V for Vengeance E-Book

KD Frost

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: V for Vengeance
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 212

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

It was the year 1942, during the Second World War. Czechoslovakia, Poland, Belgium, Yugoslavia, Greece, France — all were in the hands of the German occupation forces — and the Gestapo –  whose victims were either callously killed, or imprisoned without trial in the dreaded concentration camps.

The Deathless Men were a body of patriots from the conquered countries of Europe, men who had lost everything, and who had no further interest in life except vengeance. They had sworn to exterminate their oppressors. They had drawn up a list of prominent Nazis and of traitors, all of whom they had sentenced to death!

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V FOR VENGEANCE: THE DEATHLESS MEN

V FOR VENGEANCE SERIES

AUTHOR: KD FROST

V For Vengeance: The Deathless Men Chapters

The Deathless Men

The Limping Killer

The Avenger Within

The Third Victim

Shots in the Street

The Killer From the Street

Another Deadly Bullet

The Worried Men Of Berlin

The Killer At The Crossing

We Strike Tonight!

Terror In The Shelter

Von Reich Gets His Orders

Jack Seven’s Decision

In The City Of The Dictator

The General's Last Speech

The Man Under the Car

The Avenging Killer

The Mocking Eyes

The Massacre At Czarndo

The Tree Trunk Trap

Death At The Crossroads

Death of a Doctor

The Dispatch of the Dread

The Ambush At The Bridge

The Meeting At The Fountain

A Scream In The Night

The Man Who Wanted Death

Bad News For Himmler

The Torturers Are Trapped

The Jury of Deathless Men

The Terrified Traitor

The Ambush From The Bushes

The Manhunt In The Mountains

Bullets For Bottai

The Men Who Wanted A Million

Tooth And Claw Death

The Deathless Men

It was in the year 1942. The Second Great War was being fought. Czechoslovakia, Poland, Belgium, Yugoslavia, Greece, France — all were in the hands of the German occupation forces — and the Gestapo.

The Gestapo were the German Secret State Police. They were feared and hated by everyone — even the Germans themselves…

The big, blue saloon slowed as it passed the entrance to the Tuileries Gardens in Paris. Even though it was two o'clock in the morning, and the car carried Otto Leben, Chief of the Gestapo in Paris, the German chauffeur obeyed the red warning of the automatic traffic lights.

Not for more than a few seconds was the car held up, then the lights changed to green, and it glided forward, yet during those few seconds the door on the off side had opened quietly, and a huddled figure jumped out into the road.

The figure, so grey and indistinct, with a shabby grey suit, grey felt hat, and grey masked face, limped swiftly through the entrance to the gardens. There were grey gloves on his hands, and on his feet grey rubber shoes which made no sound.

The blue saloon reached the Place de la Concorde, once ablaze with lights, now the parking place for lorries and tanks belonging to the German Army of Occupation. Swerving in through tall iron gates, it came to rest opposite the darkened entrance of the building that housed the Gestapo headquarters.

Black uniformed sentries came smartly to attention. The chauffeur alighted from his seat and jerked the door open.

“We have arrived, Herr Leben,” he informed the uniformed figure inside.

There was no movement from the passenger. He was relaxed in his corner, his head against the cushions.

The chauffeur glanced swiftly at the impassive sentries, then leaned inside and shook his passenger gently by the shoulder.

The next moment he leaped backwards with a gasp of horror. The still figure had toppled sideways, almost on top of him, and now lay with its head close to the door.

Under the chin was a livid gash where the throat had been slit.

“Herr Leben is dead!” croaked the chauffeur to the nearest sentry.

Within a few minutes the car swarmed with uniformed and plain clothes officials of the Nazi party — the party that ruled Germany. The chauffeur had been led away under guard, and Henkel, the assistant chief of the Gestapo in Paris, had arrived on the scene with a doctor.

There was no doubt about it. Herr Leben, the Butcher of Paris, was dead.

Pinned to his chest was a slip of paper which was carried inside to be read.

At the head of the page was a blood red letter V, and underneath this there was printed in German:

“V for Vengeance. The free peoples of Europe strike again. This murderer is only one of many who will die. The oppressed peoples of France, Czechoslovakia, Greece, and the other occupied countries have cried aloud for vengeance for a long time. They have not cried in vain. The Deathless Men are answering the call. It is now the turn of the tyrants, the murderers and the torturers, to tremble. Before long all the under-mentioned will share the fate of Leben. They cannot escape us. Their time is coming.”

Then followed a long list of names of gauleiters — traitors put in charge of districts of their own countries by the Germans as rewards for their treachery — police officials, commanders of concentration camps, German governors of captured cities, notorious members of the Gestapo, and Nazi officials of various ranks both in occupied countries and Germany. The list finished with the three leaders of the Nazi party — Joseph Goebbels, Minister of the Interior; Hermann Goering, Marshall of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force; and Adolf Hitler, Dictator of Germany.

The name of Otto Leben was at the top, but it had already been crossed off.

Consternation and rage showed on the faces of the Nazis. Leben's second-in-command roared for the chauffeur to be brought in.

The man was pale with fright. Beads of perspiration glittered on his face as he was pushed into a chair before his new chief, armed members of the Gestapo surrounding him on all sides.

“Well?” demanded Henkel. “What have you to say for yourself, Ridiger?”

“I know nothing about it, I swear I don’t,” said the chauffeur hoarsely. “I picked up Herr Leben at a flat in Neuilly at one-thirty, as I was ordered to do. He was all right when he got in, and in good spirits. He told me to hurry, as he had some papers to sign before he went to bed. I closed the door and drove off. Not once did I stop. I swear it. The whole thing is…”

“Who else was with you?” interrupted Henkel.

“No one. I was alone. There was just Herr Leben and myself.”

“Then you killed Herr Leben! Why?”

“No, no, no!” shrieked the prisoner.

“Take him into the cellar and refresh his memory!” snapped Henkel to the burly troopers.

They lifted the screeching man in their arms and bore him out of the door. There was silence within the office, while the higher officials looked at each other.

“Do we know anything about any society calling themselves The Deathless Men?” Henkel demanded.

“No, Sir. I have never heard the name before,” replied his lieutenant. “I suggest there is one way in which the murder could have been committed, Sir. One side of the seat was occupied by a heavy pile of rugs. Herr Leben did not disturb them, as it was a warm night. It is possible that someone could have been hidden under them, and –”

“They would have had to find a chance of getting there,” cut in Henkel. “Get me General Konrad on the phone at once, We must report this to him. There will have to be reprisals. As Governor of Paris it is his duty to order the arrest of hostages. Paris will tremble before I've finished.”

His eyes ran down the list of names on the paper before him. Immediately below that of Herr Leben he saw that of General Konrad. Governor of Paris!

The Limping Killer

Terror reigned in Paris. Two hundred innocent people had been dragged from their homes and thrown into one of the grim prisons used by the Nazi for their hostages. Notices had been posted all over the city offering a reward of a million francs for any information that would lead to the capture of the assassin of Herr Leben, and promising that fifty of the hostages would be shot if this information was not forthcoming by the following dawn.

Whispers of what had happened, and of the threat of the Deathless Men, spread through the city. Who were the Deathless Men? asked everyone. How did they intend to strike? Who was their leader?

The same question was being asked in a palatial suite at the Crillon Hotel, where Von Reich, second only to Heinrich Himmler, the head of the Gestapo, stormed at the local Gestapo officials who had given him the news that no clues had been gained as to the identity of the escaped killer.

A tall, bronzed man, with curling eyebrows and a short, bushy moustache, Von Reich looked more like a cavalry officer than one of the leaders of the most dreaded organisation in Germany. He had arrived in Paris only a few days earlier.

“What is this gang of Deathless Men?” he thundered. “Find them! Find out who is their leader, then we shall get somewhere!”

The crestfallen officials fled to pursue their inquiries. That day, thousands of houses were entered and searched.

But there was no result. The following midnight found gaunt-faced officers and police officials standing round the desk of General Konrad, the brutal Governor of Paris. A gigantic man in build, he had close-cropped hair. A broken nose and a huge slit of a mouth completed as unpleasant an appearance as could be imagined.

