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    Codeword Golden Fleece
    Codeword Golden Fleece
    Codeword Golden Fleece
    Ebook556 pages19 hours

    Codeword Golden Fleece

    By Dennis Wheatley

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    • Friendship

    • War

    • Political Intrigue

    • Survival

    • Adventure

    • Race Against Time

    • Power of Friendship

    • Great Escape

    • Resourceful Hero

    • Fish Out of Water

    • Hero's Journey

    • Loyal Friend

    • Reluctant Hero

    • Big Bad

    • Enemy Within

    • Diplomacy

    • International Relations

    • Escape

    • Betrayal

    • Deception

    About this ebook

    When the Second World War opened, the Duke de Richleau and his friends Simon Aron, Rex van Ryn and Richard Eaton – the indomitable four – were in Poland. How did they come to be there and find themselves, even before the outbreak of hostilities, involved in conspiracy?
    Scenes of intrigue, violence and escape in Warsaw are exceeded only by those which follow in Bucharest–whence the friends are carried in a desperate attempt to sabotage Hitler's war economy, and force Germany to ask for peace before their full-blown assault on Western Europe.

    In 1963, Arrow Books began including this statement in all works of this title: It can now be revealed that the plot of Codeword–Golden Fleece is based on fact. Actually, it was given to Dennis Wheatley when he was a member of the Joint Planning Staff of the War Cabinet by a Foreign Office colleague there. On behalf of the Allied governments a French nobleman did actually succeed in acquiring a controlling interest in the Danube oil barges and their tugs. The Germans failed with the Vichy government in an action for its return and half the Fleet had been got out to Turkish waters. Supplies of fuel for the Luftwaffe were seriously crippled by this ingenious secret stroke.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateOct 10, 2013
    ISBN9781448212606
    Codeword Golden Fleece
    Author

    Dennis Wheatley

    Dennis Yates Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world's best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s. His Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming's James Bond stories. Born in South London, he was the eldest of three children of an upper-middle-class family, the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College. Soon after his expulsion Wheatley became a British Merchant Navy officer cadet on the training ship HMS Worcester. During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain. During his life, he wrote more than 70 books which sold over 50 million copies.

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      Book preview

      Codeword Golden Fleece - Dennis Wheatley

      CODEWORD—GOLDEN FLEECE

      by

      Dennis Wheatley

      image1

      This book has been lightly edited for style and pace, at the request of the Wheatley family.

      image1

      Dedication

      for

      Sir Reginald Hoare, K.C.M.G.

      With my most grateful memories of those days

      when, as our dear ‘Ambassador’ in a nameless

      State, he lightened many difficult hours for

      myself and my colleagues by his imperturbable

      good humour and most enchanting wit

      Contents

      Introduction

      1 Storm Clouds on the Horizon

      2 The Secret Rendezvous

      3 Coffin for ‘Uncle’

      4 A Traitor’s Price

      5 Pistols are Drawn

      6 The Hold-up

      7 Night in the Quiet Forest

      8 Night in the Stricken City

      9 The Indomitable Four go to War

      10 The Man-Hunt

      11 Toujours L’Audace

      12 Death in the Afternoon

      13 Midnight Visitors

      14 The Ambuscade

      15 Street Battle

      16 And They Wept Bitterly

      17 Unequal Combat

      18 Under Suspicion

      19 Prison Bars

      20 Race Against Time

      21 Old Soldiers Never Die

      A Note on the Author

      Introduction

      Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

      As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

      There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

      There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

      He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.

      Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

      He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

      He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.

      The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

      Dominic Wheatley, 2013

      Do join the Dennis Wheatley mailing list to keep abreast of all things new for Dennis Wheatley. You will receive initially two exclusive short stories by Dennis Wheatley and occasionally we will send you updates on new editions and other news relating to him.

      www.bloomsbury.com/denniswheatley

      1

      Storm Clouds on the Horizon

      The summer night was warm and still. Laughter came faintly on the air from a house at the top end of Curzon Street, Mayfair, where a dance was just beginning. Débutantes, dowagers and their escorts were driving up in a stream of luxury cars; the girls looking their loveliest in colourful silks, satins and brocades, the men in their peace-time uniform of pleasure—white tie, buttonhole and tails. The lights of London were still burning.

      Further down the street in one of the first-floor flats at Errol House, a small dinner party was in progress. The Duke de Richleau and his guests had gone in to dinner at eight o’clock, but coffee was not served until after ten.

