The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  The champagne bottle he was holding would make an excellent club; but it was too big to hide under his jacket, and the moment they saw it they would take it away from him at the pistol point. Perhaps, though, if he pretended to be drunk——

  Quickly, he shuffled through the darkness, found the bin again, opened another bottle, and poured about a third of its contents into the back of the bin. Returning with it to the scantling, he sat down once more, holding the bottle upright on his knee.

  It was less than five minutes since the car had driven off, but it seemed longer. He was just beginning to think that his nerves had panicked him into a false alarm, when the door at the top of the steps opened and Tankosić called to him to come up.

  He caught his breath and his heart began to hammer. His instinct had been right, then. Unless they had received some fresh information, why should they wish to question him again that night? Dimitriyevitch had said that his police were working on the case. They must have unearthed something and sent it out to him. Tankosić’s voice had been harsh. His bulky form loomed threateningly against the lighted doorway at the top of the steps. This was it! The summons was that of the Angel of Death. In all probability he now had no more than a few minutes to live.

  Instead of getting to his feet, he lurched round and called back drunkenly: “Don’t wanna come up. Very happy here. You come down and have a drink.”

  “Come up, damn you!” shouted Tankosić.

  “Don’t wanna come up,” the Duke repeated. “Darn good wine—an’ lots of it. Very happy here.”

  “Come up, you bastard,” bawled the Serbian. “Come up, or I’ll shoot that bottle out of your hands.”

  The unsavoury epithet, and the threat to shoot, were ample confirmation of the Duke’s fears. They did not want him up there to question him again on some minor matter. Somehow, they had found him out, and now meant to exact vengeance on him for attempting to betray them. But still he did not get to his feet. Now that he was up against it, his nerve was back. His mind was clear as a bell, his brain assessing chances as quickly as an actuary working with a life insurance table spread before him. He had gambled with death before, and now he did so again.

  “Oh, go to hell!” he called thickly. “Can’t you see—see I’m enjoyin’ myself?” And, raising the bottle to his lips, he took a pull at it.

  With an oath, Tankosić came stumping down the stairs. Marching over to de Richleau, he seized him by the arm and jerked him to his feet.

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” mumbled the Duke. “Wanna finish the bottle. Why you so impatient?”

  “Get up those bloody stairs,” snarled Tankosić, and gave him a rough push towards them with his left hand. In his right he held his pistol. He waved it with a threatening gesture.

  Clutching his bottle under his left arm, de Richleau stumbled forward, muttering, “Oh, all right! All right!” On the first stair he tripped intentionally, recovered himself, and began to stagger up the flight.

  Tankosić followed a yard behind him, impatiently urging him on. The Duke could no longer see the Serbian’s pistol and, for all he knew, it might be pointed at his back. If so, he did know that within another moment his number would be up. But once again he gambled with death. When they were two thirds of the way up the stairs, he grasped the neck of the bottle in his right hand. He dared not give his enemy an instant’s warning by turning to aim the blow. Only the Timeless Ones could help him now, by directing the arm that he must use blindly. Pretending to stumble again, he suddenly swung the bottle round in a terrific back-hander at the spot where he judged Tankosić’s head to be.

  It swished through the air and landed with a dull thud, nearly dislocating de Richleau’s wrist. The bottle caught the Major flat on the side of the head, smashing his right ear to pulp, and cracking his skull low down. Without a moan, he twisted sideways, fell, and rolled bumping down the stairs. The pistol he had been holding clattered noisily beside him.

  De Richleau would have given ten years of his life to have been able to get that pistol. But he dared not attempt to. Down there in the heavy shadow it might be two, three, five, minutes before he could find it. Even one would be too big a price to pay. In less, Ciganović and Dimitriyevitch, having heard Tankosić fall, would be coming through the door with drawn weapons, to find out what had happened. If they caught their prisoner groping there at the bottom of the steps, they would have him completely at their mercy.

