For a second he hesitated, suspecting a trap. Then he cursed himself for the state that he had allowed his nerves to get into. Of all the possible entrances to this huge pile how could Grauber conceivably guess that he would elect to come in by one of the kitchen windows? If Helga had mentioned his visit, and a trap had been prepared for him, it would be somewhere down near Erika’s dungeon that those Gestapo gorillas would now be waiting to spring upon him out of the darkness and stun him with their blackjacks.
Easing the upper half of the window down he levered himself up and over it. As he felt about with his feet they came in contact with a sink, so his descent to the floor was easy and almost noiseless.
Pausing, he listened intently for half a minute, then took out his pistol and flicked on his torch. Flashing it round he saw that he was in the scullery, but only a few yards from him the door to the kitchen stood half-open.
His rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the ancient stones, he passed through it and crossed the kitchen. Its further door creaked a little as he opened it. Again he listened, but the silence was absolute. Stepping out into the passage, he walked slowly along it, taking paces of a fair length and putting each foot down squarely so that its sole and heel each bore a portion of his weight. Following the same route as he had taken with the fat woman that afternoon, he came to the door that he knew led down to the cellars. It was neither locked nor padlocked, and on his turning the handle it opened without a sound.
Again he suspected a trap. He had had to pocket his gun in order to open the door. Thrusting his foot forward, so that it should not slam to, he jerked out his automatic and spun round, to stare into the shadows behind him. There was no movement and no sound. Again he cursed silently and strove to reassure himself. There were several entrances to the tortuous underground passages of the Schloss, and he might have chosen any one of them. It was not here that Grauber would set his trap, but down there near the dungeons.
Cautiously he edged through the door, went down two steps and closed it soundlessly behind him. Shining his torch downward he safely negotiated the flight of broad stone stairs and came out under an arch into a wide vaulted passage. On either side of it there was a row of wooden doors with airholes in them. These, he knew, were the wine cellars. Further on the passage opened out into a sizeable low-ceilinged room. Three lines of stout scantlings ran from end to end of it, and upon them there still reposed a number of casks; great aums and smaller hogsheads that had once held hock, moselle, and steinwein, now mostly mildewed and presumably empty.
Turning left he went through another arch. A dark hole gaped at his feet, and recalling the plan that von Osterberg had drawn for him he realised that it was the circular stairway that led down to the foundations of the Castle, in which the more ancient and primitive dungeons lay. At that still lower level human beings had once been chained to the walls, from which must ooze a perpetual slime and moisture, while rats scampered unchecked in the darkness and, when driven to it by hunger, had gnawed the toes from the prisoners’ living feet. Gregory shuddered, thanked all his gods that Erika had at least been spared such horrors, and, skirting the dark well, turned right into another vaulted passageway.
At its entrance he paused once more. According to von Osterberg’s plan this passage ran below the centre of the banqueting hall, and it was in the last vault on the left that Erika was confined. There was no other entrance to this double row of basement rooms, so it was here, if a trap had been laid, that the enemy would be lurking for him.
He tried to think how he would have laid such a trap if he had had to set it himself, and had the answer in an instant. He would have placed his men in some of the vaults at the end of the passage where he now stood, and when the midnight visitor had passed their hiding-places it would be simple as ABC for them to spring out and corner him further down the corridor.
Yet, a second later, he saw that such a plan was far from perfect. The men would have to open the doors to come out. Unless done with extreme caution that would make enough noise to warn the intruder. He would have time to swing round, and, if armed, shoot down his attackers as they emerged before they could shoot him.
No. The place to have laid the ambuscade was in the big open cellar. A dozen men could have hidden behind those old casks without being seen. After the intruder had passed they could easily have sprung upon him before he had time even to level a weapon.
Gregory breathed a little more freely. He had passed unheeding through the place where the maximum danger might have been expected to lie; so perhaps Helga had not talked, and there was no trap after all.
Then it came to him that although Grauber and his men might have concealed themselves in the big cellar that was not necessarily where they would have staged their attack. Those casks would give good cover for a man who was hunted as well as his hunters. Given even a moment’s warning he might have had time to slip behind them, then he could have led his ambushers a macabre and deadly dance, shooting several of them before they could finally locate and kill him. And he was little use to Grauber dead. Grauber wanted him alive, so the task of securing him without being injured themselves would, in such a case, have proved an exceedingly difficult one.
No. They would want to catch him in the open; in a place where no means of retreat lay open to him and there was nothing that he could dodge behind. The far end of the passage where he now stood would be perfect for that. Perhaps they had been behind those casks all the time, had seen him go by and were, even now, preparing to corner him.
At that thought the cold perspiration broke out on his forehead. He strained his ears, endeavouring to catch a whisper, a footfall or the scrape of a boot; but he could hear nothing—only the beating of his own heart as the blood pulsed in swift rhythmic jerks up to his brain.
After a few moments he felt a shade more confident that no one was creeping up behind him. Yet his nerves were still almost at breaking point and, to test the situation, he took a few steps boldly down the passage, then with his gun levelled switched round.
