Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  After a few moments he reached the footbridge and crossed it, knowing that the departure platforms were on the other side. The space there was even more densely crowded, but he managed at least to edge his way through the crush to the gates, beyond which lay the trains. There were a number in the sidings but to his surprise all that he could see were empty, and not one showed any sign of imminent departure. A tired-looking porter who sucked at an unlit cigarette leaned over the barrier, and the nearest members of the crowd were bombarding him with questions. He only shook his head.

  ‘It’s no use blamin’ me,’ he kept on saying. There won’t be no more trains till further orders.’

  Kenyon questioned the people who stood around him and learned that the provincial towns had become very alarmed at the influx of visitors in the last few days. Now, they were employing their local police to prevent any but permanent residents in their municipalities from alighting. Thirty or forty trains had returned to Liverpool Street during the night, still loaded with their human freight, and the railway company, not unnaturally, refused to sanction the departure of any more.

  Obviously Ann could not have left London then. Kenyon turned and looked at the closely-wedged mass of people who stood there, speechless for the most part and waiting in the hope that the Company might reverse its decision. She must be somewhere among them if only he could find her, so he buffeted his way back towards the booking office. That too was crammed with patient careworn humanity.

  For ten frantic minutes Kenyon squeezed and pressed his way through the throng, standing on tiptoe at every second step to peer above the heads of the surrounding people. Then he gave it up as hopeless and made his way back to his car.

  His new acquaintance uncurled himself from the seat, and Kenyon handed him the promised pound. The fellow grinned sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t seem fair to tike it reely—does it? Still, h’easy come and h’easy go, as they say. Well, so long, Guv’nor—I only wish there was a h’upset like this every day!’

  Kenyon sped back through the deserted City and along the Embankment, but he passed the end of Northumberland Avenue, thinking it better to cut out Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square. Yet near Victoria Street he got caught again. This time by a long religious procession. It was headed by priests from the Cathedral who carried Crosses and an image, while they chanted an age-old hymn. Dozens of little boys in surplices followed meekly in their train. Free of it at last the rest of the journey was easy, and he pulled up once more outside 272 Gloucester Road. The door was open so he went straight up, not expecting to find Ann, for he did not think she could have returned so quickly, but determined to wait for her. Rudd was in sole possession of the sitting-room and he was busy. Two large automatics lay on the floor in pieces, and he was polishing their parts with loving care.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Kenyon. ‘Where did you get those things?’

  Rudd grinned. ‘Mr. Sallust give them to me, sir—told me to clean ’em up—just in case like.’

  Kenyon did not ask ‘in case of what.’ He knew, so he sat down to wait for Ann, and Rudd meanwhile entertained him.

  Eleven o’clock chimed from the hideous pale bronze clock on the mantelpiece, then twelve, and he began to wonder what had happened to her. If only she had been reasonable the night before they might have been out of London by this time. He found himself taking cigarette after cigarette out of his case until it was exhausted; Rudd, who had long since reassembled his dangerous-looking battery, but continued to bear him company, came to the rescue with a packet of Gold Flake.

  Kenyon sat on, but by the time the clock struck one he was thinking of Veronica. To delay much longer would not be fair to her, and he must get her down to Banners somehow, yet every moment he wanted more desperately to see Ann. At twenty minutes past he pulled himself together, and stood up to go.

  Rudd promised faithfully that he would telephone the very second that Ann returned, and with that slender comfort Kenyon descended to his car.

  He took the by-ways to Hyde Park Corner, but there he found a block; thousands of people and several hundred police. The sailors from Portsmouth with the aid of commandeered vehicles had completed their march, and were due to arrive any moment. Arrangements had been made for them to camp in the Green Park. A dozen people, cheerful but unapologetic, immediately occupied the bonnet and back hood of his car, so Kenyon, knowing it would be useless to protest, took the invasion without comment and stood up in the driver’s seat.

  Over the heads of the crowds, from the corner of St. George’s Hospital, he saw the bluejackets go by. Shepherded by mounted police and cheered by a considerable proportion of the people, they passed quite peaceably to their temporary encampment. With them were quite a number of soldiers, sympathisers Kenyon supposed, from the Aldershot Command which, rumour said, had failed to head the sailors off.

