Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

by Dennis Wheatley

  Neils Orsen waited, his long, tapering fingers beating a tattoo upon the mantelpiece, his large, curiously pale blue eyes thoughtful. There was no reason for his waiting, he had made no appointment, yet the moment the door opened and he saw the tall American lawyer from the Chambers below he knew that his instinct had not failed him—his friend was very worried.

  ‘What’s the trouble, Hemmingway?’ he asked at once. ‘Mix yourself a drink, then sit down and tell me all about it.’

  The dark-haired solicitor gave the little man a shrewd smile as he helped himself to a whisky-and-soda. ‘I suppose by now I should be used to this trick of yours of always knowing what’s in my mind the moment I come into the room—or perhaps before—but it still seems queer. And of course you’re right—I am worried—very worried.’ He leant forward suddenly. ‘Orsen, this is not an ordinary case—but I think it’s right down your street.’

  ‘Well?’ his host smiled.

  ‘The situation is this,’ Hemmingway began. ‘A young friend of mine has just got married. He has taken an apparently charming little flat and the lease was handled by my firm, but unfortunately I was away when the deal was drafted.’

  ‘Unfortunately?’ Orsen queried.

  ‘Yes. It just happens that I know the history of the place and I wouldn’t willingly have drafted a lease of it for my worst enemy. Of course outwardly it’s an amazing bargain. Owing to the fact that it has been empty for so long the rental has been reduced out of all proportion to the value of the property.’

  ‘Why?’ Orsen interrupted encouragingly.

  ‘Well, there have been three suicides and the other tenants have always left after a week or so, complaining of an unpleasantly cold atmosphere and all telling the same curious story that on certain nights the bathroom window used to open of its own accord.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual about these suicides?’

  ‘On the face of it, no,’ Hemmingway continued slowly, drawing at his cigarette. ‘The first was a French woman of about thirty; the second, which occurred some three months later, a man of sixty; and the third an older woman—who, incidentally, was the last occupant—she died just a year ago. Of course it may only be coincidence, but it seems very odd that all three should have chosen the bathroom window out of which to throw themselves.’

  ‘Yes, most peculiar,’ Orsen agreed, ‘but there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation. As you know, four-fifths of the so-called psychic phenomena that I have to investigate turn out to be hoaxes, even though sometimes they are of a very violent and unpleasant nature. However, this may be one of the odd fifth, a genuine Saati manifestation; but what would you like me to do?’

  ‘Just this. The flat is being re-decorated while the young couple are on their honeymoon and they will be returning in about a month’s time. I’ve got a set of keys, so I thought that if you could go down there and see it maybe you’d know if anything really is wrong. I, personally, am quite convinced that there is something uncanny going on, and knowing your peculiar power to sense psychic manifestations I came to you. Anyway, the police would just laugh at me.’

  Neils Orsen turned his head. ‘Past! Past!’ he called. As if from nowhere a beautiful Siamese cat leapt down on to his shoulder. ‘Past, old man, we’ve been asked to go ghost-hunting again. What do you think?’

  The cat purred lazily and blinked its large, pale blue eyes at Hemmingway.

  Orsen held out his hand. ‘Very well. Let me have the keys and I’ll see what I can do. Gome back in a few days’ time and I’ll give you the results.’

  ‘Thanks awfully; that’s a great load off my mind,’ Hemmingway said, finishing his drink. ‘The flat is in Collingburn Court, South Kensington; No. 35, and it’s on the fifth floor.’

  A week later the two men met for dinner. Not until coffee had been served would Orsen satisfy Hemmingway’s curiosity.

  ‘In a way you were right,’ he began. ‘That place has a most unpleasant atmosphere. I have been several times and even spent the night there in the bathroom, but I found no evidence of anything supernatural. The bad atmosphere is easily explained. Many people who like myself are of Nordic extraction are what you call fey, and as the seventh child of a seventh child I am so ultra-sensitive that I can pick up the unhappy vibrations of humans who have been miserable at some time or another, in at least one out of every six rooms I go into. Past didn’t like it either. As you know, I always take him with me on cases like this because of his hyper-sensitiveness to evil manifestations.

