Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

by Dennis Wheatley

  To Allan’s disappointment he did not walk off in the direction of the taxi rank, instead, he slowly strolled across the street and took up a position opposite the door.

  Allan could see him plainly now, a good-looking chap, fortyish perhaps, dark, and in the light of a nearby lamp his chin showed faintly blue. He showed no sign of moving, but stood quietly watching number ninety-six. The hall light had gone out some moments before, one in an upper window went on—Doreen’s bedroom, Allan guessed. He swore softly to himself—he had not foreseen that she might go to bed. His opportunity was lost, and all through that tall fool standing under the lamp—the fellow was in love with her, that was plain. Why else should he watch her window till the light went out? Allan felt sulky, he had no conceivable right to be jealous, but he was—he knew the symptoms well, and felt them coming on. Damn the man, why couldn’t he go away?—Allan made up his mind to outstay the man even though he knew it was sheer waste of time.

  The upper window suddenly went black, the adorable Doreen was safe in bed. Well, that was that. Allan regarded his orchids ruefully; no earthly good to send them round tomorrow. Orchids on Tuesday entirely lost their point. He must comb his acquaintances for someone other than Virginia who knew Doreen, and seek a prosaic introduction in the usual way.

  The dark man did not attempt to move from under his tree, and it must have been a good twenty minutes after Doreen’s light went out that he crossed the road again and ran swiftly up the steps of number ninety-six. He pushed the front door gently and it opened at once; he slipped inside. Allan watched him with sudden interest—‘chap couldn’t have shut it properly after him when he came out,’ he thought; ‘this is all very queer.’

  He had not long to wait for further developments. The tall man reappeared in the porch and threw a lighted cigarette into the gutter. Was it a signal? What was going on? Yes, it was a signal; two figures detached themselves from the shadow of the railings some way down the street and shambled across the road. What the deuce was happening? Should he go up to the square and get a policeman? Allan wondered. No, by that time anything might have happened. Still carrying his orchids, Allan walked quickly across the street. The front door was still open—a moment later he entered the house.

  * * * * *

  The hall was in darkness. Allan could just make out two doors on the right—from under the farther one came a faint ray of light. If he went in they’d be on him like a shot. Perhaps the two rooms had a communicating door, if so, he might be able to see what they were doing from an unsuspected angle. Very quietly he tried the handle of the nearest door. It turned—the door opened without a sound.

  Inside it was as black as pitch, but Allan’s surmise had proved correct. As his eyes got accustomed to the darkness he could make out the slenderest pencil of light running down the far end of the wall to his left. That must be the door into the other room, and as luck would have it that door must be just the least little crack open.

  He did the only sensible thing in the darkness of that unknown room—got to his knees and crawled slowly forward on the floor. He reached the door in safety and without making any sound that could disturb the intruders.

  Very gently he eased the door open the fraction of an inch. The room beyond was a library—yes, there were the two men who had entered just before him; they were kneeling on the floor, a collection of curious-looking instruments was spread out in front of them, and they were working swiftly and silently on a safe.

  Allan lost no time. The third man must be about somewhere. He could not tackle three of them; the only thing to do was to run for the police. He moved the door silently back to its former position and recrossed the room; the door into the hall he had left ajar—it opened to his touch.

  A deeper patch of blackness showed in the doorway against the greyness of the hall, it was the back of the third man who stood there silently keeping watch. He had no suspicion that Allan was just behind him.

  Allan paused, undecided. Should he rush the fellow from behind? If he did the other two would be on him in a minute and off into the street, leaving him half murered in the hall.

  He gently pulled the door to again, deciding to wait for a better opportunity and tiptoed back to resume his observation on the library.

  The two men had got the safe open now, and they were hastily cramming papers and packets into a small black bag. As he watched, they looked up quickly. Evidently the third man had come into the room. Allan heard a sharp whisper.

  ‘Leave that—get it on the way out—upstairs now—first floor, first door on the right—small safe under the dressing-table—old lady’s got a heap of stuff. Look sharp!’