  He looked meditatively again at the tall arch. The men up there were hidden now, but at the first sign of trouble they could mow the malcontents down like ripe corn.

  The crowd suddenly thinned, overflowing into the street. His uninvited companions who were using his car as a grandstand smilingly descended, and at a foot pace he edged his way towards Hamilton Place. A few minutes later he was back in Grosvenor Square.

  Veronica had started lunch without him, and she felt quite shocked as she gave a quick glance at his drawn face.

  ‘What is the matter, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said wearily, and sitting down, told her the events of the morning.’

  ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Alistair rang up. He wants me to meet him this afternoon at a teashop behind Wellington Barracks; and I said I would if you were agreeable to postponing our departure till this evening.’

  ‘That’s not true, Veronica! You thought of that story to give me another chance to see Ann.’

  ‘My sweet, I may be an habitual liar, I am with most people, but I don’t have to be with my own brother!’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes, honestly!’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get you down to Banners this afternoon; perhaps I’ll come back tomorrow, we’ll see.’

  ‘I suppose you’re worried stiff about her?’

  ‘The fact that I don’t know where she is, and the thought of what may happen to her, if she is not out of London by tonight, is driving me half-crazy.’

  ‘I like your little Ann, Kenyon.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  Veronica thought him almost pathetic in his eagerness for her approbation. ‘Certainly I do,’ she said firmly. ‘She’s got guts, darling, guts. And I adore the way she hopped out of the window; I’ve been thinking about her all the morning.’

  ‘Thanks, Veronica; you’ve been damn good about this business.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool! I’m never good about anything unless it suits my book. Now I’m going to leave you to finish your lunch alone.’

  ‘Right. We’ll get along in half an hour’s time.’

  When he had finished he rang for his man and asked: ‘Did you go up to Euston this morning, as I told you?’

  ‘Yes, milord, and the cigarettes from Foyer and Co. had arrived. I had an awful job to get them, though.’

  ‘Had they, by Jove! Good old Yorgallidis! What a performer not to let us down, even at a time like this. Were the crowds very bad?’

  ‘Shocking, milord, no trains running, and by the time I left the people were that angry they were wrecking the booking offices.’

  Kenyon nodded gloomily. ‘It’s about time we cleared out.’ Pack a good-sized picnic basket, and put it with the cigarettes and luggage in the car.’ Carter’s usually impassive face showed sudden surprise.

  ‘Am I to take it that you are going without her ladyship?’

  ‘Of course not; she’s upstairs getting her things.’

  ‘Excuse me, milord, her ladyship left the house about ten minutes ago, and I was to tell you that she would be back round about half-past six.�
�

  ‘I see. We must wait till she gets back then.’ Kenyon did not believe the story about Alistair for one moment. With quixotic disregard of danger to herself, Veronica was giving him a few more hours to try and get in touch with Ann; between the two of them he was now at his wits’ end with anxiety and worry.

  There was no alternative but to take advantage of her generosity so he decided to telephone to Rudd. When he dialled the number there was no reply. He dialled it again and a man’s voice spoke:

  ‘Number, please?’

  ‘I dialled it,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘If you will give it me, I will ring you as soon as I can,’ said the voice.

  Kenyon gave the number, thinking as he did so how greatly it would add to the Government’s difficulties if the telephone service broke down. For half an hour he sat beside the instrument, then the call came through. Rudd had no news of Ann, nor could he suggest any place that she was likely to have gone to. He promised to telephone if she did return to Gloucester Road.

  For an hour Kenyon paced the library in growing desperation. He tried to read but could not settle, to a book. ‘Where, in all this vast stone wilderness of London’s streets, could Ann be at that moment,’ was the thought that racked his mind; ‘and what would become of her in the days ahead if he could not make certain of her safety?’

  At half-past four he rang up again, waited half an hour, rang up the supervisor, and was begged by the much harassed operator to be patient. It was a quarter-past five before his call came through—still no news of Ann.

