The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  Gregory was a born night-bird and never at his best in the morning. Unshaven, and according to his own standards unwashed, his humour was abominable, particularly as he knew that though he had been roused at the regulation hour it was unlikely that he would be taken from his cell for examination until much later in the morning; but a breakfast of excellent hot coffee and a huge chunk of new French bread put more life into him and his brain gradually began to turn over.

  As far as he could see the French police had very little on which they could hold him; the statement of a maid that he had been prying into her mistress’s papers was hardly enough, while it was no crime to be in possession of foreign currency. His passport, too, was perfectly in order, as the authorities could soon ascertain by telephoning the Passport Office in Whitehall, and the English manager at the Saint Regis who had known him for years, could be called on to come forward and give evidence as to his identity. On the other hand, it was a damnable nuisance that they had found those Reichsmarks in his shoes. Owing to the war the ordinary laws for the protection of individual liberty had been entirely washed out by special emergency powers granted to the police, and if he could not satisfy them upon every point there was nothing to prevent their detaining him as a suspect for as long as they liked.

  If they decided to hold him on suspicion his position would become a very difficult one, for he would have to appeal to Sir Pellinore to extricate him—the very last thing that he wanted to do. But he felt reasonably confident that he would not have to do so.

  Just after half-past ten little Ribaud arrived and took him up to the top floor of the building, where they entered a fine room with a lovely view over the roof-tops to the spires and domes of Paris.

  At a big desk near the wide windows was sitting a tiny, greyhaired man whose lined face rather resembled that of a monkey; his hands were clasped over his stomach and his eyes cast down in an attitude of Buddhistic contemplation. The desk was remarkable only for the fact that it had not a single paper on it.

  ‘This is the prisoner, mon Colonel,’ announced Ribaud briefly.

  The little man looked up and Gregory saw that the resemblance of his wisened face to that of a monkey was heightened by a pair of remarkably quick, dark eyes.

  ‘Be seated, Monsieur,’ he requested in a gentle voice, ‘and you, Ribaud, sit down.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Gregory took a chair, crossed his legs and produced his cigarettes. ‘D’you mind if I smoke, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. It is soothing for the nerves, and you are probably not feeling your best at this hour of the morning. Although it’s not particularly early I expect you miss the comforts of the Saint Regis, of which we were unfortunately compelled to deprive you. Would you be good enough to tell me, Monsieur Sallust, what business brought you to Paris?’

  ‘I came to see Madame Dubois,’ replied Gregory, ‘upon a private matter which I can assure you to be in no way inimical to the interests of the French Republic; quite the contrary, in fact.’

  ‘However private this matter may be I feel sure that you will not object to telling me about it. My position here necessitates my acting as Father Confessor to a great many people and you can entirely rely upon my discretion.’

  ‘Madame Dubois is interested in the International Workers’ Movement, and so am I,’ Gregory explained briefly.

  ‘International!’ repeated the little man. ‘May I help you out by suggesting that it is the German end of this organisation in which you are interested?’

  Gregory smiled. ‘You’re quite right—but only as a means to bring about a speedy conclusion of the war.’

  ‘Monsieur Sallust; you are probably aware that the Communists, Marxists and Anarchists, all those in fact who are commonly termed “Reds”, have recently found themselves in a very difficult situation. On the one hand is their intense hatred of the present German Government and all it stands for; on the other it is part of their basic creed that all wars are engineered by the capitalist interests and that it is the inarticulate masses who principally suffer from them. Certain of the Red leaders have suddenly become greater fire-eaters than your delightful Colonel Blimp himself—as witness the prowar declarations of the British Communist Harry Pollitt which have just caused his Comrades to retire him from a key position in the Party—while others still cling uneasily to the doctrines of their God, Karl Marx. You, perhaps, have convictions of that type and are yourself a pacifist?’

  ‘No, no, Colonel,’ Gregory laughed. ‘I held a commission in the last war and was even lucky enough to be given the Military Cross. I’d have joined up again in this one if the British Government hadn’t developed rather curious ideas about the unsuitability for service of old soldiers, however fit, if they happen to be over a certain age.’

  ‘My compliments!’ The monkey-faced Colonel inclined his head. ‘I am always happy to meet a gallant officer. I only wish that I had been able to welcome you to France in more pleasant circumstances. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Raoul Lacroix.’

  Gregory knew then that the man opposite him was one of the greatest brains in Europe, an officer whose name rarely appeared in the papers but was known to every Cabinet Minister in the world and to everyone who, like Gregory himself, lived on the fringes of high politics. Colonel Lacroix was the supreme head of the famous Deuxième Bureau, whose agents relentlessly tracked down the enemies of France from Martinique to Assam and from the heart of Paris to the most desolate outposts of the great French Empire.

  ‘I am honoured, sir,’ he said, bowing from his chair. ‘By reputation you are well known to me.’