  Without losing an instant, de Richleau thrust the now nearly empty bottle under his left arm again, took the remaining three stairs at a bound, and lurched into the room. Swaying drunkenly, he fell against the door-post and leaned there blocking the doorway for Ciganović, who had been just about to go through it. Thrusting out his free hand sideways, so that it pointed to the cellar, he roared with laughter, and stuttered hilariously:

  “Ole Tankosić—ole Tankosić’s fallen down the stairs.”

  Ciganović took a pace forward, seized him by the collar and tie, and gave him a violent shake. He let his eyes goggle, and his head roll from side to side on his shoulders, as though he was hopelessly drunk. But the shaking was brief. As Ciganović swung him round, away from the door, Dimitriyevitch’s voice came sharply from behind him.

  “Leave that drunken swine, and see what’s happened to Tankosić.”

  Flinging him hard against the wall, Ciganović loosed his grip, turned, and stepped through the doorway. It was the very thing that de Richleau had been praying for. It should now be the work of only a second to slip through after him and, as he started down the stairs, brain him with the bottle by one mighty blow from behind.

  But, for that manœuvre the Duke had counted on Dimitriyevitch still being off his guard, and he was not. His prisoner might or might not be drunk; but he was not taking any chances. Whipping out his pistol, he aimed it at de Richleau’s stomach and snapped:

  “Stay where you are, you perjured traitor!”

  Dimitriyevitch was eight feet away, and standing on the far side of the small dinner table. It would have been suicide to attempt to rush him. De Richleau’s hopes had been high a moment before. If he could have brained Ciganović, he could have got his gun, and having settled two of them, shot it out man for man with the Colonel. Now, terror gripped him for a second. He was still one against two, and both of them were armed, while he had only a bottle with which to attack them or defend himself.

  Hatred blazing from his fanatical eyes, Dimitriyevitch pointed at the table and went on, almost spitting with venom:

  “Here’s the evidence of your treachery. You didn’t know, did you, that my postal police open all letters to or from the Embassies and Legations? But for a hitch, for which someone is going to pay, these should have reached me by mid-day, and you would be dead now. There’s enough here for the Brotherhood to condemn you ten times over. But I need no court to confirm my actions. Your attempt to get a warning to the Archduke has failed. Despite your perfidy, we’ll blow that Austrian pig to bits on Sunday. And I mean to send you to hell two nights and a day ahead of him.”

  The Duke’s glance fell to the table. But he knew what he would see before his look confirmed his thought. Among the half-empty glasses upon it, lay two open letters. The writing on them was his own. They were the all-important details of the plot that he had posted the previous night to the British Chargé d’affaires in Belgrade and Sir Maurice de Bunsen in Vienna. It was beyond Dimitriyevitch’s powers to interfere with the Diplomatic Bags, but, as de Richleau stared at the damning letters, he felt he ought to have foreseen that such an adept at espionage would be certain to have the ordinary mails watched, and any letters which might appear of interest submitted to him before being carefully re-sealed for delivery.

  Appalled at the thought that two out of the three channels he had used to warn Franz Ferdinand had been blocked, de Richleau stood slouched against the wall, where Ciganović had flung him. One ray of comfort flashed into his agonised mind. His telegram to Sir Pellinore was not with the
letters and, its message having been disguised, it might yet get through. But in a second he forced the Archduke from his mind. He had done his utmost to save him, and could do no more. In this instant of time, no further fraction of thought could be spared for past or future. He was standing on the razor edge of life and death. Another moment, and Ciganović would come running up the stairs, back into the room. No man could hope to dodge the shots from two automatics, so with his reappearance the last faint chance would be gone. De Richleau knew that he must act now, or admit defeat and face eternity.

  “You’ve forgotten something,” he said with a drunken leer.

  “What!” Dimitriyevitch shot the word out like a bullet from a gun, but his eyes narrowed cunningly.

  “Le’ me have a drink an’ I’ll tell you!” The Duke knew that he was now safe for a moment. His enemy had been led to suppose that he had slipped up somewhere, and he would not shoot until he had found out where. There was not much wine in the bottle. De Richleau put it to his lips and tipped it up. Some of the wine trickled down his chin as he tilted his head back, but under half-closed lids he kept his eyes fixed on Dimitriyevitch.