“What are we going to do now, General?” asked someone.

“This!” General Konrad reached for a long typewritten list lying beside him. “Here we have the names of the two hundred hostages detained since this morning.”

After counting them he drew a thick line under the fiftieth name, and signed his initials at the side.

“Shoot all those whose names are above that line. Shoot them at dawn, as we promised. If that doesn't bring these Parisians to their senses, we'll shoot another fifty the following morning. Goodnight, gentlemen. I'm going to bed.”

They clicked their heels as he rose, and The Commandant in charge of the prison departed with the list of doomed hostages.

General Konrad passed two more sets of sentries before he reached the big apartment where he usually slept. It was furnished in palatial fashion, some of the finest antique furniture in Paris having been seized and brought there for the purpose.

The last sound the General heard after he had put out the light and climbed into bed was the comforting footsteps of the sentry in the corridor outside.

An hour passed, the sentries had been changed, and the General was sound asleep. There was a slight creaking noise in the corner of the room where the door of a huge, carved wardrobe was opening. It opened slowly, there was a rustle, and a figure stepped softly to the thickly carpeted floor.

The moonlight that came through the window was strong enough to show the figure as that of a man, tall but rather stooping, dressed entirely in grey, with a grey felt hat, grey mask covering his face, and rubber-soled shoes.

As silently as a shadow the grey man approached the bed. In one hand he had a long narrow dagger.

Then stopping, he whistled softly.

The German's eyelids twitched. The whistle was disturbing him. Finally it wakened him. He opened his eyes for a moment, blinked furiously, hardly knowing whether he was awake or asleep, and glimpsed the grey man.

He fumbled for his revolver on the bedside table, but the man in grey leaped forward. His dagger descended swiftly, passing through General Konrad's right eye, deep into his brain. His big body gave a twist, then lay still.

The grey man left the dagger where it was. From one of his pockets he produced a long slip of paper, which he carefully pinned to the General's pyjama jacket.

It was a copy of the document found on Herr Leben, except that in addition to Herr Leben's name, that of General Konrad was crossed out with a thick line.

As silently as he had approached the bed, the grey intruder crossed to the window. He limped badly as he went.

It was easy to crawl through the opening onto the wide, leaded gutter which ran around that side of the building. The grey man crept along this gutter on hands and knees, until he came to a corner where a drainpipe went down two storeys to the ground below.

Anxiously, he looked at the sky. There was a moon, but clouds were likely to keep it hidden for the next few minutes. Gripping the pipe with his hands and rubber-soled feet, he descended to ground level.

He was now inside a high walled yard where cars and lorries were parked. A sentry marched up and down in front of the gate, but he did not see the limping figure climb onto the roof of a lorry near the wall, and from that to the wall itself. He neither saw nor heard the intruder drop down on the other side.

The grey man landed lightly, sprinted across the road before the moon came out, and entered a narrower street, where he limped along quickly.

He was making for a more crowded quarter of the town, and whenever he heard a car approach or the footfalls of a patrol, he doubled into the shadows and remained still. No one challenged him until he had almost reached his destination.

Then his luck failed. Turning a corner after listening intently to make sure there was no movement in the street beyond, he ran into a Ger soldier who was standing beside a broken down lorry. The soldier's companion had gone for aid, and the driver had been making no sound as he leaned against the lorry.

The grey man was on him before either of them was aware of the other.

At sight of that shapeless, featureless face, with two gleaming eyes glaring through narrow slits, the Nazi gave a gasp and snatched for his automatic pistol.

The grey man ducked and turned for the corner. The German fired twice, and the second shot passed through the runner's back, close to his spine. It spun him against the wall.

A gasp came from behind the mask.

His knees seemed to be doubling under him, but he held himself erect, while at the same time feeling for a small revolver which was in a side-pocket.

The Nazi was shouting at the top of his voice as he ran up to finish off his victim. They both fired at once. The German's shot smashed into the grey man's chest, but the solitary bullet fired by the crouching figure at the corner entered the soldier's brain and dropped him dead on the pavement.

The limping man went down on one knee, coughed, clutched his chest, then heard running feet and many shouts. Patrols were coming.

He hauled himself erect once more, and felt his way round the corner, still limping.

Twice he fell, but each time he rose to his feet to stagger another few steps, until he finally crossed the road to a telephone box.

Holding on to the instrument stand, he dropped in a coin and dialled a number.

The Germans had now reached the body of the soldier on the pavement around the corner. Whistles were blowing, motorcycles were speeding to the spot. The manhunt was up, and the victim they sought was fighting against unconsciousness as he listened to the ringing of the bell at the other end.

That telephone bell rang at the bedside of Von Reich, at his bedroom at the Crillon Hotel. Sleepily, the dark man with the bushy eyebrows reached for the receiver.

“Is that Von Reich?”

“Ja! What do you want?” The second-in-command of the Gestapo spoke in a low voice. “Who is it?”

“This is Jack One. It — it is done.”

The receiver in the phone box was hurriedly replaced. Von Reich stared at the silent instrument before him, and then put back his own receiver quietly. After switching off his light, he lay in bed for a long time, thinking.

The man who had called himself Jack One managed to get forty yards from the phone box before he collapsed on the pavement in a pool of blood.

There he lay for five minutes longer before the German motorcyclists found him and roughly lifted him to shine a light on his masked face.

He was dead.

The Avenger Within

At the headquarters of the Gestapo in Paris, Henkel, the new chief, licked dry lips as he listened to the tirade launched at him by Von Reich.

It was the morning of the discovery that General Konrad had been murdered in his bed, and of the finding of a grey clad man dead in the Rue de Chaume.

“If you can't even protect the Governor of Paris, you're not fit to hold your job!” Von Reich was roaring. “What is the Gestapo for? I suppose you've found out nothing about the man shot in the street?”

“Ja, we have done that,” grunted Henkel, “We have found out all about him.”

“Then who is he?” demanded Von Reich.

“His name is Kouniz — Johann Kouniz, and he is a Czech, a native of Prague,” replied Henkel.

“Is anything else known about him?” snapped Von Reich.

“Ja,” said Henkel. “In 1939, when we took over Czechoslovakia, he was arrested as a suspected person and sent to Germany, to the Buchenwald concentration camp. There he stubbornly refused to give any information about his colleagues. He was submitted to a course of 'softening,' but it did not produce results. All that happened was that he was crippled, with one leg longer than the other. His face was so… erm… altered by the handling of his questioners that he usually wore a handkerchief over it when mixing with the other prisoners afterwards. Maybe that's why he wore a mask when we found him.”

“How did he come to be here in Paris?” thundered Von Reich.

“That we do not know,” replied Henkel.

“According to records phoned from Germany half an hour ago, Johann Kouniz died and was buried at Buchenwald nine months ago.”

“Dead! Buried! And — and then here in Paris!” Von Reich exploded. “There's something very odd here.” He pointed at the paper taken from the chest of General Konrad. “I'm certain he was one of those Deathless Men, and I don't like it.”

His eyes remained fixed on the list which already had two names crossed off. Henkel knew why Von Reich was staring at it so long. Halfway down the list of those doomed by the Deathless Men was the name of Herr Von Reich!

“I don't like it,” repeated Himmler's second-in-command. “Follow up every clue about this Kouniz. Life is no longer safe here in Paris. What happened about those fifty hostages?”

“They were shot at dawn,” was the grim reply. “Tomorrow at dawn, fifty more will die unless the killers of both Leben and Konrad are caught.”

“I believe you already have the killer in that Kouniz,” snapped Von Reich. “Who

signs the order for the shooting of the other fifty hostages?”

“General Herchell arrives by plane from Strasbourg at midday to take over the Governorship of Paris,” replied Henkel. “He will sign the order this evening, I've no doubt... You are going, Herr Von Reich?”

“Yes. I have to compile a report for Berlin in code,” said Von Reich.

