Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (75 page)

At five o’clock De
Richleau and Lanzi were sent for by Ludendorff. Hoffmann was with him, and both
of them were almost purring with satisfaction. A telegram had just come in from
von Hötzendorf. On the previous day he had ordered his 1st Army to advance
north towards Lublin and his 4th north-east towards Kholm, while his 3rd was to
cover Lemberg. That morning the battle had been joined.

Thus, the main forces of
all the Great Powers were now, at last, fully engaged. No less than thirty-two
Armies, totalling over 7,000,000 of the best trained and equipped troops in the
world, were at death grips. With every tick of the clock enough blood to fill a
river was pouring from the torn arteries of the flower of Europe’s youth, and
hour by hour that must now continue until a decision was reached.

It was an appalling
thought, but the Generals and their staffs at all the main headquarters were
immersed in their plans for further slaughter, and remained impervious to it.
Ludendorff expressed his great pleasure at General von Hötzendorf’s most timely
co-operation, and assured his visitors that the German 8th Army would
reciprocate at the earliest possible moment.

The Duke again raised the
matter of his departure for Aix-la-Chapelle, and the new Chief of Staff said: “I
am sending one of my own officers, Major Tauber, there with dispatches by
special train to-night. You can travel with him. The train will leave from the
siding here about ten o’clock.”

With that the interview
ended, and at last the Duke’s mind was partially relieved of the ever
increasing strain it had been under for the past few days. If his luck now held
for only another twenty-four hours, that should be sufficient to see him out of
danger. When they got outside, Lanzi said with a cheerful smile:

“Well, things couldn’t
have worked out more satisfactorily, could they? There’s no need for me to
hurry back now. I shall come with you on the train as far as Berlin, and send
the car down to meet me at Breslau. Come up to my room and I’ll show you Mitzi’s
photograph. She’s a delicious morsel, I promise you.”

On the top floor of the
house, in a small bedroom that had been allotted to him, the Colonel Baron
Ungash-Wallersee produced what he jokingly called his ‘Bible’. It was a small
album containing the postcard size photographs of the eight girls he kept in
Vienna, Budapest, Paris, and other cities. Mitzi was a blonde with slanting
eyes that promised every sort of wickedness, and the collection would have done
credit to any chorus.

When the Duke had
expressed suitable admiration for the strategically distributed seraglio, Lanzi
dug out from his kit some books of beautifully drawn and coloured erotic
pictures for the amusement of his visitor, but De Richleau’s mind was busy with
more important matters.

He felt that General
Rennenkampf had been extremely lucky to find himself opposed in his first
battle by such a craven-hearted man as von Prittwitz, and that the Russians
would find matters very different when they came up against the full force of
the Hindenburg-Ludendorff-Hoffmann-Fran
ç
ois
combination. As against that, there appeared very little likelihood of the
German 8th Army being able to do much more than stave off the two armies under
Jilinski. Therefore, it seemed a fair assumption that in the course of the next
few weeks the opposing forces on the East Prussian front would fight themselves
to a stalemate. But in France the probabilities were of a far blacker hue. Not
only were the odds enormously in favour of the Germans, but their organization
was better than that of the French, and their equipment more modern. If the
French had the sense to conserve their strength until Churchill’s 40th day,
they might still have a hope of stemming the German tide; but it looked like
their only one, and however carefully they husbanded their forces it would
still be touch and go. At that critical hour everything would be thrown in on
both sides, and even a matter of one division on either might

prove the straw that brought victory in the whole vast
battle to the side that had it.

As the Duke looked over
Lanzi’s shoulder at the pictures of nude nymphs and agile stalwarts entwined in
the more improbable positions of amorous combat, he was wondering if he could
conceivably do anything to aid his sorely pressed country. That France had
thrown him out on account of his dangerous political activities had in no way
lessened his love for his native land, and as he thought of her fair
countryside and cultured cities being over-run by the stupid, still
semi-barbarous blond hordes from beyond the Rhine, he ached with the desire to
bring her some assistance, however small.

In his mind’s eye, ever
since Colonel Nicolai had spoken the previous evening of the avalanche of fire
and steel that was now descending on France, he had seen images of burning
farmsteads and shattered towns, and beyond the bawdy pictures he could see them
still. For an instant he visualized another Joan of Arc arising once more to
lead France to victory against great odds, although he knew that even her faith
would have been powerless against Krupp guns. Then, in the same vein of
romantic fantasy, he saw himself on his way through Aix-la-Chapelle, planting
under German Main Headquarters a bomb of such as yet undiscovered power that it
would blow the Kaiser, and everyone engaged in directing the hideous battle, to
hell.

The thought recalled to
him General Hoffmann’s remark, that when he arrived at Main Headquarters it was
certain that he would be asked for all the information he could give about the
situation in East Prussia. He had never had any intention of going there, but,
all the same, he began to speculate on what he would have said, had
circumstances similar to those which had forced him to come to Wartenburg
compelled him to deliver von Hötzendorf’s letter. General von Moltke would
naturally have been kept informed of the main outlines of the battle, but a
staff officer would certainly be in a position to colour the General’s
impression about future prospects on a front from which he had just arrived.

