The Fabulous Valley

by Dennis Wheatley

  She had been reared in a hard school and learnt to control her emotions when she was still an infant. Her mother died when she was twelve and her father was embarrassed and awkward if she attempted any familiarities.

  Michael’s demonstrative affection for his mother—the caressing way in which he slipped his hand through her own arm as they stood in front of her models—gave her a feeling of mental liberty and well-being for which her repressed nature was hungry. Suddenly she caught sight of the clock. Astonished that the time had gone so quickly she became suddenly apprehensive that her father would arrive before Michael was out of the house.

  There was no reason why Henry Long should object to Michael calling, yet she knew quite well that if he came upon them laughing together he would manifest one of those solemn disapproving silences during the rest of the evening which always made her feel so miserable and uncomfortable. Sometimes she thought that she was unjust to him and only imagined that his moods had any connection with her own doings. That did not affect the fact however, that they often made her feel a quite unreasonable sense of guilt for having indulged in some perfectly innocent pleasure.

  In nervous haste she promised to make one last effort to induce her father to alter his mind and join the others on the African expedition instead of them going alone. Then, having assured Michael that whatever happened she would take good care of herself, she hurried him out of the house.

  Henry Long did not actually make his appearance until an hour and a half later. He had no regular business but owned several considerable blocks of flat property which he managed himself to the distress, irritation, and sometimes fury of his numerous tenants.

  No landlord in London possessed, to quite the same degree, the art of postponing small but necessary repairs, for which he was liable, until the occupants of his flats were driven by continual discomfort into doing them at their own expense. Now that he had made up his mind to leave England for a period, which might extend to several months, he had a multitude of instructions to impress upon the miserable underdog who earned a pittance in his office. In addition he had spent a good portion of his day in a fruitless search for Roger Philbeach.

  As they sat down to dinner he told Patricia of his visits to the wine merchant’s office and the boarding house at Wembley from which, to his disgust, he had learned of Philbeach’s sudden departure the night before. In return, although she would have preferred not to mention Michael’s visit, she felt bound to tell her father the reason for Philbeach’s flight.

  Rather to her surprise he seemed more amused than annoyed that Michael should have called, and questioned her eagerly as to all that he had said regarding the plans of the Bennett party.

  After dinner they had just finished listening to the News Bulletin over the wireless when a telegram arrived and having read it Henry looked across at his daughter.

  ‘Listen to this! “Mother knocked down by taxicab this afternoon and seriously injured, taken to St. George’s hospital, come at once. Michael”’

  ‘Oh, that poor boy, how terrible for him!’

  Henry gave her a sharp glance from his shrewd eyes. ‘Do you know where this young man and his mother are staying?’

  Patricia shook her head. ‘No, he never mentioned it.’

  ‘That’s a pity, and it’s too late to get their address from Bullett, because his office will be shut.’

  ‘But the wire says they have taken her to St. George’s Hospital.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Henry refolded the telegram carefully and put it in his pocket. ‘I am by no means convinced that Gertrude has been run over at all.’

  ‘You think…’

  ‘That this is nothing but a plan to get me out of the house for a couple of hours to-night while Philbeach tries his hand at breaking in—in the hope of getting the necklace.’

  Patricia nodded. ‘Seeing what happened to Sandy I shouldn’t be at all surprised, but how can you be certain? It would be a terrible thing if Aunt Gertrude is dying and you didn’t go.’

  ‘I should certainly go in the ordinary way if she sent for me, but this telegram is supposed to come from Michael, not his mother. Since your aunt has never displayed anything but a most unreasonable bitterness towards me I hardly think it likely that she would wish to see me at her deathbed.’

  ‘What do you mean to do then?’

  ‘Stay here. Or rather I shall leave the house in about ten minutes and return through the garden gate at the back of the orchard. Then I shall be here if Mr. Philbeach does attempt anything.’

  ‘What do you wish me to do?’

  ‘It would be best if you stay here and continue your sewing for about half an hour. Then put the lights out and go up to bed in a perfectly normal manner. Don’t read in bed though, or not for more than ten minutes, because your light should be out too, in order to give him the impression that he has a clear field. If this is a plant it would take me about an hour and a half to get up to St. George’s—discover I had been tricked—and get back again, so he will have to make his attempt some time before half past eleven. It is a quarter to ten now. If you do as I have told you the coast will be clear for him apparently by about half past, and he’ll think that he has got a good hour in which to search for the necklace before I get back.’

  ‘I see.’ Patricia stood up. ‘What about the servants?”

  ‘We needn’t worry about them. They always go up about ten.’

  ‘But, Daddy, remember what he did to Sandy—say he went for you—isn’t it awfully risky?’ Patricia looked at her father with an anxious look in her hazel eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I shall have the whip hand of him all right. I want you to keep your ears open and, directly you hear me stamp on the floor three times, or if you hear any sound of a struggle, run down into the hall and telephone for the police.’

  As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten Henry Long left his house, and going round to the garage at the side, got out his ancient Buick. Carefully locking the garage doors he drove slowly down the short drive and took the road for London. When he had gone about three quarters of a mile he pulled up at a filling station and handed over his car to the man in charge. Then, with swift steps he hastened down a few byways which led to the back of his house and let himself in to the garden by the orchard gate.

