The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  On each landing there were squads of officers, and more machine-guns placed in position to command the corridors. Every room had now been searched and its occupants temporarily arrested. Only the Sons of Siegfried, enjoying their monthly dinner, still had no idea that anything unusual was happening.

  Von Pleisen advanced down a long corridor. At the end of it was a pair of big double doors. More officers with machine-guns were on guard outside them. At his signal two officers suddenly stepped forward and flung the doors open.

  Without any weapon in his hand von Pleisen entered the great banqueting-room, his officers crowding in behind him. Between two heads Gregory was able to catch a glimpse of the long tables, groaning with food while Berlin was already half-starving. There were champagne and hock in the ice-buckets. In the chairman’s place of honour, right in the centre of the top table, sat Heinrich Himmler himself, the big-headed but pasty-faced, chinless chief of all the police of the Third Reich, the man who had ordered the torture, mutilation and death of thousands. On his right sat Heydrich and on his left Deutsch, the respective chiefs of the State Police and the Gestapo. The rest of the diners were nearly all officers; Colonels, Majors or Captains. Most of them wore the tabs of the German General Staff, but here and there was a black-uniformed S.S. man.

  Gregory could not see the whole room, but as far as he could judge three or four hundred of the Sons of Siegfried were present. Their laughter and conversation suddenly ceased as von Pleisen strode straight into the room. Knives and forks clatted to the plates; some of the diners half-rose in their places.

  The momentary hush was broken by von Pleisen as he cried in a ringing voice: ‘The day of those who have disgraced Germany is done! In the name of the German Army and the German people I place every man here under arrest. Any show of resistance will be met by …’

  A solitary pistol shot rang out from somewhere on the left side of the room. General Count von Pleisen’s words were cut short. He clutched at his chest, swayed and fell, shot through the heart.

  The monocled Prince who was beside him pressed the trigger of the sub-machine-gun he was holding. Its burst of fire was almost instantly downed in the crash of shots that followed. The Sons of Siegfried had drawn their guns and were firing straight into the mass of officers jammed in the doorway.

  For a second they seemed to waver. Many of them fell, but the mass behind forced the others forward with irresistible pressure and with cries of ‘Down with Hitler!’ they streamed into the room.

  Gregory had known battle on the Somme and in the Ypres salient, he had also been in many a gun-fight, but never in his life had he witnessed anything to compare with the incredible carnage that followed. It took place under the thousand-watt lights of the great crystal electroliers, so every detail of the scene was plain and vivid. Six hundred men were fighting there in one hideous mass; leaping upon tables, hurling chairs, crawling on hands and knees to try and escape the withering fire of the automatics and machine-guns.

  Plates, glasses, food and flowers were trampled underfoot, Silver epergnes and wine-coolers crashed over. Bullets hummed, thudded and whined, in ever direction, and the noise of six hundred weapons all being used at once was utterly deafening.

  He saw one man’s head severed from his shoulders by a spray of machine-gun bullets. A Nazi shot a General who was within a foot of him but next instant had his face smashed in with the end of a broken bottle. The banqueting-hall was a hell of curses, shouting, shots and blood—blood everywhere as it streamed and gushed from the wounded and dying men on to the carpets and the white table-cloths.

  With both his guns blazing he hurled himself into the fray. He felt certain that he had accounted for two of the Nazis at the top table but could not be dead sure, because such a spate of lead was flying that many of the dying had been absolutely riddled with bullets before toppling over and crashing to the floor.

  Within two minutes he found himself practically debarred from taking further part in the slaughter as von Pleisen’s officers had mingled with the Sons of Siegfried who were also nearly all in officer’s uniforms. They knew each other, but he did not know which was which and so dared not fire at any of them for fear of killing a friend. He could only look swiftly round him in a wild endeavour to seek out any S.S. men upon whom he could help to execute justice.

  Suddenly his eye lit upon a big, paunchy, black-uniformed figure, with fair hair cut en brosse. It was Grauber. With all a maniac’s lust to kill, Gregory dashed towards him.

