The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  Gregory had a sort of hunch that he could guess how the ‘accident’ had been caused. Only that morning, in the early hours, Sir Pellinore had told him that the Gestapo’s foreign department, U.A.—1, consisted of no less than 5,000 picked men who were all still outside Germany either in belligerent or neutral countries. It was their business to engineer accidents to anyone who might be counted an inveterate enemy of the Nazis, and therefore likely to use their influence against the acceptance of the peace proposals designed to let Hitler get away with the rape of Poland. Cabinet Ministers and other important folk in France and Britain were most carefully guarded by their own Secret Service people, but Madame Dubois held no official position and Sir Pellinore had said that her influence among the French working classes was immense. He thought it more than probable that the men of U.A.-1 had done their best to eliminate Madame Dubois and had succeeded in doing so, temporarily at least.

  Having secured the address of the nursing-home he went there to make a personal inquiry as to the extent of Madame Dubois’ injuries. After waiting for a quarter of an hour he saw a portly, grey-haired matron who, while very voluble, was by no means cheerful about the condition of her patient. Her description of the circumstances in which Madame Dubois had been injured confirmed Gregory’s theory that she had been deliberately run down, for she had apparently been knocked down in the black-out not twenty yards from her apartment, which she had just left, by a car which had been stationary outside the block but which suddenly started up and charged right into her as she crossed the road. The driver had not even waited to ascertain the extent of her injuries and the car had disappeared into the darkness.

  The matron went on to say that Madame Dubois’ left arm had been broken in two places, her collar-bone fractured and her head badly cut, besides which she had sustained severe concussion. Although she was now out of danger it would be quite out of the question for her to see anybody, even her closest relatives, for at least ten days or possibly a fortnight. Stymied again, Gregory thanked the matron and went disconsolately out into the October sunshine of the Paris street.

  Taking a taxi to the Taverne Royale, near the Madelaine, he ordered himself a Vermouth Cassis and sat down to review the situation. As he would be unable to interview Madame Dubois for the best part of a fortnight it seemed that the only thing to do was to return to London, there to possess his soul in such patience as he could muster, though it was galling to remember that every day during which he kicked his heels in enforced idleness hundreds of people were being killed and wounded in the battle areas, while his mission was the one factor which might bring the slaughter to a swift conclusion.

  It seemed intolerable that he should be compelled to sit still and do nothing when somewhere in Paris there must be people who could place him in possession of the very facts which would justify his taking the risk of entering Germany again in a new attempt to deliver the list of the Inner Gestapo, together with the letter signed by the Allied statesmen, to the unknown German general who was plotting Hitler’s downfall. Even though he was unable to talk to Madame Dubois in person there must be some way in which he could discover and get in touch with her associates, who would doubtless be as well informed as she.

  It next occurred to him that as Madame Dubois had been taken straight to the nursing-home after her accident she would have had no opportunity to remove, conceal or destroy any correspondence that might have been in her flat at the time. It was hardly likely that she would have left any secret documents lying about, but on the other hand it was quite possible that her desk would contain letters which would act as pointers to the identities of some of her associates. The more he flirted with the idea the more certain he became that it was now up to him to obtain access to Madame Dubois’ apartment by hook or by crook and to go through her papers.

  The charming vision of the pretty little maid who had opened the door to him flashed back into his mind. Perhaps something could be managed in that direction; at all events, he would return to see. He paid for his drink and took a taxi back to the block of flats in Montparnasse.

  The same attractive girl opened the door again, and greeting her with his most charming smile he said:

  ‘I’ve been to the nursing-home and I’m sorry to say that Madame is even worse than I had feared.’

  ‘Yes, poor Madame is very ill indeed,’ the girl agreed.

  ‘It’s extraordinarily unfortunate that she should have met with an accident just at this time,’ said Gregory. I wanted to see her on most important business. I’ve come all the way from London to do so, in fact.’

