Come into my Parlour

by Dennis Wheatley

  Kuporovitch took the shoulders of Einholtz’s dead body and Gregory the feet. Between them they carried it out through the kitchen, scullery and back door, down to the boathouse. While Kuporovitch was getting it on board the launch Gregory went back to a woodshed that was affixed to the side of the house. Flashing his torch round he found a chopper and, picking it up, hurried back to the boat with it.

  He spent the next few minutes examining the engine of the launch and seeing that the tanks were full of petrol. Meanwhile Kuporovitch hunted round till he found an old anchor, and attached it firmly to Einholtz’s feet. Gregory then took from his pocket a small envelope which contained the cyanide of potassium capsules. Opening his mouth he carefully fixed one of the red ones to the outside of one of his back teeth. Having practised wearing one of the green dummies ever since he had left London, he was now so accustomed to the feel of the small pellet that he was rarely conscious that he had it in his mouth at all.

  “I must say I am glad that I’m not called on to use one of those things,” Kuporovitch said, with a smile.

  Everything had gone with such clockwork precision that it was the first remark either of them had made to the other since they had entered the Villa.

  “All I hope is that I am not called upon to bite it,” Gregory grinned back.

  Stepping down into the launch he raised one of Einholtz’s arms and laid its hand on the gunwale. It was the hand on which the amethyst ring glittered dully. Raising the woodchopper, Gregory struck at the dead German’s wrist with all his force. The chopper severed it at a single blow; both the hand and arm fell back into the launch.

  Picking up the hand, Gregory wrapped it in a piece of oiled silk and rammed it into his pocket.

  Kuporovitch had opened the outer doors of the boathouse; Gregory started up the launch’s engine.

  “Good luck, dear friend! Good luck!” called the Russian

  “Thanks! I’m on the top of my form tonight,” Gregory shouted back. “See you in two days’ time!”

  And the long low launch slid out through the smooth water on her way to Germany.

  Chapter XIX

  At The Eleventh Hour

  Gregory had good reason to be pleased with himself. So far everything had gone according to plan and without the slightest hitch. By his surprise tactics he had beaten the gun, and was going into Germany two days before he was expected. Moreover, his guess that Erika was still most probably at Niederfels had been confirmed by von Osterberg.

  That, so far, was the real high spot of his good fortune. He had feared at first that Grauber might have sent her to some concentration camp hundreds of miles deep in Germany, and her rescue from a well-guarded camp would have proved immensely difficult. But, on reasoning the matter out, he had reached the conclusion that if Grauber wished to maintain the impression that Erika had not been caught he would not move her. The beautiful Erika von Epp, being such a well-known person in Germany, if moved, might be recognised in transit and, later, her presence in a concentration camp for several months would be almost certain to leak out through guards and others talking, and might get back to Switzerland; whereas the Castle itself offered every facility for a safe and secret prison.

  In consequence, his plans had been made on the tentative assumption that she was at Niederfels, and this now seemed highly probable.

  It was most unlikely that Grauber would arrive at the Schloss before the evening of the 13th. If the situation there was the same as it had been when von Osterberg left, and there seemed no reason why it should not be, the old Countess’s personal maid Helga Stiffel was still Erika’s chief gaoler. No doubt Helga had assistance of some sort, as Grauber would not have risked the possibility of so valuable a captive escaping through the slackness or complacency of one woman. On the other hand, he would certainly not have allocated S.S. personnel to such a backwater job, as, now that Germany was holding down half Europe, trained Gestapo men were far too scarce and valuable. Therefore, Gregory felt, by going in before Grauber and his personal staff appeared on the scene he should have a very good chance of effecting Erika’s rescue.