  The Gestapo chief was in one of the less crowded corners of the room. He shot one of von Pleisen’s officers between the eyes as Gregory leaped on to a table. The officer’s knees sagged and he fell with blood spuring from his head. Having secured a second’s breathing-space Grauber looked swiftly round, his still-smoking automatic clutched in his hand. Suddenly he saw Gregory spring from the table. Recognition and hate dawned in his eyes. Raising his pistol he took calm aim and fired.

  Gregory felt the bullet sear through his left shoulder like a white-hot iron. Its impact brought him up short and half-twisted him round. One of his guns dropped from the now nerveless fingers of his left hand. He staggered, lost his balance and fell.

  As he struggled to his knees he felt a hand grab him by his sound arm and pull him to his feet. It was von Hohenlaub carrying out his dead chief’s last order, to look after him.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Gregory gasped. ‘And I must get Grauber! He’s my pigeon—mine.’ But as he staggered forward again he saw that Grauber had disappeared.

  A moment later he caught sight of his enemy once more. A huge, crop-headed Prussian, who stood six feet four and towered above the others, was rallying the Sons of Siegfried. A hundred or more of them had fought their way to the service-entrance, overwhelmed the officers who had been set to guard it and were now backing out of the banqueting-room, firing as they went. Grauber was among them.

  ‘Quick!’ cried Gregory. ‘I’ve got to get that devil there!’

  The monocled Prince had taken von Pleisen’s place as leader of the officers. With a staccato command that rang out even above the hellish din he ordered them to the attack. Shouting ‘Down with Hitler! Death to the Gestapo!’ they launched themselves forward. Gregory and von Hohenlaub were carried forward in the rush.

  People were screaming, cursing, fighting hand to hand. The struggling mass swayed through the service doors. A batch of the Sons of Siegfried was driven into a pantry and massacred there, but the majority of them escaped down the service staircase.

  Gregory tried to keep his eyes fixed on Grauber while almost automatically warding off blows with his sound arm. For nearly three minutes he lost him; then he saw him again, half-way down the stairs.

  On the first-floor landing the fight was raging with unabated ferocity. Many of the Sons of Siegfried had now succeeded in reaching the ground floor and were endeavouring to break out of the hotel. Others had scattered, seeking safety in the corridors and rooms around.

  ‘There he goes!’ yelled von Hohenlaub as Grauber dashed down a passage, and they pelted after him. For a second they lost him again as he disappeared round a corner, but on reaching it they were just in time to see him fling himself through an open doorway. The door slammed behind him.

  ‘We’ve got him now!’ panted Gregory, and as they reached the door he turned, drew back, and lifting his foot brought the full weight of his boot crashing on it.

  The lock gave with a splintering sound and they plunged into the room. Grauber was there, crouching behind a bed, his pistol levelled. For all his hate, Gregory’s sanity had returned and he knew that he must take him alive, so he aimed for Grauber’s pistol-arm and pressed the trigger of his gun. It gave only a faint click; he had used up all its bullets and its magazine was empty.

  Almost at the same instant Grauber fired, but his eyes were wild and his hand shaking. He had lost his nerve, and the bullet sang past Gregory’s head to bury itself with a thud in the plaster of the wall.

  Grauber f
ired again, but Gregory had already sprung aside. Next second his arm flew up and he hurled his empty weapon straight into Grauber’s face. The heavy pistol struck him with terrific force, its barrel gouging his left cheek and entering his eye. With a shriek of agony he staggered back, dropping his gun and clasped his hand to his injured face.

  Gregory’s left arm hung limp by his side but he dashed round the bed and with his right hand seized Grauber by the collar. Von Hohenlaub sprang after him and jabbed his automatic into Grauber’s stomach.

  ‘Don’t kill me!’ he screamed, taking his hands from his face and feebly trying to push von Hohenlaub back. ‘Don’t kill me!’

  ‘Take us to the Countess von Osterberg,’ yelled Gregory.

  Grauber stood there rocking from side to side with pain. His left eye was pulped. Blood was trickling from it and from the great gash in his cheek. He put his hand back over the hideous wound and moaned. ‘If—if I take you to her—you’ll only kill me—when we get there.’

