The Rape of Venice

by Dennis Wheatley

  At these thoughts Roger positively seethed with rage; not so much on account of the humiliation that had now been put upon himself, although that was infuriating enough, but at the utter unscrupulousness of Gunston’s latest move. He had not the faintest justification for using the Company’s troops for his private ends, and as a result of his orders three innocent men had been brutally slaughtered. In the circumstances, Roger felt his own situation to be distinctly precarious; but, even so, he could not believe that Gunston would go to the length of having him killed too. He thought it more likely that Gunston meant to hold him prisoner for a time, while pursuing his amour with Clarissa and unknown to her. Grimly Roger decided that somehow he would manage to escape, and that when he did it should no longer be a matter of a duel. He would see to it that Gunston was court-martialled, cashiered and hanged for the murder of his escort.

  Meanwhile the cavalcade wended its way, mostly at a trot, along the winding road through the mountains. As dusk fell, the way began to lead downwards and, after a sharp turn round a great head of rock, Roger saw in the evening light a valley below from which, a few miles distant, there arose the turrets and domes of a walled city. Another hour and they were riding along the flat with farm buildings at intervals at the sides of the road, and the dark silhouette of the city, not far ahead, standing out starkly against the pinkish-gold of a sunset sky.

  At length they entered a belt of shadow thrown by a lofty wall, and pulled up before a great arched gateway in it. A horn was blown, a pair of huge wooden double gates were dragged open and the cavalcade rode into the city. The horses’ hooves ringing on the cobbles, it clattered through several dimly-seen streets, then through another archway into a courtyard. Roger was lifted down from his horse and led by the arms by two of his captors through a low doorway. It gave onto a corridor; some way along it another door was opened and he was thrust through it, the door was slammed and bolted behind him.

  Left in the dark, and with his arms still bound, he went forward cautiously, feeling his way a footstep at a time. After he had taken a few steps, his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, as enough light was percolating in from the cracks round the door for him to see that he was in a small, unfurnished room. But along one wall there was a stone bench, so he sat down upon it.

  He had only a vague idea how long he sat there, but it was in fact just on an hour. Then two armed men in costumes made rich with much gold braid came in for him. They pushed him along through several passages and courts then finally through an ornate doorway into a lofty pillared hall hung with many lamps.

  At the far end of it a young native was seated on a throne made from a score of elephant tusks that had been carved, gilded and inlaid with semi-precious stones. At his right on a low stool sat an older military-looking man with a grey upturned moustache. Behind them, rigid but watchful, stood a score or more richly dressed courtiers, guards, and servants bearing peacock-feather fans on long handles.

  Roger’s escort hurried him forward across the highly polished floor; then, when he had come to within two yards of the throne, they suddenly jerked him back, thrust a foot apiece in front of his and flung him forward. He fell flat on his face, his forehead landing with a bump on the lowest step up to the throne.

  Slowly he struggled to his knees, then to his feet. Meanwhile the young Rajah smiled with amusement. Roger put him down as about nineteen. His eyes were black, narrow and cruel; he had a big hooked nose, and a fleshy sensual mouth. Suddenly he spoke, in excellent Persian, but with a slight lisp.

  ‘I take it there has been no mistake. You are Mr. Brook, are you not?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Roger tersely. ‘And I take it that you are the Rajah of Bahna. May I ask if it was by your Highness’s orders that my escort has been killed and myself brought here as a prisoner?’

  ‘You are quite right,’ smiled the young man. ‘We thought it best to arrange matters in that way.’

  ‘Arrange matters!’ Roger burst out. ‘You have been guilty of murder and the illegal arrest of a British subject. I’ll have you know that no man within the Company’s sphere of influence can commit such crimes with impunity. Unless you intend to murder me, too, the Governor shall hear of this and …’

  Oh, but we do.’ The Rajah cut him short. ‘Even if Sir John Shore should learn that your death was no accident, he is far too cowardly a man to attempt to call me to account. But there is little likelihood of his ever hearing anything except that you and your men were set upon by robbers up in the mountains and slain there.’

