Such Power is Dangerous

by Dennis Wheatley

  His breath came in hot gasps as he fought and struggled with one hand pressed firmly over Avril’s mouth, the other fumbling to tear the bedclothes which separated them, or fending her hand from off his face.

  ‘Ples,’ he panted. ‘Ples. You lova Angelo, he very nice mans, very gentle too if you be good.’

  Avril wriggled and twisted, straining every nerve to free herself and throw him off. Her whole soul revolted at the touch of this brutal little Italian’s be-ringed hands upon her flesh. If only she could free her head and call for help. There’d be a scandal, of course, a beastly miserable business—but even that was a thousand times better than submitting to these loathsome caresses. Her night-dress was ripped to her waist, some strands of her hair had caught upon Angelo’s gaudy tie-pin and caused her agony every time she moved, but she fought with silent, savage persistence.

  ‘Be sensible,’ he hissed. ‘I lova you—be sensible, yes; if you not, I usa da chloroform, what you do then, eh?’

  The vile little beast. Avril sobbed with rage, and pain, and loathing. He meant to dope her, did he?—she’d heard of such things, read of them in books, or awful cases in the papers. It had never even entered her mind that such a horror should happen to her. She prayed that Ronnie or a passing waiter in the corridor might hear them struggling, but their movements were almost soundless, except for quick-drawn, gasping breaths, and Angelo’s fierce whispers.

  She tried to bite into the hand that he held forced against her mouth, but he pressed it down so firmly that she could not get her teeth into it. One of her arms was held crushed, imprisoned under her body, with the other she sought to thrust his face away. He pressed his hot lips again and again upon her throat and eyes. No nightmare that she had ever had had seemed more horrible.

  With his free hand he got a small bottle from his pocket, she could feel it as she struck out. With a terrific heave of her body she nearly succeeded in throwing him off, and knocked the bottle from his hand. Unfortunately for her it did not reach the floor, but fell upon the bed. She snatched it up hoping to hurl it way out of his reach, but he caught her hand, and with sudden brutal strength pressed upon her thumb, forcing it back until the pain became excruciating, it was almost at breaking point, she could have screamed with the agony before she finally let go.

  He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and uncorked the bottle with his strong white teeth—then he held them both high out of reach above Avril’s head.

  ‘Ef you not careful,’ he panted, ‘da chloroform, it spill, burna your lovely face, eh? Angelo not wanta hurt you, but he lova you, yes.’

  Avril lay frantic beneath his grip, nothing should serve to make her suffer this awful thing. Her strength was almost exhausted, she felt she had been a fool, she should not have fought so desperately, she should have tried cunning before. Suddenly she let all her muscles go limp and lay still.

  ‘Ha—dat is better so,’ she could hear the triumph in Angelo’s voice. ‘You crier an’ I spill da chloroform, yes.’ He removed his hand from her mouth. She lay there as one dead while Angelo knelt above her.

  He tilted the bottle upon the handkerchief. The pungent smell of the anæsthetic came strongly to her nostrils. She prayed that he might re-cork the bottle, with a gasp of relief she heard it squeak as he pressed it in. Then she gathered all her remaining strength for one supreme effort, and held her breath that her scream might echo through the hotel.

  She turned her head slowly towards the window, half-burying it in the pillow that Angelo might have more difficulty in forcing the handkerchief over her mouth. The sickly sweet anæsthetic would render all further resistance impossible. She was half-mad with terror. She opened her mouth to scream with all the power of her lungs.

  But even as she did so, she caught her breath in a little gasp. A tall dark figure was standing in the room silhouetted against the pale light of the curtained window. ‘Help!’ she screamed, ‘Help!’ and using all her strength in one terrific effort, she succeeded in flinging Angelo from her.

  Even as she slipped, terrified and exhausted, to the floor on the far side of the bed, there came a single, shattering report, and a bright flash illuminated the room with sudden violence. With a little choking moan Angelo sank from his knees on to the carpet.

