Gateway to Hell

by Dennis Wheatley

  It emerged that Don Caesar knew the Escalentes and several members of the Grau-Miraflores family. He had never heard of the Baron von Thumm, but had met Silvia Sinegiest twice at parties. If she had recently arrived at Santiago, he felt certain that a mention of her would have appeared in the social column of his paper, unless she was staying with friends and, for some reason of her own, not appearing in public.

  Richard then asked if his host knew of a club called the ‘Barbecue’. Don Caesar shook his dark head. ‘No. Are you certain that there is such a club in Santiago?’

  ‘I have reason to suppose so, because Van Ryn mentioned it to me once,’ Richard prevaricated. ‘And, if he is here, I hoped I might trace him through it.’

  ‘It may be a new place, or quite a small one. Anyway, my people are used to making every sort of enquiry, so I’ll get them to find out and let you know.’ After a moment, Don Caesar added, ‘Have you made any plans for tomorrow? If not, my wife and I are driving down to Viña del Mar, and you and your friend might like to come with us.’

  Anxious as Richard was to get on with his quest, there was nothing more that he could do for the time being, so he accepted for himself, and said he would pass on the invitation to Simon.

  Having walked the few blocks back down the shady side of the street to the Hilton, he lay down for a siesta. Simon did not reappear in their suite until six o’clock. He had given Miranda and Pinney lunch in the roof restaurant on the seventeenth storey of the hotel. Outside it there was a sun-bathing terrace and a swimming pool and, before lunch, he had gone in for a swim. But, to his surprise and annoyance, when he came out he had been told that drinks could be served to people in bathing wraps only at four umbrella-shaded tables on the far side of the pool. At the tables on the other sides, gentlemen must wear coats and trousers, and in the restaurant itself, ties were insisted on.

  After lunching, he had gone out and made the rounds of the best hotels. None of their reception clerks could give him any news of Rex, Silvia or von Thumm, but the hall porters had eagerly accepted the escudo notes he offered them, taken down his address and promised to let him know should any of his friends book in at their hotels.

  During his tour of the city he had two pleasant surprises. He found that the taxi drivers all refused tips, and outside one of the hotels there had been a man with a barrow piled high with the largest nectarines he had ever seen. He had bought a dozen and had eaten four of these luscious fruit on the way back to the Hilton. As he offered the bag containing the others to Richard, his friend shook his head, and said uneasily:

  ‘Really, Simon. You should know better than to eat rindless fruit in a tropical country, without first washing it in disinfectant.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon rubbed his arc of nose with his forefinger. ‘They look perfectly clean.’

  ‘Perhaps. But God alone knows by what filthy fingers they have been handled. You had better take several Enterovioform pills right away.’

  That evening Richard took them all out to dine at the Jacaranda a restaurant that Don Caesar had recommended to him as one of the best in the city. The night air was delightfully warm and softly-lit tables were set outside the restaurant in a broad alley that was closed to traffic. Their thoughts were never far from Rex and, although they could not mention the missing million dollars, as Pinney was present, they again speculated fruitlessly on what had become of him.

  On their way back to the Hilton, Simon fell silent. Then, breaking out into a sweat, he confessed that he felt very ill. Richard’s foreboding about the unwashed nectarines had proved only too well founded. Miranda was greatly perturbed and wanted to call in a doctor, but Pinney briskly declared that all he needed was dosing, and shortly after they got back, she came to their suite with appropriate medicine.

  On the Sunday morning Simon still had an upset stomach and, in any case, he had already refused Don Caesar’s invitation, in order to spend the day with Miranda; so, when the Alberts arrived at ten o’clock to pick Richard up, he set off alone with them to Viña del Mar.

  Richard had already met Donna Albert in England. She was young, bright and spoke English as well as her husband, so they made a merry party. The large, comfortable car took the road to Valparaiso, and was soon running through a valley, the lower slopes of which were sparsely wooded, mainly with a silvery blue gum, above which towered holly oaks and firs of various species.

  Fifteen miles outside Santiago, they began to cross a lofty region known as the ‘Mountains of the Coast’. There were many hairpin bends, but the road was exceptionally wide for a highway through such terrain. In most places it had, on either side, sandy verges of ten feet or more; so, even in a collision, there was little danger of a car going over a precipice.

  On the far side of the ridge there were more broad valleys and, as they approached the coast, the scenery became very picturesque. Areas of forest, consisting mainly of acacias and mimosa, were broken here and there by lakes, or fields in which grew water melons, pumpkins, wheat and, occasionally, sunflowers.

  After crossing a last deep valley, they mounted to high downland; then, quite suddenly, saw the Pacific several hundred feet below them. Speeding down, they completed their ninety-mile run to the coast by entering Valparaiso, Chile’s largest port: a dreary, dirty city, retaining no trace of the romance associated with it in the days of Spain’s glory, when many a treasure galleon had called to revictual and take on water there.

  Turning north, they ran round the huge bay and into Viña del Mar, a lovely watering place, with numerous fine hotels and a splendid Casino, of which the Chileans are justly proud. Continuing along the coast for some miles, they passed through several villages set in rocky bays, and fine beaches with white sand on which hundreds of holiday-makers were enjoying themselves. The last of these was called Concón. A little way beyond it, Don Caesar pulled up and, leaving the car, they walked out along a rocky promontory, perched on the end of which was a rustic restaurant. He told Richard that he had brought him there because the place was famous for its crabe; and, later, Richard agreed that he had never eaten better.

  Afterwards, on the way back, they stopped in Viña del Mar, to spend twenty minutes strolling round the lovely park; then took the road to Santiago. On arriving at the Hilton, Richard asked the Alberts to come in and have a drink with him. To his surprise and pleasure he found that Simon was not in their suite, so he must obviously have felt much better before he would have left it.

  Half an hour later Simon came in and was introduced to the Alberts. They were just about to leave, and had already asked Richard to dine with them the following night. Now, they included Simon in the invitation and when he asked, a little hesitantly, if he might bring Miranda with him, explaining about her blindness and saying that it would be a treat for her, they agreed at once. When they had gone, he told Richard that he had stayed in bed for the morning, had a light lunch, then spent the afternoon up beside the swimming pool with Miranda.

  On Monday morning, at about half past ten, Don Caesar telephoned. He said that one of his reporters had picked up some information that might interest them. He was lunching at the Union Club with a friend with whom he had to discuss business; but he suggested that they might join him there at midday for a drink.

  When they arrived at the Union Club, they found that Don Caesar had with him a tall, youngish man with hooded eyes and an exceptionally long nose, whom he introduced as Philo McTavish. He added, ‘Mr McTavish is a Chilean, and he was born here; but his mother was Greek and his father a Scot, and they sent him to Scotland to be educated, so he speaks good English. That’s why I chose him to try to find out about this barbecue place. You see, my wife and I are leaving for England on Wednesday morning, and McTavish will be able to report to you in your own language.’

  They were soon settled in a quiet corner of the club smoking room, with drinks before them. Don Caesar nodded to McTavish. ‘Now let’s hear what you have to tell us so far.’

  The tall Greco-Scot-Chilean leaned
forward and, looking at Richard and Simon, spoke in fluent English, but with a strong Glasgow accent, ‘There’s not a club called the “Barbecue” here in Santiago, Señor. Of that I’m now certain. But many barbecues are given by folk here. In our summer the climate lends itself to that form of entertaining. Most folk who’re wealthy enough to own a house wi’ a garden of any size have one in it. Ye’ll see then the only line o’ investigation I could pursue was to enquire for any barbecue parties that were held regular an’ might have some special feature.

  ‘ ’Tis customary fer the hostess’s cook to buy the food an’ prepare the dishes; but, in cases where the party be a large one, caterers or hotels are called on to supply the victuals. I drew a number o’ blanks, then visited the Danubio Azul, a restaurant renowned for its Chinese food. There I got on to it that once a month the proprietor receives an order for food enough for a hundred people, everything to be of the very best, an’ no expense barred. Aboot this order there are several unusual circumstances. Fer such large parties, ’tis common practice fer waiters to be provided by the restaurateur. In this case, they’re not; although, as far as I ken, the staff of the house consists only of an elderly couple. Also, in spite o’ that, the restaurateur’s delivery men are not permitted ter carry anything into the house. The food, dishes, linen an’ all are received by the two servants at the gate of quite a long drive, an’ the dirty things collected from there the following morning.’

  ‘Whereabouts is this house?’ enquired Don Caesar.

  ‘Tis on the south-east outskirts o’ the city, beyond the best residential district, Señor. You could reach it by going on past the far end of the Avenida Amerigo Vespucci, where you live. The property is a very extensive one, two or more hectares maybe; an’ the house is screened from observation on all sides by belts o’ trees.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything more about it?’

  ‘Nay, very little, Señor. I went out there an’ tried to get the servants talkin’, but it were not possible. Believe it or not, they were both dumb, or pretendin’ to be. I then tried some of the servants at properties nearby. They could tell me nowt, except that these parties usually go on til) sunup, an’ are real rowdy affairs. There’s drummin’ goes on and, faint from the distance, strange cries: the like of animals or persons gone mad wi’ excitement. Folks round about are of the opinion that these monthly barbecues are orgies. Aye, for a’ that, those who attend them come an’ go quiet as can be. They cause noo inconvenience, so gi’ noo ground for complaints to the police. An’ there’s noo law against men making merry wi’ lasses in private, provided the lasses be willing.’

  ‘Who is the owner of this property?’

  ‘ ’Tis a rich Negro, Señor, by name Lincoln B. Glasshill.’

  ‘A Negro!’ Richard repeated. ‘There aren’t many in Chile are there? I mean, there were no great sugar plantations here for which they would have been brought in to labour as slaves during the Spanish occupation.’

  ‘No,’ Don Caesar replied. ‘We have very few. However, I know of this man. He is not a Chilean, but a distinguished American lawyer. He settled here some six or eight years ago. He is reputed to be a very able man, and has built up a fine connection.’

  McTavish nodded. ‘Aye, Señor. The couple he employs are also Negroes, an’ act mainly as caretakers. They keep the place habitable for him. During the week, he lives in an apartment near the Law Courts. He goes out to his place only fer weekends an’ fer these monthly parties.’

  ‘Does he always give them on the same day of the month?’ Richard enquired.

  ‘Nay, Señor. I asked one o’ the men at the restaurant tha’ does the catering aboot that. He told me these skeedoos are always held at the full o’ the moon.’

  7

  The Barbecue

  At the words ‘full o’ the moon’, Simon’s eyes flickered towards Richard, who raised an eyebrow then asked, ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. McTavish?’

  The tall Chilean shook his sandy, close-cropped head. ‘Naught else, Señor; except that I have it from the restaurateur that a barbecue is to be held there tomorrow night.’

  Again Simon and Richard’s eyes met, now conveying their excitement.

  Don Caesar glanced at his watch and said, ‘You’ll forgive me if I now break up this little party, but my luncheon guest should be arriving in a few minutes.’

  The others stood up and Richard smiled. ‘Of course. Very good of you to let Señor McTavish spend his time helping us to trace our friend. I think this monthly barbecue given by the Negro lawyer must be what Van Ryn referred to. Anyhow, Aron and I will go out there and see what we can discover. In the meantime, we’ll see you this evening.’ He then thanked McTavish for the work he had put in, and the party broke up.

  As Simon and Richard walked back to the Hilton, the former asked, ‘What d’you make of it?’ This full of the moon business sounds like a Witches’ Sabbat to me.’

  ‘Could be. I find it difficult to believe, though, that Rex would have got himself mixed up in that sort of thing, knowing as he does, from your clash with Satanism way back in the thirties, how damnably dangerous it can be.’

  Up in the roof restaurant of the Hilton, they found Miranda and Miss Pinney waiting to lunch with them. Eagerly, Miranda asked if the meeting had thrown any light on the possible whereabouts of her uncle. Simon told her about the barbecue regularly held by the American Negro lawyer, and ended, ‘All this secrecy and the rest of it sound pretty fishy. Could well be Satanism.’

  ‘Oh, come, Simon!’ Miranda laughed. ‘What nonsense. Uncle Rex has his feet on the ground as firmly as any man I know. He is the very last person to start dabbling in devil-worship.’

