Come into my Parlour

by Dennis Wheatley

  COME INTO MY PARLOUR

  Dennis Wheatley

  Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones

  Contents

  I The Spider’s Lair

  II The Web is Spun

  III The Fly

  IV The Mission

  V The Letter

  VI The Villa Offenbach

  VII Midnight Journey

  VIII In the Lion’s Den

  IX The Gestapo Get to Work

  X Into Russia

  XI Perilous Journey

  XII Strange Interview

  XIII The Truth, and Nothing but the Truth

  XIV Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire

  XV Floating Coffin

  XVI Warrant for Arrest

  XVII Poison

  XVIII Back into Germany

  XIX At the Eleventh Hour

  XX The Long Night

  A Note on the Auther

  Chapter I

  The Spider’s Lair

  At five minutes to ten on the morning of the 23rd of June 1941, the ugly streets of Berlin were already hot, and a blazing sun in a cloudless sky gave promise of a stifling day. The pavements were far more crowded than in peacetime, owing to the great influx of people brought to the capital of the now swollen Reich by innumerable varieties of war activity; but on this Monday morning the crowds seemed denser than ever and it was clear that they were animated by an unusual excitement.

  Its cause was that only the day before the German armies had invaded Russia, and everyone was eager for news of this great new campaign.

  Behind closed doors a few older people shook their heads. It was true that for over a year now Britain and her Empire had alone remained in arms to defy the might of Hitler, but those arrogant and accursed islanders still remained unsubdued; holding the oceans with their Fleets, doggedly barring the path through North Africa to the East and, with their ever-growing Air Force, proving a constant menace from the West. Hitler had promised that never again should the German people be called upon to wage a war on two fronts simultaneously. Was it really wise, some of the older people asked each other in guarded whispers, to take on the Russian Colossus, however flabby he might appear, before the arch-enemy, Churchill, and all he represented, had been finally overcome?

  But such questioning found no place in the minds of the vast majority. Had not their glorious Führer added the Saar, Austria and Czechoslovakia to the Reich without firing a shot; eliminated Poland in one short month of war; forced Denmark and Norway into submission by a single subtle stroke; conquered Holland, Belgium, Luxemburg and France by the most brilliant campaign in history lasting barely six weeks; overrun Yugoslavia and Greece in another blitzkrieg of twenty-one days; and in the meantime made Italy, Hungary and Rumania into vassal States? Fourteen nations now acknowledged Germany as their Overlord, and eight of them had been subdued by German arms between two Aprils—since from the invasion of Norway to the surrender of Greece less than thirteen months had elapsed.

  Glutted with the loot of Warsaw, Paris, Brussels, Athens and The Hague, the German masses hailed the new campaign against Russia with excited joy and boundless confidence. For them, to expect victory had now become a habit of mind, and defeat unthinkable. In the cafés they were already speculating as to whether Moscow would be captured in one month or two, regretting that they would not get from it the fat dairy produce of Denmark and Holland or the silks and wines of France, but gloating over the thought that the great corn-lands of the Ukraine and the oil of the Caucasus could not but still further raise the now high standard of living for themselves—the Herrenvolk, and exclaiming joyfully that within another year the German Empire would extend from the North Sea to the Pacific Ocean.

  Their confidence was shared by the quiet little middle-aged man who sat at his desk in a spacious second-floor room that looked out on a sunny courtyard at the back of the great S.S. Headquarters on the Alexander Platz.

  Both the room and the man were scrupulously tidy. He was a pale nondescript person with fair hair cut short above a sloping forehead. His chin receded sharply and his weak eyes peered through strong-lensed pince-nez at the documents before him. But he worked with sureness and despatch; his delicate hands sorting through the papers with the same swiftness with which they had for years weighed out quarter kilos of currants and sultanas, when he had been a struggling grocer with a poor little shop in a suburb of Munich. In more recent years he had many times, by a single scrawl of his pen, sent to their deaths more people than there are currants in a quarter kilo; and in Germany’s new Empire of two hundred and sixty-five million souls there were few who did not regard his name with fear or hatred. It was Heinrich Himmler.

  A miniature silver chiming clock on his desk pinged the hour. He signed the paper he had been reading, placed the rest of the pile neatly back in his IN basket and stood up. Tightening the belt of his black and silver Obergruppenführer’s uniform over his plump little paunch, he gave a quick glance in a wall mirror and, apparently satisfied with his appearance, strode with ringing steps across the parquet floor. Throwing open the door of an adjoining room he paused for a moment, dramatically, upon its threshold.

  The room was even larger than his office, and was his private conference room. In it nearly a dozen men were already assembled round a gleaming mahogany table. On his appearance they sprang to their feet as though animated by a single lever and, thrusting out their right arms, exclaimed in chorus: “Heil Hitler!”

  Himmler took the salute, advanced to the chair at the head of the table, motioned the others to be seated, and sitting down himself, picked up the agenda that had been placed ready for him.

  He was about to hold the formal monthly meeting, attended by all the German Intelligence Chiefs, at which he made his comments on the separate appreciations that had been submitted to him, and issued general instructions about matters on which he required more detailed information.

