The Black Baroness (25 page)

For the next three days Gregory kicked his heels in London. Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust was away on some special business and not returning until the Saturday.

After his long absence he found London surprisingly unchanged. The sandbags were still there but there was no other evidence of war and it was considerably fuller than it had been
when he had left it at the end of the previous October. The people were as well clad as ever; nine out of ten of the West End shops were still open and doing good business, so that the gaps among them were hardly noticeable. In the clubs where he lunched everybody was quite cheerful, although some of the officers to whom he talked were a little perturbed about the situation in Norway. An American journalist had apparently blown the gaff during the previous week in a sensational article which had been given a prominent place in the United States Press. He stated that the British had been cut off at Lillehammer and that while the Germans were complete masters of the air and showed splendid initiative, the British, as usual, were quite inadequately equipped for the most modern type of warfare.

As yet nobody knew that the Allies had actually been thrown out on their ear and were now evacuating as fast as they could go, but Gregory kept that to himself, since he was every bit as good at keeping his mouth shut when it might do harm to open it as he was at stating his opinion with fearless disregard to consequences when he thought that a good purpose could be served by so doing.

Apart from the feeling that Britain had had a bit of a setback in her Norwegian campaign, everybody was still full of complacent optimism. They took it for granted that Hitler would either have to attack the Maginot Line and lose a million men to no purpose, or quietly submit to being strangled by the Blockade.

Gregory was not prepared to make any predictions upon Hitler’s next move, but of one thing he was quite convinced—Hitler had no intention of fading from the scene through sheer inanition, although it seemed highly probable that the British Government might do so.

On the afternoon of Saturday, May the 4th, his faithful henchman, Rudd, whom his safe return had made as happy as a sand-boy, took a telephone message that Sir Pellinore was back and would be happy if Gregory could dine with him that night. When he got in Gregory rang up to say that he would be there; and 8.15 found him, lean, bronzed and very fit-looking after his few days’ rest, at 99, Carlton House Terrace.

When he was not actively at war himself he believed in ignoring to the best of his ability any war that might be in progress, so, according to his peace-time custom, he had donned
an admirably-cut, double-breasted dinner-jacket, and no one who saw him could possibly have associated him with the filthy, bloodstained vagabond who had crossed the North Sea in a destroyer five days before.

As Gregory was ushered into the great library on the first floor, which in daytime had such a lovely view over St. James’s Park, the elderly baronet came striding forward from the fireplace and placed both his huge hands on his visitor’s shoulders. Sir Pellinore measured six feet three in his socks and from his great height he stood for a moment looking down on Gregory; then he boomed:

‘Well, you young rascal, so you’ve got sick of gallivanting about the Continent at last, eh? Dining and wining and womanising in Berlin and Helsinki and Oslo, and five months overdue from that mission I sent you on. But, damme, I’m pleased to see you.’

‘It seems to have escaped your memory that I’ve done a few other little jobs on my own account since then,’ said Gregory mildly.

‘I know, I know.’ Sir Pellinore brushed up his great while cavalry moustache as he strode over to a side-table, where he proceeded to pour out two handsome rations of old, bone-dry Manzanilla sherry. ‘The way you bluffed Hermann Goering into sending you to Finland was an epic, and that German programme for world conquest that you got us was worth its weight in hundred-pound bank-notes. But after that I suppose you felt that you had earned a holiday and went to Norway for some fishing.’

‘That’s it,’ Gregory grinned. ‘I had good sport, too; only, instead of salmon, I was after water-rats.’

‘So I gathered. And if only the Government had acted on your information we wouldn’t be in our present ghastly mess. But what have you been up to since the invasion?’

‘Oh, I saved King Haakon’s life several times and pottered round a bit, generally.’

‘Ha, that sounds interesting. Tell me about it.’

‘I will later on, but first of all what about Erika? I’ve been worrying myself silly as to whether she succeeded in reaching Holland and managed to get in touch with you.’

Sir Pellinore’s bright-blue eyes twinkled. ‘She’s safe enough. I think I ought to break it to you gently, though. You’ve got a rival, Gregory, my boy.’

‘Eh? Say that again,’ said Gregory.

‘Yes. After all, you can’t expect to leave a lovely woman like that trailing about Europe all on her own without anyone to hold her hand or tuck her up at nights. I will say you’re a good picker, though, and she’s worth six of that Hungarian witch that you produced some years ago; although Sabine was admittedly an eyeful.’

A slow smile broke over Gregory’s face. ‘You old rogue! You’ve seen her, then?’

‘Yes. Where d’you think I’ve been these last three days while you’ve been sleeping your head off in London? That young woman of yours has a pretty taste in food, too. We dined last night at the
Fillet de Sole
in Brussels.’

‘How was she?’

‘As pink as a peach and as plump as a partridge. And we were getting on famously. Great pity I had to fly home this morning—great pity. Another few days and we’d have got to the tucking up stage.’

Gregory helped himself to another glass of the bone-dry sherry as he laughed: ‘At your age? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’

‘What’s age got to do with it?’ Sir Pellinore ran a large hand over his fine head of white hair, ‘A woman’s as old as she looks and a man’s as old as he feels. Don’t be deceived by that rot in
Debrett
that says I’ll never see seventy again. I’m somewhere in the early thirties.’

‘My arithmetic must be at fault, then. I had an idea that way back in the ‘eighties you had already acquired a reputation for having an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port.’

‘Ha, you’re jealous, eh? That’s what makes you dig up that old story. Not a word of truth in it, either. Everyone knows that I’ve lived a life of simple rectitude within my modest means.’

‘I might be able to manage a life of simple rectitude myself if I had your income,’ murmured Gregory, ‘What is it now—eighty-thousand a year?—or have you touched the hundred-thousand mark?’

‘There you are! Jealous again of my little successes in the city. But jealousy won’t get you anywhere. You know you won’t be able to keep that young woman of yours for a week if only we can manage to get her over here.’

‘I wish to God you could,’ said Gregory seriously.

‘So do I.’ Sir Pellinore stopped his chaffing. ‘She’s being very useful to us, but I’ve always held that it’s wrong to flog a willing mare. After the many services she has rendered she ought to be brought out of danger for a few months at least, but she’s got a bee in her bonnet about its not being right to accept the hospitality of Britain while we’re at war with her country. I did my damnedest to persuade her to take a rest but I couldn’t budge her an inch.’

At that moment the elderly butler announced dinner, so they went downstairs, where Gregory found that the war did not, so far, appear to have in the least affected the magnificent kitchen maintained by his plutocratic host. Over the rich, well-chosen meal he told Sir Pellinore of his adventures in Norway and gave him a much more detailed account of the time that he had spent in Germany, Finland and Russia than he had been able to send from Leningrad in the long letter that he had despatched via the Consul there and the Moscow Embassy Bag. The magnum of Louis Roederer 1920 that they drank had lost the exuberance of its youth, but mellowed to the flavour that only age can give, and was perfection from never having been moved out of Sir Pellinore’s cellar since the day it had been laid down. They had finished it and were already on the old brandy by the time Gregory came to the end of his recital and, after a short pause, remarked: ‘Well, how goes the war?’

‘It doesn’t go,’ replied Sir Pellinore glumly. ‘The Government is dying on its feet and for months past it’s been dead from the neck up.’

Gregory swivelled the old brandy thoughtfully round the very thin, medium-sized, balloon-shaped glass and smelt its rich ethers appreciatively. ‘So I rather gathered from the people I’ve met in the last few days. It seems that the Socialists and the more energetic Conservative back-benchers are getting a bit fed up with Chamberlain.’

‘Chamberlain,’ boomed the baronet, ‘was right about Munich—right every time. We wouldn’t have stood a dog’s chance against Hitler if we’d gone to war with him then. Chamberlain was clever enough to trick him into giving us a year to rearm, and in spite of the innumerable things that should have been done and yet were not done, at least the groundwork was laid which saved Britain from immediate and probably irremediable defeat. Whatever may happen to Chamberlain now,
when history comes to be written he will assume his rightful place as a great and far-seeing Prime Minister who had the courage to accept the odium for having made Britain eat humble pie over the surrender of Czechoslovakia so that she might have a chance to save herself.’

