The pistol flashed three times, sending pot-shots in various directions. Gregory raised his rifle and, firing at the flashes, sent three shots back. There was a yell as the man at the door was hit and the tearing of wood as one of the bullets grazed the door-frame. Bullets were still streaking through the window and volley after volley sounded from the side of the house. A long wail of pain came, showing that somebody out there had also been hit.
Springing up Gregory grabbed Suki by the arm. “Now we’ve got what we came for we must get out of here.”
As they ran to the side-window the outline of a head suddenly appeared above the sill. Gregory raised his rifle but a voice cried: “Don’t shoot! It’s Freddie”; and Charlton began to heave himself up through the window.
“Don’t come in, you fool!” Gregory yelled. “We’ve got the goods—now we must make our get-away.”
“You can’t,” panted Freddie. “They’re too many for us—came round both sides and caught us between two fires. Von Kobenthal’s hit. We’ll have to try to hold this room.”
He was half in the window, half out, when he gave a sudden “Ouch!” of pain and fell back into the garden.
“Oh God!” groaned Gregory. “He’s hit!” And he blazed off over the sill from which Freddie had fallen. There was a rush of feet; then a crackle of answering shots which drove him back from the side-window.
With Suki beside him he took up his old position in the corner by the safe, cursing his luck that they had not been able to get it open a few minutes earlier. They might have escaped then; now they were trapped.
Bullets were whistling through both windows and the pounding on the door continued with increased ferocity. Gregory fired another burst at it, hoping that his bullets would pass between the legs of the chairs he had piled on top of the desk and penetrate the panels. For a moment the din ceased, but it was renewed almost instantly. Someone began firing from the partly-open door again, scattering bullets all over the room in the semi-darkness. Suki gave a piercing screech and grabbed his leg where one of the stray shots had caught him in the thigh. Gregory fired at the flashes in the doorway. His trigger-finger was pressed down, but after two shots the rifle went silent; he had come to the end of his reserve clip of ammunition and Wuolijoki had given him only one spare, as he had never visualised the possibility of the raiders having to fight a pitched battle.
The room was now full of acrid smoke; their eyes smarted from it and the stink of it was strong in their nostrils. Suddenly a whistle blew, the firing outside ceased and Gregory wondered anxiously what new menace this portended. Throwing down his empty rifle he thrust his hand under his furs to get the automatic which he was carrying in his hip-pocket.
At that instant there came the crash of falling furniture. Three of the Nazis had hurled themselves against the door with such force that the chairs had fallen from the top of the desk as it was jolted back. One man pitched head-foremost through the now half-open door, the other two tumbled over him into the room; a fourth switched on the lights.
Gregory’s fingers had only just found the butt of his automatic and owing to the heavy clothes that he was wearing he could not draw it swiftly. Jerking away his hand he grabbed up his rifle to club it. Except for the fog of cartridge-smoke the room was now bright as day.
The two Nazis who had forced their way in had drawn their pistols and had Gregory covered, when a high-pitched shout came from the passage:
“Don’t kill that man! I want him!” And Grauber lumbered through the doorway.
The Nazis put up their guns. Both of them were hefty, bullet-headed men. The third, who had fallen by the desk, was now on his feet again and the fourth followed Grauber into the room.
Suki was lying groaning in the corner clutching his wounded thigh from which the blood ebbed slowly. Gregory had only just grasped his rifle. He was on his feet but had no time to draw himself erect before the two leading Nazis came at him with a rush. He dodged a blow that one aimed at his head, but the other kicked him in the ribs and sent him spinning sideways. He managed to land his foot in one fellow’s groin as he went over, and the man gave a howl of agony, but next moment he was on the floor and the other three men had flung themselves on top of him.
The breath was driven out of his body. He was kneed, kicked and pummelled until, incapable of further resistance, he was lugged to his feet with his hands twisted behind him and found himself looking into Grauber’s face.
