Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘That’s true.’ Hay-Symple ran the back of his hand under his upturned moustache, ‘but honestly I know little more than you can read in the papers. Only odds and ends about what to do in the event of an outbreak of plague and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Gadzooks! these men—what children they are,’ Veronica exclaimed to Fiona. ‘Let’s all play robbers—but don’t tell the girls, they’d spoil everything!’

  ‘The children must have their fun, darling!’ Fiona smiled, ‘they are all going to be so important now. Alistair will run up and down in a nice brass hat before he’s much older. Kenyon will be given a purple ribbon for his button-hole, so that everyone will get off the pavement knowing him to be an M.P.—and Peter—well poor Peter will have to put up with a little red, white and blue shirt just to show he’s on the right side in this General Strike.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you young women to scoff, but you may be almighty glad we’ve got an Army before this business is through.’ Hay-Symple held out his glass, ‘Here, Kenyon, old man, give me another, will you?’

  ‘Why do you compare this with a General Strike?’ asked Kenyon curiously.

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’ Fiona parried. ‘They’ve been having the most ghastly trouble up at Peter’s works in Sheffield since they stopped supplying the Balkans with munitions, and he’s always said that when steel went down the drain, everything else would go too.’

  ‘I agree that all these strikes and stoppages have helped to bring it about, and the Communists have played an enormous part in aggravating the situation; they are so much stronger now, but that’s where the resemblance ends. The Trade Unions and the working men are no more responsible for the present state of things than we are. It is the effect of colossal bad debts made through other countries cracking up—taxation of industry out of all proportion to the profits made, and the complete stranglehold which the banks have acquired on every form of property and business. As long as they maintain their policy of refusing further advances without adequate cover more and more people are bound to go under, and every crash gets us nearer to six million unemployed—which in turn means more taxation for the poor devils who are still striving to carry on. That is the vicious circle we are up against.’

  Fiona nodded. ‘Yes, the rations for the unemployed have got to be paid for somehow of course, but I don’t see why the banks should lend money without security all the same.’

  ‘They are getting it in the neck today,’ observed Hay-Symple, ‘half London was queueing up this morning to get their money out.’

  ‘Effect of last night’s moratorium.’ Kenyon patted his breast pocket. ‘I was on the doorstep round the corner when they opened today and drew out a couple of hundred. The bank was chock-a-block with people then.’

  ‘But why the panic, lovie?’ inquired Veronica.

  ‘Well, I knew there would be a rush, and it’s just possible that they may not be able to stand it.’

  Hay-Symple swallowed the remainder of his second cocktail, ‘I don’t see why—we’re not on gold.’

  ‘Gold has nothing to do with it. The loans made by the banks are always bigger than their deposits—which is a strange situation anyway, but if they can’t collect their loans they are stuck—whatever they are paying out in. They need time to realise their stock just like any other business.’

  ‘I should think it will put the lid on it if they do close down.’

  Kenyon’s reply was cut short by the reappearance of the footman, ‘Mr. Hetherington, milady.’

  ‘Hullo, Peter—Hullo!—Hullo! …’

  ‘Hullo, darling … Hullo, Kenyon …’ the greetings flew round.

  Hetherington smiled affectionately as he took Veronica’s hand, ‘Look here, my dear—I’ve only come in to collect Fiona—you must forgive me if I don’t stay.’

  ‘Why the hurry, Peter my love, someone chasing you with a writ?’

  ‘Perish the thought! No, but I want to take her back to pack.’ He turned and stooped over his wife’s chair; ‘I’ve just left your old man at the club, my sweetheart, and we both agree that it will be best if I motor you up to Scotland tonight.’

  My sainted aunt!’ shrieked Veronica. ‘Am I tight or have we all gone mad?’

  Hetherington turned to her with a grave face. ‘Honestly, my dear, we’re in for trouble, and I mean to have Fiona out of it. Up in the Highlands among her own people on the West Coast she’ll be safe—whatever happens in the towns.’

  ‘You stupid darling!’ Fiona smiled up at her large husband, but the protest was a caress and the sharp eyes of Lady Veronica Wensleadale, which never missed a trick, caught anxiety and adoration in the quick glance of the man as he bent over his wife.

  Kenyon broke the momentary tension. ‘Well, there’s always time for a drink—do you really know anything, Peter?’

  ‘Yes. I had it over the private wire half an hour ago that the Reds have dynamited the Bradfield and Redmires dams. So Sheffield will be half under water by now.’

  Veronica stared at him blankly. ‘But, darling, Sheffield’s nowhere near the sea!’

  ‘Of course not—I’m talking about the reservoirs. When Dale Dyke burst in 1864, nearly three hundred people were drowned and a half a million pounds’ worth of property destroyed. This will be even worse with two dams gone—and they’ve probably blown up the Ewden dam as well by now.’

  ‘Oh, just think of those poor people,’ Fiona sighed. ‘What is going to happen to us all?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Hetherington grimly. ‘Anyhow I mean to have you out of it. The result of the Admiralty decision looks like the last straw to me.’

  ‘Need we talk about that?’ Hay-Symple stiffened slightly. His voice was sharp, and his eyes had gone suddenly cold.

  ‘It’s—er—common knowledge, isn’t it?’ Hetherington hesitated.

  ‘What is it—do tell us!’ came an excited chorus.

  The soldier shrugged. ‘All right—if it’s got out already, may as well tell ‘em. It’s a pity though that these things can’t be kept quiet. They only make people panic.’

  ‘Come on, big boy—spill the beans!’ Veronica broke into the Americanese she sometimes affected as an alternative to her proficient Cockney.

  ‘Well, you know all leave was cancelled last Saturday by the mobilisation telegram. It seems that quite a big proportion of the men failed to rejoin their ships. Fearing further trouble the Admiralty ordered the fleet out of its Home ports to rendezvous twenty miles south of St. Catherine’s Point—off the Isle of Wight. When they got there it was found that several of the capital ships were so seriously undermanned that, instead of sending them up to Scapa or some place where the malcontents could be dealt with, they ordered them home again; and now the sailors are deserting by the score.’

  ‘By Jove!’ Kenyon whistled. ‘Then things are a jolly sight worse than we thought.’

  ‘Well, anyway the Army is all right,’ said Hyde-Symple grimly. ‘But I must be getting back to barracks.’

  As he stood up the footman reappeared. This time with a letter on a silver salver. He presented it to Kenyon and spoke in a low voice. ‘A messenger boy has just delivered a large bunch of flowers, milord, and this note was with them. He said there was no reply.’

  ‘Thanks, William—excuse me, chaps.’ Kenyon’s face turned a deep shade of crimson as, angry and embarrassed, he turned away to open the letter. It was from Ann and read:

  Dear Lord Fane,

  It was not until this morning that I learned by accident of your identity. You chose to conceal it, no doubt on account of the fact that we move in such different circles—and, since that is the case, no possible good could come to either of us by continuing our acquaintance. I must apologise for the rather stupid remarks which I made about you in the train on the way to Ipswich, as I realise now that they were quite unjustified, but I am returning the flowers you sent me since I prefer to forget the whole episode as soon as possible.

  Yours sincerely,

&nbs
p; 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.

  ‘Whos 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 tram. 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 and security 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 Oceon 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 a 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 you 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 I 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 un’appy 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 payment was only a temporary matter, necessitated by the withdrawals of the day before which were estimated at the colossal figure of forty million. Assignais 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 m
eeting 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 Grey shirt 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 weekend.

  ‘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!’