Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07

by The Second Seal

  “Well!” smiled the Count. “Where do we begin? I have been a soldier and am now a politician; but what little leisure I now have is devoted to shooting and my books.”

  De Richleau was shrewd enough to guess that his campaigns in South America and the Balkans would prove only of casual interest to an intellectual such as the Count, and he knew little of the Dual Monarchy’s internal politics: so he fastened at once upon the great man’s hobbies.

  For a while they talked of shooting; but soon turned to literature, and discovered that they were both great admirers of the Greco-Roman civilization. They enthused together over the beauties of Virgil and Horace, then laughed at passages in Petronius, Aristophanes and Ovid, agreeing how infinitely more sophisticated they were than the sixteenth and seventeenth century dramatists, and how their sense of humour possessed a timeless quality that leapt two thousand years, still to delight any cultured modern.

  After a while Count Tisza said: “You must come some time and browse with me in my library. I have a few bibelots which I feel sure would interest you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “If you are not engaged to go on anywhere to supper, why not come back with me when I leave here. I get little free time during the day. While I show you my treasures, we could drink a glass to those noble Ancients who lived on a mental plane which we have as yet failed to regain, despite the advantage that the printed word and the spread of popular education gives us.”

  De Richleau accepted with alacrity, and when he next spoke to the Duchess was able to tell her that, although he had not yet talked to Count Tisza about herself, he would now have an excellent opportunity of doing so without fear of interruption. She was delighted, and when he mentioned the fête that he wished to give in her honour for the reopening of Königstein, she was even more so. Having an excellent memory, she did not need to refer to any list of the Archduke’s major engagements, and declared that any minor ones could be put off; so they settled for the visit to be on the 10th and 11th of the coming month.

  At half past eleven, Franz Ferdinand and his wife bade their guests good-night and withdrew. Then De Richleau accompanied Count Tisza to his car, and they drove to a small but beautiful little palace which was the Minister-President’s residence in Vienna.

  Feeling certain that his guest would prove a connoisseur, the Count sent down to his cellar for a bottle of Tokay of the long-past but once famous vintage, 1763. The wine was in a squat, crested bottle and when poured was of a rich, bright gold. The thick, almost treacly, sweetness of such wines when young makes them scarcely drinkable until half a century old, but enables them to far outlive any port, sherry, or madeira, and this was still in its prime; the very essence of the grape, redolent of flowers, honey and sunshine, a fitting nectar with which to toast the shades of Caesar, Lucretius and Lucullus himself.

  When they had sipped the glorious amber fluid with due appreciation, they began to go round the quiet library, which glowed with a gentle warmth from its rows of gilt tooled, calf, morocco, and vellum-bound books. Here and there the Count took one from a shelf and gave it to his guest to examine. In an hour or so he produced a hundred rare and beautiful volumes which De Richleau greatly envied him; among them a Black Letter copy of Caesar’s Wars which had once belonged to that great captain, Charles V of Spain, Heine’s Catullus, the Emperor Napoleon’s Marcus Aurelius, Goethe’s Longinus, the younger Pitt’s Homer with his annotations upon it, and Madame de Pompadour’s Martial, bound in blue silk into which was woven the royal arms of France.

  It was the last which gave the Duke the opportunity to bring up the subject of the lady who had entertained them both that evening. “Do you think,” he asked, “that if the Duchess of Hohenberg had remained unmarried to the Archduke, she would have been able to hold his affections and later play the role of a modern Pompadour?”

  “I do,” replied the Count gravely. “They are extremely devoted, and she is a remarkably clever woman. I am among those who wish that she had been content to play such a part, as their marriage has already caused much trouble and will lead to even graver issues on the death of our aged Emperor.”

  “True; but if you are right, her influence on affairs would not have been greatly lessened.”

  “Not behind the scenes, perhaps. But instead of remaining a maitresse-en-titre she must now become Queen of Hungary.”

  “If the question is not indiscreet, how do you think the Hungarians will view that?”

