Faked Passports (32 page)

Suki was the only cheerful member of the party. Although
he was an habitual criminal and safe-breaker by profession he had never in his life killed a man or harmed a fly; yet he had boasted to his friends that if there were a war he would kill a dozen Russians and he was anxious to get on with the business. He was already hopping round on crutches and his wound was so slight that it would be completely healed in the course of the next few days, but he feared that on account of his participation in the episode with the Gestapo the authorities might detain him instead of letting him rush off at once to join up.

At a few minutes past nine Wuolijoki came in. He seemed in a great hurry and, having bowed coldly to them, said abruptly: “You will have heard that the die is cast. Finland is now at war with Russia. My country needs every able man. Suki, are you willing to serve?”

“Why, yes, sir, yes,” little Suki exclaimed. “I have promised my wife that I will kill a dozen Russians.”

“Very good. You were unarmed the other night so we know that you played no part in the shooting. Under an emergency decree we have power to release all prisoners who are held only on minor charges. You are free.”

Suki began to express his gratitude, but Wuolijoki cut him short and turned to Erika. “There is no proof,
Frau Gräfin
, that you actually participated in Tuesday night's affair. Therefore we do not intend to hold you any longer.”

Transferring his glance to von Kobenthal, he went on: “That you were concerned in the shooting I have little doubt but I am convinced that you acted from the highest motives and with an entirely unselfish desire to serve Finland, the country of your adoption. I am having you transferred to a private nursing-home. Charges will be officially preferred against you but I shall arrange that when your wounds are healed you will disappear, so that you will never have to answer them.”

Von Kobenthal nodded. “That's very kind of you, Wuolijoki. I hope, though, that you'll also exert your influence to assist these other gentlemen. I'd take my oath on it that they acted from the same motive as myself.”

Wuolijoki ignored the remark and, opening the door, said abruptly to Erika: “You are free,
Frau Gräfin
, you will please to go.”

She glanced at Gregory and Freddie, and shook her head. “I'm not going until I know what you propose to do with these two friends of mine.”

“As you will,” he replied stiffly. “In that case all three of you will come downstairs with me.”

Giving them only the barest opportunity to say good-bye to von Kobenthal and Suki, the diplomat hustled them out into the passage. Two orderlies who were waiting there escorted them down to the ground floor and Wuolijoki led them into a room where the heavily-moustached Chief of Police was standing.

Closing the door behind him, Wuolijoki looked at Gregory and said: “We have satisfied ourselves about you now. Inquiries made through the German Ministry here yesterday resulted in a cable which came in early this morning. It states that the body of Colonel-Baron von Lutz was found in the woods near his home on November the 57th, the day following a shooting affray with some Nazi officials who were endeavouring to arrest him. You are therefore an impostor. You are not German at all, but British. Your friend is also British. He presents himself as an Air Force officer but—whatever he is—he has aided and abetted you in your activities as a secret agent. Both of you are British spies.”

“I deny that,” Gregory protested hotly. “But in any case your own Intelligence Department must by now have informed you that the report was genuine. It's an invaluable document upon which you can act with every confidence and
we
brought it to Finland for you, so what the hell would it matter even if we were British?”

Wuolijoki's German blood was very evident as he snapped: “If you had been Germans you would have observed my wishes and not fired on other Germans, but only held them up. Now it is clear that, being British, as your country is at war with Germany you deliberately took the opportunity to fire on your enemies. You have committed an act of war in a neutral country, and for that you are to be held accountable to the Finnish law.”

As Wuolijoki stepped back the Police Chief stepped forward. He produced a paper and addressed them:

“Four German citizens resident in Helsinki were wounded in an unprovoked attack which you made on the premises they occupy on the night of November the 28th, and one has since died of his wounds. It is my duty to arrest you both upon charges of arson, armed assault and murder.”

