Black August gs-10

by Dennis Wheatley

  Yours sincerely,

  Ann Croome.

  The others had been discussing the effects of the moratorium and Hetherington was confirming the rumours of an approaching bank crisis when Kenyon turned back to them.

  'Who's been bunching you, Kenyon?' Hay-​Symple inquired with a grin, from the door.

  'Oh er some flowers that I sent have come back went to the wrong address, I think,' he finished lamely.

  Veronica suddenly hooted with laughter. 'Wrong address my foot! Just look at him, darlings do! The poor fish has been turned down by some wench. His face is as red as his hair!'

  'Oh, shut up!' snapped Kenyon savagely. 'It's nothing of the sort.'

  A general titter of amusement ran round the room, but after a moment it sank to a hushed silence. They had caught the voice of a newsboy calling in the square below. Faintly at first then louder, the harsh cry was wafted up to the strained ears of the listeners.

  'Speshul edition! Speshul!… Speshul!… Decision by the Big Five… Banks Close Down!'

  5

  The Structure Cracks

  The morning after she had returned Kenyon's flowers Ann put off getting up till the very last moment and lay thinking about him.

  Perhaps she had been a fool to dash off that note. So many of her thoughts had centred round him since their first meeting, and now she had ended the affair by her own impulsive act. But he had deceived her about himself, and it rankled badly that he had allowed her to say those stupid things about him in the train. Still, she had apologised for that and Gregory was right of course; Kenyon would only regard her as a fit companion for a few evenings' amusement. No, she had taken a line, the right line, and she must stick to it even if he tried to open the affair again. She turned over on her tummy and nestled her dark head into the crook of her arm; then a sudden annoying thought struck her. She had forgotten again yesterday to give her ration card to Rudd. That meant no glass of milk for breakfast, and no butter for her bread. The wretched thing had been quite useless to her so far except for her light lunch in the City, although she had taken it out immediately on her return from Orford. If only she could get back to the sleepy peace of that little Suffolk village, but it was impossible unless she sacrificed her job. She had spoken of it the day before to her immediate superior, the fussy, pot bellied Mr. Crumper, and she could hear his sharp rejoinder now.

  'Nonsense, Miss Croome nonsense. Business as usual will be our motto. The rioting will not affect us in the City you may be sure and we shall weather this crisis just as we did the one last winter.'

  It would have been useless to argue with the man and, most of the other members of the firm seemed to share his view. Who would prove correct she wondered, Mr. Crumper and the office staff or Gregory Sallust and Kenyon Damn Kenyon! anyhow if the trouble blew over after all she would never get another job with things in their present state, so she must cling on to this one.

  'A life on the Ocean Wave,' chanted a husky voice which she recognised as Rudd's, and a moment later he knocked loudly on her door. 'Yer wanted on the 'phone, Miss.'

  Ann rolled over. 'Who is it?' she called.

  'Gentleman name of Fane.'

  'Tell him I do not wish to speak to him.'

  ' 'E said as 'ow I was to say it was urgent.'

  'I don't care do as I tell you, and say I shall be grateful if he will not bother me by ringing up again!'

  ' Orlright, Miss. ' Rudd's heavy boots clumped away, and Ann turned over again with a set expression on her face. She hated weakness in other people and scorned it in herself. It was bad enough that she was half in love with the man already. To go on with the affair would only be to pile up endless misery for the future. Far better cut it out altogether.

  Rudd obediently delivered her message, and Kenyon, wrapped in a thin silk dressing gown, hung up the receiver with an angry grunt.

  The night before they had told him that she was out, and now she refused even to speak to him. In his bath he thought the matter over and admitted that he had not quite played the game. To talk of himself as seeking a Government position at £400 a year might be accurate, but it was certainly misleading, and to describe his father as a farmer with few investments was hardly in accordance with Debrett. His quick decision to conceal his title had been governed by his comparatively small experience with girls of the upper middle class. He had discovered in his Oxford days that they were apt to affect strange mannerisms which they believed to be socially correct as soon as they knew that he was heir to a Dukedom; whereas if they remained in ignorance they continued to be natural and amusing.