      This party on the night of Friday, the 28th of July, 1939, was at the same time a reunion and a farewell. Rex Mackintosh van Ryn, the great hulking American with the ugly face and the enormous sense of fun, had, as usual, been in London for the season; but now all his world was about to depart with rod or bathing-suit or gun. He was leaving next morning for Biarritz to take part in the International Tennis Championship, and the frailest of their company, little, stooping, bird-faced Simon Aron, was to accompany him as far as Paris. But there their ways would divide, as in August Simon could never be persuaded to forgo the attractions of his spiritual home—the Casinos, beaches and terraced restaurants of the South of France.

      Richard Eaton and the Princess Marie Lou, that pocket Venus with the heart-shaped face and deep violet eyes, whom he had brought out of Russia to be his wife, were to make a leisurely progress up the Rhine and so on into Austria.

      De Richleau himself was going to Poland, and with him he was taking the remaining member of the party: the beautiful Lucretia José, whose magnificent burnished hair had caused her to become that almost legendary figure in the power politics behind the Spanish Civil War known as The Golden Spaniard’.

      The long Hoyo de Monterrey cigars which were the Duke’s special pride had just been handed round, and as he exhaled the first cloud of fragrant blue smoke Simon’s dark, nervously flickering eyes came to rest affectionately on his host. It flashed through his quick mind how little the older man had aged in appearance since he had first met him, six years before.

      His hair and ‘devil’s’ eyebrows were no greyer; his eyes, which at times could become so piercing, had lost none of their brilliance, and there was still no sign of age or weakness in the fine distinguished face, with its broad forehead and beautifully moulded mouth. He was, as usual on these intimate occasions, wearing a claret-coloured vicuna smoking suit with braided fastenings; and Simon thought—as he had often done before—how the touch of colour emphasised the Duke’s resemblance to the portrait of a Cavalier by Van Dyck, which was one of the four old masters on the panelled walls of the richly furnished dining-room.

      The Duke took up the medium-sized balloon glass which held some of his priceless old brandy, and swivelled it gently for a moment below his aquiline nose to enjoy the rare ethers, before he raised it, saying:

      ‘It’s good to see you all gathered again about my table, but the best of friends … eh—you know the rest. Here’s good hunting to us all, and may we yet be spared for many another merry meeting.’

      Simon lifted the glass of golden Yquem with which he was still toying. ‘Wish you were both coming South with me,’ he said jerkily. ‘So much more—er—civilised than Poland.’

      ‘But Poland has its attractions,’ de Richleau murmured with a smile.

      ‘I’ll say it has,’ boomed Rex; ‘the best snipe-shooting in Europe and real hospitable folk to do the honours.’

      Richard ran a hand over the smooth brown hair brushed so neatly back from the ‘widow’s peak’ in the centre of his forehead. ‘But the call of the snipe is only half the story,’ he said quickly. ‘The main reason for the trip is to see again the haunts of his boyhood. Isn’t that so, Greyeyes?’

      The Duke nodded. ‘Yes, my mother was a Plackoff, and in the Czar’s day her family had vast estates in Poland. I recently met Baron Lubieszow, who now owns a small portion of them, and his invitation to visit him was much too tempting for me to think of refusing.’

      ‘All right for you,’ Simon’s full-lipped mouth broke into a wide grin, ‘but how about Lucretia? Not much fun for her.’

      ‘How like you, Simon dear,’ she smiled; ‘always so thoughtful for all of us. I don’t want to go a bit really. I ought to go back to Spain. There are such thousands of our poor people who need someone to look after them.’

      ‘Nonsense!’ laughed the Duke. ‘You came back to us more dead than alive barely two months ago, and, though staying at Cardinal’s Folly with Richard and Marie Lou has already made a different woman of you, you are far from being your old self yet; and I have no intention of letting you return to those scenes of horror for many months to come. The war is over. You played your part in it most gallantly, but that chapter of your life is finished.’

      She sadly shook her golden head. ‘You are wrong, dearest. The war is over but there is more misery in Spain than there has ever been before. As the last of the Cordoba y Coralles it is my job to help lead my people towards better times. All of you here helped me save my millions when they were in jeaopardy; now is the time when I must use them to the best advantage.’

      ‘But not yet,’ pleaded Marie Lou. ‘A few months can make little difference, and the longer rest will make you so much fitter to tackle your task when you do get back there.’ She was pleading not only for Lucretia herself but also for the Duke, since, although it was never openly admitted, they all knew that the Spaniard was his illegitimate daughter, born of a great romance in the distant days before Spain lost her King, and that her well-being meant far more to him than his own.

      Lucretia shrugged the beautiful shoulders which rose bare above a corsage of white sequined satin. ‘Anyhow, I have agreed to go to Poland for a month or so. After that—we will see.’

      De Richleau waved the slender hand that held his long cigar in a faintly foreign gesture. ‘In a month much may happen. If I am not careful I shall lose you to one of those handsome Poles, who, if my memory serves me, are terrific lovers!’

