Strange Conflict

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Our losses in tonnage were considerably down last week, though,’ Richard remarked.

  ‘Yes; thanks to brilliant handling of their ships by our seamen—plus, apparently, the fact that de Richleau put a spoke in the Nazis’ wheel and enabled one convoy to get through without being attacked. However, the menace is still there. Britain entered the war with twenty-one million tons of shipping, but that is dispersed all over the world, and since September we’ve lost hundreds of thousands of tons every month in Atlantic waters. We can’t go on that way. It’s not only the ships—it’s hundreds of fine seamen who can’t be replaced—the very salt of our island race— many of them young men who’ve not lived long enough yet to beget sons and so pass on the blood that for centuries has given England the mastery of the seas and of the narrow waters. Then there’s the cargoes; loss of exports means loss in dollars, and, more important still, it’s temporarily halved our imports in such vital commodities as food, tommy-guns and the planes from America which we’re counting upon to enable us to beat the Germans in 1941.’

  ‘Well, you can rely upon us to do our damn’dest,’ said the Duke soberly.

  ‘I know. But I cannot too heavily stress the absolutely vital issues which are at stake. All our splendid naval successes in the Mediterranean, and the magnificent work in the Libyan Desert by which the Army has regained the confidence of the nation, will go for nothing unless this mass destruction of our shipping can be checked. The Western Approaches have now become the focal point of the whole war, and as the spring advances Hitler will unquestionably intensify his attacks. I don’t pretend to understand what you’re up to, but you seem to have got a line on this thing and you’re the only people in Britain who have, so I beg of you not to spare yourselves. If you’re victorious we shall never be able to tell the public how the Nazi counter-blockade was broken, but you yourselves will have the satisfaction of knowing that you five have gained as great a triumph for Britain as any military commander, with the whole of our new Armies, could do in the field.’

  Simon tittered into his hand. That ranks us as equal to about ten divisions apiece; pretty good going, eh?’

  ‘I mean it,’ insisted Sir Pellinore. ‘Now, when can you start?’

  ‘I think I can say for all of us that we’re ready to leave as soon as you can complete arrangements for our journey,’ said the Duke, looking round at the others, who all nodded silent agreement.

  ‘Good. That will be the day after tomorrow, then. The Clipper leaves Lisbon on Friday, and there’s no sense in your kicking your heels there for twenty-four hours which you could doubtless better employ here.’

  ‘Would you be able to get us places at such short notice?’ Rex asked. ‘I gather the Clipper’s pretty crowded these days.’

  Sir Pellinore waved the question aside with one of his large hands. ‘Your countrymen are in this thing with us now, Van Ryn, praise be to God. I have only to ask one of the officials of the War Cabinet to get on to the American Embassy and—whoever has to be turned off—they’ll see to it for us that you have places on the plane.’

  Shortly afterwards, having earnestly wished them God’s blessing on their strange mission, Sir Pellinore left for London. The Duke then told the others that he intended to set about purging the house of the poltergeists.

  Marie Lou remonstrated with him because she wanted him to lie down again and rest his injured foot, but he pointed out to her that as there would be quite a number of things to do in London before setting out on their journey they would have to leave Cardinals Folly very early the following morning, and he was anxious that the house should be made habitable so that the servants could return to it before they left.

  Seeing the sense of that she gave way but asked him a question that had been puzzling her for some days.

  ‘Why is it that, while we can’t make ourselves either felt or heard when we’re out of our bodies, a poltergeist can perform all sorts of physical acts?’

  ‘It’s because they are not individuals, but elementals,’ he replied. They differ from living spirits in the same way as a poisonous jelly-fish differs from a human being. Both these low forms are unpleasant and malignant but they are blind and lack all intelligence. Both can make themselves felt in a way that we cannot, but can easily be destroyed by us.’

  They spent the next two hours accompanying the Duke as he moved from room to room with bell and book and water sprinkler. In each room he remained standing and read an exorcism, while they stood on either side of him murmuring the responses to his prompting. He then sprinkled the four corners of the room, the doorway and the hearth, while reciting certain powerful abjurations which from time immemorial have been known to drive away evil spirits.

