The Scarlet Impostor Read online

  Rudd’s face fell so suddenly that the change was almost comic. ‘Come orf of it, Mr. Gregory. Yer must ’ave someone ter look arter yer. Oo’s goin’ ter polish yer boots an’ yer Sam Browne an’ all, let alone mix yer mornin’ pick-me-up when yer’ve been on the razzle?’

  ‘Sorry, Rudd, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. I’m being sent abroad and I shall be living in hotels where I shan’t need a soldier’s servant—in fact, after the first few days I shan’t be in uniform at all.’

  ‘Crikey! They’ve bin an’ ‘ooked yer fer the Intelligence! Some o’ them Brass ’Ats must ’ave some brines in their ’eads arter all.’

  ‘It is a form of Intelligence, but that must remain absolutely between you and me.’

  ‘Mum’s the word, sir,’ Rudd nodded, ‘an’ yer know I ain’t one ter talk. Why, if I even started ter let on what I knows abaht yer they’d ‘ang yer as ‘igh as the Crorss on St. Paul’s. All the sime, it’s a blinkin’ shime they won’t let yer tike me wiv yer.’

  ‘Yes. But I shall want you to help me here while I’m away,’ said Gregory quietly.

  ‘Will yer?’ Rudd’s blue eyes became round with surprise and delight. ‘Cor! Just fancy yours truly bein’ a blinkin’ spy! Blimey, that ain’t arf a larf, that ain’t!’

  ‘You lying, drunken old reprobate! You know damned well you’ve done all sorts of dirty work of that kind before!’

  ‘Not Secret Service, I ain’t.’

  ‘No, but very much the same sort of thing; watching people, finding out their habits, vices, weaknesses and the addresses of their friends. So what’s the difference?’

  ‘’Struth, is that orl yer want?’

  Rudd’s disappointment was obvious and Gregory laughed aloud, knowing that his faithful henchman had pictured himself breaking into foreign Embassies to steal vitally important documents.

  ‘Ever heard of a chap called Tom Archer?’ he asked.

  ‘Wot; that ruddy Red?’

  ‘Not so much of the “ruddy”! He’s going to be your bosom friend from now on.’

  ‘Don’t go pulling my leg, Mr. Gregory. You know ’ow I ’ates Communists—dirty lot of dogs, they are.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to hate them any longer, I’m serious, Rudd. This is a job of work just like any other. You can help me and serve your country by doing what I tell you just as well as you could with a rifle and bayonet, if not better.’

  ‘Orl right, sir. Seein’ as it’s that way, wot you sez goes, as per usual.’

  ‘Good! Then listen carefully. Archer lives at No. 65 Walshingham Terrace, Kennington. Got that? 65 Walshingham Terrace, Kennington. You’ve got to scrape acquaintance with him as soon as you possibly can. You’re an Anarchist at heart—though not yet a member of any Party, in case he asks to see your ticket. You are also a pacifist.’

  ‘Wot me? Me a pacifist? Come orf of it, sir!’Ave an ’eart!’

  ‘You’re a pacifist, I tell you. You hate war, you hate the makers of war, and above all you hate that lying skunk, Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘Ah! Nah yer talkin’ sensible. I could say a ’ole lot o’ things abaht ’im wivaht drorin’ breath ter take a pint.’

  ‘Well, you say them to Tom Archer and for God’s sake keep off the British Empire else you’ll spoil the whole box of tricks by pulling a Union Jack out of your pants or breaking into a drunken rendering of Land of Hope and Glory.’

  ‘I get yer, sir.’ Rudd closed one eye in a knowing wink. ‘Yer want me ter lead ’im up the garden, like?’

  ‘That’s it. You’re not half such a fool as you choose to make out. Your job is to get me every mortal thing you can about Tom Archer while I’m away. I want particulars about his family, his friends, his interests and his doings. If by any chance he should talk to you about the German Army you must do your damnedest to remember what he says, word for word, and immediately you get home you must write it down. Anything at all that he may say about Germany is of interest and any names that he may mention are to be carefully noted. I shall expect results when I get back.’

  ‘You shall ’ave em, sir, or I’ll post meself as a Valentine to General Goering.’

