Sixty Days to Live

by Dennis Wheatley

  SIXTY DAYS TO LIVE

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones

  FOR

  JOHN AND HILDA GARDNER

  Because they are my oldest friends, because of the many happy hours I have spent with them and because, by a strange coincidence, John suggested that I should write a ‘Comet’ story one day last autumn when that very morning I had decided to write one myself.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1 An offer of marriage

  2 An incredible announcement

  3 Even worlds sometimes die

  4 A strange premonition

  5 The unscrupulous ex-Minister

  6 A plot to save the nation

  7 Inside information

  8 Rumours and a refuge

  9 The last days of London

  10 A terrifying experience

  11 ‘Eat, drink and be merry …’

  12 Derek does his damnedest

  13 Hell in Hyde Park

  14 Hemmingway goes into action

  15 The great evacuation

  16 Lavina shoots to kill

  17 Crazy day

  18 The last dawn

  19 Prepare for death

  20 The Comet strikes

  21 The great waters

  22 Adrift

  23 The maniac

  24 Domestic upheaval

  25 Calamity

  26 The frozen world

  27 Life must go on

  28 The Dover Road

  29 Into the blizzard

  30 One must die

  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 Duc 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

  1

  An Offer of Marriage

  Lavina Leigh paused for a second in the entrance of the Savoy Grill. The maître d’hôtel smiled, bowed and moved forward, upon which she made her entrance.

  Lavina was good at making entrances. She was slim, very fair and, although she was not tall, her film work had taught her to make the best of her inches and she carried herself like a Princess.

  Even in that sophisticated supper-time crowd, heads turned as she swept forward. Ace director Alfred Hitchcock, perched like Humpty Dumpty on the edge of a chair, gave her a little wave of greeting from one table; and B.B.C. chief Val Gielgud, looking very Russian with his little pointed beard, smiled at her from another.

  The man who followed Lavina was in his late forties. He had a square face with a bulldog chin, but his features were redeemed from coarseness by pleasant brown eyes, a fine forehead and a touch of grey in his dark, smooth hair, over either temple.

  Sir Samuel Curry was used to appearing in public with good-looking women. He was very rich and decidedly a connoisseur, but even so, on this night towards the end of April he was conscious of a little glow of pride in his glamorous companion as he followed her to their table and they settled themselves at it.

  He did not ask her what she would have to eat but ordered for her, as they had been friends for some months and he knew all her favourite dishes. In less than a minute the waiter had departed to execute Sir Samuel’s clear, decisive orders.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I never come here except with you. I much prefer the Restaurant.’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t be difficult, Sam dear. I know you millionaires always congregate there but the Grill’s so much more interesting. Look, there’s Gilbert Frankau and his pretty wife, with Leon M. Lion; and at that other table Doris Zinkeisen and her husband, Grahame Johnstone. You saw Hitch, too, as we came in. The big man with him is Henry Sherek and the little woman is Hitch’s clever wife who vets most of his scripts for him. Besides, all the big boys on the Press come here and that’s immensely useful.’

  Sam Curry smiled a little ruefully. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s part of your job to keep in touch with all these people, but I wish to goodness you’d be
sensible and chuck it. You’ll never make a film star.’

  Her small, beautifully-shaped mouth opened on an exclamation of protest, but she suppressed it and lit a cigarette before she replied with calm aloofness: ‘I am one already.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not,’ he mocked her. ‘You’re only a starlet. No one’s a real star until they’ve been given a Hollywood contract.’

  Lavina lifted her heavy eyelids lazily. ‘That doesn’t apply any more, Sam.’

  But in spite of her denial she knew that he was right. In three years she had done very well and, as she was only twenty-three, she still had a good film life before her. But, at times, she was subject to horrid doubts as to whether she would get much further.

  Her acting was sound; she had a personality that attracted every man with whom she came in contact and, physically, she was about as nearly perfect as any woman could be, but, all the same, she knew quite well that her beauty was not of a kind best suited for motion-pictures.

