The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

When he had come downstairs again Gregory went through to the laboratory to make quite certain that the house was empty, and in the cell behind it he found the evidence which had given Jacob Rosenbaum away. On the floor there still lay the severed pieces of the cords which had bound his own wrists and ankles on the previous night. Karl, too, must have seen them, have become suspicious and on examining the acid bath have found only one body in it. Such a discovery would have been more than enough to have sealed Rosenbaum’s fate.

  Returning to the library Gregory took out his pocket-knife, cut poor Rosenbaum’s body down, ripped the blood-stained portrait of Adolf Hitler from the knife which impaled it and flung it in the fireplace.

  It was his ideology which had inspired it; it was his Gestapo chief, Heinrich Himmler, who had trained and paid men like Karl to carry out such hideous barbarities, Gregory sighed. What could one do with such people? Shooting was too good for them. When Hitler’s armies had been broken why should he expect the courtesies which were usually extended to defeated rulers on the supposition that they had gone to war only in what they had considered to be the best interests of their peoples?

  Ten million Jews had groaned under his ordinances; millions of Czechs and Austrians had been scourged under his rule; the Polish cities had gone down in a chaos of fire and smoke and blood because the Polish people had dared to defy him. He had stolen millions of pounds’ worth of property and goods from those who lived in the so-called German Protectorates and millions more from his own countrymen. Even Art had not ben sacred to him. He had personally looted the finest Dürers, Rembrandts, Memlings, Van Eycks, Titians and Rubens from the public galleries of Germany and sent them over the border to Switzerland to be stored with the intention of selling them in other countries if he were ever forced to get out.

  He had broken his word, pledged in the name of his country to the statesmen of the world. He had lied in public about his intentions and in private to those who had befriended him in his early struggles. Through his puppet Goebbels he had suborned the Press of a nation to stuff his fellow-countrymen with massed perversions of the truth. Himself an Atheist, he had endeavoured to suppress Christianity and to substitute a new religion of which he was to be the God. He was even the sort of rat that turns King’s evidence, for the trial which followed his ill-fated Munich Putsch he had betrayed his comrades, testifying against them so that he might get off with a lighter sentence.

  With another sigh Gregory picked up Rosenbaum’s mutilated body, carried it upstairs to the principal bedroom of the house, laid it on the bed and drew up the counterpane over the poor, tortured face.

  After this he spent half an hour in going cursorily but systematically through the house. To have done the job with real thoroughness would, he knew, have taken several men at least twenty-four hours, but the police would attend to that in due course and would probably discover a concealed wall-safe, a cache under one of the floors, or perhaps even a secret wireless sending-apparatus hidden somewhere up under the roof. All he could do for the moment was to run through drawers, cupboards and other likely places on the off-chance that the Germans might have left anti-British propaganda or other interesting material behind them, but he did not consider it likely and, as he had expected, his search proved unavailing.

  Going out again through the drawing-room window into the garden, he walked round the side of the house, re-locked the tradesmen’s entrance behind him with his skeleton key and proceeded down the hill. In the Finchley Road he picked up a taxi and told the man to drive him to his flat.

  Upstairs in his sitting-room he considered the situation. From his point of view it was even worse than it had been that morning. Rosenbaum was now dead, so the experts could no longer question him upon a thousand-and-one details of his association with Grauber; details which, while perhaps seeming trivial to him, might have linked up with other information and have proved of considerable assistance to the counterespionage people. Karl could not longer be brought in at will, as he had evidently abandoned the house and gone to ground elsewhere immediately he had discovered that Rosenbaum had betrayed them. Grauber was by now well on his way back to Germany. There he would learn of Rosenbaum’s treason through Karl or other German agents, so although he might return to London he would certainly never again visit the house in Hampstead. Altogether the position seemed a pretty mess; he would have a failure to report to Sir Pellinore even grimmer than that of his first effort.

