found flesh and bone. Before another Nazi could get up the ladder he turned and padded as quickly as he dared across the narrow, level stretch of roof to the point where the man on watch had been standing.

  Halting there in the shadow of the chimney-stack he slipped a spare clip of cartridges into his own gun and pulled from his coat pocket one of those which he had taken from the Nazis at Coblenz. Crouching down and invisible in the darkness he waited, tense with the thrill of battle, for the enemy’s next move.

  Since his pursuers did not lack courage, it soon came. One of them scrambled out on to the roof, then another, then a third. Gregory held his fire, waiting to see whether any more would appear. There was just enough light for him to make them out as they crouched by the skylight, but they could not see him. Once he pressed the triggers of his guns he might never again have the chance of snaring them in so perfect an ambush.

  The Nazis were muttering together. ‘Where is he? Which way did he go?’ ‘Where’s Forster?’ ‘He must have killed him, That shot up here just now.’ Cautiously they stood to peer round and Gregory let them have it.

  Aiming both guns at the centre man he blazed off; then slowly turned both barrels outwards while keeping his fingers pressed down on the triggers. The effect was like that of two machine-guns simultaneously spraying bullets outwards from a central point.

  Cries, a gurgling moan, a curse cut short, penetrated faintly to him through the banging of his automatics. One Nazi crashed headlong through the skylight; another rolled down the slope of the roof and pitched off; the third slumped in a still, silent heap.

  As he ceased fire to ascertain the result of his murderous attack Gregory could not tell whether the third man was dead or shamming. To make certain of him he took careful aim and put another bullet in his body, but he did not even moan. Gregory knew then, with a thrill of satisfaction, that he had scuppered the whole of the party which had broken into the Pastor’s house.

  But his elation was short-lived. As he drew himself upright a single shot cracked out from the roof beyond the skylight. Another Nazi had either been lurking there or had just come up, and had fired at the flash of Gregory’s gun.

  He felt a sharp pain, like the searing of a red-hot iron drawn across his left thigh; staggered, lost his balance and slipped off the narrow, flat portion of the roof.

  With a gasp he realised that he was about to die in the same way as the sentry whom he had shot on that very spot only two minutes earlier.

  His pistols were knocked out of his hands as he fell; one exploded and both clattered loudly as they slithered down the slates beside him. His hands clawed desperately at the empty air. As he rolled towards the gutter he glimpsed the double flash of his enemy’s gun as the man put two more shots into the spot by the chimney-stacks where he had been kneeling; next instant he felt a terrific jolt which nearly drove the breath out of his body. His whirling descent had been brought up short against a gable which broke the outline of the gutter.

  It was a quite small affair, and had he rolled down a single foot further either to the right or to the left he would have slithered round it to crash into the street forty feet below, but as it was it had caught him full in the centre of the spine, so that his head and arms were flung backwards on one side of the ridge and his heavy boots crashed on the slates at its other side.

  For a minute he lay there, bent backwards like a bow; then he cautiously eased himself up, scrabbling on the slates with his hands and feet until he was lying flat on the slope of the roof with his head first and his feet wedged firmly against the gable.

  The man who had shot him must have thought at first that he had fallen into the street, but a minute later would have heard the noise that he had been compelled to make as he hauled himself up into a safer position. Gregory’s fear that this had been so was soon confirmed. He heard the man stealthily approaching along the top of the roof, then saw him vaguely as a moving black blur against the skyline.

  Very gently Gregory withdrew one of his hands from the flat surface of the slates and wriggled his third gun out of his overcoat pocket.

  The man above had paused and was peering down uncertain as to whether Gregory was still there or not, for he could not see him in the blackness.

  Gregory knew that he was temporarily safe while he remained hidden; to shoot would give away his position and would draw the enemy’s fire in reply if his bullet went wide, but as he was a crack shot he decided to risk it. Resting his right hand on his left wrist as it lay on the slates in front of his face he aimed for the black blur above him. Placing his first finger along the side of his pistol, he very slowly squeezed the trigger with his second.

  The flash of his gun stabbed the darkness; there was a loud cry, and the man above suddenly sprang into the air. But Gregory had not foreseen a possible result of his shooting. Next moment the man had pitched forward and came sliding down the roof towards him.

