The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘at the moment I am in Holland, ja?’

  ‘You certainly are,’ agreed the Major, with a half-smile.

  ‘And Holland is a free country, nicht wahr?’ Gregory went on. ‘All through history the Dutch have a record second to none for their humanity and the high value they have set upon the liberty of the individual.’

  ‘Very true; very true indeed.’ The Major sat back and stroked his fine moustache complacently, glowing with righteous pride in the virtues of his native land.

  ‘And now that I am in Holland,’ proceeded Gregory with relentless logic, ‘I claim the protection of the just Dutch laws. I cannot think that such laws prevent even the convicts in your gaols writing to someone in Holland to inquire about their missing relatives, even if they are allowed to use the posts only once a week or once a month. As for me. I have committed no offence except to enter your country without a permit. Provided that I do nothing which is against Dutch law, I cannot believe that the Dutch authorities would wish me to be treated worse than one of their own criminals.’

  ‘I see your point,’ admitted the Major. ‘I certainly see your point.’

  ‘Then, sir, I beg you, as a representative of your great and just nation, to help a poor prisoner to obtain news of his relatives by allowing him to send this letter.’

  Well, well.’ The Major caressed the other side of his moustache. ‘Since you assure me that there’s nothing in it which might make trouble for us, I think we can stretch a point and put it in the post. Naturally you must be anxious to know what the English have done with those of your relations who were caught there by the war. All right, my man, I’ll see to it for you.’

  Fervently thanking the kindly Major, Gregory saluted smartly, and was then led off by his guard. He would have bet a tenner that the sleepy-eyed Captain who had interviewed him two days before would be given the letter and would steam it open before it was finally posted, but this caused him no concern because its sole contents consisted of a formal request that the British Minister at The Hague would endeavour to find out for him what had happened to his half-brother, Otto Mentzendorff, who when last heard of was valet to Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust, 15th Bart., V.C.,G.C.V.O., C.H.

  There was a considerable possibility that the letter would be opened at the Legation by some underling to whom it would convey no more than its ostensible meaning, and would then be put aside to be dealt with later, when the war had settled down and the initial rush of business was over. In that case he would probably have to possess his soul in patience for several weeks until the inquiry finally went through.

  On the other hand, if the letter should happen to reach the Minister or one of the more knowledgeable secretaries of the Legation, Sir Pellinore’s name would be certain to arouse their interest in the first place, while the painstaking enumeration of his full title and all the letters after his name would stimulate their curiosity to a pitch that would ensure prompt action. Anyone of intelligence in the Legation would realise that an ordinary German soldier inquiring for his half-brother in London could hardly be in possession of all these details. He might know that his relative’s employer was a Baronet and a V.C.; it might even be credible that a punctilious valet, proud of his master’s honour; had instructed his soldier half-brother to write to him care of Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust, Bart., V.C., G.C.V.O., C.H., but that ‘15th Bart.’ was a little touch which would be certain to arouse the curiosity of any English reader while hardly likely to receive particular attention from the sleepy-eyed Captain or any other Dutchman who might read the letter.

  Gregory considered that the odds were in favour of his letter to the Legation being forwarded to Sir Pellinore without undue loss of time. When he received it Sir Pellinore might be momentarily surprised to learn that his personal valet was supposed to be a German named Otto, who possessed a half-brother, at present interned in Holland, who was anxious to have news of him. When, however, he noticed that the surname of the aforesaid Otto was Mentzendorff his thoughts would fly at once to his treasured Mentzendorff Kümmel and thence to the lean young man with the scarred face for whom he had broached one of the few remaining bottles on the eve of his departure into war-time Germany.

  Sir Pellinore was not the man to ignore such a communication, especially when it came from Gregory, who knew that he would take instant and effective steps directly he received it. Once he had made a move, Gregory himself could take further measures which would ensure the days of his imprisonment being numbered.

