Contraband

by Dennis Wheatley

  He slipped her from his shoulders. She stood rocking for a moment then began to stagger forward while he turned and fired at the nearest of the running men. The man ran on, Rudd fired again. The fellow spun round and fell.

  Rudd’s intervention gave Gregory another chance. He bounded forward. Both of them fired twice into the mass of shouting figures that were thundering across the grass, then they turned and ran on together.

  A bullet ploughed up the ground at Gregory’s feet, another whistled past his ear, a third hit the gun in Rudd’s hand, knocking it out of his grasp.

  Gregory halted and emptied the remaining contents of his automatic into the oncoming mob. Rudd lurched forward, grabbed up his pistol, and dashed on again. Next instant he came up with Sabine. She was now no more than twenty yards from the Bell tower.

  Jamming his now useless automatic into his pocket Gregory pounded up beside them. Each caught Sabine by an arm and half-carried, half-dragged her towards their goal.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ shrilled a treble voice and Milly’s form loomed up by the tower. She was holding the door wide open for them.

  ‘Good God!’ gasped Gregory as they dashed through the entrance. ‘Why didn’t you hide as I told you to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I had to stay and help if I could.’ Then she flung her frail weight against the heavy door and banged it to. Rudd grabbed the key and turned it in the lock.

  For a moment they remained there panting in the close musty darkness. Sabine was lying on the ground; Gregory leaning against the wall as he sought to ease the strain of his bursting lungs. He pulled his torch out of his pocket and flashed it on. Rudd and Milly were standing just behind the door.

  ‘Get back, you fools!’ he shouted. ‘They’ll be shooting through that door!’ Rudd grabbed Milly and thrust her away from it into a safe corner.

  Sabine was on her feet again. She snatched Gregory’s torch and turned in on the door; then she sprang forward and shot the bolts at its top and bottom.

  ‘That’s better!’ her voice came huskily. ‘They could have blown in that lock.’ As she spoke a bullet crashed through the door splintering its woodwork.

  A thunderous beating came upon the door. Shots thudded into its stout oak panelling; one clanged upon the metal lock. Gregory remained leaning against the wall. He only shrugged now at this fresh clamour and smiled in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t get scared any of you. That door’s old and solid. It’d take them an hour to break it in and they can’t spare the time. They know every policeman in Kent is on the lookout for them and that they’ll be caught if they don’t get away from here before one o’clock. It’s five to now.’

  Sabine stretched out a hand and grasped his quickly. ‘Mais non,’ she cried. ‘Gavin believes all the police are concentrated miles away on Sheppey Island. He’s killed the men who were set to keep a look out here. There is no one to give a warning of what they do and the village is too far for anyone there to hear the shooting. Gavin will send for saws and cut the bolts out of their sockets; or get a battering ram for all that mob to break down the door. He thinks he is safe here for an hour—two hours yet. If help doesn’t arrive soon—nous sommes tous morte.’

  While the battering outside continued Rudd was flashing his torch round the lofty chamber. From holes in its wooden ceiling ten ropes dangled; the last few feet of each covered with a thick wool grip. They looked like a group of inverted bulrushes.

  ‘All right,’ said Gregory with sudden decision. ‘If we’ve got to summon help after all we’ll use the bells.’ He sprang forward and caught at one of the ropes bearing down his full weight upon it. A loud clang sounded high up in the tower.

  Rudd seized another rope and Milly a third. The noise outside the door was drowned in a horrible cacophony of vibrating sound. Without rhythm or music the great bells above their heads pealed out in horrid irregular clamour—clash—boom—dong—bing—which seemed to shake the very ground on which the bellringers stood.

  Sabine ran to Gregory and shouted in his ear: ‘The lights on the steel mast! The controls are in the next room. I will make signals with them.’ She dashed away and a moment later was tapping at the instrument—SOS—SOS—SOS.

  Rudd now had a bell rope in each hand and was swaying from side to side as he pulled them alternately with all his vigour. Gregory tugged at first one, then another until the whole peal of ten bells was in motion; thundering out a vast and hideous discord which could be heard over half Thanet.

  After a couple of minutes Gregory left Rudd and Milly to keep the din going, rushed up the narrow winding stairs in a corner of the chamber until he reached a long slit window cut in the thick stone wall, and peered out.

  From it he saw that the attempt to force the door had been abandoned. Gavin Fortescue was standing near the flares; waving his sticks and evidently ordering the pilots to their various planes. As Gregory watched, a new commotion started. A car roared up the driveway and halted in front of the house. Dark figures sprang out of it. Another car and then another came in sight.

