Traitors' Gate gs-7

by Dennis Wheatley

  He was much relieved at finding his way clear to paying a call round about dawn at Count Laszlo. That would ensure them an uninterrupted private talk; whereas, had he had to rely on the sheet anchor he had thrown out of the Count's coming to Sabine's, it was possible that she might have smelt a rat and refused to allow them to remain alone together.

  Now, thrusting from his mind all thoughts but those of joyous anticipation in the evening that lay before him, he went into the bathroom. Finding that a bath had already been ran and scented for him, he sniffed appreciatively, pulled off his clothes and got into it. After a quick shave he dressed in his evening things and was back down in the hall just under the half-hour that Sabine had stipulated.

  She joined him a few minutes later, now dressed in a light bodice and long full skirt of yellow silk brocade, and with diamond pendants sparkling below her ears. He helped her on with her sable coat, then they went out to the car.

  The Arizona lay across the river in Pest, but it took them only ten minutes to get there. Having parked the car in a side street nearby, they walked the last hundred yards through the still, warm night to the entrance of the Club, while Gregory recalled to Sabine the last time they had been there. The place had then been owned by a huge fat woman possessed of a most ingenious imagination and a passion for dressing up. She always appeared at least once in her own cabarets, and on that occasion the high spot of the performance had been a tableau inspired by ancient Rome. Her mountainous body draped in a toga, and a laurel wreath perched on her sparse hair, she had lain upon a couch depicting one of the more decadent Caesars, while a giant negro held a feather fan above her head, and a bevy of her beautiful young girls posed nearly nude around her, offering fruit, wine, a peacock pie and other delights.

  As Sabine assured him that this jolly old trollop was still the proprietress of the Arizona, they entered the Club, then separated while Sabine went into the cloakroom to leave her furs. Gregory had come hatless and coatless; so he had nothing to leave, but he took the opportunity to pay a visit to the 'gents.'

  Just inside the door he found himself looking straight into the vulture like face of Captain Cochefert. The Vichy security man recognized him at once, and exclaimed with a toothy smile:

  'Why, Monsieur le Commandant!' Then his voice sank to a lower note and he added, 'I have brought a guest here this evening whom I am sure you will know.'

  At that moment the door of one of the cabinets opened, and out minced a plumpish man with hair cut en brosse, a heavy jowl and a thin sharp nose. In utter consternation Gregory found himself staring at his most deadly enemy the chief of the Foreign Department of the Gestapo, Herr Gruppenführer Grauber.

  No Holds Barred

  Chapter 12

  Grauber was in his middle forties. His pasty complexion and a quite noticeable paunch gave the impression that physically he was not formidable, but they were deceptive; his broad shoulders gave him the strength of a bull, his long arms the grip of an orang-utan and, in spite of the smallness of his feet, he could move with the swiftness of a cat. Usually, however, for strong arm measures he relied on a member of his harem a selection of blond young S.S. men as brutal and perverted as himself one or more of whom generally travelled with him.

  His small, light eyes had been set close together, but since November '39 he had had only one. Gregory had bashed out the other with the butt of a pistol. Its socket now held a glass imitation and, as it did not swivel with the other, the unnerving thought leapt to the mind that the Gestapo Chief was capable of looking two ways at once.

  Through his Department, U.A.l, he controlled by far the greater part of Germany's secret agents outside the Fatherland the exceptions being the old military organization under Admiral Canaris and a small service run by the Foreign Office to provide Ribbentrop with special information. His rank was equivalent to that of a Lieutenant General and he was responsible only to Himmler. He spoke many languages and was an adept at disguise. Frequently he went about dressed in women's clothes, as he had a flair for playing feminine parts, much aided by a naturally effeminate voice. But tonight he was dressed in a well cut dinner jacket.

