Come into my Parlour (67 page)

“It was rather a
mêlée,
” Gregory agreed, and added sarcastically, “but I feel that I ought to compliment you on having captured me without having to call in the
Wehrmacht.
”

Slipping round the table, Grauber muttered: “Anyhow, it's not too late for me to rectify the omissions of my subordinates. I'll have that gun.”

As he spoke he thrust his hand into Gregory's pocket. It came into contact with a large flat packet.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, pulling it out and throwing it down on the table.

“I was about to give it to you myself,” Gregory said quietly. “You'd better unwrap it and see.”

The packet was not tied up. With a quick movement Grauber jerked away the loose wrapping. On to the table there rolled out a bloody severed hand, upon which still sparkled a large amethyst ring.

“Einholtz!” Grauber gasped.

“Yes, Einholtz. And if you want the rest of his body you will have to go and dredge it up from the bottom of the lake.”

“So he let you kill him, eh? The stupid fool!”

“Yes. He wasn't quite such a good watchdog as you seemed to
think. Anyhow, that's proof enough that I dealt with him according to his deserts; and perhaps that will convince you that I'm not bluffing when I say that I've got the Count.”

Grauber looked Gregory squarely in the eyes. “Well—what if you have? That's not going to save your skins. The loss of one scientist, more or less, makes no difference to Germany.”

“Doesn't it?” Gregory's glance held the single eye. “Listen, my dear Holmes, it's time that I let you into a trick or two. Have you ever heard of a place up on the Baltic called Peenemünde?”

“Peenemünde!” Grauber's eye wavered for a second, then he suddenly gripped the edge of the table with both hands and, leaning over it, shot at Gregory:

“What do you know about that?”

“Nothing much,” Gregory shrugged. “Except that it is a new experimental station, and that before you got hold of von Osterberg he was working there.”

“What do you know?” snarled Grauber, beginning to sweat again.

“Very little,” admitted Gregory. “But whatever you may do to the Countess and myself, unless you can regain possession of von Osterberg the British Government will learn quite a lot. You see, I have made arrangements that if Erika and I are not back at the Villa Offenbach by dawn today, the thirteenth of December, the Count will be taken over by a British agent and questioned at leisure.”

Grauber relaxed and smiled faintly. “My dear Mr. Sallust, I congratulate you, in that for a moment you succeeded in frightening me. But I see now that I have no cause for alarm. I feared that you had somehow induced von Osterberg to talk, yourself. Yet it is evident that you have not done so. Poor specimen as he is, the Count is still a patriotic German, so we can rely on him to keep his mouth shut. I regard this capture as most regrettable, but, fortunately, it is against the principles of the British Government to employ torture to their prisoners, so Germany's secrets will remain quite safe.”

He paused for a moment, took from a leather monogrammed case one of his big cigars, and lit it; then went on: “It was a clever line that you endeavoured to sell me, but I am not a buyer. Your Intelligence people can have the Count, and welcome. You and the charming Countess will not cross the lake tonight, and I shall not go with you. Instead we shall remain here for our nice little talk. We have wasted a great deal of time in this pointless discussion, but we will waste no more. You will now tell me about your journey to Russia and——”

The door was flung open and his adjutant came stamping in.

“
Herr Gruppenführer!
” he cried, as he saluted. “A line to the
Führer's
Headquarters is now at your disposal.”

Temporarily, Grauber had evidently forgotten the report he had to make. The blood drained from his pasty face. Then with a cry of “Keep an eye on these people!” he ran heavily from the room.

There were innumerable questions that Erika wanted to ask Gregory. But in the presence of the adjutant there was little that she could say. After a moment, hoping that the man would not understand, she leaned towards her lover and whispered in English:

“Grauber's pretty rattled now. You've put up a marvellous show. Do you think that, even yet, you might—er—persuade him to let us go?”

Gregory took her hand and pressed it, as he whispered back: “I don't know. I've used my best ammunition, but there's still just a chance. Not a very good one; but keep up your heart, my sweet.”

