Probably he felt that in the uncertainties of the post-war world it would be a good thing to be free himself. His title was an old one and he still had his castle in Württemberg. With those assets he also might marry again and secure a share of some rich industrialist’s daughter’s fortune.
But in spite of that he had the instinctive shrewdness to gamble on the fact that a divorce would be as much to her advantage as his own, and demand that she should come to his assistance with a thousand pounds as the price of her freedom.
He was delightfully casual too, in his assumption that, although she was a refugee, she could easily lay her hand on such a sum. He knew, of course, that she had many rich friends in England and no doubt assumed that she had already acquired a wealthy lover. He had always regarded her quite dispassionately and rather as though she were a marvellous objet d’art that he was proud to possess but did not mind other connoisseurs handling. When an elderly relative of his had once remarked that it was quite time that he took serious notice of her infidelities, he had shrugged his shoulders and replied: “My dear Uncle. After all, what is a slice off a cut cake?”
She had been furious at the comparison when the uncle in question, a bibulous old gentleman, had later repeated the story to her one evening when he was slightly tight; but at least she could not complain of her husband’s attitude, in view of the life she was leading of her own choice in those days.
Putting the letter in her bag she went over to the hospital wing and endeavoured to settle down to her work, but the thought of it never left her mind all day, and she felt an irresistible urge to talk it over with someone. Madeleine was the only person at Gwaine Meads in whom she could confide, so that evening after dinner she asked the French girl to come up to her room, and translated the letter to her.
Madeleine had changed out of her nurse’s uniform for dinner into an afternoon frock which, although it was quite simple, she wore with all the elegance of a born Parisienne. Her eyes were a deeper blue than Erika’s, and her dark silky curls above her piquant, tanned little face gave her a warm Mediterranean type of beauty; but her figure, limbs and skin had not the perfection of Erika’s, neither did the set of her eyebrows, cheekbones and mouth give her such a striking loveliness.
Having listened to the letter, her first question was typical of her eminently practical French mind. “Can you get the thousand pounds?”
“Oh, yes,” Erika smiled. “Gregory left me a power of attorney, and only last night we were saying that we’d give anything to get married, so I’m sure he’d wish me to use some of his money for this. I may have to smuggle it out of England, but I’m not going to let any regulation stand between me and my happiness, and I’m certain that he wouldn’t either.”
Madeleine puffed out a cloud of smoke from her cigarette. Then it seems fairly plain sailing, chérie. If you go to Switzerland and live quietly in some small place under another name it’s most unlikely that the Nazi agents there would get to know about it and give you any trouble. I don’t believe, though, that he’s right about your being able to get a divorce in Switzerland in three months.”
“He doesn’t say that. He says that three months’ residence there would qualify us to apply for the case to be heard in a Swiss court. They may have waiting lists there as long as they have in England. Then I suppose there would be another long wait before we get the final decree. I expect the whole thing would take at least a year, or probably eighteen months.”
“Then one of you, anyway, would have to stay there till the case came on. The innocent party, or anyhow the one who brings the suit, always has to appear before the judge. If he wants to get away to South America he’ll have to give you evidence and let you divorce him.”
Erika nodded. “I imagine he is willing to do that. From his letter it looks as if he has been living’ in Switzerland for some time already, so all he’d have to do would be to go through the usual sordid rigmarole.”
“Yes, he could stay for a few nights with some girl at a small hotel; your lawyers would arrange for the chambermaid to identify him a few days later and you’d have to identify him as your husband too; then he’d be through with his part in the affair and free to clear out, leaving you to do the rest. Do you think he has any idea that you want to marry Gregory?”
“I don’t see how he can have. It’s twenty months now since Gregory and I were together in Munich and Berlin. He apparently heard of our affair then from Hermann Goering; but until I met Gregory I’ve never really loved anyone since Hugo Falkenstein died, so none of my affairs in between ever lasted anything like that long, and Kurt can have no reason to suppose my Englishman was anything but a whim of the moment. He is just being practical, I think; and as he no longer has any use for me himself, suggesting that we should both clear the ground so that we’re free to make advantageous marriages if we want to later on.”
“I only asked,” said Madeleine thoughtfully, “because it occurred to me that if he knew you were really keen about it he might try to blackmail you for a much larger sum when you get out there.”
“I don’t think he’ll try to do that. You see, he has much more to fear from the Gestapo than I have. If they did happen to find out that I was in Switzerland and thought that they could kill or kidnap me without risking serious trouble with the Swiss Government they would do so out of spite, but Kurt’s case is very different. He is in possession of valuable information about this new method of warfare that they are preparing, and they must be terribly worried that he may give away their secret. Nazi agents in a dozen countries are probably hunting for him high and low and if they once find him they’d go to any lengths to ensure his silence. I think his attitude is quite a logical one and that if I say I’m prepared to give him this thousand pounds he won’t dream of haggling with me, but do his part as quickly as he can in order to get out.”
Madeleine smothered a little yawn. “Sorry, chérie,” she smiled, “but last night and saying good-bye to Stefan has taken it out of me rather, and I’m feeling terribly tired. I’m so glad about all this, as I know how happy you must be at the thought of getting your freedom. There certainly doesn’t seem to be any really bad snag to it. When will you start?”