  Another thing that pleased him greatly was that he had been able to keep Kuporovitch out of this desperate gamble. The Russian had grumbled a lot at being left behind, and Gregory knew his worth as an ally too well not to be sorry on that account; but he had felt that he owed it both to his loyal friend and to Madeleine that Stefan should be protected against his own courageous inclinations. This venture was different to all others that they had undertaken, in that they had given Sir Pellinore their word that, if captured, they would commit suicide by swallowing the cyanide globules. Gregory had no illusions about the fact that, although things had started well, he was still only at the beginning of the job, and that once in Germany the risk of being caught before Erika could be got out of the country was very considerable indeed.

  They had, however, gone to the Villa Offenbach that night with the definite intention of killing Einholtz; and, whatever their personal views might be about the justice of giving the Gestapo thug his deserts, should the Swiss authorities come to hear of it they would unquestionably regard the deed as murder. Gregory intended to dispose of the body himself; but it had also seemed an essential precaution that all traces of the crime should be removed from the Villa and imperative to ensure that von Osterberg, half-crazy from fear of the Nazis on the one hand and Einholtz’s killers on the other, should not be allowed to stagger into Steinach and, having sought the protection of the Swiss police, spill the whole story to them. So, when making their plan, it had proved possible to persuade Kuporovitch that, much as he wanted to come to Germany, it was far more important that he should remain in Switzerland; if only for the purpose of taking charge of von Osterberg and seeing to it that if Gregory succeeded in his task he would not return only to find himself faced with a charge of murder.

  It was that thought which kept him extra alert as the launch glided out into the lake. Ordinarily, to have been stopped in Swiss waters would have meant no more than being turned back and, after an annoying wait, to give the patrol boat a chance to pass out of the area, another start; but, if he was stopped with Einholtz’s body on board, and the lake police made even a casual inspection of the launch to see that he was not endeavouring to run contraband into Germany, he would be for the high jump.

  The time was only about half past eight but the winter’s night was very dark, the reflection in the water of a few lights further along, from houses in Steinach, seeming only to make it darker; and the exhaust of the launch’s engine was muffled. This would, Gregory knew, reduce her speed a little in an emergency, but he felt, as evidently Einholtz had before him, that a greater degree of safety lay in the good chance of escaping detection altogether through having a comparatively noiseless engine than having a few extra knots’ pace if once challenged.

  Having covered about three miles without misadventure, he stopped the motor, dragged Einholtz’s body from the small cabin to the launch’s gunwale and pushed it over. At the sound of the heavy splash it made he felt considerably relieved. The old anchor that Kuporovitch had attached to the corpse’s feet would keep it on the bottom for many weeks and by the time it broke away, if it ever came to the surface at all, it would do so only as a hideous piece of fish-nibbled pulp far beyond all recognition. Its safe disposal was another hurdle passed, which added to his feeling of satisfaction.

  Restarting the engine, he turned the boat’s nose north-west, and kept her going roughly parallel to the lake shore for some two miles, until he came opposite Arbon. He had no difficulty in picking up the little port, as the lights were full on in all the Swiss towns and villages, in order that their lack of blackout should reveal them to Allied bombers as in neutral territory. Here, he stopped again, took several compass bearings, which he compared by the light of a hooded torch with the notes he had previously made, adjusted the launch’s position by a quarter of a mile, then set a new course, north-east, for the German shore.


  After he was halfway across the lake he shut off his engine every few moments to listen. Twice he caught the faint throb of another engine, and each time refrained from switching his own on again until the throbbing had faded into silence. The Swiss villages were now too distant for their glow to show any reflection on the water and the only light came from patches of stars occasionally revealed through gaps in the scudding clouds. Straining his eyes into the darkness he at last succeeded in picking up the headland south-east of Friedrichshafen and, turning the launch again, began to nose his way round it.

  It was now that his daylight reconnaissance proved invaluable. Instead of running aground below a small bathing chalet, as he might otherwise have done, he realised that its roof against the skyline was not large enough to be that of the villa he had seen through his binoculars. A quarter of a mile further on the more spacious eaves of von Lottingen’s summer residence suddenly showed up against a belt of stars, and he turned in towards it.