  Gregory had first come up against him quite early in the war, at his secret headquarters in Hampstead. He had had an acid bath there for disposing of inconvenient corpses, but first induced his helpless victims to give him useful information by applying the lighted end of his cigar to their eyeballs. When in Finland, a few months later, he had beaten Erika for twenty minutes every morning on the muscles of her arms and legs with a thin steel rod. It was that which had determined Gregory, if he ever got the chance, to kill him very, very, slowly.

  That this was not the chance Gregory needed no telling. In fact the odds were all the other way, and if he fell alive into Grauber's hands he could expect to die even more slowly.

  As it was still early, few people had as yet arrived at the Arizona. In the washroom there were only Gregory, Cochefert, Grauber and the Hungarian attendant. The latter, unaware of the dramatic situation that had so suddenly developed within a few feet of him, was cheerfully swishing out the basin that Cochefert had just used. Gregory, his mouth a little open from stricken amazement, had his eyes riveted on the unhealthy face of the Gruppenführer. Grauber, equally astonished at this unexpected meeting, returned his stare without moving a muscle. Both were for a few moments like birds that have suddenly become paralysed from meeting the hypnotic glance of a snake. Of the three Cochefert alone retained a normal manner. Still smiling at Gregory, he waved a hand behind him, then said in French, and too low for the attendant to catch his words:

  'You see, Colonel, I am honoured tonight by the presence of your Chief.'

  As though the sound of his voice had released two springs, the other two sprang to life. Grauber was no coward, and such was his hatred of Gregory that to secure him for the torture chamber he would have risked his other eye. Gregory knew that if once he allowed himself to be arrested he would be better dead. His only hope was that he might render both men hors de combat before they could call in the police. Sabine's car was little more than a hundred yards away. If he could only reach it he would be able to get clear of Budapest before a serious hunt for him could be set going.

  His right hand jumped to his hip pocket. It was there that he always carried his little automatic. His adrenalin glands suddenly began to function overtime, and beads of sweat started out on his forehead. The pocket was empty. While he had been changing, his thoughts had been so full of Sabine that he had forgotten to transfer the pistol from his day clothes. If either Grauber or Cochefert was carrying a weapon he was now at their mercy.

  Grauber was not. At Gregory's swift gesture a flicker of fear had shown in his eyes. Then he caught Gregory's expression of dismay and saw his hand come away from his hip empty. With a cry of triumph, he thrust the astonished Cochefert aside and hurled himself forward.

  There was not much room to manoeuvre. To get past Cochefert the Gruppenführer had had to step up on to the raised strip of floor on which stood the line of half dozen white porcelain pissoirs. Doing so threw him slightly off his balance. Seizing on this advantage, Gregory rushed in, ducked beneath the long arm thrust out to grab him and landed a blow on his enemy's body. With a howl of fury Grauber went over sideways, striking his head against one of the pissoirs and collapsing into it.

  Barely ten seconds had elapsed since Gregory walked in through the door. The clash had occurred so swiftly that Cochefert had had no chance to speculate upon the reason for it. He still believed that Gregory was Obersturmbannführer Einholtz of the Gestapo, so was taken completely by surprise when he and Grauber rushed upon one another. But Grauber was unquestionably the senior. As he went over sideways and crashed into the porcelain gutter, discipline decided the Frenchman that he must side with him. Stepping a pace back from Gregory, which brought him up against the opposite wall, he pulled a small revolver from his pocket.

  Gregory had already swung round towards him. Lifting his right foot he g
ave Cochefert a swift kick on the shin. The Frenchman's reaction was to lift his injured leg with a gasp of pain and, as his stomach contracted, the upper part of his body jerked forward. Instantly Gregory chopped with the fiat of his hand at the forearm of the hand that held the gun. With a second gasp Cochefert dropped the little weapon. It clattered on the tiled floor.

  Both stooped to make a grab for it. Their heads came together with a crack. They staggered back; but Cochefert was quick enough to give it a swift sideways kick. It slithered away out of Gregory's reach before he could make another dive at it.

  Meanwhile, with a spate of blasphemous curses, Grauber had picked himself up and was now yelling, 'Seize him! Seize him! Call the police! He must not escape!'