Through the window, Henkel saw Von Reich enter his car and drive away. He would have been very surprised if he could have seen the code message that Von Reich compiled half an hour later in his apartment at the Crillon.

The code used was not that of the German Gestapo, but one of the many used by the British Secret Service. The message was in French, and, on the face of it, referred to the repair of Von Reich's car, which was in a garage in the Bois de Boulogne.

Von Reich rang a bell and handed the note to an orderly.

“Send a motorcyclist with this at once,” he said crisply.

The message was duly handed to the bearded Frenchman who managed the garage.

The Frenchman drew a greasy hand across his face, and tore the envelope open. His face grew more and more surly as he read the imperious message, then he growled.

“The car will be ready.”

The German returned with this assurance, the garage proprietor wiped his hands on a piece of waste, then entered his office, closing the door behind him. It was a little dingy office, with a low cupboard in one corner. Opening the door of this, the Frenchman stooped and crawled inside. There was a trapdoor in the floor, which he raised, descending by a ladder to a small cellar.

There was not much in the cellar, but a small telephone hung on the wall. It was of the old-fashioned variety, and was not connected with any of the Paris exchanges, being on a private line.

Monsieur Michenot wound vigorously at the handle, then raised the mouthpiece.

“Is that you, Paul? Michenot speaking. I've just had a message from Gregson. It's urgent. He says you are to pass on the word that General Herchell arrives at Le Bourget aerodrome at midday from Strasbourg to take over the Governorship of Paris. One of his first duties will be to sign for the execution of another fifty hostages tomorrow. Gregson says Herchell's name is not on our list, but it must be added at once, and he must be dealt with before he can sign his name to the execution order.”

He hung up and returned to his office the way he had come.

Then he sat down at his desk to go through the various orders for repairs which the Nazis had served to him during the past week. His mind was not on his work. Pierre Michenot, formerly of the French Intelligence, was thinking what a remarkably dangerous job Aylmer Gregson had.

Michenot was one of the very few men in Paris who knew Herr Von Reich was a British Secret Service man who had been planted in the Nazi party long before the war. Never once in those weary years of waiting prior to the war had Aylmer Gregson communicated with his colleagues, but now the time had come for him to do everything he could to further the great vengeance campaign.

There were grey skies and pelting rain down at Le Bourget about an hour later, when a battered lorry laden with empty cases pulled up at one of the cafes facing the aerodrome.

Two men got down from it. The driver, who was a red faced man with a bushy, fair moustache, wore some sacking round his shoulders to keep off the rain, and a cap; while his companion wore a long, dirty waterproof, a grey felt hat, and walked with a pronounced limp.

They passed swiftly in at the side door of the cafe, carrying between them a long case which appeared to be filled with empty bottles.

The case almost hid the hands of the driver's companion, so none of the passersby noticed that he wore grey gloves.

Even if anyone had noticed he had on grey trousers below his dirty waterproof, they would have thought nothing of it.

But if his back had not been turned to the street, and some of those German sentries at the gates on the other side of the street had seen the grey leather mask which covered his strangely flat face, they would have made instant investigation.

The limping man shut the door behind them, and began lifting the empty bottles from the case. A light machine gun showed beneath the layer of bottles.

The Deathless Men were about to begin another job!

The Third Victim

A German guard of honour was drawn up inside the gates of Le Bourget aerodrome on the outskirts of Paris. The guard of honour snapped to attention and presented arms as a long, powerful car emerged between the buildings and headed for the exit.

The big, steel gates had been thrown open. A number of Nazi motorcyclists awaited the word to race through the streets with wailing Sirens to clear the way for General Herchell, the newly appointed military governor of Paris. An armoured car stood to one side.

If General Herchell noticed all those precautions he showed no sign of it. His hard, ruthless face was expressionless. Even before his car had swept out through the gates into the main road beyond, he had heard a firsthand report from the Gestapo official, at his side of the recent killing of Herr Leben, head of the Paris Gestapo, and General Konrad. It was to fill the vacancy caused by the sudden death of General Konrad that Herchell had been flown from Strasbourg.

“The first thing is to round up another five hundred hostages,” he growled as they turned to head for Paris.