  As he neared its waterfront the unexpected plop of a leaping fish made him start, and he realised that his dramatic half-hour at the Villa Offenbach had keyed his nerves up to an unusually high pitch. The next hurdle was going to be one of the nastiest he would have to face, so he deliberately checked the boat’s way before he need have done, and slowly counted a hundred before giving her a final impulse towards the shore.

  He had spent many hours considering every aspect of his project and had reached the conclusion that, even if Erika proved still to be at Schloss Niederfels, however early a start he made it was not a practical proposition to attempt the whole operation of getting there, rescuing her and recrossing the lake with her in one night.

  Given a car, which there was good reason to suppose he would be able to secure from von Lottingen’s garage, it was not the distance and time factor which would invalidate such an attempt, but the fact that if he made it he would have to enter the Castle in darkness, without having carried out any previous reconnaissance of it; and that had seemed to him too big a risk to accept.

  He had abandoned the idea of a one night’s Blitzkrieg only with the greatest reluctance, as, if it could have been done, it offered so many advantages. With luck, he could have moored the launch, stolen a car, got there and back and recrossed the lake again without anyone at von Lottingen’s being aware that a stranger had made use of the premises.

  On the other hand, a two-night job meant that he would have to leave the launch at von Lottingen’s all next day, and that he dared not risk stealing a car from the garage, as the discovery of its loss would be sure to result in a widespread search and, if coupled with the finding of the launch, might even cause one of Grauber’s people to cross the lake the following night to investigate at the Villa Offenbach. Then, when Einholtz’s disappearance was reported, those in the know about his mission would put two and two together, realise that Gregory had outwitted the Gestapo man, rob him of his advantage by arriving at Niederfels before he could get away and block his line of retreat across the lake.

  Nevertheless, on balance Gregory had decided that he might live to rue it if he rushed his fences. Niederfels was the key point of the whole operation, and to have plenty of opportunity to nose around it in daylight before going in would probably mean the difference between success and failure. He felt confident that he would be able to steal a car somewhere further afield than the lake shore, and the only really serious snag to the more lengthy job was that he would have to leave the launch for some thirty hours in von Lottingen’s boathouse. But, hidden there, if the boats were used only infrequently, as was probably the case in the depths of winter, there was a good chance that she would remain undiscovered. If she was discovered his line of retreat might be cut, but, even if it was, he would still have a chance to find other means to bring Erika back across the lake to safety. The thing now was to get the launch into the boathouse without arousing anyone who might be in the Villa.

  The place was in darkness, but as the whole of the German shore of the Bodensee was subject to the wartime blackout, that was no guarantee at all that there were not people inside it. Having shut off his engine some way out, Gregory, using a bottom board as a paddle, gently steered her in towards the boathouse, the outline of which he could now see faintly.

  When the prow of the launch bumped gently against it, he went forward and secured her with the painter. With mixed feelings he found that the doors were secured inside with a chain and padlock. That seemed to indicate that the boats inside were not used with great frequency. On the other hand, it meant some delay before he could get the launch inside.

  Stepping ashore, he tiptoed round to the other entrance. He found it unlocked. Opening the door gingerly, he went in and along the skirting-boards to the water-gate. Shining his hooded torch on the padlock, he found that it was quite an ordinary one. It took him only two minutes to pick it. He then drew the launch inside beside two others that were there.

  Taking Einholtz’s letters from his pocket he glanced swiftly through the packet and noted that the handwritings on all of them appeared to be those of women. Removing the envelope from one he crumpled it up, and dropped it in the stern of the launch. He had no great hopes of it proving a very odorous red herring, but there was just a chance that, if the boat was found the following day, the people in the Villa might deduce from the envelope that Einholtz had crossed in her but refrained from letting them know of his arrival, having some business of his own on shore that brooked no delay.

