The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  A subtle perfume lingered in the hangings of the bed, and as he brushed past them it was wafted to him. He stood there a moment recalling all he had heard of the room’s owner. She was said to be beautiful, dangerous and unscrupulous. She had been the mistress of Hugo Falkenstein, the armaments millionaire, and had a reputation for gallantry. This Countess was a woman of birth and breeding who had gone wrong. She had taste, as the room showed, but it was a taste for luxury overdone. It was the room of a Princess who had become a great courtesan.

  Returning to the maid, he said: ‘I shall wait here. You go to bed now, and remember, if you leave a note or take any other steps to warn the Frau Gräfin of my presence, you will see the inside of a concentration camp.’

  The girl went very pale and stuttered: ‘Nein, nein, Herr Gruppenführer. I’ve said nothing, and I will do exactly as you say.’

  ‘Good. You can go, then.’

  As the maid left him Gregory arranged the door so that it was about a foot ajar and he would be able to hear the Countess when she let herself in and crossed the hall below. He then selected the most comfortable chair and pulled it into position opposite the door. After a moment it occurred to him that when the Countess came upstairs she would see through the partly-open doorway that there was a light in her room, and would realise that somebody was in there. That might lead her to rouse her household before advancing further for fear it was a burglar; so he switched out the light before he sat down.

  It was a dreary business waiting there in the darkness. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on the best way of leaving Munich the following day and to think up some scheme by which he could obtain lower rank badges for his S.S. uniform so that he should not arouse so much comment wherever he went, but his thoughts for once refused to collect themselves in order. Anxious as he now was about the difficulties of retaining his freedom for more than a few hours—or, at the most, days—he was extraordinarily keyed up at the thought that before morning came he would at least have succeeded in making contact with the mysterious and sinister Countess.

  If, as he believed, she held the key to the anti-Hitler conspiracy the worst part of his mission would by then have been accomplished, and even if he were caught afterwards they might have arranged in the meantime some way in which she could complete the job which he had set out to do.

  He heard midnight strike on a grandfather clock down in the hall; one o’clock, two o’clock. He was not tired, because he had had ample sleep in the last few days, but every moment of darkness was precious to him, and if the Countess returned home very late, by the time he had had his conversation with her there might not be very much of the night left in which he might slip away into the friendly shadows for the first steps of his flight from Munich, before his description was issued and the hunt was up in earnest. It was about a quarter-past two when he heard the click of the latch and then the closing of the front door down in the hall.

  Drawing his gun, he slipped back the safety-catch and listened intently. If by chance the gallant Erika had any thought of entertaining a boyfriend upstairs in her room that night, Gregoy did not mean to be caught napping.

  There was no sound of voices and only one set of light footsteps coming up the stairs. Evidently she had returned unaccompanied or had dismissed her escort on the doorstep without offering him a drink.

  Firm, brisk steps were coming along the short corridor. The door swung open. Gregory sat there holding his breath. The lights flashed on. Erika von Epp stood there framed in the doorway, Gregory gave a gasp of surprise and came slowly to his feet. Erika von Epp was the lovely lady of the Limousine.

  29

  Satan’s Children

  Her eyes opened wide in blank surprise; then she smiled. ‘So you decided to play burglar, or bribed your way in, and came up here to wait for me? How very clever of you!’

  Gregory had hardly recovered from his astonishment. He stammered. ‘You—you are the Countess von Osterberg—aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course, although I prefer to be known by my maiden name, Erika von Epp.’ She closed the door behind her and walked slowly towards him. ‘But why d’you look so surprised? You knew my name, you must have known it, to connect me with this house.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. You never told me what it was, and I’ve had to leave you so suddenly after both our meetings that each time I’ve forgotten to ask you. I know quite a lot about Erika von Epp, though.’

  ‘Indeed; and what have you heard about her?’

  His lips twitched into a smile. ‘People who should know say that she is the most dangerous woman in Europe.’

