Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Oh, no, no, please don’t do that. He doesn’t know I’m here,’ Sheila cried desperately. ‘Look—look, this is what I was told to give him.’ She took the envelope out of her pocket and showed it to the Colonel, praying that he would not ask her to open it; but her prayer went unanswered.

  Ripping open the flap, which had scarcely any gum left on it, he pulled out the flimsy. It was a twelve-day-old order for Peter to report at the camp. With a snort of disgust he screwed it up into a ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket. ‘Very clever,’ he said bitingly. ‘Quite a nice little plan you worked up together, didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Sheila insisted. ‘I’ve told you—Peter doesn’t know anything about it. You can report me and have me dismissed with ignominy—anything—anything—only please don’t blame P-Peter.’ She began to sob, but her nerve had gone and her sobs changed to titters, then semi-hysterical laughter.

  ‘Now, now, stop that.’ Her inquisitor coughed with embarrassment and, pulling her forward, gave her a not unfriendly slap on the back.

  At that moment there came a loud knock on the door.

  The slap choked Sheila’s laughter, but, still blinded by tears, she stumbled and fell into the Colonel’s arms.

  ‘Come, now, come,’ he pleaded. ‘Do please pull yourself together.’ As he spoke, the knocking came again and he threw an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. Sheila was still weeping on his chest when an instant later the door was flung open, disclosing two A.T.S. officers in its entrance.

  Sheila’s sobs had ceased. Her face was turned away and, if she had planned it, her pose, locked in the Colonel’s embrace, could not have been more suggestive. In the silence that followed, a pin falling would have sounded like a tin can. She felt as if she was paralysed, unable to remove herself from the Colonel’s embrace, while he stared dumbfounded at the two intruders as though he could not believe his eyes. The plump, elder woman spoke. Her tone was quiet and she sounded distressed rather than angry.

  ‘Beaufort, I must have an explanation of your—er—extraordinary conduct.’

  As the A.T.S. Commandant hesitated, the Colonel saw Miss Wentworth glance first at himself and then significantly at her companion. A sarcastic accusation could not have made her meaning clearer to him. He went almost purple. Grabbing up his tunic, he wriggled hurriedly into it and, as an afterthought, thrust the ends of his braces into his trousers pocket.

  ‘Now, look here, madam,’ he spluttered, ‘the whole matter is quite easily explained. This young woman …’ He shot a swift glance at Sheila. She had brushed away her tears while her back was still turned to the door.

  In that second a new emotion surged up in the Colonel’s breast. She was, he realised, very young and a devilish pretty little thing, while the other two women were elderly and plain. All his male instincts rallied to her support. Yet how the hell could he get himself out of this mess and get her out as well?

  ‘Well, Colonel?’ the A.T.S. Commandant said.

  ‘This young woman …’ he began again, uncertainly; but Sheila had caught the sudden gleam of pity in his eye and she leapt into the breach.

  ‘Colonel Jackson is an old friend of my father, General Beaufort,’ she lied, without the faintest idea of what she was going to say next.

  Like a drowning man the Colonel clutched at the proffered straw. ‘That’s right,’ he cried, ‘and …’

  ‘And I had to get the Colonel’s consent to my marriage with Peter Grayley,’ she hurried on. ‘I know it was very wrong, but as he’s an old friend, and I didn’t like to go into the Mess, I decided to beard him in his hut.’

  The Colonel suppressed an exclamation, but, realising how neatly she had trapped him, forced a smile. ‘Yes. And as I’ve been out all day she caught me having a wash and brush-up. That’s the whole thing in a nut-shell.’

  The fat A.T.S. Commandant was smiling with relief, but the cadaverous Miss Wentworth said acidly: ‘That hardly explains why we found Beaufort in your arms.’

  ‘I—I was crying on his shoulder—crying with relief,’ Sheila murmured.

  ‘Colonel Jackson gave his consent to your marriage, then?’

  The Colonel grunted and began to go red again, but suddenly he caught sight of a figure in the corridor which had moved up behind the two women, and, recognising Peter, called out: ‘What are you doing hanging about out there, Grayley?’

