The White Witch of the South Seas

by Dennis Wheatley

  After a moment he said, ‘Now it’s your turn to tell me about yourself.’

  She shrugged. ‘My story is nowhere near so exciting as yours. I was born in Algiers and come from an old French colonial family. I was only ten when the war started. It didn’t make very much difference to our lives, although there was great excitement at the time of the Anglo-American landings. After the war my parents sent me to Paris to complete my education, and I lived with an aunt. I liked Paris much better than Algiers; so when my schooling was finished I stayed on there, and as the family was not very well off I earned my living for six years working in an art gallery.

  ‘Naturally my parents expected me to spend my holidays with them, and it was in Algiers that I met Georges de Bois-Tracy. He was a good bit older than me, but quite attractive, and he owned hundreds of hectares of vineyards in one of the best wine-producing districts. By then I was twenty-five and had had several affaires, but none of them with men who could afford to keep a wife with my extravagant tastes; whereas Georges could give me everything I wanted. At least I believed so at the time.

  ‘That he didn’t wasn’t altogether his fault. It was mainly due to the increasingly troubled state of Algeria. From the time of the victory celebrations in 1945 there had been unorganised risings and an agitation for independence. These had been suppressed with a firm hand; but the agitation continued and in 1947 the Muslims, led by Missali Hajj, got the vote. Everyone in Algeria knew that they were living on a volcano, but it seemed that the Government had control of the situation and there was no reason to suppose that there was any serious menace to the white population.

  ‘Matters still stood like that when I married Georges in June 1954. I had expected to spend most of my time living a pleasant social life in his house in Algiers and to be able to make trips to Paris two or three times a year. But on November 1st, less than five months after my marriage, there were simultaneous risings in seventy localities. Our estate was a long way from the capital and we were out there at the time. There was no trouble in our area, but the risings continued sporadically all over the country; and Georges decreed that we must remain on our property to protect it.

  ‘We armed our employees and they were loyal to us, but they might not have remained so if Georges and I had left them on their own for any length of time. Now that bands of Arabs were carrying out organised raids on the isolated homes of the white Colons, to leave the place for even a few days was to risk returning to find it burned to the ground and every cask of wine in the bodegas stove in.’

  ‘Surely,’ Gregory remarked, ‘your husband could have remained there and let you live in the city? In any case, he ought to have done that if the place was likely to be attacked, rather than expose you to danger.’

  ‘Oh, he could have, but he wouldn’t,’ Manon replied bitterly. ‘He was obsessed by jealousy and feared that if we lived apart even for a few weeks I would start an affaire with another man. So I was condemned to lead a dreary life out there in the country, miles from anywhere. And, of course, we were attacked several times. In the spring of 1956 the Front of National Liberation was formed, and things got steadily worse. Again and again I begged Georges to sell out for what we could get, as on the income from his investments we could have left Algeria and gone to live in reasonable comfort in Paris. But he had inherited his property from four generations of forbears and flatly refused to give it up.

  ‘In 1958 the F.L.N. formed a Provisional Government of the Algerian Republic. Although it could not establish itself on Algerian soil, it was recognised by all the Arab States and by then was conducting widespread terrorist activities all over the country. But that same year Charles de Gaulle came back to power. We all took heart because we thought that, being a strong man, within a few months he would restore order.

  ‘Instead, matters became even worse. The months dragged by and in 1961 he permitted the referendum on self-determination. The O.A.S.—of which, of course, we were members—succeeded in preventing the Arabs from getting a clear majority, but in ‘62 that cochon de Gaulle betrayed us and declared Algeria independent.

  ‘To be left at the mercy of a coloured Government seemed the last straw, but Georges still refused to sell out and emigrate. Although I had no money of my own, I had practically made up my mind to leave him; but that summer he developed heart trouble, so I felt that I must remain with him, anyhow until he showed signs of getting better. But he didn’t. In the autumn he had a fatal attack.’

  Manon paused to light a cigarette. While she did so she recalled vividly the afternoon on which the attack had occurred. Georges had called to her to get from his desk the drops he took to counter such attacks. She had, and had actually given them to him. Then, on a sudden impulse to end matters and regain her freedom, she had snatched the bottle back from him, thrown it out of the window and, with distended eyes, watched him die in agony. For the thousandth time she cursed herself for her folly in not having simply kept the bottle. But that was another matter.

  After a moment she went on: ‘Georges’ death meant liberation from my prison—an end to eight of the best years of my life utterly wasted. But he had left me the greater part of his money, so I was free to leave Algeria and make a home for myself wherever I chose.

