Sir Pellinore was one of those remarkable products which seem peculiar to England. Born in 1870, the heir to a pleasant property on the Welsh border which had been in his family since the Wars of the Roses, he had come into his inheritance in the naughty nineties, while still a subaltern in a crack cavalry regiment. He had an eye for a horse and a pretty woman, and an infinite capacity for vintage port, but no one had ever accused him of having any brains. Distantly connected with Royalty and numbering three Dukes among his first cousins, he had always known everyone who mattered by their Christian names, yet not one in a thousand of the general public had ever heard of him. He had shot everything, shootable, including men, and had become briefly famous during the South African War owing to a particularly well-deserved V.C., but as he had never courted publicity he had soon slipped from public notice once more.
Early in the reign of King Edward VII a crisis in his financial affairs had led him to resign his commission rather than sacrifice his ancient patrimony. Solely on account of his social standing some people in the City had offered him a directorship, only to find him a surprisingly regular attendant at their board meetings, where he displayed a jovially blunt persistence in acquainting himself with the minutest details of the company’s affairs.
Soon, too, they discovered that any particularly tricky negotiations with Levantines or Orientals were best left to Sir Pellinore; he had no brains, of course, but he possessed a strangely direct way of putting matters to such people. He was so transparently honest that they never quite knew what had come over them until they were back in their own homes. Other directorships had been accepted by Sir Pellinore, but he had always modestly declined the chairmanship of any company with which he was connected.
For his services in the last Great War he had been offered a peerage, but had declined it on the score that, as there had been a Gwaine Cust at Gwaine Meads for many centuries, the tenants would think he had sold the place if he became Lord Something-or-Other.
He had always dealt with his co-directors with that same disarming frankness which he displayed with the Levantines and Orientals, his formula being: ‘Well now, you fellers, just pay me what you think the job was worth—say, half what I’ve saved the company, eh? That’s fair. No cheating there. Mustn’t rob the shareholders, must we?’ He was now exceedingly rich.
To his vast mansion in Carlton House Terrace Admirals, Generals, Diplomats and Cabinet Ministers came to unburden themselves when their affairs proved exceptionally difficult. Not for advice, of course, since everybody knew that Sir Pellinore had no brains: but he was safe as the grave and a decent sort—one of the old school, in fact, with a curiously direct way of thinking; an eye for a horse or a pretty woman, and an infinite capacity for vintage port.
His only son had died of wounds during the Great War and it was Gregory who, as a very young subaltern, had carried him back from the hell of battle at the imminent risk of his own life. Thus Gregory had come to meet Sir Pellinore who, times without number, had offered him lucrative, permanent posts in his own companies; posts which Gregory had turned down owing to his loathing of routine and the possession of a private income just sufficient to render him independent.
He too, however, had a direct way of thinking. That was why they liked each other and why, whenever one of the great corporations which Sir Pellinore virtually controlled found its interests threatened, he would say to the board: ‘I think I can get you the man. Very able feller. Much more likely to get to the bottom of this business for us than one of those beastly agencies. If you care to leave the matter in my hands…’ Now, it seemed, Sir Pellinore had said much the same thing to someone far more important than his co-directors and, as usual the matter had been left to him.
Since the last Great War Gregory had taken on various dangerous enterprises demanding secrecy and brains besides his commissions from Sir Pellinore, but never before had he been asked to undertake a secret mission in a country where he would be shot as a spy if his true identity were discovered. Nevertheless he replied without hesitation: ‘Certainly; if you think I’d be up to the job. I’ll go to Germany for you.’
‘Good man!’ Sir Pellinore brushed up his magnificent white moustache with a sweep of his hand. ‘I felt certain you would, but I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t known that you speak German like a native.’
‘Yes, my German’s all right—but one thing puzzles me. You’re obviously acting on behalf of the Government. Why don’t they send one of their own Secret Service people? There must be plenty of them whose German is as good as mine, and they’ve been specially trained for this sort of thing whereas I haven’t.’
