The Ka of Gifford Hillary

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘I … I’ve only just come on duty,’ faltered the messenger. ‘I haven’t seen him leave, but …’ he looked appealingly at the policeman, who volunteered:

  ‘He hasn’t gone out this way; but he may be round at Downing Street or across at one of the Service Ministries. I expect he’ll be leaving soon though, because his car’s just driven up.’

  ‘Thank God he hasn’t gone yet!’ I exclaimed. ‘But wherever he is I’ve got to see him. It’s terribly important. Please ring through to his office and find out where he is.’

  As the two men continued to eye me askance, I went on hurriedly: ‘Don’t pay any regard to my appearance. I’ve been involved in a car smash. I expect I’m looking pretty ghastly but I know perfectly well what I am doing.’

  ‘Quite, Sir, quite,’ said the policeman soothingly. ‘But all the same Ministers don’t see people without their having appointments. Wouldn’t it be best if you went home now and just dropped him a line?’

  Ignoring him, I turned back to the messenger. ‘If you don’t ring through to Sir Charles’s office at once I’ll make an issue of it that will end by your getting the sack.’

  The little bald man drew himself up. ‘Threats won’t get you nowhere; and unpleasant things is likely to happen to them as makes them.’

  ‘He’s right, Sir,’ the policeman added. ‘Using threatening language to a government official in the course of his duty. I could charge you with that. But seeing you’re ill I don’t want to press matters unless you force me to. Be sensible now, and let me call you a taxi.’

  The state I was in was so much against me that had the argument continued my chances of ever getting to Sir Charles would have been far from good. I might have persuaded them to let me see a secretary, who would probably have proved equally obdurate, or I might equally well have landed up in Cannon Row Police Station. As it was, matters were brought to a head with unexpected swiftness. Quick footsteps sounded on the broad stone stairs, and turning I saw Sir Charles coming down them on his way to his car.

  Brushing past the messenger I took a couple of strides towards him, but I got no further. The policeman grabbed me by the arm.

  Sir Charles came to a halt in the middle of the hall, and asked quietly: ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘This man, Sir …’ began the policeman.

  ‘Trying to force ‘is way in,’ said the messenger simultaneously.

  But I was more determined to be heard than either of them, and my cry drowned their voices; ‘Sir Charles! I’ve got to see you! I must! I’ve been very ill, but I’m not out of my mind. Don’t you recognise me? I’m Gifford Hillary.’

  At the sound of the rumpus another policeman and two more messengers had appeared from somewhere. Sir Charles gave me a quick look through his thick-lensed glasses and said:

  ‘No, you are not.’ With a glance at the policeman who held me, he added. ‘Have the poor fellow taken home, officer, unless he proves obstreperous.’ Then he went on his way to the door.

  ‘You heard,’ said the policeman warningly. ‘Come now, or …’

  But I was shouting after Sir Charles. ‘I am! We last met in Martin Emsworth’s flat.’

  At that, he halted and came back. After another look at me, he said: ‘You certainly resemble Sir Gifford, but I really can’t believe …

  ‘I am he,’ I cut in. ‘But I’ve been very ill and my hair has gone white.’

  He nodded; but the puzzled look remained on his face as he muttered: ‘I still don’t understand. I thought you were dead.’

  ‘My death was reported in the press, but it was a mistake,’ I told him. ‘And you must give me a few minutes. Your own safety hangs on it.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said after a moment. ‘Come up to my room.’

  As I followed him up the short flight of broad stone steps, the policeman said: ‘Wouldn’t it be as well, Sir, if I came up and stood outside your door?’

  Sir Charles turned and gave him his boyish smile. ‘No thank you, officer. It is just possible that this gentleman is who he says he is, and if he isn’t he doesn’t look very formidable in his present state.’

  We got into the small, slow, ancient lift which must have so astonished Americans like General Eisenhower when, during the war, they had been taken up in it to confer with the British Chiefs of Staff. At the second floor we got out. Sir Charles led me to his room, sat down at his desk and waved me to a chair.

