To the Devil, a Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Again, what happens if I refuse?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Jules smiled. ‘We shall have to have you kept on board the ship a few weeks longer, to counteract the possibility of a French Consul having you flown back, should your case have been put on his list by the police if your mother asked them to conduct a search for you; but that is all. The point is that once you are on board it will be quite impossible for the police to trace you until you land. And no one else will inform your mother what has become of you, unless you agree to do so yourself. Therefore, if you refuse this offer, she may be caused great distress for some time to come, believing you to be dead. It was to suggest to you that you should write this letter now, for delivery tomorrow, that we had you brought up here instead of putting you straight into a cell. Come, what do you say?’

  John found himself caught in a cleft stick. He knew how desperately worried his mother would become if she had no news of him. To allow her to remain in a state of terrible anxiety for several weeks, when he could easily reassure her, was unthinkable. So he said: ‘Very well. I will write to my mother on the lines you suggest.’

  It was at that instant that Christina shot the Marquis.

  Chapter 12

  The Fight in The Château

  John did not see Christina grab the gun up from the table, or fire it. He was looking at Jules; and Jules, the Marquis and Upson were all looking at him, waiting to hear whether he would decide to write the letter to his mother. Christina had taken advantage of that moment. She had stretched out her hand as though to pick up the glass she had set down a few moments before and finish the drink the Marquis had given her; instead, she snatched the automatic that Upson had left lying within a few inches of his own hand, aimed it, and pressed the trigger.

  Simultaneously with the crash of the pistol, the Marquis clasped his right shoulder. Reeling back, he collapsed on a Louis Seize settee. It was as well for him that he did, as Christina sent a second shot at him. It thudded into the Gobelin tapestry behind his head.

  Upson was the first to move. The Marquis had hardly staggered under the impact of the bullet before the airman swung a blow at Christina’s head. She ducked it as she fired her second shot, sprang away and turned the pistol on him. There was murder in her eyes. Seeing it, his face blanched and he made a futile gesture, throwing out his hands as though to ward off the bullet.

  There was barely four feet between them; so had it not been for John he would certainly have been shot. But, as he had struck out at Christina, John had swung round on his other side, run in, and struck at him. The blow landed squarely on the side of his face. He was already slightly off balance and it sent him spinning. Christina’s third shot sang harmlessly over his shoulder.

  Jules was standing near the table on which was the tray of drinks. Snatching up a bottle of Dubonnet by the neck, he flung it at Christina. The cork came out as it flew through the air, and the sticky liquid splashed all over her face and neck, but the bottle missed her.

  Letting out a scream of rage, she ran towards him, firing as she went. With extraordinary agility he flung himself aside, pirouetted like a ballet dancer and kicked her on the thigh. She went over with a crash and the pistol exploded for the fifth time. Her fourth shot had missed Jules, but the fifth paid an unexpected dividend. At that moment the door by which the valet had left the room opened, and he poked his head in. The bullet fired at random splintered the woodwork within an inch of his chin. His eyes popping with fright, he jerked back his head and slammed the door shut again.

  As Christina measured her length on the floor Jules ran at her, but John was in the act of rushing at him. They collided. John’s rush had carried him half across the room, so there was more force behind it. Jules went over backward, striking his head hard on the parquet floor. He rolled away, then struggled to his knees, but remained there grasping a chair with one hand and swaying from side to side, temporarily incapable of further action.

  Christina was up again, the automatic still clutched in her hand. The Marquis had also staggered to his feet, and with his sound arm was clutching a silken bell-rope. As he jerked it up and down a bell could be heard clanging in the distance. Christina had pitched forward to within a few feet of him. No sooner was she up than she pointed her gun at his heart. Only just in time to stop her from committing murder, John knocked it aside. The bullet shattered the centre panel of a cabinet displaying a beautiful Sèvres dinner service.

  The tinkle of glass and china merged into the thunder of feet charging across the parquet. As John and Christina stood together Upson was coming at them from behind with a chair raised above his head. They swung round to face him. For a second it seemed certain that it must fell one, or both, of them.

  There was no time to step aside; no time even for Christina to bring up her pistol. John gave her a push that sent her reeling back on to a chaise longue. Lowering his head he went right in under the chair and butted the airman in the stomach. Upson lost his grip on the chair; it crashed to the floor behind John’s back. He managed to keep his feet, but Upson went over backwards, the breath driven from his body, and lay writhing in agony.

  From the time Christina had fired her first shot, not one of these violent, kaleidoscopic actions had occupied more than ten seconds; yet in this bare minute or two the crack of the shots and the clanging of the bell had roused the house. The sound of running feet could be heard pounding along a corridor somewhere beyond the door through which the valet had poked his head.

  As Christina pushed herself up from the chaise longue on to which John had thrust her, he grasped her arm, turned her towards the double doors by which they had been brought in, and cried: ‘Quick! The servants are coming! This way, or they’ll catch us!’

  Still clutching the pistol, she ran through into the hall. He darted after her, but as he slammed the door behind him he had the presence of mind to swing round and turn the big ornate key that protruded from the lock. In three strides he reached the head of the short flight of stone stairs. Christina was halfway down them. Suddenly she lurched sideways, let out a yell, and fell, sprawling the last few steps.