  Yet after a few moments Gregory’s sense of humour came to his assistance. Even though poor Rosenbaum had died a most ghastly death only a few hours before, the world, life and the war must go on. It was useless to give way to depression, and to counteract the irritation and annoyance which Sir Pellinore was almost certain to display he decided to give the grand old chap a good laugh. Unlocking a cupboard, he made up a neat brown-paper parcel; then put on his hat and took a taxi up to Carlton House Terrace.

  It was still well before midnight and when he jumped out of the taxi he saw that a large car was waiting in front of Sir Pellinore’s house. One glance at the special number-plate showed him that it belonged to a Cabinet Minister. In addition to the policeman on the beat who was standing nearby an Inspector was keeping a watchful eye on the street, and as he rang the bell Gregory mused on the remarkable way in which the police bobbed up from nowhere whenever anybody important was about.

  The man on the door informed him that Sir Pellinore was engaged. Gregory said that he would wait, and was shown into a downstairs sitting-room. His wait was a long one, as the Cabinet Minister and Sir Pellinore remained closeted upstairs for the better part of two hours; but the footman asked if he might bring Gregory a brandy-and-soda, and on returning with it brought all the evening papers, so while he waited he read them through from cover to cover, assimilating the latest war news.

  Hitler’s peace speech in the Reichstag and the world’s reactions to it formed the most prominent items. It was much less conciliatory than Gregory had expected, but a very able piece of work. The facts had been marshalled—and distorted—with all the skill of a Machiavelli.

  He referred once again to the injustice of Versailles; a basic fact which every thinking man admitted, He had only righted that wrong done to the German people; the last, the very last step had been forced upon him by the utter intractability of the Poles, who had flatly refused every appeal to reason once they had received guarantees from Britain. Colonies must be discussed, but this was no demand; merely a reasonable request. They must all disband their armies and meet in an atmosphere free from threats. He was prepared to disarm, would be a good boy for evermore, and so on.

  It seemed that this second week-end in October was merely the lull before the storm. In the next fortnight anything might happen and another half-dozen nations might be drawn into the war.

  It was nearly two o’clock when the servant returned to say that Sir Pellinore would see Gregory, and with his parcel in his hand he followed the man upstairs.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Gregory as he entered the room, ‘I see you’ve been advising the Government again.’

  Sir Pellinore was standing with his legs spread wide apart and his back to a roaring fire, and his mind was evidently still occupied with the discussion in which he had been engaged He waved Gregory towards a chair and did not reply for a moment; then he appeared suddenly to wake up.

  ‘Eh? What’s that? Nonsense! I never advise anybody, No good at that sort of thing,’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Gregory with gentle sarcasm. ‘Everyone knows that you’ve an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port, but no brains—no brains at all;

  ‘Impudent young devil!’ Sir Pellinore growled, ‘Quite true, though. I suppose you saw his car outside? A few of the older ones come to see me sometimes, but it’s only for a little relaxation. They talk; I listen. Gives ‘em a chance to straighten out their ideas, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, how are things going?’

  ‘Not at all badly.
Our situation is at all events infinitely better than it was after the first five weeks of the last Great War. The way the B.E.F. had been transported to France with all those millions of tons of material is absolutely beyond praise, Churchill’s dealing with the U-boat menace magnificently, and our Air Force, man for man and plane for plane, is proving itself streets ahead of the Germans’. Of course, it’s Britain’s luck that Hitler thought he could grab Poland and bully us into climbing down afterwards instead of loosing hell here right away. We’d have come through somehow—we always do—but the breathing space has been invaluable. Every day that passes without a major action is a gain to us and, if he continues to lie doggo, we’ll be so strong by the spring that we’ll have enough planes to blow every munition factory in Germany sky-high.’

  ‘And the home-front?’ prompted Gregory.