  Faced with this callous sentence of death, Roger felt the sweat break out on his forehead. He had never imagined for a moment that Gunston would go to such lengths as to have him murdered. In desperation, he cried out:

  ‘Your Highness cannot mean this! Why should you desire my death? You have no quarrel with me.’

  ‘No, none,’ the young man replied still smiling. ‘But you must die all the same. I have done what I have done, and shall do that which there is to do, to pleasure one whom I honour and admire. He is, I know, waiting impatiently to see you.’

  As he finished speaking, he made a sign to one of the men behind him, who struck three times on a small gong.

  For two long minutes nothing happened. While the Rajah and his court remained regarding Roger in calm silence he breathed again. The gong could have been rung only to summon Gunston. Blackguard as he might be, he was a British officer. It was impossible that he really intended to go through with this ghastly business. Roger felt certain now that the whole affair had been staged to scare him and, perhaps because Gunston expected to enjoy the spectacle of seeing him plead for his life.

  The thought filled him with new resolution. He would not plead. Instead he would make Gunston look a fool in front of his friend the Rajah by refusing to do so; Gunston might threaten and bluster, but he would never dare to order the cold blooded murder of a fellow countryman.

  A door at the side of the hall swung open. Roger turned towards it with a smile of contempt. The smile froze on his lips. It was not Gunston who was advancing towards him but Signor Rinaldo Malderini.

  17

  In Desperate Straits

  At the sight of the Venetian Roger’s heart missed a beat. For a second the blood hammered in his ears and he thought he was about to choke. All his new-found resolution and optimism ebbed from him. Since this was the friend that the Rajah had ‘pleasured’ by having his men murdered and himself captured, his hope of life was now even less than it had been when he was dragged down by the whirlpool of the sinking Minerva. As he looked again at the pasty pudding-like face with the abnormally compelling eyes, he read his death sentence in it.

  Like a large grey cat, Malderini padded up to within a few feet of him, smiled and said in French, ‘Welcome to Bahna, Mr. Brook. When I set out for India I little thought that we should meet here. But I had not forgotten you, Mr. Brook. Oh dear me no. I owe you far too much. And did I not promise that sooner or later I would find an opportunity to repay you all I owe with interest? When I learnt by chance in a conversation with Colonel Gunston that…’

  ‘Gunston!’ The word burst from Roger’s lips. For the past four days he had been praying for a speedy chance to plunge his rapier through the gallant Colonel’s heart; now he would have opened his arms to him as to a long lost brother. His eyes lighting up with the sudden new hope that if Gunston was in the city he might play the rôle of a guardian angel, Roger hurried on: ‘Gunston! Colonel Gunston. Where is he? I demand to see him!’

  ‘You are no longer in a position to demand anything—not even satisfaction, should I again knock you down,’ Malderini replied with a sneer. ‘As for Colonel Gunston, when His Highness learned that troops were advancing in this direction from Orissa he sent heralds forbidding them to cross his border; but later he graciously consented to receive their Commander. So Colonel Gunston came here only for three nights as a visitor. The lack of success which he met with in his mission was, I think, more than made up for by
the happy time he had with the dancing girls that His Highness provided for his entertainment. He left here with obvious regret and many expressions of friendship, to return, presumably, to the encampment he had established across the mountains in Orissa.’

  Having rendered Roger’s new hope still-born, the Venetian went on, ‘But, as I was about to say, when describing to us the present state of society in Calcutta, among other names the Colonel mentioned yours. That you should chance to be in India at the same time as myself seemed to me an unmistakable indication by the Fates that they had arranged matters to facilitate my paying my debt to you. I at once put in hand the necessary measures and my faith in the Fates was justified. Like a lamb to the slaughter you walked into my little trap. I felt confident you would have wit enough to pick up the clue of my using Bahna warriors as an escort and, once you were directed to the road we had taken, our gaudy palanquins must have proved as good confirmation as paper scattered by the hare in a paper chase that Bahna was our goal. The Fates were kind to me, too, in having made you so obsessed with Miss Marsham’s charms as to marry her. That was guarantee enough that, did I bait my trap with her, you would be certain to come after her in hot pursuit.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Roger croaked. ‘What have you done with her?’