  That night Gregory penned another communication. It would ordinarily have run to about two thousand words, but by employing telegraphese he reduced the wordage to under five hundred and by using almost microscopic writing he got it on to one small piece of thin paper which he rolled up into a spill and tucked carefully away in his pocket.

  Having done all that he could he then settled down to make the best of life in the concentration-camp. It was run on routine lines: reveille at half-past six, first parade seven o’clock, then roll-call, an hour’s fatigues, tidying up cells, breakfast at eight and another parade at nine. During the morning the prisoners were employed on casual labour or building operations which were going on outside in the school grounds. The school itself had ample accommodation for the moderate number of prisoners now interned there, but the Dutch authorities evidently anticipated that this number would be considerably increased as the war progressed, since they were erecting hutments in the grounds and putting up barbed-wire fencing all round the camp.

  At twelve-thirty they lunched, and at two o’clock were set to work again, knocking off for the day at five, after which they were free to amuse themselves in the recreation-room. Supper was at seven-thirty, bed at eight and lights-out at nine.

  Three more deserters soon arrived in the camp, and the feud between the airmen and the deserters increased in bitterness as each item of war news which came through was thoroughly discussed. The Polish armies were still fighting hard but the government had left Warsaw. At five-thirty on Sunday morning, a few hours before Gregory had handed his letter to the Camp Commandant, Russia had launched the Red Army against Poland’s eastern frontier, by then almost denuded of troops.

  The German airmen ‘heiled’ this news with cries of delight. Now Germany would be able to show the world! Russia had come in against the Democracies, and the blockade of the perfidious British was now definitely broken although the war was barely a fortnight old. Russia would supply Germany with wheat, petrol and military assistance.

  Gregory had his own views on the situation, but did not air them. For years Russia had presented an unfathomable mystery from which only one hard fact could be extracted: she was no longer Communist. Stalin and his friends might talk of themselves as Communists, but in actual practice they had been running Russia for a long time now on lines approximating very closely to those of the Nazis in Germany. Gregory did not think that Stalin was particularly anxious to have another workers’ revolution in Germany, since its repercussions might well undermine his own dictatorial powers.

  The wound in his leg made good progress, but on account of it he was excused duty with the other prisoners when they went out on fatigues for the hutment builders. He therefore had plenty of time to yarn with the Dutch camp guards, most of whom spoke a little German and who were mainly elderly, reservist N.C.O.s who had been given jobs as warders.

  Their discipline was firm, but they showed no animosity towards their prisoners; on the contrary, they were even willing to do friendly services for them if approached in a reasonable manner. Gregory had soon established himself with them on an excellent footing, as for one thing he knew all about old soldiers’ ways; their likes, dislikes and customs, which do not vary very much in any army; for another, he had come out of Germany with over four thousand Reichsmarks still on him.

  Without throwing his money about to an extent which would have caused comment he utilised some of it, that one of the N.C.O.s had changed for him into Dutch florins, to purcha
se decent cigarettes, soap and other small luxuries, giving a generous commission to the men who procured them for him. He found too, that one of the guards could speak English, and by a little judicious bribery he persuaded him to listen-in each night to the British broadcasts and bring him a résume of the latest news every day.

  It was on the Thursday morning, just a week after he had left Cologne, that one of them came into the recreation-room where he was sitting to tell him that he was wanted by the Commandant. His poker-face gave nothing away as he followed the man down the corridor, but a sudden, suppressed excitement was gripping him.

  One question only hammered in his brain. Had he been sent for on some routine matter, or had his letter to the British Legation at The Hague fallen into the hands of someone who had got into touch at once with Sir Pellinore?

  15

  A Fantastic Family History

  Gregory’s excitement was caused by the fact that if he had succeeded in getting the Legation to communicate with Sir Pellinore and the astute Baronet had tumbled to it that it was he who had written from the Dutch concentration-camp, it was a fair bet that the British Legation had sent someone to interview him, and in that case it was going to be a very tricky interview indeed.

