Come into my Parlour

by Dennis Wheatley

  It was the first food he had had since fixing the red-coated cyanide capsule in his mouth. Practising with the green ones during his ten-day sojourn in Switzerland had made him so accustomed to the little bump beside one of his back teeth that during most of his journey he had completely forgotten that if he now had an accident he might swallow the deadly poison. If he did, and the capsule went down uncracked, it might possibly pass harmlessly through him, or be recovered by a doctor with a stomach pump, but, on the other hand, it might not, and having to resort to a local doctor would have upset all his plans; so he now ate with special care.

  By ten o’clock he had repacked his knapsack, hidden it under the seat of the car and, taking enough cold food with him for another meal, was setting off on a reconnaissance of the Castle. First, he climbed another mile up through the woods in which he had spent the latter part of the night, until he found a vantage point where a break in the trees gave him a good view of his objective. He was now a little higher than the base of the Schloss and it lay some two and a half miles away from him across the valley. It was a clear, cold winter’s day and through his powerful binoculars he could see the whole of the eastern side of the huge rambling pile with great distinctness. At intervals, for over an hour, he swept its battlements, towers and windows, but could not see a single sign of life.

  This lack of activity was most satisfactory, as it now seemed clear that the Castle had not been taken over by the Nazis as a headquarters, or to house a department from one of their ministries, as he had feared might prove the case. A closer reconnaissance was now indicated, but before making it, he decided to go through the papers that he had taken from Einholtz’s pockets.

  Apart from the S.S. pass there were no official documents; the rest consisted of two bills and a number of letters, all from women. Some, like the one the envelope of which Gregory had left in the launch, had been addressed to Einholtz in his real name while still in Germany, but three, more recent ones, all in the same hand, had been directed to him at the Villa Offenbach under the assumed name he had used there.

  Starting with the earliest in date, Gregory read them through and it was soon clear to him that Einholtz had been something of a Don Juan. Two of the writers had illegitimate children by him and a third was expecting one in the coming January. Gregory knew that there was nothing exceptional about that as Nazi policy encouraged all S.S. men to have as many illegitimate children as possible; the mothers were excellently cared for and granted special privileges by the State, and much propaganda had been used to impress German girls with the idea that it was an honour to bear illegitimate children to the private army of the Nazi Party. But his interest quickened when he found that the three letters addressed to the Villa Offenbach were from Helga Stiffel, the ex-lady’s maid who was now Erika’s wardress.

  She said little about Erika, although Gregory was comforted to note that the girl did not seem to bear her prisoner any malice, and wrote of her as in good health and giving no trouble. The letters were, however, long ones and would have made a less hardened sinner than Gregory blush to the ears. As it was, he found them somewhat primitive, but in parts amusing. Helga omitted no detail of the jolly little games that she had played with Einholtz when he had been living at the Schloss, recalling the high spots with abandoned gusto, and suggesting even more lavishly erotic excitements that they might enjoy together on his return.

  The letters also gave Gregory some valuable information. From them it was clear that during the two months between Erika’s capture and Einholtz’s return to Switzerland he had been stationed at Nürnberg, which was only about a hundred and forty miles from Niederfels, and that he had come over to spend most of his weekends with Helga. Further, it emerged that as a convenient method of helping Helga to guard Erika, without committing special men to such a time-wasting job, it had been arranged that four local policemen should be billeted at the Schloss. They were road patrol police, and as they took turns of duty by night and day it appeared that there were never less than two of them off duty at the Castle who could be called upon to assist Helga in an emergency, and that the senior of the group made a routine visit to Erika each morning, which, it seemed, Helga resented as an insult to her own capabilities as a gaoler.

  It looked, therefore, as if Gregory would have to outwit only Helga and two or three local policemen. Such luck seemed almost too good to last, but with a light heart he set out down the hill and, after a four-mile tramp across the valley bottom, emerged, soon after one o’clock, under the walls of the Schloss.

  The woods were mainly pine, so, although it was winter, they still gave adequate cover, and this was supplemented by large clumps of brambles and holly which grew among the trees fairly close up to the Castle walls. Having made his way round to the south side of the pile, where it descended in terraces to meet the woods, he selected another good spot for observation and, while eating his lunch, studied the more modern part of the building through his binoculars.

  Once he caught a glimpse of a female figure pulling some curtains aside, and a little later on an old lame manservant hobbled out on to one of the terraces, looked up at the sky, shivered and went in again. After his meal, Gregory, now feeling very cold from having sat still, took a pull at his flask and set off to make a complete circuit of the great building.

  As he came opposite the banqueting hall his heart began to pound more quickly, for a double reason. From von Osterberg’s account of what had really happened on that night last August, he knew that it was from one of those tall windows, high above him, that Erika had faced death in making her terrible leap. He knew too, from the Count’s drawings, that it was in one of the dungeons below the banqueting hall that Erika now lay confined.

