The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Another thing; all the odds are in favour of the French down on their Italian frontier; not only are they better fighters than the Italians but the ground is to their advantage. The French have only one ridge of mountains to cross to get down into Italy, and in that ridge are situated the great hydro-electrical power stations which supply the whole industrial area of Turin and Milan. If the French captured or destroyed those generating plants Italy would be out of the war in a week. The Italians have a much harder row to hoe. They have three ridges of mountains to cross before they can get down into France proper, and even when they got there there’s nothing vital that they could destroy which might seriously cripple the French war effort. No. I’m still convinced that Mussolini is only bluffing and hasn’t the least intention of risking his own neck to help his gangster friend. The only possible case in which he might be tempted to send his waiters over the top would be if the Allies had suffered a major defeat and France was practically down and out. Then he might screw his courage up to play the part of the jackal, but not before.’

  ‘I see. Well, let’s hope that if Hitler does go into the Low Countries the politicians will not overrule the Generals and insist on our going into Belgium. In any case, it’s obvious that we’re not strong enough to defeat the German Army yet. Our game is to wait and let the Blockade do its work this winter, while we triple the size of our Army and Air Force so that we can launch a decisive offensive in the spring.’

  ‘That’s it. But Hitler is not the man to wait for our convenience and he may decide to go into Belgium and Holland any day, so the more information you can get the better. Erika and Kuporovsky will have a dozen interesting lines for you to follow, but to what sort of devilry they’ll lead you, God in heaven only knows.’

  ‘There’s nothing special that you want me to keep my eyes open for while I’m out there, then?’

  ‘No. Unless … by Jove! That’s an idea! Have you ever heard of the Black Baroness?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gregory slowly. ‘Kuporovitch mentioned her once in Oslo. Paula von Steinmetz received her instructions to move to Holland from someone who was referred to as “the Black Baroness”, but he couldn’t learn anything about her; and Gussy Langdon-Forbes mentioned the Black Baroness to me on one occasion when he was talking about German Fifth Column activities; but a bomb burst just at that moment and I forgot afterwards to ask him who she was.’

  Sir Pellinore filled up the Kümmel glasses. ‘Her real name is La Baronne de Porte. She’s French, as white as we are, and she used to be very beautiful; but as she is over fifty now she’s a bit part-worn. She is a great friend of that traitor Bonnet, and she wields enormous influence with quite a number of people whose decisions may affect the lives of untold millions.’

  ‘Strange,’ muttered Gregory. ‘I’ve never even heard of her.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, as she is one of those really clever women who prefer wielding great power in secret to receiving the public acclaim of the mob, and later, perhaps, hearing the same mob howling for their blood. I met her once and she has a dead-white face with jet-black eyes and hair. It may be from her eyes and hair that she gets her nickname; but I’ve an idea that it was given to her because she always works under cover in the same way as the old “Black Hand” which invariably struck in secret.

  ‘Her husband, the Baron, was a millionaire financier, and you know how greatly the ruling caste in France has felt itself to be threatened by Communism in recent years. When Madame la Baronne became interested in politics her very able brain naturally sought some antidote and, not unnaturally, it turned to Fascism. She made many friends in high places in Italy, and later she was received at Berchtesgaden by the Führer. Exactly what those two plotted together nobody knows, but it’s a very curious thing that during the last few years whenever a woman has brought about the downfall of a European statesman with pro-Ally leanings the name of the Black Baroness has cropped up vaguely somewhere in the background of the story.’

  ‘You think, then, that she may be the brains behind Hitler’s secret weapon?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m only certain of one thing—that they entered into some devil’s pact. We have ample evidence that the Baronne would prefer to see a Hitler-dominated France in which she and her friends survived than a Communist France in which they would automatically go under. I suggest, therefore, that she may be Hitler’s great whore mistress. She knows so many important figures on the European scene, and it would be easy for a woman of her brain to find out what their weaknesses are and the type of girl that they would be likely to fall for. If I’m right, she would then send very detailed instructions to Berlin, and the Gestapo would go through their whole list of beautiful harpies. When they had selected the one they considered most suitable the Baronne would take the girl under her wing for a time and so arrange matters that ample opportunity was given to her to ensnare the intended victim.’