  The Colonel bowed in return and continued: ‘I am glad Monsieur Sallust, that you are not a pacifist. As you know, the Red extremists who still cling to their old creed are fomenting a dangerous “peace at any price” movement. It was for this reason that my Government found it desirable a week or so ago officially to dissolve the French Communist Party. Over sixty Communist Mayors were then placed by us in a situation where they could amuse themselves by playing dominoes as a change from politics, and I have formed the opinion that you are not the type of man that would care to be restricted to the game of dominoes for the duration of the war. Since you are not a pacifist, will you please explain the nature of your interest in the International Workers’ Movement?’

  ‘As you’ve pointed out yourself, sir, this war has split the Movement from top to bottom. Some of its members consider that nothing can possibly justify the horrors of a fresh war; others, intensely anti-Nazi and anti-Fascist, are all in favour of a war provided that it brings about the collapse of the Dictator countries. It is in the latter group that I am interested.’

  ‘You wished, then, to contact Madame Dubois for the purpose of getting in touch with the German Labour people who are plotting to overthrow the German Government. Finding that she had met with an accident and could not be interviewed you decided that you would try to get the information you required by going through her papers without her knowledge, and attempted to seduce her servant in order to further this plan.’

  ‘That is the situation exactly, sir.’

  ‘Good. We progress. You are not a British Secret Service agent. We of the Deuxième Bureau have the closest possible relations with our good friends in your Military Intelligence. If you had been acting for that department you would not have been in this room for one minute before giving me an indication of that fact. For whom, therefore, are you working?’

  ‘For myself. Since I couldn’t get into the Army again I decided to try to serve my country in some other way, and fomenting trouble in Germany seemed to offer possibilities.’

  ‘I fear that either you are not telling me the truth, Monsieur Sallust, or that you have a very great opinion of your own abilities. How is it possible for an individual Englishman to influence the course of events in an enemy country unless he has certain data given him to work upon by somebody who is on the inside of high politics? Are you quite sure that you were not sent by some statesman or other pers
on of importance to operate privately on their behalf? Politicians, you know, are not always in agreement with their Governments and quite frequently indulge in a little private enterprise. I think you’d better tell me the truth.’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the mark there, sir, but you’re right in implying that no individual can do as I intended without influential backing. I’m rather a vain chap, but you’ve made it quite clear to me that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve been very stupid and given your people a lot of trouble, but as I certainly haven’t done any damage to the Allied cause I hope you’ll treat my case leniently and let me go home with my tail between my legs.’

  ‘If only I were quite certain in my mind nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ the little man purred, ‘but there are just one or two points upon which I would like you to satisfy me first. Four thousand, two hundred and twenty Reichsmarks in notes were found in your shoes. What was your object in carrying this considerable sum in enemy currency concealed upon your person?’

  ‘I had hoped, sir, that if I could get the information I wanted from Madame Dubois I might be able to smuggle myself into Germany and stir up some trouble there for the Nazis. I put the notes in my shoes only because I didn’t like to risk losing the money by carrying it loose in one of my pockets.’

  ‘Quite understandable. A wise precaution and a very laudable idea. And now that you have made me quite happy on that score perhaps you will tell me why you were carrying this pretty thing?’

  With a sudden jerk of his hand the Colonel threw the golden swastika on to his desk, where it gleamed solitary and potent in the wide, empty space.

  ‘Oh, that!’ Gregory laughed. ‘It’s just a charm—the Nazi symbol reversed. I carry it for luck.’

  The Colonel shook his head. ‘Unfortunately I am one of those very practical people, Monsieur Sallust. I do not believe in luck and this, I understand, was found in a secret pocket in the end of your tie.’

  ‘Well, sir, if you must know the truth it once belonged to a very beautiful woman and I carry it for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘Indeed! And of what nationality was this lady?’

  ‘She was a German.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘No, really, sir!’ Gregory’s only refuge was to imply that he had had an affair with the young woman. ‘It isn’t fair to ask me to disclose that; she—er—used to wear the little token tied on to her undies.’

  ‘Her status, then?’

  ‘Oh, she was just a wealthy German girl whom I met while she was staying in London.’

  ‘Wealthy?’ repeated the Colonel quizzically, a faint smile lighting his monkey-like face for the first time. ‘You do not confine yourself, then, to your interest in the German Workers’ Movement?’

  Gregory saw that he had blundered. He should never have given away the true status of the original owner of the swastika. To his distress the little Colonel sat up abruptly and said:

  ‘I have much to do, Monsieur Sallust, so you will forgive me if I terminate this interview now. On your own confession you were seeking to get into touch with Madame Dubois, a person with dangerous political antecedents and connections. You attempted to gain access to her private papers. You were carrying over four thousand Reichsmarks concealed about you, also an emblem similar to that which is generally associated with the Nazi Government. You state furthermore that the reason for your carrying this symbol is an intimate association with a German lady of good standing. I fear therefore that we must detain you until further investigations have been made into your real reasons for this visit to Paris. Good morning.’

  Gregory shrugged his shoulders but made no protest. The little man’s manner was so decisive that he knew he would only be wasting his breath. Bowing to the Colonel he allowed Ribaud to shepherd him from the room and back to his cell.

  On thinking things over he was not unduly depressed. Apart from the facts they had already obtained the French Secret Service could bring nothing against him. The French would of course apply to the British Secret Service for information concerning him and the British, having disclaimed all knowledge of his activities in Paris, would furnish them with a dossier substantiating the fact that he was a law-abiding British subject.

  Eventually, therefore, his captors must come to the conclusion that he was just one of the notoriously mad English who, barred from the Army by his age but still extremely active and patriotic, had decided to see what he could do to help win the war on his own without any authority from anyone; just a harmless lunatic, in fact, who had had his head turned by reading too many spy stories late at night.

  It would probably take them several days to arrive at these conclusions, but when they had done so they would hardly be able to find any reason for detaining him further and would presumably release him, though possibly keep him under supervision should they allow him to remain in France.

  Resigning himself to face another spell in prison he asked his warder if he could see Lieutenant Ribaud. When Ribaud came to his cell Gregory requested that somebody might be allowed to buy him some books and that his suitcase with his toilet articles and other necessaries should be collected from the Saint Regis. Ribaud took the list of books that Gregory produced and promised to see to the matter.

  His things arrived during the afternoon so that he was at last able to shave, after which he settled down to the routine of prison life. The food was quite passable and as he was an omnivorous reader he did not mind his confinement very much, finding that he got all the air and exercise he required in the two hours each day for which he was paraded round an inner courtyard with a number of other prisoners.

  For the first few days he did not expect anything further to happen, but the life was unlike that which he had led in the Dutch internment-camp in that here he was kept in solitary confinement and was not allowed even to exchange pleasantries with the warders, let alone to converse freely with the other prisoners whom he saw at exercise. It was irritating not to be able to discuss the developments of the war with anyone, although he kept abreast of them through the papers that he was allowed to buy.

  On the 14th the Royal Oak was torpedoed at Scapa but her loss was more than offset by the news that the Turks had settled their differences with the Russians without jeopardising their pact with the Allies. Two days later the Germans attempted to bomb the Forth Bridge but massed air attacks on Britain still failed to mature. It was a strange war. Except that Britain held the seas practically nothing had come about as had been anticipated and during his enforced inactivity Gregory found his thoughts turning more and more from it to the Lady of the Limousine. It was now over a month since he had met her but her face still haunted him.

  By the end of the week he had still not been re-examined and was beginning to become decidedly impatient, and with the passing of the eighth and ninth days his impatience grew. Surely they would have satisfied themselves about him by this time? The question was, were they bothering to do so? Now that there was a war on the Deuxième Bureau would be absolutely overwhelmed with work. Since they already had him inside they would be devoting all their energies to the catching of other spies. Doubtless a routine inquiry had been put through about him but they would certainly not be troubling to expedite it.

  On the tenth day of his imprisonment Gregory realised that by this time Madame Dubois might be well enough to see him, which meant that from now on every day during which he remained in prison delayed the furtherance of a remote yet definite possibility of bringing the war to a speedy conclusion. However faint its prospects of success nothing could possibly exceed such an aim in importance. It had now become imperative that he must somehow regain his liberty, yet puzzle his wits as he would he could see no way out save that of eating humble pie and calling Sir Pellinore to his assistance.

  All through the eleventh day and most of the following night he wrestled with the problem. Nothing in his life had ever caused him humiliation as bitter as that which he ex
perienced when, on the twelfth morning, he asked his warder for pen and paper and wrote a note for Colonel Lacroix in which he said that if the Colonel would get in touch with Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust he thought that the British Government might arrange for his release.

  During the thirteenth and fourteenth days he fretted impatiently, desperately anxious to be free. The cell seemed to have become smaller and he could no longer enjoy reading even his favourite authors. On the morning of the fifteenth day Ribaud appeared once more and took him upstairs to the Colonel’s room.

  Lacroix was seated as before, in Buddhistic beatitude behind his bare, spotless desk, contemplating his small hands as they lay folded on his middle.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Gregory. ‘As you’ve gathered, I’ve had to throw in the sponge.’

  The little man looked up and smiled. ‘Why didn’t you do so earlier? It would have saved you a very dreary fortnight.’

  ‘I thought you’d find out for yourselves that I was quite a harmless person and release me without my having to obtain outside help and confessing what a fool I’d made of myself.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘I understand that very well. But which of us in this great game we are playing has not at one time or another had to confess to making a blunder? If it is any consolation let me tell you that I twice narrowly escaped being cashiered when I was a younger officer and through over-keenness had failed to go about my work with the requisite caution.’

  Gregory smiled. That is certainly a consolation, coming from a man like yourself, sir. I’m very grateful to you.’

  Colonel Lacroix waved aside the compliment and opening a drawer in his desk produced a telegram which he handed across.

  Gregory picked it up, saw that it was addressed to him and read:

  ‘HAVE DRUNK KÜMMEL MYSELF AND APPLIED TO KENSINGTON BOROUGH COUNCIL FOR ALLOTMENT TO GROW CABBAGES ON YOUR BEHALF GWAINE-CUST.’