Gregory and Kuporovitch knew that the doctor could have stepped back no more than two paces behind them. They were two to one and by whirling round there was a fair chance that one of them could grab his pistol and force it downwards, so that as he squeezed the trigger the bullet would go into the floor. Then, between them, they could swiftly have overcome him.
Had they been amateurs, or the doctor a different type of man, they might have taken that chance. But both of them were old hands with firearms. Ample experience had taught them that in the hands of a resolute man only a split second is needed to blaze off with a weapon; and Malacou’s command, given in harsh, heavily accented German, left no doubt in their minds that he would shoot without the slightest hesitation. Slowly they both raised their hands.
Swift glances to their rear had shown them that the doctor’s brown, ascetic face, capped by its mass of dark, grey-flecked hair, was now menacing and the glint in his black eyes showed that he would stand no nonsense. Nevertheless, Gregory still hoped to get out of the trap into which they had fallen.
Khurrem could not remove the small automatic that he was carrying tucked into his left armpit without undoing his tunic. While her hands were occupied he meant to grab her and swing her round so that she made a shield for his body. He would then only have to drag her sideways so that both of them were between her father and Kuporovitch. His friend could be counted on not to lose a second in pulling out his pistol and, while the doctor would not dare to risk shooting Khurrem, shoot him.
Next moment his hopes were dashed. Malacou’s harsh voice came again. ‘Attempt nothing while Khurrem searches you. If one of you lays a hand on her I will instantly shoot the other.’
With silent fury Gregory realised that they were checkmated. Before lunch that day he had had every reason to fear that he had fallen into a trap; but Khurrem having turned out to be a Turkish woman instead of a Jewess had swiftly exploded the theory he had built up that Frau von Altern had been caught out by the Nazis and another woman substituted for her.
That she was the real Frau von Altern he now had no doubt. The natural way in which Willi von Altern and the servants had behaved towards her was ample evidence of that. No. The trap in which they had been caught was not one that had been hastily arranged because his letter had been delivered to the local Gestapo, leading them to suspect that a secret agent was trying to get into touch with a woman they had already arrested. It was a long-term, carefully thought-out plan.
In recent months the activities at Peenemünde had increased so greatly that the Nazis must have realised that news of them would have reached the Allies. They would then have reasoned that an agent would be sent over to endeavour to obtain fuller particulars. Instead of waiting for an agent to arrive unknown to them, and perhaps succeed in his mission, they must have decided to entice one over. Khurrem’s husband had been a Nazi and no doubt she had shared his political convictions; but being of foreign origin she had made excellent bait for the trap. They would only have had to tell her what to put in the message she had sent to Sweden and await results.
As Gregory visualised the full extent of those results he was almost tempted to swing round and make a fight for it. The Gestapo would count on the agent arriving equipped with a wireless. Having caught their man they would torture him until he gave away the code with which he had been furnished. When the messages were received in London it would be thought that they were being sent by him and, as long as they continued to come in, no other agent would be sent out. But the messages would come from the Gestapo, giving false information that the scientists at Peenemünde had met with unforeseen difficulties; so the work there was making little progress, while in reality it was being pressed forward with the utmost vigour to bring wholesale death and destruction in Britain.
While these thoughts were rushing through Gregory’s mind, Khurrem had taken his gun and had run her hands over his body to make certain that he had no other weapons concealed on him. As she stepped across to Kuporovitch, Gregory groaned inwardly, for a further deduction had occurred to him.
The man who had brought Khurrem’s message to the British Embassy in Stockholm, whether he had been a Pole or only posing as one, must have been an agent of the Gestapo. His death in a car crash shortly afterwards had evidently been reported as a precaution against any attempt to trace and question him further; and, as all Gestapo operations outside Germany came under Foreign Department UA-1, this cunning plan to protect the secrets of Peenemünde must have been hatched by its Chief, Herr Gruppenführer Grauber.
Gregory was a brave man, but he blanched at the thought. The snare had not been laid for him personally, for Grauber could not possibly have known that he would be the agent sent; but now that agent had been caught he very soon would know, and his delight would be unbounded.