  With a sudden feeling of guilt he remembered that he had not been in touch with Party headquarters that day. They might have work for him in connection with rationing or some emergency committee, so he put through a call to the office. After another long wait he got through to his immediate Chief, but the man was worried, irritable.

  What did he want? Why didn’t he get off the line? They were expecting important news…. It was essential that incoming calls should not be blocked…. Kenyon rang off quickly, praying that he had not blocked a call from Rudd. In nervous exasperation he put through another. The wait seemed interminable, and he felt now as though he had been sitting beside the instrument for days. It was nearly seven o’clock before his call came through.

  ‘Rudd speakin’, sir. Bin tryin’ to get you this last ’arf hour. Miss C. come in at ar’pars’six. Bin ter see ’er cousin in Muswell ‘111, I gather, but ’er cousin weren’t there; she’s gone out again now…. When’ll she be back? … That’s more ‘an I can say. Gone out wiv Miss Girlie she ’as—ter get a bit of food, I reckon.’

  ‘All right, I’ll come right along,’ said Kenyon.

  He dashed up to Veronica’s room only to find that she had not yet come in. Downstairs once more he paced restlessly up and down the hall—now furious with impatience to get away. Carter appeared, silent-footed and efficient as usual with a cock-tail shaker and glasses on a tray. He poured one out and offered it to Kenyon.

  ‘Can I help you in any way, milord?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes—er—thanks.’ Kenyon swallowed the drink and seized gratefully on this offer of assistance. ‘Get Lady Veronica’s car and load it up; directly she returns bring her and Lucy down to 272 Gloucester Road; understand?’

  ‘Very good, milord.’

  ‘Right, and now come and give me a hand with the picnic basket and my own things. I’m going on ahead but I’ll wait there until you turn up.’

  Directly his car was loaded he headed once more for South Kensington. Hyde Park Corner was still alive with people eddying slowly backwards and forwards in the evening light. Agitators were haranguing large sections of the crowd, but the police seemed to be in sufficient force to prevent any hostile demonstration. It took him twenty minutes to get througn the press, but once he reached the top of Sloane Street he was able to slip away.

  A square grey motor-truck stood outside 272, stacked with boxes, barrels, and every variety of tinned goods; Rudd was on top of it arranging a tarpaulin to cover the load.

  ‘She ain’t got back yet, sir,’ he called cheerily to Kenyon, ‘but don’t you worry, she won’t be long.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for that!’ As Kenyon got out of his car he glanced through the grocer’s window. The interior of the shop looked as though a hurricane had swept through it; empty boxes, paper, and cardboard cartons littered the floor, while the shelves were practically denuded of their stock. Then he noticed that the name on the lorry had been blacked out, and just below the driver’s seat a small W.D. with a short broad arrow, the mark of the War Department, stood out in fresh white paint.

  ‘Hullo!’ he exclaimed, ‘have they commandeered your stock?’

  ‘Yes, commandeered; that’s what it’s bin, sir!’ With quick efficient fingers Rudd jerked tight the last knot; ‘I should wait upstairs if I was you.’

  Kenyon took the hint and left him. In the sitting-room he found the Pomfrets peering excitedly out of the window at the doings of Mr. Rudd below.

  ‘I do think we should do something about it, Hildebrand,’ the woman said sharply.

  ‘My love, what can we do?’ the lanky man protested.

  ‘Can’t you go for the police?’

  ‘Good evening,’ said Kenyon; ‘what’s the trouble?’

  Mrs. Pomfret turned on him and waved her small fat hands appealingly.

  ‘They’ve taken all poor Mr. Gibbon’s groceries; really, they ought to be stopped.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Kenyon. ‘Surely the Government has the right to commandeer things in a time of emergency like this?’

  ‘But it’s not the Government; I’m sure it’s not! Mr. Gibbon knows nothing about it, and the very moment he’d gone home they started to loot his shop. I wouldn’t be surprised if that van they’ve got isn’t stolen too!’

  ‘Really? But who are “they”. Are there others in it besides Rudd?’ inquired Kenyon with astonishment.