      For a moment there was silence round the highly polished table, the rich surface of which set off so splendidly the Georgian silver, big bowls of fruit and fine glass. They all knew that Lucretia had never fully recovered from the tragic ending of her love affair with Cristoval Ventura, but they also knew that Monseigneur le Duc de Richleau was as wily an old fox as any that had ever stalked a chicken-run, and that he would never have made such an apparent gaffe had he not deliberately intended to plant the idea in Lucretia’s mind with that half-humorous lightness which can only be achieved when other people are present.

      Simon, the quick-brained, was as ever first into the breach. With a little nervous gesture that he often affected, he stooped his bird-like head and tittered into his hand, as he uttered the curious negative which was habitual to him.

      ‘Ner, it’s much more likely we’ll lose you to some Polish beauty.’

      Almost simultaneously Marie Lou had caught Lucretia’s eye, and as they stood up the men rose with them.

      ‘Five minutes—no more,’ Marie Lou smiled. ‘Then you can bring your drinks into the other room, as I’m certain you won’t have finished them.’

      ‘Never a truer word spoken in jest,’ grinned Rex, as he held open the door.

      When the men were seated again, Simon’s dark eyes flickered towards the Duke. ‘Happy about going to Poland at the present time?’ he enquired.

      ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

      ‘Oh, just wondered, that’s all.’

      ‘Simon, what do you know?’ de Richleau asked quietly.

      ‘Nothing much. Money market’s in a peculiar state these days and er—well, it might be difficult to get home.’

      ‘You think Hitler is really out for trouble?’

      ‘Hitler my foot!’ Rex cut in. ‘He may have the guns, but he’s got no butter. It was the blockade that brought Germany to her knees last time, and now she couldn’t hold out against it for three months.’

      ‘You don’t believe in the theory of the Blitzkrieg then?’ Richard smiled.

      ‘No.’ The big American shook his dark, curly head. ‘I lay four to one that if it ever comes to a showdown and Britain antes up to see Hitler’s hand it’ll be found that he’s been bluffing.’

      ‘Taken in hundreds, if that suits you!’ said the Duke quietly.

      ‘O.K.!’ laughed Rex. ‘And make it pounds, not dollars, if you like.’

      Richard sat forward quickly, his brown eyes suddenly alert as he addressed the Duke. ‘You really think we’re in for another war, then?’

      ‘Yes, sooner or later we’ve got to face up to this thing and kill it. Chamberlain got us a year to prepare at Munich, but the sands are running out. Hitler is well served by his intelligence. He knows that behind the scenes our Government is now straining every nerve to make up for these years of ostrich-like complacency, and that if he leaves his bid for world power much longer he will find a Britain, at least partially rearmed, barring his path. He cannot afford to risk that, so unless he is prepared to throw all his most cherished ambitions overboard he must strike soon.’

      Simon nodded his head up and down like a china mandarin, then shot out: ‘Why’re you going to Poland, in that case?’

      De Richleau shrugged. ‘Because my appreciation of the situation is that we have at least another month, and I should like to travel in Europe again before all that remains of the cultured and leisured ease which was customary among the upper classes in my youth is blotted out, perhaps for ever.’

      The five minutes that Marie Lou had given them had already lengthened into ten, and she was a martinet in such matters. Max, the Duke’s man, appeared soft-footed behind his master and murmured: ‘Excellency, the ladies request the pleasure of your company.’

      Still a little awed by de Richleau’s last words, they rose silently from the table and, carrying their glasses, moved into the big library.

      It was not so much its size or decoration which made this room in the Curzon Street flat so memorable to those who had visited it as the unique collection of rare and beautiful objects that it contained: a Tibetan Buddha seated on the Lotus; bronze figurines from ancient Greece; beautifully chased rapiers of Toledo steel and Moorish pistols inlaid with turquoise and gold; ikons from Holy Russia set with semi-precious stones; and curiously carved ivories from the East. And these were not merely the properties of a wealthy collector, purchased in auction rooms and shops. Every one had a story behind it connected with some exploit in de Richleau’s long career as soldier, traveller and adventurer. The walls were lined shoulder-high with books, but above them hung fine old colour prints and maps.

      Lucretia was looking very regal as she sat in a straight Jacobean elbow chair, but the diminutive Marie Lou had curled herself up like a Persian kitten in a corner of the big sofa.

      As the men came into the room she stiffened slightly, her quick instinct telling her at once that something was amiss.

      ‘What have you four been plotting?’ she asked, striving to conceal the agitation she already felt.

      De Richleau took her small hand and, stooping, kissed it, as he murmured with a smile: ‘Nothing, Princess, perish the thought in your bewitching head.’

      ‘You haven’t got yourselves mixed up in some crazy business in which you’ll all have to risk your lives again?’

