STRANGE CONFLICT
Dennis Wheatley
Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones
Contents
Introduction
1 A Fantastic Theory
2 Believe It or Not
3 The Old Wisdom
4 For Those in Peril on the Sea
5 The Admiral Goes Aloft
6 The Captain Goes Below
7 Ghosts Over the Atlantic
8 A Nightmare that was Lived
9 Trouble at Cardinals Folly
10 The Bomb
11 The Horror in the Cellars
12 Crime Does Not Pay
13 The Beautiful Mute
14 In Deadly Peril
15 Strange Gods
16 The Evil Island
17 Battle Against Sleep
18 The Dead Who Do Return
19 The Living Corpse
20 The Body-snatchers
21 Coffins for Five
22 The Great God Pan
A Note on the Author
Introduction
Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.
As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.
There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.
There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.
He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.
Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.
He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.
He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.
The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.
Dominic Wheatley, 2013
1
A Fantastic Theory
The Duke de Richleau and Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust had gone into dinner at eight o’clock, but coffee was not served till after ten.
The war had been in progress for many months and the bombing of London for some weeks. A small shower of incendiary bombs having fallen in Curzon Street, just outside the Duke’s flat, had caused an interruption of the meal while they went down to lend a hand in extinguishing them, but both were by now so hardened to the blitzkrieg that after a wash they returned to the table as though nothing very out-of-the-ordinary had happened.
The Duke and his guest had much in common. Both had been blessed with an ancient name, good looks, brains and charm, which had made them outstanding figures in the European society of their day. That day was passing, but they had made the most of it and regretted nothing of their tempestuous early years when they had fought and loved to the limit of their capacity, or the quiet period that had followed, during which they had dabbled most successfully in high finance and played a hand in many of the secret moves behind the diplomatic scene. That a better world might emerge with the passing of the privileged caste that they represented they both hoped, but rather doubted, and as each was unshakably convinced that it would not do so if the Nazis were not utterly destroyed it is doubtful if Hitler had two more inveterate enemies.
These men had lived their lives, and it meant very little to them now if they lost them. They had no jobs to lose, no favours to seek, no ambition which was not already satisfied, and neither acknowledged any master except the King of England; so they said what they thought, often with brutal frankness, and used every ounce of power and prestige that they possessed, through their many contacts in high places, to force the pace of the war regardless of all considerations except that of Victory.
Although they had so much in common, they were very different in appearance. Sir Pellinore, who was considerably the older of the two, stood six feet two in his socks. He had a head of fine white hair, bright blue eyes, a great sweeping cavalry moustache, a booming voice and an abrupt, forthright way of speaking. The Duke was a slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, with slender, fragile hands and greying hair but with no trace of weakness in his fine, distinguished face. His aquiline nose, broad forehead and grey ‘devil’s’ eyebrows might well have replaced those of the Cavalier in the Van Dyck that gazed down from the wall opposite his chair.
It would have been utterly against the principles of either to allow the war to interfere with their custom of changing for dinner, but instead of the conventional black the Duke wore a claret-coloured vicuna smoking-suit with silk lapels and braided fastenings. This touch of colour increased his likeness to the portrait.
During dinner they had talked of the war, but when coffee was ser
ved there fell a short silence as Max, the Duke’s man, produced the long Hoyo de Monterrey cigars which were his master’s especial pride, and the Duke was thinking: ‘Now I shall learn what old Gwaine-Cust really wanted to see me about. I’ll bet a monkey that he didn’t propose himself for dinner here just to discuss the general situation.,
As Max left the quiet, candle-lit room the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park came into action, shattering the silence. Sir Pellinore looked across, and said a little thoughtfully:
‘Wonder you stay here with this damn’d racket goin’ on night after night.’
De Richleau shrugged. ‘I don’t find the bombing particularly terrifying. Perhaps that’s because London covers such a vast area. Anyhow, it’s child’s play compared to some of the bombardments which I have survived in other wars. I think that American journalist hit the nail on the head when he said that at this rate it would take the Nazis two thousand weeks to destroy London and he didn’t think that Hitler had another forty years to live.’
