Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (52 page)

Had they not accepted De
Richleau as one of themselves they would never have discussed the question in
front of him at all: but, even so, the strength of their feelings had carried
them further than they intended. With a warning glance at the others, Count
Berchtold drew attention to the Duke’s presence, and said:

“In any case, gentlemen,
the two Minister-Presidents will have to be consulted further before any new
step can be taken, and we must not tire our invalid by involving him in our
discussions.”

Taking the hint, von
Hötzendorf turned back to the Duke, and asked, “During this adventure of yours,
did you hear any mention of the Brotherhood of Union or Death?”

Seeing a chance to pour
oil on troubled waters, De Richleau replied at once, “Yes. The officers with
whom I spent the evening at
Le Can-Can
referred to it several times. They were all members of it, and spoke of the
society as a patriotic fraternity pledged to advance Serbian interests by peace
or war. But quite obviously the Serbian Government knows nothing of its
activities.”

“Why should you suppose
that?”

“Because, were it so, the
Colonel who kidnapped me would have had no difficulty in getting me locked up
in the State Prison. As it was he intended to go to the considerable
inconvenience of keeping me a prisoner in his own house. That proves that the
Brotherhood are a private body, acting without the authority or approval of the
State. And for that reason I beg you to resort to threats against the Serbian
Government only as a last resource. If you menace them they may feel in honour
bound to fight. But if you confine yourselves to demanding the punishment of
the conspirators, the probability is that they will at once admit the justice
of your demand and carry out your wishes.”

“There’s sound sense in
that,” Count Paar agreed. “Nothing we have yet heard has indicated the
complicity of the Serbian Government; and God forbid that we should wantonly
force them into a position which might lead to war.”

Von Hötzendorf gave a
snort of disapproval. The others remained silent, but De Richleau could see
from their faces that they were not in agreement with the old man’s pacific
ideas.

General von Ostromiecz
stepped into the breach by saying that he would be dictating a report for his
police of the information supplied by the Duke, and it might assist them
further if he could give particulars which would lead to the identity of his
attackers.

To this De Richleau
replied by describing Tankosić and Ciganović and adding that he
thought the colonel’s name had been Dimitrivitch, or something like it.

At that, nearly everyone
in the room showed quickened interest; and when Dimitriyevitch had been
identified by his description, von Ostromiecz exclaimed: “If you left that
scoundrel for dead you’ve rendered us a greater service than ever. He was the
Chief of the Brotherhood, a very able devil, and our most inveterate enemy.”

Shortly afterwards De
Richleau’s visitors took leave of him. But before they left he extracted a
promise from them that the part he had played in the affair should in no
circumstances be made public. They put his request down to modesty, but
actually he was acutely concerned that no account of the evidence he had given
against the Black Hand should reach Serbia. The Serbs had plenty to hide
themselves, and presumably they had no idea how deeply he was involved with the
enemy camp, so their natural instinct would be to let sleeping dogs lie.

They had probably put his
abortive attempt to save the Archduke down to a purely personal prejudice
against assassination, but if they once learned that he had followed it up by
breaking his oath and laying information with the Austrian Government against the
Black Hand, they might seek to retaliate in a variety of ways. One would be to
demand his extradition for murder and at the same time seek to discredit him
with the Austrians. They could assert that his motive for the murders had been
a personal one, and had a good case for making him appear a double-dyed traitor
by disclosing the fact that he had both taken the oath to the Black Hand
himself and been a Lieutenant-General designate of the Serbian Army.

If that came out—and
ample genuine evidence could be produced to substantiate it, together with the
fact that he had never been in Constantinople—he would find himself in the very
devil of a mess.

After they had gone, as
he lay watching the Great Wheel slowly revolve above the trees of the Prater
and half listening to the plaintive notes of a zither, on which a haunting
melody was being strummed in a café somewhere along the street below, he knew
that never in his life had he skated on thinner ice.

For the moment he was out
of the clutches of the Serbians and had satisfied the Austrians, but within the
next few days a dozen matters might come to light which would show him up as a
liar. Much as he liked Sir Pellinore personally, he damned him roundly for
having got him into this dangerous and dishonourable game of espionage. But,
weakened as he was by loss of blood, and with the muscles of his right leg
badly torn, it was impossible for him to escape further complications by
cutting clear of the whole business. He was in no state to get on the next
train for England, even if he had wanted to: but he didn’t want to because of
still further complications. There was Ilona.

That afternoon he had
news of her but, far from acting as a palliative to his agitated state of mind,
it increased it by a new worry. Adam Grünne came to see him. That morning Ilona
had learned through the Court grape-vine of his attempt to save her cousin and
that he had been brought back to Vienna. She sent her equerry to say,
unofficially, how proud she felt to have a dear friend who had behaved with
such gallantry and, officially, to inquire after his wounds.

The message was balm to
the wounds concerned, but Count Adam went on to tell him that Ilona’s suite
were now more than ever concerned about their mistress’ health. After her
birthday ball on the 13th, she had collapsed and been too ill to leave her bed
for nearly a fortnight. The elderly Court doctor who attended her continued to
maintain that she was suffering from an hereditary weakness, which might go on
causing her trouble periodically but need not be regarded seriously.

As rest and quiet after a
bout always had the effect of restoring her to glowing health quite quickly,
the Aulendorfs had faith in the old physician: but Adam, Sárolta and others in
immediate attendance on Ilona had not. They were alarmed by the fact that after
each bout she took longer to recover, and that her coughing fits had increased
to such violence that she now at times strained her lungs and spat up blood.

She had got up for the
first time two days previously and hoped to be allowed soon to go out again.
Count Adam felt certain that, when she was, wild horses would not prevent her
coming to see the invalid, and he urged most strongly that De Richleau should
then use his influence with her to persuade her to call in a lung specialist.