  ‘Being stymied in that direction I went to the police and made inquiries about the suicides. The first was a very beautiful French woman, Pictorine Daubert, who lived alone with her maid. The maid was away when her suicide occurred. The second, curiously enough, was an inmate of the same block; a shipowner named Arnold Robertson. His flat was just above but he took over Madame Daubert’s on her death owing to its greater accommodation. The last, Mrs. Matheson, killed herself after a tenancy of only one week!

  ‘Three points that did strike me as curious emerged from my inquiry; they are: one, that none of these people apparently had any motive for taking their lives; two, that all three suicides occurred between midnight and one in the morning; and three, the curious coincidence that both the women had very fine heads of red hair. But if there is an evil entity in that flat it does not respond to any of the usual tests for haunting; so there it is. I’m afraid there is nothing more I can do—for the present, anyway.’

  ‘I see.’ A worried frown creased Hemmingway’s forehead. ‘But what do you mean, “for the present”?’

  ‘Just this. I checked up the dates upon which the tragedies took place—not the ordinary calendar dates but by the lunar months—and found that both the women committed suicide on the second day after the new moon. Of course this may mean nothing, because Mr. Robertson threw himself out of the window on the fifteenth day, so there is no question of a series. But all the same, I think it would be worth my while to pay another visit two days after the next new moon. That is in about a fortnight’s time and if there is any genuine Saati manifestation it should certainly take place that night. If not—well then, my dear Hemmingway, your young friends will have nothing to worry about. Oh, by the way, when do they return?’

  ‘In about three weeks, I think.’

  ‘Well, then, I suggest that we should both go down there a fortnight from today. What do you say?’

  ‘That’s grand by me. What time shall I meet you?’ Hemmingway asked.

  ‘It is no use our going there before midnight, so how about having a late dinner first? I will make all my arrangements that morning.’

  ‘What do you mean, “arrangements”?’

  ‘Oh, I shall place my special cameras in focus with the fatal window and connect up the flashlight with invisible wires. If the window is thrown open the flashlights will go off and should any psychic phenomenon appear the plates will be quite certain to register it upon their delicate surfaces.’

  At eleven-thirty upon the prearranged evening Hemmingway and Orsen arrived at the block of flats.

  As Orsen got out of the car he glanced up and gripping his companion by the arm whispered urgently: ‘Look at those lights! Look! The bathroom is in darkness, but someone is in the bedroom.’

  Hemmingway cursed. ‘Burglars, I suppose.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Orsen replied grimly. Silently they climbed the stairs, then taking out his key he inserted it in the lock, but before he could turn it the door opened.

  ‘Peter!’ Hemmingway gasped. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought …’

  ‘I know. We weren’t due back till next week and I was livid at having my honeymoon cut short but I was re-called on urgent business by my firm. As the flat was all ready we decided to come straight here from the station when the train got in tonight.’

  The young man’s tone was abrupt and he was obviously very tired, which perhaps accounted for the lack of surprise and pleasure he had shown upon seeing his frien
d.

  It was an awkward situation. The last thing they wished to do was to ruin his first night in his new home by telling him of the true reason for their visit; so, having introduced Orsen, Hemmingway said quickly:

  ‘I just thought I’d come round and see if everything was all right and as we were having dinner together I brought Orsen with me.’

  Peter Wembley hesitated a moment: then his good manners overcame his reluctance to receiving visitors at such an hour after a long day of tiring travel. ‘Well, it’s grand to see you—come in, do. Pauline is getting ready for bed, but I was just going to have a night-cap, so you must join me.’

  Hemmingway and Orsen filed past him feeling acutely embarrassed. Their young host was obviously not very pleased to see them. Only by appearing boorish and insensitive could they keep him up for long and it was still a good twenty minutes before midnight.

  ‘What will you have?’ Peter went over to the sideboard. ‘Whisky-and-soda—brandy or …’

  ‘Whisky for me, old man,’ Hemmingway said with a brightness he did not feel.

  ‘And for you, sir?’ Peter glanced at Orsen.

  ‘May I have a glass of water? I find that it suits me best.’

