Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

by Dennis Wheatley

  They were a pretty ghastly lot, those outcasts—slatternly pinched-faced girls, toothless old harridans and little under-sized rats of men with sharp greedy eyes.

  After we had done two benches some of them began to follow us and whine for more, gabbling out all sorts of hard-luck stories. I had to threaten them with a policeman to drive them off. Others were pathetically grateful, calling down all sorts of embarrassing blessings on us. One woman became hysterical—in a high cracked voice she began to pray, asking God to strike her if she ever touched the drink again. Most of them fairly grabbed the money and hurried off with a scared sort of look as though they thought we might take it back again. The local coffee-stall began to do a roaring trade.

  We had been at it for about twenty minutes, I suppose, but Fiona still had about fifteen pounds left. There were a few bedraggled figures on the benches, but they had had their ration—it was their own funeral if they chose to remain. Fiona looked round for futher derelicts to receive her charity. A couple were hunched together at the top of some step leading down to the river.

  ‘Gawd bless yer, Lidy,’ exclaimed the man, as Fiona touched him on the shoulder and offered him a note. His companion, a scarecrow of a woman in a man’s cloth cap, only snuffled loudly and snatched the money with a baleful look; they shuffled off in opposite directions.

  ‘There are some more on the steps below,’ I said, but Fiona had seen those shapeless bundles of rags already, and I followed her down the steps. Three more of them received their gift and hurried away with furtive looks.

  To reach the last one we had to descend to the lowest stair, left slippery and uncovered by the tide. The night was still and fine, the water lapped gently at our feet, the sky signs came and went on the further shore. Seen from so low a level the river had an air of mystery which it lacks when looked on from above.

  In the warm darkness of a summer’s night the outlines of the cranes and barges took on curious shapes. Fiona’s hand stole into mine, we lingered for a little listening to the gurgle of the water and drinking in the peace and stillness of it all.

  The launch came up to the steps so silently that we hardly noticed its approach. We stood there quite casually as the man in the bow hitched his boathook into a ring on the wall and drew her in. A small man jumped lightly from the stern—I saw him give Fiona a queer look as he landed on the steps, and I did not wonder—she was hardly the sort of figure one would expect to find on the river-side. He peered at me as though uncertain for a moment. We were standing in the shadow of the wall where the light from the lamp on the Embankment did not penetrate. Then he stepped quickly up to me.

  ‘It’s orl right, guv’nor,’ he said in a husky whisper, ‘the Limper’s coshed the watchman an’ they’re gettin’ art the bales—the safe shouldn’t take much bustin’.’

  I suppose I stood there looking foolish for a moment—then it dawned on me—this was a matter for the police—they were breaking in somewhere and the man had mistaken me for his boss.

  He must have tumbled to it from my face that he had made a bloomer. Next second he had jammed an automatic against my waistcoat and his angry eyes were glaring into mine. I caught an unpleasant whiff of his whisky-laden breath as he thrust his face within a few inches of my own.

  ‘If you ‘oilers you’re a dead’un,’ he said thickly. ‘I wonders if it could be you as soon as I sees the skirt, but there’s no knowin’ abart the ‘abits of them West-End crooks.’

  ‘Look here,’ I said sharply. ‘You’ve made a mistake—and if the gun goes off you’ll swing for it.’

  ‘I knows I’ve made a mistake orl right,’ he grunted, cocking one eye up at the Embankment; ‘but I’ll blowyer guts art if yer makes a sound—step in the boat and quick abart it—’op it, nah.’

  What was there to do? The man was very obviously in earnest; a little extra pressure of his trigger-finger and there would be a searing pain—I should pitch into the river to be picked up somewhere below the bridges with a neat round hole drilled in my stomach, and what might these ruffians do to Fiona?

  I heard her speaking. ‘Go on, Dick—do as he says, please.’ She was marvellously cool considering all things, but there was a little thrill of fear in her voice, and her last word was almost a prayer.

  Any man loathes to be made to look a fool or a coward in front of a woman he’s fond of, and I’d have tackled the brute like a shot if he hadn’t had that gun. As it was, I was only too jolly grateful for her plea—that let me out of trying any idiotic heroics. I stepped down into the boat.