  Sir Pellinore frowned. ‘The way the Ministry of Health has let down the doctors is a scandal, though. Over a thousand of the poor devils called up to stand by in the hospitals for airraid casualties. Lots of ’em sold their houses, practices, everything. Then, after five weeks, they’re told they’re not wanted and dismissed without a cent of pay. The Ministry of Mines is behaving with even greater stupidity. They hold up the nation’s coal supply because they fear that after an air raid it might be difficult to distribute to the comparatively few Government centres, forgetting how much more difficult it would then be to feed the thousands of ordinary depots. People have got to have coal for the winter, haven’t they? Then why not fill every cellar in Britain while the going’s good, and keep the few essential Government dumps supplied by an emergency service of lorries or any other damn’ thing afterwards? Much simpler.’

  Gregory knew that it was no good fishing for any special items of information as Sir Pellinore was close as an oyster about anything which had been told him in confidence. That was precisely why all sorts of important people freely discussed State secrets with him. Producing his parcel without attempting to pump his host further, he said:

  ‘I’ve brought you a little present.’

  Sir Pellinore gave him a quick look. ‘Really? Very nice of you. What is it?’

  ‘Open it up and see.’

  Having cut the string and undone the paper, Sir Pellinore took out a dusty, long-necked bottle of Mentzendorff’s pre-1914 Kümmel.

  ‘By Jove! Where did you get this?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I bought it when I was last in Paris, from the cellars of the Tour d’Argent, and I’ve been saving it up for an occasion.’

  ‘Ha! Tour d’Argent. Marvellous cellars; probably the best in Europe. I bet it cost you a packet though, and it’s very decent of you to bring it along to me, but what’s the occasion?’

  ‘To celebrate my retirement into civilian life. I’m going to apply to my local Borough Council for an allotment and tend cabbages for the remainder of the war.’ Gregory had no intention of doing any such thing, but the presentation of the precious bottle had enabled him to bring out that line of talk very neatly, and thus to prepare Sir Pellinore for the bad news that he was about to give him.

  ‘I see,’ said Sir Pellinore non-committally. ‘You’ve come another mucker, then?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve killed Tom Archer.’

  Sir Pellinore swung round. ‘You serious, Gregory?’

  ‘Perfectly. He’s as dead as a door-nail, and his corpse is now rapidly dissolving in an acid tank.’

  ‘The devil it is! But seriously, my boy, this is no joking matter. If the police get you you’ll swing for murder. It’s all very well to shoot these Nazi blackguards as you did in Ems, but to kill an Englishman in the heart of London is a very different matter.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him with my own hands, though last night he damned nearly murdered me. I say that I killed him because it was owing to my going down to see him that he met his death.’

  ‘H’m! That’s a trifle better, but perturbing all the same. D’you realise that you’ve been responsible for the deaths of three innocent people in as many weeks?’

  ‘Four,’ said Gregory. ‘There was another chap called Rosenbaum who died today in peculiarly horrible circumstances entirely owing to my activities.’

  Sir Pellinore groaned. ‘You are a bird of ill-omen! Damme! If you’re allowed to remain at large much longer you’ll succeed in getting me killed next. Still, better tell me the facts and get it over.’

  Gregory gave a concise but extremely graphic account of his doings during the last thirty hours, and when he had done Sir Pellinore began to walk thoughtfully up and down.

  ‘Only thing of importance that emerges from all this is that before he died Archer told you to warn Madame Dubois.’

  ‘Yes, but who is Madame Dubois? Obviously a French woman, but that doesn’t get us any further. The name Dubois is about as common in France as Brown is in England.’

  ‘True. But I think I know the Madame Dubois to whom Archer referred. When that devil Grauber was torturing the poor feller he had to give away something. To protect his friends in Germany he probably swore that he knew very little about the movement there, but offered to give Grauber such information as he could about the French end of it.’

  ‘I don’t see how that would have done Grauber much good.’

