Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07

by The Second Seal

  “How could he have shot himself with his arm doubled under him like that?”

  The Duke sighed. He liked old Lanzi. He had even become quite fond of him. But he, too, was an enemy soldier. For all his self-indulgence and casual disregard of his responsibilities as an officer, he was not the man to allow himself to be made an accessory to murder. Neither threats nor promises would avail to make him hold his tongue. His life must not be allowed to weigh against the chance of being able to bring help to France in her dire need. Slowly, De Richleau said:

  “You’ve had a wonderful life, haven’t you? If I were you I should have no regrets about not living on to experience the pains and frustrations of old age.”

  For a second Lanzi’s blue eyes bulged. There was a look of horror in them. Automatically he clasped his hand to his side, but he was not wearing his gun. Then the look faded. One of sudden comprehension replaced it, and he smiled.

  “So Monsieur le Duc de Richleau is at heart a Frenchman after all.”

  “I am British by nationality,” replied the Duke. “But in this I act for France. I shall always regret what I am about to do; but I am compelled to it by issues that far transcend all personal sentiment.”

  Suddenly he jerked up the pistol so that it pointed at the Colonel Baron Lanzelin Ungash-Wallersee’s heart, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Baron had his left hand on the high back of an arm-chair. For a moment he supported his weight by it. His blue eyes bulged again. Almost instantly sweat started out on his forehead. A trickle of saliva issued from his lips and ran down his carefully parted grey beard. The train roared on through the night. It rocked slightly. He coughed, blood welled from his mouth, and he fell dead at the Duke’s feet.

  De Richleau closed his eyes. Beads of sweat were gathering on his own forehead. His hands were trembling.

  After a moment he pulled himself together. It was unlikely that one of the train staff would enter the pullman before morning. But there was no guarantee of that, so he felt that he must not waste a second. And he now had a plausible explanation for two deaths to think out.

  Hastily seizing the dead Major’s arm, he pulled it from beneath his chest, opened the hand and closed it round the butt of the Mauser. Taking up his belt and pistol holster from the table, he laid them on the chair beside him. Then he heaved up Lanzi’s body and propped it in the arm-chair facing Tauber’s corpse.

  Anyone coming upon this grim charade would be certain to draw the inference that the Major had shot the Baron through the heart, then blown out his own brains. But why? Why? Why? What possible motive could be suggested to account for the Major having killed a man he hardly knew?

  Money? No—out of the question. A drunken quarrel? No—middle-aged staff officers do not behave like dock-side roughs. A woman? No— the social circles in which they moved were poles apart. But yes! Why not?

  As the idea struck him, the Duke snapped his fingers with excitement, then padded swiftly down the pullman and along the corridor of the next coach. The only light there came from Lanzi’s sleeping compartment. It was easily identified as his soldier valet had unpacked his rich silk dressing-gown and night things for him. Slipping inside it, the Duke seized Lanzi’s already open kit bag and began to rummage among its contents. In a moment he found the thing he was after. It was Lanzi’s ‘Bible’, containing the photographs of the eight beauties who made up his scattered harem. De Richleau took out his handkerchief, and with it carefully removed the one of Mitzi Muller. To his joy he saw that it had the imprint of a Berlin photographer along its bottom edge. That was quite enough to infer that she was a German. Sliding the window back a little, he threw the album with its photographs of the other seven beauties out into the night. Then, diving his hand into the kit bag again, he fished out one of Lanzi’s books of pornographic pictures. With that and the photo of Mitzi, still held in his handkerchief, he hurried back to the pullman.

  Laying the book on the table in front of Lanzi, he picked up the dead man’s hand and made the finger and thumb hold the upper edge of the photograph. The bottle of brandy, still two-thirds full, was standing near the window. Having poured half the remaining contents into his own tumbler, he tipped about a wine-glassful slowly on to Tauber’s neck just below the ear, so that it should run down under his stiff uniform collar towards his chest. Then he replaced the bottle, now four-fifths empty, on the table.

  Stepping back, he surveyed his work with the dispassionate eye of a stage-manager. Temporarily, the thought that he was responsible for this awful tableau of death and blood had entirely passed from his mind. For several moments he remained there, his glance roving over every detail of it, to make certain that he had not overlooked some little thing which might incriminate himself.

  He knew that his fingerprints were scattered everywhere. But that could not be helped. No doubt a thorough examination of the scene of the crime might produce various awkward questions which he would find it difficult to answer, but he hoped to prevent such an examination from taking place, and to be out of the country before suspicion could fall on him. The one thing which might have damned him before he could get away was Mitzi’s photograph, as that would be exhibit No. 1, and the first to be tested for prints. That was why he had been so careful not to touch it with his naked fingers.

  Picking up the tumbler of brandy, he carried it along to the sleeping-car, found his apartment, and sat down on the bunk. He suddenly felt very cold and noticed that he was shivering, so he slowly drank about a third of the brandy, then threw the rest out of the window.

  Feeling better now, as the spirit made the blood course more quickly through his veins, he carefully examined his clothing for spots of blood. But he could find none, so he undressed, got into bed, and put out the light. He did not even try to sleep, as he did not think for one moment that he would be able to. Perhaps for that very reason, sleep came to him almost immediately.

  He was woken by the sliding back of his door, and a scared voice saying, “Pardon, Herr Oberst. Please to come at once. There is trouble on the train. A very serious matter. Murder! Suicide! I do not know. Please to come quickly.”

  The man in the doorway was a fat fellow in a sergeant’s uniform, who was evidently acting as train conductor. De Richleau stared at him owlishly for a moment, blinked several times and muttered irritably:

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  On the sergeant renewing his pleas and exclamations, the Duke got out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown and slippers, and followed him down the corridor to the pullman. He saw at once that nothing had been altered in the grisly scene he had arranged. The soldier-servants of the two dead men were standing a few feet from the bodies, and with them was the orderly who had brought the drinks the previous night.

  With an exclamation of feigned amazement and horror, the Duke halted; then stood there regarding the two dead officers. After a brief pause he asked; “When did this happen? Did any of you hear the sound of shots?”

  “Nein, Herr Oberst,” replied the three men in chorus, and the sergeant added: “I think it must have happened last night. The blood from the Herr Major’s head is already thickly congealed.”

  De Richleau nodded. He knew very well that no officer of the German army would have dreamed of discussing such a matter with other ranks, so he proceeded to analyse the crime and talk, as though to himself, meanwhile.

  The brandy he had poured over the Major’s neck and collar had dried without leaving any trace except for a rich aroma, as he had known would be the case. With a loud sniff, he remarked:

  “They must both have been drunk. I had only one tot out of that bottle, so they drank almost the whole of it between them.”

  He then flicked open the book, so that the men standing near him could catch a glimpse of one of the bawdy pictures it contained; but closed it again quickly with a frown, and said: “They were looking at that together when I left them. What the devil could have happened afterwards?”

  Leaning
forward, he grasped the Major’s dead hand, levered back the stiffened fingers, and took the pistol from it. By so doing he neatly accounted for any of his own fingerprints that might be found on the weapon. After examining it, he laid it back on the table. “Two bullets gone. I thought as much. The Major fired both shots.”

  Craning his neck sideways a little, he peered down at the photograph of Mitzi, and asked: “Do any of you know this young woman? Might she by chance be the Major’s daughter, or his niece?”

  Lanzi’s valet nodded, and said with tears in his voice: “It is the Fraulein Muller, whom the Herr Oberst Baron visited whenever we passed through Berlin.”

  Then Tauber’s servant replied woodenly. “May it please the Herr Oberst, I was new to the Herr Major’s service, and know nothing of his private affairs.”