  He had just time to jam his gun back into his pocket before he faced the peril of being swept from his precarious footing and whirled to the street with the wounded German.

  Splaying his legs backwards like a frog round the sides of the gable, he lowered his head and clung to the slates with the flats of his hands. As he did so the German came tumbling, feet first, right on top of him. The both would have gone right over the edge of the roof but for the fact that one of the German’s hands came in con
tact with Gregory’s right shoulder-strap. He grabbed it with all his strength, and though his legs were already well over the gutter on Gregory’s right he succeeded in checking his fall.

  The strain on Gregory was terrific. He was almost dragged over, but his leg-grip saved him, and the weight of the German was lessened almost at once as he managed to support himself by wedging one of his feet in the gutter.

  Gregory turned sideways and lashed out with his fist in the direction in which he believed the man’s head to be, but he missed it and barked his knuckles badly on the slates. The Nazi was still half on top of him, and with a swift wriggle he succeeded in throwing his whole weight on Gregory while he bashed at him with both fists, thus showing that he had been wounded only in the leg or body.

  The fact that Gregory was lying face-downwards saved him from the worst effect of the blows; but, on the other hand, he was unable to get to grips with his enemy.

  The Nazi was a big, heavy fellow who puffed and panted as he strove both to retain his balance and to knock Gregory out. Gregory was more wiry and since his fall had had time to get his breath, so he fought with silent ferocity.

  Hugging each other in a bear-like grip, but not daring to move anything but their hands and arms for fear of falling off the roof, they struggled desperately until Gregory, now lying sideways and half twisted over, managed to get his hands upon the throat of the man above him. His was no amateur strangler’s grip, for he did not press with the flats of his thumbs, but deliberately forced their points into the man’s throat below his chin.

  The wretched Nazi gurgled horribly; the pain must have been excruciating, but he could not scream. His hands loosed their hold on Gregory and began to flap wildly. For a full minute Gregory kept up the pressure, while he could feel the warm blood running over the backs of his hands from the places where his nails had gored the man’s throat. Suddenly the Nazi slumped forward as though his neck had been broken, and Gregory knew that he was now unconscious. With a cautious heave he pitched the body from on top of him, and it disappeared into the blackness.

  For a few seconds he lay there panting. When he could once more take stock of things, he could hear the Nazis in the street below talking round the body of their dead comrade while one of their officers issued fresh orders.

  Easing his position carefully, he tried to haul himself up the steep slope of the roof, but there was not a thing to grip, and he had made hardly a couple of feet headway when he slithered back again to the gable that had proved his salvation. A second attempt met with no more success, and he realised with dismay that it was impossible for him to regain the roof-top.

  But his despair was only momentary, for it soon occurred to him that although he could not get up, there was a chance that he might be able to get down. Wherever there is a small gable breaking the gutter-line of a roof there is nearly always a dormer window below it. This new thought gave him fresh courage, and with the utmost caution he lowered himself round one side of the gable until his legs were dangling over the gutter. Very gingerly he began to feel about with his feet round the angle of the wall below.

  It was difficult to judge what was below him in the darkness and at first he could find nothing with his groping feet. Lowering himself a little he tried again, and this time his foot struck something which gave out a low rumble, like the faint quivering of a drum.

  With a sigh of thankfulness he realised that his luck still held. There was a window below the gable, and the upper half of it was open; he had kicked the lower part with his foot, and it was the glass which had rumbled; but it was going to be a devilishly tricky business to get inside it.

  Just as he was about to make the attempt he caught the sound of fresh footsteps on the roof-top. Another party of Nazis must have come up through the skylight. Fortunately, the only man who had known his exact position was now lying dead in the street below, and providing that he could remain very quiet it might be some time before the new squad would be able to locate him.

  Straining his ears until it felt as though their drums would burst he remained rigid, listening, until the Nazis above him spread out and began a systematic search for him along the roof-top.

  From the sounds they made he could tell that they had split up into two parties and were moving in opposite directions with the intention of beating the roofs until they had cornered him at one of the extremities of the block.

  Directly the group which had moved in his direction had gone past he lowered himself still further, until his whole body was dangling over the roof-edge and supported only by his elbows in the gutter. The houses were old, and the gutter bent under his weight until he feared that it might give way at any moment, and he dared not rest too long upon it. He had to make his attempt quickly or he might go crashing into the street without having made it at all.

