Gateway to Hell

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘His club,’ suggested Richard. ‘It’s certain that a man like Rex would belong to the most exclusive club here, and I can find out what that is from a friend of mine. He is an Argentinian diplomat named Carlos Escalente and was for some time en poste in London. Of course, he may have been posted elsewhere since his recall; but I think that’s unlikely, because he sent me a Christmas card from here. Anyhow, I’ll make enquiries at the Foreign Office. If Escalente is still in Buenos Aires, I feel sure he’ll help us, should his club be the one to which Rex belonged, by getting me made a temporary member.’

  ‘Good. You do that, then, while I go out and call on the Señorita Miranda—that is, if she’ll see me. Close on ten o’clock now, so I’ll ring up.’ As he spoke, Simon went over to the telephone and put through a call. After a brief conversation, he hung up and grinned across at Richard. ‘It’s O.K. That was the chap we talked to yesterday. The Señorita will receive me at twelve o’clock.’

  Soon after half past eleven, clad as lightly as decency permitted, Simon again had himself driven in the sizzling heat out to Rex’s apartment. The manservant showed him straight into a spacious drawing room, in which the blinds were drawn, shutting out the sun. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, he found himself facing two women who were sitting side by side on a sofa.

  Simon judged one of them to be in her fifties. She was plain, grey-haired, flat-chested and his idea of a typical spinster. The other was at least twenty years younger. She had lustrous, short, dark, curly hair and an excellent figure, but it was obvious that at some time her face had been very badly burned. In spite of plastic surgery, it was a pale mask with the skin drawn tight, and the features slightly distorted in several places. Her eyes were large and blue, but they had a fixed stare that was disconcerting.

  It was the younger woman who stood up as Simon entered the room. Taking a couple of paces forward, she extended her hand rather uncertainly and said, ‘You must forgive me, Mr, Aron. My sight is so poor that I can hardly see you. But please come in and sit down.’

  As Simon took her hand she went on in a low, musical voice, ‘I have often heard Uncle Rex speak of you and Mr. Eaton, and if only Pedro had let me know yesterday evening that you were both here, I should have been delighted to see you then.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly his fault,’ Simon smiled, ‘because, not knowing that you had been staying with Rex, we didn’t ask for you. And when that did emerge, we got the impression you were—er—not very well, so could not be disturbed.’

  She returned his smile. ‘I’m not ill, only rather badly handicapped as a result of a fire several years ago, in which I nearly lost my life; and everyone insists that I must be protected from tiring myself.’ Turning her head towards the older woman, she added, ‘Dear Pinney, here, is a treasure as a companion, but a positive dragon when she thinks I’m about to overdo things.’

  Simon gave a jerky bow to Miss Pinney, to which she responded with a curt nod. Then Miranda said to her, ‘Pinney dear, I’m sure you have lots to do, so you can leave me to entertain Mr. Aron.’

  With ill-concealed reluctance, the companion left the room. As the door closed behind her, Miranda said, ‘You have come, of course, to talk about Uncle Rex’s disappearance. How much of the story do you know?’

  ‘Nelson–that’s your father, I presume?’ She nodded, and Simon went on. ‘Nelson instructed the bank manager, Mr. Haag, to keep nothing back from Richard Eaton and me. We saw him yesterday morning and he told us all he could’

  ‘You do know about the money then?’

  ‘Umm. As a matter of fact, being a banker myself, I learned of it through confidential channels in London. That’s why Richard and I came out here. Obvious that Rex had got himself into some sort of nasty muddle, and we hoped we might be able to help.’

  Miranda’s blue eyes remained expressionless, but she smiled. ‘That was good of you; yet, after all I’ve heard from Uncle Rex of his great friendship with you both and the Duke de Richleau, I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Greyeyes, as we all call him, is in Corfu at the moment. He has some rather important business to settle there, otherwise he’d have come with us.’

  ‘I see. Anyway, you do know about the embezzlement. I thought you might. That’s why I sent Pinney out of the room. She and the servants know only that Uncle Rex has gone away without leaving an address. I was told by Mr. Haag on my father’s instructions, in case I could throw any light on the affair. Unfortunately, I couldn’t. But naturally we’re anxious that as few people as possible should get to know that Uncle Rex has robbed his own bank.’