  ‘Right. Now get me a complete set of clean underclothes: socks, pants, vest, shirt—everything—and remove any tabs that are on them, the names of the shops from which they came, and the laundry-marks. They must be rendered completely unidentifiable. I’m going to have a sleep now, for God knows when I’ll get any. Turn on a bath, and call me at seven this evening.’

  At seven o’clock Gregory rang up to ask Sir Pellinore whether the department had managed to find him a suitable identity, and learned to his satisfaction that he would be stepping into the shoes of a deceased General of Engineers. He asked that everything possible about the dead man’s career should be got for him, and rang off.

  Having had his bath he drank two of his favourite cocktails: concoctions of pineapple juice and Bacardi rum that Rudd had mixed for him, then sat down in his gaily-flowered dressing-gown for a light dinner.

  After his meal he dressed in the clothes that Rudd had laid out for him, lit a cigar and settled down to refresh his memory of various places by the study of some maps of the Rhineland. He could take no luggage with him, except his shaving tackle and a piece of soap, so there was no packing to be done, and when Rudd announced at half past ten the taxi which he had ordered before black-out time, Gregory pocketed his big Mauser pistol and followed him downstairs.

  ‘Good-bye old chap.’ Gregory held out his hand.

  Rudd wrung it until it hurt. ‘Take care o’ yerself, sir. Best o’ luck, an’ send us a postcard.’

  Gregory smiled to himself as the cab moved off into the darkness. There would be no sending of postcards from the place to which he was going. At a cautious crawl, the taxi ran through the black gulf of Knightsbridge, up Piccadilly and down St. James’s Street to Carlton House Terrace.

  In the hall Gregory was met by Sir Pellinore’s valet, who took him straight upstairs to a bedroom where the uniform of a German General was laid out, with medal ribbons, boots, cap and all accessories, while in the adjoining bathroom razors and towels were in readiness.

  Sir Pellinore’s man shaved his head so closely that the dark hairs gave only a faintly bluish tinge to his bald scalp. After this Gregory produced his own razor and shaved his face very carefully, as he might be unable to get a shave on the following morning. The man then assisted him to dress, and when he went downstairs half an hour later with a stiff, strutting stride, he would have passed anywhere for the lean, dark-eyed type of German officer.

  As he entered the library Sir Pellinore gave him one look and then roared with laughter. ‘Strap me! Gregory, what a guy you look, now you’re as bald as a coot.’

  ‘You can keep your compliments for some other time,’ said Gregory. ‘It’s the effect that matters.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly ages you, Damme! I don’t believe I’d have known you!’

  ‘Good! Now, who am I supposed to be?’

  ‘General Franz von Lettow, of the 25th Engineer Regiment. Here are such particulars as I could get about you.’

  Gregory took the sheet of typescript that Sir Pellinore held out and glanced down it. ‘Franz von Lettow. Born January 12th, 1880, at Allenstein, East Prussia,’ he read. ‘Father, Civil Engineer; mother came of small landed gentry. Educated at the Ruhm Schule, Königsberg, and the Engineering College of Königsberg University, military section. Entered the Army 1898. Posted to 10th Prussian Pioneer Regiment. Had little money and no influence. Married, in 1905, Fräulein Emmy Anholt, also without influence. Children of the marriage, three daughters, Hilda, Wilhelmina and Paula. Stationed in Cameroons 1911-1913. As Colonel of Engineers, assisted his seniors in planning Hindenberg Line. Received Iron Cross of the second class. Eldest daughter, Hilda, died 1918. Second daughter, Wilhelmina, married, and emigrated to America in 1930. Her husband’s name unknown. Third daughter, Paula, married Herr Doktor Paffer, of Leipzig, in 1933. After the Armistice, when
the bulk of the German Army was disbanded, von Lettow was retired. Recommissioned in 1924 he again served without distinction until June, 1934, in which month he finally retired. Died January, 1939, of angina, at his home in Allenstein.’

  ‘Just the sort of dead man’s shoes you were looking for,’ commented Sir Pellinore.

  ‘Yes, They’ll serve admirably. The fact that he was recommissioned in 1924 shows that he was pretty competent at his job, but he was evidently of no special importance.’