Sir Pellinore nodded. ‘Reasonable question, that. I’ll tell you. Whoever goes to Germany for us will have to get in touch with a number of highly-placed Germans. In peace time every secret service does all it can to identify the secret agents of its potential enemies, so that we can never be completely certain that any particular one of our men is not known to the enemy. If we were to send one of our permanent people and it so happened that he was known, he might be spotted despite the cleverest disguise, and that would be fatal not only to him but also to the Germans with whom we want him to get in touch. The only alternative if we wish to handle this business through regular channels is to send out a youngster unknown to the enemy purely through the brevity of his service. But, damn it, we dare not trust to some inexperienced junior a matter on which the fate of the world may hang. Only remaining possibility is to use someone like yourself; someone whose courage and ability have been proved but who is entirely outside the service and would never be connected with it if arrested when in contact with the people we wish to approach out there.’
‘That’s sound enough,’ murmured Gregory. ‘What d’you wish me to do?’
Sir Pellinore sat back. ‘To make the situation clear, I propose to bore you for a few moments with some facts about the internal state of Germany which are probably already known to you. Anyway, they’re more or less common property.
‘Hitler came to power on the shoulders of the industrialists, They financed him owing to their fear of the Communists and in the belief that they would be able to use him as a puppet or throw him aside after he had served their purpose. Well, they backed the wrong horse, for Hitler has been their taskmaster ever since. Nevertheless, he put an end to Communism as an active force in Germany.
‘As we well know, he also put an end to free speech and free institutions, thus sounding the death-knell of some of the best intellectual elements of the country as represented by the Social Democrats. Such diehard Communists or Social Democrats as escaped being shot or put into concentration camps went underground, After a time, a few of them sank their differences and got together, since when they have continued to fight Hitler with subterranean propaganda, secret wireless stations and so forth.’
Gregory pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sending me to Germany to start a revolution?’
‘The German people are ripe for revolution.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t believe that.’ Gregory shook his head. ‘I’d take your word for it that a proved loss of £100,000 on any balance sheet could be converted into a profit by a little jugglery of figures, but I’m afraid that in this case your judgement is at fault.’
‘Nonsense!’ Sir Pellinore smiled, obviously pleased by this compliment to his financial acumen. ‘Never was any good at figures. You know that.’
‘No?’ Gregory grinned. ‘Yet the father of all the Rothschilds would have buttoned up his pockets and knocked off work for the day if he’d heard that you are going to pay him a visit in his office.’
‘What’s that?’ The elderly Baronet looked up sharply.
‘Well—you know what I mean.’ Gregory continued to grin unashamedly. He knew his man and treated Sir Pellinore in private as few of his co-directors would have dared to do.
‘Insolent young devil!’ Sir Pellinore returned the grin. ‘Good thing there aren’t m
any more of your kidney knocking about. World wouldn’t be fit to live in. But never mind my financial dabblings. It’s a fact that a very large section of the German people are just itching to get their hands on Hitler and his bullies.’
‘Don’t you believe it! All these tales of unrest are greatly exaggerated. In any nation, the people shout for whoever gives them bread. When Hitler came to power there were eight million unemployed in Germany, and even if he put them into uniform he gave them back their self-respect and assured them of food, steady jobs and better housing. When I was in Germany six months ago I formed the opinion that at least ninety per cent of the Germans were right behind Hitler—and there’s nothing like war to unite a country. Apart from a handful of fanatics I doubt if anyone in Germany would be prepared to attempt the overthrow of the Nazi Government to-day.’
‘Very sound. That’s what we all thought up to a week ago, but information received since has caused us to think differently. The German people are at the end of their tether. They’ve been underfed too long; their liberties have been too heavily restricted, and they’ve become so inured to hearing fiery speeches that it has proved impossible to imbue them with a new wave of patriotism. They had no objection to a little war with the Poles, but now it’s come to a show-down with the British and the French their memories of what they suffered after their last defeat are too recent to allow them to enter this war with a fighting spirit.
