Gateway to Hell

by Dennis Wheatley

  After a twenty-minute drive, the park-like land merged into a real park, with palm-lined avenues, playgrounds for children, flower-beds, fountains and benches. At the far end, the park was overlooked by big blocks of luxury flats, behind which was massed the city.

  By that time the three occupants of the car were perspiring freely, but they had to endure another twenty minutes’ grilling, while being driven right through the great metropolis. At length they reached the far side, where the broad, park-like Plaza San Martin led down to the waterfront. At the landward end, among gnarled, ancient trees, stood the statue of José San Martin, the liberator of the Argentine and, opposite it, the Plaza Hotel. The car drove into a covered courtyard and, gasping with relief, its occupants got out.

  The Plaza had the atmosphere of an ancient Ritz. Upon the floor above the street level, a broad, immensely long corridor stretched away from the reception area and, opening off it, there was a whole series of lounges and banqueting rooms of varying sizes. It was strangely silent and almost deserted. Having made certain that their booking was in order, young Wingfield left Richard and Simon to be taken up in a slow but spacious lift to their suite on the sixth floor.

  As the comfortable first-class seats in the several aircraft in which they had travelled had enabled them to doze for a good part of their long journey, they were not particularly tired; so they decided that, after refreshing themselves with a bath and changing into lighter clothes, they would lose no time in calling on Mr. Haag.

  Shortly before midday, having learned that the bank was only a few blocks away, they decided to walk there; but, before they had covered a hundred yards, regretted it. Not only was it high summer in Buenos Aires but, as they were shortly informed, for some days the city had been afflicted with a heat wave. The sun blazed down with such intensity that, each time they had to step out from the narrow band of shelter on the shady side of the street to let someone pass, or cross the road, the heat hit them like a blast from a furnace.

  The marble-pillared hall of the bank was impressive, and beyond it the better part of forty people were working behind a long counter. Although the ceiling was lofty and had slowly-revolving fans, all the men were in shirtsleeves, the women in thin cotton blouses, and the garments of all of them were stained with perspiration.

  After a short wait they were taken through to Mr. Harold B. Haag’s office. He was a middle-aged, semi-bald, paunchy man and, as his surname implied, of Dutch descent. While shaking hands he said he had received instructions from his President to render them all possible assistance, which he would willingly do. But, when it came to the point, he did little more than shake his head and murmur at frequent intervals, ‘A sad business. A very sad business.’

  From him they secured only the following basic information. On the morning of Saturday, 16th December, Rex had told Haag that he was negotiating to buy a small ranch from a once-wealthy man who had been nearly ruined by Dictator Peron’s taxation, and was collecting as much cash as he could before leaving the country clandestinely. The price he asked for the ranch was seventy thousand dollars. Rex had said that he was going up-country for the weekend, as he had an appointment to meet this man and conclude the deal on Sunday. That morning he had brought a suitcase with him to the bank. Having cashed a cheque for the seventy thousand, he had opened the suitcase in front of Haag, and put the money into it with his weekend things. He had then said that it would be foolish to risk losing such a considerable sum by leaving the suitcase in the cloakroom of the restaurant where he was lunching, so he would put it in the bank vault and call for it later.

  Although overlord of all the Corporation’s branches in South America, Rex did not hold the keys to the vaults of any individual bank. They were in the custody of managers and chief cashiers; but it had not even occurred to Haag to refuse the loan of his keys to his chief, who had promised to put them in an envelope, then into the wall safe in his office, to which both of them had the combination.

  No irregularity had been suspected until the Monday morning when the vault was opened. Inside, the contents of Rex’s weekend suitcase had been found in a heap on the floor. When questioned, the watchman stated that Rex had returned to the bank a little after four o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, spent about twenty minutes in the vault, then relocked it, come upstairs and calmly handed the suitcase to the man to carry out to his Jaguar for him. As Rex was exceptionally large and strong, while he was holding the suitcase it had not appeared to be particularly heavy; but, as the watchman took it from him, its weight had almost wrenched out the poor man’s arm. The reason was not far to seek. It must have been packed solidly with banknotes in several currencies. Apart from the seventy thousand for which Rex had given his cheque, it emerged that he had practically cleared out the bank, and had made off with the equivalent of one million one hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars.