To have fallen into the clutches of the Gestapo was bad enough, but soon to be at the mercy of his most deadly enemy did not bear thinking about. Yet he could not prevent his thoughts racing on. Unless a merciful Providence enabled him to escape, within twenty-four hours or less he would once again be brought face to face with that pitiless sadist. Into his mind there flashed a picture of a gorilla-like figure, made doubly sinister by having the mincing gait and airs of an affected woman. He could even visualise the glint of triumph in Grauber’s solitary eye. The other he had smashed in with the butt of a pistol. Grauber had sworn that he should sooner or later pay for that by being kept alive in agony for months and allowed to die only by inches.
Khurrem had disarmed Kuporovitch and Gregory’s nightmare imaginings were cut short by Malacou saying in a quieter voice, ‘You may now turn round and lower your hands.’
As they did so, he motioned with the big automatic he was holding towards two chairs at opposite sides of the room, both of which were well away from his desk, and added, ‘Be seated, Meine Herren. My interrogation of you may take some time.’
Swivelling round his own chair he sat down in it, looked across at Gregory and went on, ‘I will begin with you. What is your real name?’
‘I have nothing to say,’ replied Gregory firmly.
Malacou shrugged. ‘You are wasting my time. I have means to make you talk; or, anyway, provide answers to my questions. Tell me at least one thing. Have you ever been hypnotised?’
Gregory gave him an uneasy look, then shook his head.
‘Then you would not prove an easy subject. I could, of course, put you under if I summoned my man, had him and Khurrem tie you up, then held your eyes open. And that is what I shall do if you attempt to resist the measures I am about to take. But I have no wish to spend half the night subduing your will to mine. It will be much quicker and more pleasant for us all if you quietly accept Khurrem as your mouthpiece.’
Extremely puzzled, Gregory stared at Khurrem as she came towards him, then went behind his chair and placed both her hands on his head. He knew that hypnotism was accepted by the medical profession and now used by a number of practitioners for relieving pain and for other legitimate purposes. But he did not suppose for one moment that by hypnotising a third party Malacou could get anything out of him and it was evident that that was what the doctor now intended to attempt. Swiftly Gregory decided that to let him try was obviously more sensible than to allow himself to be tied up; since, as long as his limbs were free, there was always the chance that his captor’s vigilance might relax and give him an opportunity to turn the tables.
Malacou transferred his pistol to his left hand, rested it on his thigh and, looking steadily over Gregory’s head at Khurrem, made a few slow passes with his right. After barely a minute she said in a dreamy voice, ‘You may proceed, Master. I am with him.’
Transferring his gaze to Gregory, the doctor asked, ‘What is your name?’
Gregory kept his mouth tightly shut but, automatically, in his mind he saw his usual signature on a cheque. Khurrem’s low voice came again. ‘It is a little difficult to read. Geoffrey, I think. No, Gregory. And his surname is—but how strange. It is that of the Roman historian, Sallust.’
Utterly amazed, Gregory jerked his head from beneath her hands; but Malacou raised his pistol and rapped out, ‘Don’t move! Remember that I can force these answers from you by having you tied up.’
With a sharp intake of breath, Gregory sat back. Once bound, even if he could resist the doctor’s hypnotic powers, he would not be able to prevent Khurrem from again placing her hands on his head and, it seemed, extracting a certain amount of information from him. His only defence was to try to make his mind a blank.
As Khurrem’s fingertips again pressed down on his forehead, Malacou waited for a moment, then asked, ‘Where were you three nights ago at this hour?’
In spite of himself a picture formed in Gregory’s mind. He jerked his thoughts from it and, visualising a brick wall, strove to concentrate on that; but in vain. In flashes his mind persisted in reverting to the original scene, as Khurrem began to speak in a monotonous tone:
‘He resists, but uselessly. It was a warm night and he was sitting in a garden. Seated beside him there is a fair woman. She is very beautiful with a strong resemblance to Marlene Dietrich. She must know that he is about to leave her for, although she smiles bravely, her eyes are red. With them there is another couple; the man Sabinov and a small, dark woman. She is younger than the other, also good-looking and wearing a nurse’s uniform.’
‘Mother of God, protect us!’ Kuporovitch suddenly burst out in French. ‘This is the Devil’s work, otherwise it would be impossible.’