  ‘come on you,’ said the man roughly to Fiona. I held out my hand and helped her in beside me. The chap gave a low whistle and the man in the bow pushed off.

  In a few moments we were out in the middle of the Thames; the sounds of music came softly to us over the water. There were the brilliant lights of the Savoy Restaurant. People were sitting there in safety and comfort—we ourselves had been sitting there only an hour before surrounded by that gay and careless crowd; now we were out on the black waters of the Thames, bound for Lord knows where. The lights were receding even as I watched them.

  A burly man came up out of the tiny cabin—he glanced at me and snarled: ‘Ide that ruddy weskit, yer blinkin’ fool. Yer’ll ‘ave us orl in chokey one night—workin’ in them torf’s clothes of yours.’

  The smaller man cut in hurriedly: ‘I bin an’ made a gaff, Puggie. It ain’t ‘im.’

  ‘Ain’t ‘im—strewth! You won’t arf cop it when the Limper ‘ears.’

  ‘ ’Ow could I ‘elp it?’ broke in the little man savagely. ‘You ses a bloke in evenin’ dress—’e was stannin’ there—‘ow was I ter know? It’s you oo’ll be for it—you’ve seed ‘im before, I ain’t.’

  Puggie peered into my face; he shook his head. ‘No—it ain’t ‘im.’ He looked away puzzled and glanced at Fiona. ‘An’ a skirt too! Crikey, this ain’t ‘arf a mess. I ses as ‘ow we was early; we’ve gone and mucked it proper this time, Nosey.’

  The chug-chug-chug of a motor-launch came to us from ahead. ‘Sit dahn, you,’ whispered Nosey, producing an ugly-looking knife from somewhere about his person. He flashed it in front of me. ‘An’ if yer squeals yer gets this in yer ribs—savvy? It ain’t so noisy, but just as ‘andy as a gun.’

  Fiona and I sat side by side on the narrow deck—the launch passed within twenty feet of us, but with Nosey only a yard away we didn’t dare to shout for help.

  ‘What the ‘ell are we goin’ to do wiv ‘em?’ asked Nosey, when the other boat was well astern.

  ‘Run ‘em dahn the river a bit an’ land ‘em on the Surrey side,’ suggested Puggie. ‘In them alleys it’ll be ‘alf an ‘our afore they finds a cop.’

  ‘An’ not tell the Limper nought abart it?’ added Nosey. ‘Yuss, that’s the ticket—’e’ll be busy in the ware-‘ouse. T’other bloke’ll be on them steps time we’ve done—we’ll pick ‘im up on the way back—see?’ Puggie disappeared below.

  Nosey did see, and so did I. It seemed that we were in for nothing worse than a short trip on the Thames and the unpleasantness of being stranded in those tin-savoury streets which lie on the south side of the water. I breathed again—but not for long.

  As the launch began to slip down river Puggie. Thrust his large head out of the cabin again. ‘I reckon we’d better put ‘em both to sleep, chum. They might come lucky and stumble on a cop right away—the Limper ‘ud raise ‘ell if ‘e was rousted on the job—an’ yer never knows.’

  Nosey laughed, a short unpleasant laugh. ‘Trus’ me, Puggie; I’ll cosh ‘em orl right. I ain’t takin’ no ruddy chances.’

  So we were to be hit over the head before we were landed—that was a jolly idea. The water came hot in my mouth as I thought of Fiona. One thing was certain. I was not going to see her knocked on her lovely head while I had a kick left in me—knives or no knives. With sudden pleasure I fondled the iron marlinspike with which my hand had come in contact a few minutes earlier when we had been made to sit down on th
e deck.

  It was Nosey who brought the business to a head; he had a sudden bright idea. ‘Wonder if the skirt’s got any sparklers?’ he said in his husky voice.

  Puggie laughed. ‘You’ve got yer ‘ead screwed on orl right, an’ that’s the trufe. Let’s see what the lidy’s got ter pay ‘er passige wiv on this ‘ere river trip.’ He started towards Fiona with an outstretched hand. I could feel her press against me as she shrank back.