  To that Haag had nothing to add, and he could suggest no line of enquiry. Moreover, he did not seek to disguise the fact that, as the matter had been put into the hands of professionals, he considered it most unlikely that amateurs would succeed where they had failed; and that Richard and Simon were not only wasting their time but, by poking about, would increase the likelihood of this unsavoury scandal concerning a member of the Van Ryn family becoming common knowledge.

  Haag went on to say that he would have liked to offer them lunch; but, unfortunately, was already committed to entertain an important client. However, he hoped that they would give him the pleasure of their company one evening during their stay. While thanking that solid but uninspiring citizen for his invitation, they made mental reservations that only in some unforeseen circumstance would they accept his hospitality. They then secured the address of the apartment Rex had occupied, cashed a considerable sum in travellers’ cheques, and took their departure.

  Out in the blinding glare of the street, Richard murmured, ‘Not a propitious start. D’you think the feller’s holding out on us?’

  ‘Ner.’ Simon shook his head. Typical Dutch-American middle-class mentality. No imagination and puts everyone into categories. You are an effete English “cheque-writer”, as they call people with money and no obvious occupation. I’m a Jew. Both of us got an axe to grind. Trying in some way to cash in on old Rex’s disappearance.’

  Sweating profusely, they returned to the Plaza and found their way to a not very attractive downstairs bar. A surly barman could produce no list of drinks and refused to make up Planter’s Punches to Richard’s specification; so they settled for Rum and fresh lime juice on the rocks. With their drinks there was brought a dish containing a dozen, spoon-shaped pieces of Cheddar cheese, evidently dug out as one does with a Stilton. The flavour of the cheese was delicious, and they soon found that to serve it with all aperitifs was an Argentinian custom.

  As they carried their drinks to a leather-covered settee, Simon said in a low voice, ‘British not popular here—anyhow, not with the lower classes. During the war they made a packet by supplying us with their meat, but since Lease-Lend ceased, we’ve been in a spot financially, and had to limit our purchases very strictly. Peron is squeezing the rich so unmercifully, too, that the big cattle-raisers can no longer afford to maintain herds of the size they used to; so the beef is not on the hoof for other people to buy it, even if we can’t. But as for generations we were their best customer, they put the blame for the slump on us.’

  ‘Peron is a disaster,’ Richard agreed, having given a cautious look round the nearly empty bar, to make certain no one was close enough to overhear their conversation. ‘Before his time, the Argentine was wonderfully prosperous. She was in a fair way to becoming a minor United States, and her chances of doing so were immensely strengthened by Britain having to sell all her assets here during the early years of the war, in order to buy arms from the U.S. Instead, Peron’s greed and extravagance is ruining the country. Do you know, I was told by an Argentinian friend of mine that in a basement cold store under his palace Peron keeps over a thousand
fur coats, available as hand-outs to any young woman he may fancy. And that was before Eva’s death last year.’

  Simon tittered. ‘Wonder that she stood for that.’

  ‘Oh, come! That type of woman feels no resentment at her husbana indulging himself with others. She was interested only in power and endeavouring to raise the masses from the abject poverty which she had to endure. For that she has my admiration. The tragedy is that she pushed Peron into going the wrong way about it.’

  ‘She was quite a girl,’ Simon conceded. ‘Even got votes for women, and that can’t have been easy in a Latin country. Always thought our people blotted it pretty badly when the Perons were on a visit to London, and the Foreign Office advised against their being received at Buckingham Palace. That slap in the face was one of the high spots in setting the Argentine against us. Whole population resented it intensely.’

