THE SECOND SEAL
DENNIS WHEATLEY
THE SECOND SEAL
Frontispiece Portrait by
MARK GERSON
Original Illustrations by
ANTHONY MATTHEWS
Published by arrangement with
Hutchinson and Co. (Publishers) Ltd.
© Brook-Richleau Ltd.
© 1973, Illustrations, Edito-Service S. A., Geneva
To the memory of that fine soldier and friend, the late:
Colonel H. N. Clarke, D.S.O., T.D.
For those good companions of my youth,
J. Albert Davis and Douglas Gregson:
and for those other Officers, N.C.O.s and Men
with whom I had the honour to serve in the
2nd/1st City of London Brigade R.F.A.(T)
from September 1914
“And when he had opened the second seal, I heard
the second beast say, Come and see.
And there went out another horse that was red:
and power was given to him that sat thereon to take
peace from the earth, and that they should kill one
another: and there was given unto him a great sword.”
Revelation vi: 3 and 4.
CHAPTER I - THE MAN IN THE TAXI
CHAPTER II - THE FIRST LORD INTERVENES
CHAPTER III - THE BLACK HAND
CHAPTER IV - THE BRIEFING OF A RELUCTANT SPY
CHAPTER V - ON A NIGHT IN MAY, 1914
CHAPTER VI - STORMY PASSAGE
CHAPTER VII - CITY OF DELIGHT
CHAPTER VIII - THE DARK ANGEL OF THE ARSENAL
CHAPTER IX - RURITANIA WITHOUT THE ROMANCE
CHAPTER X - THE DARK ANGEL OF THE FOREST
CHAPTER XI - THE WHITE GARDENIAS
CHAPTER XII – OF LOVE AND INTRIGUE
CHAPTER XIII – TWO MIDNIGHT INTERVIEWS
CHAPTER XIV – AN ILL TIMED HONOUR
CHAPTER XV - THE SECRET OF THE BLACK HAND
CHAPTER XVI - THE WINGS OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH
CHAPTER XVII - THE ANGEL OF DEATH STRIKES AGAIN
CHAPTER XVIII - THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
CHAPTER XIX - THE TRUTH WILL OUT
CHAPTER XX - THE ROAD TO THE ABYSS
CHAPTER XXI - AN EXTRAORDINARY SITUATION
CHAPTER XXII - WHICH ROAD HOME?
CHAPTER XXIII - THE ARMIES CLASH
CHAPTER XXIV - A VERY TIGHT CORNER
CHAPTER XXV - DEATH ON THE TRAIN
CHAPTER XXVI - THE FALSE SIR PELLINORE
CHAPTER XXVII - THE FORTIETH DAY
CHAPTER XXVIII - ACROSS THE RHINE
CHAPTER I - THE MAN IN THE TAXI
In April, 1914, the Dorchester Hotel was still unbuilt, unplanned, undreamed of. Instead, its fine triangular corner site, half-way up Park Lane, was occupied by Dorchester House, the London residence of Colonel Sir George and Lady Holford. A great, square, grey, Georgian mansion, it stood well back at the base of the triangle, its privacy secured by two low, curving wings, running outward from it, which contained stabling for forty horses and enclosed a spacious courtyard.
The London season had not yet begun, and in most of the Mayfair mansions nearby the covers that shrouded the furniture would not be removed till the first week in May; yet on this evening in mid-April every window in Dorchester House was ablaze with light. The Holfords had come up from the country early in order to entertain a Royal visitor. Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Ilona Theresa, granddaughter of old Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria, was making a short stay in England, and in her honour they were giving a masked ball.
By a quarter to ten the courtyard in front of the house was a constantly moving medley of high-sprung motors and darkly gleaming private carriages. On the box of almost every vehicle a footman with folded arms sat beside the driver, and as they sprang down to fling open the doors of car or brougham the light glinted on their colourful liveries and cockaded top hats.
