It was a fine warm night. In the distance someone was playing a tizmberlum and the ping-a-ping-ping of its notes came clearly over the air. That and the voice of a woman calling a dog were the only sounds that disturbed the respectable evening hush of this rich residential quarter.
A light over the archway to the street showed that the pavement artist who had occupied a pitch opposite to it all day was now gone. As Gregory cleared the arch, out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a man on the near-side of the road tinkering with a motor-cycle. In Hungary, as in England, the unusual custom is followed of driving on the left of the road; so Sabine’s car had its steering wheel on the right. Gregory was therefore on the side nearest to the motor-cyclist, and it was that window of the car which was lowered.
He was about to turn left, down the hill, but before he had time to look in that direction the man had grasped the handlebars of his machine and begun to waggle them. For a moment the beam of the headlight flickered wildly along the side of the Mercedes, then the man got it focused and Gregory’s profile was caught in a blinding glare. Next second a tall blond man sprang out of the nearby telephone kiosk. Thrusting a whistle into his mouth, he blew a piercing blast.
16
The Kidnappers
The balloon was up. Nothing could have shown more certainly that Gregory had been recognised. Tensing his muscles he swung the car round the corner. To his relief the way ahead was clear. He put his foot down on the accelerator. Cornering had carried his head out of the beam of light, but it now shone on the back of the car and its reflection in the windscreen momentarily dazzled him. Swinging round in her seat behind him Sabine swiftly pulled down the blind of the back window.
The dazzle ceased, but Gregory gave a mental groan. A hundred yards down the hill a big lorry was emerging from a side turning. He would have bet his last shilling that it had been lying in wait in the side street, and the whistle had been a signal to bring it on the scene. If he were right and its function was to block the road, at his present speed a head-on crash was inevitable. Taking his foot off the accelerator he put on the brake and for a few seconds kept his apprehensive gaze glued to the lorry. It turned neither to right nor left. Running straight across the road it brought up with a jerk, its fore-wheels coming to rest against the curb of the opposite pavement. The road was too narrow for him to pass behind the lorry, and he could not turn into the street from which it had come by mounting the pavement because a lamp-post barred the way.
There was only one thing for it. He must try the opposite direction. With a screech of tyres, he brought the car to a halt, threw the gear lever into reverse and began to back in a wild zig-zag up the hill. Owing to the narrowness of the street he could turn the car only by backing into the entrance of the courtyard from which he had just emerged. He had nearly made it when the man who had sprung out of the telephone kiosk came rushing at the car. Springing on to its footboard, he seized Gregory by the arm. Gregory tore his arm away. But the violent jerk upon it had wrenched the wheel round too far. There came a crash, a jolt and the car stopped dead. It had just missed clearing the nearest pillar of the archway. To back it further was now impossible, and it had not been backed far enough to make the three-quarter turn needed to drive it up the hill.
Gregory made a desperate grab at the gear lever, to pull it out of reverse so that he could run forward again. But the tall blond man was still on the footboard and again grasped his arm. As they strove together Gregory recognised him as one of the young Gestapo men who had come to collect Grauber from the police station on the previous night. It was he, Gregory realised now, who must have been the eyes of the ambush and in the glare of the motor-cycle headlight spotted that Mario had been replaced by the British Agent that the Herr Gruppenführer was after.
Drawing back his left fist Gregory smashed it into the Nazi’s face. The man gave a yell, let go the arm to which he was clinging and slipped off the running board. For a moment Gregory again had both hands free. But it was too late now to put the car into gear and run her forward. Another car had pulled up only twenty feet away, sideways on, right in front of her bonnet.
As the Nazi staggered away, his hand held to his bleeding nose, the helmeted motor-cyclist ran in, grasped the handle of the car door and dragged it open. As he did so several more men tumbled out of the car in front. Gregory saw that, if he remained in the Mercedes, within a few moments he would be trapped there.
Sabine had already thrown open the back door on his side of the car and was scrambling out. Having got Gregory’s door open, the motor-cyclist flung himself at him to drag him from his seat. But he had already swung round in a move to spring out himself. Shooting out his right foot he caught the man a good kick in the stomach. Clutching at his middle he gave a gasp and doubled up. As his helmeted head came forward Gregory kicked again and this time got him in the face. Still winded he could get out only a choking moan, then he fell over sideways.
Thrusting himself from the car, Gregory jumped across the prostrate body. Sabine was now twenty feet inside the archway. As she ran she was shouting at the top of her voice, ‘Help! Police! Help!’
Gregory turned to follow her, but his path was barred by the blond Nazi whose nose he had flattened. Blood was streaming from it and tears were running from his eyes. Yet in spite of the injury he had received, he was still a formidable antagonist. He stood a good six feet two and had the shoulders of a professional boxer. As Gregory took a stride towards him he suddenly pulled from the top of his trousers a long rubber truncheon.