  Count Tisza shrugged. “We Hungarians are not fond of Czechs, so it is most unlikely that the people will take kindly to her. As for us nobles, there are few of new creation amongst us, and the wives of our magnates will be far from willing to make their curtsy to a woman of such little birth.”

  “Yet I believe she may prove a good friend to Hungary, if the road is not made too difficult for her to start with,” remarked De Richleau. “I do not know her at all well, but we had some conversation on the subject recently. I know she feels that if she could win the Hungarians to her, that would greatly offset the enmity with which she is regarded by many powerful Austrian families; and she certainly intends to make the attempt.”

  With a slight narrowing of his eyes Count Tisza asked: “Did she ask you there to-night to tell me that?”

  “Yes,” admitted the Duke frankly. “But I would not abuse your hospitality now, by acting as her ambassador, did I not believe it to be true.”

  “I willingly take your word on that. I see, too, that she is every bit as clever as I thought. It was a shrewd move to choose an intelligent and presumably unbiased man, such as yourself, to speak on her behalf. And, of course, she is right to court the support of the people over whom she cannot be prevented from becoming Queen. If she can persuade us to forget her ancestry, and shows herself another such champion of Hungarian interests as was the Empress Elizabeth, she will be more than half way to getting herself made Empress of Austria. I thank you for having conveyed her ideas to me, and I shall not forget them.”

  Half an hour later, they parted on the most friendly terms, the Count urging De Richleau to come to see him again, and with true Hungarian hospitality asking him, while in Vienna, to regard his house as his own.

  It was nearly three in the morning when De Richleau got back to Sacher’s. Some of the lights in the lounge were still on, but most of them had been switched off. As he crossed it, a tall figure rose from an arm-chair in a dim corner. His attention caught by the movement, the Duke glanced in that direction. Suddenly his sixth sense warned him that in some way the big form emerging from the shadows menaced himself. Next second, with relief, yet a lingering uneasiness, he saw that it was Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust.

  CHAPTER XIII – TWO MIDNIGHT INTERVIEWS

  “So there you are, eh!” boomed Sir Pellinore. “Been gaddin’ about the night-haunts, I suppose? Why the hell couldn’t you reply to my message before going out?”

  “Well, this is a surprise,” exclaimed the Duke. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Waiting to see you, of course. Been kickin’ me heels in this damn place for the past three days. Haven’t you had the chit I left for you at the office, sayin’ I wanted to see you urgently?”

  “No. I returned from Ischl only this evening, and I had to go straight out to a dinner party. I fear I neglected to open the batch of letters I was given. I am so sorry you should have been inconvenienced on my account.”

  “Never mind! Come and sit down. What’ll you drink? I’ve got some Kümmel here. It’s the real Russian stuff, and not too bad. Anyhow, I’ve polished off half a bottle of it while waitin’ for you. Will you join me, or have some other tipple?”

  “I’d prefer a brandy and soda,” said the Duke.

  Sir Pellinore pressed the bell, and when the night waiter appeared addressed him in an incredible, bêche-de-mer consisting of mangled French, German and English.

  As the man did not appear to understand the order clearly, De Richleau intervened and said in German. “The gentleman says he is hungry a
nd wants some foie-gras sandwiches. Not a few, but a whole plateful. You are also to bring a bottle of brandy, a tumbler and a syphon.”

  When the waiter had gone, the Duke smiled across at Sir Pellinore. “You know, all these hotel servants understand English perfectly, and it might save you quite a lot of trouble if you gave your orders to them in that language.”

  “No! No!” growled Sir Pellinore. “When in Rome, you know! I always talk to these fellers in their own lingo. Mustn’t let them get away with the idea that we don’t understand ’em. Some are such fools that they don’t get the hang of their own gibberish to start with; or such knaves that they pretend they don’t. But I always get what I want in the long run.”

  “I’m sure you do,” remarked the Duke mildly. “But tell me, what brings you to Vienna?”

  “I’ve told you already. That report of yours. Damn fine work! Damn fine! How right I was that a feller like you could go sniffin’ around in all sorts of places without arousin’ suspicion. You may not know it, but you’re a classic.”