  But there was no exit to the room other than the one Gregory was blocking; so the attendant could not get out to' call anyone. He was entirely unaware of the implications of the fray, and was naturally anxious to keep out of it. His only contribution was to snatch up the gun, which slid to a halt at his feet and, with laudable eagerness to prevent its being used, throw it into the dirty towel basket.

  As Gregory was still at the door end of the room he could, at any moment, have swung round, wrenched it open and fled. But unless he could prevent Cochefert and Grauber dashing out on his heels, he knew that he would never reach Sabine's car. With shouts of 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' they would secure the aid of the Club door porter and various other people, one of whom would be certain to catch hold of, or trip, him. In another attempt to render them hors de combat, so that he could get at least a flying start, he first feinted at Cochefert then landed a terrific blow on the Frenchman's thin curved beak. Swinging round on Grauber, he tried the same tactics, but the more skilful German ducked the blow and closed with him.

  Half blinded by the pain, and with blood dripping from his nose, Cochefert staggered aside. The other two went down in a heap with Gregory on top. Both of them knew every dirty trick worth knowing and neither had the slightest scruple about using them.

  The German got one hand on Gregory's throat and with the thumb of the other attempted to jab out his nearest eye. Gregory tried to knee his antagonist in the groin, but failed in that. Then striving with one hand to break Grauber's grip on his throat, he struck savagely with the other, using the hard side of the palm, down on his adversary's Adam's apple.

  They strove for mastery with gritted teeth, straining their muscles to the utmost and jerking from side to side as they fought. Grauber managed to keep a firm grip on Gregory's windpipe. Only by keeping his chin well down could he save himself from complete strangulation, and his breath was now coming in short, sobbing gasps. Yet he knew that his vicious chops at the German's Adam's apple must be causing him exquisite agony, and he could see that his one eye was growing misty. A few more strokes and pain must render him unconscious.

  But there was still Cochefert. For a moment or two the Frenchman stood swaying drunkenly as the result of the terrible blow which had broken the bone in his nose. Then, lurching to the row of washbasins, he snatched up a large bottle of hair oil, turned, raised it aloft and brought it down on the top of Gregory's head. The bottle smashed; the scented oil streamed down over his face. With stars and circles flashing in sudden blackness before his eyes, it was he who then slid into unconsciousness, falling sideways across the body of his groaning enemy.

  He was not out for long. By the time they had carried him to a car and thrown him on to its back seat he was again aware of his surroundings, if only vaguely. For a good two minutes he lay slumped in his corner wondering why he had such a pain in his head, how he had got where he was, and where he was being taken. Then his having run slap into Grauber in the men's toilet room at the Arizona suddenly came back to him.

  Instantly everything else connected. His heart seemed to contract as the full knowledge of his position flooded in upon him. If Sabine had proved adamant, that would have been bad enough. But before she could have had him arrested he would anyhow have had a flying start; and if he had had the ill luck to be caught there would still have been a chance that, with the help of his Hungarian friends, he might have got away again. There would be no chance of that now that he had fallen into Grauber's hands. The Gruppenführer was not the man to let a prisoner communicate with anyone, or leave him the smallest loophole for even a forlorn hope of escape. Still more shattering thought, Grauber's bitter personal hatred of him would undoubtedly lead to his being treated with the utmost brutality.

  As he opened his eyes a new wave of pain shot through his head. In front of him a man in a chauffeur's cap was at the wheel; so it looked as if they were in a civilian car. Next to the driver sat a bareheaded man wearing a white jacket. Peering at him in the dim light, Gregory wondered who he could be; suddenly it flashed upon him that it was the washroom attendant.

  Turning his head very slightly, in order not to give away that he had come to, he looked sideways at the man beside him. The man's kepi showed that he was a Hungarian policeman. Beyond the policeman there was another figure, occupying the other corner of the back seat. After a few moments Gregory got a glimpse of him that confirmed his worst fears. It was Grauber.