  He would have given a great deal to be able to get a word of comfort to her; to let her know that he was there, within a hundred feet of her, and meant to attempt her rescue that night. But the trees ended in an abrupt line some yards from the Castle wall and their bare trunks gave little cover. He positively dared not jeopardise the whole venture by risking someone looking out of one of the upper windows and seeing him snooping there. Moreover, although he had detailed plans of the inside of that part of the Schloss, he could not be quite certain which of the line of low, barred windows about ten feet from the ground gave on to her cell; so even had he been able to approach nearer without danger he would not have known into which of the windows to throw a written message. With a sigh, he withdrew further in among the trees and continued his circumnavigation of the pile.

  It was half past three by the time he had completed his inspection and, during it, he had reached the conclusion that it would be flying in the face of Providence to neglect to make use of the new information that he had been so fortunate in securing through Helga Stiffel’s letters to Einholtz. His secret knowledge of their intimacy opened up the possibility of actually obtaining a glimpse of the inside of the Castle in daylight, which he would otherwise never have dared to attempt.

  Making his way back to the great courtyard, he passed it and entered a smaller one flanking the kitchen quarters. Crossing the flags to a postern door that stood partly open, he pulled an old iron bell-pull that hung beside it. The bell jangled faintly in the distance. After a minute he heard footsteps, then a fat, middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, appeared and looked at him enquiringly.

  “Is Fraulein Stiffel at home, and if so, can I see her?” he enquired.

  “Yes, she’s at home,” the woman replied, none too graciously. “But if you’re a friend of hers you should have come to the front door. She’s the lady of the place these days. D’you mind coming through this way?”

  “Not a bit,” smiled Gregory, as he thought what a fine time Fascists or Communists and their girl-friends had when they managed to get their hooks on a country through pretending that they were the champions of the working people.

  “All right, I’ll show you,” said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron, and Gregory followed her inside.

&
nbsp; He had already observed that the bars had long since been removed from the windows of the kitchen quarters; and that the window-sashes being warped with age and having only old-fashioned catches, it would be a simple matter to force an entry through any of them. Now, as he followed the fat woman through a series of stone passages, his quick eyes took in a score of details which would be of the greatest value on the unannounced visit he intended to make that night.

  At first he had a little difficulty in orienting the place in his mind with the plans that von Osterberg had drawn for him; but as they entered the main hall of the Castle he realised that, just before doing so, he had actually passed the door that led down to the cellars, which one of the plans showed to be connected by a short passage with the dungeons under the banqueting room.

  Crossing the hall, the woman threw open a low door, said in a surly tone, “Gentleman to see you, Fräulein,” and left him to announce himself.

  The room was one of the smaller drawing-rooms of the Castle. Its walls, hangings and principal pieces of furniture showed that it had originally been designed by a von Osterberg who had probably brought back ideas with him from France, after visiting Versailles and Trianon in the latter part of the eighteenth century. But the elegance of the French style had been marred by German bad taste and this had been accentuated by the more recent addition of several mid-Victorian monstrosities.

  Gregory thought it a perfect setting for the young woman who, propped up by a pile of cushions, was reclining on a chaise-longue in front of a roaring wood fire, with a litter of cheap film papers on her lap. She was a well-made girl with good legs and provocative breasts. Her dark hair was drawn back from a central parting, Madonna fashion, with little clusters of curls behind her ears, which were small and well modelled. Her brown eyes, under carefully plucked brows, were full of vitality, but her good looks were a little marred by the heaviness of her jowl and the over-fullness of her lips.

  Having seen mouths and jowl lines like that on women before, and knowing the sensual proclivities of their owners, Gregory, with the wildly erotic passages of Helga’s love-letters still fresh in his mind, was not at all surprised to see such features on her.

  She was dressed in expensive clothes that were a little old-fashioned and a bit too tight for her, making her breasts stand out almost indecently. Gregory had little doubt that the clothes, and the short mink cape beside her, which she evidently used when moving about the colder parts of the Castle, were from the pre-war wardrobe that Erika had left behind her for use on her occasional visits there.

  Drawing himself up in the doorway, he clicked his heels, bowed stiffly from the waist and, introducing himself in the German fashion, uttered the one word “Möller”, which was the name he had decided to adopt for this occasion.

  She gave him a quick glance and, obviously liking the look of his lean virile face, followed it with a smile that showed her strong, even teeth. Then, attempting the grande dame, she said, “To what do I owe the pleasure——”

  He smiled in reply. “I am a friend of Fritz Einholtz. I saw him a few nights ago, and as he knew that I was coming to Niederfels he suggested I should pay my respects to you.”

  Her smile broadened. “Oh, how nice! Do come in! But first take off your things; then come and make yourself comfortable by the fire here.”

  Murmuring his thanks, he advanced a few paces, bowed again and, knowing that since she could hardly be used to such courtesies, she would be likely to appreciate it all the more, he took her hand and kissed it. He then took off his overcoat, carried it out to the hall, had another quick look round there, and came back to seat himself near her in an armchair.

  “Do tell me about Fritz,” she said, as soon as he was settled.

  Gregory had not the least compunction about lying to her, so he replied glibly: “I saw him in Friedrichshafen. He was over only on a flying visit to see somebody at the local headquarters there, but he hopes to be back here tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, how splendid! It’s terribly dull here, and for the past six weeks I’ve been simply dying for a little amusement.”