  The smaller man collected his tools, the burly one closed the bag with a snap, and picked up his torch. The light faded and the library went black—they had left the room—Allan waited silently a few moments.

  In the library he had seen a telephone. Could he reach it and dial operator and ask for the police without the tall chap in the hall hearing him? It was the only chance. He went down on his knees again and crept forward carefully. His hand struck something—it was the black bag. Well, he would save the swag anyhow. Better put it in the other room now before the men had time to come back. He took it by the handle and stood up, then moved softly towards the other room.

  ‘Got you!’ said a quiet voice as the light clicked on. ‘Got you, my friend.’ There was a hint of quiet laughter in the voice.

  Allan guessed that it was Doreen, even as he swung round, but there was no laughter in her face, and she was pointing a very dangerous-looking pistol at the exact spot where his double-breasted white waistcoat made a neat line across his trousers.

  ‘Put down the little bag,’ she said evenly. ‘Thank you, and now your hands above your head.’

  Allan felt an utter fool, the girl actually seemed to be enjoying herself.

  ‘Look here,’ he protested, ‘you’re making a mistake, I’m not a burglar, I’m Allan Sybarite, a friend of Virginia Townley’s. I gave you a lift home the other night from the Wyburns’ party.’

  She shook her head with a characteristic little wriggle of her neck, and tilted up her chin. In any other circumstances Allan would have thought her divine.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘that won’t work. He was an ugly man in specs; you’re rather nice looking! What a pity that you’ve got to be locked up.’

  ‘But honestly,’ he assured her, ‘I only came to the house because—because …’ he broke off lamely. The matter of the orchids hardly seemed an adequate explanation now. His interview with Doreen was not turning out as he had planned at all. ‘Your advertisement, you know,’ he added quickly; ‘orchids on Monday,’ and he nodded to the neat paper parcel at his feet.

  ‘The man’s mad,’ she said with a little lift of her eyebrows, ‘quite mad, but a real society crook. How thrilled the Wyburns will be to know that you were at their party.’ She moved towards the telephone. ‘I’m afraid I must hand you over to the police.’

  ‘Listen,’ cried Allan desperately. ‘Do what you like about me, but there are burglars in the house. I came in because …’ His sentence was cut short; the door opened and the tall man walked in.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said quietly, ‘what’s all this?’

  ‘George,’ exclaimed the girl, ‘what a fright you gave me. Look—I’ve caught a Raffles.’

  George smiled grimly. ‘Good work, my dear. Lucky I came back. I forgot my hat, thought you might still be up reading or something, then I found the front door open.’

  The calmness of the man—it staggered Allan. ‘This man’s the burglar,’ he cried indignantly. ‘He let in two others as well—I saw him.’

  Doreen gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Oh, George, isn’t he sweet? And do you know, he was actually at the Wyburns’ party.’

  ‘George’ nodded. ‘A real top-notcher of the genus crook, eh?’ He lit a cigarette. His hand was as steady as a rock and he continued quietly: ‘You don’t want the police round here, Doreen. Tomo
rrow morning’s time enough—I’ll run this bird round to the station.’

  ‘That will be best,’ Doreen agreed. ‘I don’t think anything is missing. All Daddy’s papers are in that bag, I expect.’

  ‘Come along, young man.’ George spoke in a firm voice. ‘I shall treat you rough if you give any trouble. You’d better come quietly.’

  Again Allan considered. George was several sizes larger than he was, and the other two were still somewhere upstairs; if there were real trouble they might knock out Doreen as well.

  He took his notecase out of his pocket and extracted a card, ‘For the flowers,’ he explained.

  ‘Flowers?’ echoed Doreen with a puzzled look.

  He picked up the orchids and pulled back the tissue paper. ‘For you,’ he said.

  ‘But how marvellous,’ she smiled. ‘A burglar who leaves flowers—George, isn’t that too, too wonderful?’

  But George only frowned.

  ‘May I write something suitable on the card?’ Allan asked.

  ‘Oh, do!’ she cried. ‘I’ll frame it.’