Murder! The blood drained from Erika's face. This was far worse than anything she had anticipated and it seemed that nothing could be done about it; yet Gregory made a last, very able effort to maintain his imposture, knowing that their only chance of reprieve from having to stand their trial now lay in shaking his accusers' belief that he was British. Turning to Wuolijoki he said in a most reasonable voice:

“Honestly, you're making a big mistake. My letter of personal introduction from Marshal Goering clearly states that I am Colonel-Baron von Lutz. If the …”

“The letter must have been stolen,” Wuolijoki interrupted.

“On the contrary. I can prove that it was not,” Gregory declared sharply. “Your cable says that my body was found on November the 27th, yet the Marshal's letter is dated the 28th, proving conclusively that I was still alive the day after the Gestapo believed me dead. That they should have taken the body of a man found on my estate for myself is not surprising; because, as I told you, I have been listed as either dead or missing for the past three weeks.”

While Gregory was speaking he had produced Goering's letter again in triumphant proof of his assertion but Wuolijoki waved it impatiently aside. “That will not do. We have other evidence, besides the cable, that you are an impostor.”

He signed to the Police Chief, who abruptly pulled open a door behind him, and Erika's heart missed a beat as Grauber marched heavily into the room.

“Can you identify this man,
Herr Grupenführer?
” the Police Chief asked, pointing to Gregory.

“Certainly,” Grauber piped in his thin falsetto. “His name is Gregory Sallust and he is a most dangerous British
agent provocateur
. He has twice been secretly into Germany since the
outbreak of war and on each occasion he has been responsible for the deaths of a number of my compatriots. It is he who was the leader of the murderous assault upon myself and my colleagues on Tuesday night. We have already made an official request that he should be tried for murder under the Finnish law and if that request is not acceded to I shall apply for an extradition warrant so that he can be executed for his crimes in Germany.”

Gregory saw that the game was up but he meant to go down fighting so he snapped back: “And I shall request the British Legation here to apply for an extradition warrant against you,
Herr Gruppenführer
Grauber, for the murder of Thomas Archer on the night of October the 7th, in Hampstead, London.”

The Chief of Police turned to Grauber. “The matter of extradition warrants can be gone into later. At the moment it is my province to attend only to the case in hand; and you may rest assured that this man and his companion will be brought to trial for murder here.”

Wuolijoki scowled at Gregory: “So at last you admit …” he began; but his sentence was abrupty cut short by a loud, thin wail and suddenly the hideous warbling of air-raid sirens broke out all over the city. Next moment a deep booming note became perceptible which, in a few seconds, increased to a thunderous roar.

“The Russians!” exclaimed Wuolijoki. “The Russians!”

Grauber went as white as a sheet and began to tremble. Gregory suddenly remembered that although the German was unquestionably brave in other ways he had an absolute terror of air-raids. They caught the sound of a distant explosion—another—and another—nearer now—until a giant crash seemed to rock the whole building. Outside whistles were blowing and people shouting. The Police Chief pressed a buzzer on his desk and an orderly came running into the room.

“Quick!” cried the Police Chief above the din. “Take all these people down to the air-raid shelter.” He glanced swiftly round at the others and added: “I must see that my men are at their stations. We will conclude this business later.” In three strides he was at the door and out of it.

The orderly beckoned to the rest of the party to follow him. They filed out down the passage, through the main hall that was seething with hurrying policemen, and downstairs to the basement. As more bombs crashed into the street above the
man flung open a door and motioned them to enter a big empty cellar that had been fitted up as an air-raid shelter.

In his anxiety to reach the safest place in the building Grauber had been pressing on the orderly's heels from the moment they had left the Police Chief's room; now, pushing past the man, he ran to a far corner and leaned against the wall for support; his plump face was grey and sweat streamed down it.

Wuolijoki followed Grauber into the cellar. He was calm but puffing heavily upon a cigarette he had just lit. The others filed behind him. The orderly slammed the door after them but did not lock it, as in his hurry to attend to his duties the Police Chief had given no instructions that the party were to be detained as prisoners.