  The three Directors of Intelligence for the Army, Navy and Luftwaffe were present, and the civilian Intelligence Chiefs for the Foreign Office and Economic Warfare. At the far end of the table sat Himmler’s Principal Assistant, the S.S. General Kaltenbrunner; the only man, so it was whispered, of whom Himmler himself was afraid. Behind Kaltenbrunner, at a small separate table against the far wall, two S.S. majors waited, unobtrusive but observant, to act as secretaries and take notes of all that passed at the meeting.

  On Himmler’s right sat a small wisened man in Admiral’s uniform. His sparse grey hair only partially covered a fine domed skull that seemed too big for his body; he had a thin cynical mouth and mild blue eyes. He did not look like a German and his name, Canaris, denoted the foreign extraction of his family; but he had for long been one of the most important figures in the High Command, and was the Chief of the old, pre-Hitler, German Secret Service. Like the three Directors of Intelligence, his allegiance lay with the Oberkommandantur der Wehrmacht, and he was responsible only nominally to Himmler.

  At Himmler’s other side sat another S.S. officer. He was a plumpish man with immensely powerful shoulders, a heavy jowl and hair cut en brosse. His thin sharp nose protruded from between what had been a pair of small, light eyes set much too close together; but now the left eye, although an excellent match and detectable as false only through its immobility, was made of glass. He was Gruppenführer Grauber, the dreaded Chief of Department U.A.–I, and controlled the operations of all Gestapo agents in countries outside the Reich.

  Items one to seven on the agenda consisted of the monthly appreciations of “Future Enemy Intentions”, rendered in turn by the three Service Directors of Intelligence; their two civilian colleagues, Canaris and Grauber.

  These dealt only with the war against Britain and the salient points that emerg
ed were as follows. It was anticipated that within a matter of weeks both the French quisling, General Dentz, who was endeavouring to hold Syria against the Australians, and the last Italian resistance in Abyssinia, would collapse. Grave concern was expressed by the Airman over the ever-mounting losses of the Luftwaffe based on French coastal aerodromes, owing to the R.A.F. daylight sweeps, and it was forecast that still further increases in Britain’s air strength would have to be faced in the future. However, the morale of the British public had fallen sharply, and Churchill had suffered a considerable loss of prestige owing to the recent final abandonment of Crete. There was good reason to suppose that morale in Britain would fall still further during the autumn, owing to the obvious hopelessness of ever securing anything but a patched-up peace at best; the night bombing of industrial centres, a steadily increasing shortage of consumer goods and what would eventually amount to a famine in the luxuries of the masses, such as beer and cigarettes. Although still shrouded in secrecy, it was known that United States “precautions” were now assuming a warlike status, and that the Americans had landed so-called “Security Troops” in both Greenland and Iceland.

  Canaris even went so far as to say that, in his view, unless some special measures could be devised to conciliate public opinion in the States, he believed that they would actively enter the war against Germany before the end of the year. The man from the Wilhelmstrasse offset this by forecasting a great strengthening of relations between Germany and Japan as a result of Vichy giving way to German pressure and agreeing to accept Japanese garrisons in French Indo-China.

  After discussion and a reassessment of certain points these seven appreciations were taken as the basis of the monthly report for submission to Hitler.

  It was not until item eight was reached that any reference was made to Russia. All these key men of the German war-machine had been concerned for many months with the gigantic preparations for the assault on the Soviet Union. Since early spring they had carried the secret of the D-Day fixed for the operation, and they were also fully informed of the time-table set for the campaign. They all considered it as certain that the German armies would be through the Russian-held half of Poland and in Minsk within a week, and that the Nazi Swastikas would be flying over Smolensk by the end of July. Only then did they expect that the main Russian resistance would have to be met, but after a series of big battles in the autumn it was anticipated that Hitler would be able to make a triumphant personal entry into Moscow by Christmas.

  Every scrap of information they could gather regarding Russian resources had already been passed to the O.K.W., and it was now for the Operations Branch of the General Staff to make the best use they could of it.

  Himmler glanced at the one word “Russia” and prepared to pass the item, remarking casually to Grauber:

  “I take it you are fully satisfied about your channels?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Grauber replied quickly, in his high piping voice. “As you know, the Soviet has always been the most difficult of our problems, owing to its strict control of foreigners, and the fact that it has the best counter-espionage system of any country outside the Reich. But I have reliable men in many good places. Owing to distance and the general poorness of communications, there is bound to be some delay in securing sufficient accurate intelligence to form a true picture of what is going on inside Russia as things develop, but we have many means of sending special personnel in to visit our agents and collect the latest material. I shall also go in myself, from time to time, to contact my best men.”

  “Any remarks?” asked Himmler, casting a swift, short-sighted glance round the table.

  It was met by a general shaking of heads, so he went on to the other items, despatching each after asking a few questions and making a brief comment.

  At item thirteen, he read out: “Gregory Sallust”—paused for a moment, frowned, and added: “What is this? I seem to know that name.”

  “I had it put on the agenda, Hen Obergruppenführer,” said Canaris, quietly.

  Himmler squinted at him. “Well, Herr Admiral?”