“As soon as I can. I don’t want Gregory to know anything about it, because I’m sure he’d magnify the very little risk there is and worry about me while he’s away. But as soon as he has left England I shall go up to London and ask Sir Pellinore to help me about my journey. I’m sure he will, and I can find out when Gregory is leaving by ringing up Carlton House Terrace tomorrow morning.”
When Erika telephoned to Sir Pellinore on the Tuesday she learned that Wednesday evening was the time fixed for the departure of Gregory and Stefan; so she asked if she might come up on Thursday for the night, and he said he would be delighted to have her.
She arrived at Carlton House Terrace in the afternoon but did not see her host until they met for dinner. Sir Pellinore, as he so frequently declared himself, had an eye for a pretty woman, and while he always treated Erika with an old-world gallantry that she found charming, he expanded under the influence of her smiles and became the most entertaining of companions.
Over an admirable dinner they talked of war-time London, then of the changes in the life of the great metropolis during the past fifty years, after which he amused her with some of the more printable episodes of his own lurid youth in the ‘nineties. It was not until the butler had withdrawn, leaving a tray of little gilded bottles in silver filigree stands, containing liqueurs, beside her and a full decanter of port in front of him, that he asked the purpose of her visit.
“Well, young woman!” he boomed, picking up the decanter and pouring himself a lavish ration. “Help yourself to some of that sticky stuff they’ve put there for you, or there’s brandy if you prefer it. No good offering you this, even though it is Cockburn’s ‘Twelve, I know. And now tell me what’s brought you to old London Town. Not to see me, worse luck, although I have got that scallywag Gregory out
of the way for a bit.”
“But I have come to see you,” she smiled.
“Ha! Then it’s only to get something out of me, I’ll be bound. If it’s Hitler’s head on a charger you want I’m doing my best to get that for you already. If it’s money or advice it’s yours for the asking.”
“It’s advice and help as well,” Erika replied, producing the letter from her bag. “I had this from my husband on Monday morning.”
Sir Pellinore held his glass to the nearest candle, admired its clear ruby brilliance for a moment, sniffed the wine, took a large gulp of it and, while he was swishing it round his mouth appreciatively, fished out of his pocket a pair of large, horn-rimmed spectacles. Putting them on he gave a swift wipe at his moustache and picked up the letter.
Having read it through, and verified the meaning of some of the German expressions with her, he had another go at his port, then said quietly:
“Erika, you’ve got something here. This husband of yours is in possession of information which may be of vital importance to us. D’you think you can get it?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s very little hope of that. You see I know Kurt inside out, and in some ways he’s a man with very high principles. As he says himself in his letter, he is a good German, and although he may disapprove of Hitler’s methods I feel sure that he would never betray one of Germany’s secrets.”
“Principles be damned. I’ve seen more of the world than you, and one thing I’ve learned is that every man has his price, or at least ninety-nine per cent of ’em. I’d be selling matches on the corner instead of sitting here if they hadn’t.”
“I’m afraid Kurt is one of the odd one per cent, though. Scientists are peculiar people. They have their own code of honour in addition to the average man’s natural patriotism, so they are exceptionally difficult to bribe.”
“I know that. But this feller must want something, and money can buy most things. He’s asking for a thousand pounds, but what’s the good of that to a German aristocrat who’s planning to start life all over again in South America? Offer him any price you like. Twenty thousand wouldn’t be too much if he’s really got this information. Now, it’s up to you.”
Erika drank a little of the Benedictine she had chosen. “Very well, I’ll do my best for you, but I’m not hopeful.”
“Come on now!” Sir Pellinore encouraged her. “As you say, these alchemist johnnies are a strange lot. Stupid as politicians, most of ’em, once they’re off their own subject. He’s probably too much of a fool to appreciate what money may buy for him and will get on his high horse at the mention of filthy lucre. All right then, offer him an arsenal full of test tubes and stinking chemicals instead. Tell him that if he comes back to Britain with you he’ll be really safe from those thugs that are after him, and that we’ll let him blow himself up in the finest laboratory money can buy.”
“I’m quite certain Kurt would never take refuge here during the war.”
“Then let him make his stinks in South America, and we’ll foot the bill for all the paraphernalia he requires. I tell you, Erika, you’ve got something here. I can feel it in my bones.”
“All right. Don’t look so worried, you poor darling. I really will do my best.”
Sir Pellinore gave her a searching look. “You’ve more brains in that little head of yours than most young women, my dear; but I wonder if you really realise how much this may mean. You see, in spite of what most people think, just because they can’t get enough cigarettes, or soap flakes to wash their undies, the war is not going too badly. The Americans giving us Lease-Lend was the real turning point; Britain can stand up to Hitler indefinitely with that; and now the Russians are in with us the house-painter feller’s goose is properly cooked. It may take a bit of time yet, but miracles apart, we’ve got the Nazis’ measure now and their ultimate defeat is inevitable. I said ‘miracles apart’, mind you, and these scientific johnnies are the only gods who are likely to produce one at the present day. It’s unlikely, but it’s just on the cards that your unwanted spouse may have been working on a war-winner.”