  He wondered how she had found him out, and put it down to her seeing one of his photographs in the illustrated papers. Hardly a week passed without his appearing in one of them grimly smirking in a flashlight snap at some party, or with one enormous foot stretched out as he made for the paddock at a race meeting.

  His mind leapt back to the darkened sitting room, visualising again fragmentary episodes of that unforgettable hour. His pulses quickened at the thought he had got to see her again somehow there wasn't a doubt about that. The best way would be to slip down to Gloucester Road and catch her before she left for the office. He scrambled out of his bath.

  Breakfast, he decided, could wait, and having hurried through his dressing he telephoned for his car to be brought round.

  In Gloucester Road, Rudd answered his ring, and with a quick grasp of his business clumped upstairs to the communal sitting room, leaving him below.

  Two minutes later he came down again, shaking his yellow head: 'I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Croome sez she don't want ter see yer an' yer ter go away at once.'

  Kenyon produced a pound note from his pocket book and displayed it to Mr. Rudd. 'Look here,' he said, 'I want to see Miss Croome very badly indeed, and I'm sure you've got a lot of work to do, so slip along and get on with it while I run upstairs… there's a good chap.'

  'No, sir. This bein' my 'ouse as it were, I can't do that but I tell yer wot if 1 perswides the young lady ter see yer I earns it, eh? but if I don't you keeps the quid?'

  'Splendid that's fair enough.'

  Rudd ascended once more with new vigour in his step, and this time Kenyon had a longer wait, but his ambassador returned alone!

  'No go, Guv'nor,' he said sadly. 'She sez she don't care if you do look 'orribly unappy like I told 'er an' I'm ter mind me own blinkin' business. But there's no accountin' fer wimen and their ways.'

  'Never mind, keep this for your trouble.' Kenyon thrust the pound note into Rudd's hand. He liked the fellow's quick intelligent sympathy and felt that he might prove a useful ally later on.

  'Now that,' muttered Rudd to himself, as Kenyon walked swiftly back to his car, 'is wot I calls a gentleman.'

  It was not until Kenyon was sitting down to breakfast that he realised what a fool he had been to hurry back. If he had waited in Gloucester Road he would have caught Ann for certain on her way to work and might have made his peace. However, it was too late to think of that now.

  The paper was full of the previous evening's decision by the banks. The suspension of payments was only a temporary matter, necessitated by the withdrawals of the day before which were estimated at the colossal figure of forty million. Assignats were now being printed and would be issued on demand to depositors when the banks reopened, which it was hoped would be on Monday. In the meantime patience, mutual help and 'our British sense of humour' were suggested to carry the population over the intervening days.

  His Majesty's illness was referred to at some length. He had suffered a relapse on the previous day and his condition was causing the gravest anxiety. The physicians at Windsor insisted on all news being kept from him and would not allow even the Prime Minister to see him on the most urgent business.

  The Prince had gone down to the Dockers' mass meeting the night before without any previous intimation of his intention. Some hostility had been shown, but this had been speedily drowned by a tremendous ovation from the majority, and his
appeal for the maintenance of law and order had met with an excellent response. He had asked all those who could do so to enrol themselves as special constables or join the Greyshirt organisations in support of the existing Government, and had secured a thousand volunteers before he left. His courageous action had resulted in allaying unrest in the Dockland area.

  The news from Glasgow was confined to a short paragraph. Disorders had occurred in certain sections of the city, but a number of Communist leaders had been arrested by the military and it was hoped that order would soon be restored. The train service would not be renewed, however, until after the week end.

  'Not too good,' thought Kenyon, and the brief mention of the Navy was even less reassuring. A number of clashes had occurred between the police and the Communists at Portsmouth, and parties of sailors were stated to have been among the latter.