  ‘You hurt?’ he panted, helping her to her feet.

  She took a couple of steps and screwed up her face with pain. ‘It’s my ankle. It twisted under me.’

  The little automatic had been dashed from her hand, but had not exploded. John stooped, grabbed it up, put on the safety-catch and slipped it into his pocket as he cried anxiously, ‘Will it bear you? Can you possibly manage to run?’

  ‘It has got to,’ she gasped, her eyes flashing with determination.

  ‘Well done! Here, lean on my shoulder.’

  She flung an arm round his neck, and together they trotted across the stone flags to the outer door. On emerging from it they could hear loud banging on the doors of the salon, and excited shouts. Jules was yelling for the servants—‘Marcel! Henri! Frederick! Where the devil are you?’

  As the fugitives ran out into the garden, by contrast with the brightly lit interior of the château it seemed pitch black. The moon had now set and the stars gave only a pale light in the open spaces between the trees. Their instinct was to take the way they had come and head down the broad central walk for the harbour. But no help was to be expected there, and, after a second, John realised that they would stand a better chance of getting away if they could find a side entrance to the grounds. Swerving to the right, he ran Christina along under the terrace till they got to the end of the building. A wall continued from it, in which there was a tall arch with a wrought-iron gate leading to a stable-yard.

  By the time they reached the arch, the windows of the salon had been flung open and several people had run out on to the terrace. Jules was shouting to the servants, ‘Get out into the garden. Quick now! Quick!’

  John pushed open the iron gate. As he did so a furious barking started and a big wolfhound came bounding from a kennel towards him. Christina screamed and he swiftly pulled the gate shut. At that instant two men ran ou
t from the main door of the house. Hearing the barking and the scream, they swerved to the right and came racing towards the stables.

  The second John had the gate shut, he and Christina made a dash for a path that led down the side wall of the garden. It was screened from the château by a belt of trees and thick shrubs which hid it in almost total darkness.

  One glance in each direction, and his heart sank with dismay. It gave on to the road leading up from the harbour to the carriage entrance of the château, and on, inland. On its far side was a steep bank topped by another wall, which ran unbroken both ways as far as he could see. Behind them they could hear the flying feet of their pursuers nearing the stables. Christina was moaning with pain, and the tears were running down her face. The road between the two walls was like a long, curved corridor, and in it there was no scrap of cover. Once out on it, the stars would give enough light for them to be seen. However game Christina’s effort, within two hundred yards they must be run down and caught.

  Pulling her back, John whispered, ‘We must hide: it’s our only chance.’

  He drew her swiftly with him down the path, through a postern gate which he left wide open on purpose, and then in among the bushes. They stood there with their hearts pounding, trying to still the rasping of their breath.

  It was none too soon. Jules’s men darted towards the dark path, and along it they came upon the open postern. As John had hoped, they ran through it. He gave them a minute, fearing that, seeing no one up or down the road, they might come back. Then, after a mutter of voices, he heard their running steps again as they headed towards the nearest bend, which lay up the slope.

  Coming out from their cover, John and Christina continued to follow the path, but now at a quick walk and making as little noise as possible. Temporarily they had escaped from the likelihood of immediate capture; but people calling to one another from the centre of the garden told them that Jules, Upson, and perhaps some of the other servants had come out to join in the hunt; and where the shrubbery was thinnest John twice caught the flash of torches.

  He knew that now there was little chance of slipping unseen out of the gate down by the port, and was desperately casting about for some place where they might hope to lie concealed when the hunt moved in their direction. By this time they were nearly at the bottom of the garden and could see part of the wall that ran parallel with the shore. Above it showed the starry sky, but at the corner where the two walls met a patch of blackness reared up to double their heights, its faint outline having the appearance of a square, topped by a triangle. After a second John realised what it was, and whispered: ‘That’s a gazebo just ahead of us. With luck they will think we got away along the road. They may not look in there. Anyhow, it’s our best bet. We must chance it.’

  Swiftly but cautiously, they covered the short distance to the end of the path and made their way up the curving wooden stair they found there. The door of the gazebo was not locked, but it squeaked a little and, fearful of being heard, when they had crept inside they closed it gently behind them. For a moment they could see nothing, then panels of greyness showed the position of the windows and they realised that the place was hexagonal with a window in each of its sides except that occupied by the door. By groping about they found that it held basket chairs with cushions in them, a table and a low cupboard. Lowering themselves into two of the chairs, they subconsciously stilled their breathing while listening anxiously for sounds outside.

  Muffled now by the wooden walls of the garden house, they could still hear the calls of the searchers. Once they caught the quick tread of heavy feet nearby, and the reflected glow from a torch lighted one of the windows on the garden side; but after a quarter of an hour of agonising apprehension no sound had reached them for several minutes, so it seemed that the search had been abandoned.

  Till then neither of them had dared to speak from fear that one of Jules’s people might be hunting about in the shrubbery beneath them; but now John thought it safe to ask in a whisper: ‘How is your ankle?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Christina whispered back. ‘It gave me hell while we were running; but since I’ve had it up on a chair the pain has eased a lot. I don’t think it’s sprained—only twisted.’

