Mediterranean Nights

by Dennis Wheatley

  CHARLES: What! And leave you on your own? Not likely. I shall stay and take the blame. He can say what he darn well likes to me. I don’t care.

  WENDY: It wouldn’t do any good, darling, he’ll only turn you out—and I’m afraid you will never be allowed in the house again, anyhow.

  CHARLES: Well, that’s not much loss. We can meet outside, as usual.

  WENDY (shaking her head): Not until this has blown over, dear. I expect he will make me stay in every evening for a month, at least. It’s going to be too ghastly.

  CHARLES (standing up): All right—that settles it. I won’t let you stay in this rotten house another day. We’ll get married and chance it.

  WENDY (rising and putting her hands on his shoulders): Do you really mean that, Charles?

  CHARLES: I do. We’ll get married right away.

  WENDY: Oh, darling—I do love you.

  CHARLES (kissing her hands): My dream girl.

  WENDY: But it’s awful to lose all that money. It’s a fortune.

  CHARLES: Never mind. I’ll get a practice, somehow. After all, happiness does come first, and my father will help us a bit, I’m sure.

  [WENDY sways, puts her hand io her head and sits down suddenly.]

  CHARLES: What is it, darling?

  WENDY: Nothing. I just feel a little faint. It’s happiness, I think, and relief. Are you sure you won’t regret this afterwards? I should hate that.

  CHARLES: Of course not. We are just going to forget from now on that there ever was any Aunt Edith, and that she ever left me a legacy. If she hadn’t we should have fallen in love just the same, and had just as many difficulties to face, with no prospect of the money. We shall be together, and that’s everything.

  WENDY: Oh, Charles, you don’t know what it will mean to me to get out of this house. I hate it.

  [A door bangs, off.]

  CHARLES: Is that them, back already?

  WENDY: Yes. The Briggses only live round the corner. Charles, you had better go.

  CHARLES: Just a minute, darling. Listen. This is what we’ll do. Pack everything that you can tonight, then be downstairs at the front door early tomorrow morning, say, at six o’clock, before they are up. Can you manage that?

  WENDY: Yes, darling.

  CHARLES: I’ll be waiting for you, and I know a nice quiet boarding-house in Bayswater that you can stay in for the next week or two, while the licence is going through. We will be married as soon as we possibly can, and settle down in some place where we don’t know a soul—then you can have the baby in peace, without any worry or scandal.

  WENDY (leaning back on sofa and closing her eyes): It will be rotten for Mother.

  CHARLES: Well, I’m afraid we can’t help that. I say, are you feeling all right, darling?

  WENDY (slowly): Yes—but it’s all so marvellous—I’m a bit overcome, that’s all.

  [Enter ROBERT suddenly.]

  ROBERT: Well, thank goodness it’s all right!

  WENDY: What—Mother? You’ve got her back, then?

  ROBERT (mopping his face): Yes, we’ve taken her upstairs.

  CHARLES: What happened? Is there anything I can do?

  ROBERT (cheerfully): No, she just did a faint, that’s all. She has once or twice lately—she does too much. It’s a rotten shame that Father makes her run this house on her own at her age. He could well afford a skivvy to help her.

  WENDY (slowly): What—what about your job? Has Briggs told Father?

  ROBERT (vaguely): Job—oh, yes, I’d forgotten. That’s all right, too. Old Briggs took me aside and said he would give me another chance for Father’s sake. The old slave-driver knows that he couldn’t get anybody else to do the work for the same money.

  WENDY (holding her head): Robert, you are casual about it. I—I think it’s an awful piece of luck.

  ROBERT: Well—I was worrying about something else—er—Mother, I mean. I say—you’re looking pretty dicky.

  WENDY: I shall be all right in a minute. Charles, dear, I think you had better go. Father may come in. There’s no point now in having a scene.

  ROBERT: You needn’t worry about Father. He’s gone to his study and you know he never budges out until it’s time to feed.

  [WENDY leans back and closes her eyes again.]

  CHARLES: What is the matter, Wendy? I’m sure you’re feeling ill.

  WENDY (panting slightly): I—I don’t know. I’ve got an awful buzzing in the head. Oh, I feel rotten.