Inside the hall of the house a double line of flunkeys, with powdered hair, striped waistcoats and satin knee-breeches, were rapidly relieving the men of their coats, and conducting the women to the cloak-rooms, where they could put the finishing touches to their toilets and receive the black masks which would conceal their identities from all but those who knew them fairly intimately.
The men were in sober black and white, but the women rivalled the proverbial rainbow. Their gleaming necks and shoulders were set off by ropes of pearls and parures of diamonds: their many-hued dresses of silk, satin, and lace, fell smoothly to short trains. Hair was dressed high that season and crowned with sparkling tiaras, jewelled aigrets or paradise plumes. A king’s ransom in gems scintillated on arms and corsage.
At a few minutes to ten a vehicle, strangely in contrast to its opulent companions in the queue, pulled up before the porch. It was one of the taxis that were rapidly replacing the hansoms and growlers on London streets, but the man who stepped from it showed no sign of embarrassment at having arrived in such a mediocre conveyance. Unhurriedly he paid off the driver, adding a generous tip: then, with the unconscious self-assurance that is the hallmark of good breeding, walked lightly up the steps.
He was in his middle thirties, somewhat above medium height, and a slim, delicate looking man; but the fragility of his appearance was deceptive. His nose was aquiline, his mouth a hard line, redeemed only by the suggestion of a humorous lift at its corners, and his aristocratic features had a slightly foreign cast. As he took off the glossy topper that he had been wearing at a somewhat rakish angle, the gesture disclosed dark hair and ‘devil’s’ eyebrows that slanted upwards towards the temples of his broad forehead. Beneath them were grey eyes flecked with yellow: the directness of their glance indicated their mesmeric qualities, and at times they could flash with an almost piercing brilliance. He was known to both the police and crowned heads of several countries: his name was Jean Armand Duplessis, and he was the tenth Duc de Richleau.
On leaving the cloak-rooms the little parties of guests, now masked, were meeting again in the wide hall and passing slowly up one or other of the wings of the splendid horseshoe staircase, for which Dorchester House was famous, to be received by Sir George and Lady Holford on the first landing. As De Richleau joined the right hand queue he was wondering if, after all, he had not been a little foolish to go there.
He had arrived in London only the day before, and received the invitation solely because he had happened to run into Sir George, who was an old but not very intimate acquaintance of his, that morning at the Travellers’ Club. It was some years since the Duke had been in England and to attend this big reception had seemed, at the time of Sir George’s hospitable bidding, an excellent way to meet again a number of his old friends in London society who were almost certain to be present.
He realized now that he had paid insufficient attention to the fact that the party was to be a masked ball, and so would defeat his main object in attending it. The masking was no serious attempt to preserve the incognito of the guests, as there was no question of their wearing dominoes to conceal their clothes and figures, and they were even being announced by name as they were received at the top of the stairs: it was simply a device to dispense with formal introductions and thus add to the gaiety of the evening. But, while friends could easily recognize one another, De Richleau saw that it was going to be far from easy for him to identify people whom he had not met for several years.
Having greeted his host and hostess, he consoled himself with the thought that masks would be removed at midnight. So, reconciled to seeking such amusement as he could find till then, he passed into the ballroom. The band was playing one of the
new ragtime tunes recently imported from America and, being conservative in his taste for dancing, he decided to let the number finish while he took his time in selecting a promising partner for the next.
After an interval the band swung into a waltz, and by that time the Duke had fixed upon a slender dark-haired young woman who made one of a group of three seated on a long Louis Quinze settee. She proved to be the wife of a South American diplomat recently arrived in Europe, and could speak very little English. As De Richleau spoke several languages, including Spanish, with great fluency, that proved no bar to conversation; but she had been married only a few months earlier, straight from a convent, so he found her abysmally ignorant of the great world, and almost tongue-tied.
His next venture proved even less to his taste. A somewhat Junoesque girl, with a head of flaming red hair, had caught his eye, and he invited her to polka. Polka she did, but mainly on his feet and, although he was a fine horseman himself, he found the lady’s conversation—which consisted entirely of her equine exploits—boring in the extreme.