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders and muttered: “I think it fairly clear what happened. The Baron was showing his book of pictures to us. After I left he must have produced the photograph of the young woman he was going to meet in Berlin. By an evil chance it happened that she was some relative of the Major’s, or perhaps a very dear friend. In any case the sight of her photograph in connection with the pictures in the book must have proved so great a shock to him that he temporarily lost his reason. When I left he was already a little drunk. Possibly the girl is his relative, and he felt his honour to be impugned. While the victim of a brain storm, he pulled out his pistol and shot the Baron. Then, when he realized what he had done, he shot himself.”

  De Richleau’s audience solemnly nodded acceptance of his theory, and he had no doubt at all that they would pass it on to whoever questioned them about the crime. Abruptly he asked the sergeant:

  “What time do we get to Berlin?”

  The sergeant took out a turnip watch. “It is now nine minutes past six, Herr Oberst. We should arrive about twenty before seven.”

  “Then get me paper, pen and ink. I must write a report of this terrible occurrence for the police.”

  When the sergeant returned with the writing materials, De Richleau gave him a piece of paper and said: “Make a sketch of the table and mark the position clearly of everything upon it.” Then he turned to the others. “Get some sheets to cover the bodies, and pails of hot water to clear up the mess.”

  On mobilization, the Germans followed the simple course of retaining every specially qualified man at the job he understood, but put him into uniform. In civil life, therefore, the sergeant had been a pullman car conductor, so he was well acquainted with the proper procedure when a crime had been committed on a train.

  Automatically resuming his civilian outlook for a moment, he said: “Pardon, Herr Oberst. Nothing must be touched. When we reach Berlin this car will be shunted on to a siding for police examination.”

  Turning very slowly, De Richleau looked at the sergeant as though he could hardly believe his ears; then he said icily, “When I require your advice I will ask for it. I am proceeding to Kaiser’s Headquarters on an urgent mission from my Emperor. That their Imperial Majesties’ business should be delayed for the convenience of the police is unthinkable. I have no intention of waiting in a Berlin station while another car is found for me. We shall deposit the bodies and leave at once. Now draw that plan of the table instantly, or you will hear more of this.”

  The Duke knew his Germans, and the way to treat them. At his very first glance the sergeant had resumed his military outlook. He stood stiffly to attention as if he had a ramrod down his throat, and the sweat began to ooze out of his fat face.

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst!” he gasped, “Jawohl!” and set to drawing a rough plan of the table as though his life depended on it.

  Sitting down at the far end of the coach, the Duke wrote a brief report, giving the bare facts as he might be presumed to know them. When he had done, and the sergeant had completed the sketch, he turned to the servants and orderlies who were standing by. On his instructions the two bodies were wrapped in sheets and carried out to the lobby of the pullman. The pistol, the photo, the book, the bottle and the cards were collected and put into a cardboard box. Then the men were set to work with their pails of water, cloths and scrubbing brushes, to obliterate all traces of the crime.

  They were only just completing the job when the train ran into a suburban junction outside Berlin. Lanzi was to have alighted there, then it was scheduled to go round the outskirts of the city until it got on to the Hanover line. De Richleau had counted on the deaths of Lanzi and the Major being discovered in sufficient time for him to put the right ideas into the heads of the train staff, and to get most of the evidence done away with, before the train reached the capital. He now felt that things could hardly have fallen out better, as there had been time enough for him to do all he required, but little over for the men to discuss the tragedy among themselves.

  On the platform, with the usual German efficiency, a relief engine-driver and fireman were waiting to take over, and a Railway Transport Officer, to see that the staff officers who were travelling in the special had everything they required. De Richleau, still in his silk dressing-gown, alighted and went up to the R.T.O.

  With haughty abruptness he said: “I am Oberst Herzog von Richleau of the Imperial Austrian Army. There has been a most regrettable occurrence on this train. A drunken quarrel between two officers resulted in their deaths. I am on my way to Kaiser’s Headquarters. You will understand that I must proceed on my journey without a moment’s delay. Here is my report. I propose to leave the sergeant conductor of the train and the servants of the two officers to give the police such details as they can. Should it be deemed necessary, I will, of course, return here to attend the inquest as soon as my duties permit. Be good enough to take charge of the bodies and such evidence as we have managed to collect.”