  “Thanks,” remarked De Richleau with an icy air. “But I disliked parts of my mission intensely, and I am happy to think that my ‘sniffing’ days are over.”

  “Oh no they’re not!”

  “Oh yes they are!”

  “Don’t be a fool. The stuff you sent us was of incalculable value. Who else have we who could have got himself invited to lunch with old von Hotzepoff, made a monkey out of Dimivitch, and danced with the wife of Franz Frederick?”

  “Well, you may make up your mind to one thing—any lunching or dancing that I do in the future will be entirely for my own amusement.”

  “Don’t you believe it. You’re British, aren’t you?”

  At this point the waiter entered with the brandy and a plate piled high with sandwiches. Sir Pellinore produced a large note from his pocket and said to the Duke:

  “I’m not staying here, but with Maurice de Bunsen; so I’ll settle up now. This will cover both bottles and the rest of it, with enough over to keep this feller in beer for a month. Tell him to keep the change and go to bed, or else bury his head under the sink in his pantry, and that if I see him snooping around I’ll pitch him out of the window.”

  De Richleau made a suitable translation, and helped himself to a brandy and soda. He was now feeling distinctly perturbed at the turn the conversation was taking, but was quite determined not to give way to Sir Pellinore’s evident desire to involve him afresh in the espionage he detested. Meanwhile, the grey-haired giant opposite him had crammed a sandwich into his mouth and was chewing vigorously. As he swallowed the remains, he picked up another and remarked:

  “Not bad fodder. I always have a kindly eye for geese when I see them from a train. Silly birds, but useful. Have some?”

  As the Duke had had nothing to eat since dinner, he started to help diminish the pile. Then the forceful voice boomed again:

  “Where were we? I know: that thunderin’ fine report you sent in. War’s inevitable. Can’t doubt that in view of your sources. By the by, I’ve brought you a thousand quids’ worth of shares in Vickers-Armstrong. I need hardly warn you not to sell. They’ll be worth ten thousand by the autumn.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” replied the Duke. “But I am quite well off, and I did what I did for my country, so I have no wish to take money from British Government funds.”

  “Government, eh!” Sir Pellinore guffawed. “That’s a good one! If you were on the regular list, about all you’d get is half your expenses and a bonus of a tenner. No. This is my pigeon.”

  “In that case I am especially grateful. But I see no reason why I should deplete your private fortune.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Some people spend their cash on horses; some, like old George Holford, on orchids; some, on pictures; some, on gels. Thank God I’ve never had to do the last. Always got plenty by slapping their bottoms. Anyhow, as our hush-hush gentry are always kept short of money, I get a lot of fun backing a winner for them when I can find one. As for depleting my fortune, that odd thousand won’t stop me payin’ my lemonade bill. I stand in to make half a million out of Vickers’ shares as soon as we start to fight.”

  De Richleau stiffened slightly. “Do you infer that you have used the information I obtained for you with the intention of making a fortune out of other people?”

  “Now, now! Keep the saddle between your knees and use your common sense,” Sir Pellinore admonished him. “I’m not robbin’ the widow and the orphan. They’re being paid what they ask for their shares here and now. If war comes the shares will go up. Somebody’s got to take the profit. It will be me—that’s all. I’m an awful fool about most things. Everybody knows that. But I seem to be lucky where dabblin’ on the Stock Exchange is concerned.”

  “Damn it, man!” the Duke exploded. “Have you got the face to tell me that you’re gambling on war—actually hoping for it?”

  “Good God, no!” exclaimed Sir Pellinore angrily. “What the hell d’you think I’m doing sitting here talking to you? I’d lose my stake gladly if only we could stop it. Not that I can lose. Shares won’t go down in any case. But that’s beside the point.”

  “And how do you suppose that I can stop what we both now consider to be almost inevitable?”

  “By taking up the game again, and doing as well as you did before.”

  “I flatly refuse to spy further on my Austrian friends.”

  “They’ll be your enemies before you’re much older, my boy. Anyway, no one asked you to. You’ve been clever enough to get under that feller Dimibitch’s skin, and I want you to stay there.”

