Sixty Days to Live

by Dennis Wheatley

  Whipping round, Derek stared at Lavina. She was kneeling again now and held Roy in her arms. The whole of the back of his head was shattered and blood was pouring from it all over her light summer frock.

  The mêlée of gangsters had swayed away from them. Derek knelt down beside her and saw that she was weeping hysterically.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she moaned. ‘He’s dead. And it’s all my fault. Oh, how wicked I was to insist on staying here.’

  A fresh din of shouting was now coming from the lounge outside. A moment before, the Restaurant doors had been jammed by a solid mass of people trying to escape from the gangsters’ razors. Now they had turned and were streaming back into the room, yelling as they came: ‘The Police! The Police!’

  Derek realised at once that the hotel management had at last succeeded in getting aid from the authorities to clear the place. One drunken man was lying on the floor nearby, apparently oblivious to all that was going on except for the presence of the equally drunken woman in his arms over whom he was slobbering. But others, wounded, unconscious, dead, were strewn about the floor among the broken glass. The rest were clambering over the chairs and tables in a desperate attempt to escape by way of the windows.

  A phalanx of police, pressed shoulder to shoulder, burst their way through the crowd in the doorway. Their batons were drawn and they were in no mood to be trifled with. Several had lost their helmets and others had cuts upon their faces from missiles that had been thrown at them as they had fought their way through the hall.

  For a moment Derek thought of trying to get Lavina out through one of the windows; but, although poor Roy was dead, his blank eyeballs upturned and protruding, they could not leave him.

  The gangsters had ceased their fighting and turned upon their common enemy. Those who had not already fled began to hurl bottles and chairs at the advancing police, but scores of Specials were now pouring into the room behind the shock column of hardened regulars.

  At a sharp word of command, their formation broke into two wings, each of which swept sideways, encircling great batches of the riotous crew. People were now stumbling back through the windows, driven in by more squadrons of police who were lining the pavements outside. The gangsters were being forced into corners and beaten to their knees.

  Suddenly a big Sergeant, with an angry eye, charged across the floor and, seizing Derek by the scruff of the neck, shouted:

  ‘Come on, you!’

  At the same moment a young Special grabbed Lavina with a yell of ‘Keep your claws down or I’ll have to hurt you.’

  Before they had time to exchange a word they were hauled to their feet and dragged in opposite directions.

  12

  DEREK DOES HIS DAMNEDEST

  ‘Steady on, Sergeant!’ gasped Derek. ‘I haven’t been throwing any bottles.’

  ‘You can tell that to the magistrate in the morning,’ the big man panted. He had an ugly bruise over one eye and no cause whatever to feel tolerant towards the rioters.

  ‘I didn’t assault you and I’m not drunk. You’ve got no right to arrest me.’ Derek struggled to free himself from the iron grip of his captor.

  ‘Oh, yes, I have—participating in riotous assembly; and I’ll add “resisting arrest” to that if you’re not careful.’

  ‘All right, then. But hang on a minute.’

  Lavina had been pulled a dozen yards away by the young Special. She was still weeping hysterically and making little resistance, but Derek pointed with his free hand anxiously towards her.

  ‘Listen, Sergeant. That lady I was with—she’s Lady Curry. For goodness’ sake don’t separate me from her at a time like this.’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s the Duchess of Dartmoor’ grunted the Sergeant with heavy humour. ‘Men one way and women the other. That’s the order.’ He gave Derek a violent shove towards two constables. ‘Here! Keep your eye on this one. I found him kneeling beside a chap who’d had his head bashed in.’

  A number of the police had now formed two lines. Behind one they had penned a large number of their male captives and behind the other, at the far side of the room, the women. They were rapidly sorting out the rest of the mob and clearing the centre of the ballroom.

  Derek found himself among a motley crowd that now looked less than ever like regular patrons of the Dorchester. Most of them were drunk, many had cuts and bruises, torn clothes, ruffled hair and blood upon their faces.

