The old Chinaman struck a little gong, and another Oriental, with hands tucked into wide sleeves, made his appearance—silent and cringing.
Wobbles parted with a note, and some coins to the negro guide. One of the gorgeous hangings was drawn aside, and he was led down a dark passage to a little room. It was sparsely furnished, and the cushions of the bunk which occupied one side of it were soiled and shabby. It had no windows and a stale atmosphere hung in the confined space.
Wobbles felt a sense of repulsion come over him, but he remembered that the lovers of the dream-pipe build their palaces from their imagination, so he sat down to wait on the edge of the bunk.
The Chinaman was busy rolling a pellet of the drug between his palms; deftly he picked it up on the end of a needle and held it for a moment in the flame of a lamp. He handed Wobbles the brass pipe—that magic gateway to a world of celestial brightness, where all is roses and troubles are no more—then silently he withdrew.
It was infinitely quiet in the little room. Wobbles spread his handkerchief on the pillow, stretched himself on the bunk, and inhaled a breath from the pipe. At first the fumes made him cough and splutter, but a pleasant feeling of languor began to steal over him.
He felt very tired, but some of his anger had left him—he tried the pipe again, this time with more success. He grew drowsy—the walls seemed to be closing in on him—the tiny flame of the lamp diminished to a pin-point of light, and then suddenly increased before his eyes to a bright and lurid flame; a moment later it had almost disappeared once more—he lay still, the drug was working.
Somewhere a long way away he could hear voices very faintly—as thought they came to him from an infinite distance over a weak telephone wire. Someone seemed to be quarrelling. He cursed them for fools and wished that they would stop, he was deliciously drowsy, these bickering voices irritated him.
He picked up the pipe to draw another puff, but as he moved the voices grew much louder. He scowled at the door through which they seemed to come, and thought of shouting to them to go away—and let him sleep. With an effort he sat up. The room seemed to be going round him; he concentrated on the door, trying to focus it with his eyes and make it stay still. It occurred to his dazed mind that this was really not much fun—no dreams—no nothing—and just the same stupid feeling as if one was tight. Perhaps he hadn’t taken enough—he reached again for the pipe—then he frowned in perplexity. What a row there was going on somewhere—he distinctly heard the trampling of feet and then a crash.
‘Help!’ came a voice. ‘Help!’
Vaguely it dawned on Wobbles that some fellow was trying to do some other fellow in. ‘How idiotic,’ he thought. Why the devil couldn’t they be sensible people—smoke their rotten pipes if they wanted to and go to sleep—still—couldn’t have chaps killing one another—he supposed he’d have to go and see about it.
He staggered to his feet and lurched towards the door. Lord, what a row they were making! He fumbled with the latch and the door opened with a creak.
In the passage a terrific struggle was going on; a burly middle-aged man lay stretched out on the floor—two wiry Chinese were trying to stop his shouts, and drag him back into a room close by. He was kicking for all he was worth and yelling lustily.
Wobbles’ bemused mind cleared with amazing suddenness—this was no figment of a drugged imagination, two Chinese maltreating a white man, by Gad—he’d see about that. He was still unsteady on his legs, but flung himself on the nearest Oriental.
The Chinaman slithered from his grasp, then quick as lightning whipped a long curved knife from his baggy sleeve. He crouched there—glaring, his gums drawn back, his breath made a hissing sound as he let it out—he was about to spring. Wobbles did not wait for him. He sailed right in. The knife went up, Wobbles knocked it aside—he lashed out with his right—the Chinese took it on the jaw and went down in a heap.
The elderly man was on his feet again; he puffed and gasped and struggled, and he looked about all in, but he hung on to his adversary gamely. Wobbles seized the other Chink by the back of the neck, and hauled him off—with a terrific heave he pitched him bodily into a corner. The yellow man’s head hit the skirting with a thump—he lay where he had fallen, groaning.
‘Come on,’ yelled Wobbles, ‘we must get out of this.’ He pushed the other man before him down the passage, but as they came to the big curtain he thrust his way in front. He grasped the satin with both hands and gave a wrench—with a tearing sound it came away, crumpling in heavy folds.
In the middle of the reception room stood the old man with the peacock robe. A knife whizzed as the curtain fell, it plopped into the thick material that Wobbles held at arm’s length—had he pushed the hanging aside instead of wrenching it down, the knife would have found its mark. The old man’s hand flew up again—a second knife flashed through the air—it stuck, quivering, in a panel only a few inches from Wobbles’ head. He dropped the curtain, rushed to the altar, seized Quan Yin, and swung her in the air. With one swift motion he flung the heavy image. The Oriental stood, rooted to the spot—horror-struck at the sacrilege—the golden figure struck him full on the chest, he fell backwards, screaming curses in a high, shrill voice.
Wobbles’ companion was half-way down the stairs—Wobbles dashed after him. The yellow porter stood at the bottom. The burly man jumped the last six steps and landed on the Chink. They rolled together in the hallway—the Chinaman wriggled free and stood up; Wobbles hit him good and strong—he went down again like a felled ox. The other struggled to his feet—a moment later they stood together in the dark and silent alley.
Panting and speechless, they walked together down the noisome court to the nearest street. Under a corner lamp Wobbles had his first opportunity of scrutinising the man he had rescued. He was in a shocking state—collar torn off, tie under ear, dusty and dishevelled; but making due allowance for that he seemed a prosperous-looking person. Directly he had regained his breath he spoke:
‘I’m almighty grateful to you, friend, for lugging me out of that joint.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ murmured Wobbles in a depressed voice; with the open air the fact that he would not be able to ride with Veronica the next morning came back to him strongly.
‘Known old Loo-chi for years,’ the American went on. ‘Knew him way back in ’Frisco—’fore you were born I reckon.’
Wobbles was no longer interested, but he thought it only polite to ask: ‘What was the row about then?’
The American became confidential. ‘See here, son, I’m not supposed to be in Cairo—my wife ’ud give me hell, and then some, if she knew. I’m still young at sixty—that’s my trouble—but Loo-chi knows who I am. I reckon he thought he’d hold me for a roll of greenbacks when I happened on his dope-joint, doin’ the rounds.’
‘Well—er—I’m glad to have helped you out,’ Wobbles said vaguely. He was wondering what he could do now.
‘Say—what made you hit the pipe?’ asked the stranger curiously.
Wobbles gave a tired laugh. ‘Oh, a woman—the usual story.’
‘Women is hell,’ the American agreed, ‘but what’s the girl find wrong with you anyway—you seem a real live man.’
‘It’s not the girl,’ said Wobbles quickly. ‘It’s her mother. They’ve got masses of money, and I’m just a poor devil of an air force officer; that’s the trouble. If only she was poor and I was rich—but I don’t want to bore you with all this—’ He sighed heavily.
‘Now that’s real hard,’ exclaimed the big man sympathetically. ‘Never mind, son, come and split a bottle with me at Sheppards’—but a word to the wise young man. I’m just off the train from Alex.; the scrap you got me out of was way back at the railway station! See!’
Wobbles nodded. ‘Anything you like,’ he agreed.
A few minutes later they were back in the well-lighted streets; they walked up the steps of the hotel and into the lounge side by side.
At a small table sat a charming figure, the mere
sight of her made Wobbles’ heart bump: her well-marked eyebrows became two bows of surprise as they approached. ‘Why, Papa,’ she exclaimed, ‘I thought you were in Alex.—but what a state you’re in—and how did you become acquainted with my boy friend, too?’
‘I’m right off the train, honey,’ declared Mr. Van Hoode firmly. He cocked a shrewd eye at Wobbles, and found that young man gazing at his daughter with his soul in his eyes. He broke into a sudden smile. ‘You two had better get dancing while I clean up and have a word with Moma. I’ve a hunch your boy friend’s been in luck tonight.’
Some two hours later Wobbles stood once more on the steps of Sheppards’. The patient negro was still waiting—to his great surprise he got a handsome tip. Wobbles was smoking yet another of the Van Hoode cigars, but this time he did not throw it—three parts unsmoked—away.
STORY X
I CAN imagine the majority of readers saying ‘Enough of this! We don’t want any more immature fumblings but the sort of short story that we expected to get in a Dennis Wheatley book.’ That is a reasonable demand, although whether this story will be up to expectations it is beyond my power to foresee.
I wrote the story when I was on holiday in Rome in 1938 and it was only the unusualness of the request from the Editor of the Daily Sketch which intrigued me into sitting down to work in a distinctly warm hotel bedroom. He wrote to me that he was planning a series of six stories each by a different author but all having in common the same situation for their opening.
A pretty girl comes out of an hotel and gets into her waiting car. As she is about to drive off the hotel porter comes running after her with a small parcel in his hand exclaiming ‘Hi! Miss, you’ve forgotten this!’ Instead of taking the parcel the girl gives him a startled glance and, jamming her foot down on the accelerator of the already moving car, dashes off down the street leaving the astonished porter still clutching the parcel in his hand.
What story-teller worthy of his salt could possibly have resisted such an invitation? I was not in the least surprised to learn that several of my most distinguished contemporaries in other fields of fiction had already accepted it.
I forget now if I did my brooding over the plot on the dusty floor of the Senate House where Caesar died—which I was one of the first privileged few to see after some eighteen hundred years’ accumulation of refuse had been evacuated from it—while wandering among the ruins of the Imperial Palaces on the Palatine hill, where once Nero had supped off larks’ tongues and watched Rome burn; in the sacred precincts of the Vatican among the Raphaels and Michelangelos; or while eating Alfredo’s superbly cooked spaghetti, which in its own way was as great an artistic creation as any other in the Eternal City.
Wherever I spent my day the fact remains that I returned with the story fully thought out in my mind and wrote it in my room that night, lubricating the works meanwhile with a bottle of well-iced sparkling Asti.
Among the other participants in this delightful game were Ethel Mannin, P. G. Wodehouse and, I think, Agatha Christie—I forget the other two. But you can well imagine how widely our stories differed from each other after our common kick-off. I only wish that I could reprint the whole series for your enjoyment, but laws of copyright which, thank goodness, protect us all from such piracy, force me to confine myself to my own version of the circumstances which led to a pretty girl deliberately driving off without the parcel she had left behind.
DEATH AT THREE-THIRTY
THE blue waters of the Mediterranean lap the tumble-down quays of Decastzban. It is a little town, old when Rome was young, smelly, picturesque; nestling at the foot of craggy, sun-scorched mountains.
Its normally sleepy Plaza was thronged with a murmuring crowd; the Dictator had honoured the small port with a one-night visit and was to leave again for the capital that afternoon.
From the entrance of the old ‘Three Angels’ Hotel a girl suddenly appeared. Soldiers held back the crowd as she hurried to a waiting car. Some trunks were strapped upon its grid and a tall gaunt man sat hunched in the passenger seat.
Police Chief Sperantze waved her forward. He knew Sabina Tovorri; had known her since she was a little girl. Who did not know her haughty profile and regal carriage in Decastzban? Her family had possessed great estates in the neighbourhood—until the Revolution. Since, she had made good as a journalist on the local paper; her foreign education had helped her in that—and her looks. Sperantze was mildly surprised that she neglected to give him her usual smile. Her olive face was clouded and the corners of her shapely mouth turned down. He assumed, quite wrongly, that the ‘Great Man’ had refused her an interview.
As Sabina wriggled into the driver’s seat, the porter came running from the hotel. Over his outstretched arm was slung a camera and in his hand he held a small square package. ‘Contessa!’ he cried. ‘Contessa, you have forgotten this!’
She gave him one startled glance, jammed her small foot on the accelerator and the car, gathering speed, raced away down the troop-lined street.
The man beside her had noticed nothing. He turned his gaunt face towards her and stared for a moment at the finely cut features, pale under their tan. His eyes were dull, half-filmed like those of a snake or drug-taker, but his question was curt. ‘Well?’
‘An utter failure,’ she almost choked. ‘We might have known.’