Feeling that his luck was not in, for the time being at least, he made his way downstairs to the buffet on the ground floor, where he whiled away twenty minutes eating some foie gras sandwiches, and washing them down with a couple of glasses of Pommery 1906. There was still well over an hour until midnight, and he had not yet seen among the masked company anyone with whom he could definitely claim acquaintance. So he then decided, rather reluctantly, to try his fortune again up in the ballroom.
Only a few belated guests were now arriving, so the great staircase was no longer crowded, and the wing that he approached had only one couple coming down it. The man was young, slim, shortish, and fair-haired. The girl upon his arm was as tall as he was, so by comparison seemed taller. She had chestnut hair, on which rested a delicate filigree ornament forming a crescent of stars, each set with a yellow diamond. It was almost too light to be termed a tiara, but the Duke was a connoisseur of jewels, and as he glanced up at her he recognized at once that it was an antique piece of considerable value. Below her mask, he saw that she had a generous mouth with a slightly pouting lower lip, fresh-complexioned cheeks, and a round but determined chin.
He was only two steps below the couple, and about to pass them, when the young man slipped. In a second he had pitched forward, unavoidably dragging the girl with him. Too late, he snatched his arm from hers: she was already oft her balance and about to take a header. De Richleau swiftly side-stepped to avoid collision with the man. Then, tensing his muscles, he caught the girl as she fell. Instinctively her arms had flown out, and now closed round his neck.
She was no mean weight, but her body was soft and pliant as, following their sudden impact, he held her tightly to him for a moment. Her face was within an inch of his and slightly above it, but he saw the swift flush that had turned her cheeks bright pink at finding herself so unexpectedly in the embrace of a complete stranger. With a little gasp she freed herself, then murmured her thanks in awkward English with a strong foreign accent.
Meanwhile, the fair-haired youth had tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. As two footmen ran to help him to his feet he gave an “Ouch!” of pain, looked up, and said, “I’m terribly sorry. That was awfully clumsy of me. I—I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.”
“Not badly, I trust?” inquired the Duke.
The young man tried the injured member gingerly, and screwed up his face. “It hurts a bit—not much, but I’d rather not put my weight on it till the pain has eased a little. Would you oblige me, sir, by taking my partner back to her chaperone, while I go to the cloak-room and find out if it’s swelling?”
“It will be a pleasure, sir,” De Richleau replied, and bowed to the girl.
She gave a little inclination of her head, then asked her ex-partner anxiously: “Are you assured you are not gravely hurt?”
He nodded, smiling up at her. “Yes. I promise you it’s nothing serious. I’m jolly glad, though, that this gentleman happened to be there to prevent your coming a cropper with me. I hope I’ll be able to claim our second dance and sit it out with you. But if the ankle drives me home, you must forgive me. I’ll not let it prevent my seeing you tomorrow, anyway.”
As he hobbled off, the Duke turned again to the charming charge who had been thrust upon him, and said: “Allow me to introduce myself. I am “
“But, no !” She quickly put up a hand to check him. “This night it makes for the gaiety that the guests of Lady Holford talk and dance together without knowing who is which. But my English is much muddled. You speak French perhaps?”
“Mais, oui, Mademoiselle,” he assured her. Then, with a quizzical smile, added in the same language, “Or should I say Madame?”
She laughed at that and, breaking into rapid French, declared: “Not yet, but soon, I hope; otherwise I shall be counted, as they say, upon the shelf. But your question makes it clear that you do not know who I am. So far this evening everyone I have spoken to has recognized me. That is most dull, and an encounter like this between strangers is much more in the spirit of the party.”
“True! And, as this dance has only just started, I trust that you will not insist on my escorting you back to your chaperone until it is ended.”
Seeing her hesitation, he went on quickly; “You were, I suppose, going downstairs to partake of some refreshment. Shall I conduct you to the buffet, or would you prefer to dance?”