  On glancing down he saw that his own hands and shirt-cuffs were bloodstained from having raised poor Roy’s battered head off Lavina’s lap. He peered anxiously between the shoulders of two stalwart Specials but could see nothing of her.

  A few moments later the police began to march their prisoners off in batches. Craning his neck, Derek caught one glimpse of Lavina. She was being hustled along in the midst of a group of drunk and cursing women. At that moment she looked across and, with a shrill cry of ‘Derek! Derek!’ made a desperate attempt to run towards him; but a policeman firmly thrust her back and she was forced to leave the ballroom with the others.

  When the women had all gone, the men were shepherded out in groups of about a dozen. The lounge was now clear except for little knots of police and some harassed-looking members of the hotel staff. Outside the entrance of the hotel a line of small Ford vans was drawn up. Derek and his companions were hustled into one. The doors were slammed, locked, and the van drove off.

  It was completely dark inside. Some of the drunks were jolted off their feet and the others were badly jostled, but their drive was a short one. When the van came to a halt, and its doors were unlocked, Derek tumbled out of it to find himself standing on grass in the fresh night air. After a second he recognised the lights of Grosvenor House and the skyline of Park Lane, above the trees in the distance, and realised that he was in Hyde Park.

  On looking round he saw that they were outside a barbed-wire encampment, which was guarded by soldiers in khaki. There were many police and military about, but Derek did not have long to observe them as he and his companions were hurried into a large wooden hut just by the entrance of the barbed-wire enclosure.

  Inside it a Guards Captain was seated behind a trestle table. Beside him was a Corporal, busily writing upon a stack of forms. Two or three orderlies stood near, besides a double row of policemen who had participated in the raid on the Dorchester.

  One by one the men in Derek’s group were pushed forward, and when particulars of each had been taken down by the Corporal, they were handed over to the military and marched outside again.

  When it came to Derek’s turn, the Captain asked: ‘Name?’

  ‘Derek Burroughs.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘The Old Mill, Stapleton, Surrey.’

  ‘Charge?’ The Captain looked interrogatively towards the group of policemen, and the big Sergeant stepped forward.

  ‘Riotous assembly, sir. And would you add to that—when arrested, was kneeling beside the body of a fair man, aged about thirty, who had had his head bashed in.’

  The Officer nodded and signed to Derek to move away so that the next prisoner could come forward, but Derek stood his ground and said quickly:

  ‘Look here, this is all an awful mistake. I was in the Dorchester having supper.

  ‘I know,’ interrupted the Captain wearily. ‘They’re all saying that.’

  ‘But listen,’ Derek insisted. ‘I’m not drunk. I was with Lady Curry but we were separated and I’ve simply got to find her.’

  ‘Sorry,’ The Guards Captain fingered his small, dark moustache. ‘I’m afraid I can’t release you because, you see, you’ve been charged. We’ll have to hold you with the rest until the morning.’

  ‘But I’m not a rioter. We got mixed up in this affair,’ Derek protested.

  ‘Well, that’s your fault, isn’t it? The Government has appealed to everybody to stay indoors so as to prevent this sort of thing happening. Anyhow, you’ve no need to worry. They’ll probably let you off with a caution to-morrow.’ />
  ‘But, don’t you see, it’s not myself I’m worried about,’ Derek cried in desperation. ‘It’s Lady Curry. God knows where they’ve taken her and she was lugged off among a lot of drunken women.’

  The Officer shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine how any decent woman got mixed up in a show like this and, for all I know, you’re just trying to put one over me. Any number of people are to-night. I’m really very sorry but I can’t give you any more time. Take him away.’

  The wretched Derek was pulled from the table, thrust out of the hut and handed over to a Corporal, who passed him in through the iron gates of the barbed-wired prisoners’ cage.

  He looked gloomily round him. There was no moon but it was a fine night and the stars gave enough light to see by. In the big encampment there were hundreds of men standing, sitting or lying on the grass. On speaking to some of them he soon discovered that comparatively few had been brought in from the Dorchester. Most of them had been rounded up from other hotels, restaurants and bars, as, apparently, the riot in the Dorchester was only symptomatic of the sort of thing that was happening all over London that night wherever supplies of drink could be got for the taking; and the police were now systematically clearing and closing down such places.