‘Damn’ good!’ guffawed Sir Pellinore. ‘Damn’ good! All the same, it makes things deuced uncomfortable. They’ve outed two of my clubs, and it’s the devil’s own job to get hold of one’s friends on the telephone. As you’ve no job that ties you here I wonder you don’t clear out to the country.’
‘For that matter, my dear fellow, why don’t you—since you’re in the same category? Or has the Government had the wisdom to avail itself of your services?’
‘Good Lord, no! They’ve no time for old fogeys like me, They’re right, too. This is a young man’s war. Still, it wouldn’t be a good show if some of us didn’t stick it when there are so many people who darned well have to.’
‘Exactly,’ replied the Duke smoothly. ‘And that is the answer to your own question. I loathe discomfort and boredom, but no amount of either would induce me to leave London when there are such thousands of poor people who cannot afford to do so.’
There was another silence as de Richleau waited with inward amusement for Sir Pellinore to make a fresh opening, and after a moment the elderly Baronet said:
‘Of course, by staying on one is able to keep in touch with things. The very fact of knowing a lot of people enables me to push the boat along here and there.’
A mocking little smile lit the Duke’s grey eyes, which at times could flash with such piercing brilliance. ‘Perhaps, then, you would like to tell me in which particular direction you are now contemplating pushing my canoe?’
‘Ha!’ Sir Pellinore brushed up his fine cavalry moustache. ‘You’re a shrewd feller—always were. I might have known you’d guess that I didn’t ask myself here for the sake of your drink and cigars, superb as they are. I’ve hardly seen you alone for a moment, though, since the slaughter started; so d’you mind telling me what you’ve been up to so far? I’m damned certain you haven’t been idle.’
The smile moved to de Richleau’s strong, thin-lipped mouth. ‘I have fought in many wars, but I am too old to become again a junior officer and far too young in temperament ever to become a Civil Servant; so, like yourself, I have not even the status of an unpaid Warden. In consequence, you will forgive me if I suggest that neither of us has any right to question the other.’
‘You old fox! Cornered me, eh? All right. I’m close to the War Cabinet. Why, God knows! But some of the people there still seem to think I’m useful, although everybody knows that I’ve no brains. I’ve always had an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port; but no brains—no brains at all.’
‘That,’ murmured the Duke, ‘accounts for the fact that after being compelled to leave the Army because of your debts, somewhere way back in the ‘90’s, you managed to amass a fortune of a cool ten million. Am I to take it that you have been sent to see me?’
‘No. But it amounts to the same thing. My powers are pretty wide. I can’t get people shot, as I would like to, for criminal negligence, but I’ve been instrumental in getting some of our slower movers sacked, and most of my recommendations go through except where they come into direct conflict with government policy. Unofficially, too, I’ve been able to initiate various little matters which have given the Nazis a pain in the neck. We’re all in this thing together, and when I saw you admiring the ducks in St. James’s Park the other day I had a hunch that you might be the very man to help us in something that at the moment is giving the Government very grave concern. Now will you tell me what you’ve been up to?’
De Richleau swivelled the old brandy in the medium-sized ballon-shaped glass that he was holding, sniffed its ethers appreciatively and replied: ‘Certainly. Before Britain declared war on Germany I flew with some friends of mine to Poland.’
Sir Pellinore gave him a sharp glance. ‘The fellers who accompanied you on your Russian and Spanish exploits? I remember hearing about your adventures in the Forbidden Territory and later that fantastic story of the eight million pounds in gold that the four of you got out of Spain during the Civil War. One was the son of old Chan-nock Van Ryn, the American banker, wasn’t he? I’ve never met the other two, but I’d like to some time.’