  The bells were so deafening that he could not hear the coughing of the silenced automatics, but stabs of flame, piercing the darkness near the museum building, told him that a battle was in progress between the reds and the constantly arriving squads of police.

  He glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was one o’clock. The bells could not have been pealing for more than five minutes. How could the police have got here so quickly, he wondered, but he did not pause to think of possible explanations. Instead, he leapt down the narrow stairs, yelling for Sabine, and waving his arms to stop Rudd and Milly tugging at the bell-ropes.

  As they ceased their pulling he shouted: ‘The police are here! Quick! Open that door, Rudd. I’ve got to get Sabine away. We’ll use Lord Gavin’s plane while they’re fighting it out together.’

  Rudd wrenched back the bolts. Milly unlocked the door and tugged it open. All four of them ran out into the half-light which came from the flares.

  The bells were still clanging faintly behind them, but now they could hear the sound of shots as the waves of police, descending from fresh cars and lorries which were arriving by both drives every moment, dashed into the fray a hundred yards away. Lord Gavin had disappeared. The backs of his men were now towards the tower.

  As Gregory and the rest burst out of its entrance there was a crashing in the undergrowth behind them. A body of police who had been sent to take the conspirators in the rear were just emerging from the coppice.

  Someone called upon Gregory’s party to halt, but he took no notice, urging Sabine on beside him. They raced across the open lawn towards the hangar, but, as they reached it, another phalanx: of police emerged from the opposite coppice and Marrowfat’s voice boomed out into the semi-darkness. ‘Halt there you, or I fire.’

  They were caught between two forces; as the police who had emerged from the Bell tower coppice were hurrying up in their rear. Another moment and they were surrounded.

  With a sinking heart Gregory realised that the game was up.

  Beside Marrowfat loomed the tall figure of Sir Pellinore, the bulky form of the Chief Constable, and the tall but slighter Gerry Wells.

  As Gregory halted he gulped in a quick breath, and then stared at the Inspector. ‘How did you manage to turn up here so quickly?’

  Gerry Wells grinned. ‘When you tipped me off about Bell being the word instead of Mermaid I tumbled to it at once that meant the Bell tower at Quex Park. It took me five minutes to phone Canterbury, so the Superintendent could concentrate the others when he go there, and you’d obviously sneaked your car round near Hook Quay. You had the heels of me but I didn’t lose much time, once I got started, and the others seemed to have arrived here altogether.’

  Milly stepped forward and touched his arm. ‘It’s been terrible,’ she murmured. ‘But I feel safe, now at last—because you’re here.’

  Most unprofessionally he put his arm round her slim waist. Marrowfat stepped quickly
up to Sabine.

  ‘Mademoiselle Szenty,’ he said gruffly, ‘this is an unpleasant duty but I have no option. I arrest you as a confederate of Lord Gavin Fortescue upon the charge of having been an accessory to an attempted murder.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ cried Gregory. ‘It was she who saved our lives by warning Sir Pellinore that our murder was to be attempted.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marrowfat shrugged his vast shoulders. ‘Of that charge, of course, the lady will doubtless be able to clear herself; but there are others. Three of our men were done to death here in the Park tonight. Whether she had any hand in that I don’t know but, in any case, she is heavily implicated in the importation of contraband. Suitable charges will be presented in due course. I proposed to hold her on this one for the moment.’

  The scene was quieter now. Three hundred police had rounded up Lord Gavin’s agitators and saboteurs. Not a single plane had got away. The wounded were being carried to ambulances that had arrived on the heels of the police from Birchington, Westgate, Margate and Herne Bay. A score of Inspectors were questioning the captives and taking down material for charges in their note-books. Sir Pellinore, the Superintendent, Wells, the Chief Constable, Gregory, Rudd and the two girls stood apart, a hundred yards from the shifting crowd on the far side of Lord Gavin’s plane.

  Suddenly there was a movement in the undergrowth near by. A flash of light streaked past Rudd’s face. Milly screamed as a knife caught her in the shoulder.

  Gregory guessed the thrower instantly. It was Corot, whose fanatical blood lust had tempted him into this last bid for vengeance; the knife had probably been intended for Wells. Milly collapsed against the Inspector, sobbing, as he swiftly drew out the knife and dabbed at the wound. His eyes blazed with a murderous desire to get to grips with the apache but, supporting Milly as he was, he could do nothing.

  It was the Chief Constable who, nearer to the coppice than any of the others, dashed into the undergrowth swinging his heavy stick high above his head. He had caught sight of Corot’s white face, gleaming there, within a second of the knife being thrown. His stick descended; catching the murderous Frenchman a terrible blow right across the eyes. Corot went down moaning among the bushes. Sir Pellinore and Marrowfat had already started forward to the Chief Constable’s assistance.