  ‘It sounds feasible,’ Gregory agreed. ‘Anyhow, I’ll certainly keep a look-out for her.’

  Far into the early morning hours these two cronies, so far apart in age yet so near in outlook and in spirit, discussed many matters of interest with unflagging enthusiasm. The bottle of old Kümmel was empty and two beakers of champagne had followed it, when at last Gregory stood up to go. As he thanked his host he said: ‘If I can manage to get on the track of the Black Baroness, what d’you wish me to do about it?’

  Sir Pellinore shrugged. ‘Need I go into details? Even if she does not control Hitler’s secret weapon that woman is poison, Gregory. I know for a positive fact that she has been responsible for at least two suicides, and that while she is high in the councils of our Allies she is in reality hand in glove with the enemy. If she could be put out of action permanently it would be as great a victory as the destruction of a German Army Corps.’

  Gregory did not speak for a minute; then he said: ‘Are you suggesting that I should murder her?’

  The elderly baronet’s merry blue eyes suddenly went very cold and hard, as he replied quietly: ‘We are at war. The age of chivalry, alas, is past. Since our leaders still fail to realise what Britain is up against it lies with people like you and me to save our country, however repulsive to our personal feelings the methods may be which we are forced to employ. The only instructions that I can give you are those which have made England great—whatever the age, whatever the weapons—“seek out and destroy the enemy”.’

  13

  The Enemy is Found

  Erika had never looked more lovely. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were shining. For some reason best known to herself she had put on full evening-dress although she was dining alone in the charming apartment that she had taken in Brussels. As she came into the dining-room her new butler drew back her chair with the quiet assurance of a perfectly-trained servant and with a deft movement brought the little handwritten menu-slate a few inches nearer to her, as he said in French:

  ‘I was not aware that Madame had given her cook permission to go out this evening and that she would have to dine off cold dishes in consequence. If Madame would prefer something hot, I have the good fortune to be a passable cook so I could manage some Oeufs poché Béndictine or an Omelette pointes d’asperges with the eggs that are in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, thank you, Pierre; Consommé en gelée saumon froid and fraises des bois will do very well,’ Erika replied quietly, but her hand trembled as he placed the iced soup in front of her with a little bow and left the room. Even the cold soup—easiest of all dishes to master for anyone whose intense excitement has robbed them of their appetite—proved difficult for her to swallow, and she was hardly half-way through it when the perfect man-servant appeared again noiselessly beside her.

  ‘Jacqueline is about to leave now, and she wishes to know if Madame has any further orders for her before she goes,’ he said deferentially.

  ‘N-no. There’s nothing—thank you.’ Erika could hardly get the words out; she leaned back and closed her eyes as the man sm
oothly removed her soup plate and disappeared again.

  A moment later as she heard the click of the front door she sprang up from her chair. At the same second the butler returned, and next instant she had flung herself into his arms.

  ‘Gregory—darling!’ She was half laughing, half crying. ‘It was absolute torture to have you here all the afternoon yet not be able to say a single word to you because of these silly servants.’

  ‘My angel!’ Gregory smiled, when he had kissed her until they were both breathless. ‘Today I’ve learnt what poor St. Anthony must have felt when he was tempted in the desert. To be in the same room with you and denied the joy of even touching your hand!’

  ‘Must we keep up this farce?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, for the time being at all events. If I were seen with you in public by any one of a hundred people who are in Brussels now the whole game would be up; but I simply couldn’t bear to be in the same city and have to remain content with talking to you on the telephone. That’s why I sent you a note round at midday to hire me as your man-servant. Anyhow, we’ll be under the same roof—and that’s a lot.’

