The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  It was on the following Monday, September 25th, that Gregory was again sent for to the Commandant’s office. The Major greeted him kindly, saying in halting English:

  ‘Why did you not tell me at once that you were an Englishman?’

  Gregory, delighted to find that his plan had begun to develop, looked with pretended uneasiness at his feet. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘you see, I am a German in a way, but that gentleman from the German Legation who came to see me the first day I was here put the wind up me. He said that if Germany won the war they’d take me back there and have me shot, so I thought I’d better get in touch with my half-brother, Otto Mentzendorff, in London, so that he could get me made British again.’

  ‘What is this?’ asked the puzzled Major. ‘You say you are a German in a way, but your half-brother can have you made British again? Explain, please!’

  ‘It’s like this, sir. My mother is a German and I did my military service in Germany, and I’ve lived there all my life although I was born in England of a British father. I’m afraid it’s a bit complicated to explain really, but my mother is the widow of a German customs official and all she has to live on is her pension; so if I’d disclosed the fact that I was British by birth and didn’t want to fight when I was called up they’d have put me in a concentration-camp and stopped her pension, which would have meant that she’d have starved.’

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ the Major cried, breaking into German. ‘First you tell me that your father was British, then that he was a German customs official. That does not make sense.’

  ‘But, please, sir, my poor mother was not married to my real father. Soon after I was born she met Herr Heckt, of the German Customs Service. when he was holidaying in England, and married him. To hide the fact that she had an illegitimate child Herr Heckt got himself transferred from Herbensthal to Bremen before he sent for her to return and settle down with him in her native Germany. I was brought up as his son, Johannes Heckt. That’s why I did my military service in Germany.’

  ‘But—but if your mother is German and you are illegitimate, the fact that your father was English does not make you British.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but it does. If my mother had registered my birth with a German Consul in England I’d have been German in spite of being born in England, but she didn’t. On the contrary, she registered me as British with the British Consul in Bremen, when she went to live there, so I am quite definitely British.’

  ‘Then surely the German authorities must have known of your British origin when you were called up to do your military training in the first place? Everyone living in Germany must have either a carte d’identité or a foreign passport. You couldn’t have had both.’

  ‘I’m afraid I had, sir,’ said Gregory meekly. ‘As I’ve said, the whole thing is most horribly complicated. You see, my mother originally registered me as British in Bremen because she didn’t want me to have to serve in the German Army, but after Herr Heckt’s death she moved to Düsseldorf, and it was there that I was called up. We’re only poor people and we didn’t want to get into trouble with the authorities, so when they told me that I must do my time in the Army I thought it better not to argue about it, particularly as there was then no prospect of a war and I expected to live in Germany like a German for the rest of my days.’

  The Major tugged at his white moustache in half-irritated bewilderment. ‘I still do not see,’ he protested, ‘how you have managed to retain your British nationality or can claim it now?’

  ‘I fixed it up three months ago, sir, through my half-brother, Otto Mentzendorff. He was in Germany then, visiting us, and I gave him my birth certificate and the papers from the British Consul in Bremen. He took them back to England with him and got them stamped at Somerset House just as a precaution When the war came and I was called up I rejoined my regiment so that the German Government should continue to pay my mother’s pension, but I didn’t want to fight and thought that if I deserted I would only be posted as missing. I had already fixed up with my half-brother that if I should ever need to claim my British nationality I’d put through an inquiry for him; then he’d know just what to do. When I was first interned here I had no idea of putting the plan into action as I was quite content to stay quietly in Holland for the duration of the war, but as I told you, the visit of the gentleman from the German Legation made me change my mind. Otto knew what I wanted when the inquiry which you so very kindly posted for me got through to the British Legation at The Hague and they passed it on to him through official channels. He was to show my papers to the British authorities and ask them to give me their protection and claim me as one of their nationals. He must have done so. if this is what has happened.’