  He stood there for a moment scrutinising the dark shadows and listening intently in case the expected intruder had already secreted himself among the trees. No sound broke the stillness except that of an occasional car going down the main road in front of the house. He tiptoed carefully across the grass under the deep shadow of a hedge and, noting that the servants had already gone up, slipped into the house through the scullery door. When he had passed through the dark kitchen he found the light still on in the hall and not wishing to be seen through one of the lighted windows flattened himself against the wall until he reached the door of his study.

  There was just enough light filtering in through the curtains for him to discern vaguely the more bulky pieces of furniture. Walking softly over to his desk, he took a service revolver from one of the drawers; then arranging an armchair behind a screen which stood near the door, so that he would only need to stretch out his hand to switch on the light, he settled down with his revolver on his knees to wait.

  Some ten minutes later, although it seemed considerably longer to him as he sat intent and watchful in the darkness, he heard Patricia go up to bed. For a while faint sounds reached him of her movements overhead, then complete silence settled upon the house. The time seemed interminable as the minutes dragged by and he began to believe, after a period which he calculated to be at least an hour, that the telegram must have been genuine after all; yet it was not in Henry Long’s nature to give up once he had set his mind to a thing. He was determined to sit it out until he heard the clock in the church down the road strike midnight, by which time he would certainly have got back to his house from London if the telegram was a fake.

  Just as he had made up
his mind as to the time limit he would set upon his watch, the clock began to chime. Surely it could not be midnight yet he thought, and having counted the strokes suddenly realised that it was only eleven. At that moment he heard a faint creaking at the window.

  With the greatest care to make no sound he rose to his feet and peered round the edge of the screen. In the faint light he could see the curtain moving and the dark shadow of a man stealthily climbing in over the sill. He waited for a moment until the intruder had produced a small electric torch and, flashing it round until it rested on the desk, tiptoed over towards it. Henry switched on the light and pointing his revolver said gruffly:

  ‘Hands up.!’

  The stranger dropped his torch and swung round with a muttered oath. He was standing at the far side of the room from the window. In the face of Henry’s revolver, he saw that he would stand no chance if he made a dash for it so with a rueful grin, he raised two leg of mutton hands above his head.

  ‘Mr. Roger Philbeach, I believe?’ said Henry quietly.

  ‘That’s me.’ The big man lowered his hands again. ‘You’re pretty smart, aren’t you, driving out in your old tin can of a car like that and then sneaking back?’

  ‘I thought that was the best way of making certain of being able to hand you over to the police.’

  ‘I don’t think somehow you’re going to be such a fool as to do that.’

  ‘Why? I’ve caught you red-handed breaking into my house with felonious intent.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a fair cop all right but what good would it do you if you did?’

  ‘None, except the satisfaction of having put a stop to your game whatever it may be and, after that blackguardly attack you made on my nephew last night, I imagine they would put you away for quite a little time.’

  ‘So you know about that eh?’ Philbeach’s big, coarse face broke into a grin. ‘Well that’s all to the good because you must have heard that I managed to get possession of the knobkerrie.’

  Henry, scowling by the door, still held the big man covered with his gun. ‘That does not interest me in the least.’

  A worried frown suddenly creased Philbeach’s broad, low forehead. ‘Go on! you don’t mean that,’ he said huskily. ‘These things your brother left mean a fortune if only anyone can show them in the right quarter.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Henry asked, his interest skilfully concealed by the brusqueness of his tone.

  ‘What do I know?’ The other leaned forward eagerly. ‘Why, wasn’t I you brother’s best friend? No one knew him better than I did. That’s why the moment I got the lawyer’s letter about his having left me the money in the Will, I said to myself, “Now here’s a chance, a real chance, five thousand’s very nice, but old John’s left something of far more value I’ll be bound to one or other of his relatives, and if I play my cards right there’s a million in this thing for me.”’

  ‘So you set about it by cracking young McDiamid over the head?’ said Henry dryly.

  ‘Oh, I was on the game long before that,’ Philbeach assured him. ‘I made a pal of a young fellow in the lawyer’s office and paid him a pretty tidy sum to get me a copy of the Will and that letter while old Bullett was making his inquiries about how the diamond laws might affect you. Then yesterday afternoon he tipped me off as to which of you had drawn the knobkerrie, the necklace and the skin. After that, all I had to do was to sit pretty and wait events. It was a cinch that one or other of you would try to get in touch with all the beneficiaries in the hope of digging up the low-down on where old John got the stuff. McDiamid was the first to fall for it and I was lucky enough to be able to deal with him.’

  ‘And to-night, I suppose, you thought you would collect the necklace? Instead of which you’re going to prison for several months.’

  ‘Now look here, for the Lord’s sake talk reasonable. I don’t know if you meant to take a trip to Africa or not. Maybe, having only one of the clues and no other information, you thought the chances against finding this place too great, but between us now we’ve got two out of three of them and if we work together we’ll have the other before long…’

  ‘I thought one was sufficient in any case,’ interrupted Henry.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Philbeach hastened on, ‘one clue leads to the proper use of another. Your necklace may be absolutely useless without my knobkerrie, but if we could get the three, with my special knowledge of old John’s doings, there’s a million in this thing for us both.’

