Such Power is Dangerous

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Was she holding that gun?’

  ‘Yes—I think so.’

  ‘I don’t want no thinking—were she or weren’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  Captain Rudd swung suddenly upon Avril. ‘How long yer had that gun?’

  ‘I’ve told you—I wrenched it from the second man’s hand.’

  ‘You stick to that yarn, eh?’

  ‘Yes, it is the truth.’

  ‘Yeah, so you say. You bin usin’ chloroform?’

  ‘No, but on that handkerchief. Donelli tried to render me unconscious.’

  ‘That so? How many shots were fired?’

  ‘Only one.’

  ‘Where was he standing?’

  ‘He was kneeling on the floor.’

  ‘Thought you said he was a-top of you?’

  ‘I threw him off.’

  ‘Then yer hands were free?’

  ‘Yes, at that moment.’

  ‘An’ he was kneelin’ in front of yer by the bed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I figure there’d be about three or four feet between you an’ him?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Then that ’ud be the distance between you—when you pulled the gun?’

  ‘I didn’t have the gun,’ Avril protested, ‘not till afterwards—the other man shot him.’

  ‘Is that so? An’ where would he be standin’?’

  ‘Over by the window.’

  ‘You don’t say—now, that’s real queer. Angelo was kneeling in front of you—he’d have his back to the window, yet he were shot in the chest. You sure don’t figure that you can put it across about this other guy, do you?’

  ‘It’s the truth, I tell you.’ Avril was very nearly in tears. ‘And how do I know which way Donelli was facing—I kicked him off my bed onto the floor. It was dark—I couldn’t see-as he was shot in the chest he must have been facing the window when he got to his knees.’

  ‘Yeah—so you say—but yer hands were free?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ yer face—why didn’t yer yell for help?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why didn’t no one come?’

  ‘The shot was fired almost at the same second.’

  ‘Where d’you buy that gun?’

  ‘Oh, I tell you—it’s not mine. I wrenched it from the other man.’

  ‘Yeah—so you say. How long you bin in the States?’

  ‘About three weeks.’

  ‘An’ Hollywood?’

  ‘Just over a fortnight.’

  ‘Then you know Donelli pretty well since you stepped off the train?’

  ‘I met him the first day after I arrived.’

  ‘An’ he sent yer flowers, an’ love-letters—an’ took you places, an’ he’s been in yer bedroom in the middle of the night—yet yer say he’s not your boy-friend.’

  ‘He is not my boy-friend, he did not take me places, and if he was here in the middle of the night, it’s through no fault of mine. He came in at the window when I was half asleep, or else was hiding in the clothes cupboard.’

  ‘Yeah—so you say. Now, if he weren’t your boy-friend, I’d be mighty interested to know who is?’

  ‘I haven’t got a boy-friend,’ declared Avril angrily.

  ‘She ain’t got a boy-friend,’ he repeated with a grin. ‘Now ain’t that queer. Did you ever hear of a movie star that hadn’t got a boy-friend? You’re sure like the gangster lady, that hadn’t got no gun. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have yer ever bin married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She ain’t never been married, and she ain’t got no boyfriend. Waal, I always did think you Britishers were slow—but tonight I’m learnin’ a whole heap. Hand us over that gun…. Hoy! don’t point the darn thing at me.’ He took it gingerly by the barrel and turned it from side to side, taking care not to disturb the fingerprints on the butt.

  ‘I’ll say it’s a neat affair,’ he commented casually, ‘outa date pattern though. Had one like it meself once—sold it off cheap, a few months back, fer twenty-five bucks. They cost about eighty when they’re new. I guess this has seen a bit of service, though. What did they soak you for it, sister?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ declared Avril again, with rising temper. ‘And I should be glad if you would stop your absurd attempts to trap me into admissions which are not true. I’ve told you what happened and I’m absolutely done up after this terrible affair.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I do.’ She turned to the manager. ‘I should be glad if you would have my things moved into another room as quickly as possible. I shall never be able to sleep after this, but I would like to get to bed at once.’

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute.’ Captain Rudd stepped up to her. ‘You sure are in a hurry to see the back of us boys, but I guess you’ve got the situation all wrong. Let’s see yer hands.’

  Avril held them out obediently, then before she could realise what he meant to do, the fat detective had snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists.

  ‘You’re mad!’ she cried. ‘You can’t do this—I didn’t do it—you’re mad!’

  ‘That so!’ He seemed mildly amused at her panic-stricken face. ‘Waal, maybe, but I’m sane enough to know my job, an’ it don’t take no highbrow detectin’ to figure who gave Angelo his. Get your coat, sister. We’re beating it to Headquarters right away. I’m arresting you for the murder of Angelo Donelli.’

  10

  Avril Bamborough faces the Third Degree

  Avril was taken at once to Police Headquarters. Captain Rudd had offered to remove her handcuffs if she wished to dress before leaving the hotel, but her refusal to dress herself with five men present had only given rise to some amusement on the part of the detectives. They thought it queer that a movie star should possess any delicacy of feeling. Her request that she should be allowed to use her private bathroom had been absurdly refused. It seemed that Captain Rudd was responsible for his prisoner, and he feared that if she were left alone she might seize the opportunity to commit suicide and thus defeat the ends of justice. He had made up his mind beyond all question that she had shot Angelo Donelli, and nothing would satisfy him but her immediate removal.