  The maid shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that Monsieur has had his journey for nothing. They say that it will be at least ten days before Madame is able to receive anybody.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregory nodded, ‘so I suppose I’ll have to kick my heels in Paris all that time. I must see her before I go back, but I shall be horribly bored waiting here; the only men I know in Paris are all away serving with their regiments.’

  A dimple showed just below the left corner of the girl’s mouth as she replied demurely: ‘Even in war-time, Monsieur, Paris is not altogether a dead city, and with the men at the Front there are even more ladies than usual with time on their hands.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Gregory, as though the thought of ladies had never occurred to him.

  ‘I do not think that Monsieur need be bored for very long,’ she went on, lowering her dark eyes until her lashes were like fans upon her cheeks, ‘unless, of course, he finds the company of ladies boring.’

  Things were going in just the way that Gregory wanted, and he hastened to rebut the implications. ‘Good Lord, no! There’s no companion like a pretty girl for cheering one up, but unfortunately the only girls I know in Paris are all doing war work, and I’m afraid they won’t be able to get much time off. It can be terribly lonely in a big city, you know, when you’ve nobody to talk to.’

  ‘Poor Monsieur, that is very sad.’ A mocking note crept into the girl’s voice as she fiddled demurely with the handle of the door. ‘But not all the girls in Paris are doing war work, and some of them are perhaps lonely too. A gentleman of Monsieur’s distinguished appearance should not have to remain lonely for very long unless he chooses.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t do so from choice,’ said Gregory, ‘but the devil of it is I’m rather a shy person. I’d hate to be ticked off through trying to scrape acquaintance with a decent girl, and picking up the sort of woman one finds in the bars and dance-halls doesn’t amuse me.’

  ‘That is understandable, but if one does not take a chance one doesn’t get anywhere in this life,’ said the girl with true French realism.

  ‘In that case I—er—wonder,’ Gregory murmured hesitantly, simulating acute nervousness, ‘I suppose you have to work terribly hard looking after the flat—Madame’s family—and all that sort of thing?’

  ‘Mais non! Madame has no family, and now she is away the place is never untidy, so I have very little to do.’

  ‘But—er—I mean, a pretty girl like you must have plenty of boyfriends to occupy any free time that she has?’

  She shook her head with a sad little grimace. ‘Mon cher ami is a Sergeant of the Chasseurs Alpins and like the rest he is with his Regiment.’

  ‘Then—in that case—perhaps you too feel a little lonely and bored, now that you’ve got hardly anything to do?’

  ‘Very lonely! Very bored!’ she agreed, flashing him a sudden smile.

  ‘Then—er—couldn’t we do something about it? I do hope you won’t think I’m the sort of chap who wants to force himself on you, I mean. But for the next ten days I’m going to be absolutely at a loose end. Could you—would you—er, take pity on me, sort of thing, and come out and have a spot of dinner with me somewhere this evening?’

  ‘But what a long time you took to ask me that,’ she smiled. ‘Of course we must console one another. Our loneliness is due to this awful war, and we are allies, are we not?’

  ‘V
ive la France!’ cried Gregory with sudden enthusiasm.

  ‘Vive l’Angleterre!’ replied the young minx gaily. ‘What is your name? I cannot call you “Monsieur” all the time.’

  ‘My name’s Gregory—Gregory Sallust. And yours?’

  ‘Collette Pichon.’

  ‘I say, that’s nice. Well, look here Collette, it’s most awfully decent of you to say you’ll spend the evening with me. Shall I come back for you in an hour, or what?’

  ‘If you wish, Grégoire. But it is nearly seven o’clock already and in war-time all the restaurants close so early. It will not take me long to change; you can come and wait for me if you like.’

  ‘Grand!’ Gregory seized her hand and kissed it.

  ‘How gallant for an Englishman!’ she laughed.

  ‘It’s catching. Paris, you know. Just the sight of you standing there, looking so jolly attractive. But, by Jove, if I knew you better it wouldn’t be your hand I’d kiss!’