  She pulled off the short, dark fur coat that threw up the halo of her golden hair to such perfection, and cast it on a near-by chair. ‘Perhaps I am. My enemies certainly believe me to be a modern Lucretia Borgia. But what do you think, having known me without knowing anything about my terrifying reputation?’

  ‘Dear Erika.’ He took her hand and kissed it lightly. ‘Quite a number of people have had good cause to regard me, too, as one of Satan’s children.’

  ‘Satan’s children,’ she repeated with a low laugh. ‘What a lovely phrase! And birds of a feather, eh? Yes. We’re the type who have no illusions, and no scruples about the way we get anything we’ve fixed our hearts upon, so we’re evil people to come up against.’

  ‘Yet we can be loyal and gentle to those we love.’

  There was nothing of the round, doll-like china-blue about her eyes. They were deep in colour and oval in shape. For a moment they held his fixedly as she said:

  ‘You told me tonight that you were in love with me. Was that true?’

  ‘Of course. Why should you doubt it? I had no axe to grind, no earthly reason in the world to tell you except that for these last seven weeks two glimpses of your face, the sound of your voice and the touch of your lips have haunted me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Why, after all, should I not believe that? You’re not the first; you won’t be the last. Men have been falling for me ever since I was seventeen. It was only that I thought, just for a moment, that you did perhaps know all the time who I was and had taken that line as a British Secret Service agent.’

  ‘I swear to you I didn’t know; and I’m glad of that now, because I might not have fallen for you so readily if I had,’

  ‘It makes no difference to you, then, that instead of being, as you probably supposed, a nice young girl, I am a woman—yes, let us be frank—a woman with a very shady reputation?’

  ‘Not an iota. Haven’t I told you already that I’m one of Satan’s children? I’ve always held life up at the end of a pistol and taken the best it could give me regardless of the consequences.’

  ‘So you, too, are a conscious hedonist? Ah well, it would be a dreary world if there weren’t a few pagans like us left to defy the conventions with which the timid herd would like to shackle us. But if you didn’t know my name, what are you doing here? And how did you get upstairs into my room?’

  ‘Getting up here wasn’t difficult. I called this morning just after you’d gone out and I threatened your poor maid with the dirtiest penalties the Gestapo could inflict if she told you anything about it. When I came back this evening I made her bring me up here because I didn’t want to be seen by anyone you might, perhaps, have brought in for a drink when you got home. Then I packed her off to bed. As for the reason of my seeking out the famous Erika von Epp’—Gregory produced the golden swastika with a flourish—‘I wished to return this to her.’

  ‘The symbol of peace opens all doors among the right thinking,’ she murmured, turning the little charm over curiously in her long fingers. ‘Tell me; where did you find it?’

  ‘I didn’t. A good-looking young Guards officer found it caught in his sock when he undressed to go to bed early one summer morning. It was the only concrete thing by which he could convince himself that he had just returned from a night in Paradise.’

  ‘Dear Jimmy!’ she smiled reminiscently. ‘He was a very sweet person a
nd damnably good-looking. It was fun for the little time it lasted. “Ships that pass in the night,” you know, and the wireless spark that unites them for a moment before they draw apart again on their paths across the desolate ocean. I was right, then, in thinking that he was not such a fool as he looked. I didn’t dare let a word drop to anybody who mattered while I was in London; there are too many Nazi spies there. But I felt certain he wasn’t covered—he wasn’t important enough—yet he evidently had the sense to turn in that toast which we drank together to the Army and the speedy return of the old days. It was a line thrown out almost at random but I hoped that someone would pick it up and use it to communicate with me. How strange that person should be you!’

  ‘Yes. And if only I’d known who you were weeks ago, when we first met outside Coblenz! Still, the line’s established now. What can you tell me of the German Army leaders who are conspiring to overthrow Hitler?’

  ‘Achtung!’ she put a finger to her lips and cast a nervous glance round. ‘Since we’re to talk of such things we must do so in whispers. One never knows who is watching and listening, even in the privacy of one’s own bedroom.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting for you here for over two hours so I think I should know if anyone was lurking behind the curtains.’