  ‘Naturally, my inclination was to return to Paris, but the idea of living in France as long as it was ruled by that traitor de Gaulle was repugnant to me, and the climate of Paris is horrid in winter. I have always loved the sun; so I decided to settle in Tahiti.

  ‘At first I lived in an hotel, then I rented a small villa, as I meant to take my time looking for a really pleasant property. But after I had been in the island for six months the situation there rapidly began to deteriorate. Thousands of white Colons from Algeria, who had been dispossessed, were sent out there by de Gaulle. Very few of the poor wretches had any money, so many of them turned to crime and the streets of Papeete became dangerous at night. My own position, as a still wealthy French ex-patriate from Algeria, became, too, a specially awkward one, because I had quite a number of old friends and acquaintances among the new arrivals. I helped them as much as I could, but they were constantly borrowing money from me that I knew I should never see back, and I simply could not afford to go on like that.

  ‘While I was wondering how to get out of this awkward situation, I took a trip to Fiji and fell in love with it. Some of the outer islands are absolutely heavenly, particularly those to the west. I bought one in the Mamanuca Group, and built a house on it. There, now you know all there is to know about me.’

  Over lunch they talked on over their respective pasts with so much enjoyment in each other that they both temporarily forgot the shadow that hung over Gregory.

  When they had finished their meal Gregory said, ‘There is nothing I would like more than to ask you to dine with me tonight; but, unfortunately, I’m committed to dine at the British Embassy.’

  Quickly she laid a hand on his. ‘Don’t go. Please don’t go. I want you to stay here and lock yourself in your room.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t like to cry off at the last moment. Our Ambassador learned through Hugo Wellesley that I was in Rio, and he said how much he would like to talk over old times with me. You see, it was not until after the war that he went into the Foreign Service, and during the war he held a post that brought him into contact with many of my own activities. And this is to be a tête-à-tête dinner; just H.E. and myself.’

  For some while Manon strove to persuade Gregory to change his mind; but, although he had long been out of the game, he knew, from what Hugo had said, that the Ambassador wanted a private talk with him about the world situation; so he remained firm.

  At length she said with a sigh, ‘Very well then. But at least let me see you again before you go. We’ll go up for our siesta now, but come along to my room about six o’clock. I’ll have a bottle of champagne on ice up there and we’ll hang the “Don’t Disturb” notice outside the door.’

  Gregory needed n
o telling what she had in mind and, now fortified by an excellent lunch, he smilingly accepted the challenge.

  That evening his session with Manon matured as he had expected, to their mutual delight. While he was dressing, she again pleaded desperately with him not to go out. But he told her not to worry, as the only risk he could think of was that of being attacked by thugs. As he would be going by taxi, such an occurrence was most unlikely; and if it did happen, few people were better qualified by long practice than he was to take care of themselves. At a quarter to eight, after a last lingering kiss, he left her to go to his own room to change.

  Nevertheless, having survived so many perils only owing to his lifelong habit of never taking an unnecessary risk, he had been in half a mind to plead sudden illness as an excuse for not keeping his dinner engagement. His resolve not to do so had actually been determined by the fact that death had no terrors for him. On the contrary, as he had always been a convinced believer in survival after death, it held a promise for him of reunion with his beloved Erika. Even so, before he left he took the precaution of slipping a small automatic, with which he always travelled, into his hip pocket.

  At four o’clock that afternoon it had again begun to rain, heavily and persistently. In fact, the downpour was such that, while in the taxi that took him to the Embassy, he could not see through the windows for more than a hundred yards ahead.

  The British Embassy in the Rua Sao Clemente was a fine copy of Georgian achitecture. Built in the late forties, it stood well back from the street in a pleasant garden. The lofty, handsomely furnished rooms recalled the more spacious days of the past, but Gregory and the Ambassador dined in a small, well-stocked library.

  His Excellency was a genial host and most knowledgeable; so Gregory thoroughly enjoyed an admirable meal and their long talk afterwards about the foreign policies of various nations which had resulted in trouble spots developing in so many parts of the world.