      ‘No, no. We haven’t as much as a fragment of a map of a Forbidden Territory between us, or a sniff of the Devil’s brimstone.’

      ‘You swear that, Greyeyes?’

      ‘I do indeed. We are all, as ever, the playthings of the Gods, and none of us can say what our tomorrows may bring; but tonight there’s not a thing to prevent us from giving our thoughts to how best we can enjoy our holidays.’

      Richard had come up behind his wife, and gazing down fondly on her chestnut curls he placed his two hands on her bare shoulders, as he said: ‘Just think of it, my sweet. In three weeks’ time we’ll be in Vienna again. Vienna—where I first showed you what luxury and gaiety and love could mean.’

      ‘Richard, my love!’ She quickly clasped one of his hands and turned her face up to him. ‘Of course, it was stupid of me. Just a silly feeling like someone walking over my grave. Forget it, please.’

      Rex had turned on the radio and twiddled the knob until he got a band. Then he pulled Lucretia up out of her chair and made her dance a few turns with him in the middle of the big room.

      Soon they were all laughing again as gaily as they had during dinner. De Richleau ordered up two magnums of champagne. They were all connoisseurs enough to know that the wine was exceptionally mature and fine, but only Simon noticed that it was Veuve Cliquot, Dry England, 1906, a wine that would almost certainly have been dead from its great age had it been in bottles; and he knew it to be the Duke’s very finest, of which he had only half a dozen magnums left.

      It was one o’clock before they broke up, Rex and Simon leaving together, and Richard, Marie Lou and Lucretia, who were staying with the Duke, going to their rooms.

      When they had left him de Richleau drew wide the curtains of one of the windows, opened it and stepped out on to the shallow balcony. The dance was still in progress further up the street. The music of the band came faintly to him. The street lamps shone with a warm friendly glow on the pavements, where a few young couples, who had left the ballroom for a breath of air, were strolling up and down.

      For a few moments he remained there, looking down upon those young, carefree people, yet with unseeing eyes. He had laughed as gaily as any of his guests all the evening, but now he was a sober and sadly troubled man. He was wondering desperately if all six of them would ever meet again. For a second he had an absurd impulse to rush downstairs, and out into the street after Rex and Simon; to call them back so that he might at least make certain of looking upon their well-loved faces just once more. But it was too late now, even for that.

      With a little sigh he turned back into the room and put out the lights, still heavy with the grim foreboding that, if they ever did come together again, it could only be in a world gone mad. In what circumstances of distress, and perhaps terror and despair, they might meet, he knew that time alone could show.

      2

      The Secret Rendezvous

      Lubieszow was a long, low house set in a clearing of the forest. It had no garden as the English think of gardens, but shady walks wound among the trees and flowering shrubs bordered its drive, while, at the back, a wide terrace with a pleasant view looked out over the meadows to a great lake into which ran the river Stachod.

      It was very peaceful there as the countryside of Russian Poland is sparsely populated, and Pinsk, the only town of any size, lay a good thirty-five miles away to the north-eastward across the desolate Pripet Marshes.

      De Richleau was enjoying his stay with the fat, jovial Baron Lubieszow, mainly because it was such a contrast to his normal life of a round of engagements among his many friends in the great cities and fashionable holiday resorts. The placid, orderly life of the Polish landowner, with its talk of crops, livestock and horses, carried him back to those more restful and contented days when he had often made one of a house-party on some great estate. The Baron’s conversation was strictly limited, but he was shrewd enough in a way that is common among those whose life is devoted to the soil. His table groaned under the good, plain, succulent fare that came from his farms; his cellar was adequate; and if one wished to talk politics or literature there was always his wife, Clotilde.

      She was a thin, ailing woman with a sardonic humour, who took little interest in her husband’s activities and spent most of her time with Count Ignac Krasinski, their nearest neighbour and a daily visitor to the house. De Richleau suspected that the Count either was or had been her lover. In any case, he was her constant companion and supplied her with the gossip for which she was so avid, about the international situation, which the Count got from Warsaw, with which he seemed able to keep in remarkably close touch through his own channels.

      Nearly a month had passed since the Duke and Lucretia had left London. On their way they had spent a few nights in Prague, and a week in Warsaw; the remaining fifteen days at Lubieszow had gone all too quickly, and soon they would be returning to England.

      While showing little more than polite interest, de Richleau took in all that the Baroness and Count Ignac had to say about the dispute that was already raging over Danzig. He knew that Europe was a seething pot, on which a few weak, inept statesmen were vainly trying to hold down the lid, in spite of their awareness that the scalding Nazi steam inside must soon blow it off. But, like a condemned man lingering over his last meal, the Duke was determined to savour to the full such little time as might remain far from the excited, propaganda-maddened crowds which waited breathless for each radio bulletin and scare headline.

