The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  Next morning at eleven twenty-five, as spruce and debonair as ever save for a slightly swollen nose and left ear, both of which were extremely tender but which were not particularly obvious to any casual observer, he entered the lounge of the Strand Palace Hotel and ordered himself a coffee. While reading the war news he kept a careful look-out round the corner of his paper for the arrival of Jacob Rosenbaum.

  Twenty to twelve, ten to twelve, twelve o’clock came and went, yet the little man had not put in an appearance. Gregory waited for another thirty-five minutes to make quite certain that Rosenbaum had not thought he had said half-past twelve instead of half-past eleven; then, both annoyed and worried, he gave it up.

  He thought of going to see Sir Pellinore, but decided against it. He was miserably conscious that he had once again botched matters badly and that he was responsible for Tom Archer’s death. Not that Archer was any great loss to his country, but his demise had cut off yet one more line of inquiry which might have provided profitable results had it been handled in some other manner. But for the life of him Gregory could think of no other approach which would have induced Archer to give anything away, and he had at least the consolation of knowing that he had failed only where some of the best men in M.I.5 had failed before him.

  In spite of Archer’s attempt to murder him Gregory respected the Marxist and regarded him as a political crank rather than as an evil entity, while the manner of his death had been so appalling that Gregory felt that any crimes he had committed against the Government of his country should certainly be overlooked. Although it was almost a foregone conclusion that his Party Benevolent Fund would take care of his widow, Gregory meant to ask Sir Pellinore to institute tactful inquiries and to see that something was done for her if she was not decently provided for.

  All that he had to show for his evening’s work, therefore, was Archer’s last phrase: ‘You must warn Madame Dubois.’ But who the devil was Madame Dubois? Certainly neither a German nor, apparently, an Englishwoman, so that this scrap of a clue—if clue it was—did not seem to be a very exciting item to hand Sir Pellinore upon a platter.

  If, on the other hand, he could secure from Rosenbaum every single detail that he could give him about Grauber’s visits, and about Karl and the man whom Grauber had planted in the tea-importer’s office, these trails might enable M.I.5 to locate and corner a dozen other secret agents of the enemy linked up in the same chain, and there would also be a decent possibility of snaring Grauber himself next time he came to England. Gregory felt that if he could hand on all that information Sir Pellinore might consider that he had justified his night’s work even though he was no further advanced with his own mission.

  He therefore decided not to see Sir Pellinore for the time being, but he was exceedingly anxious as to what had become of Rosenbaum. Had he failed to keep his appointment only because Karl or the spy in his office had proved difficult, or had he slipped up somewhere? In an endeavour to find out Gregory, giving his name as Blystein, telephoned Rosenbaum’s office, only to learn that he had not been there that morning although he had been expected and might still come in at any time.

  He next telephoned Reuben Sonnenschein, Rosenbaum’s solicitor, but drew a blank there also. Rosenbaum had certainly had an appointment there at eleven-thirty but had not kept it. Turning up a telephone directory Gregory found that the house to which he had been taken on the previous night was in Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead, but he did not dare to ring Rosenbaum’s number. Very perturbed indeed, he decided that he would think matters over during a good lunch.

  After more than twenty years as maître d’hôtel of the Berkeley Restaurant his good friend Filippo Ferraro had left it some months before the war and had gone to the Mayfair. This was not one of Gregory’s usual haunts, but as he liked the service of his meals to be supervised by people who knew his tastes he decided to go to see Ferraro.

  Beaming as ever in his new setting, with numbers of his old clientéle around him, Ferraro gave him a royal welcome and, without Gregory’s having to bother to think for himself, suggested just the sort of luncheon he wanted; a luncheon which was duly served, and eaten with considerable enjoyment. After it was over Gregory returned to his flat in Gloucester Road and went to bed. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but he knew that he would be wise to take any sleep that he could as and when he could get it.

  At eight o’clock he had a light supper in his dressing-gown, then dressed and went out. Securing a taxi, he told the driver to take him to the bottom of Maresfield Gardens.

  He had decided that he must find out for himself about Rosenbaum. Time pressed, and he must not delay longer than he could help before reporting to Sir Pellinore. Perhaps Rosenbaum’s non-appearance was due merely to his having got cold feet after his burst of renewed courage early that morning and having decided that he dared not risk meeting Gregory in a public place. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he telephoned during the afternoon, and why hadn’t he been to his office?

  On his second visit to Maresfield Gardens Gregory went properly equipped. His favourite Mauser automatic was in his hip-pocket. Another pocket contained a torch and a bunch of skeleton keys. A jemmy was stuck in the top of his trousers and he also carried about his person a pair of compasses, with a diamond fitted to one point and a rubber sucker fitted to the other, for removing rounds of glass from windows without their falling and crashing to the ground. In addition he wore rubber-soled shoes and was dressed in black from top to toe, which made him practically invisible in the London that had become a city of the shadows.