  ‘Always has been difficult to get above a certain rank in the German Army without influence, and he was only a Brigadier when he retired. However, von Lettow is a good old Prussian name, and the department hasn’t done too badly in getting those particulars at such short notice.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘I must memorise the names of these relatives of his and the dates; then I’ll destroy this paper. As he was born in 1880, that makes me 59.’

  Sir Pellinore studied him carefully. ‘Having shaved your head certainly makes you look much older. I’d put you down as anything between 45 and 50, but the Army’s a healthy life and if you’d lived carefully you might be a good bit more.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll pass muster. Now, how about communications? You’d better give me the names of a few of your people who’re still working in Germany so that I can keep in touch with you through them.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then give me the names and addresses of some of the neutrals who’re acting as post-offices for you.’

  ‘I can’t do that either.’

  ‘Hell! Don’t you trust me?’ Gregory flared, and the scar above his left eyebrow grew suddenly livid.

  ‘My dear boy …’ Sir Pellinore raised a large hand in protest. ‘… such a suggestion is utterly absurd. Should I have chosen you for this mission if I’d had the least possible doubt as to your absolute discretion and integrity?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Gregory muttered. ‘I’d forgotten for the moment that the reasons you thought of me was that you wanted someone unconnected in any way with the existing Service.’

  ‘Exactly. Any of our own people or post-offices out there may be known to the Gestapo and already watched. By making contact with any of them, you’d run the risk of being placed under supervision also, and that would be fatal to the whole enterprise.’

  ‘Then I shan’t even be able to get a message back to you?’

  ‘No. And it should not be necessary. Your task is to discover the Army leader at the head of the anti-Nazi conspiracy and to collect and deliver to him the two documents which are now lying in Berlin. In the meantime you must regard yourself as a lone wolf.’

  ‘I see. How about this list of the Inner Gestapo and the letter from the Allied Statesmen, though? You haven’t yet told me where I collect them, and even when you have, I can hardly go to the chap who’s got them and say: “Please, I’m the Lone Wolf and I want you to hand over the Secret Documents.”’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sir Pellinore smiled, ‘and for that reason we have allotted you a number. In view of the importance of your mission it’s a very special number, too; one which has long been vacant and about which there can be no possible mistake. You are now listed by us as Secret Agent No. 1.’

  Gregory grinned. ‘I’m deeply flattered. And to whom do I introduce myself under this dramatic alias?’

  ‘If and when you manage to identify the head of the anti-Nazi conspiracy you will proceed to Berlin. Go to the Tiergarten any morning between twelve and twelve-thirty, go in by the entrance nearest the zebra-house and approach the bench that you will see on your right. There’ll be a man, or possibly a woman, sitting there eating their luncheon. Wait until they’re alone, then sit down beside them and open a conversation by saying: “One war is very like another, isn’t it?” They’ll talk for a bit then offer you a cigarette with the words: “Will you have one?” You will reply: “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have one of my own.” After a while they will say: “You’re not a Berliner are you? I wouldn’t take you for one. From your accent I would judge you to be a Bavarian.” You will reply: “I am one.”

  ‘No need for you to carry that precise conversation in your head,’ Sir Pellinore went on, ‘provided you remember that the word “one” must be introduced at least twice on both sides and that it then lies with you finally to establish your identity by speaking the last sentence.’

  ‘But “ich bin ein” is bad German,’ Gregory objected. ‘No one would use such a phrase without a context.’

  ‘Of course not. That’s the whole point. But you mustn’t use it until you’re satisfied that you’re talking to the right person.’

  ‘I see. And then?’

  ‘They’ll say goodbye to you and walk away. You’ll follow at a discreet distance until they enter a house or someone else comes up and accosts you. In due course you will then be given the two papers.

  ‘Right. That’s all clear. Anything else?’

  ‘No. Car’s at the door but we’ve got a few minutes still. Always keep a bottle on the ice—or would you prefer something stronger?’

  ‘No, thanks. Champagne’s my favourite tipple and God knows when I’ll taste it again.’

  When the under-butler had brought the bottle and emptied its contents into two silver tankards Gregory said: ‘What about your people having seen me in this kit? I suppose they’re safe?’