  If Peter had spoken the truth he would have said that, having become anxious when Sheila had failed to arrive in his room by a quarter to nine, he had guessed that in the darkness she must have entered the wrong block of huts, and that after a frantic hunt he had arrived outside the Colonel’s door just behind the A.T.S. officers.

  Having heard the whole conversation, he felt that it was now—or never. He was very pale, but nerving himself for the audacious effort, he stepped smartly into the room and said: ‘I knew Sheila would win you over, sir, so I’ve just ordered some champagne to be put on the ice. Shall I tell the orderly to bring it here?’

  The Colonel cocked an eye at the A.T.S. Commandant. That motherly lady was smiling now and her smile broadened as he said: ‘Well, I like young officers to show initiative and they say regulations are made to be broken—sometimes. I think we’d better ask all the ladies into the Mess.’

  STORY XV

  But for one casual mention of the Maginot Line any of my older readers might easily take it for granted that this story has as its scene the area behind the battle-front in France during the First World War. Later in the war it became fascinating and horrifying to look back three years and attempt to recapture the memory of the smug self-confidence with which so many of our national leaders addressed us in the winter of 1939-40.

  Norway, Dunkirk, the treachery of France, the Blitz, Greece, Pearl Harbour, Singapore and Tobruk all lay in a mercifully veiled future. Finland had just taken up arms against Russia and quite a number of our more irresponsible politicians were urging us to go to war with Russia too. One did not need to be a very advanced student of international affairs to realise that Stalin was taking a God-sent opportunity, while Germany had her hands full elsewhere, to bolt the North-Western door to his country against future German aggression; yet the clamour was such that we very nearly added two hundred million Russians and one-fifth of the world’s natural resources to Hitler’s assets in this, his desperate attempt to break and destroy for ever the Anglo-Saxon conception of a free civilisation.

  On second thoughts, is one being a little unfair to those bellicose misleaders of public opinion when one remembers that in a democracy such men are rarely educated for the job which they attempt to do? Their irresponsibility pales beside that of some of the professionals—old hands at the game—to whom we had entrusted the actual waging of any future war—when one recalls that at this time the British Army had not in its possession one single sub-machine gun, or one parachute troop and that Lord Gort’s original Expeditionary Force did not even include an armoured division.

  Small wonder then that, although we had been at war with Germany for some six months, the back areas in France in early 1940 could be reasonably portrayed as differing little from what one had known in 1917—1918. But this is not a war story. Neils Orsen went to France to lay a Ghost.

  The Case of the Haunted Chateau

  ‘France!’ Bruce Hemmingway raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly across the table at his curious little host. ‘Would I like to go on a visit to the front? I’ll say I would; but as an American and a neutral, I’d never get a pass.’

  Neils Orsen smiled and scrutinised one of his long slender hands. ‘I’m a neutral, too, but I’ve been invited to go over there to investigate a little matter. It won’t actually be the Maginot Line, but it’s in the Zone des Armeés and I have permission to take an assistant, so I’m sure a pass for you could be arranged.’

  ‘My dear Neils, I’d love to go,’ the young international lawyer declared with rising excitement. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Two
days ago General Hayes, who is an old friend of mine, came to see me,’ Orsen began, his cool voice only slightly tinged with a Swedish accent. ‘He has always been interested in psychical research and is now on leave from France. It seems that an old chateau which had been taken over by the British had to be abandoned as a billet because it is so badly haunted that even the officers refuse to stay in it.’

  The big American lit a cigarette. ‘Then it must be the grandfather of all hauntings. What form does it take?’

  ‘As usual, it does not affect everyone, but at least one or two out of each group of men that has been stationed there have felt its influence, and the manifestations always occur at night. The wretched victim is apparently always taken by surprise, lets out a piercing yell, and throws some sort of fit. Afterwards they state that they heard nothing, saw nothing, but were stabbed through the hands or feet and paralysed, rooted to the spot, transfixed by an agonising pain which racked their whole bodies. The curious thing is that these attacks have taken place in nearly every room in the house. However, the worst cases have occurred in the one and only bathroom and it was there, about ten days ago, that one victim died—presumably as the result of a heart attack. It was that which finally decided the authorities to evacuate the chateau.’