  Dazed and bewildered, Avril struggled to her feet, clutching frantically at the shreds of nightdress which hung in ribbons about her; wild-eyed and terrified she looked towards the man.

  For a moment he stood there in the half-light, apparently irresolute, peering down at Angelo’s still-twitching body. A handkerchief masked the lower part of his face, and a soft hat pulled well down hid his forehead and eyes. He seemed stunned by what he had done, the hand holding the smoking pistol dangled at his side.

  As Avril moved round the foot of the bed, he raised it, half-turning towards her. For a moment she was overcome by panic, she feared that, he was about to ensure her silence by murdering her too. With a little cry she flung herself upon him, seizing the hand that held the pistol and forcing it with her whole weight, down towards his side.

  He pushed her roughly with his other hand and she fell. He tried to wrench the pistol from her grip, dragging her in quick jerks along the floor towards the window, but she clung on desperately, with the unreasoning tenacity of fear. His hand was within a few inches of her face, she could see it clearly in the brighter light between the curtains, as they struggled silently for possession of the pistol, half in the room—half out on the balcony.

  A sudden thought flashed into her mind. That hand, so beautifully modelled, with the long sensitive fingers, the carefully tended nails—she knew it, she had seen it before—but where? With a sudden wrench he tore it away, leaving the still warm barrel of the pistol in her grasp. Next moment he had jumped over the railing of the balcony—swarmed down the iron support, and was running, a doubled figure, with head well down, into the shadows of the garden.

  Avril lay still in the place to which he had dragged her, shaking and utterly exhausted. She sobbed and panted, overcome with terror and distress. A sudden recognition had flooded into her mind as the man leaped from the balcony. The hand that had saved her from the horror of Angelo—and the hand that had just done murder—was the hand of Nelson Druce.

  9

  Who killed Angelo Donelli?

  How long that grim, breathless struggle with Angelo had lasted Avril did not know. To her it had seemed an eternity, but in actual fact it could not have been more than a few moments, and from the shooting of Angelo to the escape of the murderer over the balcony, had only been a matter of seconds.

  She staggered to her feet, still grasping the pistol, and stood for a moment swaying as though about to faint, then she stepped back into the room and clutched at the bed-table for support. She was standing immediately above the body of Angelo. He was quite still now, his legs doubled back, his hands thrown out, his chin tilted in the air, grotesque and unreal, like some horrible dummy figure. She fumbled for the switch of the electric light, but just as her fingers found it she paused—yet another figure stood out in relief against the pale light of the curtains. Someone had come along the balcony.

  She suddenly realised that she was almost nude and snatched up her dressing-gown, but the figure did not advance into the room. At first she thought it was a child from what little she could see in the semi-darkness. Then from the attitude she realised that it was a man, small and bent, leaning upon a stick, the head too big and out of all proportion to the slender body. He stood there, seeming fixed and immovable, peering forward into the shadows at Avril, and the crumpled body of Angelo Donelli.

  Suddenly a quick knocking came upon the door, and Ronnie’s voice: ‘Avril—are you there—are you all right?’

  She shook back her hair and ran to open it. He slipped in at once, closing the door behind him. ‘That shot,’ he said. ‘Was it here? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s frightful,’ she gasped. ‘There was a man—two men—in my room. One of them’s been
killed I think.’

  ‘Good God! let’s have a light.’ He found the switches at the door and snapped them on. Avril looked quickly towards the windows, but the small bent figure had vanished noiselessly.

  ‘Why, it’s Donelli,’ exclaimed Ronnie, as he stepped round the far side of the bed. ‘What the devil was he doing here?’

  Avril collapsed upon the bed and closed her eyes. ‘It was too ghastly,’ she sobbed. ‘I was asleep, or nearly—he—he sprang on me—ugh!’ she shuddered. ‘The feel of his hands. I don’t think I shall ever feel clean again.’

