The Black Baroness

by Dennis Wheatley

  Half-stunned, Gregory and Kuporovitch picked themselves up, while fresh whines and crashes sounded further afield as the bomber passed over, but Paula did not stir. Her head was buried on her arms, which were splayed out among the spilt wine, and blood was gushing from her side. A bomb fragment had whizzed through the window and caught her under the left arm as she was leaning on the table. It had smashed her ribs and penetrated her heart, killing her almost instantly.

  Kuporovitch stood over her, gently stroking her dark hair while he murmured, ‘So young—so beautiful,’ and Gregory saw that large tears were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks. In spite of the callous, casual way in which he had treated her, according to his own strange lights upon human relationships, the Russian had grown very fond of the beautiful German girl and it was obvious that he was suffering acutely at the thought that she was never to laugh again.

  ‘Poor little devil,’ Gregory said softly. ‘None of us can blame her for what she was doing. It was those rotten Nazi swine who forced her to become a whore; it’s pretty lousy, though, to think that in spite of all she did for them they got her in the end. Let’s take her upstairs.’

  Gently they carried her up to her bedroom and drew the coverlet over her warm-hued face which was now drained of blood but looked even more lovely in the peace of death. She could have felt little pain and she was gone now to a place where there were no Gestapo bullies to compel her to sell her body in exchange for her brother’s life.

  When they got downstairs again Kuporovitch took a bottle of brandy out of a cupboard and said: ‘This is not my war, Gregory, but these Nazi swine shall pay for that. Not yet, though. You must not count upon me for help tonight in anything that you may decide to do; because I’m going to get drunk—I am going to get very drunk indeed—as drunk as only a Russian knows how.’

  ‘O.K.,’ said Gregory quietly. ‘I’d keep you company and show you what an Englishman can do in that direction if it weren’t that I may have to go out on the job when Erika gets back.’

  Kuporovitch half-filled a tumbler with neat brandy and swigged the whole lot down, then he said: ‘You’ll notice, by the way, that they didn’t bomb the Château.’

  ‘No. Apparently not,’ Gregory agreed. ‘But what d’you infer from that?’

  ‘Simply that they didn’t mean to. Ever since we reached Ghent I’ve been living within a few hundred yards of King Leopold. I can’t remember how many air-raids we’ve been through; I’ve lost count of them; but it’s shown me one thing—they don’t want to get the King—their game is to scare him. They drop the bombs any damned place where it’s near enough for him to hear them crashing and they don’t mind whom they kill in the meantime, but they haven’t dropped a bomb yet that’s even been remotely dangerous to him.’

  ‘I get you,’ Gregory nodded. ‘If they blew him to bits the little Duke of Brabant would succeed, and he would simply be a puppet in the hands of his Ministers. Belgium would fight on, and that is not according to the Germans’ programme. They want the Belgians out of the war so that they can encircle the British Army. Their game is not to bomb Leopold but to drop so many bombs all round him that he gets the jitters and lets his Allies down.’

  ‘That’s the game,’ Kuporovitch agreed, tipping another quadruple brandy into his tumbler. ‘Well, here’s luck to you people who don’t like Hitler! But now little Paula’s dead and you’re back with Erika there’s not much point in my staying here. I can probably do just as good work for the Allies in France now the battle has become general. I think I’ll set out for Paris tomorrow morning. D’you realise, Gregory, that it’s May again—just think of it, Paris in May.’

  ‘Just as you like, Stefan. You’ve been a good friend to us. I’ll be truly sorry to lose touch with you, but maybe we’ll come across each other later on.’

  The door behind them opened suddenly and Erika stood there. ‘Thank God you’re both safe!’ she whispered, and sat down with a little sigh.

  ‘We’re all right, but we had one casualty, and a fatal one, here just now,’ Gregory told her, breaking the news as gently as possible.

  ‘What?’ Erika’s eyebrows went up. ‘The old landlady—or—or—Paula?’