  Gregory’s distress that poor little Milly should have been wounded was almost instantly displaced by the wild thought that the ensuing commotion had given him one more chance.

  Sabine was standing close beside him. ‘Get into the plane,’ he muttered swiftly.

  Without a second’s hesitation she turned, tore over to it, and threw herself in. Hard on her heels he scrambled up beside her. Rudd sprang to the door of the cabin and slammed it after them as Gregory pressed the self-starter.

  Wells was facing in their direction but he was supporting Milly. He was quick enough to see that he had the one perfect excuse for not attempting to interfere.

  The Superintendent realised what had happened only a moment later and swerved out of his heavy trot, towards the bushes, in the direction of the plane; but Sir Pellinore grasped the situation at the same instant.

  He seized the Superintendent by the lapel of his coat. ‘A great day sir,’ he said swiftly. ‘I must congratulate you.’

  ‘Dammit, let me go,’ boomed Marrowfat, but his voice was drowned in the roar of the aeroplane engine.

  ‘You must lunch with me,’ shouted Sir Pellinore above the din. ‘I’ll have the Home Secretary to meet you.’

  Marrowfat thrust his great hands forward and tried to push Sir Pellinore off, but the older man showed unexpected toughness.

  ‘Must tell the Monarch,’ he bawled, his mouth glued almost to the Superintendent’s ear, ‘His Majesty will probably honour you with some decoration.’

  ‘Let me go, sir,’ burst out Marrowfat his face gone purple ‘Let me go or I’ll arrest you for interfering with the police in the execution of their duties.’

  ‘What’s that! I didn’t hear,’ Sir Pellinore yelled back, The plane ran forward; a hundred faces turned towards it but no one was foolhardy enough to try and stop its progress. It turned into the wind, rose, bounced once, then sailed close over the heads of the police and their prisoners.

  ‘Next week,’ Sir Pellinore shouted a little less loudly; as he clung still to the frantic Superintendent. ‘I’ll let you know what day the Home Secretary can lunch with us. You must bring Wells; splendid feller, Wells. Sallust shall join us too —if he’s in England.’

  Rudd was grinning from ear to ear as he waved after the departing plane. It lifted above the house-top missing its chimneys by no more than a dozen feet. A mile of land spread below it and then the sea. Gregory placed his hand on Sabine’s.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ he asked, ‘You can bet the plane’s fuelled to capacity.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she whispered, letting her head fall on his shoulder. ‘This last week we’ve been drawn into a strange and terrible adventure, but now, thank God, it’s over.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he laughed, as the plane zoomed away over the water. ‘Our real adventure has only just begun.’

  A Note on the Author

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  Dennis Wheatley (1897 – 1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world's best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.

  Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.

  His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.

  During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.

  Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.

  Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/Dennis Wheatley

  Duke de Richleau

  The Forbidden Territory

  The Devil Rides Out

  The Golden Spaniard

  Three Inquisitive People

  Strange Conflict

  Codeword Golden Fleece

  The Second Seal

  The Prisoner in the Mask

  Vendetta in Spain

  Dangerous Inheritance

  Gateway to Hell

  Gregory Sallust

  Black August

  Contraband

  The Scarlet Impostor

  Faked Passports

  The Black Baroness

  V for Vengeance

  Come into My Parlour

  The Island Where Time Stands Still

  Traitors’ Gate

  They Used Dark Forces

  The White Witch of the South Seas

  Julian Day

  The Quest of Julian Day

  The Sword of Fate

  Bill for the Use of a Body

  Roger Brook

  The Launching of Roger Brook

  The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

  The Rising Storm

  The Man Who Killed the King

  The Dark Secret of Josephine

  The Rape of Venice

  The Sultan’s Daughter

  The Wanton Princess

  Evil in a Mask

&nbs
p; The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

  The Irish Witch

  Desperate Measures

  Molly Fountain

  To the Devil a Daughter

  The Satanist

  Lost World

  They Found Atlantis

  Uncharted Seas

  The Man Who Missed the War

  Espionage

  Mayhem in Greece

  The Eunuch of Stamboul

  The Fabulous Valley

  The Strange Story of Linda Lee

  Such Power is Dangerous

  The Secret War

  Science Fiction

  Sixty Days to Live

  Star of Ill-Omen

  Black Magic

  The Haunting of Toby Jugg

  The KA of Gifford Hillary

  Unholy Crusade

  Short Stories

  Mediterranean Nights

  Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

  London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain 1979 by Arrow Books

  Copyright © 1979 Dennis Wheatley

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise

  make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means

  (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,

  printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the

  publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication

  may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  eISBN: 9781448212712

  Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books