Influenced by his
proximity to the Russo-German battle, his first thought was that he would paint
the picture as optimistically as possible, so as to restore the General’s
confidence in the 8th Army; with the object that, should it meet with further
reverses and appeal for help, its appeals would be less likely to receive
prompt attention, and thus it would be more likely to sustain a serious defeat.

But in a second he saw
the larger map, and realized that to adopt such a course would be to throw away
a God-given opportunity. The picture should be painted black—black as pitch.
Thus, if Hindenburg asked for reinforcements, he would be much more likely to
get them.

The Russians were strong
enough to look after themselves. Even if another entire German Army was sent
against them, they could already match it in manpower. In another week or so,
when their Asiatic formations reached the line, they would again have an
enormous superiority. And, in the worst event, they could surrender territory
without the least danger of collapse.

France had no reserves to
draw upon. France had no territory she could afford to give. Germany was now
fully mobilized and every one of her divisions fit for battle were in the
field. Anything sent to East Prussia would have to be taken from the Western
Front. Russia could take on another half dozen Army Corps and still maintain an
unbroken line of battle. But for France the withdrawal of even a single German
division might mean the difference between defeat and salvation.

Lanzi was chuckling in
his beard at a picture of the devil doing curious things with the point of his
tail to a lovely young witch, at the moment that De Richleau reached his
decision. He knew, in one of those sudden flashes that brooks no argument, that
he was not going to slip tamely over the border into Holland. He was going to
deliver von H
ö
tzendorf’s
letter at Main Headquarters and influence von Moltke as far as he possibly
could.

At dinner he was
unusually silent. He had no sooner taken his decision than a serious obstacle
to his achieving his object had occurred to him. He was not going to
Aix-la-Chapelle alone: he was to be accompanied by Ludendorff’s staff officer,
Major Tauber. The Major was much more likely than he was to be questioned about
the East Prussian front. Moreover, he would give a true picture of the new
confidence that the arrival of Hindenburgh and Ludendorff had inspired.

The Major, to whom De
Richleau had just been introduced, was seated some way down the table. In the
usual German manner, he had first cut up all the food on his plate and was now
using the fork to shovel it into his mouth with an ugly greed that suggested he
had had nothing to eat for a fortnight. He was a squat, corpulent man, with a
thick neck, little piggy eyes and a shaven head. The Duke decided that, somehow
or other, he must be got rid of
en route.

After the meal, Lanzi and
De Richleau talked for a while over coffee and brandy with their hosts in the
ante-room. Soon after ten o’clock Captain Fleischmann left them to see their
baggage on to the train, and they began to make their farewells. When they had
exchanged stiff hand-shakes and bows with the officers present, Major Tauber
said he thought it time for them to be going, and led the way across the main
hall to the back of the house, as the quickest method of getting to the railway
siding. Just as they were about to leave by the back door, Colonel Nicolai
emerged from a side corridor and addressed the Duke:

“Ah!
Herr Oberste Graf;
I’m so glad I’ve managed to catch
you. I’ve a letter for one of my colleagues at Main Headquarters, and I’d be
very grateful if you would take it with you.”

“Of course,” replied De
Richleau, holding out his hand. “Where is it?”

Nicolai jerked his head
in the direction of a partly open door just down the passage from which he had
come, and said, “In there. I haven’t had time to address an envelope for it
yet, but if you’ll come with me I won’t keep you a minute.”

Taking De Richleau’s
consent for granted, the tall, dark Colonel turned on his heel. With a nod to
Lanzi and Tauber, the Duke murmured: “Please don’t wait for me. I can easily
catch you up.” Then, as they went out into the darkness, he walked down the
corridor and followed Nicolai into the room.

A few weeks before it had
been the gun-room of the manor, but it had since been converted into a small
office. In one corner there was a porcelain stove, and near it stood a thin, sandy-haired
man dressed in rather flashy civilian clothes.

As De Richleau stepped
through the door, Colonel Nicolai closed it behind him and said in a sharp
voice to the civilian:

“Are you sure now that
this is the man on your records?”

The thin man nodded. “
Jawohl
,
Herr Oberste.
I never forget a face. He’s the one
I saw come out of the Carlton Club in London.”

For
a
moment there was dead silence in the small room. The Duke’s first reaction was
one of amazement. It was barely twenty-four hours since Colonel Nicolai had
raised the question of the De Richleau title. That he should have remained
unconvinced by the explanation given him and started inquiries was quite
understandable. The staggering thing was that he should have been able, in so
short a time, to produce an agent who could definitely identify the suspect as
the De Richleau who had been in London.

The Duke was standing
between the two Germans. He was facing the fair civilian in the flashy suit,
and Colonel Nicolai was behind him. As he stared at the fair man, it flashed
upon him that, even if he had been seen in London the previous April, it was no
proof whatever that he was a spy. If he played his cards skilfully he might
still bluff his way out of this highly dangerous situation. Showing swift
indignation, he exclaimed: