Such Power is Dangerous

by Dennis Wheatley

  Avril studied Ronnie’s face carefully, he was very much in earnest, although he sat there stuffing salted almonds into his mouth one after the other just like a handsome spoilt child. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s nice of you to warn me—but why in the world do you work for such a man if you really believe that about him?’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t work for Hinckman, as a matter of fact, but it’s part of my job to keep in with him, and after all I’ve got to find the money for my drinks. You get me a nice job at a thousand a year and expenses—man’s time you know—and I’ll chuck Hinckman’s crowd tomorrow.’

  ‘A thousand a year is quite a lot of money, Ronnie, in England anyhow, and one has to do something to earn it.’

  ‘Well, five hundred if you like. I’m not greedy, really.’

  ‘But would you stay in it—settle down to work, I mean?’

  ‘Ah! there you are.’ He laughed again and finished his drink. ‘Somehow one always means to but one never does; besides, my talents really lie in this direction. I like the excitement of big business, and although I says it as shouldn’t, I am quite useful as a negotiator. I’ve got a flair for bringing people together. Some day I’ll tumble into a fortune. I should have made one over this in the last few weeks if I had had the capital—I may yet, as far as it goes. These people will find me pretty difficult to get rid of unless I get my fair whack of the spoils.’

  Avril smiled. ‘Well, my dear, I only hope that you don’t come a cropper. I must get along—thanks for the drinks.’

  He escorted her upstairs to the entrance of the Club and saw her into a taxi, then stood on the pavement waving and smiling as the taxi bowled away.

  Avril sat back, thinking over the situation once more. It was a pity that Hinckman should already have anticipated what she hoped might come about upon Nelson Druce’s return from Germany. She found herself thinking how extraordinarily fortunate it was that they were in England and not America, that surely should help to cramp Hinckman’s style.

  She had hoped to find her uncle when she arrived at his house in Regent’s Park, but the parlourmaid informed her that he had not yet returned. She decided to wait and was shown up at once to the pleasant library.

  His man Mills was there. He had just finished telephoning and she saw at once that something was wrong—as he put down the receiver his face was scared and white.

  ‘What is it, Mills?’ she asked at once. ‘Is anything the matter?’ She caught her breath with a sudden, awful fear.

  ‘It’s Mr. Bamborough, Miss—they’ve just telephoned from Hatfield.’ Mills was an old and faithful servant; suddenly without warning he burst into unmanly tears.

  Avril ran to him and shook him by the shoulder. ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘The poor Master’s dead, Miss,’ he gasped between his sobs. ‘Knocked down and killed, as he left the Studios this afternoon, by a racing car. And—and the swine … Oh, Miss, they never even stopped.’

  15

  The Midnight Visitor

  That evening Avril was so overcome with grief and shock that she went to bed and refused to see anyone. She thought of those flowers which used to brighten the small bedrooms of the cheap hotels in the South African townships. She could remember clearly her bitter disappointment when the company had made a sudden change of plans and passed over one town in its itinerary, so that Uncle John’s bouquet had failed to reach her on that Monday night.

  And now he was dead. Avril wept bitter tears, her heart filled with grief and rage. Grief, for the pleasant, kindly man who had always been so good to her. Rage, because she felt certain that this was no ordinary motoring fatality.

  She had telephoned to Hatfield for particulars directly she heard the news at Regent’s Park. It seemed that there had been some misunderstanding about her uncle’s car. His chauffeur, Radcliffe, had received a message that he had business in the village and would meet him at the cross-roads. Radcliffe, suspecting nothing, had driven the car out of the Studio carpark. A quarter of an hour afterwards John Bamborough left his office. He found his car gone but was told that it was waiting down the road. It was only a few hundred yards so he decided to walk; he had not covered more than half the distance when a big racing car hurtled down the hill past the Studio gates. It dashed on to the pathway and hit him with terrific force. He had been picked up twenty yards from the spot, a crumpled figure in the hedge. The car dashed on; Rad cliffe, from where he was waiting, saw it swerve dangerously to the left and tear away along the London Road. No one could describe the driver, since he and his companions were wearing leather helmets and big goggles. The police had been informed immediately, but they had been unable to trace the car beyond the outskirts of London; there, it had completely disappeared.

  Avril had not a doubt in her mind. That could never have been a simple accident through reckless driving. It was plain murder. Every bit as much as the shooting of Barton Druce upon Hollywood’s main Boulevard, and for the same reason, because her uncle had dared to resist the Combine. It seemed that the men behind it were utterly ruthless, and determined, whatever the cost in human life or suffering, to bring their gigantic scheme to fruition.

  Avril went straight home from Regent’s Park and gave way completely to her passionate grief.

  The following morning Mr. Ledger, of Ledger, Style, and Ledger, telephoned to her. He was the old family solicitor and she had known him ever since she was a child. He wished to know if she could come down and see him, and she agreed to call at twelve o’clock.

  When she arrived at the dusty office, with its piles of aged deed-boxes, and rows of musty ledgers, the old man seemed genuinely upset. ‘A terrible affair—quite terrible,’ he kept repeating, as he led her to a chair. He took his seat on the opposite side of the desk, and his spectacles propped well forward on his narrow nose, began to make known the wishes of the deceased.