  There were footsteps and excited voices in the corridor, then a loud knocking on the door. Ronnie went over and opened it a few inches. There were a floor-waiter, a chamber-maid, and a number of people from the other rooms, in various stages of attire. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he said briefly. ‘Better send for the manager and the house detective.’ Then he shut the door again and shot the bolt. ‘What happened after that?’ he asked Avril.

  ‘The brute held his hand over my mouth so that I couldn’t cry out. He threatened to chloroform me if—if I wouldn’t give way. Then the other man came in—and shot him.’

  ‘How ghastly for you, but how did you get that gun?’

  ‘I was terrified that he meant to shoot me, so I snatched it and hung on. He was afraid that he’d get caught so—so he suddenly let go and bolted.’

  The knocking came again. This time it was the hotel manager and the house detective who had arrived from different directions simultaneously. Ronnie let them in and locked the door behind them.

  The detective was a tall, lean man, a soft hat was pushed on the back of his head. He looked sharply at Avril, then at the body, and back to Avril again.

  ‘Say, young woman—you been doin’ a killing?’

  ‘She didn’t shoot him, another chap did,’ said Ronnie promptly.

  ‘I wasn’t speakin’ to you.’ The detective’s manner was abrupt. ‘Come on, sister—answer up.’

  ‘What Mr. Sheringham has said is quite correct.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I guess this is a matter for the cops. Stay right where you are—both of you.’ He took up the telephone and put through a call.

  ‘Touched anything,’ he asked briefly, when he had finished speaking.

  ‘No, nothing. It—it only happened a few moments ago.’

  ‘Okay,’ he nodded. ‘Then I figure we’d best wait for the people from headquarters.’

  He strolled over to the window with his hands in his pockets, and looked out onto the balcony, then he turned, pushed a piece of chewing-gum into his mouth, and stood there, his jaws moving slowly, while his sharp eyes ran up and down the room.

  The manager said nothing. He was a sleek, dark-haired American with a suggestion of Jew in his make-up. His black eyes were fixed on Avril with a speculative look.

  Avril sat huddled on the end of her bed, a small tragic figure, her hair disordered, her beautiful face flushed and strained by the ordeal which she had just been through. Only the exercise of the greatest control and Ronnie’s sympathetic presence had enabled her to force a desire to give way to a fit of screaming hysterics.

  It was a quarter of an hour before the police arrived. A short, tubby man with thick bushy black eyebrows, dressed in a suit of grey checks, and two others, both plain-clothes men. None of them worried about removing their hats.

  ‘Evenin’, Bob. What’s the trouble?’ asked the fat man.

  The house detective nodded. ‘Skirt’s gone an’ killed a guy. That’s how I see it, Captain Rudd.’

  ‘That so?’ the other turned to Avril. ‘Say yer piece, girlie.’

  ‘This man was shot by another who got away,’ said Avril firmly.

  ‘You don’t say!’ his bushy eyebrows went up. ‘Let’s have yer name.’

  ‘Avril Bamborough.’

  ‘What’s yer job?’

  ‘Actress and screen star.’

  ‘You British?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Since when,’

  ‘A little over a fortnight.’

  ‘He yer boy-friend’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You bring him to yer room?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘How’d he get in?’

  ‘I don’t know—through the window, I suppose, or he may have been hiding in the clothes cupboard when I came up to bed.’

  ‘That so! When d’you come acquainted that he was in the room?’

  ‘When I was in bed, I saw him standing near me.’

  ‘Was yer light on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were yer asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Queer you never saw him, ain’t it? Did yer yell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He sprang om me and held his hand over my mouth.’

  ‘That so? Where d’you get that gun?’

  ‘I snatched if from the other man.’

  ‘What other man?’

  ‘The man who came in by the window while we were struggling.’

  ‘D’you know him?’

  For a second Avril paused, then: ‘No,’ she said. ‘He had a handkerchief over his face, and it was dark.’