Malacou’s thick lips broke into a smile and, using poor but fluent French, he commented, ‘Instead of calling on the Holy Virgin in her remote serenity you would be well advised to speak with respect of the Lord of this World.’ Then, turning back to Gregory, he reverted to German. ‘Tell me, Herr Sallust, about this house at which you spent that night.’
Still hardly able to credit the existence of such psychic powers, Gregory stared in bewilderment at the doctor for Khurrem had given an accurate report of the picture that had floated through his mind. Before setting out on their mission he and Kuporovitch had gone up to spend their leave with Erika and Madeleine at Gwaine Meads, Sir Pellinore’s ancient property on the Welsh Border. On their last night there, as it had been warm, the four of them had gone out after dinner and sat in the garden. Rendered more vulnerable by Khurrem’s success he could not prevent his thoughts from flickering to and fro in response to her father’s question.
Khurrem spoke again. ‘It is a mansion. Far larger than Sassen and with many rooms. I see a spacious bedroom. In it there is a bed with a tall canopy. He shares it with the fair woman. I see her then in another room. It is downstairs and much smaller. There are many files in it and she is typing. In the more modern part of the mansion the big reception rooms now contain lines of beds. Young men lie in them and nurses move about among them; so it must be a hospital. I see another part of the garden. It is a big lawn and men in uniform are sitting about there, some with crutches. They are all officers of the British Air Force and there are no German guards to be seen, so this hospital must be in Britain.’
Malacou’s dark eyebrows suddenly lifted. ‘Khurrem, are you quite certain of that?’
Despite himself Gregory’s mind slipped back to that scene as he had last seen it and after a moment Khurrem replied, ‘It must be so. They cannot be prisoners of war. One of them is cleaning a shotgun.’
‘Donnerwetter!’ the doctor exclaimed, coming quickly to his feet and laying his pistol on the desk. Then, after making a few swift passes at Khurrem, to bring her out of her trance, he said to Gregory:
‘Mr. Sallust, I owe you an apology. Your accent and performance as an officer are so impeccable that my daughter was completely convinced that you were a German. I, too, am fallible in such matters until I have had an opportunity to make use of my special arts and believed you to be one. It seemed so improbable that the Allies would trust a German with such an important mission, we naturally jumped to the conclusion that the Gestapo had become aware that we had sent information about Peenemünde out of the country, and had planned to plant you on us. May the Lord be thanked that neither you nor Mr. Sabinov resisted when I held you up, for I certainly should have shot you if you had. I fear, though, that by having caused you to believe yourselves trapped I must have given both of you a most unpleasant quarter of an hour. Please accept my sincere regrets at having subjected you to such an ordeal.’
An ordeal it had most certainly been, for Gregory had rarely been inflicted with blacker thoughts about his probable future than during those minutes while Khurrem had been taking their weapons from himself and Kuporovitch. Even while the doctor was making his apology his prisoners could scarcely realise that their fears had been groundless, but now they both felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
As the realisation of the true situation came home to Gregory, he felt that he must be losing his grip to have allowed himself to be scared needlessly almost out of his wits twice within a few hours. Yet on consideration he decided that in both cases he had had ample grounds for his fears.
Coming to his feet, he said with a faint smile, ‘Your mistake was understandable, Herr Doktor. When I’m posing as a German officer I always endeavour to live in that role and I’ve had quite a lot of practice at it. Thank God, though, that your methods of finding out the truth about people are so unorthodox and painless. I have often heard of thought transference, but never expected to witness such an extraordinary demonstration of that gift.’
Malacou shook his head. ‘It is not a gift. Anyone can develop such powers, but, of course, training a medium like Khurrem here to look into other people’s minds is a long and arduous business. Direct thought transference is a much simpler matter. It was by telepathy that I told Khurrem when I was ready to receive you here tonight, and by it I can transmit orders to my servant. Be silent now for one moment.’
While they remained still he closed his eyes, but only for a few seconds. Then he resumed, ‘I am fortunate in having a cellar here containing many fine wines. To cement our friendship we will drink a bottle of one of the great 1920 hocks. I have just ordered my servant to bring it.’
After a moment Gregory asked, ‘Am I right in supposing that you could assist us in our mission by using your occult powers?’
