The Black Baroness gs-4

by Dennis Wheatley

  'It seems to have escaped your memory that I've done a few other little jobs on my own account since then,' said Gregory mildly.

  'I know, I know.' Sir Pellinore brushed up his great white cavalry moustache as he strode over to a side-table, where he proceeded to pour out two handsome rations of old, bone-dry Manzanilla sherry.

  'The way you bluffed Hermann Goering into sending you to Finland was an epic, and that German programme for world conquest that you got us was worth its weight in hundred-pound bank-notes. But after that I suppose you felt that you had earned a holiday and went to Norway for some fishing.'

  'That's it,' Gregory grinned. 'I had good sport, too; only, instead of salmon, I was after water-rats.'

  'So I gathered. And if only the Government had acted on your information we wouldn't be in our present ghastly mess. But what have you been up to since the invasion?'

  'Oh, I saved King Haakon's life several times and pottered round a bit, generally.'

  'Ha, that sounds interesting. Tell me about it.'

  'I will later on, but first of all what about Erika? I've been worrying myself silly as to whether she succeeded in reaching Holland and managed to get in touch with you.'

  Sir Pellinore's bright-blue eyes twinkled. 'She's safe enough. I think I ought to break it to you gently, though. You've got a rival, Gregory, my boy.'

  'Eh? Say that again,' said Gregory.

  'Yes. After all, you can't expect to leave a lovely woman like that trailing about Europe all on her own without anyone to hold her hand or tuck her up at nights. I will say you're a good picker, though, and she's worth six of that Hungarian witch that you produced some years ago; although Sabine was admittedly an eyeful.'

  A slow smile broke over Gregory's face. 'You old rogue! You've seen her, then?'

  'Yes. Where d'you think I've been these last three days while you've been sleeping your head off in London? That young woman of yours has a pretty taste in food, too. We dined last night at the Fillet de Sole in Brussels.'

  'How was she?'

  'As pink as a peach and as plump as a partridge. And we were getting on famously. Great pity I had to fly home this morning—great pity. Another few days and we'd have got to the tucking-up stage.'

  Gregory helped himself to another glass of the bone-dry sherry as he laughed: 'At your age? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!'

  'What's age got to do with it?' Sir Pellinore ran a large hand over his fine head of white hair. 'A woman's as old as she looks and a man's as old as he feels. Don't be deceived by that rot in Debrett that says I'll never see seventy again. I'm somewhere in the early thirties.'

  'My arithmetic must be at fault, then. I had an idea that way back in the 'eighties you had already acquired a reputation for having an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port.'

  'Ha, you're jealous, eh? That's what makes you dig up that old story. Not a word of truth in it, either.

  Everyone knows that I've lived a life of simple rectitude within my modest means.'

  'I might be able to manage a life of simple rectitude myself if I had your income,' murmured Gregory.

  'What is it now— eighty-thousand a year?—or have you touched the hundred-thousand mark?'

  "There you are! Jealous again of my little successes in the city. But jealousy won't get you anywhere.

  You know you won't be able to keep that young woman of yours for a week if only we can manage to get her over here.'

  'I wish to God you could,' said Gregory seriously.

  'So do I.' Sir Pellinore stopped his chaffing. 'She's being very useful to us, but I've always held that it's wrong to flog a willing mare. After the many services she has rendered she ought to be brought out of danger for a few months at least, but she's got a bee in her bonnet about its not being right to accept the hospitality of Britain while we're at war with her country. I did my damnedest to persuade her to take a rest but I couldn't budge her an inch.'

  At that moment the elderly butler announced dinner, so they went downstairs, where Gregory found that the war did not, so far, appear to have in the least affected the magnificent kitchen maintained by his plutocratic host. Over the rich, well-chosen meal he told Sir Pellinore of his adventures in Norway and gave him a much more detailed account of the time that he had spent in Germany, Finland and Russia than he had been able to send from Leningrad in the long letter that he had despatched via the Consul there and the Moscow Embassy Bag. The magnum of Louis Roederer 1920 that they drank had lost the exuberance of its youth, but mellowed to the flavour that only age can give, and was perfection from never having been moved out of Sir Pellinore's cellar since the day it had been laid down. They had finished it and were already on the old brandy by the time Gregory came to the end of his recital and, after a short pause, remarked: 'Well, how goes the war?'

  'It doesn't go,' replied Sir Pellinore glumly. 'The Government is dying on its feet and for months past it's been dead from the neck up.'

  Gregory swivelled the old brandy thoughtfully round the very thin, medium-sized, balloon-shaped glass and smelt its rich ethers appreciatively. 'So I rather gathered from the people I've met in the last few days. It seems that the Socialists and the more energetic Conservative back-benchers are getting a bit fed up with Chamberlain.'