  ‘Safe as the grave, my boy. All picked men. Isn’t one of them who hasn’t been tested and proved completely trustworthy. I can’t afford to have servants in this house who might talk.’

  ‘Of course. Silly of me to have asked such a question. Well, here we go!’ Gregory picked up his tankard.

  Raising his, Sir Pellinore drew himself up to his full six feet four as he proposed: ‘Success to your enterprise and confusion to our enemies!’

  Having drunk the toast they lingered over the wine for a moment or two; then Gregory put on the heavy field-grey greatcoat that had been provided for him, slipped his own automatic into the pistol holder at his belt and followed Sir Pellinore out of the house.

  In the lightless street a big Rolls was waiting, its blinds drawn. On the pavement and in the roadway Gregory glimpsed several shadowy figures in steel helmets and guessed that they were police posted there to turn back any casual pedestrian who might otherwise have noticed him entering the car. The Rolls purred, and they were off.

  The car ran evenly, but at a moderate speed, since London’s A.R.P. black-out was in full operation. As its blinds were drawn they were able to have the light on inside, and by it Gregory read and re-read the particulars of the late General von Lettow’s career, until, by the end of the journey, he had thoroughly memorised them. When the car finally came to a halt he handed the slip on which they were typed back to Sir Pellinore.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the baronet, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve done it in just under the hour. Not so bad, as things are. This is Heston.

  As they stepped out into the darkness Gregory sensed that they were in a small, high-walled enclosure. They were met by more police and a young civilian who led them to a darkened doorway, through a light-screen and into an office where two men awaited them; an airport control officer seated behind a desk and a young man of about twenty-five who was dressed in pilot’s kit.

  The airport official stood up, nodded to Sir Pellinore and said to Gregory: ‘I won’t ask your name, but this is Flight-Lieutenant Charlton, who is going to fly you to Germany.’

  The young man smiled and held out a hand. There was something about his keen, grey eyes and his friendly, open face which inspired tremendous confidence, and Gregory felt at once that he would much rather make this dangerous flight with him than with some reckless young aviator of his own acquaintance.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve been let in for a rotten job on my account,’ he smiled in reply as he took the pilot’s hand.

  Charlton shrugged. ‘Nothing like as dangerous as the sort of thing you’re apparently going to do.
I’ve been practising night-landings in Germany for months past and I think I can promise to get you safely to your destination, even in a blackout.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Gregory agreed, ‘provided their “Archies” don’t find us.’

  ‘My plane’s equipped for stratosphere flying: we’ll cross the frontier at 40,000 feet and there’s not much likelihood of their being able to pick us up at that height.’

  ‘That’s encouraging, anyway. Well, shall we go?’

  ‘Right. We may as well get off if you’re ready.’

  The four of them trooped out on to the airfield. It was black as pitch outside but the airport man showed them the way by intermittent flashes of a torch especially constructed to throw light only on the ground. Charlton climbed into the plane, the interior of which was dimly lit by the glow of the dashboard lights illuminating an array of dials and instruments.

  ‘Happy landings to you both,’ said the airport man.

  ‘Good luck, my boy! Good luck, and a safe return!’ Sir Pellinore muttered huskily, patting Gregory on the shoulder as he climbed into the four-seater beside Charlton.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gregory smiled and lifted his hand. ‘I’ll need it. But I always was an optimist, and with a little luck I’ll live to knock back the last bottle of that Mentzendorff Kümmel of yours yet!’

  Next moment the door of the cabin was closed and the engine was revving. Charlton had already warmed her up before Gregory’s arrival. Now he jerked his head towards the back of the cabin. ‘There are some rugs behind you. Better put one round you. I shall start to climb at once and it’s going to be cold up there.’

  As Gregory reached for a rug the plane moved forward. Without a single bump it left the ground, and as the whole airfield was plunged in darkness there was nothing by which he could judge the exact moment of their take-off.

  The silence was broken only by the steady purring of the engine as the small, fast plane climbed at high speed towards the stars. Gregory peered down through the cabin window. He had often flown at night, but was used to a landscape in which towns or villages and main roads were indicated from a great distance by clusters and long strings of lights.