Come into my Parlour (51 page)

They were somewhat perturbed that the message might be to go to Gwaine Meads at once, as either Erika or Madeleine was seriously ill, and they were still speculating when, a few minutes later, a police inspector walked in.

“Good morning, sir,” he said to Gregory. “Are you Mr. Gregory Sallust?”

“I am,” replied Gregory.

“And you, sir,” he turned to Kuporovitch, “will be Mr. Stephen Cooper?”

“That's right,” Stefan agreed, after only a second's hesitation.

“Well, gentlemen,” the inspector went on, “I must give you the usual warning that anything you say may be used in evidence——”

“God's boots!” exclaimed Gregory. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The inspector was a kindly-faced, grey-haired man. “I hope you don't mean to make any trouble, sir,” he said quietly. “But I have a warrant here for the detention of you and this other gentleman under Eighteen-B.”

“This,” said Gregory, the scar above his left eyebrow going white, “is one of the big moments of my life! Our country asks us to go to Russia. We spend days in aeroplanes at considerable risk of being shot down by the Germans. We have interminable arguments with security officials. We motor through wild mountains where we are liable to be robbed and murdered by Kurdish tribesmen. We suffer cold and discomfort in Moscow. We fly by night across the German lines to Leningrad. After fifty-three days and a journey of over seven thousand miles we reach our destination. On the return trip we make our way through the shot, shell and machine-gun fire of two battle zones back to Moscow. By train, car, lorry, ship and on our own flat feet, we eventually bribe our way through to Persia. Again, for days on end, we fly about in aeroplanes, then, for three weeks we are cooped up in a ship liable to be sunk by U-boats. After a further sixty-seven days and another journey of fifteen thousand five hundred miles we get home. One hundred and twenty days of it, and a grand total of twenty-two thousand five hundred miles! Very nearly the circumference of the earth! And during this delightful little joy-ride what happens? We are arrested by the
Ogpu
and sentenced to death. We are seized by the Gestapo and sentenced to death. We are threatened with indefinite exile to Siberia. We are drugged and imprisoned, and half frozen, and people try to drown us. Yet we get home! And for what? To be arrested on landing under Eighteen-B!”

The inspector grinned. “You certainly seem to have had an interesting time, sir.”

“On the contrary!” Gregory's eyes flashed. “The interesting part is just about to begin. I haven't shot anybody on this trip, but when I've had five minutes with the oaf who issued that warrant you'll be wanting me for murder! What's the charge, eh? I suppose some nosey parker, who doesn't know there is a war on, has found the sugar and tinned tongues that I had the sense to lay in before the war started, in my store cupboard, and I'm accused of hoarding. Or is it that the National Service age limit has gone up since I've been away,
and you want to chain me to a factory bench? If that is it I'm your willing victim.”

“No, there's no specific charge. It's just an order to detain you.”

Gregory looked at Stefan. “It seems that we have conspired against the safety of the Realm. Why we never thought of doing so before, I can't think. Poor mutts that we are, we risked being sent to Siberia, when all this time we could have been enjoying peace and plenty in the Isle of Man. There is no queueing there, but the best food in Britain; and we'll have lots of time to plan a revival of the legend about what a kind sweet gentleman Adolf Hitler really was, after the brute is defeated. With a little luck we might even think up a way of persuading people that the Germans ought to be allowed to keep their bombers and U-boats so that the poor dears' national pride is not offended.”

“Come along, sir,” said the inspector. “You're only wasting time, and we have a train to catch. I'm not taking you to the Isle of Man, but to London.”

“May one ask why?” Gregory enquired.

“I really don't know. To be questioned, I expect.”

“I've a question or two to ask myself,” muttered Gregory angrily, as they followed the officer from the room. “May I telephone my friends?”

“I'm afraid not, sir. But you may send telegrams if you like; simply stating that you have landed, and, if you like, asking a legal representative to get in touch with Scotland Yard.”

On reaching the station Gregory telegraphed Sir Pellinore instead of his lawyer; and they sent two other telegrams to Erika and Madeleine to say they hoped to be at Gwaine Meads the following day.

