Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (5 page)

“Her Imperial
Highness was unmasked,” snapped the elderly man. “You could not possibly have
failed to recognize her. Who are you, sir?”

De Richleau took
out his gold card-case, extracted a card, and handed it over with a little
shrug. “I assure you that you are mistaken. I arrived in London from the Near
East only yesterday. I have never seen Her Imperial Highness before, or, as far
as I can recall, any portrait of her.”

With a stiff bow
the other took the card, glanced at it, and said: “I am Count Mensdorf, the
Austrian Ambassador, and Her Imperial Highness is in my wife’s care this
evening.”

“Then, your
Excellency, I deeply regret having caused you such grave concern, and beg that
you will use your good offices to induce Her Imperial Highness to accept my
humblest apologies for the lack of respect which I unwittingly showed her.”

The Ambassador
appeared in no way mollified. He tapped the Duke’s card impatiently on his
fingernail. “Your Grace cannot fail to be aware that, in view of this incident,
your continued presence here would prove most embarrassing to Her Imperial
Highness. Therefore I must request you to leave the house at once. Moreover, it
would gravely embarrass her to meet you again at any functions she may attend:
so it will be my unpleasant duty to warn anyone from whom she accepts
invitations that your name should not be included in the list of guests.”

The young
Archduchess had swiftly overcome her tears. Standing up, she resumed her mask:
then she took her chaperone’s arm and, without a glance at De Richleau, moved
towards the exit of the alley. The two onlookers at its bend made way for her
to pass, and all four men in the group gave a low bow as, with her head held
high, she disappeared behind the greenery.

The Duke was just
about to express his willingness to withdraw, when the shorter of the two
hitherto silent spectators stepped forward and removed his mask. His big head
was well set on powerful shoulders. Beneath his beetling brows, shrewd, kindly
eyes twinkled with humour and vitality. In a deep, sonorous voice, he addressed
the Ambassador.

“As my friend
and I chanced to witness the latter part of this regrettable incident, may I be
permitted to suggest that your Excellency should give further thought to the
decision you have just announced before putting it into execution. Your natural
indignation is fully understandable. As a Minister of the Crown I should like
formally to express my deep distress that Her Imperial Highness should have
been subjected to this deplorable experience while a guest of Britain. Clearly
it is our duty to protect her as far as we are able from any future
repercussions of it. But should your Excellency pursue your intention of having
this gentleman’s name struck out from lists of guests at all parties where she
is appearing, that will inevitably link his name with hers, and almost
certainly give rise to scandal.”

The taller man
had now also unmasked. He had the lean, bronzed face of a soldier, his eyes
were bright blue, and a great cavalry moustache swept up towards his high
cheekbones.

“First Lord’s
right, Mensdorf!” he boomed abruptly. “Least said, soonest mended. No great
harm done by a feller kissing a gel at a dance—even if she is a Princess. No
doubt he’ll give you his assurance that he won’t tell tales out of school, or
approach her again. That’s all you want. Then forget it. I’m no diplomat. Never
did understand that high-falutin’ sort of stuff. But that’s my advice.”

Count Mensdorf’s
face broke into a reluctant smile. “I have met many a worse diplomat than you,
Sir Pellinore, and the First Lord
is
right. I thank you
both for your timely intervention. This incident perturbed me so greatly that I
spoke without giving the matter sufficient thought.”

“That’s a very
handsome admission from a man of your Excellency’s calling,” the First Lord
chuckled, “and one which I am sure you have never been called on to make in the
course of official business.”

De Richleau
stepped forward and bowed to the Ambassador. “Sir, I willingly give you my word
I will not mention this matter to anyone, and that during the remainder of Her
Imperial Highness’ stay in England I will do everything reasonably possible to
avoid appearing in her presence.”

The Ambassador
returned the bow a little stiffly. “I thank your Grace. Let us consider the
incident closed.” Then he bowed more cordially to the other two, adding: “You
will excuse me, gentlemen, if I rejoin my wife?” and hurried away.

The giant with
the cavalry moustache, who had been addressed as Sir Pellinore, was staring at
the Duke. “I know your face,” he declared suddenly. “We’ve met before; I’d bet
a pony on it. Where was it, eh?”

“In
Constantinople, about eighteen months ago,” replied De Richleau. “We were not
actually introduced, but I remember you were pointed out to me, during a
conference on munitions, as Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust. I was then on the
Turkish General Staff, and I gathered that you were representing the British Government
in a big armaments deal that the Turks were endeavouring to put through.”

“Nonsense!”
exclaimed the tall baronet. “You’re all at sea, there. I’m not capable of
representing anybody at a show of that kind. I’ve an eye for a horse or a
pretty woman, and I’m no bad judge of vintage port. But I’ve no brains—no
brains at all. Anybody will tell you that.”

It had long been
a deliberate policy with Sir Pellinore to pose as an almost childishly simple
person, whereas, in fact, behind the facade of his bluff, hearty manner, he
concealed one of the shrewdest minds in the British Empire. As a cavalry
subaltern he had earned a particularly well-merited V.C. in the South African
war, but shortly afterwards an accumulation of debts had decided him to resign
his commission rather than sell his ancient patrimony, Gwaine Meads; a property
on the Welsh border that his forebears had enjoyed since the Wars of the Roses.
Solely on account of his being distantly connected with royalty, and having
from his youth upwards known everyone who mattered by their Christian name,
some people in the City had then offered him a directorship. To their surprise,
he had displayed a quite unexpected interest in commerce, and an even more
astonishing flair for negotiating successfully extremely tricky deals. Other
directorships had followed. He was now, at forty-three, very rich, and had
recently acquired a great mansion in Carlton House Terrace. In spite of that,
by the constant repetition which is the essence of effective propaganda, he had
managed, with all but those who knew him fairly intimately, to maintain the
bluff that he was only a simpleton, who had had the luck to bring off a few big
financial coups.

“Perhaps I am
mistaken about the part you played at that munitions conference,” De Richleau
rejoined tactfully, “but I am certain it was there we saw one another.”

“Oh, I was there
right enough; “ Sir Pellinore shrugged. “Went to Turkey to buy a few brood
mares from the Sultan’s stable. Got roped in at the Embassy one night to say a few
home truths to the Turks, which our Ambassador didn’t want to say himself. By
the by, what’s your name?”

“Jean Armand
Duplessis De Richleau.”

“Then you must
be the feller who shot a lot of policemen and got chivied out of France about
ten years ago. Well, no harm in that! I’ve shot a good few men myself in my
time. Glad to know you, Duke.” Sir Pellinore waved a hand the size of a small
leg of mutton towards his stocky companion. “D’you know—” Pulling himself up,
he added after a second: “Forgot we are all supposed to be incognito here; I’d
better give him a nickname—Mr. Marlborough?”

De Richleau had
already recognized the statesman, and smiled. “I count the introduction a most
fortunate one, in view of my reason for coming to England.”

“In what way can
I be of service to you?” the First Lord inquired courteously.

“As the head of
the Senior British Service Ministry you could, sir, if you would be so kind,
greatly facilitate my receiving a commission in the British Army.”

Mr. Marlborough’s
eyebrows lifted. “If I may say so, Duke, that seems a somewhat strange request,
particularly from a foreigner.”

“On the
contrary; I am a British citizen. I took out naturalization papers shortly
after my expulsion from France.”

“But, your age!
I judge you to be over thirty; and only in very exceptional circumstances are
candidates allowed to sit for Sandhurst after they are seventeen.”

De Richleau
laughed. “In my case such a formality would be little short of ludicrous. I
received the equivalent training at St. Cyr many years ago. I have since fought
in several South American wars, and in the Balkan conflict I commanded an Army
Corps.”

“Indeed! Then
may I remark that, while you are undoubtedly too old for Sandhurst, you appear
remarkably young to be a Lieutenant-General.”