  CHARLES: All this trouble has upset you, I expect.

  [ROBERT looks furtively in the direction of the Thyroid bottle and then at WENDY.]

  WENDY: Charles…

  CHARLES: Yes, darling?

  WENDY: I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I—I feel just as though I were tight.

  [CHARLES takes her wrist to feel her pulse. ROBERT gives them another furtive look and after a minute slinks towards the door.]

  ROBERT: Well, I think I’ll leave you two—go up to my room.

  CHARLES (dropping WENDY’S wrist and standing up): Wait a minute, young man—you stay here.

  ROBERT (nervously): Why?

  CHARLES (walking over to him): Look here, Robert, why were you so anxious to know all about Thyroid just now?

  ROBERT (drawing away): I told you. I was thinking out a story.

  CHARLES (gripping him by the lapels of his coat): That’s a lie, and you know it.

  ROBERT: It’s not.

  CHARLES: It is. Wendy is suffering from Thyroid poisoning.

  ROBERT (truculently): How do you know?

  CHARLES: Because it’s my job.

  ROBERT: You’re not a doctor yet.

  CHARLES: No, and I’m not a fool, either. Wendy’s got all the symptoms—you’re full of curious questions about it, and there’s the drug on the table.

  WENDY (doubling up in pain): Oh, Charles—I do feel so ill.

  CHARLES (turning his head sharply while he still keeps his hold on ROBERT): Wendy—darling—tell me, did you take it yourself? How much did you take?

  WENDY: Oh, Charles—I don’t know. I didn’t take it, but I—I feel ghastly. My—my head’s simply swimming.

  CHARLES (angrily): Now, then, Robert. I knew you’d been monkeying with it.

  ROBERT: I didn’t give it her.

  CHARLES (shaking him roughly): Stop lying, you young fool. Don’t you understand that her life may be in danger?

  ROBERT: I didn’t give it her, I tell you.

  CHARLES: Yes, you did. How much did you give her? Tell me at once.

  ROBERT: I—I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.

  WENDY (now writhing on sofa): Charles—oh, please get—get a doctor. I—I’ve got awful pains—right—right through me.

  CHARLES (to ROBERT fiercely): You know what happened. If you don’t tell me I’ll get the police.

  ROBERT: No—Charles. No, don’t do that.

  CHARLES: I will. They’ll make you talk.

  ROBERT (gasping): It was all a mistake. I meant to try it on myself.

  CHARLES: You fool!

  ROBERT: The tea cups got mixed up.

  CHARLES: Never mind about that. How much did you put in?

  ROBERT: Five of them.

  CHARLES (suddenly relaxing and letting go of ROBERT): Thank God it wasn’t more.

  WENDY: Oh, Charles, tell me that I’ll be all right—that I won’t die.

  CHARLES (going over to her): You won’t, darling. If you had been going to die you would be dead by now.

  WENDY: I—I’ve got awful—shooting pains.

  CHARLES (taking her hand): Listen, darling, you must go to bed at once… while I get a doctor.

  WENDY (rising with CHARLES’S help): Oh—it’s agony. Will he—will he be able to give me something?

  CHARLES: I’m afraid you are in for a rotten time for the next few hours—but there’s one thing. It won’t be necessary for us to marry now until this time next year.

  WENDY (standing, supported by CHARLES): Darling—you don’t mean…?
/>
  CHARLES: Yes, I do. That’s one of the curious effects of an overdose of Thyroid—but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it kills you instead.

  WENDY: Then—oh, my dear—we’ll get the five thousand, after all.

  CHARLES: I wouldn’t have taken the risk of giving you Thyroid for fifty thousand—and the moment you’re well enough you’re going to leave this house, just the same.

  ROBERT: What the devil are you two talking about?

  [The door is suddenly burst open. Enter FATHER, clutching Crème de Menthe bottle—two-thirds empty—in one hand.]

  FATHER (glaring at CHARLES and WENDY): What—what was in this bottle? (Shudders and leans against door.)

  CHARLES (lowering WENDY to sofa): Good God—you haven’t drunk it?

  FATHER: Ai—Ai—Ai have. What was in that Crème de Menthe?