  ‘Yes, Paula. One of those damned bombs fell in the street and a splinter sailed through the window; it got her through the ribs, went right into her heart. Don’t take it too badly, sweetheart; she could hardly have known what hit her. It was all over in ten seconds and she was dead before we could touch her,’

  Great tears came into Erika’s eyes as she murmured: ‘Poor Paula—she was very young—and those Gestapo devils threatened they’d kill her brother if she didn’t do just what they told her to do.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregory nodded. ‘But in some way she’s well out of it. We’re going to beat the Nazis yet—you know that—and what sort of future was there in store for her? Tell me about Leopold. I wouldn’t ask you at the moment, but the lives of a quarter of a million British soldiers may hang upon it.’

  Erika choked back her tears. ‘He’s worse—nearly at the end of his tether. He’s one of those artistic, highly-strung people; he adored his wife, Astrid, you know, and he’s never really got over her loss, although it’s said that before the war he had an English mistress of whom he saw a lot on his visits to London. He knows perfectly well that he ought to fight on, and the memory of his father seems to haunt him; but so many people round him have always told him that Hitler is great and wise and good. He feels that every Belgian is being as badly bombed as he is and that he only has to ask the magnanimous Fuehrer for honourable terms and he’ll get them and save his people from this nightly horror. That’s why he sent his Cabinet to Paris. He’s clever enough to realise that if they were with him they would bully him into holding out, and intimate pretty plainly that he was a coward if he even suggested caving in. But they’re out of the way now, and the final decision lies entirely with him. He’s only got to sign an order and the Belgian Army will pack up. It was all I could do tonight to make him promise me that he wouldn’t do anything until he had seen a friend of mine.’

  Kuporovitch emptied another quarter bottle of brandy into his tumbler as Gregory looked up inquiringly.

  ‘Yes,’ Erika said, ‘it’s you I mean. You’ve got to talk to him. He’s not even mentioned what he’s feeling to his Generals or to the high Allied officers who are attached to his person; he’s terrified of what they might say to him, but he’ll take it from an outside person who is introduced by myself. You’re a wonderful psychologist, darling, and you understand the tortuous ways of the human heart better than anybody that I’ve ever met—even Hugo, who was so marvellous. He’s a pathetic figure, Gregory, showing a brave face each day and breaking down each night. You’ve got to hold his hands and put your immense strength into him to save him from himself and from the shame that will attach to him for all time if he surrenders.’

  ‘All right,’ Gregory said gently. ‘If you feel that it’s up to me, I’ll do everything I possibly can. When am I to see him?’

  ‘Not until tomorrow morning. He hasn’t slept for nights, but when I left him he was going to turn in and his doctor had promised to give him a really strong dose of Medinol. Orders are being given that he’s not to be woken, however grave any fresh news that may come in, so it’s to be hoped that in spite of the bombs he may sleep right through and be more his own man tomorrow.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Gregory, ‘we’d better try to get some sleep ourselves.’

  Erika sighed as she stood up. ‘Yes, darling. If only those devils Goering is sending over will let us.’

  Kuporovitch emptied the remaining contents of the brandy bottle into his glass and grinned at them. ‘Sleep well, my children; I’m staying where I am. By the grace of God there are another three bottles of brandy in that cupboard and either I’ll finish them or they’ll finish me.’

  He raised his glass on high, and added: ‘Blessings on you; we’ll meet in Paris yet—Paris in the sunshine, eh?’<
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  ‘Pray God we may.’ Gregory muttered.

  Erika said: ‘Goodnight, Stefan dear,’ and Gregory followed her out into the passage and up to her bedroom on the first floor.

  In the last days they had become so used to the scores of tragedies that were occurring every minute within a few miles of them that normally, having found each other again, they would have shut the tortured world around them out of their minds for a few hours to rejoice in being together once more; but Paula’s death had brought things so near to them that it had robbed them both of any desire for love-making. As at any moment they might find themselves in the midst of another air-raid, they took off only their shoes and outer garments, then lay down together on the bed. The night was so sultry that they did not even draw the coverlet over them.