  Certain necessities that she asked for were crammed into her dressing-case, and the clothes that she wished to take hurriedly packed in one of her portmanteaux, then, just as she was, in her tattered nightdress and a dressing-gown, she was escorted downstairs to a waiting patrol wagon. Captain Rudd, his two henchmen, and the gum-chewing house-detective climbed in beside her, and they were whirled away to the station.

  Ronnie had done everything that he could for her, and before she left the hotel, promised that he would get in touch with Schultzer first thing the following morning and cable John Bamborough. In addition he had undertaken to find out the best English lawyer resident in Hollywood, or if necessary in Los Angeles, and secure his services in her defence.

  This was but cold comfort for Avril during the draughty ride to Police Headquarters, and still less reassuring when, after a wardress had taken her to a cell and allowed her to dress, she was led out again to a bare bleak room for further examination.

  Captain Rudd was a great believer in, and a practised exponent of, the famous third degree methods of the American Police. Avril was placed in a hard chair before an empty deal table. He took his seat opposite to her and his two satellites sat upon his left and right. He then proceeded to ply her with endless questions. And however absurd and irrelevant to the matter in hand those questions appeared to be, Avril soon discovered that they inevitably led back to the old subjects of her exact degree of intimacy with the deceased Angelo or the ownership of the automatic.

  Sometimes Rudd endeavoured to trap her into admissions by a display of false goodwill. ‘Come on, girlie,’ he would urge her, ‘why don’ cher come clean. Let’s get this thing over. I guess we’d all like to hit the hay.’

  Sometimes he
flatly contradicted her statements and called her every name under the sun.

  When he tired his lieutenants took up the game. The theory of the third degree being, that if you plug away at a prisoner long enough, and wear down their resistance, eventually they will reach such a state of exhaustion or hysteria that they will confess to anything, provided they are left in peace. Owing to the fact that there are innumerable detectives always available for an important case, the. prisoner, however strong his mentality, stands no chance of wearing down his questioners. They work in relays, often going out for meals or sleep while others take their place, and then return refreshed to the attack.

  In a very large number of cases the theory works, particularly if the person questioned happens to be guilty. Even if they are not, they often make false confessions to escape further torment, as did the unfortunates who suffered the torture of the boot, the water, or the iron virgin in the Tower of London or the Bastille.

  In the endless repetition of the same question there is a certain similarity to the Chinese method, whereby through the incessant dropping of water upon the prisoner’s head, at the rate of one drop per minute, he is finally driven mad.

  It would be unfair to hold the American police responsible for this brutality. Individually they are for the most part brave and capable men, and they cannot be blamed for using every means which the law allows to bring criminals to justice. It is, nevertheless, a terrible ordeal for the prisoner who undergoes it.

  By three o’clock in the morning Avril was bordering on a breakdown. Her eyelids were drooping, her face haggard, her head splitting. She felt as though great wedges were being driven into the centre of her skull. The small room was thick with the smoke of cheap cigars and cigarettes.

  Captain Rudd sat before her, one hand on his hip, an elbow on his knee. Again and again he went over the same ground, leading up to the same questions in a slightly different way. At last Avril could bear it no longer.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. I refuse to answer any more questions.’

  Rudd took no notice, he just went on as though he had not heard, but she closed her eyes and would not answer.

  He came round to her side of the table and sat upon it, one leg dangling from the edge.

  ‘See here, girlie, that stuff won’t get you nowhere—you jus’ put us wise on how you gave Angelo his an’ we’ll call it a day.’

  She sat there in silence, pale and weary, her mouth tightly shut, her eyelids drooped, veiling her tired eyes.

  He gave her shoulder a gently shove.

  Still she refused to answer, so he began to rock her slowly backwards and forwards.

  At last she opened her eyes again and pushing back her chair, stood up. She felt that the time had come to make a stand if she were not to break down altogether. She must try to make Rudd cease his maddening questions for tonight at all events, so she gathered her remaining strength.

  ‘Listen to me for one moment, please. I don’t wish to interfere with your duty, and I have told you everything I can. I do not know much about American law—but I do not believe that the police are allowed to use force in an endeavour to extract false confessions from their prisoners. You have been using what I think is called the third degree upon me. Now I’m sure you don’t want any sort of unpleasantness, and neither do I, but if you persist, I shall complain through my solicitor tomorrow to the British Consul in Los Angeles, and have him take the matter up with the Ambassador in Washington. I don’t want to make capital out of the fact, but I am a very well-known actress in England and the papers both there and here will make a terrific fuss out of the story of my illtreatment. That cannot possibly do you any good, and I promise you that you will not get one word more out of me tonight. Now please take me to my cell.’

  Captain Rudd regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. He knew from the quiet, firm way in which she spoke that she meant every word of it. His experience of human nature was very wide and he realised that he was not dealing with any rubber-legged cutie on this occasion. He doubted if he would get any more out of her in any case. ‘Better let up for the night,’ he thought, there was just a chance, too, that there might be trouble with the big people in Washington, if he went too far. He gave in with a good grace.