Still no sound broke the eerie silence, so he turned again and, treading more cautiously, moved like a ghost down to the end of the corridor. The door of Erika’s dungeon proved to be made of stout old oak, and as he shone his torch on the keyhole in it he gave a low groan of despair. The door had, as he had expected, a mortice lock, but this one needed a key nine inches long and with a three-inch-square grid to open it.
None of the skeleton keys that he had brought would be the least use and, although the lock must turn fairly easily from having been so frequently used, his pliers were not nearly big enough for him to exert the pressure on them necessary to move this ancient and formidable example of the locksmith’s art.
He knew there was only one thing for it. He must chisel away at least eight inches of the solid oak doorpost to extract the socket of the lock, and that would take him anything upwards of an hour. Had he been faced with such a lengthy task at one in the morning the game would have been up, but it was not yet half past eleven, and he had every cause to bless his decision to come in early, as he had originally planned. On the other hand, in the next hour or more it was quite on the cards that Grauber might still send one of his men down to bring Erika up for his amusement, if he had not already done so; and if that happened the intruder would be caught red-handed.
Still holding his torch in his left hand he pocketed his gun with the other; and, deciding that it was only sensible to find out if Erika was still inside before he started work with his chisel, he knocked gently. There was no response, so he knocked again, a little louder.
Suddenly, things began to happen behind him to his right. His hearing and sight were hit simultaneously with a rapid succession of new impressions. A soft footfall was instantly followed by the creak of an opening door. A glimmer of light gilding the floor a few yards further up the passage was obliterated as it came streaming through the opening doorway.
Quick as he was in flicking out his own torch, backing up
against Erika’s door and thrusting his hand into his pocket for his gun, before he could get it out he found himself menaced from the next doorway along the passage.
Helga stood there. She was wearing feathered mules and a satin nightdress, with a fur coat draped over her shoulders. In her left hand she held aloft an oil lamp and in her right she grasped a gun that was pointing straight at his heart.
“So you came back after all,” she said, in a tone that expressed interest, but conveyed nothing to him. From it, he could not tell if she had spoken with Grauber, so now knew that he was Erika’s lover, and his return in an attempt to rescue her was expected; or if she still regarded him as one of Grauber’s people and thought that he had returned to make love to her.
“How did you find your way down here?” she asked.
“They told me,” he said, hoping for the best.
She smiled and lowered her pistol. “Well, that’s fine! But you were knocking on the wrong door. Fritz has often warned me that the Countess Erika’s boy friend might attempt her rescue at some time or other, and for a moment I thought those noises outside her door might be him.”
“What an ideal” He forced a laugh that he hoped might sound natural.
Her dark eyes again took in his lean good looks with appreciation as she said: “It’s been one of the snags to this job, all along, my having to live down here. But Fritz insisted on it. You see, he knows that I’m a light sleeper and that any noise outside in the passage would wake me at once. He reckoned that the boy-friend would never guess that I was in the room next door to her, and that I’d be able to give the alarm. They ran a telephone line down for me, so that I could ring up the traffic cops who sleep upstairs if I had need of them; but when I heard you just now I thought it would be a feather in my cap if I could catch the boy-friend all on my own.”
Gregory’s brain was racing. Helga had not spoken of his visit and described him to Grauber. She had no idea at all that he was the Countess Erika’s boy-friend whom she had hoped to catch. There was no trap with yawning jaws waiting for him. Grauber had no idea that he had left Switzerland, and was upstairs either asleep or inflicting repulsive caresses on the young S.S. man with the painted face. Erika was still in her cell. If only he could deal with this damnable woman who stood flaunting her charms in front of him there was a good chance that he could release Erika and get clear away with her.
Helga, meanwhile, was going on. “I’d have liked to use the Countess Erika’s bedroom, upstairs. It’s nice, that. Still, the upper dungeons here are quite dry and pretty roomy, so I had her carpet and most of her furniture brought down. I’ve three oilstoves, too, so it’s really rather cosy. It was a shame you couldn’t have dinner with me, but I’ve been consoling myself with a naughty book that I found in the library. It’s by a man called the Marquis de Sade and all about the partiicular things he used to do to his girl-friends. It’s got pictures, too. I’ve been thinking of you while I was reading it; and, better late than never, as they say. Anyhow, now you’re here, do come in.”
“Thanks,” said Gregory, “I’d love to, but I can’t. I really did come down to see the Countess Erika. I’ve been ordered to make a medical examination of her, and report.”
“Ooh!” Helga’s eyes widened. “Are you a doctor, then?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m the chap who tickles them up when they refuse to talk. But the first thing I always have to find out is how much tickling they are likely to stand up to.”
Helga’s full mouth went sullen with disappointment. “Then you didn’t come down to see me after all?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” he admitted. “But never mind. We’ll just have to look on our getting together as a pleasure deferred. As I said this afternoon, I’ll get in touch with you at the earliest possible opportunity. Then we’ll have some real high jinks. At the moment, though, I’m on duty. Can I have the key of the Countess Erika’s door?”