  ‘I see. But this half-brother of yours, Otto Mentzendorff, Is being sought by the English police as an enemy alien. Is that not so?’

  Gregory assumed a worried air as he replied: ‘So Mr. Renshaw informed me, and I can’t understand it. He must have become afraid, as Mr. Renshaw suggested, and have posted off my papers to the authorities after he had disappeared and before he had had a chance to leave the country. I’m afraid it may make things difficult for me in England.’

  The kindly Major was by now entirely out of his depth. ‘But—but,’ he stuttered, ‘this relationship is beyond me. Your mother was German. Your father—your real father—was English. Herr Heckt was a German. Yet this half-brother of yours who is trying to leave England has a Russian name! Please explain to me how this can be.’

  Gregory hung his head partly in assumed embarrassment and partly to conceal any signs of amusement which might be visible on his face despite his iron self-control. ‘It is painful, sir, but if you insist—it was like this. Before my poor mother met the Englishman who was my father there was a very handsome violinist who played in the orchestra of an hotel where my mother worked for a time. His name was Mentzendorff, and he was not Russian but of German nationality. They loved. Otto, my half-brother, was born. When my mother met Herr Heckt, Otto was already four years old, and she did not dare to admit his existence. My own father was paying her a weekly sum under the English Courts, and this she made over to an English couple who brought Otto up. When Herr Heckt died Otto and I were both grown men, and because my mother so often spoke of her longing to see Otto again I traced him through his foster-parents and he came over to Germany often to see us. His birth was registered with the German Consul in London.’

  The Major had become as embarrassed during this recital as Gregory had pretended to be, and was obviously relieved now that it had ended.

  ‘Well! Well!’ he exclaimed with good-natured gruffness. ‘You certainly have a most extraordinary family history—but there it is.’ He shrugged expressively. ‘In any case, I understand that the British have allowed your claim, and that’s their affair. Naturally we can’t release you as you arrived in Holland without proper papers. but the authorities have acceded to the British Legation’s request that you should be transferred to the British concentration-camp so that you may spend the duration of the war in company with those whom I suppose you prefer to regard as your own countrymen.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Gregory, ‘very kind indeed, sir.’

  ‘All right. You are to be transferred under guard this evening. The camp for British nationals is at Groningen, and you will leave on the six o’clock train tonight. You may go now.’

  Well pleased with the fantastic bit of muddled history with which he had bemused the Major Gregory withdrew to pack the few belongings that he had acquired during the ten days he had spent in the camp. At half-past five he was sent for again and handed over to a middle-aged Dutch Corporal named Jan Loon, a stroke of luck which he had not anticipated, for it was Jan Loon who spoke fairly good English and who, for a modest recompense, had daily brought him résumés of the British news bulletins.

  The Corporal led him out to a waiting car with a military chauffeur and as they drove into the town Gregory informed the good Jan Loon of the reason for his
transfer to Groningen and the curious circumstances which had resulted in his becoming a German soldier although British by birth.

  Jan Loon said how sorry he was to lose so amiable a prisoner but took occasion to warn him that, good friends though they were, he must not try any tricks on the journey. Corporal Loon had his duty to do. He stated emphatically that he should not hesitate to report any attempt to escape, and said that any such report would certainly result in Gregory’s being confined to cells when they got to the end of their journey instead of more comfortable quarters with the same good treatment as he had received at the camp at Nijmegen.

  Gregory laughed heartily at the very suggestion that he might have harboured, even for a second, so absurd an idea as that of trying to escape from the Corporal’s custody. He pointed out that since he was still wearing the uniform of a German soldier he would not be able to get a hundred yards on his own without being caught by the police. In any case he had nowhere to which he could escape; although he himself had succeeded in getting out of Germany all his family still lived there with the exception of Otto Mentzendorff, and he had disappeared. No, no; he was quite content to remain a prisoner in the hands of the kind Dutch people for the duration of the war.

