The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  He was within a yard of the door when Archer, now partially recovered from the blow over his heart, heaved a chair at his legs. It caught him sideways-on; he staggered, clutched wildly at the empty air and went crashing, flat out, in the open doorway.

  Before he could rise Ben swung round and came at him yelling murder. Shooting out a hand Gregory grabbed his ankle, twisted like an eel and brought him down with a thud across his own body. Wriggling from under him he managed to scramble to his knees just as Summers, now up once more, came pounding across the floor with steps that shook the room.

  To fend off Summers’ attack Gregory threw his arms up in front of his face but at that instant it seemed as though a ton of bricks had fallen on the back of his head. Unnoticed by him Comrade Chivers had picked himself up, secured a heavy, round ruler from the desk and slogged him with it on the back of the head.

  For a moment Gregory swayed there on his knees, half-dazed. His arms slipped downwards and Summers hit him in the face. As the blow came from above and was nowhere near his chin it did not knock him out, but it was sufficient to send him sprawling sideways. Before he could do anything to protect himself both the bruisers had flung themselves on top of him.

  Ben, spitting curses from his bleeding mouth, gave him two vicious blows on the side of his face and knee’d him heavily in the ribs, driving the breath from his body. Then, as he twisted there in agony, doubled-up on the floor, the two of them threw him over on his face and secured his hands behind his back with a piece of stout cord, after which they lugged him to his feet and, panting, cursing and perspiring, pushed him into a chair.

  With his head lolling forward on his chest he remained there, half-comatose for the moment. His brain felt as though attached to a large pair of pincers which were constantly opening and shutting, tearing at it every ten seconds as though to pull it out of the back of his skull where he had been hit. His right ear seemed to be twice its normal size from the blow that Summers had landed on it. His nose was bleeding freely from one of the vicious blows he had received while on the floor. His stomach ached intolerably from the effect of his having been winded and he swayed there weak as a rat, incapable of further thought or action.

  As though through a mist he saw that Archer was waving the two thugs away from him; then Archer’s voice came to him as from a great distance.

  ‘I warned you, didn’t I? You asked for it, and you’ve got it. I couldn’t avoid bringing you here, you forced me to.’

  Gregory tried to nod, but his brain seemed to slop forward as though it were loose inside his skull and the pain almost made him cry out. He bore no malice against Archer; it was his own fault that he had landed himself in this wretched mess. He had made the unpardonable mistake of underrating his opponent, and it had been madness even in England, to insist on being taken to such a place as this while unarmed.

  Archer was speaking again. His voice came more clearly now. ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. Now you know about this place what’s to stop your coming down here again with the flatties from the Yard? Our papers were safe here, but we can’t shift all these hundreds of files to a new headquarters without running a big risk of something getting out, and their contents would send a score of our most trusted men to prison for the best years of their lives. That would wreck our organisation and the game you tried to play on me shows that you yourself consider that national interests should be put before those of individuals. Our interests are international, so you’ve got to pay the price for having poked your nose into our affairs. Now we’ve got you we can’t possibly afford to let you go.’

  Gregory slowly raised his head and looked at Archer. So they meant to keep him prisoner somewhere to prevent his having the place raided by Scotland Yard. That would be mighty inconvenient but he couldn’t blame them, and to keep a man prisoner for any length of time is by no means easy. Sir Pellinore knew that he had gone down to see Archer that night, and when he failed to report the Baronet would get the giant organisation of Scotland Yard in motion to trace him. The taximan who had brought him to within a quarter of a mile of this place would be questioned sooner or later, and that would narrow the area of the search. Special Branch men would keep Archer under observation from tomorrow onwards every time he moved out of his own house, so that he would never be able to come down to this place again without giving it away. Gregory knew, too, that even if the police failed to trace him the men who were set to guard him would sooner or later slacken in their vigilance, and he was prepared to back himself to think up some scheme whereby he could escape within a week from any private prison into which they might put him.

  He suddenly noticed that Archer’s face was very white and strained, as though he were about to do something which required enormous effort of will, but upon which he was absolutely determined. Then the Marxist said distinctly:

  ‘We can’t keep you a prisoner here indefinitely, and now you’ve found out where we keep our papers you know too much for us to let you go. The London docks are only just round the corner and we’re going to seed you for a midnight swim.’

  18

  The Rats Get Their Prey

  Slowly the full horror of his situation percolated into Gregory’s still half-dazed mind. Trussed up as he was, he was entirely at the mercy of Archer and the two gorilla-like morons, who were evidently the guardians of the place and would do anything that Archer told them.

  The frightful thing about it was that Archer was being completely logical, and it was evident that the Marxist had made up his mind to murder him immediately he had won his point about being taken to the place where the secret files were kept. That, he saw now, was why Archer had not troubled to try to mislead him about the locality of the place after they had left the taxi; he had already decided that once in the office Gregory must never be allowed to come out again, save for his short journey to the dock-side.

  One of Gregory’s gifts was his capacity for putting himself in other people’s shoes and seeing their points of view. Archer was not an ordinary criminal and it was most unlikely that he had ever before contemplated murdering anyone, but this Marxian organisation of his, consisting as it did of the Reddest of Red Communists, was the one thing for which he lived. He knew quite well that if he were to set Gregory free he could not possibly expect him to refrain from securing the assistance of the police and raiding the place to obtain the data he required about the German Communists, just as quickly as he could. He was wise enough to know also that it was an extremely difficult matter to keep any strong, active, intelligent man prisoner indefinitely. The only course open to him, therefore, was to eliminate Gregory entirely.

  For all that, Gregory could not help feeling that the whole situation was utterly preposterous. The Gestapo might do this sort of thing; you expected it from the Ogpu if you tried to monkey about with the diplomatic secrets of the Kremlin; but damn it all, people did not commit murder for political reasons in Britain!

  ‘You can’t do that!’ he choked out. ‘You can’t! This is England—London!’

  ‘I can, and I mean to,’ said Archer firmly. ‘God knows, it’s a frightful thing to have to soil one’s hands with murder, but there’s no other way out. You know too much to be allowed to live.’

  ‘I don’t know anything yet.’ Gregory made an effort to pull himself together. ‘You never gave me a chance to see any of your files.’

  ‘You know where this place is.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your political activities. Supposing I were to give you a solemn undertaking to forget it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t, or else you’d break it. You said yourself that you were completely unscrupulous in your methods providing you got what you wanted. Not an hour ago you utilised the most filthy blackmail to force my hand.’

  ‘I see,’ Gregory sneered, trying another tack, ‘at least you’ve got the decency to come into the open. It’s not your high political conscience for which you propose to do me in at all; it’s just to save yourself from being f
ound out by your own Party for the crook you are. You’d rather murder me than have it known that you’ve been embezzling the Party funds to keep that gold-digging little bitch, Pearl Wyburn.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Comrade Chivers suddenly.

  ‘The truth,’ snapped Gregory. ‘Fish round in the inside pocket of my coat and you’ll find a very interesting photograph of Comrade Archer and the glamour girl he keeps in a luxury flat in the West End.’ Gregory thought he might be able to save himself yet, if only he could make his captors quarrel.

  ‘It’s a damnable lie’ roared Archer, ‘and the photograph’s a fake.’

  ‘Well, let’s see it, anyway,’ Chivers took a step forward.

  ‘No you don’t!’ Archer quickly barred his path. ‘It’s not fit for any decent man to look at, As I told you on the telephone, this blackguard forced me into bringing him down here, and that’s the way he did it.’

  ‘If there was nothing in this yarn of his, why didn’t you refuse and hand him over to the police?’ asked Chivers sharply.

  ‘Because he’s faked the case so well that it might just hold water, and I wasn’t going to risk a decent girl’s life being wrecked that way. You’ve known me for twenty years, Joe Chivers. D’you trust me or not? Come on! Speak up, now!’

  ‘Sure, Tom; of course I trust you,’ Chivers said apologetically. ‘It’s only your being our treasurer that made me think a bit. The secret payments have been pretty heavy these last two years, and you’re the only one who knows where all the money goes.’

  ‘Now look here,’ Archer turned and faced the smaller man. ‘Pearl Wyburn and the funds are nothing to do with this, I’m prepared to face the Committee any day with full explanations In the meantime we’ve got a Government spy here who’s succeeded in getting to know of these premises. It doesn’t matter how, that’s beside the point. He has it in his power to wreck the whole movement. Do we let him go, or do we take steps to close his mouth for good?’

  Gregory watched the smaller man with acute anxiety and his heart sank as Chivers slowly nodded his head, ‘That’s sense, Tom. The one thing has nothing to do with the other, I’m afraid we’ll have to do him in.’

  ‘Right’, said Archer with sudden decision, ‘The sooner we’re over with it the better, then. We’d best empty his pockets first. and remove any markings from his clothes so that the police won’t find it easy to identify him when they recover his body, Get busy, you two, and strip him.’

  Summers and Ben lugged Gregory to his feet, undid the cords that bound him and began to pull off his clothes. As they were removed they were handed to Archer who put the offending photograph in his breast-pocket, threw the rest of Gregory’s belongings into a drawer and taking each of his garments in turn cut away their name-tabs or laundry-marks with a penknife. Within a few minutes he was standing naked in the middle of the floor with the two thugs still holding him firmly by the arms.

  To enable him to dress again when the tabs had been removed they released him temporarily but stood by, one on either side, ready to knock him out at the first sign of renewed resistance.

  He put on his clothes very slowly so that he might have as much time as possible in which to try to think out some plan by which he could save himself, but cudgel his wits as he would he could think of nothing but a sudden dash for the door, and he knew quite well that if he attempted such a thing the four of them would easily catch him before he could reach it, and that he would only be asking for another beating-up.

  It seemed to him utterly fantastic that he might really be dressing himself for the last time. During his recent trip to Germany and at certain hectic times earlier in his career he had been near death over and over again, but he had generally had some weapon in his hand, while the settings of such escapades—usually some low den in a foreign city—had made the thought of death as the penalty of capture a not unnatural one.