Herr Gruppenführer Grauber had never been a handsome man at the best of times. He was strong but paunchy and his bull neck rose to a cannon-ball head with fair hair, cut en brosse. His face was pasty and his eyes had been a muddy, nondescript colour under his almost-white eyelashes; but now there was only one of them. Gregory himself had bashed out the other with the butt-end of an automatic and the wound was covered by a large black patch. After one glance at the safe Grauber advanced on Gregory with a mincing step.
“So! Mr. Sallust,” he said in his high falsetto, “you’re up to your old tricks and you thought you’d rob me. But it is not so easy to break into a Gestapo Headquarters.”
With a swift, catlike movement he wrenched open Gregory’s furs and ramming his hand inside drew out the big packet.
“Thank you,” he smiled. “Now we will find out the name of the traitor in Berlin who gave you these. Take him down to the cellar, men. I’m sure my ingenuity will be sufficient to make him talk.”
Chapter XVI
A Question of Identity
Gregory had an excellent memory. He did not need to be reminded of what Grauber had done with the lighted end of a cigar to poor old Tom Archer’s eyes, only six weeks before, on his secret visit to London. He recalled, too, with the utmost vividness the acid-bath in the secret Gestapo Headquarters in Hampstead and the frightful death which Grauber’s lieutenant, Karl, had inflicted upon the unfortunate Jacob Rosenbaum. No-one had better reason than himself to know that the Gestapo were every bit as merciless outside Germany as in it if they once got an enemy into their clutches.
With racing brain he endeavoured to assess his own chances. Now that the firing had ceased and he had not rejoined Wuolijoki the diplomat would know that the attempted burglary had failed and would assume the raiding party to be wounded or dead. Wuolijoki had made it quite clear that, anxious as he was to have Goering’s report for submission to his Government, his official position made it impossible for him to play any part in this legal affair. Finland was not only at peace with Germany but in the Finnish War of Independence Germany had been her sole ally. For twenty years the relations between the two countries had been excellent—right up to the time of the Russo-German alliance in the previous August—and, in spite of that, were still good. They might be most seriously damaged by a Finnish Foreign Office official’s participating in what amounted to be a gangster-raid on the Helsinki Gestapo Headquarters. Gregory felt that he could not possibly count on any help from Wuolijoki.
Erika and Fredeline von Kobenthal would still be waiting anxiously outside. But what could they do apart from endeavouring to comfort each other for the non-reappearance of their men out of the desperate shooting-affray which they must have heard? Other people, too, must have heard the shooting, even in such a sparsely-populated neighbourhood. The fire was still roaring, so by this time quite a crowd must have gathered outside; but during the hectic quarter of an hour which had elapsed since the bombs went off Gregory had not heard the clanging of the fire-engine bell, so he felt certain that the fire-brigade had not yet got out there.
What would happen when the fire-brigade did turn up, or when the police, some of whom must be on the premises by now, began to ask questions? The local civilians would certainly tell them about the shooting. Grauber would satisfy their inquiries by saying that a gang of bandits had attacked the place and been driven off; upon which it was unlikely that further inquiries would be made until the morning; and Gregory had good reason to believe that by the morning he would have cashed in his cheques after a lingering
and most painful death.
As two of the Nazis began to drag him towards the door a third said: “Is it safe to put him in the cellar, Chief? They haven’t got the fire under yet.”
Grauber’s one eye narrowed and Gregory saw his last hopes fading as the Gestapo Chief considered the best means of preventing any interference between himself and his prisoner. “True,” he said; “and the fire-brigade may be arriving at any moment. Go and get Flugel.”
As they waited there Grauber filled in the time by getting a little of his own back on the enemy who had caused him such acute mental and bodily distress. While the two Nazis held Gregory upright the Gruppenführer swung his fist and caught him a smashing blow in the middle of the face. His upper lip was cut against his teeth, his nose began to bleed and the pain from it caused the water to start to his eyes and run down his cheeks.