  'Chamberlain,' boomed the baronet, 'was right about Munich—right every time. We wouldn't have stood a dog's chance against Hitler if we'd gone to war with him then. Chamberlain was clever enough to trick him into giving us a year to rearm, and in spite of the innumerable things that should have been done and yet were not done, at least the groundwork was laid which saved Britain from immediate and probably irremediable defeat. Whatever may happen to Chamberlain now, when history comes to be written he will assume his rightful place as a great and far-seeing Prime Minister who had the courage to accept the odium for having made Britain eat humble pie over the surrender of Czechoslovakia so that she might have a chance to save herself.'

  'What's the trouble now, then? Is he a tired man, or is it that his heart isn't really in the war?'

  'He's getting on in life and he hasn't been too well, so probably he's feeling the strain; but it's not that, entirely, and I'm convinced that, although he did his absolute utmost to avert this terrible calamity which has overtaken the world, once the war was on he became as determined as any man in this country to do his damnedest to defeat Hitler. He is very shrewd and extraordinarily far-sighted. He only came into politics comparatively late in life and his long experience of business is an enormous asset to him in many ways, but he was raised in the tradition of Birmingham, where for a century past it has been the habit of the great manufacturers to deal honestly with their customers all over the world, but slowly and methodically, on the theory that there's always plenty of time and that it is better to reject an order from a doubtful source than to risk a bad debt by snatching it from under the nose of a competitor.

  'Such methods are of little use when you're up against a gangster. In dealing with Hitler honesty is not the best policy and there is not plenty of time thoroughly to investigate possibilities before every fresh liability is entered into. Risks must be taken, and not a moment of a single day should be lost in reaching definite decisions which may help to bring the war to a speedy conclusion. That is why, although Chamberlain served us well in peace, he is not a good war leader.'

  'But surely,' Gregory interjected, 'there must be many energetic men who are pressing him all the time and stressing the necessity of his developing a more vigorous policy?'

  'There are; but Chamberlain does not trust them. He has a deep-rooted suspicion as to the motives of anyone who even faintly smacks of the "go-getter" mentality and he refuses to recognise that it is the

  "go-getters" who win wars. The trouble is that he's a very unapproachable man; he doesn't make friends easily, but when he does he's very loyal to them and relies upon their opinions which are definitely not the opinions of the nation. He listens only to this
little group of life-long friends, and the tragedy of it is that nearly all these people who hold high office under him are the proved incompetents who served under Baldwin; the men who lowered the prestige of the British Empire to such a parlous state that we dared not even face up to the Italians over the Abyssinian business—let alone tackle the reborn German nation at the time of Munich.'

  'What d'you think'll happen?' Gregory asked.

  'Chamberlain's days as Prime Minister are numbered. Not a doubt of that. This Norwegian affair will be the finish of him. I hope that for his own sake he will retire and leave it to history to vindicate him as a great English gentleman and a fine statesman; but I doubt if he'll do that.'

  'D'you think Churchill will succeed him?'

  'One can only pray that he will.' Sir Pellinore suddenly became enthusiastic. 'Churchill is the most inveterate enemy the Germans have ever had, and it's the Germans that we're fighting. For years he has stood, a defiant and almost solitary figure in the House, warning the nation of the peril into which Baldwin was allowing it to drift. I'm very proud today to be able to say that I have always believed in Churchill—even in his darkest hours, when nearly everyone had turned against him. He has the attributes of real genius in that he would have made a great name for himself in any profession that he had chosen.

  His writings alone would have made him famous, because they have a quality that is unique and outstanding. The Admirals who worked under him when he was First Lord will all tell you that he would have made a great sailor, and had he continued in the Army there is little doubt that he would have gone down to history as a great military commander. He possesses qualities of imagination far beyond those of any of our other leaders and apparently perennial youth, which makes him ready and willing to consider new ideas; a lion's courage and a wonderful human touch which goes straight to the hearts of all who come in contact with him. He has served in practically every high office of the State and his policy with regard to Germany has been consistent, so it is only fair, now that he has been proved right after all these years, that the Premiership should go to him; and what's more, it is the wish of the people.'

  'It seems a foregone conclusion that he'll get it, then.'

  'Unfortunately, that's very far from being the case. The people have no say at all in who is to be Prime Minister. The House of Commons have no say. Even the Cabinet has no say. It rests almost entirely with the outgoing holder of the office. Chamberlain will go to the Monarch and when he hands in his resignation he will suggest his successor. The unwritten constitution is that the Monarch should either accept that nomination or send for the leader of the Opposition; and although we want the Socialists in, because they have some really first-class men like Bevin and Greenwood, they are not strong enough to carry the whole war on their shoulders with the other half of the country distrusting and criticising their every action.'

  'Couldn't the King turn down the outgoing Prime Minister's nomination and send for somebody else who was in the same Party?'

  'He could, but it would be contrary to all precedent and liable to prejudice the detached position of the Throne, the very strength of which lies in its aloofness from the dirt and chicanery of Party politics.

  Therefore it is most unlikely that the Monarch would take such a step even in a major crisis.'

  'In that case Chamberlain may nominate Sir John Simon or Sam Hoare, and from what you say the King's only alternative would be to send for Attlee.'