Malacou nodded. ‘Yes; and without such help I think it almost certain that you would fail. The security precautions at Peenemünde are quite exceptional. Since Khurrem learned about these rockets from Herman Hauff she has cautiously sounded out every one of her acquaintances in Grimmen, Greifswald and Wolgast, hoping to secure further information, but in every case she has drawn a blank. It is, too, her impression that they know nothing, other than the fact that the number of men working at Peenemünde has greatly increased in recent months.’
‘There is no lead that you can give us, then; apart from Herr Hauff?’
‘None. And with him you must use great caution. He is both shrewd and dangerous. I fear the only way in which you can hope to succeed is for one of you to get into the experimental station.’
‘It was that I had in mind,’ Gregory replied. ‘But Sassen is a long way from Peenemünde. It must be the better part of thirty miles. I had been hoping that Frau von Altern would be able to pass us on to someone who could provide us with a safe base nearer to Usedom, from which during several nights it would be possible to reconnoitre ways of getting across to the island.’
At that moment the door opened and the hunchback came in with a dust-covered hock bottle and glasses. Gregory could now see that he had a bald head, large, limpid brown eyes and a black moustache, the ends of which turned down. As he placed the tray on a side-table his master spoke to him in a foreign tongue that Gregory took to be Turkish. The man replied in the same language, then left the room.
Malacou blew the dust off the label and showed it to Gregory. It was a Rauenthaler Steinhausen Kabinett Edelbeeren Auslese 1920 but, in view of what had gone before, he felt no surprise at this further manifestation of an unusual power.
While pouring the wine the doctor remarked blandly, ‘I owe you both another apology. Tarik had orders to go over to the house, as soon as he had let you in here, and search your bags. He has just reported to me that they contain nothing that might give you away except for a wireless transmitter. He brought it back with him and I am sure you will have no objection to my looking after it for as long as you remain here.’
‘Do you suspect, then,’ Gregory asked, ‘that someone at the Manor might also take an interest in our belongings?’
‘No; no-one will spy on you there. But if you used your wireless—for example to report to London that you had reached Sassen safely and made contacts here who had promised to aid you—that could bring us all into considerable danger. Our enemies have listening stations. If they picked up a strange code they would swiftly get a fix, and in no time truckloads of them would be arriving to search the neighbourhood. The fact that you are a stranger here would draw their attention to you, and if there were the least thing suspicious about your papers that would lead to disaster for all concerned.’
Gregory felt that he could hardly blame his host for making quite certain that he made no use of his wireless while at Sassen; so as he took the glass of hock that Malacou handed him, he nodded his agreement. Then they all drank to the success of the mission.
After the first mouthful Kuporovitch smacked his lips and exclaimed, ‘Herr Doktor, this is magnificent! What a treat you are giving us.’
Holding his glass up to the light, Gregory admired the wine’s deep golden colour and added, ‘It’s nectar for the gods. I’ve not tasted a hock so fine since I dined with Hermann Goering.’
Malacou raised his dark eyebrows. ‘To have done that must have been a most interesting experience. You must tell me about it some time. And Goering’s cellar is world-famous, so I thank you for the compliment. You are right, though, that it is something exceptional. Many of the 1921s were superb and it was a much bigger vintage, but the great wines of 1920 had more lasting power.’
After a moment, Gregory said, ‘Since you cannot place us with a fair degree of safety nearer to Peenemünde, in what way can you help us?’
‘By seeking for you the protection of the stars,’ Malacou replied promptly. ‘Every one of us has his lucky and unlucky days. Many people who regard themselves as intelligent sneer at astrology and look on the daily forecasts that appear in the most widely read papers in all countries as no more than pandering to the superstition of the ignorant. Such forecasts can be no more than generalisations and so frequently liable to mislead a large number of their readers. But astrology is the most ancient of all sciences and an infallible guide to those who by prolonged study have learned how to make use of it. Naturally, to predict with accuracy the most favourable days on which to marry, or to commit a murder and get away with it, can be ascertained only by considering the case of the individual concerned. It is that which I propose to do for each of you.’