  ‘I guess you win, girlie,’ he said with a grin. ‘Though don’t you figure that you’ve got me scared about those bums in Washington, nor the British Government, neither. They don’t cut no ice. Take her away, boys, she’s got her story set, she won’t alter any now.’

  Avril was led back to her cell. She was so exhausted that she hardly had the strength to undress, but when at last she had shed her clothes she was unutterably thankful to creep into the small hard bed. The wardress brought her some bromide, which eased the twitching of her nerves a little, but despite her utter weariness she could not get to sleep.

  Over and over in her mind the incidents of that terrible evening succeeded each other in her tired brain. The struggle with Angelo—the brilliant flash of the pistol illuminating the whole room as the shot was fired—the nerve-racking reiteration of those questions by the police. One incident above all came to her again and again. The moment when she had been left holding the automatic and recognised the hand of Nelson Druce.

  She wondered what strange impulse had caused her to suppress that information and deny all knowledge of the murderer. Of course there was just a possibility that it might not have been him. She had not seen his face, but the man was of the same height and the same build. Besides, he had a definite motive in killing Angelo; Mick Downey had been caught, he would go to the electric chair, but Angelo had got away, there was not a scrap of evidence against him. No more, in fact, than against herself or any other member of the crowd. Yet he had been there, and he was the chief of Hinckman’s gunmen; Nelson might assume with reason that the Italian had a part in his father’s assassination. It was a terrible thing, Avril thought, to take the law into one’s own hands like that and kill a man. Yet if ever there were a case in which it was justified, surely it was in this. Nelson Druce must have known that it would be impossible to bring the murderer to justice and decided to avenge his father in the age-old way.

  Bitterly Avril regretted her frantic action in seizing and clinging to the gun. Druce could not have meant to kill her, nor could he have foreseen that she would struggle with him. He probably did not even know that it was her room to which he had tracked Angelo. If only she had not flung herself upon him, he would have got away and with him would have gone that wretched pistol. There would not have been the least evidence against her, or against him, for that matter.

  She wondered if he realised who the woman was with whom he had struggled in the dark—she was inclined to doubt it. Would he have stayed, she wondered, if he had. But it had all happened so quickly—he would not have had time to realise the terrible situation in which he was leaving her and if he had stayed he would certainly have been caught—that would have meant death for him.

  What should she do tomorrow—stick to her story or tell about that hand? The more she thought of it, the more certain she felt that she could not have been mistaken. Those long, sensitive fingers could belong to no one but Nelson Druce. Could they bring it home to him if she added that information to her story? He was a clever, intelligent man, surely he would not set out to commit a murder without first arranging an alibi. There was the pistol, of course, that might be traced to him, also there might still be finger-prints upon it, but she doubted that. When she had managed to get possession of the weapon she had reversed it and held it by the butt, her own markings would have destroyed those of anybody who had held it before.

  Perhaps when he heard that she had been arrested and accused of this crime, he would come forward and give himself up, or use his freedom to disappear, leaving a confession behind in order to clear her.

  She was surprised to find that she felt no revulsion against Nelson Druce because he had committed murder. To kill tha
t loathsome Italian assassin might be murder in the eyes of the law, but to Avril, having been present the night before, at that brutal killing of an elderly, kindly man, who had no means of defence—it was an execution.

  Nelson Druce’s lean, pleasant face came again to her mind, his smooth dark hair, and nice grey eyes that had the little wrinkles round them when he smiled. He was, she thought, by far the nicest person she had met in Hollywood. His crisp, direct frankness appealed to her tremendously. It would be a terrible thing if he were arrested and executed for the murder. Suddenly she made up her mind, she would not tell the police about her recognition of his hand unless it became vitally necessary—fresh evidence might be forthcoming in the morning—perhaps that strange figure which had appeared and disappeared so silently from the window might come forward and give evidence; marks might be found of the struggle on the balcony—in any case, for the present she would keep her knowledge to herself.

  At last she fell into a restless, fitful sleep; she awoke once to find herself kicking and screaming, with the perspiration pouring from her. She had suffered the agony of Angelo’s attack repeated in a dream. She shuddered as she lay in the narrow bed, it seemed that only a moment before she had felt those hot lips pressed to her throat and shoulders.

  The wardress was a kindly soul and brought her aspirin in hot milk, after that she dozed off again, and slept until she was awakened in the morning.

  She was warned that she would have to appear before a court and made her toilet as best she could. Then she sat waiting for what seemed to be an endless time, but at last Captain Rudd came for her and she was led through a long echoing corridor to the Court-room, which was at the other end of the same building.

  Ronnie was there and smiled cheerfully as she came in, beside him was a round-faced elderly man whom he introduced as Mr. Smithson, an English lawyer practising in Los Angeles.

  Captain Rudd with his squad was very much in evidence, also the house detective and the manager from the hotel. The magistrate was an Irish-American with bright, sharp, blue eyes. He studied her curiously as she was led to the dock.