THE SECOND SEAL
Dennis Wheatley
Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones
To the memory of that fine soldier and friend,
the late:
Colonel H. N. Clarke, D.S.O., T.D.
___________
For those good companions of my youth,
J. Albert Davis and Douglas Gregson:
and for those other Officers, N.C.O.s and men
with whom I had the honour to serve in the
2nd/1st City of London Brigade R.F.A. (T.)
from September 1914
Contents
Introduction
I The Man in the Taxi
II The First Lord Intervenes
III The Black Hand
IV The Briefing of a Reluctant Spy
V On a Night in May, 1914
VI Stormy Passage
VII City of Delight
VIII The Dark Angel of the Arsenal
IX Ruritania Without the Romance
X The Dark Angel of the Forest
XI The White Gardenias
XII Of Love and Intrigue
XIII Two Midnight Interviews
XIV An Ill-timed Honour
XV The Secret of the Black Hand
XVI The Wings of the Angel of Death
XVII The Angel of Death Strikes Again
XVIII The Man Who Knew Too Much
XIX The Truth Will Out
XX The Road to the Abyss
XXI An Extraordinary Situation
XXII Which Road Home?
XXIII The Armies Clash
XXIV A Very Tight Corner
XXV Death on the Train
XXVI The False Sir Pellinore
XXVII The Fortieth Day
XXVIII Across the Rhine
A Note on the Author
Introduction
Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.
As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.
There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.
There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duke de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.
He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ’all his books’.
Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.
He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.
He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.
The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.
Dominic Wheatley, 2013
Chapter I
The Man in the Taxi
In April, 1914, the Dorchester Hotel was still unbuilt, unplanned, undreamed of. Instead, its fine triangular corner site, half-way up Park Lane, was occupied by Dorchester House, the London residence of Colonel Sir George and Lady Holford. A great, square, grey, Georgian mansion, it stood well back at the base of the triangle, its privacy secured by two low, curving wings, running outward from it, which contained stabling for forty horses and enclosed a spacious courtyard.
The London season had not yet begun, and in most of the Mayfair mansions nearby the covers that shrouded the furniture would not be removed till the first week in May; yet on this evening in mid-April every window in Dorchester House was ablaze with light. The Holfords had come up from the country early in order to entertain a Royal visitor. Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Ilona Theresa, granddaughter of old Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria, was making a short stay in England, and in her honour they were giving a masked ball.
By a quarter to ten the courtyard in front of the house was a constantly moving medley of high-sprung motors and darkly gleaming private carriages. On the box of almost every vehicle a footman with folded arms sat beside the driver, and as they sprang down to fling open the doors of car or brougham the light glinted on their colourful liveries and cockaded top hats.
Inside the hall of the house a double line of flunkeys, with powdered hair, striped waistcoats and satin knee-breeches, were rapidly relieving the men of their coats, and conducting the women to the cloak-rooms, where they could put the finishing touches to their toilets and receive the black masks which would conceal their identities from all but those who knew them fairly intimately.
The men were in sober black and white, but the women rivalled the proverbial rainbow. Their gleaming necks and shoulders were set off by ropes of pearls and parures of diamonds: their many-hued dresses of silk, satin, and lace, fell smoothly to short trains. Hair was dressed high that season and crowned with sparkling tiaras, jewelled ai
grets or paradise plumes. A king’s ransom in gems scintillated on arms and corsage.
At a few minutes to ten a vehicle, strangely in contrast to its opulent companions in the queue, pulled up before the porch. It was one of the taxis that were rapidly replacing the hansoms and growlers on London streets, but the man who stepped from it showed no sign of embarrassment at having arrived in such a mediocre conveyance. Unhurriedly he paid off the driver, adding a generous tip, then, with the unconscious self-assurance that is the hallmark of good breeding, walked lightly up the steps.