  ‘Of course. It’s disappointing, though, that you can’t put us on to some new line of inquiry. Is there nothing you can think of to do with your uncle’s private life that might give us a lead?’

  ‘Not a thing. I arrived here early in November. I suffer from the cold and Uncle Rex suggested that I should spend the winter months with him here, where it is summer. Since I have been here, he’s been his perfectly normal, cheerful self. The whole business is an extraordinary mystery. He has masses of money. For him to have become a thief and made off with a suitcase full of notes just does not make sense. At first I refused to believe it; but there’s no denying now that that is what he did.’

  ‘Er …’ Simon hesitated. ‘Forgive my asking, but do you know if he was having a love affair, or—er—had a mistress?’

  Miranda laughed. ‘I don’t know for certain, but I’d take a bet that he had. I don’t sleep well and on the evenings that he went out I often heard him come in at three or four o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘From his behaviour towards the women who came here to parties and so on, did you suspect that any one of those might be the lady in question?’

  ‘No, I didn’t have the opportunity. You see, owing to my—my disability, I’m not allowed to go to parties. Exposing my eyes to bright light could rob me of the little sight I have left. The small library here has been turned into a sitting room for me and, when Uncle Rex entertained, Pinney and I had our dinner served there.’

  ‘What awful luck you’ve had. Life must be terribly dull for you.’

  She shrugged. ‘Things might be worse. At least I have every comfort and distraction that money can buy for me. The first few months were the hardest to bear. There was not only the pain after many operations to make my face a little less revolting …’

  ‘It’s not revolting,’ Simon broke in quickly. ‘You’re jolly good-looking. Nothing wrong at all, except that the skin is stretched a bit tight here and there. And your eyes are lovely.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. As I was saying, apart from the pain, there were so many things I missed dreadfully. I’d loved dancing, and ski-ing and, of course, I’d had lots of boyfriends. But, after a time, I gradually became resigned. Classical music had been a closed book to me before, but I’ve come to enjoy it enormously and I have a splendid collection of records for my hi-fi. I can write without effort by touch-typing, and I’ve become very good at making lace without using my eyes. Pinney reads the newspaper to me every morning, and a lot of books. I thoroughly enjoy my food, too, and fine wine. But that reminds me. I’m being most remiss as a hostess. After the heat outside, you must be dying of thirst. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘On thanks. Pretty well anything.’

  ‘I know!’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘I so seldom have a visitor. We must celebrate. We’ll have a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Simon with a grin. ‘Nothing to beat it at this time of day.’

  When the wine was brought, they sat over it for the best part of an hour, talking, laughing and telling each other about their lives. As Simon was about to take his leave, she asked hesitantly, ‘Have you an engagement for this evening?’

  ‘Ner,’ he shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘I—I was wondering if you would come and dine with me. I mean, if you wouldn’t find it too depressing having to eat in semi-darkness.’

 
‘But I’d love to,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s awfully kind of you to ask me.’

  She smiled. ‘On the contrary. It’s you who will be doing me a favour. Eight o’clock then, and we’ll share one or two of Uncle Rex’s best bottles.’

  When Simon got back to the Plaza, Richard said to him cheerfully, ‘Our luck is in. I succeeded in getting hold of Don Carlos Escalente. As I thought might be the case, he is doing a spell at the Foreign Office. The top club here is the Jockey. He is a member, of course, and so is Rex. They are only nodding acquaintances, and he didn’t even know that Rex has left Buenos Aires. But he is going to put me up as a temporary member, and introduce me to several men he’s seen Rex lunching with. I’m afraid I’ll have to desert you tonight, though, because I’m dining at the Jockey with him.’

  Simon tittered behind his hand. ‘Glad of that, old chap. Otherwise I would be deserting you.’ He then told Richard about his visit to Miranda Van Ryn.

  After a late lunch and an hour’s siesta they decided, as there was nothing more they could do for the time being, to take a stroll and see something of the city. The hall porter told them that the street with the best shops was the Floredor, and that it lay only just round the corner.