  The raiders came again, again and again; casting their bombs sometimes into the fields north of the Château, sometimes on the sand dunes and sometimes right into the village itself. In intervals between their clinging together as the louder crashes reverberated and the whole house shook they dozed, until at last the grey daylight began to filter through the drawn blind. The air-raids eased a little after that and for a couple of hours they slept, but awoke again with a start to the sound of more exploding bombs quite close to them. As full daylight had now come, they washed and tidied themselves as well as they could in the poky little bedroom that in a normal year would have been occupied by some holiday-maker whose resources were extremely limited.

  On going downstairs they found Kuporovitch lying sprawled across the sitting-room table in a drunken slumber; but he had beaten the brandy. All four bottles stood in a neat row before him—empty.

  They tried to wake him to get him up to bed, but he was absolutely and completely out. Had a bomb fallen in the room he would have known nothing about it, but been blown to pieces in his sleep. Gregory got him over his shoulders, carried him upstairs, undressed him and put him in Erika’s bed, since the only other lodger’s room was that which he had shared with Paula and now sacred to its lone, still occupant.

  Meanwhile Erika went in search of breakfast and as she was investigating the contents of a cupboard in the small kitchen the woman who owned the house came in. She had spent the night in a neighbour’s cellar and on Erika’s telling her of Paula’s death she promised to go and fetch the village undertaker when she had heated up some coffee and cooked some eggs for them. While the meal was being prepared Erika and Gregory tidied the garishly-furnished sitting-room. The hot coffee revived them a little and they forced themselves to eat the eggs although they did not feel in the least hungry. Afterwards Erika said she would go round to the Château and find out when the King would receive Gregory, while he saw the undertaker and made arrangements about Paula’s funeral.

  Breedene was only a little place and the undertaker proved to be the village carpenter. He said that he already had seven orders for coffins on his hands and so could not possibly promise to furnish one for Paula until the next day. But Gregory felt that all of them would like to see Paula properly buried, and Heaven alone knew where the following day would find them, so he produced a thousand-franc note, at the sight of which the carpenter promised to give his order priority and have everything ready for the funeral to take place at midday.

  Shortly afterwards Erika returned. She had not been able to see the King but had sent in a message by the Comte de Werbomont after breaking the news of Paula’s death to him. The Count had been terribly cut up but he had pulled himself together and seen King Leopold, returning with a written message for Erika, which read:

  ‘I had a good night’s sleep and am feeling better. There will be conferences going on all day so I cannot see you before this evening, but as you are so insistent that I should talk to your friend bring him to the Château at ten o’clock. I give you my word that in the meantime I will not take any final decision’

  It was a perturbing thought that they must wait twelve long hours before anything further could be done to strengthen the King’s will to resistance when so much hung in the balance; but they could only endeavour to possess themselves in patience.

  ‘Do you happen to know Paula’s religion?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘She came from a south German family and I’m certain that she was a Catholic,’ Erika replied at once.

  Gregory nodded. ‘That’s fortunate, as I don’t expect we’d be able to find a Protestant pastor without going to Ostend. As it is, the local man can bury her; I’ll go and fix matters up with him.’

  While he was away Erika performed the last rites for her friend. The carpenter arrived at midday with the coffin and four villagers to act as bearers, with a farm wagon for hearse. One of them was sent off to tell the Comte de Werbomont that the funeral was about to take place and he joined them at the churchyard. Gregory kept himself well in the background, among the little group of villagers who had gathered round the open grave, in order to avoid any necessity arising for Erika to introduce him to the Count, a tall, thin man who with her took the place of chief mourner. Kuporovitch was still lying in a drunken stupor.