  I wasted no time in argument, but sprang to my feet. Nosey, I knew, had got a gun, so I let him have it first. As his knife dashed, I brought the iron spike down with all my force. It missed, his head but got him on the wrist. His knife tumbled on the deck and he gave a yelp of pain. Puggie was on me before I had another chance. I lashed out with my left, hoping to get him in the face, but he closed with me and we swayed there, wrestling on the deck …

  ‘Yell—Fiona—yell!’ I gasped. ‘Yell for all you’re worth,’ and she started to shout for help. Next instant my foot slipped and, clasped in each others arms, Puggie and I went over the side.

  Lord, how cold the water was—cold as ice—and we went down—down—down. I thought we should never stop. I struggled like mad, but I couldn’t get free of Puggie; he hung on to me like death. The awful thought came to me that when we did come up we might have been swept under some barges, and that would be the end of us both. Somehow I managed to kick myself free. My lungs were bursting, and I thought my head was going to split, but at last I hit the surface and gulped in the air.

  There was a terrible to-do going on, Fiona was marvellous—you could have heard her shrieks down at Tower Bridge. She had the marks for weeks where that little brute Nosey tried to choke her with his left hand, but she simply wouldn’t stop.

  Three police launches had come on the scene—I could see Fiona struggling in the beam of their searchlights, and I struck out like mad to get to her, but the river police were first.

  It seems they were out to get the Limper’s gang that night; they had been pretty puzzled when they saw Fiona and I taken off the steps, but they pinched the chap I had been mistaken for, when he turned up five minutes later, and followed us downstream.

  Puggie was unlucky—he came to the sticky end that I’d been so frightened of—got trapped under a barge. They pinched the other fellows on the launch and in the warehouse too—all except the Limper; he got safely away.

  I often think of that night when I look out over the Embankment from my favourite table in the window of the Restaurant at the Savoy—that is, when I have the money to go there.

  ‘Kind Editor—Please Remit.’

  STORY XIII

  Very occasionally when I am asked to review a book, if I am not at the time writing a book myself and the subject interests me, I agree to do so. The following is a review of Dr. Alfred Metraux’s book, Voodoo in Haiti, translated by Hugo Charteris and published by Andre Deutch. It was written for John O‘London’s and I feel that no excuse is needed for reprinting it here because about half the contents of this volume concerns the occult and I feel that it may interest many readers.

  Voodoo

  Voodoo! What mental pictures this word conjures up; a hot, sultry night in a palm-fringed Caribbean island, the insistent muffled beat of drums, the stamping of scores of naked black feet in wild dances, the chanting invocations in the ancient tongues of darkest Africa, negroes and negresses rolling on the floor and frothing at the mouth while possessed by their familiar spirits, cures, curses and love charms being dispensed by witchdoctors and mystic rites culminating in blood scarifices.

  All this and much more is given us by Doctor Métraux in his book (400 pages of close print), for this is a serious study of the subject.

  His achievement is the more remarkable in that, unlike most other religions, Voodoo has no established doctrine or formal liturgy; it is a fantastic hotchpotch of rituals and superstitions from which each hungan, as the master of his congregation, is free to choose. Even the personalities and attributes of the gods and goddesses that make up the Voodoo pantheon are inextricably confused, and their number is legion.

  On visiting a humfo, the uninformed traveller would be surprised to see, among the strange collection of junk that reposes on Voodoo altars, gaudy pictures of the Christian Saints. But the mystery becomes clear when it is realised that, for example, St. Patrick owes his popularity to the fact that he is said to have been granted special power over snakes.

  Illogically, too, as it would appear, great numbers of devotees to Voodoo are also practising Catholics. This was for long condoned by many priests of the Roman Church, no doubt in the belief that they could gradually wean the Haitians from their superstitions; but the great majority have never paid more than lip-service to Christianity and in recent years the Christian churches have combined in an endeavour to stamp out Voodoo.

