Come into my Parlour (53 page)

“
As I have no idea how to get into touch with Mr. Sallust direct, I have taken the liberty of writing to you, in the hope that you will be able to communicate the contents of this letter to him
.

“
I am, etc., etc.
”

Gregory flung the letter down in disgust. ‘The dirty, double-crossing swine! But Grauber is behind it, of course—and it's as clear a case of ‘Come into my Parlour said the Spider to the Fly' as ever I've seen.”

“I wouldn't quite say that,” Kuporovitch demurred. “The way we are looking at it one naturally smells a rat. But what real grounds are there for doing so? Only, I think, the boast that Grauber made in the U-boat; yet he may have had in mind some quite different method of making you talk.”

“Hm! Von Osterberg's first letter was plausible enough,” grunted Sir Pellinore.

“So is his second,” Kuporovitch went on. “We have no evidence
at all that this von Osterberg set a trap for Erika, or that Grauber is behind him. Everything might have happened just as he says. Had they talked as old friends he would naturally have asked her about her time in England. He knew already that she had been working in the hospital at Gwaine Meads, so there was no reason why she should not have mentioned Sir Pellinore's kindness in giving her a home there. They had already agreed to a divorce, so it does not seem to me strange that he should have asked if she had any plans for the future or that she should have told him that she intended to marry a Mr. Gregory Sallust. You will note, too, that he appears to know only that Gregory is a journalist and war correspondent. As Sir Pellinore acted the part of guardian to her while she was here, the Count would be quite justified in assuming that he would know of her affair with Gregory and be able to get into touch with him. We all know that von Osterberg is a scientist, and most scientists are far from being practical men of the world, let alone of the resolute and audacious type capable of taking on and outwitting the Gestapo. What could be more natural than, feeling so helpless himself, he should propose that a man accustomed to action and danger should go with him, when that man is his wife's lover and has more to gain than he has by rescuing her?”

“What about this chap Einholtz?” said Gregory. “He went in with them the first time and, from the report, returned with von Osterberg to the Villa at the end of October. Don't you consider it suspicious that no mention at all is made of him?”

“It was what Erika said in her letter about Einholtz that somehow first made me suspect it to be a trap,” grunted Sir Pellinore. “Perhaps it was his being out for filthy lucre that made me feel he was a fishy customer. It's certainly suspicious that von Osterberg doesn't mention him in either of his letters.”

“Not necessarily,” Kuporovitch countered. “It may be that having little courage himself, von Osterberg would not go without this friend of his on the first trip, and they got away together, but Einholtz now feels once bit twice shy, and will not go again. After all, it is no affair of his, so why should he? And why should von Osterberg complicate his letter by dragging him in since he played only a subsidiary rôle?”

“Something in that.” Sir Pellinore took another swig of Kümmel. “Maybe I've been barking up the wrong tree. That's what comes of having a suspicious nature. Of course, the fact that made me jump to conclusions was Erika's disappearance. She took a big risk going in, anyway; and she may have been put on the spot by the old woman's abigail, as her husband says. Still, the moment I learnt that she hadn't returned with the other two I had a hunch that there was some deliberate devilry at the bottom of it all, and my hunches aren't usually wrong.”

Kuporovitch's eyes narrowed. “I don't say that it isn't a trap; only that, if it is, it's a very well laid one. You see, if Grauber had got Erika he might quite well have found a way to force her to write a letter to Gregory himself, saying that she was in hiding somewhere and needed his help to get back. But it seems to me that if he is behind it he has been more subtle than that.”

“I don't see that it matters who wrote the letter,” Gregory shrugged. “He would know that the moment I got it I should set off for Switzerland.” Turning to Sir Pellinore, he added, “When is the earliest you can get me a ‘plane?”

Sir Pellinore sighed. “I still think you'd be walking straight into a trap, my boy. And if Grauber has set it deliberately to snare you I'd rather put my head in the jaws of a shark. If you go to Switzerland the odds are that you'll never come back.”