The train was crowded, but they travelled down in comfort, as a compartment had been specially reserved for them. At the London terminus they were met by a police car that swiftly conveyed them to a big building in South Kensington. There, they were put into a sparsely furnished room and told to wait.

They had spoken little on the long journey south owing to the presence of the inspector, and even now speculation over the cause of their arrest seemed rather futile, when Kuporovitch said, “What do you think can be behind this extraordinary business?”

“Heaven alone knows!” Gregory shrugged. “The whole thing is probably a stupid mistake.”

At that moment Sir Pellinore entered the room. Towering in the doorway, he seemed almost to fill it as he beamed upon them, and cried with hearty joviality: “Strap me! But it's good to see you fellows again! Till you were reported to me as sailing in that convoy I was
wondering what the deuce had become of you. I'll explain later why I had to have you arrested.”

“So
you
were at the bottom of it!” Gregory replied acidly. “Have you come to apply the hot irons in person?”

“Ha-ha!” Sir Pellinore guffawed. “That's good! No. Dinner first and hot irons afterwards. Come along. Car's outside.”

“Does this mean that we are free men?”

“More or less; more or less. I expect you will be after I've read the Riot Act and you've agreed to toe the line.” With a word of thanks to the inspector, who had appeared behind him, the tall, white-haired old man led the way out to the street.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gregory asked, as they got into Sir Pellinore's huge Rolls-Royce. “Anyone would think that while we were in Russia we had joined the Comintern.”

“No, no! You put up a marvellous show! Absolutely marvellous! The Beaver told me the bare bones of it after he and Harriman returned from Moscow; but I can hardly wait to hear Ml details. Their Mission, by the by, was an enormous success, and the Bolshies are being given practically everything they asked for. No, it's not what you've done, my boy. It's what I feared you
might
do, on your return to England, that caused me to arrange to have you both put under preventative arrest. After all, you've suffered no inconvenience, and it was the quickest way of getting you to London.”

“But why?” Gregory persisted. “Why were you in such an almighty hurry to see us? Erika's not ill, is she?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Or Madeleine?” added Kuporovitch.

“No. Fit as a fiddle. At least she was when I last heard from her, about a fortnight ago.”

The car sped swiftly and almost silently through the dark London streets. Sir Pellinore proved adamant in his refusal to say any more, and five minutes later they pulled up outside his mansion in Carlton House Terrace.

Immediately they were settled upstairs in the big library with a decanter of fine sherry before them, Gregory renewed the attack; but Sir Pellinore imperiously waved his questions aside.

“Dinner first, thumbscrews afterwards,” he declared. “Just so as not to put you off your oats I'll tell you this much. While you have been away, the Germans have laid a very clever trap for you, and I didn't want you to fall into it before I'd had a chance to put you wise. Come now! Another noggin of this old Amontillado, then we'll dine.”

“Oh well, if that's all there is to it …” Gregory shrugged, and by the time they went down to dinner he was his cheerful self again.

Over the meal he and Kuporovitch gave a detailed account of their adventures, punctuated by exclamations from Sir Pellinore of: “God bless my soul! The devil you did! Well, I'll be jiggered!” When at last the recital was concluded and the port put on the table, Kuporovitch said:

“And now tell us, please, something of what has been happening here.”

Sir Pellinore took a swig at his port. “Well,” he replied, having swallowed it with loud appreciative noises, “as you'll have heard over the ship's radio, we launched our new offensive in Libya about ten days ago. The first phase looked pretty successful. The Tobruk garrison broke out, and on the third day linked up with our main forces. The New Zealanders captured Bardia with great
élan
, then came up to assist in the fighting round Sidi Rezegh. But since then things haven't been going too well. Somehow there doesn't seem to be the Wavell touch about that army any longer, and it looks to me as if this feller Rommel is proving more than a match for 'em. I may be wrong. Hope to God I am. Anyhow, we'll see.