Greatly concerned, the
Duke promised to do so; and, after he had talked on other matters with Adam
Grünne for an hour, sent her messages by him urging her to take the utmost care
of her health, as well as expressing his devotion.

During the next few days
he lived in an emotional limbo. No act of his could any longer make for peace
or war, or even better or worsen his own situation. Temporarily his mind seemed
suspended in time and space; incapable of directing any useful action, yet subject
to innumerable hopes, fears and sensations both pleasant and unpleasant.

The flying bomb-splinter
that had knocked him out had done no more than break the skin on his temple,
and his shoulder wound was healing nicely; but the torn muscles of his leg nagged
at him unremittingly. He was looked after admirably and given the best of food.
But night and morning the dressing of his leg wound was an ordeal that he
dreaded hours in advance. He had ample distraction, as the Court grape-vine had
informed all his friends in Vienna about him, and he had many visitors, who
showered him with gifts of fruit, flowers, books and puzzles; but he could
settle to nothing because he was all the time worried about Ilona. His visitors
had all heard some garbled account of his attempt to save the Archduke, and
acclaimed him as a hero, but every moment of the day he expected some new
revelation to brand him as a liar, cheat and spy.

He sent for all the
Serbian newspapers, including those back to the previous Saturday, and scanned every
edition with feverish anxiety. But he could find no mention of the killings at
the châlet, or even a bald announcement of Dimitriyevitch’s death. As the
Colonel had been such a prominent personality in Belgrade the latter omission
seemed extraordinary. The only theory De Richleau could formulate to account
for it was that, whoever had succeeded Dimitriyevitch as Chief of the Black
Hand had his own reasons for not wishing the Colonel’s death to be made public,
so had taken deliberate steps to suppress all reference to it.

In a way, that tied up
with the general tone of the Serbian papers as, although no actual mention was
made of the Black Hand, it was clear from them that the Brotherhood was
temporarily under a cloud. Far from adopting the gratified attitude to the
Archduke’s murder that might have been expected had Dimitriyevitch still been
behind them, they appeared to regret it, and a few leading articles even
condemned “the wicked activities of certain societies which, with misguided
patriotism, encourage discontent among the Bosnian Serbs and so worsen our
relations with the Dual Monarchy”.

As the week advanced the
Duke began to wonder if, by killing Dimitriyevitch and his two principal
lieutenants, he had not, after all, made a major contribution to keeping the
peace of Europe. It was highly probable that the fanatical Colonel’s successor
lacked both his dynamic personality and immense personal influence on Serbian
affairs. The killings at the châlet might have enabled Prince Alexander—who,
owing to his father’s ill-health, had been appointed Regent a few days before
the assassinations—his Prime Minister, M. Pastich and the
C. in C.
, General Putnik, all of whom De
Richleau believed to be decent, honourable men, to have regained control of
their country’s destiny. The Serbian attitude was, in the main, one of
indifference, and it certainly lacked all trace of belligerence. It was in the
righteous anger of Austria-Hungary that the danger now lay.

The whole world had been
shocked and horrified by the crime at Sarajevo, and, although it was natural
that the Austrians should feel more bitterly about it than any other race,
their reaction had been of an intensity surprising in such a mild and
peace-loving people. Musical festivals, favourite ballerinas and first nights
at the opera, had all been pushed into small paragraphs on the back pages of
the papers. Their headlines and leaders now screamed with rage and hatred
against Serbia. And their fury was not confined to the Austrian press; every
race that owed allegiance to the Empire displayed equal anger at the
assassination of the Heir Apparent. In Budapest, Prague and Trieste, as well as
in Vienna, mobs had attacked Serbian consulates and institutions, and paraded
the streets nightly howling for vengeance against the despised and hated nation
that they believed to have sponsored the crime. As De Richleau read these
accounts he trembled for the outcome. It was clear beyond a shadow of doubt
that von Hötzendorf and the other war-mongers now had the people of the whole
Empire united solidly behind them.

On Saturday afternoon the
matron of the nursing home suddenly appeared with three nurses, and they
hurriedly began to tidy the Duke’s room quite unnecessarily. A message had been
received that Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Ilona Theresa was on her
way to see him. And a quarter of an hour later Ilona arrived, accompanied by
Adam Grünne and Sárolta Hunyády.

To De Richleau’s surprise
and joy, apart from a flush that made her look lovelier than ever, she appeared
perfectly well, and she was overflowing with high spirits. Immediately they had
exchanged greetings, she sent Sárolta and Adam to sit on two chairs in the bay
window, and gaily ordered them to keep their eyes fixed on the Great Wheel that
was slowly revolving a quarter of a mile away with its load of summer trippers;
or, if they preferred, on one another. Then she perched herself on the side of
De Richleau’s bed and gave him a long, breathless kiss.

As their lips parted, she
whispered, “Oh, Armand! How lovely it is to see you again! And what a hero you
have become! Do you know that even I am basking in your reflected glory?”

“I am overjoyed to hear
it, my sweet Princess,” he smiled, “but I cannot imagine why.”

She laughed. “My
grandfather sent for me yesterday and congratulated me on having acquired you
as an honorary Colonel of my regiment. Before, when I sent him the explanation
you suggested, I am told he expressed great surprise that it should enter the
head of a girl to have her soldiers trained for war; but he has always been so
keen on anything to do with the army that he was pleased to learn that I took
an interest in it. Now he has heard more about you, he thinks my idea such a
good one that he wants you to give a series of lectures on modern warfare to
the officers at the Staff College. But shut your eyes—quickly. I have a lovely
surprise for you.”