      Besides, Lucretia was enjoying herself, and that meant a great deal to him. Her golden hair had become brighter from the August sun, there was more colour in her cheeks, and she no longer checked her impulses to laugh in the half-guilty, nervous way she had done when fresh from the horrors that she had witnessed in Spain.

      Young Stanislas, the son of the house, was largely responsible for that. He was a nineteen-year-old subaltern in a crack regiment of Polish Lancers, now spending some weeks of his summer leave with his parents. No brighter, more irresponsible young blackguard had ever thrown a leg over a horse. Although Lucretia was considerably older than himself, he had fallen for her at once and made open love to her on every possible occasion. She refused to treat him seriously, but his laughing, tempestuous wooing was just the elixir of life she needed to restore her temporarily lost youth; and, as they both adored riding, they spent a good part of each day together cantering through the forest glades on the higher land to the south of the house.

      Jan Lubieszow; the Baron’s nephew, who had arrived in his own plane some six days before, had also had some share in taking Lucretia’s mind off her own problems. He was a thickset, square-faced, determined-looking fellow in his early thirties, and, although he lacked the carefree charm of his young cousin, he could talk well upon a great variety of subjects, and possessed a most melodious voice in which he could croon the latest American torch songs or, with equal ease, sing the old hunting songs of his beloved Poland. The Duke suspected that he, too, was considerably attracted by Lucretia, but, if so, he hid it with some skill, and in any case Stanislas left him little opportunity of being alone with her.

      Four other guests had come and gone in the past fortnight, and more were expected that evening, so there was little excuse for any member of the party becoming bored from lack of congenial companionship. The Baron had said little to the Duke about the newcomers he was expecting, except that one of them was called General Mack and that he and the brother officers he was bringing were really friends of Count Ignac, who lived in too small a house to entertain them and had asked that they should be put up.

      De Richleau was so used to such hospitality being extended to the friends of a friend by the old-world nobility of Central Europe that it did not even occur to him to speculate about Count Ignac’s possible motive in arranging the visit. But he was a little surprised when about six o’clock four large cars drew up in front of the house and disgorged no less than seven new arrivals with their servants. He was even more surprised when, just before dinner, in the big main living-room of the house, where hunting trophies decorated the walls and bearskin rugs lay scattered over the polished parquet of the floor, he was introduced to General Mack, and realised at the first glance that ‘General Mack’ was only the nom-de-guerre of one of Poland’s most famous statesmen.

      Without batting an eyelid the Duke shook hands, but his curiousity was instantly aroused, and he asked himself: ‘What the devil is this fellow doing here while Hitler’s puppet is creating merry hell for the Polish citizens of Danzig and half the Chancelleries of Europe are in a ferment?’

      Next moment he was shaking hands with a portly, grey-haired man who was introduced as Colonel Moninszko, but the Duke felt certain that he had seen his face also somewhere before, and a second later he was convinced that he was exchanging smiling platitudes with a soldier who ranked far senior to Colonel and was, in fact, one of the highest officers in the Polish Army.

      The newcomers had brought no women with them, so Lucretia, the Baroness and buxom Anna Lubieszow, a middle-aged cousin who kept house for the Baron because his clever wife was either too frail or too lazy to burden herself with such matters, enjoyed more than a normal share of male attention.

      De Richleau noted with interest that the European crisis was barely mentioned and, when it was, General Mack brushed it aside with the light assertion that, though the Government would never give way to these cursed Nazis, the matter would soon be settled, because Hitler was only bluffing.

      When the ladies had retired after dinner the men sat for a little over their wine, and the Duke waited with interest to see if they would now discuss the international situation, having perhaps refrained from doing so before from the fear that its gravity might alarm the women. But he was not at all surprised when they continued to confine themselves to light gossip about their acquaintances and casual talk of the season’s shooting. He had been involved in too many conspiracies himself to fail to recognise the faint but unmistakable atmosphere of excitement which pervaded the party. The laughter of General Mack and his companions came just a shade too readily, and their silences were just a shade too sudden. Whatever the real reason for their visit, the Duke was soon convinced that they did not intend to disclose it to their unsuspecting host or to himself.

      On leaving the table they went upstairs to the Baroness’ drawing-room, a large, ornate apartment resplendent with the gold, ormolu and brocades of the French Empire period, so typical of Russia under the nineteenth-century Czars. But she only allowed them to stay there for about ten minutes before, beckoning General Mack and Count Ignac over to her, she packed the remainder of the party off to play cards.