“At home here there's been a big shake-up among the Generals. John Dill has been retired from C.I.G.S. on having reached the age limit. Pity that, I think. Dill is a very able feller, and it's absurd to suggest that because he has reached sixty he is no longer capable of advising the Prime Minister. These bureaucratic rules governing promotions and retirements are bad enough in peacetime, and they may prove highly dangerous in war. It's said they are sending him out as Governor of Bombay, but I hope they have the sense to use his very able brain in some more important capacity. He's been succeeded by Alan Brooke, who was C.-in-C. Home Forces, and Bernard Paget has taken Brooke's place. They're both said to be good men; but, again, we shall see.

“There was a great dust-up about Sir Roger Keyes. He was forming this new Commando outfit for Combined Operations, but they've given him the sack. At least, that's what he says himself. The little Admiral is a great fire-eater and I have an idea he wanted to go ahead too quickly for Whitehall. Anyway, I believe these Special Service troops are going to prove immensely valuable in the future.”

“How about America?” Gregory asked. “Is she any nearer to coming in?”

“Yes. Quite a bit. Those idiot Germans never seem to be able to learn a lesson. It was their sinking American shipping that brought the U.S. in last time, and they're at it again now. The amendment of the Neutrality Act in the middle of this month shows how American
opinion is hardening, and they've already started to arm their merchantmen against the U-boats.”

“Any other good news?”

Sir Pellinore helped himself to some more port and pushed the decanter round. “The Navy's been doing good work in the Med., although recently we really did lose the good old
Ark Royal
. But the R.A.F. is still the only weapon we've got with which we can really make the Germans squeal. It is bigger than the Luftwaffe now. For the past two months it's been knocking blue blazes out of Hamburg, Bremen, Stettin and all those Baltic ports from which the Nazis send their stuff up to the North Russian front.”

“Thank God for that!” murmured Kuporovitch. “Things don't look too good in Russia now, from what one hears over the radio.”

Sir Pellinore cocked a bright blue eye first at him, then at Gregory. “Um!” he muttered, meditatively, “we'll be in a pretty pickle if it turns out that Voroshilov led you two up the garden path after all.”

“I'd stake my last bob that he didn't,” said Gregory quickly.

“Well, I'm not yet rattled myself. But I know plenty of people who are. And we've gone to town on your word, remember. I've never lost a night's sleep over anything yet; but, by Jove! I'd have had plenty of cause to these past two months if I'd been that way inclined. Just look what's happened since you gave Beaverbrook your appreciation. Budenny managed to get away from Kiev with about two-thirds of his army, but he lost the city and the Ukraine with it. Kharkov's gone too; one of the greatest industrial centres of all Russia. In the south, the Germans have captured Odessa and over-run the Crimea. Timoshenko's counter-offensive against Rostov is not going too badly, but the Germans are round his southern flank, so he won't be able to keep it up, and before we know where we are the Nazis will have their hooks on Stalin's oil.”

Gregory shook his head. “I think you're wrong about that. Their main object in holding Stalingrad is so that the oil can continue to come up the Volga, so defending one commits them to defending the other.”

“Hm! The Germans are darn near within range of Stalingrad now.”

“So I gather, but I don't believe they'll ever take it.”

“And how about Moscow, eh? It's getting on for seven weeks since Hitler personally launched his great offensive against the capital. No battle in the whole history of the world can compare with this one for the area of territory being fought over or the destructive power of the huge forces engaged. By comparison it makes our little effort in Libya look positively Lilliputian. And, so far, the Germans have won all along the line. It's costing them a packet, of course, but they're well
past Kalinin in the north and they've got Tula in the south. Moscow has been abandoned as the capital and the Government has retired to Kubishev. They got out weeks ago, and that shows how worried they must be. The latest reports say that the Nazis are now within thirty-five miles of Moscow; so it's beginning to look as if you'd sold us a pup, my boy; and if you have, it's a pup the size of a bulldozer.”

“I gave no guarantee that they would hold Moscow,” said Gregory doggedly. “I simply stated my belief that they would, somehow, manage to maintain themselves on the line of the Volga, and that its key point, Stalingrad, would be held at all costs. If Stalingrad falls you can hang me out with the washing on the Siegfried line; but not till then.”