  Erika and the Count walked back along the village street together, with Gregory following at a distance. The Count left her at the door of the house in which she was staying and Gregory joined her inside two minutes later. When he asked if she had any news as to how things were going she said:

  ‘The Count told me just now that the French are still holding the line of the Somme in the south and that further north the Germans seem to have been halted at Calais, but their corridor from Luxemburg to the coast is now about fifty miles wide. The Northern Armies have been forced into a compact triangle with only a short base along the strip of coast between Zeebrugge and Graveling and such a succession of hammer-blows are being delivered against the left side of the triangle it is feared that the Belgian Armies there may be battered to pieces.’

  There had been only two air-raids during the morning, but during the afternoon they came almost hourly. The landlady had disappeared again and Gregory did not like to leave Kuporovitch, who was still sleeping off his debauch, but he tried to persuade Erika to take refuge in the crypt of the church. She flatly refused, saying that if Fate ordained that he was to be killed she would rather die with him than live on without him, so they curled up on the sofa and got what rest they could, not knwing what activities the night might hold in store for them.

  At seven o’clock they went downstairs and cooked themselves a meal; then they sat smoking in the sitting-room until a little before ten, when it was time for them to go to the Château. As darkness had fallen the raids had become still more intensive. Many buildings were down and the northern end of the village was on fire. Fortunately the wind was blowing from the south and Gregory did not think that there was any likelihood of the fire’s spreading in the direction of their house so that Kuporovitch might be burnt in bed while he still slept, but he was considerably worried as to the effect that this almost continuous aerial bombardment might be having upon the mind of the King.

  At the Château the servants, who knew Erika, let her pass but they would not allow Gregory through, so she sent in for de Werbomont and taking him aside told him that Gregory must remain nameless but the King had expressed a desire to see him. The Count then gave instructions that Gregory was to be allowed to enter, but the Captain of the Guard asked him to hand over any weapon that he might be carrying, so he had to surrender his pistol; de Werbomont then took them both into a small writing-room and left them.

  A few minutes later he returned to fetch them and they followed him through the main hall. The Château was being used as the headquarters of the Belgian Army and Staff Officers were constantly coming and going through the passages; but they passed from the bustle and ringing of telephone bells down a short staircase to a basement corridor where everything was divided into two by a pair of heavy curtains. In normal times it had evidently been used as a recreation room, as a billiards table had been pushed up against one wall and an arche
ry target still stood against another; but the place was now half filled with the King’s luggage and personal belongings. Signing to Erika and Gregory to wait, de Werbomont tiptoed forward, parted the curtains, and said something in a low voice; then he held one of the curtains aside and beckoned the others to go through.

  Although the day had once more been as warm as midsummer the King was almost crouching in an armchair near a tiled stove. Erika made her curtsy and Gregory bowed as the curtains closed behind them. The King smiled feebly and motioned them to come forward. He looked incredibly tired and very ill. Gregory had always thought of him as a young man—almost a boy—but in spite of his slim figure and fair, curling hair he now looked well on into middle age.

  Erika placed her finger on her lips and they all remained silent for a moment; then she stepped back and looked through the curtains. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, without any ceremony, ‘de Werbomont has gone. I thought he might be listening. Have I your permission, sir, to tell the sentry on the door that we are not to be disturbed?’

  ‘Yes, Yonnie; yes, tell him that if you wish.’

  Gregory suppressed a start at hearing the King call Erika Yonnie; he had forgotten for the moment that Leopold knew her only as the Norwegian, Yonnie Rostedal.

  While Erika was absent Gregory remained silent, waiting to be addressed; but the King seemed hardly to be aware of his presence and sat staring at the floor. When Erika came back she said at once: ‘May I present to Your Majesty Mr. Gregory Sallust? If you will talk to him as you have talked to me, I feel certain that you will find him a wise counsellor.’

  Leopold roused himself and spoke with some dignity: ‘I am sorry not to have been able to receive you, Mr. Sallust, at a happier time. I understand that Madame Rostedal has told you how I feel, but perhaps it would be better if I put my position to you myself. Please sit down, both of you, and help yourselves to cigarettes. There are drinks on the side-table, too, if you want them.’