  ‘She is here in the Palace; in good health and being well cared for. Tomorrow I propose to provide her with a little sport. She is, as you know, a fine shot with a bow and arrow. I intend to provide her with a special target. We shall make a package of you so that you have no resemblance to a man, and your vital parts will be well protected, as I do not mean you to be killed—as yet. We shall gag you, then tie you firmly in position, with only your behind unprotected, and that we shall cover with a paper target, painted in circles of red, white and blue. Miss Marsham—or rather Mrs. Brook—will I am sure greatly enjoy practising her skill upon you.’

  Roger’s tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. Malderini’s hypnotic eyes held his so that he was forced to listen, while unable even to curse him. The Venetian touched the still livid scar that ran from his ear down to his chin, and went on:

  ‘There is then this. I think to make you a just return for it I had best rip your face open with a piece of glass; but you may rest assured that I shall exercise great care that I cut no vein which might cause you to bleed to death. I do not mean you to die for a long time yet. But we must also consider the question of interest on the debt. Since you will never again be in a position to enjoy your wife, your manhood will be useless to you. I shall therefore deprive you of it and watch you grow fat, as is the case with eunuchs.’

  With a supreme effort Roger had managed to force his eyes away from the Venetian’s and down to the floor. Sweating with horror at the thought of these tortures from which there could be no escape, he gasped out:

  ‘Go on! Go on! Then, no doubt, you’ll have my nails torn out, my bones broken and my flesh burnt with hot irons till I die a mangled travesty of a man. Helpless as I am, I can rely only on God to punish you in the long hereafter. And in that I’ll not be disappointed. But what of her? What of Clarissa? You cannot keep her indefinitely under the vile spell you have east upon her.’

  Malderini shrugged his drooping shoulders. ‘I can for long enough to serve my purpose. Because I substituted a trick for a genuine attempt to levitate the Princess Sirisha, you must not assume that I have had no success in practising the Secret Art. I have long needed a fair woman born under the sign of Leo, and with Jupiter in the ascendant, for a ritual which I mean soon to attempt. She fulfils these conditions, so her body shall serve as an altar on which to make sacrifice to the Indian form of Bahomet, the giver of all power on this earth. After that I’ll have no use for her, but there are others here who will have.’

  His eyes still downcast, and with his arms bound behind him, but distraught with rage, Roger suddenly ran at his tormentor, swung back his right foot encased in its heavy riding boot, and kicked him in the stomach.

  With a scream, Malderini went over backwards. There came a shout from the young Rajah, a sudden rush of trampling feet and the guards seized Roger, dragging him back from the squirming Venetian.

  For a minute or more the silence was broken only by Malderini’s groans. Then, having been helped to his feet, still sweating and panting for breath, he gasped out at Roger:

  ‘A new debt…. A new debt! It shall be paid … paid in full. When … when I have done with your … your wife, we’ll give her to Alāuddin … His Highness’s pet baboon, Alāuddin likes women. It is good sport to see what he does with them. You shall see too. Yes, I’ll have your eyes held open so that you’ll not miss a thing.’

  Driven near mad by the hellish picture Malderini had conjured up, Roger exerted every ounce of his strength in an attempt to break away from his guards and get at him again. It was useless. They had him firmly by the arms and kicked his feet from under him. As he lay between them, half sprawled upon the floor, the Venetian glowered over him and wheezed:

  ‘You hoped to provoke me into making a quick finish of you, did you not? But I have learned to control anger and to prevent myself from giving way to impulses which I should later regret. Tonight you may sleep in peace—if you can. It is said, though, that anticipation is the greater part of pleasure. That it may harrow the mind with the thought of pain to come is equally true. I think that you will get little sleep while through the dark hours you contemplate the promises I have made you.’ From French he broke into fluent Urdu and, after making a jerky bow to the young Rajah, ordered the guards to take Roger away.