  The two guests sat down, but Peter stood in front of the fire rocking gently on his heels. He evidently had no intention of allowing them to prolong their visit into a midnight session.

  Hemmingway glanced uneasily at Orsen, but the little man was saying with a guileless smile: ‘I hear you’ve just returned from your honeymoon—do tell me, where did you go?’

  ‘Italy—the South—little place called Amalfi—perhaps you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I drove over to it once from Naples—an enchanting spot.’

  Peter nodded, but he made no further contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Of course you had good weather?’ Orsen went on a little lamely.

  ‘Um … too cold for bathing, but the blue skies were a pleasant change.’

  For lack of something to say Orsen pulled out his cigarette-case. ‘Will you have one of these? They are Turks, I have them specially imported for me.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Peter shook his head.

  Hemmingway felt it was time that he entered the uneven contest. They’d only been there for just over ten minutes and somehow Peter had to be kept talking until well after midnight. ‘By the way, old man,’ he began jovially, ‘I suppose you’ll be doing some hunting now you’re back.’

  ‘Rather,’ the young man showed more interest now that his favourite subject had been broached. ‘I hope to get down to Leicestershire next week-end.’

  ‘Have you still got that grand little mare you had last season?’

  ‘Yes. She’s stabled with some friends of mine; you must try her out one day.’

  ‘Pauline’s keen, too, isn’t she?’

  The mention of Peter’s wife was unfortunate; he glanced pointedly towards the bedroom door. ‘Yes. She’ll be so sorry to have missed you, but I expect she’s in bed by this time.’

  The situation was becoming desperate. Suddenly the clock began to strike. The tiny chimes seemed to resound through the still room. Hemmingway looked up sharply, but Orsen shook his head, ‘Fast,’ his lips mouthed the word silently.

  ‘I say, Peter.’ Hemmingway leant forward quickly to attract his host’s wandering attention, ‘I had the most amusing case the other day. A young man came to me almost biting his nails with rage.’

  ‘Really.’ Peter tried to show some interest.

  ‘Yes, it seems that his old man had done the dirty on him—left all his money to his mistress.’

  ‘But surely he must have known what kind of man his father was and expected something like that to happen?’ Orsen interrupted helpfully.

  ‘No, no, that’s the funny part, the old boy fooled him into thinking that he led a respectable and even puritanical life—pretending to disapprove heartily of modern young things—and his only ostensible form of fun was stamp collecting.’

  ‘What was the girl like?’

  ‘As tough as they make ‘em. An innocent little thing you’d say, till she started to talk—you know the type, great big blue eyes and a mass of fluffy yellow hair. I think she was a chorus girl until old Standish picked her up,’ Hemmingway trailed off lamely.

  ‘Sickening for the boy.’ Peter smothered a yawn.

  Orsen began to tap his long tapering fingers on the table beside him. How much longer would they have to endure this wretched pretence of a casual visit; it was well past twelve now but nothing might happen for half an hour or more.

  Hemmingway nerved himself to cross the room and refill his glass under Peter’s openly disapproving stare. His thoughts were chaotic. Even while they sat there some terrible thing might be mounting unseen from the bottomless pit to claim another victim beyond the sitting-room walls.

  ‘I believe stamp collecting is a very interesting pastime—have you ever gone in for it? A friend of mine …’ Orsen began trying desperately to keep things going.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Peter’s voice was sharp and almost rude, and shrugging irritably he began to pace the room.

  The two intruders sat on—miserably racking their brains for another subject. But Orsen found it impossible to concentrate. What was the girl doing; she should be in bed by now; she would be quite safe there—but was she in bed? Or had she still to go into the bathroom to wash? He listened intently. Only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece disturbed the eerie silence. They seemed to have been sitting there for hours.

  Even Peter was affected by the strange tension that crept into the atmosphere. He slumped into a chair and stared at the floor, apparently no longer caring whether his guests went or not. Hemmingway smoked incessantly. The uncanny stillness enveloped them all like a mantle of fog. Only the clock ticked on the mantelpiece in mechanical defiance.

  Orsen stirred uneasily; his sixth sense warned him that the moment of crisis was fast approaching. Suddenly he leapt to his feet and dashed towards the further door.