  I sank gratefully into it. Getting into my clothes, the journey from Earls Court, and the altercation in the hall had taken more out of me than I thought. My wretched hand now seemed to be on fire and sweat had broken out on my forehead. I knew that I must be running a temperature.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘If you were shaved and properly dressed you would look like a twenty-year-older edition of Sir Gifford; but however ill a man might be I find it difficult to believe that he could age that much in the space of ten days. And someone might have told you about my meeting with Sir Gifford at Emsworth’s flat. Above all Sir Gifford’s death was not just reported in the ordinary way. Owing to the tragedy in which he was involved it was splashed all over the place; and the whole press doesn’t often allow itself to be misled about matters of nation-wide interest. I warn you now that if I find that you have been wasting my time by trying to play some silly game, I shall hand you over to the police. But my impression is that you have a bee in your bonnet and ought to be under medical care. Anyhow, I want a lot more evidence before I am prepared to accept you as Sir Gifford Hillary.’

  His attitude was perfectly understandable for, except to nod to, he had met me only once, and as I now looked such a scarecrow it was not at all surprising that he thought me to be some harmless lunatic. But as I gave him particulars of our meeting, his expression began to alter, and when I had finished about the E-boat business I mentioned the fact that he had put soda-water into his last liqueur brandy. Anyone who was giving a description of the meeting received from someone else could hardly have known that, and it clinched matters.

  ‘I’m satisfied,’ he declared. ‘I would have been anyway after you had been talking for a bit, as your voice hasn’t changed. But you poor fellow, you look in the very devil of a state. What in the world has been happening to you?’

  I told him that I still felt very weak and that it would be too much of an effort to go into that now; so if he didn’t mind we would get down right away to the reason I had come to see him.

  ‘Go ahead, then.’ He waved a hand. ‘Down in the hall you said something about being concerned for my safety.’

  ‘I am. Very much so,’ I replied. ‘But first I’d like to deal with another matter. It’s about Johnny Norton.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t think I know anyone of that name.’

  ‘He is a nephew of mine and a Wing Commander on your Planning Staff. I mentioned him to you when we were at Emsworth’s.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember now. But he hasn’t been here very long so I haven’t met him yet.’ Suddenly Sir Charles straightened in his chair. ‘Norton! Why, that is the chap I had a report about on Friday, in connection with a breach of the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I commented dryly. ‘He is now under close arrest at Uxbridge; and between us you and I are responsible.’ I told him then about Sir Tuke Waldron’s reactions at our board meeting, and how the Admiral had later laid an information against Johnny accusing him of having given me my facts and figures.

  When I had done, Sir Charles said at once: ‘I’m sorry; terribly sorry. But as I was asking you to do something for me which was entirely contrary to your own interests, I felt that it was only fair to give you the whole picture. I thought you would have realised that I was speaking in the strictest confidence, and that when I gave you discretion to use the gist of what I had said to win over your board, you would have confined yourself to a general statement. Still, it’s too late to worry about that now, and as far as Norton is concerned you needn’t give the matter another thought. I take en
tire responsibility. I will telephone before I leave here and arrange for his release. Now, tell me about this other business?’

  ‘It is your cook-housekeeper,’ I replied. ‘In no circumstances must you eat another meal in that country cottage of yours before you have had her arrested. I have found out that she is a Russian agent and intends to poison you at the first opportunity.’

  To my amazement he sat back and roared with laughter. As I stared at him indignantly he stopped, took off his spectacles, wiped them and said:

  ‘I’m sorry, Hillary. I shouldn’t have treated your fears for me so lightly. But really, you are talking the most utter nonsense. Old Maria is a Pole. She was driven from her country in nineteen thirty-nine, and hates the Russians more than the most blimpish Colonel Blimp in the country. She has been with me for close on ten years, and the idea that she intends to poison me is fantastic.’