He had given her such comfort as he could, but his own heart was now very low. All along he had been counting von Osterberg as one of the highest cards in the pack, and had believed that if Grauber did catch Erika and himself, playing it might win them the last trick. Yet it seemed that he had overrated its value. He had played it and Grauber had not reacted as he had expected. That could only be because the
Herr Gruppenführer
believed that he would already have endeavoured to make von Osterberg talk himself, and that, if he had failed, short of using torture, no one else would succeed in doing so.

Gregory passed his tongue over the red capsule in his mouth, and wondered how soon he would be called upon to tear it free and bite through it. But about that he now felt little concern; he was so desperately worried about Erika. They had both been disarmed so he could not shoot her, and she could not shoot herself. He wondered if he could possibly manage to kill her in some other way, and glanced round the room for some means of attempting it.

His eye fell on the mantelpiece; at each end of it there stood a heavy candlestick. If he could get hold of one of those he could, perhaps, bash out her brains before they could stop him.

He turned and smiled at her “You must be tired. Won't you sit down?”

As he spoke he stepped round the table and held a chair for her. The movement brought him within a few feet of the mantelpiece. It now needed only one more step for him to reach the nearest candlestick, and he would be able to strike her with it from behind. One swift stroke should do it, and she would never know what had hit her.

Just as she sat down Grauber strode back into the room. He was looking frightful. His eye was bloodshot and his pasty face was wet with sweat. The information he had sent in would, Gregory knew, have been collated with all other available material, and it would have
been the responsibility of the General Staff to accept it or reject it; so he would not bear the sole responsibility. But it was certain that he would have marked it as coming from an A-plus source, and it was clear that his masters had given him a terrible dusting.

Gregory still had one card left. He did not rate its value as very high, but he fought down the pain of his ribs, and made a great effort to pull himself together in order to play it with maximum effect.

As Grauber stamped past him to the table, he said:

“Let's get things clear. Then, if you are determined to get yourself broken for good and all, you can do your damnedest on us. You will admit that Einholtz is dead, or at all events that I got the better of him?”

Grauber seemed to be trying to collect his thoughts. He pointed to the dead hand on the table, and muttered, “Yes—that's proof enough that you put him out of the game.”

“Exactly! That's why I've been carrying it in my pocket for the past two days. I knew that, if I had to, producing it was the only way I could convince you that I had also got the Count where I wanted him. I take it you accept it that I've got him on a string?”

“Yes—you're not the man to have let such an opportunity slip.'

“Good! And you agree that von Osterberg is dynamite as far as Germany's new method of warfare is concerned?”

Grauber's eye flashed, and he seemed to regain some of his old spirit as he sneered: “He would be, if our positions were reversed and he was an English scientist in my hands. I'd make him talk! But your people won't. You must have tried by persuasion and threats, already. He is a loyal German, and where you failed your official Intelligence people won't succeed.”

“You haven't got the situation quite right,” said Gregory quietly. If Erika and I do not return, von Osterberg won't be handed over to our official Intelligence people. But he'll talk all the same. I didn't come into Switzerland alone on this trip. I brought Stefan Kuporovitch with me. You will remember meeting him in Russia?”

A queer look came over Grauber's face. “Yes,” he murmured, “I remember him.”

Gregory was very tired now, and the pain in his side was excruciating. But he drew himself erect and threw his last card on the table.

“Well, it is Kuporovitch who is taking care of von Osterberg. Stefan is a Russian, and he is not troubled with the childish scruples that the foolish British handicap themselves with in their wars. If Erika and I are not back across the lake by dawn Kuporovitch will know that you have got us; and he will begin to take the Count to pieces, limb by limb.”

Grauber stared at Gregory in hatred and dismay. His hands trembled, and he seemed to sag.

“You—you Machiavellian devil!” he breathed.

“We haven't got much time to lose,” added Gregory firmly, feeling now that he was going to win out after all. “If you want to save your skin from Himmler, you'd better order somebody to bring round a boat.”