  He paid off the taxi at the bottom of the hill and walked up it. Arriving before the house he tiptoed quietly up the drive and paused when he came to the narrow path which branched to the left, leading through some bushes to the tradesmen’s entrance.

  The house was in complete darkness, but so it had been on the previous night owing to the black-out restrictions which Gregory now had no reason to bless, If he could have found a chink of light he would have been to some extent reasssured, for it would have given him reason to suppose that Rosenbaum was still in residence there, but that having become thoroughly scared at the thought of what might happen to him if he was discovered with Gregory he had not only failed to keep his appointment but had stayed indoors all day into the bargain to make quite sure that Gregory would not be able to waylay him on his way back from his office. If on the other hand the house was really in darkness it would suggest that Rosenbaum had panicked and fled, or that something had gone much more seriously wrong.

  With cautious, tread Gregory padded from window to window along the front of the house, but still could see no gleam of light. He then returned to the side-entrance, produced his bunch of skeleton keys and after a little patience found one that turned the lock. Very gently, so that its hinges should not creak, he eased open the door; then closed it behind him with equal care and entered the garden at the back of the house.

  Here too he examined every window with the utmost care both for signs of light and in the hope of finding one open, but in neither aim was he successful. He then tiptoed forward to a pair of bay windows which gave on to the garden. Like all the others they were closed and locked but he thought that they would offer the easiest means of breaking into the house.

  For a moment he waited there, undecided. It was essential that he should find out what had happened to Rosenbaum. If he had fled the police would have to be put on to him at once so that they could get any information that he might have at the earliest possible moment, while if he had been the victim of foul play and either made a prisoner in his own house or even murdered it would be urgently necessary to free him or deal with his murderer. As against these considerations, if he broke into the place and everything was all right Karl would be there. It was true that with luck he would have the drop on Karl this time, and unless Karl put his great, clumsy hands above his head within ten seconds Gregory meant to ensure him an extremely painful death by putting three bulle
ts in rapid succession into his stomach; but if he was forced to kill Karl or even capture him, bang would go any chance of catching Grauber on his next visit to England, and Grauber was the big fish.

  There was of course always the chance that in breaking into the house he might alarm its inmates before he could catch them unawares, or that in the garden, where it was so dark that he could not see his own feet, he had broken some threads connected with a burglar alarm which had already warned Karl that someone was snooping round the house. In either case it was he who would be caught napping, and within a few seconds of entering the house he would probably find his stomach full of lead.

  Gregory was a brave man, but not a foolhardy one. In the days of the old war he had often walked round three miles of communication-trenches from his Company to his Battalion Headquarters rather than run across a hundred-yard dip in the ground over which a comparatively distant German sniper had a view. Most of the other officers ignored the danger, as the sniper’s pot-shots scored a hit only once every week or so, but Gregory never crossed the open space during the ten weeks his Battalion was in that sector save when he was hurrying upon some really urgent matter, and then instead of walking across with nonchalant bravado he constantly altered his pace to confuse the sniper’s aim. His men had ample proof of his courage in action, so there was no need for him to risk a bullet in an endeavour to impress them. He knew, too, that they would follow a cautious officer into all sorts of tough places far more readily than they would follow one who exposed himself to danger unnecessarily, knowing that such a man might risk their lives also where no risk need be taken.

  In the present instance it was only the thought of poor little Rosenbaum that finally decided him to enter the house. It was just possible that he had slipped up somehow and that Karl was inflicting unmentionable brutalities upon him somewhere inside. Gregory knew that he would never be able to go home and sleep comfortably in his bed that night with such a possibility still in his mind.

  Taking out his jemmy he inserted it in the crack between the French windows and pressed upon it gently. The flimsy lock gave with a snap but the leverage he had been compelled to exert forced the long window open and, before he could prevent their moving farther, a stiff hinge had given a loud creak.

  Gregory knew that death might be waiting for him on the other side of the curtains, but drawing his automatic he stepped inside.

  21

  Death and Kisses

  For a second he paused there holding his breath; then he sank down on to his knees and gingerly lifted the bottom of the heavy curtain with the finger tips of his left hand.

  No light appeared. The room was in darkness, but if Karl was in the house and had heard the window creak as it had been forced open he might enter the room at any moment and switch on the lights. He would instantly spot the bulge in the curtains made by Gregory’s body and fire at it, taking a chance as to whether the housebreaker was a police agent or an ordinary burglar. In either case he had the acid bath handy in which to dispose of his kill.

  Turning sideways to present a smaller target Gregory crept on all-fours along the floor behind the curtain until he reached its edge and could pass round it into the room. Drawing himself upright again he listened intently. No sound broke the stillness of the darkened house.

  Still holding his automatic, its safety-catch off, ready in his right hand, with his left he took out his spotlight torch and flashed it towards the end of the room. The beam flickered for a moment, then came to rest upon the door. Advancing cautiously between the pieces of heavy furniture which indicated by their shapes, shrouded in dust-sheets though they were, that the place was a drawing-room, he reached the door, pocketed his torch and put his hand on the door handle. Firmly but gently he turned it right back, then cautiously began to open the door. There was no light in the hall either; the eerie silence remained unbroken.

  Opening the door to its full extent he passed into the hall, his automatic still gripped ready in his hand, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the polished parquet. A few steps took him to the bend of the stairs where, he remembered, they took a right-angled turn half-way to the floor above. Sheltering there so that he could not be shot in the back he flashed his torch again, first round the empty hall and then upwards into the shadows of the staircase and the first-floor landing.

  Pocketing his torch once more and treading with the utmost care he moved across to the door of the big library. Opening it a fraction he found that the library, too, was in darkness. It was still too early for Karl and Rosenbaum to have gone to bed, so unless they were in the kitchen quarters the house was presumably deserted. He pushed the door open; then halted in his tracks. Something had stirred within the room.

  A tiny yet distinct noise had unmistakably broken the eerie silence. Gregory grasped his gun more firmly and stared with straining eyes into the darkness, ready to pump lead into the impenetrable blackness of the room at the faintest indication of any movement. He waited for a full minute in tense silence; not daring to breathe for fear of giving away his position to some unseen enemy.

  He had just decided that the sound he had heard had been merely one of the nocturnal creakings natural to a deserted house containing old furniture, when it came again. It was not a creak, but could best be described as a prolonged click.

  Again he waited. Another minute, and the sound came once more. It was exactly similar to that which he had heard before, and but for the fact that the intervals between the sounds were far too long it might have been the ticking of a clock.

  For another three minutes he stood there, carefully controlling his breathing. The sounds continued at regular intervals, and after listening intently he decided that they could not be made by any human agency but must emanate from some piece of mechanism.

  Very warily he moved forward into the room flashing his torch again. Its pale beam fell upon Rosenbaum’s ornate desk. On it there lay open a large blotter, in the centre of which glistened a great, red patch of sticky-looking stuff. One glance was enough; Gregory knew that he was looking at a pool of congealed blood.

  As he stood there staring at it there was a faint yet distinct splash as another drop of blood fell on to the blotter. This, then, was the sound which had broken the awful stillness of the room.

  Slowly Gregory raised his torch. Its beam lit dangling, black shoes, a pair of legs, a body that appeared to have no arms, then a face fallen forward upon a narrow chest, its chin resting on a portrait of Adolf Hitler which had been hung about the skinny neck, It was Jacob Rosenbaum and no closer inspection was needed to show that he was dead.

  Something he had done or said must have given him away. Karl had exacted a terrible vengeance and by now had presumably fled. Turning, Gregory stepped back to the door and switched on the lights.

  Then was revealed the full horror of Rosenbaum’s end. His wrists were tied to the railings of the minstrels’ gallery above the desk and he was hanging from them as though crucified, while protruding from his body and limbs were the hilts of a dozen knives. Gregory went forward and examined one of them. It was clear that at one stage of his career Karl had been a professional knife-thrower, earning his living by giving exhibitions of his art upon the stage, for the knives were unmistakably of the type used in such acts; all of the same pattern, strong-bladed, with heavily-weighted handles and very sharp points so that they would easily embed themselves in a thick board.

  The usual knife-throwing act, which Gregory had several times seen, necessitated the assistance of a pretty girl. Dressed in a loose robe she would take her stand in front of a thick wooden screen, when the knife-thrower would exhibit his skill by hurling his knives from a distance of some fifteen feet so that they would penetrate the board as near the girl as possible without actually touching her, gradually forming a palisade of steel around her body. A real ace knife-thrower could even plug his knives into the skirt, loose sleeves and puffed shoulders of the girl’s garment so that she was pinned to the screen; una
ble to move at the conclusion of the exhibition without tearing her clothes.

  Karl had exercised his skill on Rosenbaum, sending knife after knife into non-vital parts of his body with mathematical precision so that there were two in each of his arms, two in each leg, two just under his collar-bone, one in the stomach and a final blade in his heart. The two knives beneath the collar-bone each touched the wooden frame which held the unglazed photograph of Hitler; the last blade, that which had ended his torment, had shorn through the stiff card of the photograph and pinned it to Rosenbaum’s chest. A wry half-smile twisted Gregory’s lean face as he took in the grim symbolism of the scene. The same weapon, flung by the hand of a perverted fanatic, had transfixed both Führer and Jew. The forces of oppression, savagely wielded by Hitler’s henchmen, would in due time destroy the man who had unleashed them.

  As blood was still dripping from the body at intervals of about a minute Gregory felt certain that Rosenbaum could not have been dead very long; Karl had probably been taking his time over the business, amusing himself by throwing one knife every half-hour or so during the day. He might even be still in the house.

  Switching off the light again Gregory went cautiously back into the hall and investigated the dining-room at its far side and a small sitting-room next to the kitchen quarters at its rear, but all of them were dark and deserted.

  He then proceeded upstairs and went through both floors of bedrooms. In one of these empty drawers and an empty wardrobe that had been left open suggested that Karl had occupied it and had recently made a hurried get-away.