  Nothing must pass between any visitor from the Legation and himself which might give away to the Dutch that he was not an ordinary German soldier, yet somehow or other he—would have not only to confirm the fact that he was a British Secret Service agent working under Sir Pellinore, but also to pass on the particulars of a plan he had worked out to secure his release from the concentration-camp without contravening the neutrality of the Dutch.

  If the British authorities were not able to arrange for his release it would still be comparatively easy to take matters into his own hands and escape provided he remained where he was, but if he were to slip up during the interview the Dutch would transfer him to a proper prison or a fortress from which his release would be much more difficult to negotiate, while escape would be next to impossible.

  In the Commandant’s office he found the elderly Major, the lazy-eyed Intelligence Captain and a pink-cheeked innocent-looking young man in civilian clothes whose face reminded Gregory vaguely of a turbot. One glance at him was enough to tell Gregory that his clothes had been cut in London, and this opinion was confirmed as the Major said:

  ‘This is Mr. Renshaw, of the British Passport Control Office at The Hague. He has come to see you in reply to your letter about your relatives in England.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I’m sure I’m very grateful,’ replied Gregory with due humility, and the Major went on: ‘As a precautionary measure to guard against your giving Mr. Renshaw any information about conditions inside Germany which might prove of value to the British, Captain Bimigen here will remain with you. I hope that you will give him no cause to interrupt your conversation and that you will confine it entirely to the subject of your relatives.’

  Gregory had foreseen just such a situation, and instead of replying he drew himself up on his crutches and saluted smartly as the Major left the room. Captain Bimigen then invited him to sit down, lit a cigarette and strolled off to pretend a deep interest in a large map hanging at the other end of the office.

  Renshaw, who was already seated, started off by saying in stilted but correct German that Gregory’s letter having been passed by the Legation to his department, they had made inquiries in London and it appeared that Otto Mentzendorff had left Sir Pellinore’s service some time ago. He had, however, been traced to No. 272 Gloucester Road.

  From this mention of his own address Gregory knew at once that Sir Pellinore must have spotted his true identity as soon as the Legation had forwarded his inquiry and that the fish-faced young man had been sent to confirm it and to sound him cautiously.

  To clinch the matter Gregory replied at once: ‘Ach, so.’ Otto wrote to me from that address once. It is a lodging-house over a grocer’s shop, so he said.’

  Renshaw nodded, and went on to explain for the benefit of the listening Captain Bimigen that any reply to Gregory’s inquiry would normally have been sent through the post, but that Otto Mentzendorff, who had registered with the police as an enemy alien on the outbreak of war, had mysteriously disappeared from the Gloucester Road address on the very day after he had received a letter from the Legation notifying him of his half-brother’s inquiry for him.

  The English authorities naturally wished to discover his present whereabouts, if only to make sure that no harm had befallen him, and Renshaw had therefore thought it worth while to take a train from The Hague and to pay Gregory a personal visit in the hope that he could give particulars of other relatives and friends of his half-brother’s through whom the police might be able to trace him.

  This piece of by-play very neatly excused Renshaw’s visiting Gregory upon so trivial a personal matter, and Gregory proceeded to act up to the part which he was now called upon to play. If his half-brother was seeking to evade the police because he had committed some act contrary to British interests, he explained with embarrassed deference, he naturally could not be expected to give any information which might assist them to arrest him. If, on the other hand—as he was sure must be the case—Otto had merely got the wind up like so many other enemy aliens caught by the declaration of war and was trying to get out of the country by some illicit means, it was obvious that the less trouble the police had in tracing him the better his case would be. On the whole, Gregory concluded, he thought it better to give all the information in his power.

  Renshaw agreed that by doing so he could best help his half-brother, and eventually Gregory gave him one or two bogus names and addresses of imaginary people whom the equally mythical Otto had told him were friends of his whom he had met in England.