  There were no troops in the encampment but plenty of sentries outside it and, after walking a little way round its rim, Derek saw that he would not stand the least chance of getting away even if he could have wriggled through the eight-foot-high mesh of barbed-wire which fenced in himself and his fellow prisoners.

  He was acutely worried about Lavina. The shock of seeing Roy killed before her eyes was quite enough to have sent such a highly-strung girl out of her mind. Again and again he cursed himself for having allowed her to remain there among such a crowd when they were so clearly boiling up for trouble. Yet so strong a personality animated her slender body that he doubted if anyone else would have succeeded, where he had failed, in persuading her to go home before she wanted to.

  As he let his imagination race over the possibilities of her present situation, he groaned. He had just got to get free himself and find her somehow.

  Retracing his steps to the gate, which was some twelve feet wide, made of steel bars and hinged on two great posts, he peered through it. The sentry remained as though dumb and ignored his questions but, after a little, Derek managed to attract the attention of a Sergeant-Major and, beckoning him over, offered him a cigarette. The Sergeant-Major took it through the bars of the gate with a polite ‘Thanks, old chap.’

  ‘What chance is there of getting out of this place?’ Derek asked.

  ‘Not an earthly, until you’ve been before the Court in the morning,’ the man replied, with a friendly grin.

  Derek then told his story of Roy’s murder and how Lavina had been dragged off by the police.

  The Sergeant-Major was sympathetic, but unhelpful. ‘Hard luck, that,’ he nodded, ‘but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  After a little hesitation Derek produced his note case. It had about £50 in it and, opening it up so as to make certain that the Sergeant-Major could see its contents, he said:

  ‘I’m not trying to bribe you but I’ll make it very well worth your while if you can help me. The girl I was with must be in a shocking state and I’ve absolutely got to get to her somehow.’

  ‘It’s no good, sir,’ the Sergeant-Major shook his head. ‘I’d help you gladly if I could, but I can’t. The sentries on the gate have their orders and no one’s to be let out unless an officer signs a written form releasing them.’

  ‘Couldn’t you talk to one of the officers for me, then?’ urged Derek.

  ‘Yes. I might do that, though I doubt if it will do much good. They’re a pretty decent lot in the ordinary way but just now being so overworked makes ’em a bit abrupt and disinclined for conversation. Still, when the Lieutenant does his rounds I’ll wait my chance and have a word with him.’

  ‘Thanks—thanks most awfully,’ Derek muttered. ‘Look, take this on account and drink my health with it to-morrow.’ He thrust a couple of pounds into the Sergeant-Major’s hand.

  ‘Very good of you, I’m sure.’ The notes disappeared into the Sergeant-Major’s pocket. ‘I can’t promise anything, though, and the Lieutenant won’t be round for another three-quarters of an hour or so. If I have any luck with him, where’ll I find you?’

  ‘I’ll be about here. My name’s Derek Burroughs. If you give a shout, I’ll hear you.’

  ‘Right-o, sir.’ The Sergeant-Major gave a perfunctory salute and moved away into darkness.

  As Derek turned, he bumped into a tall, thin, bony man who had been standing with a group of others just behind him. The tall man muttered an apology and went on talking to his cronies, a rough-looking lot in caps and scarves who looked as though they had been rounded up from some public-house.

  For a few moments Derek stood still, then he began to walk up and down making a detour here and there to avoid little groups or some of the drunks, who were now huddled, snoring, on the grass; yet he hardly noticed them, his brain was so occupied with the thought of Lavina.

  Where had they taken her? To Holloway? No, that would be full to overflowing. Much more probably it would be to some municipal building converted into a temporary prison or a barbed-wire cage for women in some other part of the Park. Anyhow, wherever she was, she must be in a most desperate state. Derek knew her well enough to realise that the toughness she sometimes displayed was not even skin-deep; it was only a sham armour of silver paper by which she deceived people so that she could force her will upon them. Underneath, she was just a rather fragile, delicately-nurtured girl, with quick sympathies and a special horror of any form of uncleanness.