  Allan took out a pencil and scribbled a few words on the back. He tucked it among the orchids and handed them to the girl. ‘I’m ready now,’ he said.

  ‘Right—come on, my lad.’ George took him firmly by the arm and led him out.

  * * * * *

  When they were out in the street Allan wondered what would happen. Poor George must be very embarrassed by his prisoner. Allan fully expected that he would give him a chance to escape and then disappear himself; but Allan did not want to escape. If George tried any tricks he meant to hang on to him and holler for the police. Perhaps George was even now racking his brains for some way to square him. ‘Nothing doing, George, my boy—you can try that on the police.’ Then with a little shock he realised that George showed no disposition to try and square him, nor did he offer any opportunity of escape. Instead, he marched rapidly along, gripping Allan’s arm, if anything more firmly than before. Surely, thought Allan, his captor would not have the audacity to hand him over to the police? Well, what matter if he did? They would charge each other. Allan smiled again. He had written no useless tribute of admiration on that card, but a sharp imperative message: ‘Phone police immediately—two more upstairs—will take care of George.’

  If only she acted on his message everything would be all right; but would she? A sudden doubt filled Allan’s mind. Suppose she thought it was just another piece of bluff? She had shown no signs of believing him before. Allan ceased smiling, a still more unpleasant thought had come to him—George must have been in the hall when Doreen came downstairs. Perhaps he had slipped up and warned the other two. If so, they would be gone even if she did ring up the police. The Devil! This was getting serious: George had come back for his hat; he knew Doreen; he had an excuse for being in the house; Allan had none! How could he possibly tell the story of the orchids?

  Surely George did not mean to carry out this bluff—but as they turned into Gerald Row Allan became certain that he did, and got hot all over at the thought. Say George got away with it? What then? A night in the cells for Allan; but worse—much worse—he would be the laughing stock of London in the morning. It might have a devastating effect on that political career he was so keen about—he would be known as ‘the chap who was arrested by the burglar’. That was going to take some living down!

  For one moment Allan thought wildly of trying to break away. But could he? There would be a hue and cry—they were only twenty yards from the police-station. A flaring headline flashed into his mind: ‘Well-known Newspaper Man Arrested by Crook’ He groaned—the whole thing was a nightmare.

  He was in the station now. A jolly round-faced sergeant was eyeing him across a desk; Allan determined to be first.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he cried, before his captor had a chance to speak, ‘I charge this man with house-breaking, at ninety-six Sloane Gardens—he was one of three.’

  The sergeant smiled as he looked at the large hand that gripped Allan’s arm—so did the man called George.

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘he’s only bluffing. He doesn’t look a crook, but he is one. I thought I’d better bring him round. If you want confirmation that he’s the right man just ring up Miss Doreen Eve, Sloane 9060.’

  Allan went scarlet. The impudence of the brute; and, of course, the girl would back him up. What a howling mess!

  George took a card from his pocket and laid it on the desk beside the sergeant. ‘Better ring up Miss Eve, Sergeant, and get the business straightened out,’ he laughed. ‘She caught this chap herself, I only came on the scene later, but I’d like to get away as soon as possible as the garage where I’ve parked my car shuts at one o’clock, and I’ve got to get back to Richmond.’

  The telephone shrilled at the sergeant’s side; he picked up the receiver. ‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘that you, Cooper…. Got ’em both? That’s good; bring ’em in.’ He hung up the receiver and grinned at Allan.

  ‘It’s quite all right, sir; when the lady telephoned the first time she said to keep you both, but it’s the tall one we’re wanting.’

  * * * * *

  Allan was back in the library of ninety-six. Mr. Horatio Nelson Clegg and Neddy the Crack stood, handcuffed together, in a corner. A policeman was still taking notes.

  Doreen threw back her hair with that same little shake of the head and tilt of the chin that Allan had seen before, though he had not then appreciated it as he did now. She smiled at him.

  ‘How terribly clever to think of writing on that card.’

  He laughed. ‘D’you know, I can’t help feeling sorry for “George”—he nearly landed me—but it was the orchids that let him in.’