  ‘How long has the haunting been going on?’

  The Swede blinked his large pale-blue eyes, so curiously like those of his Siamese cat, Past. ‘I’m not sure. You see, the chateau was empty and in a very dilapidated condition when the Army took over. I gather that it was untenanted for some considerable time before war started.’

  ‘Was your friend able to find out the history of the place from the villagers?’

  ‘Yes, and a most unpleasant story it is. But they seemed vague as to when the haunting began.’

  ‘What was the story?’

  ‘Before the French Revolution the chateau was owned by a really bad example of the French aristocracy of that time. Cruel, avaricious, and inordinately proud, the Vicomte de Cheterau treated his serfs worse than animals, beating, imprisoning, and torturing them at his pleasure. One day he devised the sadistic idea of adding yet another thong to his whip by placing a local tax on nails. As you know, it’s practically impossible to build anything without them, so the poorest peasants had to revert to the ancient, laborious practice of carving their own from the odd pieces of wood they could gather from the hedge-rows.’

  ‘He must have been a swine.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Neils agreed. ‘But no man, however cruel, deserved such a frightful death.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  Orsen stared at his reflection in the polished table. ‘One dark night, soon after the Revolution broke loose, his serfs crept into the chateau and pulled him out of bed. They dragged him to his business room and there they crucified him with their wooden nails. It took him three days to die; and they came each night to mock him in his agony with tantalising jars of water and bowls of food.’

  Bruce shuddered. ‘Horrible—did anyone ever live in the chateau again?’

  ‘I believe so; but no tenant has ever stayed for long in recent years. Of course, the villagers won’t go near it. They are convinced that it’s haunted, as the story of the Vicomte de Cheterau has been handed down from father to son for generations.’

  Hemmingway leaned forward. ‘Do you think these stabs the victims feel in their hands and feet are some sort of psychic repetition of the pains the Vicomte felt when the mob drove their wooden nails through his palms and insteps?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ replied Orsen slowly. ‘There are many well-authenticated cases of monks and nuns who have developed stigmata from too intensive a contemplation of the agony suffered by Jesus Christ at His crucifixion.’

  ‘It sounds a pretty tough proposition, then. When do we leave?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’ Neils gently stroked the back of his Siamese cat and his big pale eyes were glowing. ‘I may be able to show you a real Saati manifestation this time, Bruce; but we must take nothing for granted. You can leave all arrangements to me.’

  * * * * *

  A watery sun was shining through the avenue of lime trees, throwing chequered patterns on the wet gravel below, as the two friends were driven towards the chateau by a cheerful young captain into whose charge they had been given at the local H.Q.

  ‘General Hayes told me about you, Mr. Orsen,’ he was saying. ‘I find it difficult to believe in spooks myself, but there’s certainly something devilish going on in the old place, and we shall be jolly grateful if you can find it for us. Those cottages in the village are damned uncomfortable.’

  Neils leaned forwards to peer through the window at the rearing pile of grey stone just ahead of them, and the captain added: ‘Gloomy sort of place, isn’t it?’

  As Bruce stepped out of the car he thoroughly agreed. The silence was eerie, broken only by a monotonous sound of water dripping from the rain-sodden trees that surrounded the chateau and almost shut out the sky. A dank, musty smell greeted them as they entered; a rat scurried away into the dark shadows of the hall.

  ‘Well, Neils, old man,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘This place certainly seems to have the right atmosphere.’

  The little Swede did not appear to hear him. He was standing quite still, his large head thrown back and his eyes closed as if he were listening. Their guide gave an embarrassed cough. Unlike Bruce, he was not accustomed to Orsen’s peculiarities, and he felt that ghost-hunting was at the best an unhealthy form of amusement.

  ‘Shall we get a move on?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I mean, if you want me to show you round; it’s quite a big place, and the light will be gone in less than an hour.’