He was in his middle thirties, somewhat above medium height, and a slim, delicate looking man; but the fragility of his appearance was deceptive. His nose was aquiline, his mouth a hard line, redeemed only by the suggestion of a humorous lift at its corners, and his aristocratic features had a slightly foreign cast. As he took off the glossy topper that he had been wearing at a somewhat rakish angle, the gesture disclosed dark hair and ‘devil’s’ eyebrows that slanted upwards towards the temples of his broad forehead. Beneath them were grey eyes flecked with yellow, the directness of their glance indicated their mesmeric qualities, and at times they could flash with an almost piercing brilliance. He was known to both the police and crowned heads of several countries: his name was Jean Armand Duplessis, and he was the tenth Duke de Richleau.
On leaving the cloak-rooms the little parties of guests, now masked, were meeting again in the wide hall and passing slowly up one or other of the wings of the splendid horseshoe staircase, for which Dorchester House was famous, to be received by Sir George and Lady Holford on the first landing. As de Richleau joined the right hand queue he was wondering if, after all, he had not been a little foolish to go there.
He had arrived in London only the day before, and received the invitation solely because he had happened to run into Sir George, who was an old but not very intimate acquaintance of his, that morning at the Travellers’ Club. It was some years since the Duke had been in England and to attend this big reception had seemed, at the time of Sir George’s hospitable bidding, an excellent way to meet again a number of his old friends in London society who were almost certain to be present.
He realised now that he had paid insufficient attention to the fact that the party was to be a masked ball, and so would defeat his main object in attending it. The masking was no serious attempt to preserve the incognito of the guests, as there was no question of their wearing dominoes to conceal their clothes and figures, and they were even being announced by name as they were received at the top of the stairs-it was simply a device to dispense with formal introductions and thus add to the gaiety of the evening. But, while friends could easily recognise one another, de Richleau saw that it was going to be far from easy for him to identify people whom he had not met for several years.
Having greeted his host and hostess, he consoled himself with the thought that masks would be removed at midnight. So, reconciled to seeking such amusement as he could find till then, he passed into the ballroom. The band was playing one of the new ragtime tunes recently imported from America and, being conservative in his taste for dancing, he decided to let the number finish while he took his time in selecting a promising partner for the next.
After an interval the band swung into a waltz, and by that time the Duke had fixed upon a slender dark-haired young woman who made one of a group of three seated on a long Louis Quinze settee. She proved to be the wife of a South American diplomat recently arrived in Europe, and could speak very little English. As de Richleau spoke several languages, including Spanish, with great fluency, that proved no bar to conversation; but she had been married only a few months earlier, straight from a convent, so he found her abysmally ignorant of the great world, and almost tongue-tied.
His next venture proved even less to his taste. A somewhat Junoesque girl, with a head of flaming red hair, had caught his eye, and he invited her to polka. Polka she did, but mainly on his feet and, although he was a fine horseman himself, he found the lady’s conversation—which consisted entirely of her equine exploits—boring in the extreme.
Feeling that his luck was not in, for the time being at least, he made his way downstairs to the buffet on the ground floor, where he whiled away twenty minutes eating some foie gras sandwiches, and washing them down with a couple of glasses of Pommery 1906. There was still well over an hour until midnight, and he had not yet seen among the masked company anyone with whom he could definitely claim acquaintance. So he then decided, rather reluctantly, to try his fortune again up in the ballroom.
Only a few belated guests were now arriving, so the great staircase was no longer crowded, and the wing that he approached had only one couple coming down it. The man was young, slim, shortish, and fair-haired. The girl upon his arm was as tall as he was, so by comparison seemed taller. She had chestnut hair, on which rested a delicate filigree ornament forming a crescent of stars, each set with a yellow diamond. It was almost too light to be termed a tiara, but the Duke was a connoisseur of jewels, and as he glanced up at her he recognised at once that it was an antique piece of considerable value. Below her mask, he saw that she had a generous mouth with a slightly pouting lower lip, fresh-complexioned cheeks, and a round but determined chin.