Overhead the roar of the planes had intensified as squadron after squadron came into action circling over the almost defenceless city and discharging their deadly cargoes. Now and again between the crump of the bombs they caught the sound of a series of whip-like cracks as the few anti-aircraft batteries opened against the planes, but the crashes of the bombs succeeded one another with terrifying swiftness.

Gregory waited until the orderly had had ample time to get upstairs again; then he said loudly to Wuolijoki: “Our parole automatically ended when we were charged with murder. We're going now and you'd better not try to stop us.”

“Dont be a fool!” Wuolijoki snapped. “This building is strong enough to resist anything except a direct hit. Even if you could get past the police upstairs once out in the street you'd be blown to pieces.”

“Perhaps. I'll chance that.” Gregory smiled at Erika. “They've nothing on you, darling, so you'd better stay here. Come on, Freddie.”

Grauber was too overcome by his own fears to attempt to stop them, but he screamed above the din: “I'll get you! I'll get you yet.”

Gregory turned at the door and shouted back: “It's lucky for you I haven't got a gun on me or I'd shoot you where you stand, you white-livered slug.”

Wuolijoki made a move to follow them and call for help but Freddie roughly pushed him aside. “Stay where you are, little man,” he cried, “or you'll be sorry you ever met us. You can't expect us to stay here and be hanged because we shot a few Gestapo swine to get you that report.”

“That's the stuff to give 'em, Freddie,” Gregory muttered.
He had the door open and was peering down the passage to see that the coast was clear when he found Erika beside him.

“I'm going with you,” she said. “I
must
; otherwise God knows when I shall see you again.”

It was no time to start an argument and Gregory knew that Erika could be as pigheaded as a mule. The bombing had eased a little in the immediate neighbourhood and he felt confident that if they could get clear of the police headquarters they would soon find equally good shelter elsewhere.

Wuolijoki stood there scowling but impotent. He realised that it was two strong, desperate men against one small one and a snivelling, crepitating lump of fear, so he made no further effort to stop them as they slipped out into the passage.

Having locked the door behind them Gregory abandoned all precautions and taking Erika by the arm walked forward with a quick, confident step. On the stairs they almost collided with a policeman who was clutching a fire-hatchet, but the man took no notice of them and hurried past, intent upon his own urgent business. Up in the front hall the crowd of police had disappeared. There was only a sergeant there and he was gabbling furiously into a desk telephone. He never even looked up as they marched out.

On the doorstep Gregory paused. Across the road a building was in flames. Further along a block of flats was a smoking ruin; in front of it lay piles of debris that had fallen into the road completely obscuring the pavement for about a hundred yards. An ambulance came clanging down the street and the little crowd of fire-fighters who were busy opposite began to carry screaming, wounded people out to it.

“Come on,” said Gregory, and with Erika beside him he ran down the steps and along the street towards a big square of sand-bags which bore a placard that he guessed to be the Finnish equivalent of A.R.P. Shelter.

As they ran the planes were still circling low over the housetops; some were machine-gunning the Red Cross workers in the streets. Further away in the direction of the harbour, bombs were still detonating with a horrid crump every few seconds. Great clouds of black smoke were pouring up into the sky from a number of burning buildings. A one-decker bus came careering down the street with another fire-fighting squad in it. There was a burst of machine-gun fire from a swooping plane; the driver was riddled with bullets and slumped over his wheel;
the bus, now out of control, suddenly swerved, mounted the pavement and crashed through a shop window.

They were half-way to the shelter when a woman staggered out of a house just in front of them, carrying a little girl. The child's left foot hung half severed from the leg which was mutilated and bleeding, with only a rough tourniquet twisted above the calf to check the flow of blood. The woman seemed dazed and panic-stricken so Gregory snatched the child while Erika and Freddie seized the woman by the arms and they all dashed on together. Machine-gun bullets spattered the pavement but they reached the shelter in safety.