  In room after room as each ceremony was completed there was temporarily a disgusting stench until they had flung wide the windows and let in the cold winter air. At one place in the west wing the horrible smell of rotting meat was so bad that Marie Lou was on the point of vomiting, until de Richleau told her that if she were in her astral she would laugh to see the fun. The poltergeists were little like round balloons about the size of footballs, and each time the holy water hit one it burst, disintegrating in a puff of astral smoke which gave off the beastly smell of the earthly filth from the essence of which it derived its strength.

  That night they again slept in the pentacle, taking turns to watch, while the astrals of those who slept never left it. In consequence they passed an untroubled night and beyond the library door silence reigned all through the dark hours, showing that the purification of the house which had been carried out that afternoon had proved entirely successful.

  They were up very early the following morning. As soon as they had dressed they packed their bags, and while Marie Lou did Richard’s packing he had a talk with Malin, giving the butler a number of post-dated cheques with which to run the house while its master and mistress were absent. Malin also undertook to reassure such members of the staff as were willing to return that they would not be troubled by any further curious happenings. At nine o’clock he deferentially shook hands with them all and wished them good luck as they got into Richard’s car and set off for London.

  All five of them spent a busy day. At the Duke’s request, Simon telephoned to Sir Pellinore and arranged for the issue of a special treasury-permit enabling them to transfer ample funds to a bank in Port-au-Prince, the capital of Haiti. Marie Lou did a hectic afternoon’s shopping, acquiring the sort of lovely, light, clothes for tropical sunshine which she had never hoped to wear again until the war was over. Rex reported to Air Force Headquarters and ascertained that his indefinite extension of leave was all in order. De Richleau purchased an additional supply of rare herbs from Culpeper House while Richard, the ever-practical, saw that the armaments of the whole party were in proper order. They all possessed automatics from their past adventures, with permits to retain them, but none of the weapons had been used for several years and for two of the guns he had to obtain a new supply of ammunition.

  At cocktail-time they met at the Duke’s flat, as it had been decided that after rendezvousing there for drinks they would dine at the Dorchester and make a holiday of this their last night for none of them knew how long in dear, bomb-torn London.

  They had just satisfied themselves that all their arrangements had been completed, and were about to move off for the Dorchester, when the telephone bell rang. De Richleau picked up the receiver and Sir Pellinore’s deep voice boomed along the line.

  ‘That you, de Richleau? Listen, I’ve got a favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Certainly. What is it?’ replied the Duke.

  ‘There’s a young woman—daughter of a man I know— her name’s Philippa Ricardi—he’s very anxious to get her out of England and he has an estate in Jamaica—grows sugar or something of the kind, and the place is run for him by his sister. He’s already made arrangements to send the girl there by the Clipper leaving on Friday, so her permits and passport are all in order. She’s travelli
ng alone, though, and I was wondering if Mrs. Eaton would be good enough to chaperone her as far as Miami. It would be a great kindness if she would.’

  ‘Hold on one moment.’ De Richleau turned and repeated the request to Marie Lou.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she said at once, and the Duke told Sir Pellinore that it would be quite all right.

  ‘Splendid,’ boomed the Baronet. ‘Please convey my most grateful thanks to Mrs. Eaton. Miss Ricardi will meet you at Waterloo tomorrow morning. Oh, by the by, I forgot to tell you, and I can’t stay to explain further, because I’m wanted on another line, but the poor girl’s a mute—you know, deaf-and-dumb.’

  13

  The Beautiful Mute

  It was still half dark when they drove through London the following morning. A gentle drizzle was falling and the chill half-light disclosed a scene which could hardly have been more depressing. Only about a third of London’s pre-war traffic was now on the streets. Hardly one out of every hundred houses that they passed had actually been destroyed by a bomb but many appeared to have been shut and abandoned by their owners and in the vicinity of each wrecked house a dozen others near it had patched or boarded windows as a result of the explosion. Yet London was carrying on with grim determination, as could be seen from the little crowds of men and girls getting off buses and coming out of tube-stations on their way to work.