  Suddenly his head and shoulders shot forward. It was as though the upper half of his body was a great spring that had been coiled and released—or the tongue of a catapult flicking out after the missile had just been discharged from it. And the missile was the bottle. As he jerked forward, the hand by which he was holding its neck pitched it punt first, like a blunt-ended javelin, at Dimitriyevitch’s head.

  The movement was so swift and unexpected that it caught the Serbian napping. With the bottle hurtling straight at his face, he attempted both to dodge it and shoot de Richleau at the same time. But the bottle was coming in too low for his sideways swerve to save him entirely. Instead of striking him on the chin, it thumped into his right shoulder at the very instant he squeezed the trigger of his automatic.

  The pistol flashed twice. In the comparatively confined space of the room, the reports sounding like the bangs of a small cannon. A wisp of acrid smoke curled up from its barrel. But the blow on the shoulder had deflected his aim. The bullets sang past de Richleau’s head, to thud into the wainscoting.

  Dimitriyevitch had no time to fire a third shot. The instant the bottle had left the Duke’s hand, he sprang forward. Seizing the table, he forced it violently against his enemy. Its further edge took the Colonel in the lower part of his stomach, and threw him off his balance. As he pitched backwards, de Richleau overturned the table on him. He fell heavily in a smother of china, fruit, silver and glass.

  Swerving away, the Duke dashed for the cellar door. Ciganović had already started up the steps when the shots were fired. At the sound of them, he bounded up the rest. He was on the top step, and turning to rush into the room, as de Richleau reached the open doorway. For the flicker of an eyelid they stood glaring at one another. Ciganović was carrying his gun in his hand.

  At the same second they acted. The pistol jerked up. The Duke’s foot shot out in a savage kick. Again there came a flash and a deafening bang. Ciganović had had no time to take proper aim, but de Richleau was almost thrown off his feet. The bullet got him in the left shoulder, just below the collar bone, half twisting him round by the force of its impact. But his vicious kick had landed squarely just below Ciganović’s left knee-cap. With a howl, the Serbian staggered back, lifting his injured leg a little, his face contorted by an agony of pain.

  De Richleau was the first to recover. The bullet felt like the kick of a mule, followed by a red hot iron piercing his shoulder; but almost at once he realised that the wound had not seriously crippled him. Grabbing the door, he flung it shut while Ciganović was still striving to regain his balance. But before he could get it properly latched, the Serbian threw himself against it. The door was forced open a couple of inches. Sweating with renewed terror, de Richleau struggled to overcome the pressure so that he could turn the key in the lock. He knew that Dimitriyevitch must be staggering up from among the debris of the table behind him. At any second he expected to be shot in the back.

  A glance over his shoulder showed him that his fears were only too well-founded. The half minute that he had spent in dashing at the door and tackling Ciganović had been sufficient for the Colonel to struggle out from under the table. He was now on his feet. But when he pitched backwards his gun had been knocked from his hand, and he was frantically searching for it among the debris.

  In vain, the Duke strove with all his might to close the door. Ciganović was as strong as he was. That awful two-inch gap remained, a narrow but fatal chasm, wide enough to plunge him from life to death. Suddenly he saw it like that, and realised that he would die there, with his good shoulder pressed against the door, if he remained where he was a moment longer.

  His brain was working so furiously that to think was to act. In a single movement, he flung himself back and sideways. The door flew open. As the pressure was released, Ciganović came flying through it. Losing his balance, he crashed to the floor. His pistol exploded as it hit the parquet, then jerked from his hand, and slithered away under a sofa. De Richleau ran forward and kicked him on the head. He gave a loud groan, twitched, and lay still.

  Swivelling round, the Duke faced Dimitriyevitch. Another twenty seconds had sped since he last had a chance to look at the Colonel, but he was still hunting for his gun. They saw it at the same instant. It was just behind him, lying in the fireplace. As he stooped to grab it, de Richleau ran in and kicked it from beneath his fingers. Instead, Dimitriyevitch grasped the poker, sprang back a pace, and lifted it to strike. The Duke leapt forward and seized his upraised wrist. The Serbian brought up his foot and kicked him on the shin. Next moment they had closed, and were locked in a fierce embrace.