  After breakfast Kenyon considered his supply of cigarettes. He had a few hundred left but if things became worse it might be difficult to get more since he smoked a particularly fine brand of Turkish made for him, at a very reasonable price, by an importer in Manchester. If he wired at once asking them to send him triple his usual order by passenger train they should arrive, with luck, next day. Kenyon was one of those people who never minded taking a little trouble to ensure his future comfort.

  He walked round to the post office, dispatched his telegram, and then strolled on to his club. It was unusually crowded and the members were gathered six deep round the tape machine. 'What's the latest, Archie?' he asked an acquaintance on the edge of the group.

  'Devilish difficult to say, old man,' Archie made a pessimistic grimace, 'the news is so heavily censored that very little really important stuff is allowed to come through.'

  'Heard anything about this Glasgow business?'

  'Have I not?' the other grinned. 'That old tiger who is commanding in the north bagged twenty Communist leaders last night, erected a nice old fashioned gallows on Glasgow Green, and hung the lot. He's keeping the bodies dangling too as a warning to the rest!'

  'The devil he did! What will the Cabinet have to say to that?'

  'Lord knows! They'll recall him, I expect, just like they did poor old Dyer in India after the Amritsar trouble years ago.'

  Kenyon nodded gloomily. 'It'll be a rotten show if they do. It seems to me that our only hope now is a few stout fellows with real guts like that. By hanging twenty he's probably saved at least a hundred from being killed in street fighting.'

  'You haven't heard anything from South Wales, have you?'

  'No why?'

  Archie lowered his voice. 'Well, that's one of the worst danger spots, and I had it from a man I know that there was an organised rising there last night. He says that some sort of Soviet have seized control in Cardiff.'

  'Do you think his information is reliable?'

  'Ah, that's where you've got me. I wondered if you'd heard anything, that's all.'

  'Nothing except that business about the income tax collector, and that the miners are sabotaging the pits, but they've been doing that on and off for months past.'

  They wandered into the smoking room and ordered a couple of dry sherries. Then Archie began to give his general views on the situation. They were not cheerful views and after a little Kenyon asked him what he meant to do,

  'Well, I've got a little place in Gloucester only a glorified cottage, you know, but my cousin is Chief Constable of the county, so I thought I'd go down there for a bit, and take on any job of work he cares to give me; London will be no fit place to live in for the next few weeks.'

  Kenyon nodded. It looked as if they would all have to get out soon if they meant to save themselves. His thoughts flew to Ann. How would she fare in London if the food supply broke down and there was really desperate fighting? He simply must get hold of her somehow, if only to persuade her to chuck her job and go back to Orford while there was still time.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, he said good bye to Archie rather hurriedly, but on his way through the hall old Lord St. Evremond stopped him.

  'Have you heard?' he asked.

  'No, sir what?

  The old man nodded portentously and sank his voice. 'The King is dead died at five o'clock this morning.'

  'Good heavens, sir 1 that is bad news especially at a time like this.'

  'Yes, he was a great man too. Far greater than the bulk of the nation realised. He devoted his whole life to the service of his country and did a tremendous lot of good. It is an incalculable loss.'

  'It is,' Kenyon agreed, 'and its effect on the public is bound to make things worse.'

  'Oh, they won't let it out until this business has blown over. That would never do my information is strictly private, of course.'

  I see but they can't hold the funeral over indefinitely and how do we know that this business is going to er, blow over?'

  Lord St. Evremond gave an indignant grunt. 'Why, of course it will, my boy. We're British, ain't we? I hope you don't suggest that we should let a lot of out at elbows Communist fellahs run the country eh? We'll jug 'em. Yes, sir! jug 'em, and if necessary shoot the lot!'

  'Well, I hope you're right,' said Kenyon mildly, and the old peer shambled away to spread his strictly private news elsewhere.

  As Kenyon made his way up St. James's Street his thoughts were mixed. The King's death Communists and Ann. She was a Communist herself theoretically, but that was only stupid nonsense gleaned from the adolescent debating societies at Cambridge. One of half a dozen ways of blowing off excess of youthful steam. Probably, though, it partially explained her turning against him. How the deuce could he get hold of her again?