  Now, however, he was in the heart of London, the best-policed city in the world, and on the other side of the law, yet here were two educated Englishmen calmly proposing to murder him with the aid of a couple of animal-like bullies because his activities had threatened their political organisation.

  As he pulled on his coat a mood of utter desperation seized him. It was now or never, since once his hands had been tied again they would not be freed until the cords were cut in the mortuary after his body had been dragged from the river. He stooped to tie the laces of his shoes; then, as he stood upright, he twisted suddenly and jabbed his fist into the face of Ben, who was standing just behind him.

  As Ben staggered back Gregory dived for the door, but instantly all four of them were on him. Before he had covered a couple of yards he crashed to the floor with Summers on his back, the tough’s weight driving the breath out of his body. Ben kicked him revengefully in the ribs; then he was held down on the floor while his wrists and ankles were once more tied.

  Pulling him upright, Summers produced a grimy silk handkerchief from his pocket. Grabbing Gregory’s nose he forced him to open his mouth, into which he thrust the handkerchief so that he could no longer make any sound but a low, incoherent gurgle.

  ‘Quite certain you want us to put ’im in, Mister?’ Summers asked Archer suddenly.

  ‘Yes; he’s got to go. Better take him through the warehouse and push him off the steps of the wharf,’ Archer replied.

  ‘Orl right, Boss,’ said Ben, ‘but it’s murder, yer know.’

  ‘The two of you have committed one murder already,’ said Archer coldly, ‘and rather than have us hand you over to the police you preferred to take this job and agree to do everything that you were told without question.’

  ‘Still, this ain’t quite the same as doing watch-dog ’ere an’ sloggin’ some of them blarsted Fascists on the ’ead when ordered,’ Summers protested.

  A new hope began to flicker in Gregory’s breast, but it was extinguished as soon as Archer spoke again.

  ‘It’s your lives or his,’ he said, ’so you’d better make up your minds which it’s to be. I expect Comrade Chivers has already told you that we’re going to give you a bonus of a hundred pounds apiece to ease your consciences about this night’s unpleasant work.’

  ‘O.K., Guv’nor,’ Ben nodded, ‘but let’s see the ’undred.’

  Chivers walked over to a safe, unlocked it and took out some bundles of one pound and ten-shilling notes from which he proceeded to count off two stacks of fifty pounds each.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing the money to the two men. ‘Fifty pounds apiece, and there’ll be another fifty for each of you when you get back here.’

  Summers and Ben stuffed the bundles of notes into their pockets; then Summers said: ’We’ll be back ’ere orl right, under ten minutes, but I reckon Mr. Archer ’ad better come along wiv us.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Archer, going a shade paler.

  ‘’Case we’re caught,’ replied Summers. ‘If a couple rozzers ’appened along we’d be ’ad fer murder, wouldn’t we? You’d swear you’d never seen us an get orf scot-free. This ’ere’s your job, not ours, so you gotter take the risk wiv us. That’s fair, ain’t it?’

  ‘All right,’ Archer agreed. ‘It’s pretty unlikely that there’ll be any police about down here at this time of night, but I’ll come if you wish. Let’s get it over.’

  Summers stooped, threw his right arm behind Gregory’s knees and picked him up bodily with a fireman’s lift, With his head and chest dangling limply over Summers’ shoulder he was carried downstairs, Ben and Archer stumping loudly on the uncarpeted treads behind them.

  Outside in the alley it was pitch-black. Summers trudged heavily forward, jolting Gregory as he walked. With sudden, horrible distinctness the image of a hearse flashed into Gregory’s mind. This was his own funeral procession; Summers was bearing him slowly but surely to the equivalent of the grave, while Ben and Archer were the mourners who had come to witness the last rites. A tag of verse recurred to him:

  ‘The graveyard, the graveyard is
a nasty old place;

  They put you in the ground and throw dirt in your face.’

  There would be no dirt in his face, but slimy, stinking dock-water, polluted by the refuse of the ships. He would not have to swallow much of it, though, because they would not risk removing from his mouth the handkerchief which gagged him in case he let out a shout for help before he went under, but for all that the water would force its way up his nostrils and down his throat. Nobody could ever say that Gregory Sallust was a coward, but he shivered slightly at the thought. People may say that drowning is not an unpleasant form of death, but he wished now that the Nazis had caught him in Germany and put him up against a brick wall. Shooting was at least a quicker and cleaner way out.

  He began to think of last-minute pleas he might make. Archer was not a bad man, however misguided his political convictions might be, and this horrible business must be going against all his instincts. If only he could be persuaded to postpone execution Gregory felt quite certain that he would never carry it out. He could beg the courtesy of a night’s contemplation in which to make his peace with God, or a last good meal with his favourite dishes before he passed out. Such courtesies were always granted to condemned prisoners, even to murderers for whom the morrow would bring the hangman’s noose about their necks. Then he realised abruptly that with a gag in his mouth he could no longer talk.

  From the entrance of the dark alley to the wharfside was no more than fifty yards, but although they had as yet covered barely half that distance Gregory already felt that for a whole lifetime he had been hanging over Summers’ shoulder while the thug plodded steadily on, bowed under the weight of his heavy burden.