  Having refastened the padlock Gregory closed the shorewards door of the boathouse carefully behind him and walked cautiously up the path, past the garage, to the road. Once through the gate and on to it he smiled to himself in the darkness. Another tricky fence had been crossed without accident.

  His next risky undertaking was to steal a car; but he did not intend to attempt it anywhere near von Lottingen’s villa, or even in the neighbourhood of the Bodensee. To have done so, should the launch be found, would be to connect the two incidents, and possibly set the local Gestapo thinking on lines which he was most averse should occur to them. In consequence, as a first step, he set off at a quick walk towards Friedrichshafen.

  He had proceeded barely a kilometre when, as he had hoped, he was able to pick up a bus which took him into the town. When he alighted he made his way at once to the railway station. It was ten minutes to eleven, so he was in ample time to catch the night train, as he had provisionally planned, leaving Friedrichshafen at eleven-ten for Ulm, Stuttgart and the north.

  The station was not crowded, and his impeccable German enabled him to take a ticket without the booking-clerk giving him even a second glance. Punctually at ten minutes past eleven the train steamed out with Gregory occupying the corner seat of a first-class carriage in it.

  When planning his trip he had felt that in either Ulm or Stuttgart he would be able to secure a car without any likelihood of its theft being connected with the unheralded arrival of the launch at von Lottingen’s villa. Had he been forced to take the slow train, that left half an hour after midnight, the inroad into his time would have necessitated his alighting at Ulm; but as he had managed to catch the express he felt that, despite the additional three quarters of an hour’s rail journey, his purpose would be better served if he went on to Stuttgart. The capital of Württemberg was a somewhat larger town, which meant that a higher percentage of cars would be about the streets in the early hours of the morning and, also, although it was no further from Niederfels, it was considerably further from the Bodensee, which was all to the good.

  Alighting at Stuttgart, he made his way to the centre of the old town. It was now just after two in the morning and obviously the night life of the place was extremely limited. Nevertheless, within a stone’s throw of the Klosterkirche there were two places from which he could hear the sounds of dance-music and laughter, and each of them had a row of cars outside.

  With a slightly rolling gait, which would enable him to plead the excuse of a mistake through drunkenness if a po
liceman emerged from the shadows, he approached the less conspicuous line of parked cars. Using a flexible strip of serrated steel, made for the purpose, he found no difficulty in getting the doors of those at the head of the line open. The first two he tried had had their ignition keys removed but the owner of the third had been careless and left his in. That saved quite a lot of bother, so, since it was a Stutz and the indicator showed that there was plenty of petrol in the tank, Gregory got in and drove away.

  His study of the maps of the district had imprinted them so firmly on his mind that he never had to hesitate for a moment about his route. By way of Echterdingen, Waldenbach, Tübingen, Hechingen and Schomberg he reached the village of Wilflingen, near which Schloss Niederfels lay. Most of his sixty-mile journey was along deserted roads through the dark forests of the Schwarzwald Kreis, so even on those by-roads he was able to maintain a good pace, and a little before five in the morning he could see the grim, stark silhouette of Schloss Niederfels towering against a starlit sky over the treetops above him.

  One of Sir Pellinore’s many maps had been a walking-tour guide of the Heuberg for Wandervögel, and Gregory’s memory of it was so photographic that, after passing through the village, he turned off, instinctively, up a narrow woodland track that led through the heart of a forest area lying adjacent to the Castle but along which there were no buildings for several miles. About two miles due east of the Castle, and on ground nearly as high as it stood itself, he drove the car off the track in among the trees; then pulled up.

  Although the first snow had not yet fallen it was bitterly cold there, but he took a long pull from his flask of Swiss Branntwein and, arranging himself in the back of the car under two rugs that were in it, soon dropped off to sleep.

  He woke a little before nine, found an icy brook in which to splash his face, shaved with a pocket razor and cream from a tube, then made a meal off some of the cold meat, biscuits and chocolate he had brought with him.