  No people in the world have such a slavish respect for titles as the Germans. On finding that he was being addressed by a Duke, the Oberleutnant R.T.O., who had been a railway inspector in civil life, positively radiated deference and desire to earn a word of praise. The sheet-shrouded bodies were carried out and laid on a truck, the cardboard box containing the pistol and other items were handed to the Oberleutnant, the kits of Lanzi and Tauber were placed in his charge, the fat sergeant and servants were turned over to him. Within five minutes of the train having pulled in, it pulled out again on its way to Aix-la-Chapelle.

  For De Richleau everything had so far gone like clockwork; but he found himself unable to do more than toy with the breakfast that one of the orderlies brought him. He hoped that, by this time, some Heavenly General had detailed Major Tauber to a long spell of cleaning out latrines; but Lanzi’s death lay heavily on his conscience. He had no doubts at all that he had been justified in shooting the Baron, but he admired the way in which he had stood up to death when he saw there was no escape from it; and in spite of the fact that he had never developed into more than a greedy schoolboy let loose in the tuck-shop of life, there had been nothing petty, mean or cruel about him.

  To distract his thoughts, the Duke set about dealing with Tauber’s dispatch case. He had feared to leave it with the Major’s other kit in case some zealous official sent it on to Main Headquarters and it arrived there only a few hours after himself; so he had said that he would deliver it, and taken it to his sleeping compartment when the Major’s kit had been removed from the train. As he had expected, the case was locked so, having pulled down all the blinds in the compartment, he slit open one end of it with his razor. Then he removed the dispatches and read them through.

  All of them except one from Ludendorff to von Moltke were on administrative matters and of no interest to him. The latter reported on the inconclusive battle of Gumbinnen, inferring it to have been a German defeat and painting the rout of Mackensen’s XVIIth Corps as even worse than it had been in fact. Only a bare mention was made of General von Francis, and his splendid performance was glossed over with a few words of faint praise. The writer’s evident intention was to convey that on the arrival of General von
Hindenburg and himself, the German 8th Army had been in a chaotic muddle and bordering on collapse. He then went on to give details of the re-deployment that was taking place, without any reference to the fact that General Hoffmann had been responsible for these brilliant moves and inferring that he had ordered them himself. The dispatch ended on a note of quiet, if rather smug, self-confidence, conveying that now the Command had been transferred to competent hands His Imperial Majesty need no longer have any fears for the safety of East Prussia.

  De Richleau would have given a great deal to have been able to deliver the first part of the dispatch without the rest of it, but, that being impossible, he tore it into small pieces, did the same with the others, and at intervals of a few minutes, threw the pieces out of the window. The dispatch case carried no means of identification except the Major’s initials, so when the train was passing through a tunnel he threw the case after the torn papers.

  For four hours the train roared across the North German plain, reaching Hanover at ten-thirty. Then it passed through more picturesque country until it came to the outskirts of Essen at about half past one. There, it entered the black belt of Germany’s vast munition works. For the next hour and a half, groups of tall, smoking chimneys, slag heaps, factory sheds and squalid slums provided a grim and seemingly endless panorama. But on the far side of Cologne it came to an end at last, and for the final hour or so of its journey the train sped through pleasantly wooded lands to Aix. After shunting in the station there, it ran out of the town for a few miles and finally came to a halt at half past four at a siding in a small wood, beyond the fringe of which could be glimpsed a big château.

  The Duke sent one of the orderlies to summon the whole of the train staff, including the engine-driver and fireman. When they had collected in the pullman, he told them that the authorities would be most adverse to anything leaking out about the tragedy that had occurred the previous night. He took their names and gave them warning that, should any rumour of the scandal become current at Main Headquarters, they would be held jointly responsible for it. Having seen his baggage deposited in a shed on the siding, he then took his dispatch case in one hand, his courage, metaphorically, in the other, and walked through the wood until he came to the first sentry post.