Gregory, like most people in this modern world, was extremely sceptical about the age-old belief that the stars influenced one’s fortunes. That the doctor had hypnotised Khurrem with such surprising results still seemed to him to come within scientific acceptance; whereas he associated attempts to predict the future with charlatans who got money out of the credulous by gazing into crystals, telling the cards and suchlike dubious activities. None the less, it would obviously have been bad policy to offend his host, so he said:
‘For this purpose I assume you propose to cast our horoscopes. If so, we should be most grateful to you.’
‘Let us proceed, then.’ The doctor took some sheets of foolscap from a drawer in his desk, picked up his pen and began to ask Gregory a long series of questions, including his birth date, his age and the exact spelling of his name. Having written down the answers in a small, neat hand, he put the same questions to Kuporovitch who, with some reluctance, but on Gregory’s insistence, gave his real names. When Malacou had done he addressed both of them:
‘You must not expect to receive overnight the results of the information you have given me. The influence of every planet that was above the horizon at your birth dates has to be taken into consideration, and the attributes of some at times conflict with those of others. Careful judgement and prolonged thought are, therefore, necessary before one can make a final assessment of the effect each planet may have upon your fortunes when it is in the ascendant. But it will repay you well to await my advice; so do not become impatient.’
‘Is it likely to take more than a few days?’ Gregory enquired.
‘No. In the meantime you can be getting to know Herr Hauff, Willi von Altern and the more important people who live in the village, all of whom may later prove of use to you. I take it that the papers you carry are proof against any routine inspection?’
Gregory nodded. ‘Yes, they show me to have returned from garrison duties in Norway and are good for an indefinite period.’
‘How is that, when leave normally extends only for a fortnight?’
‘Mine show me to be on sick leave, and that I am suffering from heart trouble.’
‘While here as our guest, unless you commit some foolish act that draws attention to you, it is most unlikely that your account of yourself will be called in question. But should such a situation arise, and the authorities order you to go before a medical board, that might prove your undoing.’
‘No, no!’ Gregory laughed, ‘I am too old a soldier to be caught out that way. In the First World War quite a number of men faked heart trouble by chewing cordite in order to escape from the horrors of the Western Front. It causes the heart to flutter. I have several strings of it on me and I should masticate one of them before I was examined.’
‘Excellent. And, of course, as your soldier servant, Mr. Kuporovitch will be able to remain here as long as you do.’
Having refilled their glasses, Malacou went on, ‘Now we have talked enough of our business for tonight. As you must know, the accounts of the progress of the war put out by Herr Goebbels’ Ministry are very far from being accurate. By performing elaborate ceremonies my powers as an occultist enable me to learn the truth and, at times, secure glimpses of the future; so there are occasions when I know that battles reported by German propaganda as victories are, in fact, defeats. But to secure such information regularly through supernatural channels would require more time than I can give. So tell us please the latest news about the war.’
For the hour that followed Gregory did most of the talking, while Khurrem listened in silence and the doctor put in an occasional question or shrewd comment. Then he returned their pistols to them, they shook hands with him and he let them out himself. Khurrem led them back to the Manor and, shortly after midnight, they went up to their respective rooms.
It had been a long and anxious day for Gregory, but, with his usual resilience, he had by then recovered from the two periods of acute strain he had been through. Knowing nothing about the occult and never having even attended a spiritualistic séance for fun, he could still hardly believe that he had not been temporarily hypnotised himself and had imagined Malacou’s extraordinary performance; but at least he was now fully satisfied that he had nothing to fear from Khurrem or her father and, within a few minutes of getting into bed, in spite of the hard mattress, he was fast asleep.
He had been asleep for about two hours when he awoke suddenly. The sixth sense that had often warned him of danger told him that there was someone in the room. Instantly he slipped his hand beneath the pillow and grasped his pistol; but a quick whisper came out of the darkness.
‘C’est moi, Stefan.’
A shadowy figure advanced from the door and, as Gregory sat up, Kuporovitch seated himself on the end of the bed.
‘What is it?’ Gregory asked quickly. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘No; but I had to see you. Keep your voice low.’
In a slightly querulous tone Gregory murmured, ‘Very well. But couldn’t you have waited until the morning?’
‘Dear friend, I am very worried. We must leave this house as soon as possible. There are still several hours to go before daylight, so we could get well away and find somewhere to lie up before dawn.’