‘What’s the trouble now, then? Is he a tired man, or is it that his heart isn’t really in the war?’

‘He’s getting on in life and he hasn’t been too well, so probably he’s feeling the strain; but it’s not that, entirely, and I’m convinced that, although he did his absolute utmost to avert this terrible calamity which has overtaken the world, once the war was on he became as determined as any man in this country to do his damnedest to defeat Hitler. He is very shrewd and extraordinarily far-sighted. He only came into politics comparatively late in life and his long experience of business is an enormous asset to him in many ways, but he was raised in the tradition of Birmingham, where for a century past it has been the habit of the great manufacturers to deal honestly with their customers all over the world, but slowly and methodically, on the theory that there’s always plenty of time and that it is better to reject an order from a doubtful source than to risk a bad debt by snatching it from under the nose of a competitor.

‘Such methods are of little use when you’re up against a gangster. In dealing with Hitler honesty is
not
the best policy and there is
not
plenty of time thoroughly to investigate possibilities before every fresh liability is entered into. Risks
must
be taken, and not a moment of a single day should be lost in reaching definite decisions which may help to bring the war to a speedy conclusion. That is why, although Chamberlain served us well in peace, he is not a good war leader.’

‘But surely,’ Gregory interjected, ‘there must be many energetic men who are pressing him all the time and stressing the necessity of his developing a more vigorous policy?’

‘There are; but Chamberlain does not trust them. He has a deep-rooted suspicion as to the motives of anyone who even faintly smacks of the “go-getter” mentality and he refuses to recognise that it is the “go-getters” who win wars. The trouble is that he’s a very unapproachable man; he doesn’t make friends easily, but when he does he’s very loyal to them and relies upon their opinions which are definitely not the opinions of the nation. He listens only to this little group of life-long friends, and the tragedy of it is that nearly all these people who hold
high office under him are the proved incompetents who served under Baldwin; the men who lowered the prestige of the British Empire to such a parlous state that we dared not even face up to the Italians over the Abyssinian business—let alone tackle the reborn German nation at the time of Munich.’

‘What d’you think’ll happen?’ Gregory asked.

‘Chamberlain’s days as Prime Minister are numbered. Not a doubt of that. This Norwegian affair will be the finish of him. I hope that for his own sake he will retire and leave it to history to vindicate him as a great English gentleman and a fine statesman; but I doubt if he’ll do that.’

‘D’you think Churchill will succeed him?’

‘One can only pray that he will.’ Sir Pellinore suddenly became enthusiastic. ‘Churchill is the most inveterate enemy the Germans have ever had, and it’s the Germans that we’re fighting. For years he has stood, a defiant and almost solitary figure in the House, warning the nation of the peril into which Baldwin was allowing it to drift. I’m very proud today to be able to say that I have always believed in Churchill—even in his darkest hours, when nearly everyone had turned against him. He has the attributes of real genius in that he would have made a great name for himself in any profession that he had chosen. His writings alone would have made him famous, because they have a quality that is unique and outstanding. The Admirals who worked under him when he was First Lord will all tell you that he would have made a great sailor, and had he continued in the Army there is little doubt that he would have gone down to history as a great military commander. He possesses qualities of imagination far beyond those of any of our other leaders and apparently perennial youth, which makes him ready and willing to consider new ideas; a lion’s courage and a wonderful human touch which goes straight to the hearts of all who come in contact with him. He has served in practically every high office of the State and his policy with regard to Germany has been consistent, so it is only fair, now that he has been proved right after all these years, that the Premiership should go to him; and what’s more, it is the wish of the people.’

‘It seems a foregone conclusion that he’ll get it, then.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s very far from being the case. The people have no say at all in who is to be Prime Minister. The House of Commons have no say. Even the Cabinet has no say. It rests almost entirely with the outgoing holder of the office,
Chamberlain will go to the Monarch and when he hands in his resignation he will suggest his successor. The unwritten constitution is that the Monarch should either accept that nomination or send for the leader of the Opposition; and although we want the Socialists in, because they have some really first-class men like Bevin and Greenwood, they are not strong enough to carry the whole war on their shoulders with the other half of the country distrusting and criticising their every action.’