      De Richleau was a great devotee of the tables, and on occasion had been known to skin professional poker players on trans-Atlantic runs, but it was one of his principles never to play round games for anything more than token stakes with his friends; and ‘country house’ bridge, with its uncertainties of partners and certainties of recriminations, he normally avoided like the plague. But tonight, that ‘insatiable curiosity’, which he shared with the Elephant’s Child, being roused, he decided to play a few rubbers in order to learn a little more of the Baron’s mysterious guests.

      The six members of General Mack’s party, the Baron and the Duke made up two tables, so Lucretia, Jan and Stanislas were left standing by. Stanislas, determined to lose no chance of being alone with Lucretia, remarked lightly to Jan:

      ‘I know you’d like to cut in, old chap, so don’t you worry about us. I’ll take Lucretia for a stroll down to the lake to watch the fish rise in the moonlight.’

      But he had reckoned without his normally indulgent papa, who looked up and said with unusual firmness: ‘Tonight I should prefer you to remain here, Stanislas. As the son of the house it is your place to look after the comfort of our guests.’

      A faint twinkle came into Jan’s grey eyes as he smiled at Lucretia. ‘In that case, may I offer myself as a substitute to take you to see the fish?’

      She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here to cut in if anyone wishes to be relieved of their hand?’

      ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘Tonight that pleasure is reserved for my accomplished young cousin, and he is welcome to it. Come, let’s go.’

      De Richleau had watched the little comedy with amusement, and was now engaged in a comedy of his own. As a courtesy to the non-Polish guests, French had always been the language spoken during their stay at Lubieszow. Most educated Poles spoke French quite naturally as a second language, but one of the officers at the Duke’s table, a square, chunky-faced man, evidently of peasant stock, was having considerable trouble with his bidding. De Richleau was half-Russian by birth and, as a boy, had spent many happy weeks on that very estate, so he could both understand Polish and speak it fairly fluently. However, he had often found that it paid a handsome dividend not to disclose his linguistic gifts without good reason, and now he was very glad that none of the household or guests at Lubieszow knew that he talked their language. While the chunky-faced officer muttered angry asides to his friends in Polish about having been landed with ‘this blasted foreigner’ as a partner, the Duke smiled the rather apologetic, uncomprehending smile of one who has not the faintest idea about what his companions are talking.

      Lucretia had previously thought Jan rather a silent man, but she soon discovered that he was nothing of the kind, and it was only then she realised that this was the first time she had been alone with him for more than a few minutes.

      She discovered, too, that, like most of the Polish ‘Sylachta’, as the nobility were termed, he was passionately fond of his country, knew its history intimately, and dwelt much in the past. He spoke of the battle that had changed the course of European history, in which, with only a handful of men, the Polish hero, Jan Sobieski, had defeated the Turks under the walls of Vienna in 1683; and of how Tadeusz Kosciuszko, another Polish paladin, more than a century later had led the Poles against the combined might of Russia and Prussia, as though these events had occurred only a few months ago.

      But, as Lucretia knew, Kosciuszko’s valour had proved in vain. After two previous disastrous wars, in both of which great areas of Polish territory had been acquired by Russia, Prussia and Austria, in 1795 the final partitioning of the country by her three powerful and greedy neighbours had taken place. Then for over a hundred and twenty years the Polish race had groaned in slavery until, after the First World War, they had at last regained their territories and become an independent nation once more.

      What Lucretia did not know was that Poland had been the first country in Europe to adopt a democratic form of government, since in 1791 her nobles had voluntarily relinquished many of their privileges and recognised the right of the people to a voice in the running of their State.

      The night was calm, warm and moonlit. By the lakeside they found a dry, grassy bank and sat down upon it. Some young women might have been bored by a man talking of the past to them, but Lucretia had for long been interested in European politics, and the dry bones of history took on new flesh and blood when Jan spoke so enthusiastically of the old Kings and almost forgotten wars. He gave her, too, swift, vivid glimpses into the lives of many of his countrymen who had contributed so much to Europe’s civilisation: Copernicus, the great astronomer; the painters, Juljusz Kossak, Artur Grottger and Jan Metizko; the musical geniuses, Chopin and Paderewski, and that outstanding scientist, Madame Curie.

      Quite suddenly Jan asked if Lucretia would like him to sing to her.

      Hiding her surprise she agreed at once, and, lifting his square, strong face to the moon, he began, softly at first then with increasing abandon, until the night was filled with his clear, tuneful tenor.

      When he stopped she clapped her hands in applause, and he went straight on to sing another half-dozen songs. As he was singing in Polish she could not understand the words, but his rich tones conveyed, as well as any words could have done, at one time all the sadness of an oppressed people, at another the courage with which they had striven to regain their independence in many a bloody insurrection, at a third the valour of Poniatowski’s Lancers as they fought their way under Napoleon from one end of Europe to the other, and at a fourth the hearty revelry of a peasant people at a village merrymaking.