  Both his feet were now well inside the open window, but unless he could find some other support for the top half of his body immediately he let go of the gutter he would pitch backwards and descend head-first on to the paving-stones. Reaching down with his right hand, and supporting his weight with his left only, he felt along inside the top of the open window until to his immense relief, the tips of his fingers found a curtain-rail.

  The rod was only a thin one, but he thought that it might bear his weight just long enough for him to gain sufficient impetus to fling himself in through the window. Drawing a deep breath he gripped the curtain-rail firmly, let go of the gutter and launched himself downwards, twisting his body as he did so. The thin rod snapped; for a second he hovered in mid-air, his left hand flung out, his feet kicking wildly. Then he landed with a bump on the wooden window-frame hanging half in and half out of the window. During his drop he had turned in the air so that he was now facing out across the street. With a desperate jerk he pitched himself backwards, banged his head on the upper part of the window-frame and fell in a heap on the floor inside.

  Picking himself up he stepped forward into the darkness like a blind man, with his hands outstretched, until he came in contact with a bed. He did not dare to strike a light as the windows were uncurtained and to have done so would have given away his position, but to his relief the bed was unoccupied and he groped his way along until he found a door.

  Pressing the handle firmly into its socket so that the catch should make no noise he turned it slowly and opened the door a fraction. A dim light filtering up the stairs showed him a landing. There were splashes of blood upon its floor, and next minute he realised that he was back in Pastor Wachmuller’s house.

  The door of the boxroom stood open. One dead Nazi was stretched out inside it; another lay on his face beside him, groaning loudly. At first it seemed to Gregory that he had hardly improved his position. Almost certainly there would be Nazis occupying the hall below and on guard outside the door, as this was the house that they had raided and the centre of their operations. But on second thoughts he decided that even if he had been able to plan his movements he could hardly have done better than to return to the Pastor’s house.

  In all the others there would be civilians who, even if they had gone to bed early that night, would have been roused by all the shooting and excitement in their street. He could hardly have hoped to have got downstairs without one of them seeing him and raising the alarm, whereas here, in the upper part of Wachmuller’s house, he was safe for the moment, at least. While the Nazis were probably already searching the other houses, this was the one place in which it would not occur to them to look for him.

  Having peered over the baluster-rail and seen that there was no one on the landing below, he tiptoed downstairs. The Nazi whom he had shot in the throat had been removed by his comrades, but splashes of blood on the wall showed where the wounded man had collapsed against it. The light was still on in the Pastor’s sitting-room; the door stood open. No sound disturbed the grim silence. Drawing his spare gun again Gregory edged his way round the corner of the door. The Pastor and the dead S.S. officer still lay there just as he had left th
em.

  Returning to the landing he crept down the next flight of stairs. The hall was empty; the heavy, wooden street-door shut. Still that uncanny silence. He wondered what had become of the old housekeeper. Either she was in the semi-basement or the Nazis had carried her off before laying their ambush. He paused for a moment in the stone-flagged hall, listening intently; then, as he still heard no sound, he softly turned the handle of a door on his right and opened it a crack.

  The room was in darkness, but opening the door a little further he saw by the light in the hall that it was the dining room. Slipping inside, he held the door wide open for a second to get his bearings. It was a longish room with three tall windows; the curtains of the farthest window billowed slightly from the draught. Having noted the disposition of the furniture he shut the door behind him and walked slowly forward into the darkness until he touched the table. Feeling his way along to its far end he turned half-left and took three good strides which brought his outstretched hand in contact with the curtains of the farthest window.

  Kneeling down on the floor he returned his one remaining gun to his pistol holster; then very gingerly he parted the curtains a fraction. There was another, thinner, calico curtain behind them, evidently put up for black-out purposes, and he lifted it until his fingers touched the edge of the window-sill. Raising it a little more he peered out into the street.

  At first he could see nothing except two spots of light some way to his left, on the roadway in front of the street door, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he gradually became able to make out the main details of the scene. The spots of light came from two black-out torches specially constructed to shine downwards, which were held by two uniformed men. Two others stood near them, and this group was evidently guarding the entrance to the house.