  Avril had always thought that John Bamborough would leave her a certain amount of money in his will, nevertheless she was surprised at its contents. She had imagined that the bulk of his fortune would go to her cousins—his nephews—but this was not the case. He had left them a handsome legacy, there was also a large number of pensions to old actors of his acquaintance and bequests to his friends, but his fine library and the major part of his estate fell to her. There was a special clause in the will which read:

  ‘It is my wish that the contents of my library and all my shares in the Hatfield Company together with its associated businesses should go intact to my dear niece, Avril St. John Beachcroft Bamborough.

  ‘I leave them to my niece in the full knowledge that she will reap the same pleasure that I have done from my books, and that she is fully capable of carrying on the business.

  ‘I have taken great pride in building up the Hatfield Company, and have always endeavoured to maintain a spirit of fair-minded progress in so doing. I am confident that my niece can be relied upon to continue it in the same tradition because she is a great artist and a fine woman.’

  Avril was terribly touched. She knew that Uncle John had been very fond of her, but had had no idea that he held such a high opinion of her character and capabilities. Yet she could not help feeling that this splendid legacy was casting an enormous burden on her shoulders at the present time. The will had been made about six months previously, just after she had made her second picture under Titchcock. At that date her uncle could have had no forewarning that his business might very soon be entering upon a struggle for its existence, and that he himself within a few months, was to fall victim to a world-wide film war.

  Avril was only half-listening to Mr. Ledger’s platitudes, after he had read the extract from the will. She found that she was standing up and that he had taken her hand in his own dry palm.

  ‘This is indeed a terrible affair,’ he was saying, ‘but at least it gives me the privilege of congratulating you, my dear young lady, upon becoming the—er—head of one of the largest concerns in this—er—com
paratively new industry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Avril vaguely. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Really, I must go to the pictures more often,’ he added in a brighter tone. ‘My daughter took me to see Piplin once—most amusing I found it—most amusing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Avril dully, ‘I expect so.’

  He smiled blandly and led her to the door. ‘Good-bye, Miss Bamborough—good-bye—anything that we can do, you know. And I hope you will have a great success—just show these American people a thing or two, eh? Yes, yes, we must look to your generation for that. Good-bye, my dear young lady. Good-bye.’

  Avril walked slowly down the stone stairs and into the sunshine of Gray’s Inn. ‘Show these American people a thing or two,’ she was thinking. If only the parchment-like Mr. Ledger could know what was going on behind the scenes at the present moment, how his faded eyes would pop out of his head. But then, of course, had she attempted to tell him the truth he would never have believed it He would probably have had her certified as insane.

  When she got back to the flat she telephoned to Hatfield and spoke to the General Manager, Mr. Mole. She found that he had already been in communication with Mr. Ledger and was aware of the position. He informed her that he had called an emergency meeting of the board for the following morning and hoped that she would be able to attend. She said that she would certainly come down, and after ascertaining from him that the police were still unable to trace the car that had killed her uncle, rang off.

  That evening she dined quietly with the Bamborough Aunts. They were two dear old ladies whose life was now devoted to charity matinees and judging the Shakespearian recitals held in girls’ schools. They discussed the contents of their brother’s will, talked over their memories of his childhood and his early triumphs upon the stage. They also recalled, with something of the panic which they had felt at the time, the terrible family scenes which had occurred when the rebel John had declared his intention of abandoning the great tradition to go into this new-fangled film business.

  Avril sat through it all wishing desperately that she could un burden herself and tell the truth about the grim history that lay behind her uncle’s death. But it was out of the question for her to say anything to these two elderly ladies—they would only have been shocked and horrified, and were quite incapable of helping or comforting her in any way.

  When she got home, she thought of her various men friends, and she had quite a number. One young barrister in particular came to her mind. She would be quite safe in making a confidant of him—should she ring him up? On second thoughts she decided not to. She would wait until she had seen her uncle’s co-directors at Hatfield on the following morning.

  She drove down to Hatfield in her two-seater, and when she arrived she found that the board had assembled in force. There were seven directors and all were present. She knew most of them already—all, in fact, except two.

  Old Colonel Frampton Parker, whom she had met on numerous occasions, took the chair. Avril sat on his right and the General Manager, Mr. Mole, occupied the bottom of the table.

  The Colonel opened the meeting with a hesitating, but suitable speech, which he had evidently prepared beforehand. Expression was given to the Company’s very deep sorrow at the loss of their Chairman, and the sincerest sympathy offered to his family, with special reference to Avril. At the suggestion of the Colonel, the whole board stood in deep silence with bowed heads for a period of two minutes as a gesture of respect for the deceased, and when this very trying ordeal was over, the business of the meeting proceeded.

  The question of electing a new chairman was next upon the agenda. Colonel Frampton Parker spoke again at considerable length—he did not say so in so many words, but between his hums and haws it was quite obvious that he considered himself to be the only suitable person for the office.