      At last he paused, breathless; taking her hand he laughed and said: ‘See what you let yourself in for, coming out here alone with me! But I love to sing, and never have I had a more charming audience.’

      She let her hand remain in his for a moment, then gently withdrew it as she replied: ‘I loved it, and you must sing for me again another night, but it’s getting late. We must go in, or they will be wondering what has happened to us.’

      He hesitated only a second. ‘All right, if that is a promise I’ll let you go this time, otherwise I’d be tempted to …’

      ‘To what?’ she smiled, scrambling to her feet.

      ‘Why, carry you off, of course.’

      ‘But there’s nowhere to carry me, except into the woods, and I’m far too fastidious a person to prove a willing victim in such surroundings!’

      ‘No, no. My aeroplane is in the big field to the west of the house. I should put you in that and fly you over the hills and far away. Do you like flying? I simply live for it, and by night, with the land all moonlit below, it is glorious.’

      ‘Yes, it must be fun.’

      ‘What about it, then? Let’s go up now!’

      ‘No, not tonight. Some other time, perhaps.’

      ‘You really mean that?’

      She laughed. ‘I said perhaps. Come now, I’m going in.’

      ‘When a lady says no, she means perhaps, and when she says perhaps she means yes,’ he said quickly.

      ‘And if she says yes she’s no lady!’ Lucretia completed the ancient jest for him. ‘But I’m no lady in that sense, and when I say perhaps I mean just perhaps.’

      ‘In any case, you are a most remarkable and lovely woman,’ he said with sudden seriousness. ‘I’ve been wanting to get you to myself for days; but that young devil Stanislas monopolises every moment of your time.’

      ‘Perhaps—once more perhaps!—I won’t let him do so quite so much in future. We’ll see. Anyhow, I’ve enjoyed this evening.’

      He took her arm with an easy, friendly gesture and drew it through his own as they started to walk back to the house together.

      She let it remain there until they reached the terrace, and when she got into bed half an hour later she confessed to herself that it really was a very long time since she had enjoyed an evening so much.

      De Richeleau spent a profitless, or almost profitless, evening, his net gains being forty-five zloties, won on the last rubber, and the information that yet more guests were expected at Lubieszow the following day, deduced from a remark which he overheard General Mack make to the Baroness just as the party was breaking up for the night.

      Upstairs in his room, having got out of his clothes and into a gorgeous Mandarin’s robe which he used as a dressing-gown, he began to pace softly up and down like some large, lithe, grey cat. For once in his life he was frankly puzzled. At such a time, when international relations were strained almost to breaking point and Poland the very centre of the vortex, what could one of her principal Ministers and a group of officers, who, he now felt certain, were key-men on her General Staff, be doing at Lubieszow? Why had they left the capital at this hour of crisis? Why had they chosen this remote estate where even their host was a stranger to them? Why had the self-styled General and Colonel taken the names of ‘Mack’ and ‘Moninszko’, instead of using their own?

      There could be only one answer, of that the Duke was already convinced; they were here to meet someone whom it would have been highly dangerous for them to receive openly in Warsaw; someone who was so well known that he would almost certainly be recognised in a big city, and, in the present state of tension, press comment on his presence in the Polish capital might prove little short of disastrous.

      Half a dozen possibilities as to the identity of the men who were to join the party next day flitted through the Duke’s swift brain.

      Voroshilov and Molotov, the Commissar for Defence and Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union? But no, Poland had a blood feud with Russia which went back into the dark ages. However crystal clear it might appear to outsiders that Poland’s only chance of survival if attacked by Germany lay in an alliance with Russia, de Richleau knew that the Poles would never agree to it—until it was too late.

      Daladier and Marshal Weygand, perhaps? France had been Poland’s champion for centuries, and it was Weygand’s brilliant generalship which had resulted in the ‘Miracle of the Vistula’ in 1920. He had flown from France to advise Marshal Pilsudski and, changing the Polish strategy at the eleventh hour, inflicted an overwhelming defeat upon the Bolsheviks when it had seemed that nothing could stop their victorious armies from sweeping right across Europe. But France was no longer Poland’s ally. She had given her guarantee to the Czechs and, finding herself incapable of honouring it when the crisis came, called on Britain, who at that time had given the Czechs no guarantee, to get her out of her mess. Britain had done so, pledging herself to the Czechs in a new treaty which, in turn, she found herself incapable of implementing when a few months later Hitler again turned on the heat and marched into Czechoslovakia. Then Britain had voluntarily guaranteed Poland, but not so France. If it came to a showdown this was Britain’s mess.

      So perhaps the man who was travelling through the night towards Lubieszow was Mr. Neville Chamberlain? After all, he had flown to Bad Godesberg; why not to Lubieszow?