  Still struggling, he was dragged from the lofty hall, along several corridors and down a dark stairway. At its bottom there was a narrow chamber dimly lit by a smoky oil lamp. Along one side of it were a row of stout wooden doors, and a burly man was sitting there on a stool eating a mess out of a brass bowl. As the man stood up, a bunch of keys jangled at his girdle. Selecting one he unlocked one of the doors, and Roger was pitched through it, down a short flight of steps into a light-less dungeon.

  How long he lay where he had fallen, his body a mass of pains and aches from the kicks and cuffs he had received, and his brain half numbed by shock and hopeless misery, he never knew. Scratchings, squeaks and scamperings came to his ears without meaning; it was not until a rat actually ran across his face that he jerked himself up and made a conscious endeavour to think coherently. Wriggling along the floor he reached a wall, turned over, sat up with his back to it, and tried to sort out the nightmare through which he had lived since being brought before the Rajah of Bahna.

  Bemused as his mind still was, one clear thought dominated it. He had done Clarissa a terrible injustice. On the flimsy grounds that she had encouraged Gunston’s attentions during the latter half of January, he had allowed himself to believe that she had eloped with him. For four days he had been obsessed with that thought, yet now it seemed positively farcical. Worse, it was an insult to her honest and fearless character. The depth and tenacity of the love with which she had pursued him for so long should have been guarantee enough that she would never abandon him lightly, and that even if they had tired of one another to the extent of quarrelling most bitterly, she would have had the courage to tell him her intention before finally committing herself with another lover. Tears of shame welled up into his eyes and he mentally squirmed at the memory of having thought so meanly of her.

  About what had actually taken place, he now had no doubts at all. As he had warned Clarissa at Stillwaters, no hypnotist could obtain power over a person unless that person willingly submitted to being hypnotised. But once they had surrendered their will to the hypnotist, he could without their consent hypnotise them again. The tragedy was that his warning had been given too late. In her eagerness to catch a glimpse of the future, Clarissa had asked Malderini to hypnotise her that afternoon, and all she could promise afterwards was to keep away from him, so that he should have no opportunity of throwing her into a trance again.

  Evidently
, on learning from Gunston that they were in Calcutta, Malderini had set off there and, probably, stayed for some days at a place outside the city while he sent spies into it. All native servants were born gossips, and delighted in talking boastfully about their masters’ and mistresses’ affairs; so it would have been easy for a spy to learn from one of Roger’s household that he intended to spend the week-end up at Chinsurah.

  After that all Malderini would have had to do was to come face to face with Clarissa so that he could stare at her for a few moments with those compelling eyes of his. To enforce silence on her temporarily and the suggestion that she must hear what he had to say in private would have been his first move. No doubt to break her will to a degree at which she would consent to have all her things packed and go away, apparently quite willingly, with him had required far greater effort and prolonged concentration, as it was certain that in her subconscious mind she would have fought desperately against such a command; but that explained why they had remained for over an hour together out on the veranda before she had begun to make her preparations for departure.

  Roger could only hope now that Malderini had kept her in a state of trance right up to the present; for, if so, it seemed possible that she was still unaware that she had really been abducted, and thought herself only the victim of a horrid dream, so was at least not a prey to an agony of apprehension about her future.

  He had got only so far in his unhappy speculations when the big key grated in the lock, the door swung open and the powerful looking jailer came down the three steps into the dungeon. The light percolating in from outside was just sufficient for Roger to see that he was carrying a calabash in one hand and a bowl in the other. Setting these down on the floor the man produced from his tunic a hammer, then fumbled about until he found the loose end of a chain that had its other end fixed in the wall. With the deft movements of long practice he put an iron shackle round Roger’s left ankle and hammered home some rivets which secured it to the chain. Next he drew a knife, and cut the cords that bound Roger’s arms, then, turning away, he left the dungeon, locking the door behind him.