  It was of that fine, aristocratic type which is based on bone-formation and ensures for every woman who has it the certainty of still being lovely in old age. Her small, perfectly-chiselled Roman nose and narrow, oval face gave her great distinction; but her nose had proved an appalling handicap in her work, as in all but the most carefully selected angles it threw a tiresome shadow when she was being filmed under the glare of the arc-lamps. That one factor had already robbed her of several good parts and might well prevent her from ever achieving real stardom, unless she was willing to have her nose broken and remodelled—which she was not prepared to do.

  While they ate their bligny and the stuffed quails which followed they talked of the people round about them. One waiter refilled their glasses with Roederer ‘28. Another brought them fresh peaches. After he had peeled them and moved away, Sam Curry said:

  ‘When are you going to present me to your people, Lavina?’

  Little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, which came from frequent laughter, creased up as she parried: ‘Why this sudden question?’

  ‘Because I’m old-fashioned enough to want to observe the custom of meeting your relations before I marry you.’

  Her blackened eyelashes lifted, showing the surprise in her blue-grey eyes. ‘Surely you don’t mean that you would walk right out of my life if they disapproved of you?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just a courtesy.’

  ‘But I haven’t said that I will marry you, yet.’

  ‘You’re going to, as sure as my name’s Sam Curry.’

  She shook her golden head in silent mockery.

  ‘Listen, Lavina,’ he went on. ‘Even if you could become a real film star, it’s a dog’s life, and you know it. On the set at eight o’clock or earlier most mornings; often working the whole night through; and what little leisure you do get is wasted in acting a part all the time: opening bazaars, posing for photographers, endless fittings at dressmakers’, showing yourself off in places like this because it’s vital to get continuous publicity if you’re to keep in the swim at all.’

  ‘I like it,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Maybe. But in ten years, at the outside, you’ll be worn out, finished, and no good to anyone. Already you’re losing your eye for make-up and, if you go on this way, you’ll become a hag before you’re thirty. Get some of that paint off your face and look twice as beautiful. Cut out this film business and enjoy yourself, my dear, while you’re still young and healthy.’

  ‘I should be bored to tears doing nothing all day.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t be doing nothing,’ he persisted. ‘I’ve made enough to take things easy now, and we could travel. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? There’s the house in London. And we’d have another in the country; a big place where we could entertain. Think what fun it would be for you, with your artistic flair, to furnish and decorate it. Besides, you could do an immense amount of good with my money. I’ve been too busy to think of other people while I’ve been making it, but you must have lots of pet schemes you’d like to foster; and if running a couple of big houses, with frequent trips abroad, isn’t enough, you’d find plenty to occupy you in really worth-while charities.’

  ‘You think I’m a much nicer person than I really am. Actually, I’m extremely selfish and rather lazy.’

  He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘That’s just one of your poses, Lavina, and if you stick on in the film game, it may become a permanent part of your nature. Instead, you’re going to marry me and remain your own sweet self, and I suggest that as a first step you should introduce me to your people.’

  ‘I’ve never confessed to having any.’

  ‘True. You always pose as a “mystery woman”, but I’ll bet you’ve got some relatives tucked away somewhere. Of course, if they gave you a rotten deal, we’ll leave it at that; but the chances are that they follow your career through the papers with tremendous pride, so it would be the decent thing to do just to go and see them before you get married.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they’re very fond of me. But you might not like them.’

  ‘Does that matter?’ He smiled suddenly and his brown eyes twinkled. ‘I’m not suggesting that they should come and live with us.’

  ‘I’m afraid the squalor of my old home would quite appal you.’

  ‘So the glamorous Lavina Leigh was dragged up in a slum?’ he said meditatively. ‘I find that surprising. You’re an aristocrat to your finger-tips; but then, perhaps you’re a love child.’

  ‘No. I’m as certain as one can ever be that I’m not, but remember, it’s marvellous what the film people can do when they groom a girl for stardom.’

