The Black Baroness gs-4

by Dennis Wheatley

  'Perhaps. Yes, I suppose so. In all but an open declaration they've got America behind them now, so if they can stick it they'll probably Wear Hitler down in the end.'

  'Then, it comes to a question as to when that end is to be. Britain will certainly not make peace until the Nazis are finished, so the only way of stopping the slaughter is for all of us to concentrate our efforts on defeating them at the earliest possible moment.'

  'Of course—of course. But Belgium has already done everything of which she is capable.'

  'No,' said Gregory. 'There, sir, I can't agree. It still lies in your hands as to whether the war is to be brought to a victorious conclusion in one or two years or not for three or four; and think of the hundreds of thousands of deaths that will lie at your door if it is allowed to drag on for that extra year or two.'

  'I don't understand you. How can what I decide make such an enormous difference? I doubt if my Armies can hold out for another two or three days.'

  'But it is just those two or three days which may mean the difference of two or three years later on. You see, sir, if you order your troops to cease fire now, the British and the three northern French Armies will be outflanked from the north as well as from the south, and they may sustain a major defeat in consequence. If Britain lost, say, fifty per cent of the B.E.F. in one great military disaster the damage to our future war effort would be almost incalculable. It is upon those regular troops that we rely to stiffen arid lead our militiamen, when their training at home has been sufficiently advanced for them to be sent overseas. If thousands of our most experienced officers and N.C.O.s are killed fighting a desperate rearguard action it is going to take us three times as long to make our new Armies effective in the field.

  That is why it is absolutely imperative to the Allied cause that you should fight on and by further sacrifices enable us to shorten the length of the war.'

  The King took out a handkerchief and wearily mopped his face. 'Yes; I see plainly enough that if the British first-line Army is destroyed it will take you years to build up another of anything like its quality, but it wasn't my fault that the French gave way in the south; and that's the real trouble. Now that the Northern Armies are cut off it is impossible to reinforce them, so you can consider the B.E.F. as good as lost. The fact of my Army's fighting on for another few days won't save it.'

  'But it will,' Gregory insisted, 'if immediate action is taken. The B.E.F., the three French Armies and the Belgian Army together, must number at least a million fighting men. Hitler is said to have four million men under arms but more than half of them must be fighting on the southern front or doing garrison duty at home, in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway and Holland. The odds against the Northern Armies can't really be more than two to one, so nothing like sufficient to overwhelm the huge force we have at our disposal, in a few days' fighting.

  'Listen, sir.' Gregory sat forward and went on. 'What I suggest is that you should get on to Lord Gort, the French Commander and your own C.-in-C. and make them settle a new plan between them to throw the whole weight of this million-strong Army in the direction of Menin and Lille, with a breakthrough to the Somme as their objective. I fully appreciate that owing to its present position your own Army will have to form the rearguard and that in such a movement many thousands of men are bound to be killed and captured, but the Germans are now fighting on such a long front that they couldn't possibly resist the weight of a million men hurled at one thirty-mile sector between Bailleul and Tournai. The Northern Armies might lose a hundred thousand—two hundred thousand—men, and you'd have to give up all that is left to you of Belgium, but in such a case even such frightful sacrifices are of comparatively little moment. The thing is that at least three-quarters of a million men would get through, they would win a great victory by cutting off all the German divisions between Albert and the coast and within a week they would have stabilised a new, solid Allied front in the fortified zone which was being held by the British and French before you called them in to help you.'

  'It might be done—it might be done,' muttered the King; 'but think of the slaughter.'

  Under his breath Gregory cursed. He had caught the sound of planes again, and a moment later the bombs roared down. Leopold sat there, his hands clasped tightly together, his knuckles showing white.

  Suddenly he sprang up, crying:

  'No, no! What's the use? My own Army would be absolutely cut to ribbons. I'll not do it! I'm going to save what's left of it.'

  Gregory too had risen. 'Listen, Sire,' he pleaded. 'I'm absolutely convinced that if you ordered the bulk of your Army to retire secretly tonight while a number of units were sacrificed to keep the Germans occupied, and if the British and French commanders gave orders for every man they've got to be flung at the enemy at dawn tomorrow, we'd take the Germans by surprise and make a break-through. But if you won't do that, at least hang on for a few more days to give the French a chance to come to our assistance.'

  Leopold shook his head. 'They won't do that.'

  'Why not? Two-thirds of the French Army have not yet been in action, and it's eight days since Weygand was appointed Generalissimo. He's had time by now to make new dispositions for a counter-offensive. The Germans have been going all out for seventeen days. By this time their lines of communication must be stretched practically to breaking point and their effort almost exhausted.

  Weygand is perhaps the finest strategist in the world. It's virtually certain that he will have been massing a Reserve army somewhere west of Paris and the moment the Germans show signs of weakening he'll launch it north, on Lille. You simply must hang on to give him his chance to restore the whole situation, by breaking through to us since you're not willing to try and break through to him.'

  'So you trust Weygand?' the King asked suddenly.

  'Good God, why not?' Gregory exclaimed in astonishment.