‘The issue of ration-cards to them before the war had even started was an incredible blunder, and there have already been food riots in a number of the larger towns. I know you’ll think that the wish is father to the thought, Gregory, but you may take my word for it that the German masses are now ready to throw off the Nazi yoke.’
Gregory shrugged. ‘All right, I’m glad to hear it. But what can the poor devils do? They don’t stand a chance against the tear-gas and machine-guns that the police will use on them.’
‘I agree.’ Sir Pellinore leaned forward impressively, ‘But they would if they were given a lead by the Army!’
‘What’s that?’ Gregory exclaimed with sudden interest.
‘Surprised you, eh?’ Sir Pellinore gave a jovial laugh. ‘But just consider. D’you think that the German nobility likes having to kow-tow to the scum of the gutters who have used graft, treachery and murder to climb to high places in the Nazi party? D’you believe that the cultured people can possibly sympathise with a regime which restricts personal liberty and persecutes those of their fellow-intellectuals who happen to be Jewish? D’you think that the High Command, all at one time officers of the Imperial German Army, like taking their orders from an ex-Corporal? You know how proud those stiffnecked Prussian aristocrats are. Is it conceivable that they enjoy having their way of life dictated to them by a house-painter?’
Gregory’s eyes narrowed. ‘Theoretically, there’s a lot in what you say, but surely they’re all watched by the Gestapo?’
‘Yes. That’s why we’ve got to be so devilish careful. One false step and Hitler would shoot the lot, however high their rank and however much it might damage his military machine.’
‘But do you really think there’s any chance of the Army leaders getting together?’
‘I have every reason to believe that certain of them already have an understanding. All they’re waiting for is an opportunity to come into the open, destroy Hitler and his satellites, seize power themselves and call off the war.’
‘Then why didn’t they do so on the night Hitler ordered the advance into Poland? Surely that was their big chance? Saving their country from being plunged into a fresh World War would have been a perfect excuse for a Putsch, and the majority of the nation would probably have lined up behind them.’
‘There were two reasons for their not doing so. First, there is an Inner Gestapo consisting entirely of Army officers, and until these have been identified and eliminated any attempt to come out into the open would result in the disaffected group being denounced and executed before they could get the movement going. Second, these men are patriots and desire justice for Germany. They will not destroy Hitler before they have an assurance that when they take over the Government the Democracies will scrap the Versailles treaty once and for all and give their country a new deal.’
‘In that case, why on earth wasn’t such an assurance given to them?’
‘Simply because, although we know that this group exists, we have not been able to find out the names of the Generals composing it.’
‘Is that what you want me to get you?’
‘Yes.’
‘H’m. And what have you got for me to work on?’
‘Precious little, I’m afraid. I’ll give you what I can in a moment, but in the meantime I cannot stress too highly the service that you will be rendering, not only to Britain and her allies but also to Germany herself and the whole world, if you can only discover for us the actual heads of this temporarily dormant conspiracy. Once we know who they are we can practically guarantee their safety, for by a fantastic stroke of luck one of our agents managed to secure from Berchtesgaden itself a full list of this Inner Gestapo of Army officers.’
‘I see. And if that could be passed on to them they could arrest or bump off all the Inner Gestapo before acting. This becomes really interesting. Now let’s hear exactly what lines you can give me to follow up.’
‘Ever heard of a woman called Erika von Epp? Very beautiful girl and no better than she should be.’
‘Yes. Isn’t she the mistress of Hugo Falkenstein, the Jewish armaments millionaire?’