  While they talked, Gregory glanced from time to time at Captain Bimigen’s back in the hope that he would move a little; he had seen at once that although the Captain appeared to be engrossed with the big map he was actually keeping a sharp eye on a mirror which hung beside it on the wall in which he could keep both Gregory and his visitor under observation.

  Renshaw had also spotted this. Knowing that Gregory would have to communicate with him by some means other than word of mouth if the visit were to serve any useful purpose, he picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and said: ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind writing down those names and addresses for me?’

  Gregory saw that the fish-faced young man was by no means such a fool as he looked, and was giving him an opportunity of passing back any message that he might have with the sheet of paper. He had his little spill all ready in his left hand and was just about to pass it over under cover of the sheet upon which he had written when the wily Captain turned about, strolled slowly towards them, and holding out his hand, said: ‘May I see those addresses, if you please?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Gregory replied, and handed over the sheet on which he had scribbled.

  ‘Hugo Woltat, Kellner, The Queen’s Brasserie, Leicester Square, London; Frau Beamish, Haushalterin, 37 Euston Square, London, W.C.I,’ read out the Captain, and passed the sheet with a polite smile to Renshaw.

  Gregory was now distinctly worried as to how he was to get his message across. The Captain was an opponent worthy of his steel and did not seem to miss many tricks. There was one he might not know, however, and Gregory decided to chance it. After a little more pointless conversation with Renshaw he said: ‘I am most grateful to you, sir, but I don’t think I can tell you anything else,’ and stood up.

  Renshaw rose at the same moment and held out his hand to say good-bye. It was another opportunity, but Gregory did not take it; Captain Bimigen was far too wily a bird not to know that one.

  Instead, as he began to hold out his right hand, which was quite clearly empty, he let his crutch slip on the polished floor, lost his balance and fell sprawling. Both Bimigen and Renshaw immediately came to his assistance, and having managed to fall so that his left shoulder was towards Renshaw he was able to slip
the spill from his left hand into Renshaw’s right as they both helped him to his feet.

  Apologising for his clumsiness, he took leave of Renshaw, thanked the Captain and hobbled out, now extremely satisfied with his morning’s work. It would be some days at least before he could expect his scheme to develop further, but if the plan which he had worked out for his release and described in the message he had slipped to Renshaw were carefully followed, and if Sir Pellinore were to issue extremely careful instructions, he thought that he might with luck be back in England within a week or ten days.

  The following day the doctor declared his wound to be sufficiently healed for him to abandon his crutches and he was put on light duty, which consisted mainly of sweeping various rooms and helping to wash up the crockery used by the prisoners at their meals.

  The friendly guards continued to supply him with small comforts and all available news. He felt a touch of personal loss when he heard of the sinking of the poor old Courageous. since he had witnessed the Coronation Review at Spithead from her as the guest of one of her officers, but it was with cynical amusement that he learned of the Russian penetration into Poland and its unexpected depth.

  By the end of the week both the Russians and the Germans were approaching Lvov and Gregory had little doubt in his mind as to who would get it. Climinty Voroshilov, the Russian ex-workman who had risen to be Commissar of Defence, was commanding the Russian armies in person, and Gregory remembered the course of events in the Russo-Polish War of 1920. The main Russian army having broken, Voroshilov had had to call off his Cossacks when they had been within six miles of the town. That bitter disappointment of nineteen years ago would make him all the more determined to take it now.

  As Gregory had anticipated, the French, despite their cheerful communiques, had been brought to a standstill. Flesh and blood could not stand up to the concentrated artillery and machine-gun fire that the Germans were able to bring to bear upon them now that they were actually facing the Siegfried Line, and the comparatively short length of the battle zone made it possible for the Germans to concentrate there a mass of artillery greater than any that had ever before been used on so narrow a front. The French could sit tight for years if need be whereas the Germans would have to attempt a breakthrough in some direction or be gradually starved out. All things considered the war wasn’t going too badly and some of the Nazi leaders must already be beginning to wrap wet towels round their heads.