“How do you like that, Mr. Sallust?” Grauber asked in his thin, piping voice. “It is only one-thousandth part of what is coming to you.”
He swung his fist again, this time hitting Gregory not on the chin but just below it so that his collar-stud was driven home, like a small hammer, on to his Adam’s apple. The pain was excruciating and by reflex action Gregory immediately began to vomit.
Gregory knew both these blows and had used them himself upon occasion; one to make a man cry, the other to make him sick; and in his pain-racked mind he wondered what the Gestapo Chief would deal out to him next. Perhaps he would put on one of the leather gloves that still lay on the desk and strike him a glancing blow across the cheek, which Gregory very well knew, by the sharp drag of leather on skin, would lay his face open from the corner of his eyebrow to his chin; but he was saved from that by the appearance of a short, gorilla-like man who had the look of a professional wrestler.
“Well, Flugel?” Grauber turned to him. “How are you doing?”
“We’re getting the fire under, Chief. Good thing we had those chemical extinguishers; but we had no chance to fetch them from the bedrooms until we’d mopped up the men outside. A crowd has collected out in the street, but so far only three policemen have put in an appearance. I told them that we’d been attacked by Jewish Communists who had made their escape into the darkness after an exchange of shots. As all the Finns loathe Communists they seemed to think it a pity that we hadn’t killed some of them, and now they’re helping our fellows to put out the fire.”
At that moment they all caught the sound of a clanging bell and shouting from the street as the fire-engine drove up.
“They’ll be coming through the house in a minute,” Grauber said quickly. “We don’t want them to see that we’ve taken any prisoners so we’d better not take this man out through the hall.” He nodded at the two men who were holding Gregory. “Get him out through the window and take him down to the shed at the bottom of the garden. No-one is going to look down there for the people who attacked us. Take his little friend who forced the safe with him, and if either of them starts to shout bang them over the head. But don’t kill the Englishman; I’ll attend to him myself later.”
Gregory knew that it was no use trying to argue. If he attempted a big bluff, that they had better be careful, as friends of his in Helsinki knew where he had gone and would come in force to rescue him if he did not return to them by eleven o’clock, Grauber would first laugh at the threat and would then probably kill him on the spot in case there was some truth in his assertion.
The two Nazis marched Gregory towards the back window; a third hauled the groaning Suki to his feet. Gregory could hear the firemen stamping into the front hall now; but he dared not shout for help as it would only have resulted in his being knocked out.
Suddenly a head appeared in the window at the side of the house and a gruff voice said in German, with a heavy Finnish accent: “What’s going on here?”
The whole party turned to stare as a police captain hoisted himself up over the sill and slid into the room. To Gregory’s unutterable relief he was followed by Wuolijoki; and more men came crowding in behind them. The Finnish diplomat had arrived with a squad of police.
As Grauber recognised the officer’s uniform his manner changed instantly; he became again the urbane, plausible, mild-mannered business man which was his usual pose when outside Germany.
“Ah! How timely your arrival, Herr Hauptman!” he smiled. “We have been attacked by Jewish Communists; they placed a bomb at the far side of the house which has partly shattered it and started a fire. While we were trying to put it out they broke open our safe to steal important papers which are the property of the German Government.”
“That’s a lie,” Gregory interrupted. “You were not attacked by Communists and we did not come here to steal papers that are the property of the German Government.”
Grauber ignored him and hurried on: “Fortunately, we discovered them before they managed to get away; but they fired on us, wounding a number of our men, and in self-defence we were compelled to fire back. Some of them are out in the grounds, but these two we took prisoner here.”
“Those papers that you are holding,” declared Gregory impressively, “are the property of His Britannic Majesty; you secured them this morning, under false pretences, from the management of the Hotel Kamp with whom they had been lodged for safe-keeping. I came to demand them back and you and your men fired upon me and my friends without warning.”