‘She was until recently, but her Jewish boyfriend was popped into Dachau and is now believed to be dead. In any case, she got married last winter to a Count von Osterberg. She travels a lot and when last heard of was on her way to the United States, but she was over here a couple of weeks ago. Had a flutter with a young officer in the Guards. Good-looking young devil, and not half as stupid as he looks. One night when they were together she said something that set him thinking. She comes from German Army stock, of course, and she toasted the Imperial German Army with the words: ‘It won’t be long now before the house-painter is put where he belongs and the old families are back again to lead Germany on a new and saner course. The Generals only have to give the word and the Nazis will be destroyed overnight.
‘An extraordinary indiscretion, of course, but Erika von Epp was crazy about this boy and they were both half-tight at the time. Fortunately he reported it to the right quarter, and Erika knows so much of what’s going on behind the scenes that one can’t help thinking there must have been something more than idle wishing in what she said.’
‘From any ordinary German girl it wouldn’t have been worth a damn, but with her connections there may well be something in it. What’s the next thing?’
Sir Pellinore pondered for a moment, then: ‘You’ve heard of Tom Archer?’
‘The Communist leader?’
‘Well, he calls himself a Marxist but Anarchist would probably be a more accurate description. Anyhow, he and his friends are so hot that the official Communist Party refuse to have anything to do with them. Clever feller, though, and dangerous. Just before the balloon went up he sent a letter to the Prime Minister. In it he urged further delay before declaring war, giving as his reason his conviction that there would be a revolution inside Germany if only hostilities could be postponed for a few more days and we were willing to meet a new German Government round a conference table with honest intent to give Germany a new deal. He actually offered to act as go-between. The interesting point is, though, that Archer stressed the fact that he wasn’t counting upon a rising of the German Labour people, but that it would come from some other quarter. Now, from what other quarter could it come save the Army?’
‘You think, then, that the Socialists and the Army leaders have agreed to act together?’
‘It would seem so, but our ultimatum was already drafted and could not be held up any longer, on account of the Poles. Archer was grilled after
wards, of course, but in spite of promises, pleading and threats of D.O.R.A. he closed up like an oyster. Wouldn’t say a damned thing for fear of endangering his friends on the other side.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Just one thing more. I expect you’ve drunk plenty of Rheinhardt’s hock in your time? Well, Herr Julius Rheinhardt, the senior partner in the firm, who lives in Traben-Trabach on the Moselle, was over here not long ago. He talked very freely to one of his co-directors in their London office and stated categorically that the Army leaders, the big industrialists and the Socialists are banded together in a pact to destroy Hitler at the earliest possible moment.
‘Unfortunately the London director, a naturalised British subject, didn’t come forward with the information until war had actually broken out, but he’s absolutely definite about what Julius Rheinhardt said.
‘Archer has proved a dead end; Erika von Epp, or rather the Countess von Osterberg, as she now is, may or may not be in America, but Rheinhardt is almost certainly back at his home in Traben-Trabach. He’s your best bet. You must see him and induce him in some way or another to give you the name of one of his superiors in the conspiracy. Then you must go on in the same way until you reach the man right at the very top.’
The expression of tense eagerness faded from Gregory Sallust’s lean face and was replaced by a thoughtful frown as he asked: ‘But what happens if I do succeed in reaching him? I’ve no credentials to show, and even if I were to risk carrying any—well—he’d still have to entrust his safety to an unknown secret agent. He’d be out of his senses, surely, to do such a thing.’
‘Not at all. Once you can identify the man at the top the job’s as good as done. The list of the Inner Gestapo of which I spoke is still in safe keeping in Berlin. There was no time to get it out before war broke. Moreover, the last document to be sent to Berlin before our Embassy closed down was a letter, signed by responsible British and French statesmen. It guaranteed that if the Generals would arrest the chiefs of the Nazi Party, call off the Polish war and support a new Government based on a free election, the Democracies would pledge themselves to a round-table conference and a new deal for Germany. That letter is with the list of the Inner Gestapo members. If only you can secure these two documents and pass them on to the head of the conspiracy, the German Army will unquestionably depose Hitler and the peace of the world will be restored.’
The Scarlet Impostor Page 2