  ‘Oh, it’s that Mr. Sallust, of course. Rudd only does what he tells him—treats him like a kind of god—though why I cannot think; a cynical, heartless man!’

  ‘My love, you are prejudiced on my account,’ Pomfret said mildly.

  ‘Well, he could have got you some marvellous notices in his paper if he had wished, but he was positively rude when I suggested it!’

  ‘Not rude, my dear; he only said that fine work was always bound to make its mark, and that overworked reviewers were apt to become irritated if pestered for complimentary notices.’

  ‘He did not mean that kindly, Hildebrand; it was a sneer. But can we do nothing to prevent him stealing all those things?’ She looked hopefully at Kenyon.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m only waiting for Miss Croome, and directly I’ve seen her I must get away.’

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Griselda Girlie poked her head round the door and then came in. Ann was behind her.

  ‘My dear!’ exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret as Ann pulled off her hat, ‘where have you been? You look half-dead!’

  ‘I am,’ she said wearily. ‘I must have walked twelve miles and all for nothing; I’ve had a filthy day. The book’s not out, I suppose?’

  ‘No; isn’t it infuriating? Hildebrand went down to his publishers this morning but they were shut.’

  ‘What rotten luck for you.’ Ann sensed the tragedy of the thing for this struggling couple by the hunted look in the man’s eyes, but the next moment she had caught sight of Kenyon standing half-hidden behind Griselda and the open door.

  ‘Good evening, Ann,’ he said. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment—I mean alone?’

  ‘No! How dare you come here after last night?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Kenyon was horribly embarrassed by the presence of the Pomfrets and Griselda. ‘Look here,’ he hesitated, ‘I only came to find out what you are going to do?’

  ‘That does not concern you in the least!’ The other three moved over to the window.

  ‘Why, here’s that awful woman again!’ exc
laimed Mrs. Pomfret.

  ‘What woman?’ asked Griselda.

  ‘She came here yesterday; the most vulgar, ill-bred person I have ever …’ Mrs. Pomfret broke off suddenly, remembering that Ann was in the room.

  Kenyon had overheard her. Mrs. Pomfret might well apply such a description to Veronica. A swift glance out of the other window confirmed his guess. There she was, seated in her car with Lucy beside her, and Carter, bored but dignified, clasping the most unsuitable of headgear, a bowler hat, upon the dicky. She saw him and waved a greeting as he turned back to Ann.

  ‘Look here,’ he repeated, ‘there are no trains running from Liverpool Street—you know that—and you must get out of London somehow. How do you propose to set about it?’

  She stared at him angrily. ‘I don’t. I shall probably stay here—lots of people will have to!’

  ‘You’re mad! and I won’t have it.’ All Kenyon’s pent-up anxiety from his long day of worry was coming out with a rush.

  ‘You!’ she snapped. ‘You won’t have it?’

  ‘No. Since you are incapable of looking after yourself I’m going to do it for you! I refuse to leave you here.’

  She laughed then and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to—this isn’t Grosvenor Square—and you can’t take me by force!’

  ‘Can’t I? I can and I will!’

  Ann drew quickly away from him, a little scared by the hard light in his blue eyes. ‘Go away!’ she said. ‘Go away!’

  ‘No,’ he gripped her by the arm, ‘not without you—don’t be a fool, Ann. It’s madness to stay here. If you had other plans I wouldn’t interfere, but you haven’t so you’ve got to come with me.’

  ‘I won’t! Oh, Mr. Pomfret—Griselda—stop him!’ Ann cried as he pushed her towards the door.

  ‘May I ask …’ Pomfret stepped forward while the two women beside him stood with wide, excited eyes.

  Kenyon dropped Ann’s arm and advanced on the novelist with a threatening glare. ‘You go to hell! Keep out of this, do you hear?—unless you want to get hurt.’

  Pomfret backed hurriedly away, but Ann had seized the opportunity to rush out of the room, and the door crashed to with a resounding bang. Kenyon tore it open and dashed after her across the landing. She had slipped through the further door, but he threw his shoulder against it before she had time to lock it on the other side, and she was sent flying to the floor while he came sprawling on top of her.