  Miss Pinney gave a disapproving sniff and added. The practice of Black Magic went out with the Dark Ages. Of course, some countries still perform revolting rites; but that an American gentleman like Mr Van Ryn should do so is unthinkable.’

  Simon did not pursue the matter. After they had lunched, they all went down to a car that he had hired for the afternoon. Going for drives, while wearing a heavy veil, had been one of the few pleasures that Miranda had been able to enjoy before Simon had enabled her to go about in public free from embarrassment and without harming her eyes.

  They drove out to the Carro San Cristobal, the wooded mountain to the north-east of the city, and up the winding road to the wide terrace from which rose the huge statue of the Virgin. The whole area, several miles in extent, was one vast park. On a lower slope there was a Zoo, on the higher ones large public swimming baths, tennis courts, cafés and restaurants. There was ample room for thousands of people to picnic there on Sundays and national holidays; for innumerable glades, hollows and rambling paths provided so many secluded spots that no part of this fine retreat for dwellers in the close, hot streets of the city would have been crowded.

  Although, unlike her companions, Miranda could not see the magnificent view, she enjoyed the cool, clean air as they sat at a table on the top terrace, eating casata ices.

  That evening she accompanied Simon and Richard out to Don Caesar’s home. As Simon gave the driver of the car the address, she asked, ‘Do you know about the man after whom the Avenida Amerigo Vespucci was named?’

  Both of them murmured that they did not, so she went on, ‘As we all know, Christopher Columbus was the first discoverer actually to land in the new world, but Amerigo Vespucci was the first to write a book about it. That’s why it became known as America.’

  The Alberts’ house proved to be a spacious, airy building, furnished with many beautiful objects, and set in a three-acre garden. Ten people sat down to dinner, and it proved a jolly party. Afterwards they went out into the garden, which a nearly full moon made as light as day. It was redolent with the scent of moonflowers, and they drank their coffee and liqueurs at the side of an artistically-designed swimming pool. After a while, Richard got Don Caesar to take him for a stroll round the garden, and when they were out of earshot of the others, he asked, ‘Does
much black magic go on in Chile?’

  Don Caesar shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know, You see, Chile is rather different from the other South American countries. Of course, in the interior the native Indians still practise their magic, but it is of a very primitive kind, and you certainly could not call it Satanism. It was the Negroes who brought voodoo to South America; but, as Chile was not particularly suitable for sugar plantations and, apparently, lacking in natural wealth, comparatively few Spaniards settled here, so only a very small part of our population consists of the descendants of Negro slaves.’

  ‘That’s interesting, as from what I have heard most of the other Latin-American countries are riddled with diabolic cults.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s particularly true of Brazil. Naturally, Brazil differs from the rest of South America, because it was colonised by the Portuguese. There has never been any colour bar there, and a high proportion of the Portuguese settlers not only took Negresses for mistresses, but married them. Such women made a show of accepting Christianity, but they were too strongly imbued with a belief in their own dark gods to give up worshipping them. As wives, they acquired a much greater influence over their husbands than mistresses would have had; and, on the principle that it is better to be safe than sorry, many of the husbands were persuaded by their wives to placate the African gods by attending midnight blood sacrifices. The wives’ influence over the children of such marriages was, obviously, even greater, so although they were baptised as Christians and regularly attended Mass, they in fact became devotees of voodoo, or Macumba, as it is called in Brazil. Even today, in spite of modern education, a large part of the upper classes pay only lip service to Christianity, and pin their faith on attending pagan rites.’

  ‘It’s your opinion, though, that this Negro lawyer’s parties are not that sort of thing?’

  ‘I doubt it. Much more likely to be sexual jamborees. But as you and Aron are going out there tomorrow night, you ought to be able to satisfy yourselves about what actually does go on. As you might have difficulty in finding the place, I’ve already told Philo McTavish to take you out there in his car. You had better telephone him at the office in the morning and let him know what time you want him to pick you up. As I’m off to Europe the day after tomorrow, I’ve also told him that he is to place himself at your disposal as long as you remain in Santiago, and that, whatever you may find out about Lincoln B. Glasshill, in no circumstances is anything to be printed in the paper.’