  She picked up the flowers and held them against her cheek. Mr. Horatio Nelson Clegg glowered at them from his corner. In his husky voice he said to Neddy: ‘That’s them—orkidds they is. I never did ‘old wiv ‘is way of doin’ things. Flowers is fer funerals.’

  STORY III

  During the first weeks of the war my failure to find any suitable war employment greatly depressed me. But an old friend of mine in MI.5 endeavoured to console me by saying:

  ‘Don’t take it too badly that the Ministry of Information have ignored your offers of service. Out of nearly a thousand people that they have taken on, fewer than thirty are professional journalists and writers, so it’s a hopeless mess. One might just as well send a battleship to sea with only thirty trained seamen in her and the rest landlubbers, then order them to seek out and destroy the enemy. It would break your heart to be mixed up with such a crew. Sooner or later some job will come along in which you will be able to make much better use of your abilities. In the meantime, hundreds of thousands of people will be in camps or spending long periods of duty in A.R.P. centres. Their only way of passing the time will be to read and it’s up to chaps like you to help entertain them.’

  He was, of course, right—and about the ‘job’ turning up; but that was not until nine months later. So I got back to my desk and concentrated on my normal work. Soon I found myself imbued with another surge of that creative energy which I had experienced during my first year as a writer. Having completed The Scarlet Impostor—which ran to 186,000 words and was the longest book I had so far written—I wrote several short stories, among them The Born Actor, Love Trap and the following little tale. It appeared as No. I of a series published in the Evening Standard in which each contributor had to use the Black-out as a background.

  Special Leave

  ‘Look, Daddy, a telegram from John—he’s coming on leave—tonight. “Meet me leave train Waterloo 8.30, dine and dance”, it says—oh, I’m so happy.’ Lorna Bancroft flung her arms joyously round her father’s neck, whirling him into a mad dance.

  ‘There, there,’ Mr. Bancroft disentangled himself, panting slightly, ‘if you want to be in time to meet his train, you’d better hurry up and get yourself dressed. It’s past six now.’

  ‘Goodness, yes, you’re right.�
�� Turning swiftly Lorna fled back up the stairs singing at the top of her voice.

  An hour and a half later she reappeared, and her father’s eyes softened as he saw her. She was radiantly lovely in a white satin dress with gardenias in her hair.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, darling!’ he called out.

  ‘I will,’ came the laughing reply.

  Outside in the porch she stood still for a moment. The darkness of the night was impenetrable, unrelieved even by stars; then, as she flashed her torch, she noticed that the switch for the ‘No Road’ sign at one end of the semi-circular drive was up. The maid must have forgotten to turn it on at black-out time, and clicking it down Lorna got into her car.

  The business of backing it out of the IN gate always annoyed her but the big A.R.P. shelter her father had built now partially blocked the OUT drive and it had been necessary to fix a permanent two-way electric sign beyond the curve of the shrubs to prevent strangers crashing in the darkness if they tried to use the wrong entrance. Then she smiled to herself. Anyway, what did such petty annoyances matter tonight? John was coming back; she’d be with him in an hour.

  * * * * *

  She arrived at Waterloo ten minutes too early so, buying a platform ticket, she sat down. A few yards away two men turned and stared at her—appraisingly, insolently. ‘These something refugees—they behave as though they own England and all its inhabitants!’ Lorna thought angrily, forgetting for the moment that her furs and evening dress made her conspicuous in such a setting.

  Suddenly the train was in, and John was holding her in his arms as though he would never let her go: then, grabbing his suitcase, he cried: ‘Come on, darling! I’ve only got forty-eight hours and I don’t want to lose a moment of it. That’s why I wired you to dress. Where shall we go? What about the Café de Paris?’

  ‘That would be heavenly—let’s!’

  Captain John Grayson was tall with broad shoulders and a chin that betrayed the fact that he was used to getting his own way, so, although the restaurant was full to overflowing, they soon had the only remaining sofa table. When the fluster of the waiters had subsided Lorna turned to John.