  A familiar figure caught his eye as he crossed Piccadilly to Albemarle Street. Veronica sailing gaily along with a swing that displayed her supple figure and enchanting ankles to the admiration of the passers by.

  'Hi!' he called. 'Hi!' as he hastened after her. A sudden inspiration had flashed into his mind.

  'Hells bells! it's you!' She turned as he caught her up, 'I thought it was a street accident at the very least.'

  'Where are you off to?' he asked.

  'Home, lovie to fill my foul carcass with whatever cooked meats the chef offers us for lunch.'

  'Well,' he paused opposite the entrance of the Berkeley, 'what about a cocktail first?'

  'Angels defend me!' she exclaimed in a loud voice, apparently to the street at large. 'The Millennium is come my brother offers me a drink!'

  'Do try not to be such an ass I want to talk to you.'

  'Ha, ha! I thought there was a catch in it somewhere. But a drink's a drink, and talking costs nothing, so lead me to it, my most noble lord.'

  In the lounge the maitre d'hotel himself, imperturbable as ever in this crash of empires, hurried up to them.

  'We are not lunching today,' Kenyon told him, 'but you might send the cocktail man and some writing paper will you?'

  'I take your order myself.' His teeth flashed in a quick smile. 'The cocktail man he is gone!'

  'Gone where?' demanded Veronica with surprise.

  The man gave an expressive shrug. 'I do not know, m'lady many of my waiters become frightened and they run away to Italy but I tell them they are fools. If they are not safe in England they are not safe anywhere. What cocktail would you prefer?'

  Kenyon gave his order and turned quickly to Veronica. 'Look here I want your help.'

  'Now, Kenyon darling, let's be quite clear. If it's money, for goodness' sake cancel the drinks I haven't got a cent.'

  'It's not,' he reassured her. 'But you remember those flowers that came back last night?'

  Tra-​la-​la! Do I not, my red headed Lothario.' Veronica rocked backwards and forwards in an ecstasy of mirth.

  'Yes, I know you thought it devilish amusing anyhow, you were right the girl turned me down.'

  Veronica's mirth changed to a. quick sympathy. 'Poor sweet!'

  'You see, she's found out about the handle to my name, and she's sore that I didn't tell her
in the first place.'

  'And why didn't you, pray?'

  'Because she's only somebody's secretary… oh, I know that sounds rottenly snobbish… but I picked her up in the train going to Ipswich.'

  'Kenyon, you idiot! Why can't you confine your affairs to women in your own set? I know half a dozen who are dying to have an affair with you.'

  'I dare say you do but that is beside the point as I happen to be crazy about this particular girl.'

  'Don't tell me we are going to have prayers in the village church “to guide the footsteps of our young master” and, “Heir to Dukedom makes a Ruddy Fool of Himself” in all the papers?'

  'Certainly not I haven't gone quite mad. But I do want to get on speaking terms with this girl again.'

  'Then it's the young suburban Miss who must be batty my dear most of them would give their eye teeth to be ruined by a real live lord she must be a queer !'

  'She's not a queer, or a suburban Miss on the contrary, she is damnably attractive, and I want you to be a darling and meet her.'

  'What!' Veronica sat up as though she had been stung. 'Lord love us! the man is mad!'

  'Shut up!' said Kenyon sharply, 'that piercing voice of yours can be heard from here to Leicester Square.'

  'All right, darling don't get irritable, send for a spot more gin to help me to recover from the shock.'

  'Sorry, my dear I'm a bit nervy, I'm afraid!' He gave the order and turned back quickly. 'Will you write a note saying how much you'd like to meet her, and ask her along to cocktails tomorrow night?'

  'What, at home? Herbert would have a fit!'

  'No he won't, he's too damned busy packing up the art collection and rushing if off to the bank.'

  'Are you really serious about this, Kenyon?'

  'Yes, honestly. It's the only way I can think of to break down this absurd class consciousness of hers in every other way she's a perfect darling.'

  'But is she really presentable?'