  The Admiral looked round, gathering the attention of his audience. “As you are all aware,” he began, “in some respects the British Intelligence Service has deteriorated since the last war. It cannot be denied that they are extremely efficient in securing certain types of information. For example, captured documents prove beyond dispute that their appreciations of our ‘Order of Battle’ in various theatres of war are uncannily accurate. On the other hand, they seem to have very little idea as to what is going on inside Germany itself. Generally speaking, our internal security is highly satisfactory; but the British do possess a limited number of ace operators who, from time to time, have succeeded in penetrating some of our most closely guarded secrets, and my people tell me that Sallust is the most dangerous of them all.”

  Himmler peered through his pince-nez at Grauber. “What do you know of this man?”

  Grauber’s pale fleshy face coloured as he replied: “Herr Obergruppenführer, I am surprised that the Herr Admiral should consider the case of any individual enemy agent of sufficient importance to occupy the time of such a high-powered meeting as this.”

  “I do so,” countered the Admiral, “for a perfectly adequate reason. The progress of our ‘K’ series of new secret weapons has now reached a point at which their further development necessitates a much greater number of people having knowledge of them. This will automatically increase the danger of the enemy getting wind of these immensely important devices, by which we hope to bring the war with Britain to a successful conclusion without undertaking the hazards of an invasion. If a leak does occur, the British will obviously put their best men on to the job of securing for them the secrets of Peenemünde. Sallust speaks German as well as if he was born here, so all the odds are that he will be allocated to this task. Prevention being better than cure, I should like to have the Herr Gruppenführer’s assurance that adequate precautions are being taken against him.”

  Himmler looked at Grauber again. “I asked you what you knew of this man?”

  Grauber shrugged his great shoulders. “The Herr Admiral exaggerates the danger. Sallust is certainly a man to watch. He is resolute and resourceful, and he has pulled off some very clever coups. So far he has always managed to elude us; but if he puts his nose inside Germany again, I’ll get him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He was last reported to me as in Paris, but there is good reason to suppose that by now he is back in England.”

  “He won’t stay there long,” the Admiral put in. “He is far too active, and he is extraordinarily audacious. He even had the effrontery to beard Reichmarshal Goering at Karinhall, and got away with it; and I have good reason to believe that he completely fooled von Geisenheim, one of our astutest Generals, less than a month ago in Paris. If the English do learn of our ‘K’ projects I will stake my reputation that they will send Sallust back into Germany.”

  “I hope you are right,” Grauber laughed suddenly; it was a high, unpleasant laugh. “I have a personal score to settle with Mr. Sallust, and the one thing I am waiting for is for him to give me another chance to get my hands on him.”

  “Why wait?” said Himmler sharply. “As the Herr Admiral says, prevention is better than cure. If this man is so dangerous he must be eliminated before he has a chance to do us any further mischief. Lure him here. Set a trap for him and kill him. See to that, Grauber, or I will make you answer for it personally. Within three months, I require a certificate of Sallust’s death from you.”

  Chapter II

  The Web is Spun

  When, just after midday, the meeting broke up, Grauber went up to Canaris and said:

  “Would the Herr Admiral be so gracious as to spare me a few moments to discuss the matter in which he has displayed such interest? I refer to the trapping of Gregory Sallust.”

  “But certainly, my dear Herr Gruppenführer,” the Admiral purred. “And now, i
f you like. You Gestapo men are so active that you leave us poor old fogies of the original Service little to do in these days. That, of course, is our excuse for having concerned ourselves in a matter which is really your affair; but to which you have obviously been too busy to attend, owing to the pressure of more important business.”

  Grauber showed his uneven teeth in a false smile. “As things are, a certain amount of overlapping between our Departments is inevitable; but that will be rectified when the two services are brought under one head—as they are bound to be in due course. In the meantime, we always find your co-operation invaluable. May I show you the way to my office?”

  “As I was instrumental in having a bomb removed from it last month, I have the good fortune to know it,” replied the Admiral imperturbably, “but I shall be delighted to accompany you there.”

  Having exchanged these honeyed thrusts, the hulking Gestapo Chief and the delicate looking elderly sailor left the room side by side and walked down the long echoing corridor.

  They were old enemies, and the rivalry between them was bitter in the extreme. Grauber, with Himmler’s backing, had many times endeavoured to bring about the disbandment of the Admiral’s department and the absorption of its best men into his own espionage machine, but the O.K.W. had always successfully resisted his attempts, and Canaris was confident that they would continue to do so.

  He disliked Grauber personally, regarding him as a gutter-bred thug, typical of the worst elements that had lifted Hitler to power, and despised his brutal heavy-handed methods. He was not the least afraid of the Gestapo Chief, because he knew his own position was secure as long as von Rundstedt, von Räder, von Bock, von Geisenheim, and half a dozen others like them remained at the head of the Wehrmacht, and he did not believe that Hitler could wage a successful war without them. In consequence, he took an impish delight in treading on Grauber’s corns whenever the opportunity offered; and he had raised the question of Gregory Sallust that morning almost as much for the pleasure of making Grauber appear negligent in front of Himmler as because he honestly considered the matter was important.