“I'm going there all the same. If I'd known about this when we docked this morning I would have begged, borrowed or stolen an aircraft and been there by now.”

“I know. That's why I had you arrested. As you'd completed your mission I thought you might not bother to come to see me right away. After all, landing at Glasgow, Gwaine Meads was on your way south. You might easily have decided to stop off there to see Erika.”

“If I had I'd only have learned that she left there three months ago, and I should have come hurtling down here on the next express to find out from you what had happened to her.”

“Maybe, maybe not! I naturally replied to von Osterberg's letter. Told him that you were abroad for the time being, but that as soon as you got back I'd pass his letter on; and that in the meantime I hoped he'd have some news of Erika. But that is close on a month ago, and I've heard nothing since. It's on the cards that he may be getting impatient. He may have got the impression that I was stalling him and had deliberately refrained from showing you his letter. If so, he may have written to you direct by now. A letter might have arrived from him by any post at Gwaine Meads, or at your Club. If you'd gone to either of them before seeing me you might have stolen an aircraft, just as you say, and been in Switzerland by this time. You see, I know just what you must be feeling, and just the sort of mad-hatter tricks you might get up to after such a shock.”

Gregory gave a faint grin. “You're right, of course. If I'd found out about this on my own I should have been too impatient to wait, and certainly have done something pretty crazy.”

“Well, you won't when you do get to Switzerland,” Kuporovitch put in. “I'll take care of that.”

“D'you mean you're coming with me?”

“Of course. You are in no fit state to be allowed to go anywhere alone.”

“That's darn decent of you, Stefan.”

“Nonsense!” the Russian shrugged. “You would do the same for me at any time. And the sooner we start the sooner we shall get back.” He looked at Sir Pellinore. “When will it be possible for us to start?”

“You must have proper papers, and tomorrow's Sunday. Bit awkward that. Some of the people I'll need to get hold of may not be in their offices. Still, by pulling every gun I've got, I ought to be able to get you off by Monday afternoon.”

“Thanks,” said Gregory, “I'm sure you'll do your best for us.”

Sir Pellinore emptied the remains of the Kümmel into their glasses. “I suppose so,” he grumbled unhappily, “but I know what I ought to do with you two lunatics.”

“Lock us up, eh?” Kuporovitch smiled.

“Exactly! But I'm getting old; that's the trouble. I'm allowing sentiment to overrule my sense of duty. By all the laws of the Medes and Persians I ought to have you both clapped into the Isle of Man for the duration. I'm not yet certain that I won't, either.”

“Thanks,” said Gregory curtly. “But personally I have no desire to be prevented from risking my life against my will.”

The elderly Baronet raised his bright blue eyes and stared at him angrily. “It's not your life I'm worrying about, you young fool. It's what the Gestapo might get out of you if you're caught. Surely you two realise that your recent success in Russia has turned you into dynamite. You're both flesh and blood, like anyone else. Those fiends may do things to you until you're both driven out of your minds. Then you won't even know
what
you're saying. And under your bonnets you've now got the whole of Russia's future strategy. Why, damn my eyes! If the Nazis get that out of you we might lose the war. Hell's bells! The very thought of taking such a risk makes me sweat.”

“You're going to take it all the same.” Gregory stuck out his lean jaw.

“Yes, I'm going to take it.” Sir Pellinore's voice had now dropped several tones, and he spoke very quietly. “I'm going to take it on one condition; and in order to be in a position to insist on this was the main reason why I had you arrested. I'm going to give you both some capsules containing cyanide of potassium. If you go into Germany you will carry them in your mouths. One gulp and death is instantaneous. You've got to give me your word that if you're caught you'll swallow them.”

When Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust had privately made up his mind that any particular person should do a certain thing they almost invariably did it; so that night, or rather at about two-thirty on Sunday morning, Gregory, having partaken after the old Kümmel of fine brandy, champagne, more brandy, and finally a mixture of the two, swayed his way upstairs, just managed to undress, flopped into bed and swiftly passed into oblivion.