  All this time they had been standing face-to-face, but now she moved away from him and pointed to the doors at the far end of the room near her bed.

  ‘Just make certain that there’s no one in the bathroom or in the clothes-closet. You must be hungry and thirsty after your long wait. I’ll slip downstairs and get some wine and Brötchen, then we will talk. Here! ’ She thrust the swastika into his hand. ‘As you have carried this for so long, you may keep it.’

  He thanked her with a smile, and although he had already examined the other rooms he knew that in Nazi Germany one could not be too careful. There might be a Gestapo spy among her servants who had taken up a position there on hearing her enter the house, so as she left the room he drew his gun and walked towards the bathroom. Flinging open the door and switching on the light he found it as he had expected—empty. He also made a swift re-examination of the clothes-closet, but there was no one there.

  Returning to the bedroom he waited patiently until Erika reappeared, carrying a heavy tray with fruit, glasses, two bottles of champagne and a selection of cold delicacies spread on half-rolls.

  Gregory smiled as he took it from her and set it on a low table. ‘Two bottles, eh? You must have guessed, I think, that half a bottle only increases my thirst.’

  ‘And mine,’ she said quietly. ‘It is French, too. I’ve always believed in keeping a good cellar and I added a hundred cases of Veuve Cliquot to it just before the war, as a precaution.’

  He laughed. ‘With the German tax on French wines, that must have cost you a packet.’

  ‘Not as much as you might suppose. My good friend, Hermann Goering, arranged the matter for me.’

  ‘Goering?’ he repeated, lowering his voice. ‘Is he in this? I had an idea that he might be.’

  ‘No—at least I don’t think so. But he’s the only decent one among the Nazi leaders and I have known Hermann since I was a little girl.’

  While Gregory opened one of the bottles she picked up a Brötchen and bit into it with her strong white teeth.

  ‘Is that smoked salmon you’re eating there?’ he exclaimed. ‘And by jove! By the colour of it I believe that’s real butter!’

  ‘Of course,’ she nodded, still chewing her mouthful. ‘It’s all tinned. But what would you? Anyone who remembers the last Great War is a fool if during peace he could afford to do so, yet did not lay in adequate stocks for this one. Because Hitler goes crazy I see no reason why one should starve.’

  ‘You can’t remember the last Great War, though.’

  ‘Can’t I? How old do you think I am?’

  ‘You probably expect me to say twenty-three, but you have no need of flattery and I am not going to give it to you. When I first saw you I put you down as twenty-six.’

  She smiled. ‘I believe you. But I was born in 1911 so you see I’m twenty-eight. I was going to my first school at the time of the Armistice and in Germany the years that followed the war were even worse than the years of the war itself. It was the ghastly time we went through then that made me what I am.’

  Gregory had filled two goblets with champagne. He handed one to her and lifted the other, smiling into her eyes. ‘Well, anyway, here’s to us—Satan’s children!’

  ‘Satan’s children!’ she repeated, smiling back and drinking a long draught of the golden wine.

  ‘I know how grim things were in Germany after the last Great War,’ he went on, ‘and since you speak of that time so bitterly, I take it that you haven’t always had so much money?’

  She nodded. ‘Those years were terrible beyond belief. Half the men of the aristocracy, many of our best and bravest, had been killed in the war. Even those who survived were nearly all suffering from war wounds, and the hatred of the whole people was our portion. As Germany had lost the war and could not take her suffering out on her enemies she blamed the officer caste for having led her into it. Our estates were seized, and our investments were no longer worth the paper they were written on once the mark had gone tumbling into the abyss. They would not even give us jobs if they could find other people to do the work. The Jews got their claws into us and stole all that we had left: our jewels, our furs, our antiques, our cellars of wine and everything we had managed to save that was of any value. They all went for a few marks which were barely sufficient to keep us for a week or two in bread.

  ‘I, Erika von Epp, who as a child had known every care and comfort, even during the war years, grew up in a little Munich flat that was hardly better than a tenement. We hadn’t even the facilities to wash ourselves properly, our clothes were of such poor quality that I was half-frozen by the cold each winter and for weeks on end I suffered virtual starvation.