  ‘It ought to have a cold compress on, but there’s no hope of that. Still, I could bind it up tightly, and that may help when we have to move again. Shall I try what I can do?’

  By this time their eyes had become a little accustomed to the darkness; so he could just make out her nod. ‘I wish you would; but do you think you can see enough?’

  ‘We could use my cigarette-lighter, but I don’t like to risk it. This place may be visible from the house.’ As he spoke he knelt down and groped about till he found her foot. Having taken off her shoe, he felt the ankle gently with his finger-tips. It was swollen, but not very much. Getting out his silk handkerchief, he folded it on the seat of a nearby chair, as well as he could by touch, cornerwise into a long strip. Then he said: ‘You had better take off your stocking.’

  She undid the suspender and rolled it down for him. He peeled it off and for a moment held her bare foot in his palm. It was cool, firm and delightfully smooth. His hand closed round it easily, and on an impulse he remarked: ‘You were grumbling this afternoon about the size of your feet. I can’t think why. This is a lovely little foot.’ The words were scarcely out when he regretted them from the sudden fear that she might take the compliment as an amorous overture. He had experienced how swiftly she could be aroused to uncontrollable passion during the dark hours, and the last thing he wished for was to have to repel advances of which she would be ashamed in the morning light.

  His fears were not altogether unfounded. After a second’s hesitation, she said very softly, ‘If you like to kiss the place, that might make it well.’

  Instead, he laid on the bandage. It was the handkerchief he had used to bathe his face in the cabin, so it was still damp and cold. As it touched her she gave a little gasp, and, to distract her mind from the thoughts on which he felt sure it was running, he told her about the use to which he had put it; then, as he drew the bandage tight and tied the pointed ends in a knot a few inches above her heel, went on to describe the hurts he had received on the yacht.

  The ruse served to some extent, as she immediately became all concern. Then leaning forward she found and stroked his face, as she murmured, ‘Poor John! You’ve had a frightful time. And all for my sake. But I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you.’

  He got her stocking on over the bandage, then told her to pull it up; but she gave a low laugh.

  ‘No; you do it for me, darling. I’m glad you like my feet; although you’d find them much bigger than you think if you saw them. Of my legs, though, I have real reason to be proud. They are a lovely shape and above the knees as soft as satin. Just feel, here by my suspenders.’

  Suddenly taking his hand, she pulled it forward till it touched the inner side of her thigh on a line with the top of her other stocking. The flesh there was like a cushion of swansdown under a taut-stretched skin of tissue-thin rubber; it had that indefinable quality of being cool at first touch, then instantly radiating heat. The back of his fingers were pressed for only a second against it. Jerking them away, he tore his hand from hers, and snapped: ‘That’s quite enough of that! Do it up yourself.’

  For a moment she was silent, then she said in a voice near to tears, ‘Oh, John, you are unkind. Have you been playing with me? Don’t you love me at all?’

  His mouth had suddenly become dry. He swallowed, but his words came huskily in the darkness. ‘If you want to be seduced, ask me to fix your stockings for you tomorrow afternoon. But I’m damned if I’ll make love to you now, while you are under some accursed influence.’

  She sighed. ‘But it’s now I want you to. I’d make you if I wasn’t so tired.’

  He laughed a little grimly. ‘You would probably succeed if I wasn’t so tired myself. My ribs are still giving me problems, and I’m one big ache a
ll over. It must be past four o’clock, too; so it is over twenty hours since we had any sleep, except for our nap in the olive grove.’

  ‘That was nice.’ Her tone was warm at the memory. ‘But I’m such a stupid little fool in the daytime. I was nervous of you then.’

  ‘I like you better when you are like that, because you are your real self.’

  ‘What is my real self?’ she asked cynically. ‘My feelings are as real by night as they are by day. I shall be the way you like me best again soon, though. The change always comes an hour or so before dawn, and I can feel it coming on. But you can’t have it both ways. If they find us here and we have to try to escape again I’ll probably behave like an hysterical schoolgirl, and I’ll never have the pluck to fire that gun.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have it, and I felt it over soon after we got in here. There are still two bullets left in it. They should be enough to give us a sporting chance of a break-out if we are found here, but it looks as if they have made up their minds that we got away along the road. The thing that troubles me is your ankle. I should like to give them another half-hour, then go out and reconnoitre. If no one is about it would be the perfect opportunity to slip away inland behind the château. No one would ever find us up there in the maquis. But there is always the chance that we might be spotted leaving the garden and have to run for it again; and, anyway, I’m sure your ankle would never stand up to a long tramp over broken ground up into the hills.’

  ‘No, John. I’m afraid I should let you down if we tried that. Still, if they don’t look for us here soon, it is very unlikely that they will tomorrow; so we could stay here in hiding all day. By the evening my ankle will be much stronger and we could slip away soon after dark.’

  ‘We’ll be jolly hungry and thirsty by then; but it would certainly be our safest plan.’

  ‘A day’s fasting won’t do either of us any great harm. If you agree, let’s try to get some sleep now.’