  ‘You may think so,’ I retorted grimly. ‘But there is such a thing as pressure being exerted on refugees from the countries behind the Iron Curtain. She probably has an old mother, or a husband, or a son, still in Poland whom she cares for much more than she does you; and has been told that they will be put through the loop unless she carries out the orders that she is given.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes; that sort of thing does happen. But I think it most unlikely in this case. Upon what do you base this extraordinary charge?’

  I told him then how on Thursday night, soon after he had arrived at his cottage with his distinguished guest, Maria had telephoned to Klinsky; how Klinsky, kneeling at the key-hole of the dining room door, had listened to their conversation, and how the poison had been tried out on the cat.

  After staring at me for a moment, he shot out: ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because I was a witness to it,’ I replied. ‘Of course, it was entirely by accident that I stumbled on this plot. I came down to your cottage because Norton had been arrested that afternoon and it was my intention to ask you to intervene on his behalf.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you do so?’

  His question was the first snag I had met with in telling my story. If I had replied by stating the truth he would never have believed me; and if he once got the idea that I had only been imagining things it was certain that he would ignore my warning. He would pack me off to a private nursing-home, then drive down to the cottage and to his death. I had no alternative but to lie to him, and I said:

  ‘Finding you to be engaged with such an important visitor I didn’t feel that I could interrupt you.’

  ‘He left quite early. Why didn’t you wait until he had gone and come in to me then?’

  I took refuge in a half-truth. ‘Because I thought it important to find out where Klinsky lived. I followed him home and could not find my way back to your cottage afterwards.’

  ‘Since you were so concerned about Norton, why didn’t you come to see me here the following morning?’

  The following morning I had been lying in my grave. I shuddered at the recollection, as I replied a little lamely: ‘I have already told you that I have been ill—desperately ill. Between then and now it has been impossible for me to get here—or even to ring you up.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, nobody could contest your assertion that you have been ill; and that is the root of the matter. Your brain has become temporarily unbalanced during your illness. Now you are recovering that is nothing to worry about. It often happens when people have been under a great nervous strain, and you will soon be all right again. But in the meantime you have been building up fantasies in your mind with Soviet agents and myself as the central theme. I suppose you must have been down at my cottage on Thursday night to know about Maria and that I took a certain person down to dine with me there. But it is quite impossible for you to have seen all the happenings that you say you did. You couldn’t have done without being seen yourself. They are simply figments of your imagination.’

  Just as I feared, he was set upon rejecting my testimony because I could not tell the truth, and if I failed to convince him of his danger he would be on his way down to the cottage as soon as he had got rid of me. A little bitterly I said:

  ‘All right, then. If you choose to believe that Maria is an angel and that Klinsky is only a product of my disordered brain, how about this?’ Then I repeated to him a disparaging remark about one of their colleagues that his guest had made while they were sitting at dinner.

  He sat back and his blue eyes goggled at me through the thick lenses. After a moment he said: ‘Damn it; if you overheard that you must have been there. All right. I’ll not go down tonight, and I’ll have M.I.5 put tabs on Maria. But there’s a lot that I don’t understand about this yet. I think you had better begin at the beginning, and tell me how it is that while everyone believes you to be dead you are still alive.’

  My efforts to convince him of his danger had taken a lot out of me. I was again very tired and I had not so far had a chance to think out how I was to account for my resurrection; so I took refuge in the obvious gambit and muttered

  ‘I don’t really know myself. As I told you, I have been very ill. For one thing, I was in a car smash. I lost my memory, and have been wandering for a week.’

  ‘Oh come!’ he protested. ‘Things can’t have been quite like that. When you came down to my cottage on Thursbay evening you played the part of an observer remarkably well, and your memory must have been perfectly sound then for it to register so clearly all that you saw and heard. If your mental collapse occurred last week-end that would account for your not being able to explain why all the papers reported your death. On the other hand if it occurred after your visit to my cottage that would explain your not having come here to warn me about Maria on Friday or Saturday. But you can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘I… I had more or less recovered by Thursday,’ I stammered wearily. ‘But afterwards I had a relapse.’