The story was thin—thin as tissue-paper—since it did not account for the bomb or the looted safe and the presence of Suki, who was known to the Finnish police as a safe-breaker. Yet, while he could not say that the papers had been given to him by Marshal Goering, by dragging in the British Government he gave himself at least some sort of title to them, and he knew that the Finns would think twice before allowing British official documents to remain in German hands after an allegation that they had been stolen. Moreover, it was just the cue that Wuolijoki needed.
Stepping forward the little man extended his hand abruptly to Grauber. “I am an official of the Finnish Foreign Office. Those papers will be safe in my keeping until such time as this dispute has been settled and we have ascertained to whom they rightly belong. Kindly hand them over to me.”
“I protest,” exclaimed Grauber swiftly. “In the name of the German Government, of which I am a high officer, I demand the right to retain this packet.”
“As a representative of His Britannic Majesty’s Government I demand that it should be handed back to me,” Gregory declared with equal force.
“You see?” Wuolijoki shrugged his shoulders and looked from one to the other. “The only possible course is that I, as a neutral, should take charge of it until the question of their ownership is settled.”
“No,” said Grauber. “I don’t know you; I refuse to give these papers up.”
“I know the gentleman all right,” said the police captain; “he is Monsieur Wuolijoki, of the Finnish Foreign Office. There’s been quite enough trouble here tonight already. You’d better do as he suggests.”
“And if I resist?” Grauber’s face went deadly white and his hand moved towards the pocket into which he had slipped his automatic.
“Then we’ll have to take them from you.” The captain jerked his head over his shoulder. “I’ve got six men here and there are plenty more outside. You’ll find yourselves in grave trouble if you resist the police. Now then, hand those papers over!”
As Grauber reluctantly extended the packet to Wuolijoki Gregory sighed with relief. Goering’s report would be laid before Field-Marshal Mannerheim in less than an hour. He had fulfilled his mission after all.
The police captain glanced towards the two Nazis who were holding Gregory. “Release that man.”
Grauber stepped forward. “I will not allow this. He is a bandit; he broke into this house; he fired upon my friends. It is monstrous that he should be allowed to go free.”
“Easy, easy,” replied the officer. “Who said he was to be allowed to go? I’m taking him and the whole lot of you to police headquarter
s; and you’ll remain there until we get to the bottom of this affair.”
“What?” From deadly white Grauber’s face suddenly became crimson as the blood rushed into it. “You mean to arrest me and my friends? What about the fire? And look; this room that has been half-wrecked—all my papers scattered about the floor.”
“That’s all right. The fire-brigade will deal with the fire and I shall leave a couple of my men on guard here. Nobody will interfere with your papers.”
“But many of them are secret documents.”
“I can’t help that. There was shooting on both sides, so all of you are coming with me.”
Gregory had the greatest possible difficulty in suppressing a grin. His only regret, apart from his anxiety as to what had happened to Freddie and von Kobenthal, was that he had not had time to destroy Grauber’s papers once the safe was open; but he felt certain that Wuolijoki would have the good sense to get one of the Finnish Secret Service people out there in order to go through them during the night.
The police captain suddenly stepped towards Grauber and laid a hand on the pocket that bulged with his automatic. “I’ll relieve you of this for the time being,” he said, and signed to his men, who collected the pistols of the other Nazis.
The whole party was then led across the hall, out of the front door and through the garden, to the street where, in a space that had been cleared of a curious and growing crowd, two police-vans were waiting. Another squad of police was sent in to collect the Nazis who were still dealing with the fire and to search for others in the house and grounds. Meanwhile the first batch of prisoners was sorted out.
Grauber and his men were put into one van, and Gregory and Suki into the other. As he stepped into it Gregory was immensely relieved to find Charlton and von Kobenthal there. Freddie was only just recovering from a blow from a pistol-butt which had caught him on the back of the head as he was standing at the window and had temporarily knocked him unconscious; but von Kobenthal was wounded both in the shoulder and in the right arm.
Faked Passports Page 22