  ‘Friends of my elder sister—married women as well as girls—were forced to haunt the big hotels and become prostitutes in order to keep their helpless old parents, or their husbands and brothers—gallant officers, whose war wounds deprived them of any possible hope of employment.

  ‘I didn’t have to do that, because I was pretty enough to get a man for myself. At seventeen, within a week of having managed to land a job in a Munich store, I became the mistress of one of the departmental heads. What a come-down for the proud Erika von Epp, eh? But he wasn’t a bad fellow, and it meant security, and that was what mattered; warmth and at least enough food to eat for my family and myself. And, young as I was, I was shrewd enough to know that the tiny flat he gave me was a better proposition than hawking myself to casual foreign visitors and rich men, by which I might have made more money for the time being but would certainly have lost my looks through sitting drinking half the night in the dubious dance-places. D’you blame me?’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘No. Since the whole of your own caste was down and out and there was no hope of your making a decent marriage, you were very wise to save yourself for better times. I bet you didn’t remain the mistress of that departmental head for long, though.’

  She laughed. ‘No. Poor Otto only lasted for a few months. One night he was fool enough to bring one of his Directors back to dinner, and of course the inevitable happened. That was, I think, the worst thing I ever did, because he was old and I had to set my teeth to prevent myself from screaming every time he touched me. But he was rich, and he had many influential friends. By that time Otto was willing to marry me, so I could have become respectable if I’d wished, but I deliberately took on that old beast, Horsfelich, because I knew that through him I’d secure the things I’d always longed for—the things that were my right by birth and beauty.

  ‘There were a lot of men after Horsfelich; some I liked, some I didn’t, but by that time I’d become completely cynical and each of them was a new milestone on the road to power and wealth. When I was twent
y I met Hugo Falkenstein, the Jewish armaments millionaire. I’d been brought up to detest the Jews and all they stood for; to consider them a race apart, unclean, only to be tolerated because some of them had brains and could be made useful—as was the attitude of all well-born Germans in the Kaiser’s day. Cynical as I was it had never even entered my head that I might one day become the mistress of a Jew. Yet I did; and not, as you might suppose, because I was greedy for a share of his millions. I already had plenty of money, expensive clothes and even quite good jewels by the time I met Hugo. I became his mistress because I loved him. But why am I telling you all this?’

  Gregory smiled across at her, drinking in the perfection of her beauty. Except for the little wrinkles round the corners of her eyes, caused by laughter, there were no lines upon her face. It seemed impossible that she had been through so much because she appeared so fresh and unspoilt. But he knew that that must be because of the spirit that animated her; unquestionably she must be a girl of enormous courage to have lived as she had done and yet not to have allowed those sordid early years to get her down. In answer to her question he said:

  ‘You’re telling me about yourself because you know that every single thing about you interests me intensely.’

  She shook her head. ‘No; it’s not exactly that. It’s because I want you to know the real me, I think. With most men I hide the skeletons of my dead affaires. They’re nothing to be proud of, and generally I try to avoid anything which reminds me even vaguely of those nightmare years of my early youth. Except to Hugo I’ve never before confessed to any man that I sold myself to get on in the world, because it’s almost impossible to do that and keep a man’s respect. But with you, somehow, I felt that I could. Perhaps that’s because, although this is only the third time that we’ve met, our meetings have been in such extraordinary circumstances that they’ve brought us together much more intimately than ordinary meetings would have done. I’ve thought about you a lot in these last weeks, although it seemed quite pointless, and I’ve kicked myself for a fool for doing so. You’re bright and brave and I’m sure you know that you’re horribly attractive. If I hadn’t let you kiss me when we were in the car together things might have been different, but that seemed to do something to me, and night after night I’ve hardly been able to get to sleep through wondering if you got away safely and what had happened to you. Perhaps I’m a fool to tell you that, but I don’t think so because I do believe you love me, and although I’m as proud as Lucifer with most people I’ve got no pride at all where anyone I really like is concerned.’