  Peter came to earth with a jerk. ‘Hi—where are you going? That’s my wife’s room!’ he shouted angrily.

  A piercing scream made them gasp as Orsen and Peter met and struggled in the doorway. Hemmingway grabbed Peter by the shoulder and hauled him back. Orsen dashed through the bedroom and was the first to reach the bathroom. It was in darkness; the window was flung wide open and a girl lay stretched on the floor beneath it. Peter, having flung Hemmingway off, leapt to the light switch but Orsen stopped him while Hemmingway picked the girl up and carried her into the bedroom.

  While Peter was getting some brandy Orsen set about retrieving the cameras he had placed in the bathroom that morning. One that he had set at an angle on the top of the linen-cupboard was safe; but the other, which he had fixed up on a bracket just outside the window, was gone.

  When he went in to Pauline’s room she was recovering. Her large grey eyes were open and terrified and her bright auburn hair glittered under the sharp bedside light.

  ‘What happened, darling? What happened?’ Peter cried, his face pale and distraught.

  She passed a hand over her forehead. ‘I—I can’t remember anything except that when I—before I got into bed I had the most appalling thirst I went in to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water. It seemed frightfully hot in there so I opened the window, then’—she hesitated and shuddered—’a cold wind of incredible force seemed to sweep me up from behind and for a second I thought it was going to throw me bodily out of the window. A brilliant light flashed in my face—I remember screaming—then, I suppose, I fainted.’

  Directly he could catch Hemmingway’s eye, Orsen said gently: ‘Well, I think we had better be going. You’ll be all right now, I promise you. We’ll find our own way out—don’t you bother, Mr. Wembley.’

  As he had visited the flats in the daytime Orsen knew that the one below had a balcony and fortunately the flat was temporarily unoccupied. Having dug out the porter of the block with his pass ke
ys, they found Orsen’s camera which by great good luck was not smashed to pieces, but had got lodged in the branches of a small bay tree.

  Immediately they got back to Orsen’s chambers in the Temple they set about developing the plates.

  ‘Here’s the first!’ the frail little man announced excitedly. ‘This is the one from the camera that was on the linen-cupboard.’

  Hemmingway peered over his shoulder, but it was disappointing. It showed an outflung arm with fingers crooked clutching wildly at the empty air and a shadow just behind it that might have been almost anything.

  ‘No, no good; but the second should be ready now, we’ll see if that is any better,’ Orsen said, hopefully. He turned after a moment. ‘Yes—just look at this!’

  Hemmingway stared at the plate. He saw Pauline Wembley’s face, ghastly and terrified, her eyes black and fixed, her body foreshortened as though she was being hurled through the air; but over her shoulder there was another face, only imperfectly materialised, as through it could be seen the open door of the linen-cupboard.

  ‘That’s what I wanted,’ Orsen breathed, and bent down to stroke Past, his Siamese cat, who was gently rubbing himself against his legs. Abruptly he straightened up. ‘You must get your young friends out of that flat some time tomorrow on one pretext or other—anything will do—then we can go down there and deal with this horrible business thoroughly.’

  ‘All right; I think I can manage that. Have you found an explanation?’

  ‘Yes—I believe so.’ Orsen suddenly seemed very tired and Hemmingway knew that the crisis in each of his investigations always told heavily on his frail physique, so he was not surprised when the little man added: ‘But I’m too tired and done up to talk now. Call for me here tomorrow at whatever time is convenient and I’ll tell you my conclusions.’

  The next morning on their way down to South Kensington, Orsen explained. ‘Evil entities of this kind,’ he began, ‘must have something to fasten on in order to aid their materialisation and make them physically dangerous. I guessed, the moment I saw Pauline Wembley’s lovely red hair. All red-headed people give out a definite and curious emanation. In civilised countries this is rendered unnoticeable by extreme cleanliness—but it still remains apparent to astral sensitives. Now, as you know, apart from the suicides, three other women lived in the flat—uneasily, I grant you, but they came to no harm, as also the two men; but both the women who were supposed to have committed suicide—and Pauline Wembley who was attacked—had this peculiarity.’