Erika’s attention was riveted now, as she murmured: D you really think so?”
“I hope to God he wasn’t, but it is a possibility, and it is by ignoring just such possibilities that one loses wars. Say it’s a new gas now? All our hocus-pocus men have declared that it is impossible to produce in adequate quantities and manageable form a poison gas that is lighter than air. But say they’re wrong? Revolutionary discoveries in science are always being made these days, and the Nazis may have got one ahead of us, eh?”
“Gregory says Hitler will never use gas. He is too frightened of it because we’re so much better prepared for gas warfare than he is. Except for the people who can afford to buy them, the German civilian population is still without gas masks and if the R.A.F. put gas down on the big German cities it would bring their war industries to a standstill.”
“That’s true enough. But say they had something that could paralyse the R.A.F., eh? Something our masks won’t protect us against with which they could drench our airfields. Then they’d be able to put it down on our cities and it would be our war industries that would pack up. As long as Britain is a going concern we’ve got the Nazis set. But if they could knock out our big towns and render them untenable the whole course of the war would be changed. Britain is the only practical base in which a striking force for the eventual invasion and reconquest of the Continent can be built up. Given a new weapon that could paralyse our cities and render our Air Force impotent we will never see the defeat of Hitler in our lifetime. Some such entirely new scientific development is the one and only thing I’m frightened of. Now d’you understand why I want you to get me this information, whatever it may cost?”
“Yes,” said Erika, solemnly, “I do. Is there anything else that strikes you about the letter? Any advice you can give me about the way to deal with him, I mean?”
Sir Pellinore had another go of port and read the letter through again.
“Why has he gone to earth right on the Nazis’ doorstep?” he asked, after a moment. “There’s only Lake Constance, or the Bodensee as you Germans call it, between him and the fellers who’re out to get him. It’s summer, and I should have thought he’d have parked himself somewhere up in the mountains as far from the German frontier as he could get.”
“Perhaps that’s on account of the cover he has chosen,” Erika suggested. “He was always keen on fishing. That goes well with his story about his being a Swedish naturalist, and if he’s in hiding with nothing to do all day the fishing would be a godsend as a recreation.”
“Um! Perhaps you’re right,” Sir Pellinore grunted. “Maybe, too, that he’s cleverer than we think, and reckons the sleuths are less likely to look for him right under their noses. I thought for a moment that it might be a trap. Don’t want you sandbagged and shanghaied back to Germany.”
“That possibility occurred to me, too,” Erika agreed. “I thought of it only this morning when I was coming up in the train. Do you think it could be a lure to get me there?”
“You know the feller better than I do, so you’re the best judge of that,” Sir Pellinore replied non-committally. He would have been distressed beyond measure if anything had happened to Erika, but he honestly thought the chances of that extremely unlikely and, in any case, his every action for the past two years had been governed by the sole consideration of what it would contribute to the defeat of Hitler. In his position he had to steel his heart and follow the dictates of cold logic when dealing with such problems. If it had been one hundred to one that Erika would land herself in Dachau but the one chance offered a possibility of saving a hundred British lives of equal value to her own, he would still have encouraged her to go to Switzerland. As it was, the risk appeared infinitely smaller and the stake immeasurably greater. He had drawn her attention to the only glimmer of a red light that he could see, and felt that was as far as his principles would allow him to g
o.
“The Gestapo could compel pretty well anyone to write such a letter,” Erika said slowly, “but I don’t think they’d let them out into Switzerland afterwards if they had. What is more, I don’t think they would allow any mention of this new form of warfare they are contemplating to appear in the letter either.”
“That’s true. Still, we can’t be too careful. Tell you what. I’ll send that young Guardee out with you. What’s his name? Piers something. Feller who’s staying down at Gwaine Meads now.”
“Piers Gaveston. Oh, I wish you would. He’s such a nice boy, and he seems to have had such terribly bad luck.”
“Yes. Bit impetuous, but he’s got his head screwed on all right. Sound as a bell too. But I can’t spare him for long. You must keep it under your hat, but this bit of a pickle he’s been in was all a put-up job. Very unpleasant, but necessary to give certain people the impression that he’s a bad lot.”
Erika smiled. “We all felt sure that he must really be innocent as he was one of your private guests.”
“You did, eh?” Sir Pellinore’s bright blue eyes suddenly hardened. “Never jump to conclusions about a thing like that. I’ve got plenty of friends who’d be wearing broad arrows now if they’d been fools enough to be found out. Anyway, young what’s-his-name is being groomed for a special job and he’s due to start on it at the end of the second week in August. There should be just time, though, for him to take you out and have a preliminary snoop round at this chalet place. If your husband’s really there it should be all right for you to go ahead, but if the place is occupied by anyone else that’ll show there’s something phoney about it, and you can return with Piers to England.”
“Thank you so much. Is there any other point in the letter that strikes you?”
Sir Pellinore poured himself a second glass of port and read the letter through to the end.
Come into my Parlour Page 7