  ‘But, darling, we shall simply never be alone together. It was sheer luck that it happened to be my cook’s evening off tonight, and I had a frightful job trying to think up a plausible excuse to get my maid out of the flat for a few hours. They’re certain to think there’s something fishy going on if I often send them out together in the evening.’

  ‘There are the nights, angel,’ Gregory whispered with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Yes, my sweet—yes. I shall positively live for them. What fun it will be to lie in bed waiting for you to tiptoe down the corridor after a long, long day of make-believe that you are only my servant.’

  ‘I am your servant—for all eternity,’ he murmured, and caught her to him again in another swift embrace.

  ‘There!’ gasped Erika, when at last she drew away from him. ‘That really is enough for—for about five minutes. Our salmon will be getting cold.’

  ‘It’s cold already, sweetheart,’ he laughed.

  ‘Why, so it is; but I’ve been in such a state all day that I haven’t been able to take in a single thing except that you’re safe and with me once more. Come on; let’s sit down and eat it.’

  He did not bother to fetch another plate; they shared the dish with the gaiety of two naughty children who had broken into a larger; which brought back memories of the meals that they had had together when she had hidden him for a day and a night in her bedroom in Munich.

  As they ate they talked, volubly, nineteen to the dozen; firing questions at each other, gabbling replies, incredibly eager to know how every moment of each other’s time had been spent since they had parted.

  Gregory learnt to his great satisfaction that, as far as she knew, through the assumption of the name Yonnie Rostedal, which was on the Norwegian passport that Paula had secured for her, she had so far succeeded in preventing any members of the German Embassy learning that she was in Brussels. Paula and two or three other German girls who had known her in Norway and travelled to the Low Countries at the same time as herself all believed that she had assumed her Norwegian nom de guerre to avoid the unwelcome attentions of a wealthy young Dutchman; about whom she had put out the story that he was so madly in love with her that when she had been in Holland the year before he had threatened to kill her and himself if she would not take pity on him. This also provided an excellent excuse for her to refuse invitations to parties and to go out very little in public, as they naturally assumed that she was afraid that she might run into this most undesirable lover. Such a life of semi-concealment naturally greatly restricted her personal opportunities for gathering information, but that was where Kuporovitch came in, and they formed an excellent partnership.

  The ex-General, having been cooped up in Russia for twenty-six years, knew nobody in European society. Even the names of high officers, diplomats, leaders of fashion and alt except the leading statesmen were totally unknown to him, so he had no background of knowledge from which to draw inferences when he heard them mentioned; but as Paula’s lover he had become persona grata with the most important section of the German Fifth Column which was working in Holland and Belgium, and so constantly heard references made to key personalities in a dozen countries.

  Fortunately he possessed an excellent memory, so he was able to repeat parrot-wise to Erika most of the conversations he had heard: and as she had moved for so long in international society she was able, in the great majority of cases, to get the full import of what had been said; upon which she wrote out her reports for Sir Pellinore.

  For a few days after their arrival in Holland they had stayed at the Brack’s Doelen Hotel in Amsterdam, but then Paula had received instructions to move to Brussels, and the other two had accompanied her. Paula had taken a furnished apartment on the Boulevard du Regent, the ‘Park Lane’ of Brussels, and Erika had taken another near by in the Rue Montoyer, which lies between the Pare Leopold and the Royal Palace; while Kuporovitch had gone to the Hotel Astoria.

  The Belgian Fascist leader, Degrelle, had called on Paula immediately she was settled in and arranged for her to meet the Comte de Werbomont, a member of King Leopold’s household who had very soon fallen for her youthful, opulent charms. The Count, being a married man, was able to visit her only in secret, and as most of his time was occupied in attendance upon the King he knew nothing about Kuporovitch, who, since he had to share Paula with somebody, found the arrangement highly satisfactory. Erika, meanwhile, was supposed to be engaged on some extremely tricky piece of work for the Gestapo which was so secret that she could not tell even Paula about it; all of which worked in admirably with the fact that she very rarely went out.