  For the first time Henry allowed his face to relax and lowered his gun. Patricia, lying awake in the darkness upstairs, waited in vain for the pre-arranged signal. It never came and thinking of Michael she at last dropped off to sleep.

  7

  The Quickest Way to Africa

  Immediately Patricia woke the following morning the events of the previous night came back to her and, with a sudden sickening feeling that something terrible might have happened to her father after she had fallen asleep, she leapt out of bed and rushed into his room.

  To her relief Henry was there, safe and well. In answer to her hurried inquiries he told her blandly that Philbeach had not put in an appearance the night before after all and so he had come up to bed a little after twelve.

  She began to worry then on Michael’s account, assuming that the telegram must have been genuine and his mother possibly dying. Directly after breakfast she rang up Mr. Bullett in the hope of getting his address. The lawyer could only give her Harcourt Priory and had no idea where the Kane-Swifts were staying in London. She then tried St. George’s Hospital and was puzzled to learn that they had no one of that name in the wards. Having no other means of ascertaining his whereabouts, she had to abandon her inquiry.

  That afternoon her father telephoned to say that he was bringing a friend home to dinner and when they arrived just after seven, Patricia did not know quite what to make of this new acquaintance—introduced as Mr. Philip Wisdon. He was a big, blustering man of about fifty with a booming voice who talked incessantly in a kind of cheerful, racy slang. His small, pig-like eyes looked even more minute in his big, heavy face, calculating and unsmiling even when he laughed heartily, devoid of the merriment his voice conveyed. Instinctively Patricia came to the conclusion that he was not to be trusted—not even with a hairpin!

  She would have been even more convinced of this if she had known that Henry had insisted on Philbeach taking another name to avoid explaining his sudden volte face towards the raider of the night before.

  He stood talking for some time after he arrived. At frequent intervals he looked hopefully—first at the clock and then at the door. Finally with boisterous joviality he said:

  ‘Now, what about a little drink? Something with gin in it for preference—or a glass of sherry would do. Don’t mind my asking, do you? The sun’s been over the yard arm and gone down the other side again by now.’

  On being informed that he was at present in a teetotal household he displayed a set of ill-fitting false teeth in a comically rueful grin and asked: Would they mind if he sent round the corner to buy a bottle of whisky and a couple of siphons for he couldn’t talk business half the night dry like that.

  Patricia began to wonder more and more the reason for her father having invited this stranger to the house. A man whose ways were so ill-assorted with his own; whose grossness so flagrantly contrasted with his cold austerity. Mr. Wisdon’s request having been complied with, they sat down to dinner. Noting her wondering look Henry Long gave Patricia a brief explanation of Wisdon’s presence.

  He was, it appeared, not actually a South African but had lived there for many years and, curiously enough, had known Uncle John. He had been concerned in some small transaction between the two brothers a number of years before and, his name having occurred to Henry that morning, he had gone along to Wisdon’s old address. The ensuing conversation had resulted in Mr. Wisdon being engaged as their courier, guide, and general assistant on the trip.

  Wisdon knew all about nig
gers. Oh yes! and OX-spans, and biltong. He could inform you, very definitely, that Plus Four Whisky was the best to be had in the Union, although you might not know it well over here. He could talk by the hour about Assays and I.D.B. and diamondiferous ground, and if you preferred he could do it equally fluently in Basuto or Afrikaans.

  After dinner they adjourned to the study where Henry outlined the whole of the situation, as he and Patricia knew it, for Mr. Wisdon’s benefit.

  ‘Trouble!’ said Wisdon gravely when Henry had finished telling him what he knew of Michael and the Bennett’s plans. ‘Bad trouble! We’ve got to fly—that’s all there is for it.’

  ‘Fly!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘I don’t think I’d care to do that.’

  ‘Think again, old friend, think again,’ boomed Mr. Wisdon. ‘If we don’t get there first we’re sunk. I know the country so I can fix things up all right for us, but if there are a lot of innocents floating around Koranna Land on the same lay, they’ll go and give the whole game away and like as not we’ll get pinched too.’

  ‘You think our only chance is to get there first and get away again before the others arrive then?’ asked Patricia.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ he agreed, ‘though I doubt if we could do the journey into the Kalahari and get back to Upington before they’re on the spot, but the great thing is to get a few days’ good start. Then, if necessary, we can break back by a different route, west perhaps across the Molopo River into Great Namaqualand. Of course we may run up against the South African—Sandy what’s-his-name—if he goes by air too, but we’ve got to chance that.’

  ‘My daughter tells me that McDiamid has definitely decided not to make the attempt,’ remarked Henry.

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Mr. Wisdon closed one of his small dark eyes in a heavy wink. ‘He says so, perhaps, because he doesn’t want those inexperienced Londoners slung round his neck, but I’ll bet a case of “cham” with anyone that he means to have a cut at it on the sly.’