  Jan Loon was just congratulating him on his good sense as they pulled up in the station yard. Bidding the driver good night they left the car, and in the main booking-hall the Corporal produced a travelling-permit which he had stamped at the R.T.O.’s office while Gregory stood by, keeping a cautious but anxious eye upon the crowd that surged about him.

  His anxiety was justified, for if any hitch were to occur during the next ten minutes of his secret programme the whole of his carefully-laid plan would be ruined. It was with immense delight, therefore, that he heard a hearty voice exclaim just behind him:

  ‘Why, if it ain’t Mister ’Eckt!’

  Swinging round, he had barely time to flash a smile of welcome to his old friend Rudd before the Corporal glanced towards them.

  ‘Why, hullo, Rudd!’ Gregory extended his hand. ‘Fancy meeting you like this after all these years! It looks as though you’ve prospered.’

  Rudd’s was indeed a transformed figure. He was wearing one of Gregory’s smart, blue lounge suits with a Sulka tie, Beale and Inman shirt, Scott hat and Lobb shoes—all from Gregory’s wardrobe. True, his borrowed plumage did not fit him at all perfectly, but its quality and texture denoted the rich Englishman at a glance.

  Turning to Jan Loon, Gregory cried gaily: ‘Here’s coincidence! Corporal, shake hands with an old friend of mine. Mr. Rudd and I used to work together in the same business when I was in England ten years ago.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rudd grinned. “Err ’Eckt. ’ere was my boss, and a blinkin’ good boss, too, even if’e is a Jerry, if you’ll pardon the expression,’

  ‘Pleased to meet. But it is not so’, said Jan Loon solemnly. ‘Now, today, they prove him Englishman.’

  ‘Cor! Is that a fact?’ Rudd’s blue eyes opened wide. ‘Then wot’s ’e doin’ all togged up in a Jerry’s uniform? Fer that matter wot’s he doin’ ’ere in ’Olland at all?’

  ‘I’m really half-and-half,’ Gregory explained. ‘Born British, but lived most of my life in Germany. My sympathies have always been with Britain though, so I’m being transferred to the camp for British prisoners at Groningen.’

  ‘My! Now fancy that! Come ter think of it, I seem ter remember yer sayin’ somethin’ in the old days abaht yer ’avin’ English relations.’

  ‘Are you still with the old firm?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘No fear. Got aht in 1931. Uncle o’ mine left me a bit of dough, so I starts on me own. I ain’t done so bad, neither. There’s good profits fer a bloke wot knows the ropes, if you only ’as the cash ter run yer own ahtfit. ’Ere—wot trine you goin’ by?’

  ‘We haf the eighteen hours train to take for Arnhem, and to make changes there,’ supplied Jan Loon.

  ‘That’s my trine, too,’ said Rudd. ‘Look ’ere! We’ve got ten minutes; wot abaht the three of us ’avin’ a quick one?’

  ‘Understand not,’ said the Corporal.

  ‘A drink, yer know; drop o’ the pig’s ear, or somefin’.’

  ‘I’d like to, for old times’ sake,’ said Gregory, ‘that is, if Corporal Loon has no objection to joining us in a beer?’

  ‘Beer!’ repeated Jan Loon. ‘You like Dutch beer? Me, I like very much, but it makes me to grow fat. And the fatter as I get, the more beer I drinks.’ He laughed happily, and slapped his well-developed tummy.

  The three of them went into the station buffet and sank three large lagers while Gregory and Rudd exchanged entirely fictitious reminiscences of an imaginary period during which they had been business associates. As they came out on to the platform a porter touched his cap to Rudd and indicated a first class smoker into which he had put his luggage. Jan Loon made to move further down the train, but Rudd quickly intervened.

  ‘Where are you a-goin’ of? Can’t we all travel together, friendly-like?’

  The Corporal produced his voucher. ‘For me and my prisoner. We haf in the derde klasse to travel.’