  'I don't. I've never liked the French. That's why I didn't want my Ministers to go to Paris; but they overruled me. You British are too trusting. You think that the French are heart and soul in this with you because Reynaud and Daladier have made some fine speeches; but half the French politicians are rotten, or in Hitler's pay, and if they had the chance they'd stab you in the back tomorrow. If you have any influence with your own Government, tell them to watch the French—and Weygand in particular. There, now I've warned you.'

  'Really, sir,' Gregory protested with a smile, 'I think you're taking rather an exaggerated view of things.

  We all know that there are pro-Nazis like Bonnet among the French, but I find it very difficult to believe that their greatest living General is a traitor.'

  Leopold shrugged. 'All right; I don't blame you—I don't know myself what to believe—that's just the trouble. Half my friends say one thing and half another. There's the Baroness. She's far better informed than most people, and she's been at me for days to chuck my hand in. She says that Hitler has no quarrel with me, or the French, but that it's the British he's determined to smash once and for all. She says that if I ask for an Armistice Hitler will give me decent terms, re-establish my pre-war frontiers and leave me in peace to rule my people. She even adds that he will help me to rebuild my shattered country. On the other hand, there's Yonnie here, who's fooled the Baroness into believing that she's a Nazi. She says that having called the Allies to my assistance, and exposed them to the full onslaught of the superior German forces in open country, I am in honour bound to carry on the war as long as there is a Belgian soldier left capable of standing upright with a rifle in his hand. She tells me that it is better that I should lose every square mile of my country— perhaps for years—perhaps for ever— than that I should lose my soul.

  What am I to do? Who am I to believe? I don't know—/ don't know!'

  'Sir,' said Gregory. 'Why not leave the country? Your co-ruler, the Queen of Holland, has provided you with an admirable precedent; why shouldn't you take the same course? Come with us now in one of your cars to Ostend. There are British ships in the harb
our. Within four hours we'll have you in London, where you'll be free of these damnable air-raids. Then you'll be able to think clearly. Let your Commander-in-Chief carry on for the moment, then tomorrow you can take the final decision in an atmosphere of calm; which is so absolutely essential to weighing such a weighty question.'

  The King stood up. For a moment Gregory thought that he had won. If only he could get Leopold to London, Churchill would imbue him with his lion's spirit and there would be no more talk of Belgium's going out of the war. But once more the accursed droning of aeroplanes came overhead and the bombs crashed and thundered in the fields a few hundred yards away.

  'I can't—I can't!' cried the distraught King. 'They're killing my people throughout the length and breadth of Belgium as we sit here. No—no—no! The German emissaries are waiting upstairs to hear my decision. I've kept my word to you, Yonnie. I promised that I wouldn't sign anything until I had seen your friend, but now I'm through—I'm going to make an end before they kill us all.'

  Suddenly starting from his chair Leopold dashed through the curtains and above the roar of the bombs that were still falling they heard him at the door shouting an order.

  Erika and Gregory looked at each other. 'What can we do? What can we do?' she murmured.

  Gregory made a little helpless gesture with his hands. 'If Hitler's representatives are here already, God knows; but we must make a last effort to stop him somehow.'

  CHAPTER 20

  Between Life and Death

  For a few moments they stood there racking their brains in anxious silence; then the King returned, followed by two strangers. Both were obviously German. The one had the thin, shrewd face of a diplomat; the other looked curiously out of his element in the dark lounge-suit that he was wearing, and Gregory felt certain that he was a General. They both bowed formally to Erika and marched stiffly behind the King to a desk in one corner of the low room, at which he plumped himself down, exclaiming:

  'Well, give it to me.'

  The German who looked like a diplomat unlocked a flat black satchel that he was carrying and took from it two sheets of paper. One was a handwritten letter; probably, Gregory thought, a personal assurance from Hitler that if Leopold asked for an Armistice Belgium would receive generous treatment.

  The other had only a few lines of typescript on it and looked like a formal and unconditional request for a cessation of hostilities.

  The King read the letter through, unlocked a drawer in his desk, slipped the letter inside and relocked it.

  He then picked up the other paper and reached out his hand for his pen. Suddenly Erika started towards him:

  'Not yet,' she gasped. T beg you not to sign that paper yet.'

  The German in the dark lounge-suit took a step forward as though about to lay a hand upon her, but Gregory placed himself between them and stood there scowling at him.

  'Sire,' Erika hurried on, 'if you once put your signature to that paper you will go down in history as a traitor and a coward. You mustn't do it—you mustn't! If you cannot face the obligations into which you have entered you must let others do so for you.'

  Leopold turned to stare at her. His face looked old and haggard, but his mouth was now set in a hard, wilful line that his entourage knew well as marking the pig-headed moods to which he was often subject.

  For a moment he remained silent, then he spoke:

  'I know perfectly well what I'm doing. This is my business— my responsibility. You and your friend ....'

  The rest of his sentence was drowned in the roar of a bomb.

  Erika had gone round behind the desk and was close beside the King. As the bomb crashed she had been fumbling in her handbag. Suddenly, her blue eyes blazing, she pulled out a small automatic and thrust it at him.