  On Sir Charles’s face there was now no trace of the famous school-boy grin, and even if he still reminded one of a white-crested owl, it was no longer a benevolent one. He said harshly:

  ‘Hillary, you are lying to me. You are hiding something. I want the truth. If you had lost your memory you would not be here now. Where have you been during the past week? Why were you reported as dead when you were not?’

  Racked with fever and pain as I was, my brain proved unequal to producing even a remotely plausible explanation; but it did grasp the fact that sooner or later a part, at least, of the truth must come out; so I explained desperately:

  ‘Very well then! Since you insist, everyone was misled into believing me dead by my having fallen into a coma. On Tuesday last I was buried alive.’

  ‘Buried alive!’ he gasped, starting forward in his chair. ‘Do … do you really mean that?’

  ‘Look at me!’ I retorted bitterly. ‘Look at me. Just now you said I had aged twenty years in a week. Can you think of anything more likely to do that to a man?’

  ‘Good God, how terrible!’ he sank back in his chair. ‘But how … how did you escape from your grave?’

  ‘Norton was never quite satisfied that I was dead. The thought preyed on his mind until he felt that he must make certain. He came to the churchyard at night and got me out of my coffin.’

  For a moment Sir Charles stared at me in silence, then he said: ‘It must have been ghastly for you, Hillary. It just doesn’t bear thinking about. For how long were you actually buried?’

  That was a question which it was impossible for me to answer truthfully. I had given him incontestable proof that I had been at his cottage on Thursday night. If I told him that I had remained buried from Tuesday midday till Saturday midnight, and that it was not my physical self but my Ka that had been a silent witness to Maria poisoning the cat, and all the rest of it, he would never have believed me. I took what I felt to be the only possible course, and replied with a half-truth, back-dating my ordeal by two days.

  ‘I was in the grave for thirty-six hours. Norton got me out on Wednesday night.�
��

  At once he seized upon the weak point in my story. ‘If that is so, where were you all Friday and Saturday? You had recovered sufficiently by Thursday evening to come down to my cottage, and you were perfectly sane then. Why didn’t you come here to warn me about Maria the following morning?’

  I was at the end of my tether. Grasping the arm of the chair with my good hand, I levered myself to my feet and cried in protest: ‘Damn it all! I have warned you! Isn’t that enough? As for the rest, I’ve been ill! I don’t know! I’ve forgotten!’

  Sir Charles got to his feet. Moving round the desk he took me by the arm and led me through a door into the next room. A youngish man was working there on some papers. He stood up as we came in, and Sir Charles said to him:

  ‘Geoffrey, this is Sir Gifford Hillary. I want you to look after him for the next quarter of an hour or so. He is very ill, so don’t let him leave you; otherwise he might injure himself.’

  The young man pushed forward a chair and I sank into it. Sir Charles returned to his own room. My temperature had mounted while I was talking and my mind began to wander again. The young man shot me a covert look of interest then resumed his work. The quarter of an hour and more drifted by. I was not thinking of myself, but of Johnny, and that everything had been made all right for him and Sue, when a buzzer sounded on the desk. My silent companion stood up, opened the door and nodded. Then he said to me:

  ‘Sir Charles would like to see you again now.’

  Getting to my feet, I walked slowly forward. The door closed behind me. With Sir Charles there were now two other men. They were standing in a little group in front of the desk.

  As I advanced, Sir Charles said: ‘Please don’t think I am ungrateful, Hillary, for the warning you have brought me. But as a Minister of the Crown—or for that matter as an ordinary citizen—there are certain things which it is obligatory on me to do.’

  The bulkier of his companions stepped forward. He had Detective Inspector written all over him, and he said gruffly:

  ‘Sir Gifford Hillary. It is my duty to take you into custody in connection with your own signed confession to the murder of Professor Owen Evans.’