  ‘Méchant! Méchant!’ she exclaimed in mock reproof. ‘But in ten days anything might happen, might it not? And after all, there is a war on.’

  ‘Anything might happen in ten hours,’ Gregory grinned, ‘or in ten seconds, for that matter,’ and dropping his role of the dumb Englishman he suddenly put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her on the lips.

  She drew back quickly and lifting a small, plump hand smacked his face, but it was a friendly slap and he knew that she was not really displeased as she said: ‘You go too fast, Monsieur. I do not permit such things on so short an acquaintance.’

  Gregory reverted at once to the bashful idiot, and looking at his feet, mumbled: ‘I’m terribly sorry; just couldn’t resist it, you know. Not like me at all. But you won’t let it make any difference to this evening, will you, if I promise to be terribly good and not do it again?’

  ‘This time I forgive,’ she replied with conscious graciousness, ‘as to the future, we will see. Perhaps I will let you kiss me good-night in the taxi on the way home, but I am not certain that I like you enough yet. Come in now and have a cigarette while I change my dress.’

  With restored gaiety Gregory followed her into the sitting-room of the flat. It was a well-furnished apartment with a modern décor. It was evident that Madame Dubois had an artistic eye and that in spite of her work for the down-trodden she herself believed in living in considerable comfort. He seated himself in an arm-chair near a big, glass-and-steel desk that was covered with letters and books. As he took out his cigarette-case Collette gave him a paper to read, then with a wave of her hand and a bright smile she left him, closing the door behind her.

  Gregory puffed cheerfully at his cigarette while he gave her a couple of minutes to reach her room. Collette was a nice little soul and he congratulated himself upon the approach that he had made to her; a skilful mixture of awkward Englishman and ‘I’m a devil when I once get going.’ It was just the line to appeal to a girl of her type. The ‘humble suppliant’ touch from a well-dressed foreigner was probably quite new to her and rather intriguing, whereas she would have been bored by a man who, although he appeared to be well-off, did not suggest by the twinkle in his eye that he liked his bit of fun.

  It might take a few days to get Collette just where he wanted her, but after tonight he would have ready access to the flat and she was evidently alone in it. Sooner or later there would arise an occasion when she had to go out to do some shopping. He would pretend that he didn’t feel very well as an excuse for not accompanying her and she would leave him there with his feet up on the sofa and an aspirin in his hand. Given an hour alone in the place he would back himself to find any secret wall-safe that there might be, and later he would be able to devise some scheme for getting her out of the flat long enough for him to attempt to open it. In the meantime, as she was going out to dine with a smartly-dressed man it was quite certain that she would put on her best clothes and make up her face with special care, so he could count on a good half-hour before she rejoined him. Standing up, he began to examine the letters and papers that strewed the glass top of the big desk-table.

  They had been tidied, presumably by Collette, into two piles. He soon saw that the left-hand one consisted solely of bills, but that on the right seemed more promising as it comprised letters nearly all of which were hand-written. There were about twenty of them and from their headings Gregory saw that they came from places scattered all over France.

  The first that he read came from Abbeville and contained a long, rambling account, written in an uneducated hand, of the death of a French miner who had been killed by accident on his company’s premises at a time when he had no right to be there. It appeared that his widow had claimed compensation but that the company had refused to pay on the grounds that although he had met his death on their premises he had not been there at their request nor had he been engaged on work for them at the time.

  The next came from a silk-operative in Lyons who had been dismissed by his employers for circulating revolutionary literature among his fellow-workers. He had not been able to find other employment and was now destitute. Would Madame Dubois help?

  A third was from a prison outside Marseilles. The writer had been arrested in a riot and sentenced to a term of imprisonment for injuring a Gendarme. The prisoner was a widower with two children aged eight and ten, and their sole support. Neighbours were looking after them for the moment but they were poor people who could not afford to do so without some assistance. Would Madame Dubois contribute?