  “Yes, I expect you must get pretty bored here with nothing to do.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty to do. You see, I run the Castle now, more or less, and the servants take quite a bit of looking after. It’s just that when Fritz is away there’s no fun to be had here, and myself, I’ve always been one for a intersting life, as they say.”

  “So have I,” Gregory agreed heartily. “Still, poor old Fritz is having a pretty dull life at the moment.”

  As he spoke, he had a swift mental picture of Einholtz, his jaw hanging limply open, his blue eyes bulging, as he swayed gently to the pressure of the current at the bottom of Lake Constance.

  “How was Fritzie?” Helga’s question cut in on his macabre thoughts. “Did he say much about me?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, and just longing to get back to you. Pretty naturally, he’s hated having to kick his heels all this time in Switzerland, looking after that goofy Count.”

  Helga shot him a cautious look. “You know about that, then?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been mixed up in it myself, to a certain extent; and it was to make some arrangements in the village for tomorrow night that I’ve come here in advance. The job is as good as finished now, and it looks as if after tomorrow Fritz will be back for good.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, and added thoughtfully, “in some ways.”

  “Why? I thought you were simply dying for him to get back.”

  “Oh, I’ll be glad to see Fritz again. But if his job is nearly finished, it means that I’ll be out of a job in a day or two myself.”

  “You mean that you won’t be required any longer to act as gaoler to the Countess Erika?”

  She gave him another quick look. “So you know about that, too?”

  “Of course. I’ve been mixed up with the whole business, from the beginning. How do you get on with your prisoner?”

  “Not too badly. I must say she’s given me very little trouble. She’s a real lady; I will say that for her. She’s been quiet and just kind of natural. I let her have books from the library and she spends most of her time reading. Not like the old Countess. She was a real tartar.”

  Gregory noted the past tense and said, “So she played you up, did she?”

  “The old girl played herself up in the end,” Helga laughed. “Didn’t Fritz tell you? Her temper was something awful. One day she threw a plate of stew at me, so I slapped her face, and it seems she had a heart attack. It came on quite sudden and I didn’t know what was wrong with her at first. I just left her, to learn her manners, and next time I went down to give her a meal there was the old bird dead on the floor.”

  Gregory could be a very good actor when the need arose, and he laughed as though he thought the episode intensely funny. After a moment he said: “I expect that after tomorrow night they will send the Countess Erika to a concentration camp. Will you be sorry?”

  Helga took the question to apply not to Erika but to herself. “It all depends,” she said, a little pensively. “I wish I could read the stars a bit and see what life has to offer me round the corner.”

  “Fritz might find you a job in Nürnberg,” Gregory suggested.

  She stretched her arms above her head, and folded her hands behind her neck, the thin stuff of her blouse becoming taut across her bosom, as she replied:

  “If it was something exciting I’d like that. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind staying on here if he could come over and see me frequently. It’s pretty cosy living here as the Hochwohlgeboren used to, even though we’re left with a wartime staff. Nürnberg would certainly be nice and cheery, whereas most of the time this place is so dull, with never a man about. I’m sort of torn between two stools, as they say.”

  “What about the police boys who are billeted here?” Gregory asked. “Don’t they ever provide you with a little mild entertainment?”

  “Oh, them!” She shrugged co
ntemptuously. “They’re not S.S. but old fogies, or middle-aged; and no class, anyway. I wouldn’t let any of that lot so much as put a hand on me.”

  “Don’t be unkind. I’m getting on for middle-aged myself,” Gregory grinned.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Helga gave him an arch smile. “You’re different, too. Anyone could see that much. And, after all, age doesn’t count if you’re the right sort, does it? I think you’re nice.”

  “Thanks.” Gregory smiled. “That’s a charming compliment, coming as it does, from a very beautiful girl.”

  “You’d better be careful,” she admonished him coyly, “or you’ll have Fritz on your tail.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of Fritz,” he said lightly, but with far more reason than she knew. “And I’m glad you think I’m nice—because I think you’re an absolute stunner.”

  He had struck the right note and Helga was now thoroughly enjoying herself. But with the natural female desire to play any new and good-looking fish that appeared to be nibbling at her line, she sat up, and, pushing a bell beside the fireplace, made a pretence of changing the conversation, by saying:

  “I’m sure you’d like some coffee. The old geezer who has been butler here for the best part of a century is just about due to bring it.”

  “Thanks, I’d love some.” He deliberately offered her his cigarette-case, although he knew that it contained only Sullivans. She took one without noticing; he lit it, and as she drew in the first mouthful of fragrant smoke, she exclaimed:

  “Hallo! What’s this?”

  “Something that will make you forget Fritz and see me as twenty years younger than I am,” he laughed.

  “Really!” Her dark eyes looked into his quite seriously.

  “No. Not really,” he admitted. “They’re just some very fine oriental cigarettes that a friend of mine in the Marines, who doesn’t smoke, sent me from a captured British ship.”