Gregory’s hand instinctively went to the side pocket in which he was carrying his small automatic. A split second later it flashed into his mind that he dare not use it. If he shot one of these people it would give Grauber just the excuse he needed to insist on the Hungarian police taking immediate action. As things were, if he could get back to the house, he should still be safe for a few hours at least; but if the Nazis could say that he had killed, or near killed, a man, within a quarter of an hour the police would be on their way to arrest him. And, once back in prison, Grauber would see to it that he came out again only to be taken on a warrant of extradition to Germany. To go in unarmed against a young giant wielding a rubber truncheon was to ask for trouble, but Gregory had no alternative. Only by getting through the archway could he save himself, and the sound of running footsteps in his rear told him that at any moment the men who had arrived by car would be upon him from behind.
On a sudden impulse he resorted to a ruse which he hoped would give him a temporary advantage. In what almost amounted to one movement he grasped his chauffeur’s cap by its peak and flung it from his head into the Nazis face. Hurling himself forward he followed it up with a blow aimed to land on the Nazi’s chin while the cap momentarily blocked out his view of what was coming. Only two paces separated them. The trick should have worked but Sabine, in her haste to get out of the car, had dragged the car rug with her. It had dropped to the ground as she ran towards the archway. Gregory’s right foot now caught in a fold of it. He tripped. His impetus was too great for him to save himself. His blow landed short, on the Nazi’s chest, and with his feet still tangled in the rug, he went down hard on his knees.
Under the impact the tall thug staggered back. The cap had hit its target but as it fell from his face he saw Gregory kneeling in front of him. With a yell of joy at this chance to take vengeance for his crushed nose he raised the rubber truncheon on high. With a swish it came down in a knockout swipe directed at the top of Gregory’s head. He had just time to jerk his head aside and throw up his left arm. The truncheon struck it with a dull thud. For a moment he thought the bone had been smashed. The pain was agonising.
The Nazi was raising his truncheon for a second stroke. In utter desperation Gregory flung his good arm round his opponent’s legs and, head first, threw his weight against them. They seemed as firmly planted as stanchions, but suddenly they jerked in an attempt to break the grip, the heavy body above them rocked, toppled and
came crashing to the ground.
Gregory staggered to his feet. His brief conflict with the blond giant had occupied no more than twenty seconds; yet that had been enough for the men from the car to close in. There were three of them. Before Gregory could kick his feet free from the car rug all three were striking or grabbing at him.
Sabine had halted in the middle of the courtyard. She was still shouting, ‘Help! Police! Help!’ On the opposite side of the street windows were being thrown up and heads appearing at them. People were calling to one another asking the cause of the commotion. Several passers-by had stopped and were forming the nucleus of a crowd out in the middle of the road-way. There were no police among them and Gregory felt certain that none would show up. Grauber’s top man in Budapest would have fixed the local Police Chief or, if he was not amenable to pressure, each individual policeman would, as he went on duty, have been bribed or threatened sufficiently to keep him out of the Szinháy Utcza should he hear any trouble going on there.
But help was arriving from another quarter. Sabine’s cries had brought her porter to the door of the lodge he occupied on the left-hand side of the archway. He was a big, bearded fellow, and emerged in his shirtsleeves with an S-shaped pipe he had been smoking, while listening to the radio, still dangling from his mouth. Sabine shouted something to him in Hungarian. He dashed back into his lodge to reappear a moment later without his pipe but armed with a stout wooden club.
Meanwhile Gregory was waging a hopeless battle. The blow from the truncheon on his left fore-arm had rendered it almost useless. With his right fist he continued to strike out at the blurred white faces that ringed him in. The blond Nazi had picked himself up, so had the motor-cyclist. It was now five to one. He managed to get his back against the body of the Mercedes, but he was struck, kicked, clawed and, within a few minutes, thrown to the ground.
It was at that moment that Sabine’s porter entered the fray. Laying about him with his club, he fractured the arm of the motor-cyclist and broke the head of one of the other men. But, with his rubber truncheon, the tall Nazi caught him a blow on the side of the head that sent him reeling into the gutter. The other two men hauled Gregory to his feet and dragged him towards their car.
The driver had reversed it so that it now pointed up hill. Jamming on the brakes he got out, opened the rear door so that Gregory could be pushed inside, then ran forward to lend a hand in hauling him towards it. The porter was up again and battling with the tall Nazi. The club and truncheon smacked together like two short singlesticks, first to one side then to the other. Both men were well above average in weight and strength. The Hungarian was a lot older but the young Nazi had already had a severe handling. The odds looked about even until the German suddenly stepped back, ran in and kicked his antagonist in the crutch. With a roar like that of a wounded bull, the porter fell to the ground, then lay there squirming.
Gregory was still fighting the men sent to kidnap him. Using his weight, he cast himself first in one direction, then in another. With his elbows he gave sudden savage jabs. Arching his back he splayed his feet wide apart. Every inch of the way he strove to trip, wind, or overthrow one of the three who were lugging him towards the car. He knew that if they once got him into it that would be the beginning of the end of him. Yet, strive as he might, panting and cursing, foot by foot they pulled and pushed him out into the road.