  It soon became clear to Gregory that Madame Dubois was the trustee of a fund to be utilised for Communists or their families who found themselves in financial difficulties owing to their participation in subversive activities. None of the writers appeared to be even local leaders, but men and women of the rank and file whose names and addresses were quite useless to him.

  It had taken him some twenty minutes to go through the letters and he had also spent a little time in examining the bills, but as he reckoned that he had still a few minutes before Collette was likely to return he looked round the room for any other place where papers might be kept.

  In one corner there was a tall, narrow bureau with deep drawers; it had been painted a duck-egg blue so that it should harmonise with the colour scheme of the room. It was thus made comparatively inconspicuous and it was for this reason that he had not at first noticed that it was really an ordinary office filing cabinet. He felt at once that the material he was after was much more likely to be found here than among the papers on the desk.

  Tiptoeing across to it he tried the top drawer and found to his delight that it was unlocked. He had just pulled it out for about a foot when he heard the tapping of high heels in the corridor and swiftly pushed it back again. But the wretched thing jammed when it was still not closed by a quarter of an inch. He had no time to pull it out again and ease it home so he had to leave it as it was, thanking his stars that it had not jammed further out. As it was, only a careful observer would have noticed that it had been opened at all.

  In two quick strides he had put a couple of yards between the cabinet and himself and when Collette entered the room she found him idly gazing at a Surrealist painting which appeared to depict a number of herrings growing from the branches of a tree planted in a bath-tub.

  As he turned, took Collette’s hand and kissed it again, he thought she looked prettier than ever. A little hat from which a stiff, gauzy veil stood out in all directions was perched on her head, partially concealing her dark hair, and the curves of her trim figure were admirably displayed in a smart, black coat and skirt. Not for the first time Gregory gave full marks to those young women of France who were not too well blessed with this world’s goods yet always managed to present a delightful chic appearance owing to their skilful planning and their natural flair for clothes.

  He wondered where to take her for dinner. The Tour d’Argent, the Café de Paris or any other of the de luxe places would be overdoing it. She was so pretty and smart that he would not have b
een ashamed to have been seen with her at the Ritz, but if he were to take her to one of the haunts of the haute monde she might run into some previous employer and feel rather awkward.

  Then there was Pocardi’s, the huge Italian restaurant off the Boulevard des Italiens, where large and appetising meals were to be had at comparatively moderate prices. It was a favourite spot with the French bourgeois when they wished to hold a little celebration; the sort of place to which a well-paid clerk might take his girl as a treat. Gregory had often fed there in his earlier years when in Paris and not so well off as now. For a moment he considered it, but it was quite possible that Mademoiselle Collette Pichon had been taken to Pocardi’s by other boyfriends from time to time and he wished to strike a fresh note if he could.

  Suddenly the thought of the Vert Galant, down by the river on the right bank, flashed into his mind. Quiet and unostentatious, it was yet one of the oldest-established restaurants in Paris, and the cooking there was excellent. From the plumpness of her trim figure Gregory felt certain that Collette enjoyed her food, and when he suggested it she beamed with delight.

  ‘How lovely! It is very good, the Vert Galant. Real French cooking—not the sort of messed-up things they make for you English and the Americans in the smart places—so I have been told. I have never been there and I’d love to go, but I’m afraid you will find it very expensive.’

  ‘I don’t think we need worry about that,’ Gregory smiled. ‘I want to give you the very best dinner we can get. That’s the least I can do, since you’ve been kind enough to take pity on me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Ah, well, I suppose you can afford it. Some of my friends have to be careful of their money even when they wish to give me a good time, but you look very rich. All Englishmen have lots and lots of money, haven’t they?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s rather an old-fashioned idea,’ he laughed. It’s lingered on in France from the days when every Englishman who travelled was a milord and went about with bags of golden guineas. I’m certainly no millionaire, if that’s what you mean, but I think I’ve got enough to take you to most of the places you’d like to visit in Paris, while I’m waiting for Madame Dubois to get well enough to see me. Come on; let’s go, shall we?’