  Sir Pellinore nodded his white head. 'That's the situation, and it's a very worrying one indeed; because, short of a public upheaval that would split all three parties from top to bottom and force a General Election—which is the very last thing we want just now—there would be nothing at all that anybody could do about it. This will be the last and most momentous decision that Neville Chamberlain is called upon to take; but even hedged in as he is, I don't think he can be in much doubt as to the nation's wish. It now remains to be seen if he really has the greatness with which I credit him and nominates Churchill, who criticised the Government so long and so bitterly before he was taken into the Cabinet, rather than one of his old friends with whom he has seen eye to eye for so many years. Let's go upstairs now, shall we?'

  'Hurrah! The fatted calf!' cried Gregory, as on entering the library his eye was caught by a long-necked, cobwebby bottle which had been set ready on a salver with a corkscrew, duster and glasses beside it.

  'What's that?' Sir Pellinore cocked a bushy white eyebrow.

  'Oh, you mean the pre-1914 Mentzendorff's Kummel. Well, we said we'd knock a bottle off when you got home again—and by Jove you've earned it!' Picking up the duster he carefully cleaned the top of the bottle, inserted the wide, spiral cork-screw and with a skilful twist extracted the cork. He had a theory that even the best of modern servants did not understand the handling of fine liquor so he always insisted on uncorking the greatest rarities from his cellar himself. Having carefully wiped the lip of the bottle he poured out two portions and handed one to Gregory.

  For a full minute they savoured its wonderful bouquet, then lifting his glass Sir Pellinore said: 'To Hell with Hitler!'

  Following his example Gregory added: 'And here's Long Life to Churchill as Britain's Victory Premier and later first Duke of Chartwell.'

  They drank and were silent for another minute; then Sir Pellinore exclaimed: 'Gad! What glorious tipple!

  They don't make stuff like this in Russia these days; but there it is—the whole darned world's gone to pot in this last half-century.'

  'By the by,' said Gregory, 'talking of Russians, did you meet my tame Bolshevik General when you were in Brussels?'

  'What, Kuporopoff? Yes. He's a grand feller—man after my own heart.'

  'Kuporovitch,' Gregory corrected him.

  'That's it. Of course, he's a child compared with me but he's old enough to remember Paris as it was in its heyday. After we'd seen Erika home last night he and I had a rattling good yarn over some '96 Yquem that he had discovered in some pub or other, comparing notes about the high spots. Yes; I liked your friend, Kupothebitch—he's definitely one of us, although he is a foreigner.'

  As he was speaking Sir Pellinore strode across to his desk. Pulling open one of the drawers he produced an envelope which he handed to Gregory. 'Little something for you, my boy; it'll buy you a bottle or two of good liquor while there's still something fit to drink left in this decadent world.'

  Gregory glanced at the contents of the envelope and gave a gasp. It was a cheque for £10,000.

  The elderly baronet was grinning with delight, obviously as pleased as a peacock with himself. 'Surprised you, eh? That extra nought was one more than you bargained for—but you've earned it.'

  'It's—it's positively princely,' Gregory stammered. 'Even if I'd been working for money I shouldn't have expected a tenth of this.'

  'Why not? You've killed more Germans so far in this war than the entire Brigade of Guards, and I'll bet that their keep has cost the nation more than 10,000 Jimmy-o'-goblins.'

  'I can't see the Government setting such a high value on my services, though,' Gregory smiled.

  'Oh—the Government; no, they never have understood that if you want real brains and ability you must be prepared to pay for them. That's why there are so many duds among the Civil Servants. But this is my affair. You carried all that was left of my poor boy back out of the Hell of the Somme, Gregory, and I had only the one—that is, as far as I know—so I've always meant to see to it that you were decently provided for. You've been down in my Will for years for quite a tidy sum, but by the time we've finished with this damned house-painter feller none of us may have any money left to leave anyone. That's why I added the extra nought—thought you might just as well have a bit on account for pocket-money, while the going's good.'

  'I just don't know how to thank you, sir; but I'm sure you know how I feel.'

  'That's all right, my boy; that's all right.' Sir Pellinore gave Gregory's shoulder a little jerky shak
e and turned away to refill the Kummel glasses. 'Now, what are your plans? It's no good my asking you to take a holiday while there's a war on; I know you too well for that, and naturally you're anxious to get back to that pretty wench of yours on the other side.'

  Gregory nodded. 'You must give me her address and I shall want you to get me a new passport visaed for France, Belgium, Holland, Switzerland and Italy; one that Goering had faked for me is good only for the British Empire and Finland.'

  'Right. That shall be done through special channels so that you have it in time to leave on Monday morning's plane. Have you any particular line that you mean to follow up?'

  'No. I was hoping that Erika would have started a hare in Holland or Belgium by the time I was able to join her. But I take it that if she'd got on to anything she would have let you know about it.'

  'She's been doing good work—damn' good work. That, of course, was really why I went on to Brussels after I'd finished in Paris. Her written reports made such interesting reading that I thought it worth the extra time to get further particulars from her by word of mouth. She and your friend—what's-his-name?