  WENDY (horrified): But, Father, it was liquor!

  CHARLES (aghast): And I put Urgot—in it. Urgot of Rye for Wendy.

  ROBERT: Oh, Lord! That’s done it! Think of Father’s heart.

  [FATHER twitches, shuts his eyes suddenly, gasps, and falls forward dead.]

  CURTAIN

  STORY XXII

  THIS is a good little story; but how fantastic it seems that we had already been at war with Germany for some months when it was written. The proof that it is not unduly farfetched is that it was accepted and published by one of our great National newspapers; and the two things which in peace or war any such organisation is not prepared to do is to furnish readers with material which will enable them to say it is behind the times or being made a fool of.

  The Editor knew, and innumerable other people knew, that enemy aliens were still holding key positions in our war industries with liberty to move about pretty well as they liked. One is entitled to wonder what the Minister responsible for our security thought his job entailed, and why certain crack-brained M.P.s still raise their voices in an imbecile endeavour to make more difficult the job of those now responsible for countering the activities of spies and Communists who consistently sabotage our industry. But for present purposes I am only a story teller and just presenting a yarn based on the official attitude to our less obvious, but none the less deadly, enemies at that time.

  THE BITER BIT

  LITTLE Mr. Thompson went to Scotland Yard with the highest patriotic motives; but he was a very busy man, so he thought it distinctly tiresome that, having told his story to a sympathetic policeman, he should be kept in the bleak interviewing room for nearly an hour and then be asked to tell it again.

  ‘Queer sort of policeman too,’ he thought, as he glanced at the tall, stooping young man with absurdly long eyelashes whom the sergeant brought in. ‘Looks like one of those Hendon College chaps—university degree, I bet.’ His suppositions were, however, completely wrong. Vivien Pawlett-Browne was not a policeman and had never managed to pass an examination in his life.

  Having lit a cigarette Mr. Thompson re-told his story as briefly as possible. ‘It’s my partner I’m worried about; my firm is the Thompson Radio Company, of Croydon. Started it myself in 1933, but I never had enough capital to launch out. Then last spring Jacob Bauer came along and offered to put five thousand pounds into the business. He’s a German Jew, of course, but a clever engineer and a very decent chap, so I took him in. Well, now there’s a war on. Bauer’s very anti-Hitler—and all that—but he’s not even naturalised British. The Government’s just given me a contract to make the new miniature transmitters—highly secret. Naturally Bauer will expect to see the blue-prints when they turn up. Do I show them to him—or don’t I? That’s what I want to know.’

  Vivien smiled slowly. ‘Thanks, Mr. Thompson. My name’s Brown and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’ve had a chance to check up on your partner.’ A taxi took him back to his own office and half an hour later he was reporting to his Chief.

  Sir Charles Forsyth—or ‘Old Frosty’, as he was called by his staff—nodded the snow-white head which was only partially responsible for his nickname. ‘And Bauer, you say, is on that secret list of Reichstahl’s that we managed to copy; so he is an enemy agent and probably passes on to Reichstahl anything he gets.’

  ‘We’ve got enough on Reichstahl to haul him in at any time, sir,’ Vivien hazarded.

  ‘Yes. But he’s much more useful to us as a lead. It’s Bauer we’ve got to get, but as usual our hands are tied. There are scores of these Nazi agents who, having been vouched for by fools who know nothing about them, have been granted B Certificates. They put Gestapo money into munition works and have access to everything that goes on; yet without proof we can’t even get a warrant to search either them or their houses. You must not lay a finger on him but go and see what you can do.’

  That evening Vivien rang up Mr. Thompson and arranged to be signed on to the factory staff under the name of Rudi Muller.

  The following morning at eight he started work. At twelve, when the whistle went for lunch, he put his tools in a neat pile and was about to follow the other men towards the canteen when a white pudgy hand was laid on his arm.

  ‘You’re a new man, aren’t you? I’m Mr. Bauer.’ The German’s voice had only a slight accent. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Muller, sir.’

  ‘Ah, of German extraction?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vivien retorted stiffly; ‘but none the less British for that.’

  Each day when Bauer made his round of the workshop he spoke pleasantly to Vivien, but the pseudo Rudi Muller remained non-committal and even seemed slightly embarrassed by the attention he received from his compatriot.