  It proved to be as long and narrow as Bond Street. By a wise decree, no traffic was allowed down it, which was just as well, as the pavements were uneven and wide enough to take only two people abreast. Apart from a few good jewellers’, the shops were unimpressive and, in view of the Latin ladies’ love of sweet things, it was surprising to find only one good pâtisserie. They went into Harrods, which in the old days was said to be famous, but found it to be a very ordinary store in the middle of one of the blocks, and bearing no resemblance to its great parent in London.

  On two occasions they turned down side streets, to find, almost immediately, that these nearby narrow ways were shoddy almost to the point of being slums. The shops offered only poor quality goods behind dusty windows, and were interspersed every hundred yards or so by open stalls, carrying piles of fly-blown fruit, cheap pâtisserie and glass containers holding highly-coloured, dangerous-looking drinks. Lounging about these stalls, or sitting on the broken pavements, were silent, ill-clad men and bedraggled women, watching with lacklustre eyes the half-naked children playing in the gutters.

  As they made their way back to the hotel, Richard remarked, ‘What a tragedy. Old Greyeyes was here for a while round about 1908. I’ve heard him speak of it as wonderfully prosperous, and the Paris of South America. But now, it’s plain to see that, apart from the very rich, the people have barely enough money to support themselves. That greedy devil, Peron, has a lot to answer for.’

  That evening he saw the other side of the picture in the luxuriously-furnished Jockey Club. When he arrived, it was already half-full of men whose clothes suggested Savile Row, and elegant women. None of them was in evening dress, but the jewels of the women proclaimed their wealth.

  Don Carlos was a jovial, middle-aged man. He came of a long line of aristocrats. One of his ancestors had been sent out by the King of Spain to govern a vast, newly-discovered territory in the Americas. Over drinks he was soon asking Richard a score of questions about their mutual acquaintances in London.

  When he enquired the reason for Richard’s visit to Buenos Aires and why he was anxious to get in touch with Rex Van Ryn, Richard replied, ‘I came on this jaunt partly for pleasure, but also on business. I am travelling with a friend of mine named Simon Aron. He is a banker and had a proposition to put up to Van Ryn, which might have proved most profitable to them both; and, if they do come to an agreement, I’m to be cut in on the deal.’

  With a nod, Don Carlos said, ‘As I told you over the telephone this morning, Van Ryn is a member here, but only a casual acquaintance of mine, and I have not seen him for some time.’

  ‘That is not surprising. His people tell me that he left Buenos Aires in mid-December, but gave no indication where he was going, and neglected to leave an address to which letters could be forwarded. Presumably he did not want to be troubled with business. It occurred to me, though, that he would be sure to have friends here, and might have mentioned his plans to one of them.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure to help you in any way I can,’ Don Carlos smiled. ‘For how long do you wish to be a temporary member here?’

  ‘A few days should be ample. If, by the end of that time, I have drawn a blank and Van Ryn has not returned, Aron and I will have to shelve our proposition, as it needs to be acted on with some urgency.’

  Don Carlos stood up. ‘Come along then. Five days is the usual period for which temporary membership is granted, but it can be extended. I will take you to our Secretary, and we’ll go through the formalities.’

  These were soon completed, after which they dined. The largest and most delicious avocados Richard had ever eaten were followed by the famous Argentine ‘baby’ beef, then cheese balls of a fairy-like lightness. When they had finished dinner, Don Carlos took his guests up to see the club library. It filled five large rooms on an upper floor, and was said to be the finest in South America.

  It was while they were admiring the serried rows of ancient, calf-bound volumes that Richard made the acquaintance of Don Salvador Marino. He was a tall, strikingly-handsome man, who appeared to be in his middle thirties. His hair was dead black and slightly wavy. He wore it full at the sides and, below his ears, it tapered off in close-cut curved whiskers that stood out against his dead-white skin. His eyes, below a pair of haughtily-arched eyebrows, were large and luminous; his nose prominent but delicately shaped, and his mouth must have been envied by many a woman, for the lips were firmly moulded, an almost startlingly natural red and, when open, disclosed two rows of gleaming, white teeth.

  As he came into the room, Don Carlos exclaimed, ‘Ah! Here is a man I have seen frequently with Van Ryn. Perhaps he can tell us something.’

  Introductions followed, and the handsome Don Salvador could not have behaved with greater charm. After hesitating only a second, he readily agreed that he knew Rex well, and expressed his liking for him; but he had not seen him for the best part of a month and could tell Richard nothing about his recent movements.

  The three of them went down together in the lift. Over coffee and liqueurs they speculated on why Rex should have left without leaving a forwarding address, and where he might have gone; but none of them could produce a plausible suggestion.

  As they were about to part, Don Salvador said to Richard, ‘It has just occurred to me that I know one man who might be able to help you locate Van Ryn. He is the Baron von Thumm. During the war he was a high-up Nazi–a Gruppenführer in the S.S. I believe—and one of those who succeeded in escaping to South America. Now, of course, he protests that he was always averse to Hitler’s policies, and only narrowly escaped arrest for complicity in the Generals’ abortive conspiracy to assassinate the Führer. Evidently Van Ryn believed him. In any case, they see a lot of each other, so Van Ryn may well have told him where he intended to go for a holiday.’

  ‘Could you put me in touch with the Baron?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Why, yes.’ Don Salvador gave his charming smile. ‘As you no doubt know, the Jockey has its Country Club a few miles outside Buenos Aires. The Baron is a very keen golfer. As it is Sunday tomorrow, it is almost certain that he will be out there, playing a round or two. I should be delighted if you will both lunch there with me and, with luck, the Baron will be able to give you the information you are seeking.’

  Don Carlos had a previous engagement, but Richard eagerly accepted.

  Next morning, over breakfast, Simon and Richard gave each other accounts of their previous evenings. Simon had had a most enjoyable dinner with Miranda, and afterwards had spent the best part of two hours listening to recordings of Brahms, Liszt and Beethoven. When Richard told Simon about the Baron von Thumm, his dark eyes showed swift suspicion.

  ‘Unusual friend for Rex to make,’ he said. ‘He’s too old a bird to fall for stories about N
azis who at heart were all the time little white lambs and hated Hitler’s guts. We may be on to something here.’

  A little before midday Richard set off for the Country Club. The drive proved no light ordeal. Thousands of cars were streaming out of the city to the wonderful bathing beaches at Tigre, or inland to shady glades suitable for picnics. For the first few miles the procession moved at a snail’s pace. Meanwhile the sun struck down unmercifully on the roof of the car, so that all its metalwork became red-hot to the touch. Fuming with impatience, Richard sweltered in the traffic blocks. At length, the congestion lessened; although not the heat. Dripping with sweat, he was eventually set down in front of the three-block, timbered building of the Jockey Country Club.

  Don Salvador gave him a smiling welcome and, apparently impervious to the heat, took him for a short tour of the grounds which far outdid those of similar clubs in Europe. There were four swimming pools, one of which, some way apart from the others, was for the use of the servants. As it was a Sunday, the whole great playground was sprinkled with family parties seated under a sea of gaily-coloured umbrellas, while the children of Buenos Aires’ richest citizens chased one another, gave vent to shrill laughter and splashed in the pools.

  To Richard’s relief, the tour soon ended at the back of the clubhouse, on a shady verandah and, shortly afterwards, he was enjoying a long, cool drink. The verandah gave immediately on to the golf course, and it would have been difficult to find a more beautiful vista. The greensward, undulating away into the distance, had been planted here and there with a wonderful variety of now well-grown specimen trees.

  Richard soon found that his host was not only strikingly handsome, but highly intelligent. He had travelled widely, particularly in the United States, having, at one time or another, stayed in every principal city there. He was also well acquainted with every country in Central and South America. Frequently showing his splendid teeth in a flashing smile, he talked with great fluency. Yet, despite his charm, there was something Richard did not like about him. What this something was he found hard to determine, but he decided that it might be the man’s arrogance and a certain, undefinable aura of ruthless power.