V for Vengeance

by Dennis Wheatley

  They reached Lille on November the 7th, and Gregory knew to his regret that the time had come when he must part from Bert and Aimée Wheeler. They flatly refused to accept any money from him, but, having noticed that these simple friends who had shown him such unfailing kindness and good cheer had only a cheap alarum clock in their cabin, he went ashore and bought the most handsome timepiece he could find in the town to present to them as a souvenir of his voyage.

  Not wishing to involve Bert in any danger, Gregory had refrained from even discussing possible plans for a continuation of his journey, but when he returned from his shopping expedition with the clock under his arm he found a lean, gaunt-looking fellow with Bert in the cabin of the barge.

  Speaking in French, Bert introduced the gaunt man as Hugo Gilleron, another barge-master, who was a friend of his, and announced with a happy wink that Gilleron had agreed to take Gregory on from Lille to Bruges when his barge had completed loading the following day.

  Gilleron proved to be a quiet, uncommunicative man, and it later transpired that as he had no wife he had formed the habit of silence from long days spent alone on his barge, with only a young lad to help him. He was, however, bitterly anti-Nazi, as in their advance during the preceding summer the Germans had machine-gunned his old mother, his sister and her child, shooting all three of them to ribbons before his eyes, when they had been struggling along the road in a column of refugees.

  Gregory gladly accepted the Frenchman’s offer, then took him and the Wheelers ashore for drinks and as good a meal as they could get that evening. Next morning he took his final leave of the Wheelers, and, having transferred his kit, which consisted only of a few things that he had bought in Paris, to the other barge, resumed his journey early in the afternoon.

  Lille is only a few miles south of the Belgian frontier, and Gregory had good reason to be anxious about crossing it, as there was no Belgian visa on the French passport with which Lacroix had furnished him, and if he was found concealed in the barge it was certain that he would be arrested.

  However, Gilleron reassured him by saying that the Customs people on the frontier rarely bothered them now that the Germans were the masters everywhere and the border little more than a line on a map; but he took the precaution of hiding Gregory in an empty boiler which was part of his cargo. Actually, the frontier officials did no more than take a brief look under the hatches of the barge, not even troubling to come down into its hold; so half an hour later Gregory was able to emerge and resume his comfortable corner on the afterdeck, where he could survey the placid water through which they rippled and the flat, grey November landscape, with its poplar-lined roads, that made up the Flanders scene.

  The fare that Gilleron provided was rough-and-ready after the buxom Aimée Wheeler’s excellent cooking, but Gregory, who was no mean amateur cook, took charge of the culinary arrangements and, as was his custom when in the quiet phases of any campaign in which he was involved, slept a great part of the time between meals to average up those hectic periods during which, for long stretches, he might get no sleep at all.

  On the afternoon of the 11th they reached Bruges, and, having made Gilleron a handsome present, Gregory stepped ashore, once more faced with the grim problem of how, without further help, he was to make the final, and far the most difficult, stage of his journey.

  14

  The Vein of Luck Runs Out

  As every hour counted Gregory decided that he would not spend the night in the lovely old Flemish city, but make his way at once towards the coast. He thought it likely that the more lonely stretches would probably be barred to civilians, but that a big town like Ostend could hardly be cut off altogether from the interior.

  He soon found that he was correct. A motor-bus service was still running, and having made tactful enquiries of the driver it transpired that no special permits were required for people going into the great Belgian seaside resort. In consequence, he made the fifteen-mile journey in just under an hour, and at half past four was set down on the Plage.

  Bruges had not been badly blitzed, but Ostend had suffered heavily, and, although he was turned back by a policeman from entering the dock area, he got quite near enough to it to see the R.A.F. had done terrific damage to the harbour works. The buildings round them and a number of masts sticking up out of the water told a tale of direct hits on Nazi-controlled shipping.

  He still had no idea how he should manage the incredibly difficult feat of getting across to England; but without the least grounds for it he felt just as optimistic and cheerful as he had felt pessimistic and depressed before he and Kuporovitch had landed on Henri Denoual’s island. Perhaps that was partly due to the splendid break he had had in picking up Bert Wheeler in Paris, and Bert’s then having fixed the journey from Lille to Bruges with Gilleron for him. But he somehow had a definite hunch that he had struck a lucky vein and that it would continue.

  On passing a large café on the waterfront he decided to go in and think the situation out over a vermouth. He had hardly given his order when, on looking round, he saw seated alone, a few tables away, a tall, thin man whose face was vaguely familiar. Gregory’s first instinct was to cover up and get out of the place as quickly as he could, as in enemy territory anyone who might know him was a potential danger. Before he could even move he saw to his consternation that the man had already recognised him, as he had got up from his table and was coming over. The only thing to do now was to face matters out and hope for the best, although he had a sudden sinking feeling that perhaps he had been over-optimistic about his luck holding, only a few minutes before.

  With a little nod the man sat down, and said in a noncommittal voice: ‘I had no idea that you were still in Belgium.’

  At the sound of the man’s voice Gregory suddenly remembered who he was and where he had seen him before. He was the Comte de Werbomont, and Gregory had last seen him when he was acting as one of the Gentlemen-in-Waiting to King Leopold.

  Feeling more confident now, Gregory smiled and said in a low voice: ‘I haven’t been living here. I got away all right, but I returned to France a few weeks ago. Now I’m trying to get back to England, and it’s only fair to warn you that you may get into serious trouble if I happen to be caught while you’re talking to me.’

  De Werbomont shrugged. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger at the moment, and, as you know, we Belgians are prepared to do anything we can to help an Englishman. The fewer people one trusts in these days the better, so I shall perfectly understand if you prefer not to discuss your plans, but if there’s any small assistance which I can render please don’t hesitate to ask it.’

  Gregory smiled rather ruefully. ‘That’s very good of you, Comte. As a matter of fact, I’m in a very difficult position. I have no plans at all. Everything was fixed up for me to be smuggled out of France, but unfortunately the arrangements broke down. I made my way here from Paris by barge in the hope that the Belgian coast would be less strongly patrolled than the Channel ports and that somehow or other I might succeed in getting across from some little place along the coast here.’

  The Comte raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. Any idea of stowing away in a ship is entirely out of the question, now that all traffic of every kind is cut off between England and the Continent. Frankly, if I had to make such a trip I shouldn’t have the first idea how to set about it.’

  ‘How about the fishing fleets?’ Gregory asked. ‘The Germans need all the food they can get; surely they let the fishermen carry on? I’ve plenty of money, so I could afford to pay any good sportsman handsomely if he’d run me over.’

  ‘There’s no hope of that. Ever since the collapse the Germans have had no use for their artillery other than employing it on coast defence; the whole coast positively bristles with batteries of every description. The fishing fleets are never allowed out more than two miles in daylight, and a most careful watch is kept on them, so if one of them attempted to break away it would be sunk within fi
ve minutes.’

  ‘How about at night, though?’

  ‘Whenever the trawlers go out at night a strong guard of German soldiers is placed on each vessel to ensure its return.’

  ‘That makes things pretty tricky,’ Gregory grinned, ‘but there must be lots of small sailing-yachts along the coast; perhaps I could manage to pinch one and get over that way.’

  De Werbomont shook his head. ‘They were all commandeered months ago and have been concentrated in the larger harbours where it would be quite impossible for you even to get on board one, let alone take it to sea.’

  ‘It looks as though I’ll have to make the trip in a rowing-boat, then.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed the Comte. ‘You would risk trying to cross to England in an ordinary rowing-boat! From Ostend to Dover is getting on for eighty miles. There are dangerous cross-currents in the Channel. Once you were tired from rowing you would certainly be carried off your course, and that would make the distance to be covered very much longer. It’s doubtful, too, if you would be able to get far enough before daylight to avoid being spotted and machine-gunned by the patrolling German aircraft.’

  ‘Yes, it’s admittedly one hell of an undertaking. But I’ve got to get back somehow, and there doesn’t seem to be any other way. I’ve a feeling though, that I’m in a vein of luck at present, and I’m prepared to chance it if I can get hold of a boat.’

  ‘Even that is not going to be easy. With their usual thoroughness the Germans have listed all the small craft that they have not commandeered, and keep a constant check on them.’

  ‘Hang it all! There must be some old tub tucked away in a boat-house that they’ve overlooked and which would serve the purpose.’

  De Werbomont hesitated for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a collapsible canoe packed away up in my attic, but …’

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Gregory. ‘I told you that my luck was in. That is, if you’ll be kind enough to let me have it.’

  ‘Of course—if you wish.’ The Belgian smiled a little doubtfully. ‘But, as I was going to say, it’s only a plaything that we used for bathing in the summer. My son once did a river trip in it down the Meuse, but it isn’t the sort of thing in which one could hope to cross the Channel.’

  ‘Why not?’ Gregory enquired. ‘If it’s the ordinary type of collapsible canoe, made of struts and canvas, the fore and after parts are covered in; so it’s much less likely to get waterlogged than an open boat.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed the Comte, ‘and the fact of its being smaller would make it less likely to be sighted from the air; but it’s much too frail to stand up to any heavy pounding if you meet rough weather.’

  ‘That’s on the knees of the gods, but for once in my life I’m dead certain that my luck’s in.’

  ‘All right then. Since you’re determined to attempt this crazy voyage we’ll see what can be done to launch you on it.’

  Having paid the bill they set out westward along the Plage. There were few people about other than small groups of German soldiers taking an evening stroll on the sea-front. No short-distance buses were running now, so they had the best part of a two-mile walk before them; but at length they reached the Comte’s villa, which lay right on the shore, on the extreme fringe of the town.

  He was living there alone with a single manservant who did for him, as both his big house in Brussels and his country estate had been taken over by the Germans; and, as he told Gregory, he found it less depressing to live almost as a hermit in this little week-end seaside villa than in lodgings in the capital.

  It was dusk by the time they reached the villa, and Frédéric, the Comte’s man, had already done the black-out, about which the Germans were extremely strict in the coastal area.

  Going straight upstairs, they got the collapsible canoe out of the box-room, but as Gregory saw it his heart sank a little. It really was a most flimsy affair and had already seen rough usage. One of the struts was broken, and in places the canvas was coming away at the seams.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Comte unhappily. ‘I’m afraid it’s no good after all. It’s a long time since I’ve seen it, and I had no idea it was so dilapidated.’

  ‘It certainly won’t do as it is,’ Gregory agreed, ‘but since the structure is intact we might be able to patch it up.’

  Frédéric, who had come up to help them get it out, said quietly: ‘That should not be difficult, monsieur. We have all sorts of odd bits and pieces down in the garage which could be used for the purpose; but it will take a little time.’

  It was clear that there was no prospect whatever of Gregory’s making his attempt that night, so they went downstairs, and while de Werbomont told Gregory about a book that he was writing on the cultivation of vegetables, to occupy his lonely life, Frédéric cooked them a simple, but excellent dinner.

  At first Gregory feared that by accepting the Comte’s hospitality he might bring him into danger, but de Werbomont said that Ostend was too big a town for the Germans to keep any exact tally upon the people who were living there. They paid domiciliary visits to every house and flat from time to time, but only about once a month; and as they had been over the villa only three days before it was most unlikely that it would be searched again for another week at least.

  All through dinner they had had to keep their overcoats on, as on the edge of the North Sea there it was very cold, and the Germans had cut off all heating facilities except a low allowance of gas for cooking. De Werbomont told Gregory, too, that unfortunately he could not offer him a bath. He then went on to speak of the intense hatred which the Belgians felt for their conquerors and of how they all prayed for a British victory.

  Gregory nodded sympathetically. ‘Of course, we realise in England that King Leopold did not represent the feelings of the Belgian people when he surrendered, although everybody felt pretty mad about the way that he had exposed the flank of our army to the enemy.’

  The Belgian’s face suddenly went pale, and Gregory realised that for once he had been unusually tactless, because if he had paused to think he should have guessed that de Werbomont was probably an ardent Royalist.

  ‘How can you possibly believe such a baseless slander?’ the Comte said swiftly, his grey eyes flashing. ‘The Belgian Army fought to the absolute limit of its endurance, and the King played his part most nobly.’

  ‘Perhaps we’d better not discuss it,’ said Gregory, in an effort to get off the painful subject; although he had his own ideas, having actually been present at the surrender.

  ‘But if you hold such a view we must discuss it,’ de Werbomont insisted. ‘You were only in at the last act of the tragedy, whereas I saw it all, and know the facts. Our poor King was made a scapegoat by those treacherous French. At the time it was quite understandable that English people should have believed that scurrilous broadcast by Monsieur Reynaud. But you have seen how the French have behaved since, and surely that must have opened your eyes? Both the King and Lord Gort were under the command of General Gamelin, and it was he who, after the break-through at Sedan, ordered them to retire from the strong line which they should have held to open country where they were virtually defenceless. King Leopold protested but he was overruled, and, in consequence, the Belgian Army was almost annihilated.’

  ‘There I entirely agree,’ replied Gregory. ‘All our people who were in Flanders say that the Belgian Army fought with the greatest gallantry under the most difficult conditions, but that hardly explains why the King should have surrendered without one word of warning to Lord Gort.’

  ‘But, my friend, you do not know the facts. For four days before the surrender the King had kept Lord Gort informed that the Belgian Army was in ever-increasing difficulties and could not hold out much longer. He gave the same information to the French, and many hours before the actual surrender took place he sent messages to all parties of his intentions. I saw them despatched, so I know. The French Government received warning. We have the testimony of our General who was liaison
officer with them for that. Your Government in London also received warning, but unfortunately communications were so dislocated that the warning sent to Lord Gort never reached him, and London could not get in touch with him either. The only people, therefore, who could have warned him, but did not, were the French High Command; and that was no fault of the King’s.’

  ‘I see,’ Gregory murmured. ‘In that case he has been terribly misjudged in England. Mr. Churchill asked at first that judgment should be suspended, but even he, a week later, announced in the House of Commons that we might form our own conclusions on the evidence available.’

  ‘Yes, the damage was done then, I admit, and, of course, the Germans made good use of it for their propaganda. All Belgium was horrified to hear how your press and politicians had stigmatised our dear King as a rat and a traitor.’

  ‘You must admit that the evidence was pretty damning,’ Gregory said mildly, ‘because the other monarchs whose countries had been overrun—such as the King of Norway and the Queen of Holland—took refuge in England when their armies could fight no longer, in order that they might establish Governments in London and rally the whole resources of their peoples, outside Europe, to continue the struggle against the Nazis; but King Leopold, who could perfectly well have taken an aeroplane or a destroyer to England, voluntarily gave himself up as a prisoner and most valuable hostage to the enemy.’