“And you, sir,” the
Duke shot back, “appear remarkably young to be First Lord of the Admiralty.”

Mr. Marlborough
was then only thirty-nine, and although he had already been a member of the
government for several years his natural modesty had in no way suffered from
his spectacular rise to high office. It was clear from his smile that he
appreciated the implied compliment, as De Richleau went on:

“I will frankly
confess that mine was not the best of Army Corps. Its actual strength was
little more than that of a British division, and it was sadly lacking in both
specialists and the auxiliary arms which count for so much in modern war. But I
have hopes that my past rank and experience may at least be considered
sufficient to obtain me the command of a Brigade, or an equivalent rank on the
British General Staff.”

The First Lord
shook his head. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Duke, but I fear that is quite
out of the question. I am, of course, aware that in a number of Continental
armies the practice is still followed of granting immediate field-rank, or even
high commands, to gifted soldiers of fortune, who have seen active service
under other flags; but that custom has long since been abolished here.”

“What’s the
idea, though?” Sir Pellinore inquired brusquely. “I’ve nothing against the
army, mind you. Soldier once myself. But we’ve no war on our hands yet, thank
God! It ain’t natural for a young spark like you, who goes around kissin’
Archduchesses, to want to spend the rest of his life kickin’ his heels on the
barrack squares of our garrison towns.”

“No,” agreed the
Duke, “Britain has no war on her hands yet, but in my opinion she soon will
have. It is my belief that the general conflict, which for some years has
threatened to engulf Europe, cannot be postponed much longer. When that day
comes, since I am debarred from fighting for the country of my birth, I wish to
fight for the country of my adoption. I arrived in England yesterday, with the
hope that I should be in ample time to make arrangements which would ensure my
being in a post suited to my abilities when war breaks out.”

“I heartily
commend your attitude, sir,” Mr. Marlborough commented. “But pray tell me why
you believe that a general conflagration is imminent, or even inevitable. In
1908, and again in 1911, I had the gravest fears of such a catastrophe myself;
but most well-informed people are of the opinion that the danger is now past,
or at least considerably lessened. At no time in recent years have the great
nations shown such accord as at the present.”

All De Richleau
knew of the statesman was that his personal daring, coupled with his
distinguished parentage, had, while he was still quite a young man, brought him
into national prominence as a soldier, war correspondent, and politician; and
that his swift rise to office was said to be due to his amazingly clear grasp
of great issues. The opinion of such a man must obviously be well grounded,
and, as it was directly contrary to the Duke’s own, he said with some
diffidence:

“It is a
considerable time, sir, since I was in any of the western capitals, and much
may have happened in them of which I am not aware. But what you say surprises
me greatly; and, if you can spare the time, I should be immensely interested to
hear on what you base your views.”

There was
nothing the First Lord loved better than such discussions, so he replied at
once: “By all means, Duke. Then you shall tell us why you disagree. But if we
are going to unroll the map of Europe, we might as well sit down.”

Sir Pellinore
disappeared for a moment to fetch an odd chair from farther down the alleyway.
Mr. Marlborough lit a fresh cigar and then began:

“To assess the
chances of war breaking out in the near future we must go back some way.
Towards the end of the last century the five great nations of Europe—Britain,
France, Russia, Austria-Hungary, and Germany—stood apart. Any of them could
have attacked one of the others with a fair prospect of the remaining three
standing by as on-lookers. The first four had for several centuries been powers
of the first rank, whereas Imperial Germany was a new creation. As long as she
had remained a chequerboard of independent states, one could be played off
against another, and there was naught to be feared from the loosely-knit
Teutonic family. But the Napoleonic wars sowed the seeds of combination. What
the Zoll-Verein began, Bismarck completed with fire and sword in the wars
against Denmark, Austria and France of the ’sixties and ’seventies, culminating
in the hour of final victory with the proclamation at Versailles of the German
Empire.