The strains of the ‘Blue Danube’ floated down to them.
“Do you waltz?” she asked, and added with barefaced frankness, “Really well, I mean. Except for duty dances, to which I am compelled by politeness, I waltz from choice only with the best partners.”
As she stood there, her gown of shimmering blue satin moulding her graceful figure, and coppery lights glinting in her high-piled chestnut hair, De Richleau judged that even if her mask did not conceal great beauty, she was fully attractive enough to command a good choice of men. But her words and manners struck him as those of a spoiled, impertinent chit, who needed a lesson, so he replied smoothly.
“Then out of politeness you shall dance with me, and find out for yourself whether my waltzing is up to your high standard.” And, taking her firmly by the arm, he turned her towards the ballroom.
For a second he glimpsed a pair of defiant dark blue eyes staring at him through the slits in her mask. Then she laughed again, allowed herself to be led up the stairs, and murmured: “This is a strange way to behave, Monsieur. Do you always treat the ladies of your acquaintance in such a cavalier fashion?”
“But certainly,” he shrugged. “Have you not heard the English proverb— ‘The woman, the dog, and the walnut tree: the more you beat ’em, the better they be!’ I have found it an admirable precept.”
The blue eyes turned to stare at him again. “You are joking. You cannot possibly mean that you would really beat a woman.”
The Duke’s good looks alone were a sufficient passport to the initial interest of most members of the opposite sex, but experience had taught him that the swiftest way to intrigue them was to say and do the unexpected. With or without a handsome profile to back it, he was convinced that audacity almost always paid high dividends, and that there were very few women who did not secretly love to be shocked. So, having decided that this ‘haughty Miss’ was well worth powder and shot, he adopted his usual technique by lying glibly.
“I have often given a woman a beating. It is an ancient and admirable custom, making for peace and obedience in the home.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “You are married, then How! I pity your poor wife!”
He smiled. “You may spare yourself the trouble, Mademoiselle, for I have not got one.” Then he added mischievously: “But, since you have said that you hope soon to be married, you are old enough to know that men of the world sometimes contract less orthodox alliances.”
“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, flushing scarlet. “How dare you mention such matters to me. Your behaviour is outrageous.
Now we have reached the ballroom, I desire you to take me to the lady with the grey hair seated over there near the band. You may then relieve me of your obnoxious company.”
De Richleau knew that it had been a little wicked of him even to hint at the existence of such things as mistresses to an unmarried girl, but he was surprised by the violence of her reaction, and immediately decided that he could not possibly allow her to leave him in the belief that he was an ill-bred fellow of the baser sort. So he said:
“If I did as you suggest, Mademoiselle, that would be a great pity, for I was about to give you the best waltz you are likely to get this evening.”
“So, you can waltz well,” she countered sharply, “but add to your other horrid qualities that of a boaster.”
Suddenly his voice changed to a low, vibrant tone. “Try me, and see. Forget this silly nonsense I have been talking. Dance with me once round the room, and I promise you that you will not regret it.”
His brilliant grey eyes were smiling straight into hers, and the anger faded from her blue ones. For a second she hesitated, while the haunting strains of the music now came clearly to her above the swish and rustle of the dancers, and in that second she was lost. His arm slid round her waist, with the hand to which her big blue ostrich feather fan was looped she automatically caught up her dress, and they glided away into the whirling throng.
For the next ten minutes they did not exchange a single word. In becoming an accomplished swordsman De Richleau had acquired an admirable sense of balance, and his slender body concealed considerable strength; so he was able to guide and control his partner with smooth, unerring steps. From the first few turns he found that she too was light, supple, and fully capable of timing her movements in perfect union with his own. Without a shadow of hesitation she followed his lead as they spun, first one way, then the other, in wide circles round the crowded floor; often missing couples only by inches, yet touching none. Soon both of them were entranced with the ease and excellence of the other’s performance, and gave themselves up entirely to the intoxicating rhythm of the dance until, at the end of their most daring spin, the music ceased.
Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 Page 1