      Then again, it might be Mussolini or Count Ciano. The Italian Dictator had put a check on German schemes of aggression more than once and played the part of mediator at Munich. If ever there were a time when powerful mediation could save the peace of Europe, it was now.

      But, on the whole, de Richleau considered Chamberlain the best bet. Britain had been rearming feverishly for the last few months, but many months were required to make up for the criminal negligence of the slothful and irresponsible Governments that had held power for so many years. In the Duke’s view, Britain had been right to eat the food of humiliation at the time of Munich. At least it meant that the people would have air-raid shelters if the clash came now; and, if only this new crisis could be tided over, Britain might even have a few modern tanks and a thousand or so automatic rifles when the great showdown came, as come it must. Perhaps Chamberlain was coming to tell the unfortunate Poles that, if they could not see their way to meeting Hitler’s demands concerning Danzig, their blood would be upon their own heads. By no conceivable means could Britain give one iota of military support to Poland, if she were attacked, and the Duke, being a realist to his fingertips, believed that no statesman should allow sentiment to jeopardise the safety of his country. Sorry as he was for the Poles, he hoped that Chamberlain would decide that discretion was once more the better part of valour and gain Britain just a little more time.

      Next morning the Duke woke to the noise of an aeroplane droning overhead, and, when it ceased suddenly, he left his bed with unusual alacrity. Looking out of the window he saw that the plane had landed a few hundred yards away, and that two men were just climbing out of it. One was tall and thin, the other somewhat shorter, with square shoulders and a slight limp. They were still too far off for him to make out the details of their features, but he knew at once that neither of them was Chamberlain, Daladier, Molotov or Mussolini.

      As they approached the house he saw that the square-shouldered fellow was about thirty years of age, and had a strong, almost brutal, face, with a jutting chin and thick, fleshy mouth. The other was much older, grey-haired, distinguished-looking, with a mouth like a rat-trap and a thin, aristocratic, aquiline nose not unlike the Duke’s own.

      Neither of the two bore the least resemblance to any well-known statesman, although the Duke had an idea that he had seen the taller man somewhere before. But they passed round the side of the house before he could verify the impression.

      It was still only seven o’clock, and as de Richleau always had his breakfast served in bed he had to restrain his impatience to learn more of the new arrivals until his normal time of appearing downstairs, which was round about half past ten.

      As he came down the broad stairway into the big lounge-hall, with its antler-hung walls, he saw a little group of men gathered at its far end; General Mack and the two strangers were among them. They were talking in low voices, but a few sentences floated up to the approaching Duke. As he caught them he stiffened slightly. They had acted as a key to unlock a cell in his brain, and he remembered now the identity of the tall, aristocratic man whom he had seen arriving a few hours earlier.

      The new guest was General Count von Geisenheim, a Prussian officer of the old school, who was high in the councils of the German General Staff.

      3

      Coffin for ‘Uncle’

      The shock of learning that the men responsible for Poland’s destiny were secretly negotiating with Poland’s potential enemies, the Germans, was enough to make even de Richleau catch his breath, but after a barely perceptible pause he proceeded onward down the stairs.

      General Mack turned and saw him and, with a wave of his hand, introduced the two Germans. He made no attempt to conceal their identity, and the younger, coarse-faced man proved to be a Major Bauer. Both men bowed sharply from the waist, then relaxed into smiling affability, von Geisenheim remarking that he recalled meeting the Duke some years before at a shooting party in the Schwartzwald.

      Europe was still at peace. No one could question the Poles’ right to entertain Germans privately or officially if they chose to do so. There were probably several hundred Germans still freely walking about London, and certainly several thousand Britons enjoying the August sunshine on their summer holidays in Germany. The Duke’s amiability rivalled that of the Count as he enquired after mutual friends, but behind his smile his mind was seriously perturbed.

      His perturbation was not lessened when, after luncheon, the plump little Baron led him out on to the terrace and, with obvious embarrassment, began to talk about his guests.

      ‘I do hope,’ he said anxiously, ‘that the arrival of all these people will not spoil the pleasure of your visit to Lubieszow.’

      De Richleau raised his grey devil’s eyebrows in feigned surprise. ‘But of course not, my dear fellow. Why should it?’

      ‘Well, only that we are such a crowd, and Ignac Krasinski said he felt sure you had come here for peace and quiet, so would hate that. As a matter of fact, he suggested that I should find an excuse to terminate your visit before these people arrived, but naturally I would, not hear of such a thing.’

      ‘But please!’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘I understand perfectly and should have thought of it myself this morning. Your generous hospitality has led you to overcrowd your house. Lucretia and I will go this afternoon.’

      Actually, he had no intention whatever of leaving for the present and knew quite well that to the simple-minded landowner the laws of hospitality would forbid

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