  By this time it was two o’clock, but South Americans keep Spanish hours, so people were only beginning to filter into the grillroom that was adjacent to the bar. When Richard and Simon went in to lunch, they found the head-waiter much more polite and helpful than the barman; and, advised by him, they enjoyed a very pleasant meal.

  Afterwards they began to feel the strain of their two-day journey, so they went up to their rooms, undressed and spent several hours dozing on their beds. At six o’clock they went out again. It was still very hot, but they were relieved to find that a light evening breeze was blowing from the river. A taxi took them to Rex’s apartment, which was on the eighth floor of one of the luxury blocks overlooking the park.

  The door was opened by a short, thick-set manservant with a swarthy complexion. Simon, who spoke passable Spanish, told him that they were friends of Rex’s, and had come to make some inquiries about him.

  The man gave him a sullen look and said, ‘Señor, I am tired of answering questions about my master. I have nothing to say that I have not already said to officials from the bank and the American detectives they sent here.’

  Simon took out his pocket book, extracted a fifty-escudo note and said with a smile, ‘Perhaps this will compensate you for your time in repeating to my friend and me what you have said to others.’

  Unsmiling, but with a polite little bow, the man took the note and showed them into a large, well-furnished dining room, with a fine view over the park. As they sat down, he closed the door behind him, remained standing near it, and began in a toneless voice to recite what, by this time, must have become a familiar piece to him:

  ‘On the morning of December 16th, my master told me that he was going up-country for the weekend. Contrary to custom, he packed several suitcases. He had me take only one of them down to the car, and drove off to the bank as usual. At about one o’clock he returned. I made for him as usual his Martinis, which he drank out on the balcony while reading Time magazine. He then had lunch, eating, as was his custom, a substantial meal. At about half past three he left the apartment. In a little over an hour he returned and collected his other suitcases. I have not seen him since.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Simon. ‘Had your master recently been in good health, and his usual cheerful self,’

  ‘Yes, Señor. I have never known him ill; and he showed no sign of worry.’

  ‘Had he many visitors during the weeks before his departure?’

  ‘Not more than usual, Señor. Once or twice a week he had friends to drinks or dinner. Most evenings he was out being entertained by other people.’

  Simon produced another fifty-escudo note and laid it on a small table beside him. ‘No doubt you could give me the names of your master’s closest friends who came here regularly?’ The man nodded and, pausing now and then, mentioned a dozen people. Most of them were Americans and only three were women, all of whom had come with their husbands. Simon had taken a slender note pad from his pocket and took down the names. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘during the first fortnight in December, did any stranger call upon your master?’

  ‘No, Señor. No one.’

  ‘Can you recall any unusual happening whatever, which might account for his disappearance?’

  ‘Señor, there is positively nothing more that I can tell you.’

  ‘What staff are there here besides yourself?’

  ‘My wife, who is cook-housekeeper, and a woman who comes in the morning to do the cleaning.’

  ‘Did your master make arrangements for you to receive your wages during his absence?’

  ‘I do not know, Señor. They have since been paid by the Señorita Miranda.’

  Simon’s dark eyes gave a sudden flicker of interest, as he repeated, ‘The Señorita Miranda. Who is she? Señor Van Ryn’s secretary?’

  ‘No, no, Señor. She is his niece, and has been staying here with him since early in November.’

  After a moment’s silence, Simon remarked, ‘I assume that the Señorita is not at home, or you would have mentioned it when I told you that we were friends of your master’s.’

  ‘She is at home, Señor; but she is an invalid and I did not wish her to be bothered unnecessarily.’

  Taking a visiting card from his wallet, Simon gave it and the second fifty-escudo note to the man and said, ‘Please give my card to the Señorita and tell her that I am very anxious to see her. I will telephone tomorrow morning to ask if she will receive me.’

  There being no more to be said, the two friends left the apartment and went down to the taxi they had hired to take them out there.