  As he thought of her, cooped up somewhere with a lot of prostitutes, drunks and the riff-raff of the streets, he seethed with rage at his inability to help her. The fact that she was at least indirectly responsible for Roy’s death would certainly have driven her half out of her senses with distress and remorse. All his old love for her had surged up again during this long day they had spent together. As he had told her in the afternoon, now that she was married he had every intention of suppressing it and, at the time, he had felt himself quite strong enough to do so; yet now, as he paced up and down, he would have given anything in the world to be able to get to her, put his arms round her, and comfort her.

  The three-quarters of an hour he had to wait seemed absolutely interminable and, although he kept the gate in sight, each time he turned about he walked a little farther away from it. He had just covered his maximum distance so far and was about to turn again when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  Looking up, he recognised the tall man who had been near him when he was speaking to the Sergeant-Major.

  ‘You’re Derek Burroughs, ain’t yer?’ the tall man asked in a husky voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek quickly.

  ‘You was torkin’ to the Sergeant-Major ‘alf an hour ago, wasn’t yer? Well, ‘e’s lookin’ for yer.’

  ‘Is he?’ Derek started forward towards the gate but the man gripped him quickly by the arm.

  ‘Not that way, mate. The Serg’ says to me as ‘ow I was to find you and, when I did, bring you to the far side of the camp where there ain’t so many people ‘angin’ around. I think ‘e’s got some idea in ‘is noddle for gettin’ you out of this.’

  ‘Thank God,’ breathed Derek, and, without further hesitation, he began to stride beside the tall man towards the less crowded section of the encampment.

  The barbed-wire cage enclosed an oblong space running north and south, several hundred yards in length. The gate was at the southern end and comparatively few of the prisoners had bothered to move far from it after being ordered inside.

  As they advanced, the sleeping forms scattered over the grass grew fewer and by the time they had covered two hundred and fifty yards the last of the prisoners had been swallowed up in the darkness behind them.

  Suddenly Derek fe
lt a vague sense of apprehension. There was a rustling in the grass at his rear. Glancing swiftly over his shoulder he saw that three men were padding softly on his heels.

  He had just time to avoid a blow that one of the men aimed at his head, by springing aside, and all three were upon him.

  In an instant he saw the trap into which he had fallen. The tall man had overheard his conversation with the Sergeant and seen him produce his wallet with the wad of notes in it. His treacherous guide and the three evil-looking thugs who had suddenly appeared now formed a circle round him. He had been lured to a quiet part of the camp so that they could attack and rob him.

  The odds were heavy, but in his day Derek had been a runner-up for the Public Schools boxing championship. He was still under thirty and a healthy outdoor life and kept him remarkably fit. But he did not mean to rely on that. Lavina’s rescue from the purgatory she must be suffering now depended on his own escape. There were plenty of people within call.

  He lashed out, giving one of the men a crack on the jaw that sent him reeling, and at the same moment opened his own mouth to shout for help. But at that very second the tall fellow struck him a savage blow on the head from behind. His shout was never uttered; instead, his back teeth clicked and his front teeth bit into the tip of his tongue, causing him almost to screech with pain. Instantly all four of his attackers flung themselves at him.

  He was borne down, kneed a man in the stomach and, wriggling free, staggered to his feet again. With the strength of desperation he hit out right and left, the image of Lavina ever in his mind; and many of his punches got home, as he knew from his smarting knuckles.

  Suddenly the tall man landed a brutal kick on his shin, another of them got in a heavy blow on his ear and a third, charging him head downward, butted him in the midriff. With a gasp he was sent flying to the ground, the man on top of him.

  For the next few moments he suffered indescribably. Heavy boots thudded into his ribs. One of the men jumped upon his stomach. Kneeling beside him, they wrenched out his pocket-book and delivered blow after blow on his face wherever he was unable to guard it. A vicious kick on the back of the head caused him to see red lights stabbing the blackness before his eyes; then he fainted.