‘But you say we are in no danger. We’ve established ourselves here most satisfactorily, so why on earth should we get out?’
‘I meant that we are in no immediate danger of betrayal or arrest. But if we remain here we shall imperil our immortal souls. The doctor is a wizard—a Black Magician in league with the Devil. I am certain of it.’
‘Oh, come!’ Gregory protested. ‘The Devil was put out of business by modern science. Since the introduction of electricity and telephones nobody has believed any more those old wives’ tales of a gentleman appearing to them in red tights, smelling of brimstone and with horns and a spiky tail.’
‘You are talking nonsense, my friend. The Devil was a part of the original Creation. To suppose that he could be abolished by the invention of a few scientific gadgets is absurd. People have now become so materialistic that their minds are far less open to the influence of the powers of light and darkness than used to be the case, but that is all. Say if you like that the Devil has gone underground, but he still exists and has his servants working for him here.’
‘There may be something in what you say,’ Gregory admitted thoughtfully, ‘and you certainly seem to be well up in the subject. Have you ever dabbled in the occult yourself?’
‘Yes; in my youth many Russians did so. But I had an experience that convinced me that I was playing with fire, so I gave it up. By then, though, I had learned enough to be certain now that this man is a servant of the Evil One.’
‘What makes you so sure of that? I admit that the way in which he extracted from me, through Frau von Altern, those mental pictures that I could not help forming of Gwaine Meads was positively astounding. But that’s no evidence that he is a Black Magician.’
‘I doubt if any ordinary hypnotist could have done so. But let that pass. Did you not hear him say to me that it was useless to call upon the Holy Virgin and that one should speak with respect of the Lord of this World? Surely you know that when God commanded Michael and his angels to drive the rebellious Lucifer out of Heaven he gave him the Earth as his Principality?’
‘Yes, of course; still …’
Kuporovitch leaned forward and his low voice was intensely earnest. ‘Believe me, we are in worse peril here than if we were being hunted by the Gestapo. Good cannot come out of evil. This man possesses powers that can be bought only by entering into a compact with Satan. Those powers would be withdrawn should he fail to honour his bond by doing his utmost to corrupt others. No good can possibly come to us by remaining in this house. To do so is to risk a fate that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.’
After a moment Gregory replied, ‘Stefan, knowing your courage so well, I don’t doubt that you feel that you have good grounds for your fears. But even if you are right about Malacou being a Satanist I cannot believe that he has the power to harm us. By that I mean harm us spiritually. At least, not as long as we retain our own faith and convictions in what is right; and I foresee no difficulty in doing that. For the rest, whether he be good or evil he is on our side against the Nazis and his help may prove invaluable. Situated as we are, we cannot afford to forgo help from any quarter, so——’
‘There might be something in your argument if we could trust him,’ Kuporovitch broke in. ‘But we cannot. And you need no telling how dangerous it can be in our game to collaborate with a person who deceives you.’
‘Why should you suppose that he is doing that?’
‘Because he has already done so by leading us to believe him to be a Turk. When he learned the truth about us he should have told us the truth about himself, but he did not. While I was a young Czarist officer my regiment was stationed for two years down in Georgia, on the Turkish frontier. On two occasions I spent my leave in Constantinople, as we used to call it then. I never learned to speak Turkish but I picked up enough of it to know it still when I hear it spoken. He may have lived in Turkey, but he is not a Turk. When he spoke to that hunchback servant of his he used Yiddish.’
‘You think he is a Jew, then?’
‘I do not think; I am certain of it. The moment I saw his daughter my suspicions were aroused. I gave them the benefit of the doubt until he spoke to his servant. That clinched it. I’d bet my last kopec that he’s simply adopted a Turkish ending to his name and that it is not Ibrahim Malacou, but Abraham Malacchi. For Jews to be still free in Germany is now unheard of. Of course, it’s possible that the Nazis may believe these people to be Turks. But if the truth about them is known they can only have been left free as stool pigeons. Their having failed to come clean with us points to that; so it’s my belief that we’ve fallen into a trap. Holding us up was just a clever act to win our confidence, and when they’ve got all they can out of us they’ll turn us over to the Gestapo.’