  Dimitriyevitch was the smaller and, by a few years, the older of the two; but he had a wiry frame and the toughness of a peasant. By exerting himself to the full, de Richleau could have got the best of the tussle had they both started from scratch: but he was already sweating with his exertions and losing blood from his wound. Like a pair of evenly matched wrestlers, they staggered and swayed together, with the poker upthrust and jerking above their heads.

  Finding that he could not break de Richleau’s hold on his wrist to strike him with the poker, Dimitriyevitch suddenly kneed him in the groin. With a gasp, de Richleau released his grip. White-faced, his eyes starting from their sockets with pain, he staggered back. The poker descended with a swish. Only just in time, he jerked his head aside. The blow caught him on his wounded shoulder. It was already aching fiercely from the strain he had put upon it in grasping his adversary’s wrist. He moaned and stepped back another pace. Following up his advantage, the Serbian struck at him again. He took the second blow on his left forearm. Then, still half doubled up, he lurched forward and drove his right fist into Dimitriyevitch’s face.

  Owing to the punishment the Duke had received, the blow was not a heavy one; but, temporarily, it was enough. Dimitriyevitch took it full on the mouth. His head shot back, his eyes glared wildly for a moment. Then he lost his balance and fell backwards on to the hearth.

  De Richleau flung himself on top of him, grasped him by the throat, and forced his head back among the still-smouldering logs of the fire. As the red hot wood-ash scorched the back of his neck, Dimitriyevitch let out a scream, jerked his head up, and kicked furiously with both legs. The violence of his movement threw the Duke over on his side. With a frantic wriggle, the Serbian rolled over and on to his enemy’s chest. He still grasped the poker in his right hand, and with his left now grabbed de Richleau’s throat. For a full minute they put all their strength into their fingers, each trying to throttle the other, and both with their chins pressed down, endeavouring to protect their necks. Gradually Dimitriyevitch felt the Duke weaken beneath him. Heaving himself upright, he raised the poker to administer the coup de grâce.

  But it was a trap. The poker was no more than shoulder high when de Richleau served his adversary as he had been se
rved himself. Bringing his knee up sharply, he jabbed it in the Colonel’s groin. The poker clattered on the hearth, the Serbian’s eyes started and boggled horribly. In a second the Duke had turned the tables. Wriggling from under, he grabbed Dimitriyevitch again and flung him down a foot to the right of where they had been struggling, so that the back of his head was once more among the smouldering logs. He screamed again, but now de Richleau had both hands on his throat and, for good measure, kneed him again in the pit of the stomach. The screaming ceased abruptly, but a frightful sweat broke out on the Serbian’s face, and rolled from it to fall hissing into the red-hot ashes.

  “Now!” gasped the Duke. “Let me tell you something. You managed to stop my letters, but not the telegram I sent to London. It was worded too cunningly for your post office spies to detect its meaning. But my friends in London will know what it means, and it will be in their hands by now. They will telegraph to Vienna and, after all, the Archduke will be warned in time. I want the knowledge that your abominable plans have been wrecked to be the last thought that you carry with you into unconsciousness. It is not Franz Ferdinand who is going to die—but you.”

  Dimitriyevitch understood. His eyes showed it, and the last futile effort he made to break free from the murderous grip on his wind-pipe. The glowing ash was biting like an army of ants into the back of his head, and he tried to scream again. But the Duke’s strangle-hold prevented more than awful animal noises issuing from his throat. His lips drew back, showing his gums in a nightmare grin. His face turned red, then purple. A foam of bubbles began to froth up from his mouth. His tongue protruded, becoming thick and leathery. It swelled until it filled the whole cavity between his wide-stretched upper and lower teeth. His eyes protruded like marbles. They looked as though they were about to burst. Tears of blood appeared in their corners, forced their way out, and trickled down into his ears. His face became black and bloated, horrible, unrecognisable. And all the time, his body twitched spasmodically. At last the twitching ceased and he was dead.