Dennis Wheatley - The Black Baroness

Collimard hiccoughed and declared drunkenly: 'I sing because I am a Frenchman and I go home to fight for la belle France. This'—he thumped Gregory hard on the chest—'is my gallant ally. He goes to fight by my side although he is a clergyman. But he is no ordinary clergyman—he is as drunk as I am. No; he is much more drunk than I am, because he can no longer sing. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves.

Come! let us pass—lead me to my fiery steed—bring me my bow and my arrows tipped with gold—we'll show you—we'll show all of you.'

This extraordinary declamation was received in astonished silence by the group of Italians. It was a bold policy to declare oneself so openly, when groups of blackguardly young Fascists were lynching French and British subjects in the streets. But— war or no war—all the world has a slightly cynical but nevertheless soft spot for a drunken man providing that his drunkenness is neither beastly nor quarrelsome. Several of the bystanders began to laugh and pushing his way forward the Italian policeman said, not unkindly:

'I'm afraid you stayed too long in the bar, my friend. The last plane for France has gone.'

'Ah,' said Collimard, wagging his finger, 'that's where you're wrong; I have my own plane. Come and look at my plane; I will show it to you.' As he stumbled forward, supporting Gregory under one arm, the policeman said:

'Wait a minute; you can't leave your car here, you know.'

'My car—but why not? I cannot take my car with me in the plane and, if I could, my car could not fight for la belle France as my friend, the clergyman, is about to do; so why should I not leave my car here?'

'It's against regulations,' said the policeman. 'You should have sold it or given it away before leaving.'

'Ha, that's an idea!' Collimard exclaimed triumphantly. 'The war is one thing; personal feelings are another. I have worked ill Italy for years, I have earned good money here. Although I go to fight for France I shall still love Italy. To Italy I give my car. You shall sell it for the Italian Red Cross.'

This generous announcement completed his drunken conquest of the crowd. Some good-hearted fellow said: 'Come on! There's no time to lose; we must get these fellows off or they'll be interned here. After all, we're not at war with them yet.'

With voluble offers of assistance the little crowd then surrounded Collimard and Gregory, talked to the airport officials on their behalf, found Desaix, who was in the waiting-room, and, to the airman's amazement, took them all out on to the flying-ground, where they were given a send-off as though they were national heroes instead of three potential enemies.

Owing to Collimard's aid Gregory had somehow managed to keep his feet while their passports were being examined and they were making their way across the landing-ground, but immediately he got into the plane he collapsed.

Hours later he learnt that when they had landed to refuel at Marseilles, Collimard and Desaix had held an agitated consultation as to whether they should take him to a hospital there or fly on with him to Paris; but both of them had to get to the capital, and as Gregory had appeared no worse they had decided to take him on with them. When he came-to on being lifted out of the plane he found that they were back at the private aerodrome at Choisy. Desaix asked him if he would like to be put to bed at once in the house, but as Choisy was only a little over five miles outside Paris he said that he would rather be taken to the Saint Regis, as the manager there knew him and would take all further responsibility for him off their hands. Collimard telephoned the Saint Regis to have a doctor there to meet them while Desaix got out a car, and by five o'clock Gregory was tucked up in bed in his old room at the hotel with a professional nurse in attendance.

When he awoke it was two o'clock in the afternoon. The first thing that struck him was that he could once more hear the rumble of guns, then he realised that he was back in Paris. He remembered little of the journey of the night before and nothing at all of having been examined by the doctor; but seeing that he was awake the nurse, a pretty, dark girl who told him that her name was Sister Madeleine, gave him something to drink which eased his throat, and gave him a telegram that had been waiting for him.

It had been handed in the previous Saturday and read:'

ERIKA TOOK TURN FOR BETTER YESTERDAY STOP IN VIEW OF CRISIS CANNOT

SUFFICIENTLY STRESS URGENCY OF YOUR COMPLETING JOB STOP GWAINE-CUST.

Gregory lay back and closed his eyes. Erika had turned the corner—Erika had turned the corner. That blessed thought kept playing like human music through his brain and he was still revelling in the marvellous relief of it twenty minutes later when the doctor arrived!

Apart from a certain haziness as to events after he had drunk the poison, Gregory could remember every detail of the events which had led up to his almost fatal experience and he knew enough about medicine to be quite certain that the professional skill could do nothing for him except keep him in bed until he had regained his health and strength; so he listened patiently to the doctor's humming and hawing while making his own mental reservations as to what he meant to do.

He felt very weak but the pains had left him and he could now use his limbs quite freely again. Sir Pellinore's telegram only confirmed his own feeling that for any man, however ill, who could stand on his own feet this was no time to lie abed, and the first step was to inform himself of what was going on; so when the doctor had gone he sent for the papers.

He saw with relief that Turkey had reaffirmed her obligations to the Allies on Italy's entry into the war the previous midnight and that President Roosevelt had made a great speech condemning Mussolini and implying that American neutrality was dead. Malta had that morning been bombed by the Italians, while the R.A.F. had carried out raids on Libya and Italian East Africa, but he knew that all these things could have little bearing on the titanic struggle which was taking place close at hand.

It was Tuesday, June the 11th, the seventh day of the battle for France, and the French had been forced to withdraw to new positions south of the Marne. Just eight nights before Lacroix had told him the awful secret that General Weygand had no army of reserve, as every available man had had to be thrown in on the line of the Somme; Gregory could only pray that during the past week that had been rectified. In seven days it should have been possible to have brought over large bodies of troops from France's North African possessions as well as many units which had not formed part of the original B.E.F.—and so still had their equipment—from Britain. If such a force was being concentrated somewhere south of Paris there was still hope, and Gregory felt that it must be so. Surely while France was in danger all other theatres of war entirely lost their significance. What did it matter if Mussolini invaded Tunisia or the Western Desert or the Sudan or Somaliland and gained a temporary foothold in any or all of these places, if only France could be saved? He could always be slung out afterwards.

It was now 14 days since the surrender of Belgium, 27 days since the capitulation of Holland and 32

days since the opening of the Blitzkrieg; so for nearly five weeks the Germans had been sustaining their incredible offensive at maximum pressure. It was said that they had already lost half a million dead, with thousands of tanks and planes. It simply was not possible for them to continue that way for very much longer; they must be nearing exhaustion point. If only they could now be halted, and a counter-offensive launched, there was a real hope that the vast, overstrained machine might collapse upon itself and even that the war might be brought to a victorious conclusion by one well-planned counter-offensive.