  ‘This guy what’s been shot—you say you know ‘im? What’s his name?’

  ‘Angelo Donelli.’

  ‘Sure—you’re right. What’s his job?’

  ‘I don’t know, but from what he said I gathered he was what you call a gunman.’

  ‘He told you that, eh? Right again, I’ve known him years. When d’yer see him last?’

  ‘In the crowd outside the Ocean Palace last night—just before Mr. Barton Druce was killed.’

  ‘That so?—when afore that?’

  ‘He came to the box where I was with Mr. Druce.’

  ‘Why?’

  Avril hesitated. ‘He came to bring me some flowers.’

  ‘Yet he wasn’t yer boy-friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When d’you see him afore that?’

  ‘After lunch the day before yesterday, in the hotel garden here.’

  ‘What’d he come see yer for—then?’

  ‘He wanted me to go for a run with him in his car, or dine with him that evening.’

  ‘Yet he wasn’t yer boy-friend?’

  ‘No, he was not,’ Avril snapped angrily.

  ‘All right, all right. Had he bunched you afore?’

  ‘What—sent me flowers?—yes.’

  ‘How offen?’

  ‘I don’t know—several times. I sent them back.’

  ‘Ever mealed wi’ him?’

  ‘No—well, yes—but at a party where other people were present.’

  ‘How offen you bin places wi’ him?’

  ‘I’ve never been to a party with him. It only happens that he had been present at two parties when I chanced to be there as well. Just a coincidence, nothing more.’

  ‘He drop in at the hotel—other times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know—several times.’

  ‘Where’d yer see him—here, or in the hotel parlour?’

  ‘In the lounge, of course, or in the garden—never here.’

  ‘See him every time he dropped in?’

  ‘Only when I had to—to avoid a scene.’

  ‘Had any letters from him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s see ‘em.’

  ‘I tore them up.’

  ‘That so? What time d’you come to bed?’

  ‘About eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Where d’you feed s’evening?’

  ‘The Ambassadors.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Mr. Sheringham.’

  ‘What d’you do after?’

  ‘We sat in the garden for a little while, then I went to bed.’

  ‘Did you lock your door?’

  ‘Yes
.’

  ‘Where’s the coat you wore s’evening?’

  ‘In the clothes cupboard.’

  ‘You hung it up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guess I’ll take a look at that cupboard.’ He walked across the room and opened the door. It was one of those big closets which are a feature of American luxury hotel bedrooms; in fact, a small room. Avril’s frocks and coats were hung in a long line upon a row of hangers, above, on a shelf, were her hats, on the floor about a dozen pairs of shoes … Avril was exceedingly proud of her small feet. At one end of the closet, her trunks and boxes were stacked in a pile. ‘Show us the coat,’ said Captain Rudd.

  Avril pointed it out. He placed one hand on the hanger and looked round.

  ‘Guess you couldn’t have missed seein’ a guy if he was hid in here, there ain’t no place for him to hide.’

  ‘Unless he was behind the trunks,’ suggested Ronnie.

  ‘Who are you, son?’

  ‘My name’s Sheringham.’

  ‘That so! Then I figure you’re the guy what dined this dame s’evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What d’you do then?’

  ‘Came back here, sat in the garden, and then went to bed.’

  ‘D’you go to bed in them clothes?’

  ‘Well, I mean I was just going to bed.’

  ‘You take a mighty long time—I’ll say.’

  ‘Oh, I was talking to a friend of mine in his sitting-room along the passage, and I’d just left him to go to bed when I heard the shot.’

  ‘Then why in heck don’t yer say what yer mean. Where’s yer room?’

  ‘Next but one.’ Ronnie jerked his head casually in the direction of his bedroom.

  ‘What d’yer do when yer heard the shot?’

  ‘I came along here to see what was the matter. I knocked and Miss Bamborough let me in.’