Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (65 page)

Count Adam shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. “I do so as a responsibility towards others. As you
are aware, Her Imperial Highness got you out of prison on the grounds that you
are an officer of her regiment. When I discussed the matter with her, we
decided that your safest course would be to join it actively—anyhow for the
time being.”

“I see,” murmured the
Duke. “But is that really necessary? Major Ronge said that he would not molest
me as long as I remained in Vienna.”

“I know he did; but if he
finds that you have resumed your old life at Sacher’s, and are lunching and
dining again with all sorts of influential people, he may reconsider his
decision. He was quite right, you know, about Her Imperial Highness having no
official status; so any time he feels that you have given him fresh grounds for
suspicion he can go to von Ostromiecz, persuade him to disregard her and get a
special warrant to pop you back into prison. He will naturally expect you to
report at the barracks. That’s why I asked for your things to be sent round
there. You see, he is counting on your being kept too busy by military duties
to do any harm. To-morrow I propose to take you along to our mess and present
you formally on joining. Even if you were an enemy agent, you couldn’t learn
much in a cavalry barracks; but, all the same, you will appreciate how I am
placed. In fairness to my brother officers, I had to ask your word of honour
that Ronge’s suspicions are unfounded.”

“My dear fellow, as far
as my activities in Vienna are concerned, I give it you willingly. I think,
too, that your plan for me to join the regiment until things sort themselves
out a little is a very sound one. I would like to add that while I remain with
it, in spite of my true nationality, I shall temporarily regard myself as a
loyal soldier to the Emperor.”

“That’s damned handsome
of you, seeing that you’re really one of the enemy.” Count Adam smiled again. “It’s
another load off my conscience, too. I didn’t relish the idea at all of having
to conceal the fact that you are British, but now that won’t trouble me. They
are a fine lot of fellows, and soldiering is good fun all the world over; but
naturally we shouldn’t expect you to go on active service.”

“I should hope not,” laughed
the Duke.

“That is one snag about
our plan, though,” the Count rejoined seriously. “The regiment forms part of
the 5th Cavalry Division, and on Saturday the Division is to do a ride past for
its final inspection before leaving for the Russian front. They will not
actually entrain for several days after that, of course; but when they do, and
you are left behind, Ronge may start making trouble again.”

“I don’t see why he
should. Knowing me to be British, he could hardly expect me to take part in a
campaign against my Russian allies.”

“That’s true. The trouble
is it’s damned difficult to know what he does expect. But presumably, as he let
you out as a soldier, he may start kicking directly he hears you have ceased to
act as one.”

“In my view, he let me
out only because he could bring no charge against me; and, in the
circumstances, did not feel that he had good enough grounds for inducing his
Minister to have a first-class row with Ilona in order to keep me inside.
Anyhow, if need be, I could maintain my role by remaining here to train
recruits at the regimental depot. But tell me, if we are not going to the
barracks until to-morrow, where are you taking me now?”

“To the palace, of
course; and we’ll be there in a minute.” Adam Grünne hesitated, while he played
with one curled-up end of his brown moustache, then added awkwardly; “I’m
afraid the meeting’s going to be a bit of a shock for you. She’s ill—damned
ill: and she looks it.”

“Oh God!” breathed the
Duke. “She’s had a relapse, then?”

“Yes. The evening after
you disappeared she worked herself up into a positive frenzy of grief. The
result was that she had a haemorrhage. She’s been in bed ever since.”

“If only she would go to
a clinic in the mountains, and undergo a proper cure.”

“I know. She ought to
have done so months ago; but she is as pigheaded as a mule. Still, she has
agreed to at last, thank goodness, as soon as she is fit to be moved.”

“When do you think that
will be?”

“Any day now.”

The cab slowed down, then
pulled up with a jerk. As they got out, and Adam paid off the driver, De
Richleau saw that instead of driving up to the entrance of the palace the cab
had halted some distance from it on the far side of the bridge over the canal.
It was now nearly a quarter to eleven and, catching his thought, the Count
muttered:

“I don’t want anyone to
recognize you going in, if we can avoid it. That’s why I waited till after dark
to come for you. Turn up your coat collar and pull the brim of your hat down
over your eyes.”

At a quick pace they set
off over the bridge and across the square in front of the palace. Count Adam
was, as usual, in uniform and, recognizing his short, stalwart figure at once,
the sentries let them through with a smart salute. Turning left, they walked to
the eastern end of the palace, round it and along its garden front to a low
door. As Adam took out a key and unlocked it, De Richleau recognized it as the
one they had used on the two evenings when he had dined with Ilona at the
beginning of the month. With Adam leading, they slipped quietly up the service
staircase. At its top he peered cautiously to right and left along the dimly
lit corridor; then, opening a door opposite, he pushed the Duke inside with a
whispered injunction to wait there till he came back.

As De Richleau stepped
inside there was just enough light for him to sec that it was a housemaids’
closet, then the door closed behind him and he was in pitch darkness. But he
had not to wait long. Five minutes later Adam Grünne returned, beckoned him
out, and led him on tiptoe down the corridor to Ilona’s boudoir.

Sárolta was sitting
there, and her dark almond eyes smiled him a greeting, but she put a finger to
her lips. Then, as he kissed her hand, she said in a low voice: “Has Adam told
you how ill she has been?”

He nodded. “Yes. And I am
distraught with anxiety about her.”

“She has lost a lot of
weight,” Sárolta went on, “and I’m afraid you will be shocked by her
appearance. But she is quite a lot better now than she has been. Dr. Bruckner
was very pleased with her progress when he was here this evening.”