But not so Stefan Kuporovitch. He had gone upstairs nearly five hours earlier; not because he wanted to but because Sir Pellinore had taken occasion to tip him off that he wished to be left alone with Gregory. The news about Erika had appalled him, and privately he had little doubt that she had fallen into the hands of the Gestapo; his arguments as to the possibility of von Osterberg's letter not being a trap having been put up solely in the hope that even the chance she might still be free, although in hiding, would prove a comfort to his friend.

Yet, once having accepted the situation with true Russian fatalism, he had imagined that he was in for a very good evening. He loved fine liquor and, knowing Sir Pellinore's boundless hospitality, had felt that many good things would follow the Kümmel in a possibly melancholy, but nevertheless enjoyable, drinking party. Good-natured as he was, he could not but feel a little resentful at having been packed off to bed, still as sober as a judge, at a quarter to ten. But he consoled himself with the thought that he was at least now free to ring up Madeleine and have a long talk with her.

On opening the door of his room his frown gave place to a slow smile. Beside the large, comfortable-looking Queen Anne bed stood a wheeled tray. On its two shelves reposed a cold lobster, salad, a
foi gras
, some hothouse fruit and, in an ice bucket, a magnum of champagne. Stefan was fond of drinking much more for the sake of good company and good talk than for drinking itself, but, all the same, he thought it a darn decent gesture of Sir Pellinore's to provide him with such an excellent cold supper.

His eye then fell on a chair at the far side of the high canopied bed. Upon it were neatly arranged an array of feminine clothes, with the silken undies uppermost. His dark eyebrows shot up and he gave a low whistle of surprise. For a second he thought that he must have got into the wrong room. Despite his age, Sir Pellinore's extraordinary virility and great wealth suggested that he might still keep a beautiful young mistress. But Stefan saw that the meagre outfit with which he had travelled from Cairo was also in the room. He then jumped to another conclusion. To his pre-Revolution Russian mind, there was nothing particularly strange in a great nobleman like Sir Pellinore providing a little feminine entertainment for his guests.

His ear caught a faint splashing in the adjacent private bathroom; then, as he closed the door behind him, a gay voice called:

“
Stefan! C'est toi chéri?
”

In one bound he was across the room. In another, he was through the bathroom door, and, a second later, he had his beautiful but wet young wife in his arms.

The explanation of her presence was very simple. Earlier in the day Sir Pellinore had telephoned to her to come at once to London. On her arrival he had told her that her husband would be back that night but that he did not wish Gregory to see her, because the sight of her and Stefan together would have made Erika's absence so much harder for him to bear. Sir Pellinore had added that if they cared to consider themselves prisoners over the Sunday in the suite he had placed at their disposal this would be all to the good, and he would see to it that they lacked for nothing which would make their captivity endurable.

Had they arranged matters themselves, or possessed Aladdin's Lamp, there was nothing more that they could have desired or asked of the all-powerful Jinni.

Sir Pellinore had popped a dose of veronal into Gregory's last drink, so he slept until nearly midday. On waking he felt pretty heady but he remembered perfectly clearly all that had taken place the night before. For a little he lay in bed torturing himself with thoughts of what might be happening to Erika; but, after a bit, he realised that he was acting like a fool, as unnerving speculations about her could do neither her nor him any good, and that his best hope of defeating Grauber lay in regarding the problem of her rescue as coldly and logically as if it was no personal concern of his at all.

After a bath he felt slightly better; then, downstairs, he had a Pim and three cocktails with Sir Pellinore, which made him feel more his own man.

When they had lunched Sir Pellinore provided the best possible antidote to his guest's depression. Upstairs in his library he had a fine
collection of maps, both historical and modern, and he produced a great pile, all showing either Lake Constance or the ancient Kingdom of Wurttemberg, in which Schloss Niederfels lay. Work, and work connected with the hazardous journey he was soon about to undertake, was the very thing Gregory needed to occupy his mind. He spent most of the rest of the day concentrating on memorising the names of German villages, the by-roads that connected them and the situation of wooded areas which would give good cover if required.