  At Waterloo they were conducted to a Pullman which had been reserved for passengers travelling on the Lisbon plane, and among the little group of people on the platform they at once picked out Philippa Ricardi. The only other woman there was an elderly lady, so they felt certain that the girl standing a little apart, with a tall, grey-haired man, must be their charge. As they approached the man stepped forward and raised his hat to Marie Lou.

  ‘I’m sure you must be Mrs. Eaton,’ he said, and as she smiled he went on: ‘It’s most kind of you to take charge of my daughter. As she’s unable to talk it would be terribly difficult for her to make the journey alone, and we’re both awfully grateful to you.’

  ‘Please,’ Marie Lou protested, ‘I’m delighted to think we shall be able to make things easier for her.’ She turned quickly to the girl and held out her hand.

  There was nothing at all about Philippa to indicate her terrible affliction. She was of medium height, with black hair which curled under a smart little hat, and she was dressed in neat, expensive travelling tweeds. Her eyes were large, dark and intelligent, her mouth full-lipped and generous. Her skin, which was particularly good, had a warm, faintly dusky hue and was the only thing about her which betrayed the fact that she had a dash of black blood in her veins. She looked about twenty-three but might have been younger, and if they had not known of her connections with Jamaica they would hardly have suspected her lineage.

  It is not the easiest of situations to find oneself suddenly confronted with a deaf-mute but Marie Lou had already made up her mind that the best policy was to ignore the poor girl’s affliction as far as possible, so she proceeded to introduce the others just as though Philippa could hear what she was saying, and the girl bowed to each of them in turn.

  Shortly afterwards an official asked them to take their places so Philippa took an affectionate leave of her father and they all got into the train. Two minutes later the whistle blew and it slowly steamed out of the station.

  As Philippa sat back from the window they saw that her large dark eyes were half-filled with tears and that she was having great difficulty in controlling her emotions, so for a few moments they looked away from her and busied themselves with their rugs and papers. Then Simon produced from his pocket one of those magic slates consisting of a sheet of celluloid under which, if it is scrawled upon with anything pointed, writing appears but can be wiped out again by pulling the small attachment at the bottom of the pad, which leaves the slate perfectly clean.

  On it he wrote: ‘Cheer up! We’re all going to the sunshine.’

  Marie Lou, watching him, felt how typical of the gentle, thoughtful Simon it was to have foreseen that although the girl could not talk or hear they would be able to communicate with her in writing, and by some strange means, probably involving considerable trouble, to have procured overnight such an admirable vehicle for the purpose.

  Producing a similar magic slate from her bag, Philippa wrote on it: ‘Yes. But I hate leaving London.’

  Simon wrote: ‘Why?’

  Philippa replied: ‘It seems like running away,’ and added: ‘Why are you writing things down? I can hear perfectly well.’

  Simon gave her a startled glance and said: ‘I thought you were—er—deaf and dumb.’

  She shook her head and wrote on her pad: ‘Only dumb!’

  The others, who had been following this interchange with the greatest interest, could hardly conceal their relief at this good news which would make things so much easier, and they all began to talk at once, telling Philippa how much they hoped that she would enjoy the trip out to the West Indies with them.

  Before the train was clear of the murky London suburbs they received another surprise. When Philippa learnt that Rex was a fighter-pilot on indefinite convalescent leave on account of a bad wound in his leg, she wrote: ‘As a V.A.D. I nursed a number of airmen and I specialised in massage so I’ll be able to give your leg treatment.’