‘What! He refused to see you after all?’
‘No, I saw him; and he was charming. Whatever he may have done he has an air, that one, and his eyes. Wise, understanding, kind. I felt like a sneak thief trying to pick the pocket of a saint.’
‘You little fool.’ The gaunt man’s mouth worked furiously. ‘How like a woman to fall for that mountebank. I warned you to keep your eyes away from him because his gaze is known to be hypnotic. Yet you must stare at him so that scruples overcame your determination at the last moment.’
‘They might have!’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘He’s not evil—an unscrupulous brigand—as I’ve always been taught to believe. I know that now—but there was no last moment. Yours agents are hopelessly incompetent, Korto. They should have told you—we should have realised, ourselves. His people are prepared for such attempts. I had no chance to leave the parcel in his room. Before I entered it everything was taken from me. The bomb, my camera, even my bag—and when I came out I was too dazed to think….’
Sabina lied unconsciously. She had been thinking, hard, fast, furiously, from the very second she had been compelled to relinquish her belongings. A wiry, forceful-looking young officer had courteously but firmly relieved her of them in the ante-room. She had recognised him at the first glance. It was Ruran: her childhood friend and girlhood lover. No! That was not true. He had kissed her once, only once, on a hot summer night heavy with thunder. The storm had broken and driven them indoors. Next day he had gone off to begin his military service.
So much had happened since; a dozen different men had occupied her interest; there had been the Revolution and the confiscation of her father’s property; the new necessity to carve a career for herself. She had scarcely given Ruran a thought in half a dozen years, but no woman ever forgets the first time she receives a kiss and gives it back with meaning.
She did not think he had recognised her. The formalities had only occupied a matter of seconds before she was ushered into the Dictator’s room. The people at the hotel knew her real name, but that under which she wrote her articles would have conveyed nothing to Ruran. Vaguely she remembered hearing that he had become one of the Dictator’s most vigorous supporters, but to meet him face to face after all those years at such a tense moment had thrown her completely off her balance.
‘What happened to the bomb?’ asked Korto suddenly.
‘It’s still there. The porter came after me with it, but I lost my head and drove away.’
‘Good,’ he said quietly. ‘With luck it may still settle one or two of those swine even if we’ve failed to get the arch-traitor himself.’
She swung upon him furious
ly. ‘D’you think I’ll chance it killing innocent people?’ As she spoke she swung the car into the kerb and braked viciously, bringing it to a halt outside a small pâtisserie.
‘What are you going to do?’ he grunted, grabbin at her wrist.
Her eyes snapped at him. ‘Telephone, of course. Tell them to put it out of action. It’s only ten past three and the thing’s not timed to explode until half past.’
‘Listen,’ his voice was urgent. ‘Our getaway’s all fixed. I hate to exercise pressure on you yet again, but I still have your father’s papers. He doesn’t like being poor, but he’ll like prison far less. I told you what I’d do if you double-crossed me, and I’ll do it yet if you get us caught through telephoning some damn-fool warning.
With a sudden unexpected wrench, Sabina tore her arm away and flung herself out of the car. He made a swift movement to follow her, then thought better of it. Three minutes later she rejoined him, and the car sped on through the narrow twisting streets towards the west gate of the old town.
‘Hell!’ exclaimed Korto as they came in sight of the ancient arch flanked by squat battlemented towers. ‘See where your crazy warning’s landed us. They’ve telephoned the garrison.’
A double file of Caribineers barred their progress. Korto’s hand slid up to his armpit holster, but he withdrew it as a young officer, flourishing an automatic, jumped on the running board.
‘Turn your car round,’ he snapped at Sabina. ‘You’re wanted at Headquarters—quick now.’
Sick with fear and apprehension, she obeyed. If only she had waited to telephone until they were outside the town—but it was too late to think of that now. Tales of the Dictator’s prisons flashed through her mind. She would probably suffer unspeakable degradation—unless they shot her—which was even more likely. In a mist of misery she automatically steered the car back to the ‘Three Angels’ and noticed subconsciously that the clock in the Plaza showed it to be twenty past three.
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