For a moment Grauber hesitated, then he nodded at his silent adjutant. “Go on, Kobler. Tell someone to get a launch. I daren't let that Russian get to work on von Osterberg. He'd never stand it. We've got to let them go.”

“That's better!” said Gregory as Kobler saluted and left the room. “And now you'll be good enough to give us back our guns.”

Grauber swung round and snarled at him: “Is that likely? D'you think I'll risk having you shoot me in the back when we get to the other side?”

“Well, I'm not going to risk you shooting me in the back just as I get out of the boat, either. If you prefer it we'll both go unarmed. Put your gun on the table.”

“As you wish,” Grauber shrugged, and taking out his pistol he laid it down beside the dead hand. Gregory watched him make the gesture with supreme satisfaction. It was so complete a testimony of abject surrender.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get down to the boat.”

Erika stood up and led the way. It seemed to her almost unbelievable that she was at last to walk down to that boathouse without fear.

Two minutes later they reached it. The Villa Offenbach's launch had been brought round. A man in a yachting cap was already at the wheel, and three Gestapo thugs stood on the landing-stage.

When Erika, Gregory and Grauber had scrambled down into the stern of the launch the three men made to follow, but Gregory said quickly, to the
Gruppenführer:

“Oh no, you don't. This party is to consist of you and I and Erika and the boatman. You are quite capable of looking after von Osterberg yourself, on the return trip.”

“I insist on having at least one man with me,” said Grauber. “I won't go otherwise. I'll not risk your playing me some trick and taking me prisoner.”

“All right,” Gregory conceded. “One man, but tell him to leave his gun behind.”

Grauber looked up at the little group. “I'll take you, Kobler. Leave your gun.”

Suddenly, just as Kobler had handed his pistol to one of the other men, and was stepping down into the boat, Grauber gave a cry, and sprang to his feet.

“
Lieber Gott!
I must be mad! This Russian business has caused me to lose my wits. Get out of the boat, both of you!”

Gregory felt the blood drain from his face. What hellish inspiration had come to the
Gruppenführer
at this, the very last moment of the eleventh hour which might yet spell ruin, torture and death for those who thought that they had tricked him?

“Quick, Kobler!” shrilled Grauber. “The game is still in our hands! Get thirty men. Have them take five or six launches! The odds are that the Swiss will never know of it. Even if they do and there is an incident with their Government, who the hell cares about that? We will surround the Villa Offenbach, raid it in force, kill the Russian, and bring von Osterberg back.”

Grabbing Erika by the shoulders, he added: “You heard me! Get up! Get out of the boat!”

Erika's heart contracted with a spasm of despair. Only a moment ago her hopes had been so high. The cruelty of the blow was unendurable. Grauber had outwitted them on the straight run home. Even her brave and resourceful lover could have no way of defeating this new plan. She was engulfed anew in a fresh wave of agonised fear.

Then Gregory laughed. It was the quiet laugh of one still supremely confident, and he said:

“My dear
Herr Gruppenführer
, you can raid the Villa Offenbach if you like; but you won't find von Osterberg there. I know you Germans don't give a straw for neutrality, and I was surprised that you didn't think of this idea before. Anyhow, I provided against it. Kuporovitch has got the Count quite safely in another place, and you could hunt all night with a hundred men but you wouldn't find it. I'll give directions how to get there when we are within half a mile of the Swiss shore.”

Grauber was beaten, and he knew it. With a blasphemous curse, he released Erika and ordered Kobler back into the boat. The man in the yachting cap started the engine, and the launch chugged out into the lake.

A mile out a German patrol boat caught them, but Grauber showed his pass, and with deferential salutations from the lake police, they were allowed to proceed.

It was a quarter to six in the morning when they approached the Swiss shore. Clouds obscured the low moon but a greyness in the eastern sky showed that the winter's dawn was not far off. Under Gregory's directions the launch was brought—to opposite a strip of
grass that lay a little to the west of Kuporovitch's cottage. He took out his torch and began to flash it.