  A Mr. White, who had at one period of his career humped a camera up and down Brighton front, taking snapshots of engaged couples at sixpence a time, rather bluntly opposed the suggestion. Tact was not among the valuable qualities which had removed Mr. White from the propinquity of the bank-holiday crowds to a seat on the board at Hatfield. He put the matter as kindly as his somewhat limited phraseology would allow, but he pointed out that other qualifications were needed, besides the possession of a certain amount of money, and having fought in the South African War, to cope successfully with the problems which beset a film company.

  Avril put a stop to the argument, which seemed likely to ensue, by a prompt declaration that since she was now by far the largest individual shareholder she intended to take the chair herself; a statement which she backed by standing up and plainly indicating that she expected the Colonel to vacate his place.

  It was pointed out to her that at the present time she was not even a director, and had only been asked to attend the meeting as a matter of courtesy since she was her uncle’s heir.

  Mr. Mole, however, said that there was nothing in the articles of the company to prevent them electing her to the board then and there, but her election would have to be confirmed by the shareholders at the next annual general meeting; that being understood, he would certainly have great pleasure in proposing her.

  Mr. White seconded her, a show of hands was taken, and she was elected without opposition. Mr. Mole then further suggested, that since it was evident from what little had already been said, that conflicting views were held as to the future chairmanship of the company, Avril should be asked to fill that position in a purely temporary capacity until some permanent decision would be reached.

  In a manner that plainly indicated the inward struggle between annoyance and good breeding, Colonel Frampton Parker surrendered his seat. Then Avril sprung her bombshell. ‘You are probably not aware,’ she said, ‘that my uncle was brutally murdered!’

  At first they were inclined to suppose that she referred to the criminally reckless driving of the racing car, and the callous manner in which the driver had refused to stop, but she very soon made her true meaning abundantly clear. The members of the board began to regret their sudden decision to appoint a temporary chairman, and assumed that her brain had become unhinged through the shock.

  She did not allow them to labour under that delusion for long. As briefly and as clearly as she could, she outlined the series of events which had taken place since the first day of her arrival in Hollywood three months before.

  The board began to look grave, they had all read of her arrest in the papers, and those who took an active part in the business knew sufficient of the recent happenings in America to realise that her story was no wild fabrication. In fact, it enlightened them as to the meaning of many curious events which they had been puzzling over for the past month.

  Colonel Frampton Parker, with due deference and politeness to Avril, stroked his fine moustache and pooh-poohed the whole thing. Gradually his remarks tailed away into rambling monosyllables as he realised that he was not receiving the least support from his colleagues. In fact, a deathly silence had fallen on the board and the other members were obviously not listening to him.

  ‘This is a very serious thing, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Mole. ‘You realise, of course, that if what Miss Bamborough says is true, we do not stand a chance against this big American syndicate, unless we get the Government behind us, and induce them to alter the quota in our favour.’

  Mr. White laughed. ‘Fine hope you’ve got of doing that. They’re a sight too busy helping Germans and Austrians and all sorts out of their mess to bother about us. It seemes to me they put chaps like us who’re trying to bolster up the country last all the time. They never give us a thought until it comes to asking for more Income Tax.’

  ‘There is only one thing for us to do,’ said Avril quietly. ‘An opposition has already been organised under the leadership of Mr. Nelson Druce, the President of Pacific Players—we must join that opposition.’

  A long and wearisome discussion followed, but in the end Avril got her way. A sub-committee of thr
ee was appointed consisting of herself, Mr. Mole, and Mr. White, with full powers to take any steps that might be necessary to ensure cooperation with Nelson Druce. To Avril’s immense relief the Colonel was shouldered out of being a member of the committee on the plea that he lived in Sussex, and was not therefore readily available in an emergency.

  The length of the meeting had necessitated an interval for lunch, and business was not finally concluded until well into the afternoon. Avril drove back to town tired but satisfied. Mr. Mole had proved himself a loyal adherent throughout, and as General Manager with a seat upon the board, he was by far the most important person in the company now that her uncle was dead. She felt that with his backing she would be able to handle the others in due course.

  When she got home she found a pile of letters awaiting her, she opened half a dozen, they were all in the same strain, condolences upon her uncle’s death. She pushed the heap aside, they must be answered some time, but not now, she was too tired, and she decided to go straight to bed—she would have a tray brought to her room with a light dinner.

  After a bath she felt better, and once she was tucked in bed more like her normal self. She thought that after all she would tackle her correspondence now, and had the pile brought in. The majority could be acknowledged by a formal card, but many were from relatives and personal friends, which merited a written answer. After her dinner she settled down to the job, for she felt that in the next few days she might have much to do and it was as well to get them off her hands. By half-past ten she had finished this profitless and melancholy task, she felt too tired to read, and pushing her bed table away, turned out the light.

  She was dozing, just on the point of falling off to sleep when a sudden noise disturbed her. She sat up quickly, wide awake at once. Someone had thrown up a window close at hand. Her curtains were drawn, she could not see the windows of her bedroom, but she was certain that the sound had not come from there. It must be the window in her bathroom, she had left the door ajar. With sudden panic she remembered that the fire escape ended just below the bathroom window.