  How difficult that task will prove can be judged from the hold that the hungans have on the still almost totally illiterate population and particularly on the hunsi, as their initiated disciples are termed. On the altars among the offerings of fruit, bottles of rum and tawdry kickshaws, can always be seen a number of china pots. Each contains the pubic and armpit hair and nail-parings of a hunsi. They represent his soul, which he has surrendered to the hungan in order that his head may be empty for the reception of whichever loa chooses to utter pronouncements through him during fits of possession. And people who believe that they have pawned their souls in return for material benefits do not lightly rebel against their priests.

  Many devotees of Voodoo marry loa, although also married to a human being. This entails giving one or more nights a week to the familiar spirit and the Voodoo gods are jealous gods, woe betide the man who does not drive his wife out into the street with abuse on the nights when her place is to be taken in his bed by what students of the occult would term a succubus. The special protection he had gained by his spirit marriage is withdrawn, he falls ill, suffers losses and may even die. In this connection it is to be regretted that Doctor Métraux tells us little about the widespread cult of the goddess Erzulie-Freda—the insatiable Venus of Voodoo—for which I would refer readers to Zora Huston’s less scholarly but most interesting book, Voodoo Gods.

  The rise and development of Voodoo is easily explained by the history of Haiti. In the eighteenth century, as Saint Domingue, it was by far the richest of the French colonies and at the time of the Revolution populated by 30,000 whites, 40,000 mulattos and half a million blacks. The negroes had been imported as slaves mainly from Dahomey and Guinea. They were underfed and worked unmercifully, so that the average life of a slave in the plantations was no more than ten years. With them they had brought the barbarous cults they had practised in the African jungle. In endeavouring to appease their gods lay their only possible hope of a better future, and in gathering to dance, sing and satisfy their sexual urges at the midnight Voodoo ceremonies, lay their only form of relaxation.

  In their latter aspect it would not be inapt to compare them to the Witches’ Sabbats, which for many centuries filled the role of weekly ‘night clubs’ for the oppressed peasantry of Europe; although, in some of the grimmer particulars, such as tearing off the heads of live chickens and drinking the blood of sacrificed pigs, they more nearly resembled the secret abominations practised by the Mau Mau.

  As was the case in the southern United States, and much of Africa itself, these heathen rites and beliefs would in time normally have been abandoned through the work of Christian missionaries; but in Haiti the French Revolution led to the white population and Catholic priests being either massacred or driven out. Thus for many decades Voodoo became the sole religion of the island and developed unchecked.

  That the vast majority of Haitians, both in towns and in the countryside, still put their faith in Voodoo there can be little doubt, and probably the reason for this is that their standard of living is still appallingly low. There are 250 people to the square mile—the densest population in the Western Hemisphere—and the worn-out soil of
their small-holdings is incapable of supporting them much above starvation level. In consequence, their only escape from their crushing anxieties remain the humfos in which they can partake in physical and spiritual excitements.

  Yet it would be rash to suggest that these depraved practices are nothing but mumbo-jumbo, for the more primitive people are, the easier it is for them to contact occult forces. In any case, Doctor Métraux has given us a classic on this fascinating subject and Mr. Charteris’ excellent translation makes it most enjoyable reading.

  STORY XIV

  Here is a freak. It was born of going to a cocktail party to which I was not invited.

  In the early months of the war Ursula Bloom, that gifted novelist and indefatigable doer of good works, inveigled me on several occasions to assist her at charity shows, etc.; to sell war savings certificates.

  We had spent the afternoon at Harrods, easing money out of people for aircraft and guns, after which Ursula took me back to her flat for a throat-saving drink. Half an hour later it transpired that she and her husband were due at a cocktail party at the Ritz. I had an hour to fill and they suggested that I should go with them. Gate-crashing is not a favourite pastime of mine but Ursula told me that the party was being given by a firm which dealt in beauty preparations (the name of which I am ashamed to say I have forgotten) and that as it was being given for advertising purposes they would be pleased to see anyone who was even remotely connected with the Press. And so, indeed, it proved to be.

  At the party Ursula introduced me to Miss Jennifer Mattingly, Editor of Woman’s Own. It seemed that she had read some of my books and now she asked me to do a short story for her paper. I protested that love stories for a woman’s magazine were not really my line of country but she was so enthusiastic about the idea and so insistent that I could provide her with what she wanted that I had not the heart to refuse.