  ‘Wot?’ exclaimed Rudd indignantly. ‘On them narsty, ’ard little wooden seats? Not this time, you ain’t. You’re comin’ in with me, an’ I’ll pay the difference.’

  ‘That’s really very sporting of you,’ said Gregory.

  ‘Not a bit of it, Mister ’Eckt; not a bit of it. You done me many a good turn when we was workin’ for the old firm together, and it must come double ’ard on a gentleman like you, not only bein’ a prisoner, but missin’ all ’is little comforts inter the bargain.’ With an imperious wave which had all Gregory’s admiration, Rudd beckoned up a railway inspector, and producing his wallet took out a sheaf of notes.

  Corporal Loon, whose consent had been taken for granted and who actually had no objection whatever to travelling ‘soft’ if the Englishman was prepared to pay, translated Rudd’s request to the inspector and the surcharge on the voucher was promptly paid over. The Corporal, his prisoner and Rudd then piled into the train. which steamed out of the station a couple of minutes later.

  The journey from Nijmegen to Arnhem was quite a short one, and took only a little over twenty minutes, but by the time they arrived there the three travellers were all talking and laughing together as though they had known each other for years. Rudd’s high spirits were infectious, and although Gregory had sometimes to translate his Cockney witticisms into intelligible English for the benefit of Jan Loon, the rather stolid Dutchman was soon lulled by the cheerful innocence of their conversation into the belief that these two born thugs were simple, kindly people like himself, whose principal grouse against the war was that it might interfere with the continuous supply of good food and good beer.

  It was quite natural that when they got out at Arnhem they should gravitate towards the station buffet. Gregory and Jan Loon had twenty-five minutes to wait for their train, and although Rudd was not going to Groningen, it had already transpired that he was on his way to Zwolle, and would therefore be catching the same connection.

  One beer, two beers, three beers, four beers. A dozen bottles of Holland’s best passed down three thirsty throats, and it was a merry party, provided with supper-hampers and an additional supply of good lager purchased by the generous Mr. Rudd, that tumbled into another first-class carriage on the north-bound train.

  When the ticket-collector appeared, Rudd again paid the excess fares of his companions; then he drew down the blinds of the windows looking on to the corridor while the collector was still standing there, and tipped him lavishly, getting Jan Loon to tell him that they didn’t want their little party spoiled by some old woman or fusty old chap being pushed into their carriage. but that if he cared to send along three pretty girls they’d be obliged.

  They ate their picnic supper in hilarious mood, drinking the health of the King of England and damnation to Herr Hitler; toasts in which all three participated with equal enthusiasm. The
Queen of Holland’s health also had to be drunk, and that of the Dutch Army, represented by the person of Corporal Loon, after which Rudd suggested a bit of a sing-song.

  He was the main contributor with Gregory in full support, while Jan Loon hummed the tunes as well as he could, and solemnly kept time by waving a large, pink right hand. The rousing chorus of ‘We’re going to hang out our washing on the Siegfried Line,’ which Rudd had imported from England, was followed by old favourites such as ‘Pack up your troubles’ and ‘Tipperary’ until they eventually gravitated towards sleepy sentimentality, mooning out the sad strains of ‘Little Sir Echo’ and ‘Roses in Picardy.’

  Having apparently exhausted his repertoire, Rudd declared that he was going to have a bit of a sleep, and putting his beautiful Lobb shoes up on the opposite cushion of the carriage, snuggled himself down in his corner.

  For some little time Corporal Loon had also felt distinctly sleepy. Perhaps the considerable quantity of beer he had drunk was partially accountable for that, but only partially, for Gregory had reckoned on a good Dutch soldier’s being able to sink practically any quantity of beer without either becoming drunk or necessarily going to sleep. Unknown to Corporal Loon, therefore, the entertaining Mr. Rudd had, in accordance with his instructions, slipped a little something into the second glass of beer the Corporal had drunk at Arnhem which would make quite certain of his falling into a harmless slumber before the train was halfway to Groningen.