  ‘Voice, hair, beauty culture, deportment, clothes, I grant you,’ he nodded, ‘but they couldn’t have given you those long, slender hands, your narrow wrists and ankles; or that princess-look that’s so marked in all your features. The fact that you’re a thoroughbred is stamped all over you. But, anyhow, what’s it matter where you came from? My father was a foreman-mechanic and, if I wore the only old school tie that I’m entitled to, no one would know it outside Bradford. Are your people very poor, Lavina?’

  ‘They struggle on, somehow, but they never quite know how they’re going to keep the roof over their heads.’

  ‘In that case I’d like to arrange to make things a bit easier for them in the future.’

  Lavina laughed readily at every jest and was almost always smiling, either at something someone had said or at her secret thoughts, but now her eyes took on a serious expression as she said:

  ‘You’re a nice person, Sam, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. I’m hard as nails but it happens that I love you, so I’d like to do things for anybody with whom you’re connected. Do your people live in London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In the provinces, then?’

  ‘No. In these days I suppose you’d almost call it a suburb.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Well, if you must know, I’m a farmer’s daughter and I spent most of my childhood in the country. But Surrey has been so built-over now that you can hardly call it country any longer.’

  ‘D’you ever go and see them?’

  ‘No. I haven’t been home for three years, because Mother’s dead and I quarrelled with Father about going on the films.’

  ‘Then it’s quite time that you made it up with him.’

  Lavina half-closed her eyes as she drew upon her cigarette. Then she nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Sam. My father adores me really and I’ve been thinking rather a lot about him lately. Mind, I still haven’t said that I’m going to marry you, but if you like I’ll write and say that I’m prepared to bury the hatchet and ask if I can take you down there next week-end.’

  2

  AN INCREDIBLE ANNOUNCEMENT

  On the following Saturday afternoon Sir Samuel Curry drove down into Surrey with Lavina beside him. When they had passed Dorking, with its outcrop of modern, jerry-built houses, she directed him as he swung the powerfu
l coupé through narrow, twisting lanes towards the little village of Stapleton.

  The previous night she had told him that he was to pack a bag, as her father had written that he would be glad if she and her friend would stay the week-end.

  Sam was immensely intrigued to see what Lavina’s home would be like and had been visualising some tumbledown old farmhouse; so he was considerably surprised when she checked him at a pair of great iron gates flanked by stone pillars, set in a wall that hemmed in a belt of woodland.

  True, the iron gates, which stood open, were rusty and one of the stone lions holding shields, which crowned the pillars, had lost its head. But, quite obviously, it was the entrance to a big estate.

  ‘Where’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Stapleton Court.’

  ‘Has your father got the home farm here, then?’

  She smiled. ‘I suppose you’d call it that, as it’s the only one that’s left to us.’

  He pulled up the car a couple of hundred yards along the drive and turned to look at her. ‘D’you mean, Lavina, that Stapleton Court’s your home?’

  ‘Yes. And I don’t think I told you that my real name is Stapleton, did I? My family has lived here for centuries.’

  ‘You little devil,’ he laughed. ‘You led me to suppose that your father was just a poor farmer.’

  ‘But he is, Sam. We had money once, lots of it, and owned miles of country hereabouts; but a Stapleton, in Regency times, gambled nearly everything we had away, racing cockroaches and things. Now, farming doesn’t pay any longer and the family’s on its beam-ends. You may have noticed that the Lodge is empty and the drive all overgrown. Of course, I pulled your leg a little bit, just for fun, but Daddy really is most desperately poor.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we could rectify that.’ He smiled as he let the clutch in again. ‘Buy the place and let it to him for a peppercorn, or something.’

  She quickly shook her head. ‘For goodness’ sake don’t try to. He’s as proud as Lucifer and determined to die here rather than sell the place, even if the roof literally falls in. He wouldn’t accept a loan from one of his own relatives, so please don’t even mention the word money.’