  The distance between the Arizona and the Police Station was quite short, and the still dazed Gregory had hardly catalogued his fellow passengers before the car pulled up. He now had his senses about him sufficiently to feel dismay. Had the drive been twice the distance he might at its end have been recovered enough to attempt making a bolt for it as they got out, but he was still terribly shaky.

  Grauber opened the rear door on his side and slid out on to the pavement. The policeman took Gregory by the shoulder and gave him a shake. Feeling that there was nothing to be gained by having himself carried, he pretended to rouse up and lurched after the policeman out of the car.

  His brain kept on telling him that if he once allowed himself to be taken inside he was finished. Only death could follow; and death at Grauber's hands would be more painful than anyone who had not been inside a Gestapo torture chamber could imagine. Yet, as he struggled out of the car, his knees almost gave under him, and he realized that he could not have staggered a couple of paces before being set upon and dragged into the Station. In an agony of mind he allowed the policeman to put a hand under his arm and guide him up the steps into the building.

  It was only when the little group, minus the chauffeur, stood facing a Sergeant across his desk in an office that Gregory realized that Grauber was also a prisoner. Apparently the two of them, and Cochefert as well, had all been arrested for causing a disturbance in a public place; but the Frenchman, owing to his nose having been broken, had been taken by another policeman to hospital.

  Now that, in spite of the pain in his head, Gregory's brain was functioning again, he exerted it to its utmost capacity in striving to find a way in which he could turn this totally unexpected situation to his advantage. He had plenty of money on him; so if only he could induce the police to accept a cash deposit of any sum they liked to name as security that he would turn up to face a charge before a magistrate in the morning, he might yet wriggle out of Grauber's clutches.

  Yet, even as he toyed with this exhilarating possibility, he knew in his heart that he would never get away with it. Grauber was one of the highest Police Chiefs of an allied power. He had only to produce his credentials and say that the fracas had occurred solely as the result of his recognizing a British spy for him to have his enemy clapped into a cell, and walk out himself a free man.

  And that, in effect, was what happened. The washroom attendant made his statement about the fight he had witnessed. Grauber produced his Gestapo card and declared Gregory's passport as Commandant Tavenier to be a fake. The Sergeant telephoned to the Gestapo liaison office in Budapest and, having given a description of Grauber, satisfied himself about the German's identity. He then asked, at Grauber's request, that a car should be sent to collect the Gruppenführer, and declared his intention of holding Gregory on the charge preferred.

  G
rauber angrily protested that a civil charge of having created a disturbance was not good enough. He wanted Gregory to be held as a dangerous enemy agent awaiting examination; and, further, demanded the right to proceed forthwith to examine him himself.

  At that the Sergeant demurred, arguing that some evidence must be brought to support such a charge; and that, anyhow, it would be time enough to produce it when Gregory was brought before a magistrate next day. He added that he could not allow the prisoner to be cross-questioned there and then, as it was against regulations.

  At that Grauber flew into a rage. Thumping the desk with his fist he shrilled out falsetto threats of what he would have done to the Sergeant unless he was given his way. The Sergeant, overawed by the high rank of the German Police Chief, decided that discretion was the better part of valour, so agreed to submit the matter to the Station Commandant.

  While Gregory waited on tenterhooks a constable was sent to fetch the Commandant…Five minutes later he joined them: a square shouldered tough looking Captain of Police, with a slight cast in his left eye. After he had been given a brief resume of what had occurred, he dismissed the washroom attendant and took Gregory and Grauber into a small, barely furnished waiting room.

  The Captain's eyes were blue although his nose was flat and his cheekbones high, indicating Tartar descent. For a moment he stood sizing up the two men before him, then he said to Grauber:

  'It seems there is little doubt about your identity, Hen Gruppenführer, so naturally I wish to be as helpful as I can. Although it is against all ordinary procedure to allow one of two people picked up on the same charge' to question the other about something entirely different, since you say the matter is urgent you can go ahead.'