He was only two steps below the couple, and about to pass them, when the young man slipped. In a second he had pitched forward, unavoidably dragging the girl with him. Too late, he snatched his arm from hers-she was already off her balance and about to take a header. De Richleau swiftly side-stepped to avoid collision with the man. Then, tensing his muscles, he caught the girl as she fell. Instinctively her arms had flown out, and now closed round his neck.
She was no mean weight, but her body was soft and pliant as, following their sudden impact, he held her tightly to him for a moment. Her face was within an inch of his and slightly above it, but he saw the swift flush that had turned her cheeks bright pink at finding herself so unexpectedly in the embrace of a complete stranger. With a little gasp she freed herself, then murmured her thanks in awkward English with a strong foreign accent.
Meanwhile, the fair-haired youth had tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. As two footmen ran to help him to his feet he gave an cry of pain, looked up, and said, “I’m terribly sorry. That was awfully clumsy of me. I—I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.”
“Not badly, I trust?” inquired the Duke.
The young man tried the injured member gingerly, and screwed up his face. “It hurts a bit—not much, but I’d rather not put my weight on it till the pain has eased a little. Would you oblige me, sir, by taking my partner back to her chaperone, while I go to the cloak-room and find out if it’s swelling?”
“It will be a pleasure, sir,” de Richleau replied, and bowed to the girl.
She gave a little inclination of her head, then asked her ex-partner anxiously: “Are you assured you are not gravely hurt?”
He nodded, smiling up at her. “Yes. I promise you it’s nothing serious. I’m jolly glad, though, that this gentleman happened to be there to prevent your coming a cropper with me. I hope I’ll be able to claim our second dance and sit it out with you. But if the ankle drives me home, you must forgive me. I’ll not let it prevent my seeing you tomorrow, anyway.”
As he hobbled off, the Duke turned again to the charming charge who had been thrust upon him, and said: “Allow me to introduce myself. I am——”
“But, no!” She quickly put up a hand to check him. “This night it makes for the gaiety that the guests of Lady Holford talk and dance together without knowing who is which. But my English is much muddled. You speak French perhaps?”
“Mais, oui, Mademoiselle,” he assured her. Then, with a quizzical smile, added in the same language, “Or should I say Madame?”
She laughed at that and, breaking into rapid French, declared: “Not yet, but soon, I hope; otherwise I shall be counted, as they say, upon the shelf. But your question makes it clear that you do not know who I am. So far this evening everyone I have spoken
to has recognised me. That is most dull, and an encounter like this between strangers is much more in the spirit of the party.”
“True! And, as this dance has only just started, I trust that you will not insist on my escorting you back to your chaperone until it is ended.”
Seeing her hesitation, he went on quickly; “You were, I suppose, going downstairs to partake of some refreshment. Shall I conduct you to the buffet, or would you prefer to dance?”
The strains of the ‘Blue Danube’ floated down to them.
“Do you waltz?” she asked, and added with barefaced frankness, “Really well, I mean. Except for duty dances, to which I am compelled by politeness, I waltz from choice only with the best partners.”
As she stood there, her gown of shimmering blue satin moulding her graceful figure, and coppery lights glinting in her high-piled chestnut hair, de Richleau judged that even if her mask did not conceal great beauty, she was fully attractive enough to command a good choice of men. But her words and manners struck him as those of a spoiled, impertinent chit, who needed a lesson, so he replied smoothly.
“Then out of politeness you shall dance with me, and find out for yourself whether my waltzing is up to your high standard.” And, taking her firmly by the arm, he turned her towards the ballroom.
For a second he glimpsed a pair of defiant dark blue eyes staring at him through the slits in her mask. Then she laughed again, allowed herself to be led up the stairs, and murmured: “This is a strange way to behave, Monsieur. Do you always treat the ladies of your acquaintance in such a cavalier fashion?”
“But certainly,” he shrugged. “Have you not heard the English proverb—‘The woman, the dog, and the walnut tree: the more you beat ’em, the better they be!’ I have found it an admirable precept.”
The blue eyes turned to stare at him again. “You are joking. You cannot possibly mean that you would really beat a woman.”
The Second Seal Page 1