‘Rex Van Ryn is the one of whom you’re thinking; the other two are Richard Eaton and Simon Aron. All three of them were with me through the Polish Campaign. What we did there is far too long a story to tell now, but I’ll give it to you some time. We got out by the skin of our teeth in a manner which was most inconvenient for certain persons; but, that, of course, was entirely their affair for trying to stop us. When we eventually arrived back in England no particular opening offered in which we could work together, so we decided to split up.’
‘What happened to the others?’
‘Rex, as you may know, is an ace airman, and although he’s an American citizen he managed to wangle his way into the Royal Air Force. He did magnificent work in the battles of August and September and was awarded the D.F.C.; but early in October he ran into a flock of Nazis where the odds were six to one, and they got him. His left leg was badly smashed. He’s well on the road to recovery now, but I’m afraid his wounds will prevent him from flying as a fighter-pilot any more.
‘Simon Aron went back to his counting-house. He is a director of one of our big financial houses and he felt that he could give his best service to the country by helping the dollar position and in all the intricacies of foreign exchange that he understands so well.
‘Richard Eaton is an airman, too, but he’s over age for a fighter-pilot so they wouldn’t take him—which made poor Richard very sick. But he has a big place down in Worcestershire, so he went in at once for intensive farming. However, he comes to London now and again to console himself for not being able to do anything more actively offensive in the war, by helping me in one or two little jobs that I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to take on.’
‘What sort of jobs?’ boomed Sir Pellinore.
‘Details would only bore you but, like yourself, I have many friends and I also speak several languages with considerable fluency, so here and there I’ve been tipped off to keep my eyes open and I’ve been successful in putting a number of unpleasant people behind the bars. Incidentally, I made a secret trip to Czechoslovakia last spring and I’ve been in the Low Countries since the German occupation— in fact, I only got back last week. But of course I have no official position—no official position at all.’
Sir Pellinore’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘You certainly haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. As a matter of fact, I had it through official channels that you had been making yourself pretty useful in a variety of ways, because I made inquiries before coming along to see you tonight, although I didn’t press for details. What are you up to now?’
‘Nothing of any great importance. Just keeping my eye on a few people who in any other country but this would have been put against a wall well over a year ago, and trying to trace various leakages of information which come from people who regard themselves as patriotic citizens but talk too much to the ladies of their acquainta
nce. There is nothing at all to prevent me from packing a bag and leaving for Kamchatka or Peru tomorrow morning if you feel that by so doing I could drive another nail into Hitler’s coffin.’
‘That’s the sort of thing I like to hear,’ roared Sir Pellinore. ‘Wish to God some of the people in our government departments showed the same keenness to get these German swine under. But I don’t think we’ll have to call on you even to leave London—although one can never tell. It’s the use of that fine brain of yours I want, and you mentioned the subject yourself only a moment ago when you spoke of leakage of information.’
De Richleau raised his slanting eyebrows. ‘I shouldn’t have thought there was any grave cause to worry about that. Even the smallest indiscretions should be jumped on, of course, but from all I’ve gathered very little important stuff has got through since all normal communications with the Continent was severed after the collapse of France.’
‘In a way you’re right.’ Sir Pellinore nodded his white head. ‘We ourselves were amazed in the difference that made. For example, when the first major air-attacks on this country started many of us were acutely anxious about the Air Force. We feared that by sheer weight of numbers the Germans would smash more planes on the ground than we could possibly afford to lose. As everybody knows now, we cleared all our airfields on the south and east coasts before the attack developed, so that there was nothing left for the Nazis to smash except the empty hangars and machine shops. Directly they had done that we expected them to start on our new bases, but they didn’t; they kept on hammering day after day at the old ones when there was nothing left but burnt-out sheds for them to strike at; which proved quite definitely that they hadn’t the faintest idea that we had ever shifted our planes at all. That’s ancient history now, of course, but in all sorts of other ways the same thing has gone on in recent months, demonstrating beyond doubt that once the German agents here were cut off from the Continent their whole system of conveying information speedily to the enemy had broken down.’
Strange Conflict Page 1