  Neils blinked, then fluttered one slender hand apologetically. ‘Forgive me; please lead the way.’

  They mounted the twisting stairs and as they passed the windows the evening light threw their shadows, elongated and grotesque, against the damp-sodden walls; no one spoke and the emptiness seemed to close in on them like a fog. As they wandered from room to room Neils followed behind the other two men humming a quiet old-fashioned tune to himself.

  After an hour they made their way back to the hall and as they walked out towards the car their guide turned towards Orsen. ‘Well, now you’ve seen it. Are you really going to spend the night here?’

  The little man smiled. ‘Certainly we are.’

  Mentally shrugging his shoulders the captain helped Bruce to carry the luggage upstairs, then ironically wished them good night. When the sound of the car was lost in the distance Bruce returned to the ballroom and found Neils standing by one of the long bow-windows.

  ‘Can you hear the sh-sh-sh of panniered dresses, the brittle laughter of powdered ladies with their gallants, and the tapping of their heels as they dance a minuet to the tinkle of the harpsichord?’ he said softly. His eyes stared blindly, and their pupils contracted. ‘Or do you hear the hoarse cries of those ragged, half-starved creatures as they stumble through these rooms smashing everything in sight, their mouths slobbering with frantic desire for revenge? Can you hear the shrieks, hardly human in their terror, of the wretched Vicomte as he is dragged to his death by those who were once his slaves?’

  ‘No,’ said Bruce uneasily, ‘but I’ll believe you that these walls would have a tale to tell if they could only talk.’

  ‘My friend, they have no need when the seventh child of a seventh child is listening.’

  Bruce shivered, as an icy chill seemed to rise up from the bare floor. Tm hungry,’ he said as brightly as he could. ‘What about unpacking and having a little light on the scene?’

  Neils smiled. ‘Yes, we will eat and sleep here. We shall have to shade the candles though, as there aren’t any blackout precautions. I suppose the Army thought this room too big to bother about. I see they’ve done the bedrooms and everywhere else downstairs.’

  ‘What made you choose the ballroom?’

  ‘Because Hayes told that it is one of the few rooms in which no one has yet
been attacked; so we shall be able to see if the Force possesses harmful powers against humans anywhere in the house, or whether it can only become an evil manifestation in certain spots.’

  While Bruce set out an appetising array of food from the hamper on the floor, Neils unpacked his cameras. The American had seen them keep him company on more than one thrilling adventure, but their process, Orsen’s invention, was a mystery to him. Neils explained them only by saying that their plates were abnormally sensitive. He said the same thing of his sound-recorder, an instrument like a miniature dictaphone.

  Having finished their dinner with some excellent coffee, cooked on a primus stove, they went along to the big, old-fashioned bathroom to fix Orsen’s first camera and his sound machine. As they entered the room Bruce wrinkled his nose. ‘What a filthy smell! The drainage must be terrible.’

  Neils agreed as he placed one instrument on the window-sill and one on the broad mahogany ledge that surrounded the old-fashioned bath. He sealed the windows with fine silken threads and did the same to the door. Then, with their footsteps echoing behind them, they made a tour of the silent chateau, leaving the Swede’s cameras in carefully selected places, till they came to the front hall, where Orsen left his last camera, and sealed the door leading to the back stairs with the remains of the reel of silk. Their job done they returned to the ballroom, and having made themselves as comfortable as possible with the rugs and cushions, settled down for the night.

  Bruce could not sleep. They had lit a fire with some dry logs found in the kitchen and its dying flames sent a cavalcade of writhing shapes racing across the walls and ceiling.

  Presently a moon shone through the uncurtained windows; propping himself on his elhow Bruce started at the unfamiliar lines it etched on Neil’s face as he lay on his back, breathing gently. Orsen’s enormous domed forehead shone like some beautiful Chinese ivory as the cold white light glanced across it, and his heavy blue-veined lids and sensitive mouth were curiously like those of a woman. He was sound asleep, yet Bruce knew that if there were the slightest sound or if an evil presence approached, he would be alert and fully in command of all his faculties in a fraction of a second.