  De Richleau expressed surprise that, being unable to talk, she had succeeded in qualifying as a V.A.D., upon which it transpired that her affliction was not a natural one. Her hospital had been bombed the previous September and it was only after the rescue squad had dragged her from under the wreckage that she or they realised that she had been struck dumb by the frightful shock of the explosion. Ever since, she had been treated by doctor after doctor, but none of them had been able to restore her speech; the last had suggested that, although her case seemed hopeless, speech might come back to her if she were sent abroad to a place where there was no chance of her hearing further bombs or explosions for many months to come.

  It was still raining when they arrived at the south-coast port which, as the secret war-time terminus of the flying-boats making the daily run to and from Lisbon, must remain nameless. As is usual with air travel, owing to the comparatively small number of passengers, the formalities with the customs and emigration authorities were got through quickly, and half an hour later a fast launch took them out to the big Empire flying-boat which was rocking gently at its moorings in the grey-green, choppy waters.

  They were no sooner safely installed on board than the launch backed away, the moorings were cast off and the engines began to turn over. The flying-boat taxied for about a mile and a half across the bay, turned right round into the wind, and suddenly rushed forward. The passengers could hear the spray sheeting up past the cabin windows but they could not see it, as the windows were blacked out. Abruptly it ceased and the engines eased down as though the plane was about to stop; but they suddenly realised that they had left the water and were soaring up into the air.

  De Richleau knew that even if they met enemy planes there was little likelihood of their being attacked, since the Lisbon plane carries all the English papers upon which the enemy rely for a considerable portion of their intelligence. On arrival in Portugal they are immediately dispatched to Germany and Italy; while the returning plane carries back from Lisbon to England copies of all the German and Italian papers for British Intelligence. The outward journey is, therefore, always a reasonably safe one as the Nazis are anxious not to interrupt the flow of information through this neutral channel.

  The windows having been blacked out to prevent travellers learning military secrets, the journey was a dull one. As the weather was good none of them were air-sick. They read or dozed most of the way until at half past four the plane banked steeply and two minutes later came down with a splash in the mouth of the Tagus.

  On leaving the seaplane for a launch they were all struck by the difference in the climate, and it seemed quite miraculous that such a change could be brought about by a
five-hour journey. Instead of the grey, wintry skies of England, the Portuguese capital lay basking in the sunshine, and after half-empty London the bustle of Lisbon streets, teeming with traffic, filled them with a strange exhilaration. They drove past the crowded cafés facing on to the famous Rolling Stone Square and pulled up at a big luxury hotel, the Aviz, in the Avenida, where rooms had been reserved for passengers in the Clipper.

  As they had all heard, Lisbon was packed with war escapists. Great numbers of wealthy French people had fled there after the collapse of France. There were also many Jewish refugees from Germany and Italy and a certain number of English, most of whom—to their shame— were skulking there after having been driven from their safe retreats in the South of France.

  In Lisbon the only evidence of the war, apart from the unusual fullness of the great hotels and cafés, was a serious shortage of food, as Portugal, although a neutral and not officially blockaded by either of the belligerents, was feeling the pinch through the Nazis’ ruthless sinking of shipping.

  Having rested after their journey they came downstairs to get as good a dinner as could be procured, and then went out to see what for them, after nearly a year and a half of black-out, was an incredible sight—a great city in all the glory of its lights and sky-signs.

  After they had walked through the crowded main streets for a while de Richleau, who knew Lisbon well, took them to the Metropole, the star night-club, and his friends were amazed at its palatial dimensions.

  The great tiled entrance-hall was built like a Moorish colonnade. Under each archway was a separate shop; flowers, chocolates, scent, handbags, fans, jewellery, and so on, could all be purchased on the spot by the male patrons of the place who felt generously disposed towards their fair companions. Upstairs there were gaming rooms on one side and on the other a restaurant with a big dance-floor, where they later witnessed a most elaborate cabaret.

  To Rex’s fury, he found that his leg still pained him too much to dance; and the Duke—even if the wound in his foot, which was now healing well, had not still to be treated with care—never danced. But Richard, Marie Lou, Philippa and Simon all thoroughly enjoyed themselves and for a time forgot the war as they mingled with the crowd on the dance-floor.