  ‘You rat!’ snarled Gregory. ‘I’d love to choke you where you stand. But we’ll spare your filthy life—anyhow for the moment—by placing you under preventive arrest. That’s the best we can do for you.’

  ‘All—all right,’ Grauber gasped, then he lurched and suddenly slid down on the floor.

  ‘He’s fainted,’ said von Hohenlaub. Stooping, he hauled Grauber up on to the bed.

  ‘Hell!’ exclaimed Gregory. ‘Every second’s precious. At any moment now they may start to shell the Gestapo prison. Get some water from that basin and sling it in the swine’s face. I’d do it but he winged me and I’ve only got one arm left to work with.’

  While von Hohenlaub ran to the fixed basin Gregory examined his own wound as well as he could. Now that the excitement of the fight was over it had begun to pain him badly. The bullet had gone right through his left shoulder and he had lost a lot of blood; his left sleeve was saturated with it.

  Grabbing up a light towel von Hohenlaub soaked it in water and dabbed it at the horrible mess that had once been Grauber’s eye, then he adjusted the towel over the wound as a rough bandage. Grauber began to groan again.

  Von Hohenlaub turned to Gregory. ‘Let me look at your shoulder!’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘Thanks, but don’t bother. I’m all right, and it would only waste vital moments. You might help me into this overcoat, though.’

  With his good hand he had taken an Army officer’s greatcoat from a peg behind the door. It was a bitterly cold night and he had had to leave Erika’s flat without the civilian overcoat of Count von Osterberg that he had been using. The Army coat probably belonged to one of the Sons of Siegfried who had been staying the night in the hotel for the banquet. In any case he felt that he had earned it, and it would both keep him warm and serve to hide his blood-soaked garments.

  As von Hohenlaub helped him into it Grauber opened his good eye and began to blaspheme between his groans of pain. They seized him by the arm, pulled him off the bed and hustled him out into the corridor.

  Hauling him along between them they got him down to the lounge. It was empty now except for a little crowd of terrified civilians cowering in one corner, a number of dead and wounded officers scattered about the floor and a small group standing round the telephone at the hall-porter’s desk.

  Von Hohenlaub paused for a moment to speak to a Colonel who had just finished taking notes from a General who was holding the telephone receiver.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  The Colonel grunted. ‘Hitler, Goebbels, Hess and Streicher have escaped, damn them. The bomb went off all right and the Bürgerbräu Keller is reported to be in ruins, but for some unknown reason the Führer and his personal gang left the building twenty-five minutes before the explosion was timed to take place.’

  ‘Teufel nochmal!’ swore von Hohenlaub. ‘What filthy luck! But if we can hold Berlin there’s a good chance we’ll be able to hunt him and the rest of his crew down tomorrow.’

  At that moment there was a terrific explosion.

  ‘God! What’s that?’ Gregory exclaimed.

  ‘Gestapo Headquarters in the Alexanderplatz,’ replied the Colonel. ‘We didn’t like to tell poor von Pleisen, because he was so squeamish about these rats. But we feared they might make it a rallying-point, so among some cases of wine which were delivered there this morning we put one which was full of T.N.T. It won’t wreck the whole building—the place is far too big, of course—but it may have the effect of panicking them so that we can get our men in before they’ve had a chance to organise any serious resistance.’

  Beads of perspiration started out on Gregory’s forehead. Erika was there, in the Gestapo Headquarters. The wine would have been taken to the cellars, so the explosion might have occurred quite near the cell in which she was confined. If so she would now be crushed to a mass of scarlet pulp beneath a ton of fallen masonry.

  ‘How’re things going here?’ von Hohenlaub asked swiftly.

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ muttered the Colonel. ‘About half the Siegfrieders managed to fight their way out and they’re fighting in the streets now. We’ve got the Broadcasting Station and the Telephone Exchange so we’ve been able to cut off all communication with the outside world, but the swine are reported to be barricading themselves into their barracks and those barracks are going to be a hard nut to crack.’