  'Here,' she cried, 'Rather than betray your Allies, it is better that you should blow out your brains; and if you haven't the courage to do that I'll do it for you.'

  Gregory heard her words but he was still facing the Germans and had his back towards her. He never knew if she was actually threatening the King with the pistol. At that instant, out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtains move. The Black Baroness stepped through them and in her hand she, too, held a pistol.

  Even as Gregory sprang forward it flashed twice. Erika screamed, stood swaying beside the King for a moment, then fell right across him.

  Gregory swung round in an agony of fear. He was just in time to see her fall before the two Germans flung themselves upon him. He stalled one of them off with a glancing blow across the face; but the other closed with him and for a moment they struggled wildly. There was a trampling of heavy feet; the sound of the shots had alarmed the armed sentry on the door. Thrusting the Baroness aside he dashed into the room and, covering both Gregory and the German with his rifle, yelled at them to put up their hands.

  Flushed and cursing they relaxed their holds. Erika had lost consciousness and the King now stood with her limp form in his arms.

  'You've killed her! You've killed her!' he screamed hysterically at the Baroness. 'I'll have you shot for this.'

  She had slipped the automatic back into the pocket of a little silk coat that she was wearing and she curtsied as calmly as though Leopold had offered to take her in to dinner.

  'As it please Your Majesty,' she said in her soft, musical voice, 'but when I came into the room I saw Madame Rostedal threatening you with a pistol and I was under the impression that I had saved your life.'

  'That's a lie—a lie!' roared Gregory. 'You shot her deliberately, because you knew that she was trying to persuade the King not to sign that accursed paper. But I'll deal with you later. For God's sake, somebody get a doctor!'

  Ignoring the threat of the sentry's rifle he strode across to Leopold. Almost snatching Erika from the King's arms, he carried her over to a sofa, where he knelt down beside her to see if she was dead or only badly wounded. There were two little round holes in her breast that were oozing blood, and as he knelt there staring at them there came the drone of a fresh flight of German bombers. The King, now overwrought beyond endurance, yelled at the sentry:

  'Get out! Get out—and fetch a doctor!' Then swinging on the Baroness. 'You, too, get out, I say.

  Perhaps you meant to save my life—perhaps you didn't—how do I know? But get out of this room—get out, all of you!'

  The Baroness bobbed again and withdrew without any sign of hurry, while the sentry ran to get the King's doctor; but the two Germans did not move. The one who looked like a diplomat pointed at the paper on the desk, and said: 'If you will sign that now, sir, we can take it with us.'

  The building shook as a new stick of bombs rained down, this time on the village. Seizing a pen, the King scrawled his signature, flung the pen down and shouted above the din: 'There! Take it! And for God's sake stop this ghastly bombing!'

  'At once, sir.' The German bowed stiffly as he picked up the paper. 'We can get a message through to our headquarters in about ten minutes.' His companion also clicked his heels and bowed, then they both marched from the room.

  The King took out his handkerchief, mopped his perspiring face and walked over to Gregory^

  'How is she?' he muttered.

  'Not dead—thank God!' Gregory murmured. 'But I'm afraid for her—terribly afraid. Both bullets got her through the left lung and it's on the knees of the gods as to whether she'll live or die.'

  A moment later the doctor came hurrying in. He made a swift examination and said: 'We must get her to bed at once.'

  'That's it,' nodded Leopold. 'That's it; do everything you possibly can for her. I shall be leaving in half an hour; this place has too many awful memories for me to stay here a moment longer than I have to, but I wish you to remain. Don't leave Madame Rostedal until she is out of danger or—or. . .' he trailed off miserably.

  'Thank you, sir,' Gregory said quickly. 'But by your recent act you have altered the whole situation; the Germans are now the masters in this part of Belgium. The Baronne de Porte heard
what Madame Rostedal said to you. That will be reported; if she lives the Germans will take her into custody and directly she is well enough they'll execute her. If she can possibly be moved I must get her away before they arrive here; so if you're leaving yourself I should be grateful if you would have a car and chauffeur left at my disposal.'

  The doctor shook his head. 'Even if she survives she won't be fit to be moved for several weeks.'

  'Never mind!' snapped Gregory. 'That is the least that His Majesty can do for her.'

  Leopold nodded. 'Certainly. Doctor Hobenthal, please to give orders that my ambulance is to remain behind with you.'

  Two servants were summoned. They fetched a tall, threefold screen, which they placed on the floor near the couch, then they laid Erika gently on it and using it as a makeshift stretcher carried her from the room.

  The doctor had gone ahead and Gregory brought up the rear of the little procession; just as he reached the curtain he turned. The King was now alone and they faced each other across the room as Gregory said:

  'I understand why you did what you have done, and I am not without sympathy for you. It was quite plain to all of us that in your hour of trial you were not great enough as a man to bear the strain that fell upon the King—but the world will not understand; and for all the years that are left to you your name will be held in contempt by all decent people.' Then with bowed shoulders he stumbled after the stretcher-bearers who carried the dear, still, white-faced figure that was more to him than his own life.