  At the end of the week Vivien reported to his Chief and produced a typewritten slip. ‘I’ve arranged with Thompson that Bauer shall be given the blue-prints to take home tomorrow night,’ he said, ‘and this, sir, is what I suggest. You’ve had Reichstahl’s in and out mail watched, so we’ve got photostatic copies of his writing. I want the departmental forger to do this note in Reichstahl’s hand and post it off tonight.’

  The slip read:

  This is just to let you know that I’ve gone down with flu so it would be best for you to keep away from me for a few days in case you catch it too. But I’ve arranged for my doctor to call and collect the book you promised me; it sounds very interesting.

  ‘Then,’ Vivien added, ‘Reichstahl must be kept out of the way from first thing tomorrow until midnight. Could you hold him for twelve hours on suspicion of complicity in some civil crime, and apologise afterwards?’

  Sir Charles gave his frosty smile. ‘Very good. I’ll see to both matters for you.’

  At nine o’clock the following evening Vivien rang the bell of Bauer’s flat. The German was a bachelor and lived alone so he opened the door himself, and his eyes widened with surprise as he recognised the factory hand—Rudi Muller.

  Slipping quickly inside, Vivien seized the amazed man’s hand and whispered: ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Bauer’s face went blank, but Vivien grinned. ‘Sorry I had to be stand-offish in the factory, but we can’t be too careful.’ He lowered his voice impressively. ‘Reichstahl’s being watched. I’m the “doctor” and he sent me to collect the “book”.’

  The German hesitated a moment, then beckoning Vivien into his sitting-room he produced a large envelope and said: ‘Here are the blue-prints. Get them photographed tonight. I must tomorrow have them back for certain.’

  The ex-Rudi Muller took them with one hand and pulled out his gun with the other. ‘Thanks so much,’ he smiled. ‘You know, of course, that I have no power to search your flat or to take these from you; but since you’ve given them to me believing me to be a Nazi agent, I have got the power to arrest you as a German agent yourself. It’s curious that your name rhymes with Tower, isn’t it, dear Herr Bauer, since it’s at the Tower of London that we shoot people like you.’

  STORY XXIII

  THIS story, once again, is ‘different’ and an experiment. I have remarked earlier somewhere in these introductory notes that the com
mercial limit to a short story is a little over 5,000 words. For all practical purposes that is so, but I soon learned that there was an exception to this rule.

  Clarence Winchester, the gifted author who was then editing the Grand Magazine, read some of my stuff and asked me to come to see him. He told me that he was always pleased to consider stories of up to 20,000 words—about a quarter the length of the average thriller novel—and he hoped that I would attempt this medium, which provided a field for people like myself whose plots were normally much too involved for them to be done justice in 5,000 words, yet some of which would not bear stretching to the full length of a book. He added that in his experience authors could always find a good story to tell if they drew on their own personal experience and, since I had been a wine-merchant, it would almost certainly ring the bell if I thought out a story which hinged upon something to do with wine.

  The following story resulted from that conversation. Mr. Winchester did not buy it after all, and I certainly don’t blame him. He was perfectly right in his contention that one grave fault in the story is that we see so little of the heroine and, another, that the coincidence which produced the dénouement is too far-fetched to meet the requirements of reasonable plausibility. The snag was, of course, that once he had turned it down the thing became dead-wood, because it far exceeded the length that any other editor would even consider.

  However, I have no regrets at all for the time I gave to the writing of this story. By re-reading it I can recapture the sunshine and carefree joyousness of a vanished world—Biarritz at the height of the ‘Spanish’ Season.

  Geographically the story has no claim to be included in a Mediterranean series but, after all, during the last week in August no ordinary person dropped in Biarritz by parachute could have realised for quite a time that he was not staying at one of the millionaires’ playgrounds in the South of France.

  ‘Millionaire’ is the operative word as, when I was there in 1925, they were actually charging 800 francs a night for a bedroom and bathroom, without food, at the Hotel du Palais. I should add that I was staying at quite a comfortable little pension, up the hill out of the square, for a mere 80 francs a day, like the hero in the story.