  ‘Don’t you? I do. The headquarters of the German People’s Freedom Party are in Paris; the great majority of the Germans who have escaped from concentration-camps and the intellectuals and Jews who have been thrown out are gathered there. They’re very much tied up with the French Left Wing extremists, and Madame Dubois is one of the most able of the French Red leaders. The threads of this tangled skein evidently lead to Paris, and Archer gave away enough of the business to Grauber for him to be able to instruct his agents to get busy there. Best thing you can do is to catch the morning plane, see Madame Dubois and convey Archer’s warning to her as quickly as you can.’

  Gregory suppressed a smile. That Sir Pellinore knew who Madame Dubois was had been a piece of specially good luck, but he had already made up his mind that he would go to Paris in any case and endeavour to sound anyone of that name who might be mixed up in revolutionary activities there. By so skilfully breaking his bad news he had led Sir Pellinore into suggesting that he should go instead of telling him, as he had feared, that as his activities had now resulted in the deaths of four people he was to take no further hand in the affair.

  ‘That seems the best line,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Of course, I’m not in a position to tell her exactly what Archer gave away because I don’t know myself, but the knowledge that he was forced to split will at least put her on her guard so that she and her associates in Germany can change their methods of communication. Perhaps, too, as this will temporarily postpone my cabbage-fancying operations, we’d better postpone the drinking of that bottle of Kümmel until my return from Paris.’

  Sir Pellinore’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Congratulations, my dear boy, on handling a very tricky situation extremely well! But for goodness’ sake don’t get more people killed in France than is absolutely necessary. In any case, as it’s getting on for three in the morning this is hardly the time to do justice to the contents of that lovely old bottle, but perhaps a tankard of champagne wouldn’t do us any harm.’

  ‘Grand! I could do with that. Just about this time last night I honestly thought I’d never live to drink another.’

  ‘What a thought!’ Gregory murmured, ‘and every one of them brought up from the cradle, of course, to regard Himmler’s boss as God. Deliberately taught that theft, arson, forgery, murder, and so forth are all praiseworthy things when done in the service of the Leader, and that to hear is to obey.’

  For a while they talked on about the Gestapo, and when they had finished the bottle of champagne, Gregory rose to say good-night. It was four o’clock by the time he got back to his flat, but as he had slept for several hours between mid-afternoon and early evening he was not particularly tired. He left a note instructing Mrs. Cummins to call him at seven, snatched two hours’
sleep, bathed, dressed, packed a bag and caught the nine-o’clock plane from Croydon. By mid-morning he was in Paris.

  Whenever he stayed in the French capital he put up at the St. Regis, in the Rue Jean Goujon, just off the Champs Elysées. It was a quiet hotel and Gregory preferred it to the larger places, although it was quite as expensive, because each of the rooms was furnished with individual pieces instead of the usual standardised bedroom-suites. Many of them were valuable antiques, giving the place the atmosphere of a beautifully-furnished private house rather than of an hotel, and Gregory liked luxury and comfort whenever he could get it.

  On his drive to the hotel he noted many stacks of sandbags and specially protected shop windows as in London, but there were plenty of people about, so he assumed that now the war was five weeks old and there had been no air-raids a good proportion of the evacuees had returned to take up their old activities. Many men in horizon-blue mingled with the crowds, and here and there near the centre of the city, a khaki-clad British officer.

  As soon as he had settled in at the St. Regis he telephoned a French journalist whom he knew and succeeded in securing from him the address of the Madame Dubois who was prominent in French Marxist circles.

  After luncheon he took a taxi to her apartment, which was in one of the better streets of the Montparnasse quarter. The sight of the block of flats in which she lived told him at once that she was not the type of Marxist that considered it necessary to live in a slum. A smartly-uniformed, one-armed porter took him up in a lift and he rang the bell of Flat No. 14. The door was opened by a pretty, plump little maid, but on Gregory’s inquiring for Madame Dubois the girl shook her dark head. Madame was not at home.

  ‘When will she be back?’ Gregory asked in his best French, which was very nearly as good as his German.

  The girl made a grimace. ‘Poor Madame is here no longer. She met with an accident. Three nights ago she was knocked down by a car right outside the flats and she was taken straight to a nursing-home.’