  As Erika had reported personally to Sir Pellinore three nights previously there was no necessity for her to go into great detail with Gregory about the German Fifth Column activities, but she gave him a general layout of the situation and said that she was convinced that Brussels was the centre of the whole network of the German espionage system in the two threatened countries. Gregory waited patiently until she had finished, then he asked her if she had ever heard of the Black Baroness.

  ‘Die schwarze Baronin’ Erika said thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Mention of her has occurred now and again but never in connection with anything of sufficient importance to be worth putting in any of my reports.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘Oh, just social gossip. She was staying with Degrelle, I think, about the time we got here and I believe poor Susie von Ertz dined with her one night.’

  ‘Why d’you say “poor Susie”? I thought her rather an attractive, jolly girl when we met her in Oslo. Has anything gone wrong with her?’

  ‘Why, yes. I told Sir Pellinore; but of course you wouldn’t know. Susie was given a Dutch aeroplane designer to look after, but they slipped up somewhere, and his wife found oui. The poor man was so upset that he poisoned himself. Unfortunately for Susie, he chose her bedroom to take his life in; so, of course, the police were called in, and they’ve been trying to pin a charge of murder on her.’

  Gregory made a grimace. ‘Poor little devil. The police are probably right, though.’

  ‘What makes you think that, darling?’

  ‘Well, presumably she’s been under arrest since the tragedy occurred, so she must have dined with the Black Baroness beforehand. From what old Pellinore tells me, the Baroness has been hovering vaguely in the background of so many tragic “accidents” that I should think it’s quite on the cards that she blackmailed Susie into giving her aeroplane designer the poison with the promise that they would help her to fake things to look like suicide afterwards.’

  ‘Who is this Black Baroness woman, Gregory? Now I come to think of it I asked Susie, after she told me that she’d dined with her, how anyone had come by such a curious nickname. Susie just said that it was because she’s such a striking-looking woman with hair and eyes that are as
black as pitch; but the word seems to have a much more sinister implication than that.’

  ‘She’s a Frenchwoman and her real name is the Baronne de Porte.’

  ‘The Baronne de Porte!’ Erika exclaimed. ‘But, of course, I know quite a lot about her.’

  ‘Then you’re better informed than I was up to three nights ago, my sweet.’

  ‘Darling, when I was selling armaments with Hugo Falkenstein it was my business to find out about such people. Her husband, the Baron, was a great industrialist and she married when she was quite young, but left him before she was twenty-four. She then went in for high finance, on her own account, and she has the Midas touch, so that in a few years she had amassed a great fortune; but that’s years and years ago. When making big money began to pall on her she started to take an interest in politics; perhaps because she was already an intimate friend of Paul Reynaud’s.’

  ‘Reynaud’s!’ Gregory repeated. ‘But, good God, he’s the new Premier of France.’

  Erika shrugged. ‘Oh, her affair with him started when he was only a promising lawyer, way back in 1916. It must have burnt itself out long ago.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Later she travelled a lot,’ Erika went on, ‘and she often used to stay in Rome and Berlin. In both she made many friends and there is no doubt that she acquired pro-Fascist leanings. Just after Munich she became very intimate with Baudoin, the President of the Banque d’ Indo-Chine, and he is a person who wields enormous influence behind the scenes. Both of them, quite naturally, are rabid anti-Communists, but I’ve always believed that the Baronne was a patriotic Frenchwoman. It’s a grim thought that anyone like that should actually have gone to the length of tying up with the Nazis and be working for them now that her country is at war with Germany.’

  ‘Well, she is; and what you’ve just told me about Susie, together with the fact that the Baronne was staying with Degrelle, and that it was Degrelle who arranged for Paula to meet the Comte de Werbomont, seems to confirm Pellinore’s belief that it’s she who picks the most suitable girls for the chaps the Nazis want to get into their toils, and makes the necessary social arrangements so that each selected lovely can be thrown in the chappie’s path quite naturally. I’ve got to get on to this Baroness woman. D’you know if she’s still in Brussels?’