  Gregory gritted his teeth. They could hear the sharp reports of rifles and the ‘rat-tat-tat’ of machine-guns coming through the open doorway. The Gestapo Headquarters was one of those barracks which the Colonel had mentioned. It was equipped like a fortress with masses of arms and even with light artillery. In spite of the explosion which must have wrecked a portion of its basement, it might become another Alcazar. Its garrison of hundreds of S.S. men might hold it for days and even if Erika had survived the effects of the bomb, it was certain that before the Gestapo surrendered they would kill all their prisoners so that their victims should not give evidence against them.

  Out in the street von Hohenlaub’s car was still waiting, its military chauffeur at the wheel. As they pushed Grauber into it there was a dull, distant roar; the artillery had come into action.

  ‘Gestapo Headquarters, quick as you can!’ von Hohenlaub ordered.

  As the car started off Gregory closed his eyes and began to pray again. ‘Save her, dear God—save her from those shells. Oh, I beg Thee to give her Thy mighty protection. Guard her and keep her from all ill till I can get there.’

  There were many more people in the streets than there had been half an hour before. Black-out orders were being ignored. Half a dozen light tanks came rattling by at forty miles an hour with their lights full on. Civilians were running through the streets flashing torches on one another. The firing told them what was happening, and they were seeking out the Nazis to wreak a terrible vengeance on them. At one crossroad they saw a Brown-Shirt who had been kicked to death and a woman who was still beating his face to a pulp with a broom-handle. An S.S. man dashed across the street right in front of the car, with a howling mob at his heels.

  After a few moments the car was forced to slow down by a crowd that spread right across the roadway. The driver hooted but they would not make way, so he had to bring it to a standstill.

  Von Hohenlaub thrust his head out of the window and shouted to a man near by: ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘It’s the Nazis,’ replied the man. ‘They’ve made a sortie from the Gestapo barracks and formed cordons across every street for half a mile around it. They’re using hand-grenades and tear-gas.’

  Gregory dug the nails of his good hand into its palm. Whoever was directing the defence knew his business. Instead of waiting in their barracks to be shelled to hell, the Black Guards had come out to give battle. If the Gestapo were holding a square mile right in the centre of the city other Nazi units might succeed in defending other big areas. The Nazis were all picked men. well-organised and resolute, and they must know now that if they failed to quell the
rebellion they would receive no mercy. In their desperation they might yet succeed in overcoming the comparatively small forces that formed the Berlin garrison.

  If it had not been for von Pleisen’s chivalry such a situation could not have arisen. Had he allowed the Prince to have his way; had he mown down the Sons of Siegfried directly the banqueting doors had been thrown open, they would all have been killed or captured. As it was, that moment’s respite had enabled them to draw their weapons and give battle. Many of them had escaped and some of them must have succeeded in reaching the telephones and sending out an alarm before the exchange had been seized or the troops had reached the zero-hour positions.

  Gregory could only hope now that his Army friends would triumph, but it was anybody’s battle. In the meantime the guns continued to thunder, sending shell after shell into the Gestapo barracks. Erika was a prisoner there, and there was no possible way in which he could reach her.

  The faces of Rosenbaum, Gautier, Wachmuller and all the others rose again before him. He had done his job but he still dragged that terrible trail of scarlet death behind him. And now it had reached the woman he loved so desperately—the woman he loved as he had never loved anyone in his life before.

  Grauber had roused himself and had temporarily ceased his moaning. Suddenly he gave a weak chuckle. ‘Well, Mr. Sallust, so you’re the loser after all. You’ll never get through to Gestapo Headquarters now till the place is a shambles, but you promised me my life if I did my best, and you’re the sort of fool who keeps his promises.’

  ‘Yes, I keep my promises,’ said Gregory fiercely, ‘but you haven’t carried out your end of the bargain. You were to take us to the Countess, and you’ve failed. So I’m going to kill you here and now for the murderous swine you are.’

  ‘Stop! Wait!’ Grauber exclaimed, shrinking back into his corner as Gregory lifted his gun. ‘I—I might be able to. But will both of you swear to give me your protection afterwards?’