Suddenly he was hit a terrific blow in the small of the back. His feet lost their grip on the cobbles and he was pitched violently forward, dragging his captors with him. Next moment, one after another, they jerked him towards them, then let go their holds on his limbs and garments. In the same few seconds the whole group staggered apart under a deluge of water. Gregory found himself with his head actually inside the car and his hands on the bodywork to prevent his falling into it. But he was no longer held by hostile hands. Straightening himself, he swung about. Only then did he realise what had happened.
Pipi and Mario had a fire hose trained on Grauber’s people. Aided by a footman and other servants who had come hurrying out in response to Sabine’s cries, they had run out the hose, fixed it to the hydrant in the courtyard and were now using it as police do to break up crowds of rioters. Aimed for the centre of the group, the first smashing jet had struck Gregory; but as soon as the two men holding the nozzle of the hose had found its range they had directed it at the heads or legs of his attackers. Knocked headlong or swept off their feet they fell this way and that in the roadway. Bruised, drenched and blaspheming, as soon as they could they crawled for shelter behind their half-swamped car.
Rallying his remaining strength, Gregory came at a lurching run under the arch into the courtyard. Sabine caught him before he fell and supported him, gasping and near exhaustion, to the steps of the porter’s lodge. Meanwhile the porter had picked himself up and, cursing like a trooper, had also staggered inside. Mario called to the footman to take his place helping to hold the nozzle of the hose, then sprinted out to the Mercedes. Jumping into the driver’s seat, he ran her forward a few feet then backed her into the yard. The moment he had done so, the hose was turned off and a dozen willing hands swung-to the big wooden doors that closed the archway.
Five minutes later Gregory sat slumped in an armchair in the hall of the Palace. With Pipi’s help Sabine had brought him there; and after telling him that she would be back in a few minutes, they had both left him. He was still a little bemused and felt one big ache all over; but he had been in such scraps often enough to know that he had not sustained any serious injury. For the moment there was nothing he could do, except thank his gods that the attempt to kidnap him had failed, and he was quite content to sit there while his pains gradually localised themselves.
When Sabine returned she was carrying a tray with hot water, bandages and bottles. As she set it down he muttered with a grin, ‘This is history repeating itself. I hope it’s not going to become a habit for me to get beaten up and you to play ministering angel every night.’
She smiled back a little wryly. ‘If we are here for you to be beaten up tomorrow night, I’m afraid it will mean the end of both of us. But let’s not talk about that for the moment. Do you think any of your bones are broken?’
‘No, thank God. My left forearm is very badly bruised though. It got the full force of a blow from that blond brute’s rubber truncheon. I think I’d better have it in a sling. I’m afraid my face is a bit of a mess. I’ve a nasty kick on the shin, and another on the thigh, and I’ve wrenched my little finger. Otherwise I’m all right.’
‘We’ll have to undress you to see to the bruises; so to start with I’ll just clean up your face. That’s a horrid cut on your lip, and you’re going to have a whale of a black eye.’
The antiseptic stung but the eau-de-Cologne with which she bathed his temples freshened him up a lot. Halfway through he asked her for Baratsch. She brought him one from the tray of drinks that always stood in the hall. After he had swallowed a few gulps and she had completed her ministrations he felt considerably better.
Having helped herself to a brandy and soda, she said, ‘I’ve thanked all the servants for their help, and they have gone back to their quarters; except for Pipi, Magda and Mario, who are waiting to hear what we mean to do now. But I must confess I haven’t an idea how we are to get out of the trap we’re in.’
‘How about Admiral Horthy?’ Gregory enquired. ‘I gather Ribbentrop implied that he had secured the Regent’s protection for you until he had to give way to pressure from Berlin. It might be worth telephoning to ask him to give you a police escort to see you clear of the city.’
She shook her head. ‘There are several things against that. In the first place you can bet that via Grauber and his Chief of Police he knows all about us by now. To keep in with Ribb he promised to give me twenty-four hours to get across the frontier and to stop an immediate hue and cry after you. But he must be aware that Grauber will have telephoned to Himmler, and that by tomorrow morning at the latest he’ll get a formal deman
d for our arrest; so the last thing he’ll do is to compromise himself further by giving us his active help to get away.’
‘I wasn’t talking about us, but about you.’
‘You implied that in what you said, and it is my second point. Even if he were willing to give official protection to a woman who is accused of sheltering a British Agent, he certainly would not tell his police to let her take with her out of the country a man whom the Gestapo are after. And we are in this thing together.’
Gregory leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Darling, I beg you to be sensible. God knows, I’ve got you into enough trouble already! If there is any chance at all of your getting out on your own you must take it.’
‘There is no chance of the Regent’s providing me with an escort. I am convinced of that. And if there were I still wouldn’t go without you; so please put that idea right out of your mind. Finally, even if I wanted to telephone the Regent I couldn’t. The ‘phone has been cut off.’
‘Has it? When?’
‘I imagine it was done to prevent us trying to get help, as soon as the attempt to kidnap you had started. Directly Pipi joined me in the courtyard and saw what was happening he ran in again to telephone the police. But the line was dead, and it still is.’
‘Then there is no hope now of getting help of any kind from outside. Not that we could have got it anyhow, except by involving our friends. Still, we might have asked someone to hire or provide a car to meet us somewhere.’
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