  As they were driving back to the hotel, Simon gave Richard the gist of the conversation with the servant. When he had done, the latter asked, ‘D’you think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘Umm,’ Simon nodded. ‘I gave him a good sight of the wad of notes I was carrying. If he had had anything really worthwhile to tell, odds are he would have attempted to barter it for money. And it’s very unlikely that his wife or the woman who comes in to clean knows anything he doesn’t. That’s why I didn’t bother to ask him to produce his wife. This niece business is puzzling, though. Didn’t know Rex had one, did you?’

  ‘I’ve never heard him speak of one, although I’ve a vague idea that Nelson has children. On the other hand, it may be a euphemism. It wouldn’t be the first time that a well-heeled widower has passed a young mistress off as his niece.’

  Simon put his hand to his mouth as he tittered. ‘Maybe you’re right. Old Rex has always enjoyed his fun and games. Strange, though, for him to pick on an invalid for his mistress. But my Spanish isn’t all that good. It’s possible the word I took for invalid really meant ill, or laid up. Woman might be, if she was very fond of Rex, and he’s taken a run-out powder on her.’

  ‘Anyhow, he made a jolly neat job of flitting, I must say.’

  ‘He certainly did. And how typical of his sense of humour suddenly to hand the watchman that suitcase stuffed with half a hundredweight of notes, to carry out to his car for him.’

  Back at the hotel, Simon telephoned Pinkerton’s office in Buenos Aires. He made no mention of Rex, and had no intention of raising the matter of his disappearance with them, since he felt sure they would tell him nothing. He simply gave his name, then read off the list that he had taken of Rex’s most frequent guests, and asked that dossiers on them should be furnished him as soon as possible.

  Reluctant to have drinks in the uncongenial bar again, they enquired if there was another. The reception clerk told them that, adjacent to it, there was the ladies’ bar, which was much frequented by Buenos Aires society, and that they could also have drinks sent up to the roof garden.

  Electing for the latter, they went up to the eighth floor in the lift, then walked up two flights of stairs, to emerge on what was euphemistically called the roof garden. It consisted only of three small roofs connected by narrow walkways, a few tubs of sadly-wilted flowering shrubs, a large, ugly water tank which partially blocked the view, and eight or ten garden chairs–a strange adjunct to such a palatial hotel.

  Only one couple was sitting on the most distant square of
roof, and no waiter was in attendance; but, on the wall in which was the door by which they had come out, there was a telephone and a small service lift. Optimistically, Simon telephoned down for two rums and lime juice, and they sat down to take stock of their surroundings.

  On either side of the big water tank, over lower roofs, they could see a number of ships berthed along the docks, and lying off. Beyond them spread the estuary of the mighty River Plate; but it was so broad there that they could not see the further shore and, instead of offering a pleasant seascape, the water was an ugly, muddy yellow.

  After a while the lift rattled and the two drinks appeared. A waiter then emerged from the door, to serve them. The great heat of the day was long past, and a gentle breeze from the river now made it pleasant there; so they lingered until the sun began to go down. Then, tired after their active day, they decided to dine in the grillroom and go early to bed.

  Before they drifted off to sleep, both of them pondered the mystery they had set out to solve, and both felt a sense of disappointment. They had been confident that, either through Rex’s bank or his servants, they would at least learn the reason for his disappearance, if not secure a possible clue to his whereabouts. But they had drawn a complete blank. There was not a single thing to indicate why a rich, sane, healthy banker should suddenly have disappeared with a million dollars.

  3

  Enter the Crooked Baron

  Next morning, when they met in the sitting room of their suite for breakfast, Simon said, ‘Can’t expect Pinkerton’s report on Rex’s friends for a while yet, and it’s very much on the cards that when it does come in it will tell us nothing. In any case, Rex must have had acquaintances other than the socialites he entertained at his apartment. So we must explore other avenues. Some place where gossip can be picked up would be our best bet; but where such a place would be, I don’t know.’