Dennis Wheatley - The Black Baroness

Gregory's first intention, having identified the van, had been to go on ahead and choose some suitable spot for holding the Baroness up, but he was quick to realise that he had no guarantee whatever that she was actually going to Pointe des Issambres. She had a villa there but she might quite possibly be going somewhere else, in which case she would probably take a different road and he would then miss her altogether, It therefore seemed that his only safe course was to follow her when she set off until they reached a deserted stretch of road where he could puncture her back tyres by shooting at them and bring her to a standstill.

But a more careful scrutiny at the van showed him that, although it had the appearance of a Ford, it was not a Ford at all. The exhaust pipe was much too big, so evidently the Baroness had a far more powerful engine fitted under the Ford bonnet. That presented a nasty snag as, given clear roads— which were probable if she were crossing France from Bordeaux to the South through an area where few refugees would be moving—his taxi would never be able to keep up with her.

It then occurred to him that his best chance of achieving his end was, if he could, to conceal himself in the van and travel with her. As she was leaving at seven o'clock it was reasonable to suppose that she would put in only three or four hours' driving then pull up somewhere for the night. If that somewhere proved to be one of the many excellent wayside hostelries that line the roads of France he would have a much better opportunity of dealing with her and getting away afterwards than he could possibly have in Bordeaux, and he would still be back in plenty of time to sail with Sir Pellinore for England the following night.

Treading very cautiously, so as not to rouse the driver, he worked his way round behind several cars until he reached the back of the van; but, as he had feared, the doors had a good solid lock which it would have been quite impossible to force without alarming the man at the wheel.

For a few moments Gregory stood there deep in thought, then he tiptoed round to a car in front of and to the left of the van. The car had been left unlocked so that the garage men could move it. Opening the far door, Gregory crawled inside and gently lowered the opposite window. By squinting from it he could just see the driver without being seen himself. Taking out his automatic, he clicked a bullet up into the chamber, knelt down, rested the barrel on the ledge of the window and, aiming carefully so as not to hit the man, pressed the trigger.

Owing to its silencer the report of the pistol was no more than a cough, and, as Gregory had intended, the shot shattered the windscreen of the van just above the man's head. Ducking down so that he was completely hidden, he held his breath and waited.

The sound of tinkling glass was instantly followed by a yell of fright and rage, then louder shouts which brought the garage hands and chauffeurs running in from outside. In the excited conversation that followed Gregory gathered that the driver had no idea at all what had happened and was under the impression that somebody must have thrown a brickbat at the windscreen while he was dozing; but the others assured him that nobody had entered the garage, and Gregory soon learnt that his ruse had succeeded. The driver had been cut by the flying glass and was being led off by his companions to have his slight injuries doctored.

As soon as the coast was clear Gregory left his hiding-place, went straight to the back of the van and with two more shots from his pistol shattered its lock. Pulling open the doors he rapidly surveyed the van's contents. There were half a dozen medium-sized pictures in gilt frames, several packing-cases—

doubtless containing other objets d'art—two Louis Vinton wardrobe-trunks, three suitcases, the rawhide dressing-case that he well remembered seeing in Rotterdam, six large japanned-steel deed boxes and five or six valuable fur coats thrown on the top of the pile.

It was the deed-boxes that he was after, but he could not possibly make off with all six of them, as he could distinctly catch the murmur of quick voices and knew that several of the chauffeurs must have remained outside the garage to discuss the extraordinary incident that had just occurred.

In ten seconds he had decided that he dared not attempt to burgle the van and must carry out his original idea of travelling in it; but the smashed lock, when discovered, would almost certainly lead to a search of the van's interior unless some explanation were offered for it, so the obvious thing was to make the whole episode appear like a carefully-planned theft.

Snatching up the fur coats, he hurried with them to an aged, semi-derelict Citroen that he had noticed at the back of the garage and pushed them into its boot, where it was unlikely that they would be discovered for some time; then, hurrying back to the van, he made a few rapid readjustments to its contents.

He did not alter the general layout of the various articles but drew them all a little nearer to the back of the van so that a space was left behind the driver's seat in which he could lie down without being observed by anyone who looked inside. Then, leaving the doors wide open, he took off his coat to form a pillow for his head and settled down to make himself as comfortable as he could.

He found that he was very tired now, and in spite of the hard boards upon which he was lying he dropped off to sleep; but he was soon roused by angry, excited voices. Evidently the driver had returned and discovered that the van had been broken into. There was silence for a time as the man went away, doubtless to report the theft of the fur coats, for when he returned Gregory could hear the Baroness talking to him.

At first her voice showed acute anxiety, but on ascertaining that only the furs had gone she quietened down and arranged with one of the garage hands to affix a padlock to replace the shattered lock, and a quarter of an hour later Gregory found himself a prisoner.

He did not mind that in the least. The great thing was that he had escaped observation. The Baroness would probably unlock the doors herself in due course, which would provide him with an excellent opportunity of coming face to face with her if he so wished; or, alternatively, if the van were left locked up for the night he felt confident that he would manage to break out of it. A few moments later the van began to jolt and drove out of the garage. They were on their way.

Apart from the fact that he suffered acute discomfort Gregory knew nothing of that strange journey. For a time they bumped over the pave streets of the city, then evidently came out upon an open road, as the van began to run more smoothly and considerably increased its pace. Gregory then knew that he had been right about the engine, as on certain stretches the van appeared to develop the speed of a racing-car and was certainly doing well over eighty miles an hour.

Soon after they started he made himself more comfortable by sitting up and rearranging some of the things about him to prevent his being jolted quite so badly. A crack of light coming through the door was just enough for him to see by and he arranged matters so that although the contents of the van were to some extent altered around he was still hidden by the pictures, if at any time a halt was made without warning and the van doors suddenly opened.

Gradually, as night fell, the crack of light dimmed. When they had been on the road for two hours it was only a faint line, and after another hour the interior of the van was unrelieved Stygian blackness. Swaying a little from side to side as the van raced on into the night, Gregory thought of Erika and wondered if the gods who had so often favoured him would grant him one more slice of luck so that he might be finished with his business soon and in another few days be back with her in England. Then he slept.