  “I’m sorry. It is impossible for me to return to Serbia. I have commitments here in Austria that I cannot now escape.”

  Sir Pellinore raised one bushy eyebrow and gave the Duke a leery look. “So you’re still chasin’ the little Archduchess, eh?”

  “No!” replied De Richleau stiffly. “I have an engagement to entertain the Heir Apparent and his wife at my castle of Königstein on the 10th and 11th of next month.”

  “There! What did I say to Bindon? ‘Feller in his position could even get under the throne itself if he wanted to.’ But your party need not stymie us. You’re not due back in Belgrade till the 16th, so by all means amuse yourself till then.”

  “I am not going back to Belgrade.”

  “Oh yes you are.” Sir Pellinore stretched out a huge hand. “What d’you want for this job? Name your own price. Winston’s seen your paper and he’s been polishin’ up his Dreadnoughts like a maniac ever since. If you want to go fightin’, he’ll make you a Royal Marine. But if you stick out for bein’ a soldier, the War Office isn’t the last word. No, not by a long chalk. The Monarch can still hand out commissions for any rank to whomever he likes. I’ll see him personally. Get him to make you a Brigadier General. How’s that, eh?”

  De Richleau had gradually gone whiter, and now he almost hissed, “I thought I had made it plain, both that such business is distasteful to me, and that I am not the sort of person who accepts bribes.”

  “Sorry!” said Sir Pellinore. “Wrong horse. All right; we’ll start again.”

  “You are wasting your time and mine.”

  “Oh no I’m not. Never spent a more valuable evening in me life, Anyhow, we’ve got one point clear. Now tell me what you’re hopin’ to get out of the accursed war?”

  “Hoping to get!” repeated the Duke. “You must be crazy!”

  “Far from it. The one point we have got clear is that you want it to happen. Well, seein’ you’re a professional soldier, I suppose you can’t be blamed for that.”

  The Duke was quivering with rage. He stood up. “How dare you impute such motives to me?”

  “Can’t help it, my dear feller. Only one alternative. Shouldn’t have thought it myself, but all things are possible. Perhaps you’re afraid to tackle Dimitich again, and I must regard you as a lily-livered rat.”

  His grey eyes blazing, De Richleau snatched at his half-e
mpty tumbler. In another second he would have thrown its remaining contents in Sir Pellinore’s face. But the big man had now also risen, and seized his arm just in time.

  “Sorry!” he grinned. “Wrong horse again. I did say, though, that I shouldn’t have thought it myself. Still, if you’re not afraid to go back, it must be that you want the war to happen. That’s logic, ain’t it?”

  “No,” snarled De Richleau. “It is not. I would do anything in the world to stop this terrible catastrophe.”

  Sir Pellinore shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Then why d’you refuse to lend us a hand?”

  “Because I have already done what I was asked, and have got for you the only information that really matters. All else can be of only minor importance: so one of your regular agents can go to Belgrade and hold a watching brief there just as well as I can. Please get it into your head once and for all that I am not a spy, either by inclination or profession.”

  “Who the hell said you were? But you’re about the only person in the world who stands a chance of keeping the peace of Europe.”

  De Richleau gave a weary sigh. “You’re talking the most utter nonsense. These maniacs have made up their minds. The die is as good as cast already. There is positively nothing that I can do to stop them.”

  “Yes there is. Go back and muscle in on this Black Hand gang. You’re the only living soul who’s in a position to do that; and on it rests our one hope of preventing war. Our one and only hope, d’you understand? If you can find out what sort of a mine Dimithebitch means to spring, and let us know in advance, with God’s help we’ll find a way to spike his guns and save humanity.”

  For a moment the Duke was silent. From the instant he had set eyes on Sir Pellinore in the semi-darkened lounge, his instinct had told him that he was about to be caught up in the web again. He had struggled against it vainly, seeing no reason why he should allow himself to be made use of rather than someone else. But now Sir Pellinore had produced a reason, against which there was no conceivable argument. Slowly, he drank the rest of his brandy, then said bitterly: