Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07

by The Second Seal

  Old Count Paar nodded. “When I inform the Emperor of your gallantry in the service of the Monarchy, I feel confident that His Imperial Majesty will wish to confer one on you.”

  “Your account confirms everything we already know,” said Count Berchtold. “I now feel that we are amply justified in taking immediate steps against Serbia.”

  Von Hötzendorf turned swiftly to him. “I have already told you, Count, that I need sixteen days for mobilization.”

  “Surely, gentlemen,” protested the Duke, “terrible as this crime is, you will not allow it to lead to war.”

  “No, no!” Count Paar shook his white head. “There is no question of war. But we must have satisfaction. The whole nation is seething with righteous indignation. We cannot permit the vile act to go unpunished.”

  “I agree.” Count Berchtold gave the old man a sideways glance. “The insolence of the Serbs has long needed humbling, and this is our opportunity. But it should not be necessary to resort to war.”

  “I tell you it is futile to make threats unless they can be backed by force.” declared the General.

  “We have force enough for our purpose while the Army remains on a peace-time footing. It should not be difficult to seize some Serbian town or district, and declare our intentions of holding it until the Serbian Government surrenders the officers concerned in the conspiracy, and agrees to such other demands as we may make.”

  “And what if the Serbians attacked such a force?” cried von Hötzendorf, almost hopping with rage. “At the moment Potiorek has only 25,000 troops under him, and they are scattered all over Bosnia. Once we are mobilized he will have 80,000 infantry, which makes a very different picture. It would be positive madness to start anything until we are properly prepared.”

  Count Hoyos came to his Chief’s rescue. “But, General, surely you realize the danger in allowing the sixteen days you require for mobilization to elapse before we act. All sorts of diplomatic complications may arise. As matters stand we are fully justified in seizing guarantees that will ensure Serbia punishing these criminals. If the Great Powers are presented with a fait accompli they will admire our resolution; but if we wait they may believe us too weak to protect our honour. That would discourage Germany from giving us her backing, and encourage Russia to threaten intervention if we belatedly show signs of taking up the Serbian challenge.”

  Had they not accepted De Richleau as one of themselves they would never have discussed the question in front of him at all: but, even so, the strength of their feelings had carried them further than they intended. With a warning glance at the others, Count Berchtold drew attention to the Duke’s presence, and said:

  “In any case, gentlemen, the two Minister-Presidents will have to be consulted further before any new step can be taken, and we must not tire our invalid by involving him in our discussions.”

  Taking the hint, von Hötzendorf turned back to the Duke, and asked, “During this adventure of yours, did you hear any mention of the Brotherhood of Union or Death?”

  Seeing a chance to pour oil on troubled waters, De Richleau replied at once, “Yes. The officers with whom I spent the evening at Le Can-Can referred to it several times. They were all members of it, and spoke of the society as a patriotic fraternity pledged to advance Serbian interests by peace or war. But quite obviously the Serbian Government knows nothing of its activities.”

  “Why should you suppose that?”

  “Because, were it so, the Colonel who kidnapped me would have had no difficulty in getting me locked up in the State Prison. As it was he intended to go to the considerable inconvenience of keeping me a prisoner in his own house. That proves that the Brotherhood are a private body, acting without the authority or approval of the State. And for that reason I beg you to resort to threats against the Serbian Government only as a last resource. If you menace them they may feel in honour bound to fight. But if you confine yourselves to demanding the punishment of the conspirators, the probability is that they will at once admit the justice of your demand and carry out your wishes.”

  “There’s sound sense in that,” Count Paar agreed. “Nothing we have yet heard has indicated the complicity of the Serbian Government; and God forbid that we should wantonly force them into a position which might lead to war.”

  Von Hötzendorf gave a snort of disapproval. The others remained silent, but De Richleau could see from their faces that they were not in agreement with the old man’s pacific ideas.

  General von Ostromiecz stepped into the breach by saying that he would be dictating a report for his police of the information supplied by the Duke, and it might assist them further if he could give particulars which would lead to the identity of his attackers.

  To this De Richleau replied by describing Tankosić and Ciganović and adding that he thought the colonel’s name had been Dimitrivitch, or something like it.

  At that, nearly everyone in the room showed quickened interest; and when Dimitriyevitch had been identified by his description, von Ostromiecz exclaimed: “If you left that scoundrel for dead you’ve rendered us a greater service than ever. He was the Chief of the Brotherhood, a very able devil, and our most inveterate enemy.”

  Shortly afterwards De Richleau’s visitors took leave of him. But before they left he extracted a promise from them that the part he had played in the affair should in no circumstances be made public. They put his request down to modesty, but actually he was acutely concerned that no account of the evidence he had given against the Black Hand should reach Serbia. The Serbs had plenty to hide themselves, and presumably they had no idea how deeply he was involved with the enemy camp, so their natural instinct would be to let sleeping dogs lie.

  They had probably put his abortive attempt to save the Archduke down to a purely personal prejudice against assassination, but if they once learned that he had followed it up by breaking his oath and laying information with the Austrian Government against the Black Hand, they might seek to retaliate in a variety of ways. One would be to demand his extradition for murder and at the same time seek to discredit him with the Austrians. They could assert that his motive for the murders had been a personal one, and had a good case for making him appear a double-dyed traitor by disclosing the fact that he had both taken the oath to the Black Hand himself and been a Lieutenant-General designate of the Serbian Army.

  If that came out—and ample genuine evidence could be produced to substantiate it, together with the fact that he had never been in Constantinople—he would find himself in the very devil of a mess.

  After they had gone, as he lay watching the Great Wheel slowly revolve above the trees of the Prater and half listening to the plaintive notes of a zither, on which a haunting melody was being strummed in a café somewhere along the street below, he knew that never in his life had he skated on thinner ice.

  For the moment he was out of the clutches of the Serbians and had satisfied the Austrians, but within the next few days a dozen matters might come to light which would show him up as a liar. Much as he liked Sir Pellinore personally, he damned him roundly for having got him into this dangerous and dishonourable game of espionage. But, weakened as he was by loss of blood, and with the muscles of his right leg badly torn, it was impossible for him to escape further complications by cutting clear of the whole business. He was in no state to get on the next train for England, even if he had wanted to: but he didn’t want to because of still further complications. There was Ilona.

  That afternoon he had news of her but, far from acting as a palliative to his agitated state of mind, it increased it by a new worry. Adam Grünne came to see him. That morning Ilona had learned through the Court grape-vine of his attempt to save her cousin and that he had been brought back to Vienna. She sent her equerry to say, unofficially, how proud she felt to have a dear friend who had behaved with such gallantry and, officially, to inquire after his wounds.

  The message was balm to the wounds concerned, but Count Adam went on to tell him that Ilona’s su
ite were now more than ever concerned about their mistress’ health. After her birthday ball on the 13th, she had collapsed and been too ill to leave her bed for nearly a fortnight. The elderly Court doctor who attended her continued to maintain that she was suffering from an hereditary weakness, which might go on causing her trouble periodically but need not be regarded seriously.

  As rest and quiet after a bout always had the effect of restoring her to glowing health quite quickly, the Aulendorfs had faith in the old physician: but Adam, Sárolta and others in immediate attendance on Ilona had not. They were alarmed by the fact that after each bout she took longer to recover, and that her coughing fits had increased to such violence that she now at times strained her lungs and spat up blood.

  She had got up for the first time two days previously and hoped to be allowed soon to go out again. Count Adam felt certain that, when she was, wild horses would not prevent her coming to see the invalid, and he urged most strongly that De Richleau should then use his influence with her to persuade her to call in a lung specialist.

  Greatly concerned, the Duke promised to do so; and, after he had talked on other matters with Adam Grünne for an hour, sent her messages by him urging her to take the utmost care of her health, as well as expressing his devotion.

  During the next few days he lived in an emotional limbo. No act of his could any longer make for peace or war, or even better or worsen his own situation. Temporarily his mind seemed suspended in time and space; incapable of directing any useful action, yet subject to innumerable hopes, fears and sensations both pleasant and unpleasant.

  The flying bomb-splinter that had knocked him out had done no more than break the skin on his temple, and his shoulder wound was healing nicely; but the torn muscles of his leg nagged at him unremittingly. He was looked after admirably and given the best of food. But night and morning the dressing of his leg wound was an ordeal that he dreaded hours in advance. He had ample distraction, as the Court grape-vine had informed all his friends in Vienna about him, and he had many visitors, who showered him with gifts of fruit, flowers, books and puzzles; but he could settle to nothing because he was all the time worried about Ilona. His visitors had all heard some garbled account of his attempt to save the Archduke, and acclaimed him as a hero, but every moment of the day he expected some new revelation to brand him as a liar, cheat and spy.

  He sent for all the Serbian newspapers, including those back to the previous Saturday, and scanned every edition with feverish anxiety. But he could find no mention of the killings at the châlet, or even a bald announcement of Dimitriyevitch’s death. As the Colonel had been such a prominent personality in Belgrade the latter omission seemed extraordinary. The only theory De Richleau could formulate to account for it was that, whoever had succeeded Dimitriyevitch as Chief of the Black Hand had his own reasons for not wishing the Colonel’s death to be made public, so had taken deliberate steps to suppress all reference to it.

  In a way, that tied up with the general tone of the Serbian papers as, although no actual mention was made of the Black Hand, it was clear from them that the Brotherhood was temporarily under a cloud. Far from adopting the gratified attitude to the Archduke’s murder that might have been expected had Dimitriyevitch still been behind them, they appeared to regret it, and a few leading articles even condemned “the wicked activities of certain societies which, with misguided patriotism, encourage discontent among the Bosnian Serbs and so worsen our relations with the Dual Monarchy”.

  As the week advanced the Duke began to wonder if, by killing Dimitriyevitch and his two principal lieutenants, he had not, after all, made a major contribution to keeping the peace of Europe. It was highly probable that the fanatical Colonel’s successor lacked both his dynamic personality and immense personal influence on Serbian affairs. The killings at the châlet might have enabled Prince Alexander—who, owing to his father’s ill-health, had been appointed Regent a few days before the assassinations—his Prime Minister, M. Pastich and the C. in C., General Putnik, all of whom De Richleau believed to be decent, honourable men, to have regained control of their country’s destiny. The Serbian attitude was, in the main, one of indifference, and it certainly lacked all trace of belligerence. It was in the righteous anger of Austria-Hungary that the danger now lay.

  The whole world had been shocked and horrified by the crime at Sarajevo, and, although it was natural that the Austrians should feel more bitterly about it than any other race, their reaction had been of an intensity surprising in such a mild and peace-loving people. Musical festivals, favourite ballerinas and first nights at the opera, had all been pushed into small paragraphs on the back pages of the papers. Their headlines and leaders now screamed with rage and hatred against Serbia. And their fury was not confined to the Austrian press; every race that owed allegiance to the Empire displayed equal anger at the assassination of the Heir Apparent. In Budapest, Prague and Trieste, as well as in Vienna, mobs had attacked Serbian consulates and institutions, and paraded the streets nightly howling for vengeance against the despised and hated nation that they believed to have sponsored the crime. As De Richleau read these accounts he trembled for the outcome. It was clear beyond a shadow of doubt that von Hötzendorf and the other war-mongers now had the people of the whole Empire united solidly behind them.

  On Saturday afternoon the matron of the nursing home suddenly appeared with three nurses, and they hurriedly began to tidy the Duke’s room quite unnecessarily. A message had been received that Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Ilona Theresa was on her way to see him. And a quarter of an hour later Ilona arrived, accompanied by Adam Grünne and Sárolta Hunyády.

  To De Richleau’s surprise and joy, apart from a flush that made her look lovelier than ever, she appeared perfectly well, and she was overflowing with high spirits. Immediately they had exchanged greetings, she sent Sárolta and Adam to sit on two chairs in the bay window, and gaily ordered them to keep their eyes fixed on the Great Wheel that was slowly revolving a quarter of a mile away with its load of summer trippers; or, if they preferred, on one another. Then she perched herself on the side of De Richleau’s bed and gave him a long, breathless kiss.

  As their lips parted, she whispered, “Oh, Armand! How lovely it is to see you again! And what a hero you have become! Do you know that even I am basking in your reflected glory?”

  “I am overjoyed to hear it, my sweet Princess,” he smiled, “but I cannot imagine why.”

  She laughed. “My grandfather sent for me yesterday and congratulated me on having acquired you as an honorary Colonel of my regiment. Before, when I sent him the explanation you suggested, I am told he expressed great surprise that it should enter the head of a girl to have her soldiers trained for war; but he has always been so keen on anything to do with the army that he was pleased to learn that I took an interest in it. Now he has heard more about you, he thinks my idea such a good one that he wants you to give a series of lectures on modern warfare to the officers at the Staff College. But shut your eyes—quickly. I have a lovely surprise for you.”

  “Nothing could be lovelier than another kiss,” murmured the Duke as he obeyed her.

  From her bag she took a bright scarlet ribbon, to which was attached a star set with brilliants. Having passed the ribbon round his neck, she said solemnly, “It is His Imperial Majesty’s pleasure that for distinguished service to the Empire you should be received as a Knight into the Order of Leopold. By his command, and on his behalf, I, Ilona Theresa, hereby invest you, Jean Armand Duplessis von Königstein, with the Military Cordon of the Order.”

  As he opened his eyes she gave him another joyous kiss, and exclaimed: “There! Wasn’t it lucky that my grandfather spoke of you when I saw him yesterday? He told me he meant to give you the decoration, but I asked that, as you were my officer, he should let me deputize for him; and he agreed at once.”

  Taking her hand, he carried it to his lips. “Princess, no Knight of this illustrious Order ever had my good fortune to be inv
ested with your kiss. That will make it more precious to me than any other decoration I possess. I am most touched, too, that in his grief the Emperor should have found time to think of honouring me.”

  She gave him a queer look. “I don’t think he is really sorry about my cousin Franz’s death. He was shocked, of course, and horrified at the brutality of the act. But I am told that when Count Paar broke the news to him his first thought was that by the succession passing to my cousin Charles, it has once more been secured from risk of taint to the Imperial blood. They say he exclaimed, ‘How horrible! But the Almighty does not allow himself to be challenged with impunity. A higher Power has restored the old order, which I unfortunately was unable to uphold’.”

  De Richleau shook his head. “How sad that anyone could possibly believe that God would exact vengeance on a man because he married for love, instead of according to the dictates of an entirely artificial convention. In point of fact, his own blood is no bluer than the poor Chotek’s—or, for that matter, any street-sweeper’s.”

  “That may be true. Yet one cannot altogether rule out heredity. Generations of nobility beget a sense of duty and responsibility to others that is not found as an instinct among common people. They may acquire it later, but are not born with it; and to come by such a sense naturally is of great importance for all who are destined to rule.” Ilona sighed suddenly, and added: “All the same, I would to God I were a man.”

  “Why should you wish that, when God has made you the most beautiful of women?”

  She smiled at him. “Because, if I were a man and you were a woman, I would follow Franz Ferdinand’s example.”

  His hand trembled as he took hers. “Do you really mean—?”

  “Yes. Even if it broke my grandfather’s heart, I would marry you.”

  “My sweet!” he murmured. “My sweet!” Then he swallowed hard, now utterly at a loss for further words. But his mind was racing with wild thoughts which he had never before permitted it to entertain. To have her for his wife! To wake with her beside him! To spend long carefree days with her in the sunshine of the Riviera! The opposition would be terrific. He would be branded as a fortune hunter. It would never be permitted, and some charge would be faked up against him as an excuse for shutting him up in a fortress. But they could elope. That would mean that she would have to live in exile for the rest of her life. How much would she mind that? He felt certain that his love for her would endure. But by the time she was forty, would she curse the day she had met him? She was born to be a queen or empress. Would she later bitterly regret all she had given up for his sake? No! Why should she? Thrones held no glamour for those who occupied or stood near them. To her, a throne would mean only a loveless marriage and condemnation to a life-long round of official duties.