“I suppose so,” she pouted. “Still, if you’ve got to make a medical examination of her that will take a bit of time. Surely you can skimp it a little so as to spend ten minutes with me. Come on, and I’ll show you some of those pictures. They’re awfully well drawn, and no end of an eyeful, as you might say.”
Gregory saw that there was nothing for it but to accept, so, pocketing his torch, he followed her into the room. It was a stone-walled, vaulted apartment, with only one window, barred and set high in the wall. There was no fireplace, but the oilstoves made it quite warm in there, and Helga had certainly made her unusual quarters much more comfortable than might have been expected. A thick carpet, two-thirds hidden with fine Persian rugs looted from all parts of the Castle, covered the floor. The bed was of simple design but wide and looked most conducive to slumber. The other furnishings were all elegant and in excellent taste. He guessed that they had been chosen by Erika, and he felt a surge of hatred rise in him for this good-looking nymphomaniac who had stolen and was profaning them.
Setting down the oil lamp, Helga slipped off her fur coat and got into bed, where she had evidently been reading.
“Come on,” she said, picking up the book. “Take off your overcoat for a few minutes and be maty.”
Gregory shook his head. “Really, I mustn’t. Gruppenführer Grauber is waiting for my report; and he’s such a hell of a big shot, I simply daren’t keep him waiting.”
“Yes Even Fritz is scared of him,” Helga admitted, with a little grimace. “By the by, if Fritz does get back tomorrow night, you won’t tell him anything about us, will you? He’s terribly jealous of me.”
“Of course not.” Gregory raised a smile. “Is it likely? I’m no more anxious than you are to land a nasty quarrel on my hands just because I like a bit of fun. But look, I simply must get on with my job Where’s that darned key?”
“It’s hard luck, isn’t it,” she sighed. “After you and me meeting for the first time like that and taking such a fancy to each other. Still, I suppose we’ve got to grin and bear it, as they say.”
As she spoke she leaned over, opened the top drawer of a small cabinet beside her bed and produced a huge, rusty key, almost large enough to have served to open the gates of an old fortress city. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, then she said:
“It’s some key, isn’t it; but the lock is well oiled so it turns all right, with a bit of pressure. Don’t go doing things you didn’t ought to with the Countess. She’s a good looker enough to tempt most men; but if you’re a doctor I suppose you only look on most people as cases.”
“That’s right.” Gregory gave her an answering smile as he took the key and thrust it into his pocket.
It was at that second that he caught the sound of footsteps in the distance.
“Someone’s coming!” exclaimed Helga. “Surely they can’t be chasing you for that report already?”
“I must go,” he said quickly; but all the same he did not move. His luck had run out again, and at the worst possible moment. He was in a ghastly quandary. The heavy footfalls now entering the passage could be those only of an enemy. Everything now hung on his next action, and he had only a few seconds to make up his mind what course he should take.
Helga might yet be tricked or coerced into proving a friend, or, if he left her to tackle the men coming down the passage, she might suddenly become a terrible menace in his rear. His automatic had its silencer on, so, without arousing the suspicions of the approaching enemy he still had time to shoot her in cold blood. That was the wisest course, but she had hardly merited that, and it went against the grain. If he whispered to her now to imply that he was her lover; that he had come there only to see her, and would explain later, there was just a chance that she might play. He could reinforce the plea by a whispered threat that if she let him down he would kill her. Perhaps the footsteps were those of someone only coming to pay her a midnight visit in the hope of a little amorous dalliance. If so, the man would go away disappointed. Then the awful danger would have been averted, Helga could be dealt wit
h and Erika freed.
While those swift thoughts raced through Gregory’s mind the man had taken some twenty paces. He was now about halfway down the passage.
Suddenly he called out in a guttural voice: “Fräulein Stiffel, sind Sie da? The Herr Gruppenführer has ordered that the Frau Gräfin be brought up to him.”
In a flash Gregory realised that his swiftly-thought-out plan for using Helga was now useless. Once Erika had been taken upstairs his chance of freeing her might be gone for good. He looked at Helga and their eyes met.
Instantly she realised that something was wrong. In his brown eyes there now lurked something akin to murder, Her mouth opened as Gregory leapt.
“Help!” she screamed, and flung herself sideways to grab her gun.
With one blow he sent it spinning to the far side of the room. With another he caught her a glancing cut across the side of her chin. Her head jerked backwards, struck the bed-head with a thud and she rolled over, temporarily knocked out.
Swinging round, he thrust his hand into his pocket for his pistol and jerked it clear. At her scream the ponderous steps outside in the passage that a moment before had bounded like the footfalls of doom broke into a heavy run. When Gregory had followed Helga into the room he had left the door half open. It must have been the light coming from it that had told the man coming down the passage that Helga was still awake, and caused him to call out. Next second he had thrust it wide and come charging into the room.
He was a typical bull-necked Prussian of about thirty-five, fattish but muscular and with the battleship jaw of a prize-fighter. His coarse flushed face showed that he had been drinking, his black and silver S.S. tunic hung unbuttoned, showing beneath it a rather grubby white shirt, and he was not carrying a gun.
Come into my Parlour Page 48