“That, at least, is good
news. Adam tells me, too, that she has at last agreed to go into a sanatorium.
I did my utmost to persuade her to before, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“It’s that I want to talk
to you about. Dr. Bruckner has arranged for her to go to Hohenembs, in the
Vorarlberg, near the Swiss frontier. It’s not a proper sanatorium. She jibbed
at that. She says that even if she didn’t see the other patients, the very idea
of having people who were ill, and perhaps dying, in the same building would make
her worse.”

“But can she have proper
treatment there?”

“Yes. A young doctor and
two nurses who have trained under Dr. Bruckner are going with her; and he
intends to visit her once a fortnight himself. It’s a châlet on a hill-top
overlooking the Upper Rhine and belongs to the Emperor. Members of the Imperial
family have used it for convalescing before, so in a sense it is already a
private clinic. We couldn’t really have a more suitable place for her. But I
wanted to speak to you about her leaving.”

“Yes?”

Sárolta’s small dark face
looked very troubled. “This evening Dr. Bruckner said that he considered her
sufficiently recovered to be moved to-morrow, and Count Aulendorf at once set
about making arrangements for our journey. I haven’t dared to tell her yet—and
now she’s got you back again I’m afraid she may refuse to go.”

“She must,” declared the
Duke. “She’s neglected her health for too long as it is; and the thing that is
important above all else is to get her well again. I promise you I won’t allow
her to postpone her departure for a single day on my account.”

“Oh, thank you!” Sárolta
smiled her relief. “I know how much you love her, and I felt sure I could count
on your help. Come with me now and I’ll take you to her.”

Ilona’s bedroom was next
door and as they entered it, although De Richleau’s gaze was fixed on the
figure in the bed, he could not help taking in the furnishings of the room and
feeling some surprise at them.

The rest of her suite
contained mainly period pieces in excellent taste, hut this held only bare
necessities, and these were of an ugly Victorian mould. The bed was of brass; a
marble-topped wash-stand stood near it; the wardrobe and two chests of drawers
were of bulky mahogany, with round wooden handles; and above the mantel there was
a heavily framed mirror of unattractive design. But the thought that such
lodging-house furniture was in keeping with the spartan tradition of the
Imperial family, was gone in a flash as his glance met Ilona’s.

She was propped up in bed
with several pillows for support. Her chestnut hair, which he had never before
seen down, was parted in the centre and descended over her shoulders in two
long, thick plaits. Her face was much thinner and very white, except where two
red patches. like the splashes of paint on a Dutch doll, burned above her cheek
bones. Her blue eyes seemed enormous. But her dazzling smile was as joyous as
ever, as she held out her arms to him with a cry of delight.

Sárolta turned and,
smiling over her shoulder, closed the door behind her. Next moment Ilona’s arms
were round De Richleau’s neck and she drew his dark head down to her fair one.

A quarter of an hour
slipped by before they could bring themselves to talk coherently; then he told
her of the dark machinations of Major Ronge, and she told him of her agony at
the thought that he had left her without a last kiss to remember. She admitted
that for some days she had been very ill, but declared that by the end of the
week she would be up and about again.

“You are going to this
place on the Swiss border, though, aren’t you?” he asked anxiously. “Your last
attack was much worse than any you’ve had before, and it would be sheer madness
to trifle with your health any longer.”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ve
promised Sárolta and Adam and everybody that I would, so I really must.
Hohenembs is a lovely spot and I shall be as happy there as I could be anywhere
without you. I’ve an idea, too, that to go there will be lucky for me.”

“I pray it will, my sweet,”
he smiled. “But why should you think so?”

“Do you not know its
history? The châlet was built for my grandmother, the Empress Elizabeth, for
her to have mountain air and treatment there when they thought she had
consumption. But it turned out that she was not tubercular after all; and
afterwards, whenever she went abroad incognito, she always travelled as the
Countess Hohenembs to perpetuate the memory of her happy deliverance.”

“That certainly is a
fortunate omen; even if there is little chance of such a happy discovery being
made about you.”

“But I shall get well
there, so what is the difference? When I am quite recovered I must ask
Grandpapa to give me the title, so that when I come to England to see you after
the war I can perpetuate its old associations.”

“The thought you conjure
up will make me redouble my prayers that the war may be a short one. But it
reminds me, too, that now I am a free man again I must start making my plans to
get home.”

“No, Armand!” She seized
his hand. “I forbid you to.”

He gave her a puzzled
look. “But, darling, my duty lies there. You know that. It’s true that you have
made yourself responsible for me; but no one would dare to even question you if
you took it on yourself to let me go. And I am no more a danger to Austria now
than I was the day they arrested me.”

“Oh I know that! I know
that!”

“Then give me leave to
depart. Call it indefinite leave from the regiment if you like. Or, if you
prefer, give me your private permission and say afterwards that I broke my
parole to you.”

“How can you think that I
would ever disgrace your name to shield myself?”

“Darling, I spoke without
thought. But for me to stay on in Vienna now for longer than I positively must
would be as great a disgrace. Surely you did not secure my release from prison
only to hold me as your personal captive? If so, such golden fetters would be
chains of shame.”

“Oh, Armand, how cruel
you are! Of course I did not mean to do that. I meant only that now, when I
thought you far away in England, a miracle has restored you to me. It seemed an
abuse of Heaven’s generosity to think of other things. I know only too well
that I must let you go. But not just yet. That is the only reason why I forbade
you to talk of your plans for getting away.”