  During the evening H.E. asked Gregory if he was going up to Brasilia.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘The fantastic buildings in the new capital must be some of the finest examples of modern architecture in the world, but one can appreciate them well enough from photographs and, I gather, there is nothing else to see there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ the Ambassador agreed. ‘One must admire the Brazilians for their stupendous effort to show that they are no longer a backward nation, but the huge cost of it has ruined their economy and the city has become a white elephant. The Congressmen and Senators who have to hold their sessions there loathe it and positively fight for places on the planes to get back to Rio every weekend. It has, too, developed into a depressed area. The many thousands of labourers who were sent up there to build it are now mostly unemployed, so the suburbs have become huge shanty towns where poverty is rampant. However, should you change your mind, let me know and I’ll furnish you with introductions to the unfortunate members of my staff who are compelled to live there.’

  Soon after midnight a taxi was summoned to take Gregory back to his hotel. The rain was still coming down in torrents. After eight hours of steady downpour the drains were choked and the street, awash well above the pavements, looked like a turbulent river.

  On being told to go to the Copocabana Palace, the driver, in a travesty of English flavoured with an American accent, said he would do his best but could make no promise, as the water was pouring in thousands of gallons down the mountainsides through the city to the sea. But it could not get away there because the tide was rising and blocking the escape of the flood-waters. In consequence they would be still deeper near the shore, and Grgeory might have to walk the last mile or more.

  As they progressed at only a few miles an hour, Gregory saw that the man had good reason for his pessimism. Every street they entered had abandoned cars in it and when they reached the broad waterfront, two-thirds of the way along Botafogo Bay, there were long lines of stationary vehicles left awash by their owners. The water there was knee-deep and its height was increasing every moment. The taxi man succeeded in keeping going only by driving his cab up on to and along the pavement.

  A few hundred yards further on they reached a big open space at the southern end of the bay, called the Mourisco. There the taxi should have turned inland in the direction of the tunnel, but it pulled up with a jerk. Turning, the driver made Gregory understand that he dared go no further. At such a slow pace it would take him at least another half-hour to reach the Copacabana Palace, and by the time he got back to recross the Mourisco, the water would have risen to a level that would submerge his engine.

  The sight of the floods had at last made Gregory really uneasy. Now, cursing his folly at not having asked H.E. to put him up for the night at the Embassy, he reluctantly got out and paid off the driver. The water was well above his knees and he found it a considerable effort to splash through it.

  Miles of the seafront along Rio’s many bays consist of reclaimed land which has been laid out in long, broad lawns planted with ornamental trees. Some stretches are wider than others and the Mourisco is one of these. It forms a small triangular park with three main streets running into it. The whole of the area was inundated, so no pavements, street islands or flower-beds were visible. From between the blocks of buildings, several hundred yards away from where Gregory had left the taxi, the streets, seen only vaguely through pouring rain, had the appearance of rushing rivers. Behind him the flood merged with the sea, so the little park was one great sheet of water, from which rose only the trees and the upper parts of stranded vehicles.

  Being unable to make out any of the paths, Gregory had no option but to head straight across the park in the direction in which he knew the tunnel lay. He had not gone twenty yards before he struck rising ground, so knew that he must be crossing a flower-bed. Next moment, as he plunged down its far side, he tripped and fell. As he was already drenched to the skin, that made him no wetter, but he had gulped down a mouthful of evil-tasting water.

  Cursing, he picked himself up and stumbled on for a further thirty yards with the water sloshing about his lower thighs. Suddenly the ground seemed to give beneath his feet and he plunged in up to his armpits. He had walked into a hidden gully. Now using his hands and arms as well as his legs, he thrust himself forward until he had crossed the gully and mounted the far side. Resting for a moment, he drew in a few deep breaths while taking stock of his situation.

  He was only a third of the way across the Mourisco and when he reached the far side he would still have to wade up the street leading to the tunnel. The water should be shallower there. But what when he came out at the far end of the tunnel? The deluge must have flooded the Copacabana waterfront as deeply as it had that of Botafogo Bay, and the promenade was much narrower there. The tide was coming in, but, even so, he might get caught in a current and swept out to sea. After a moment he decided that it would be much safer to take the right hand of the three streets and make his way back to the Embassy.

  Altering his direction slightly, he set off again. Forcing his legs and knees through the swirling water, and breathing heavily, he ploughed on for another few minutes; then his left foot struck something and with a great splash he measured his length in the water. This time he had caught his foot in one of the low iron hoops that edged the plots of grass.

  As he fell, he felt a fierce pain shoot through his left ankle, and knew that he had either sprained or broken it. When he stumbled to his feet and tried his weight upon it the pain was agonising. Setting his teeth, he struggled a few steps, slipped on the muddy slope of another flower-bed and sprawled facedown in another gully.

  Fortunately, it was shallower than the first into which he had stumbled. Squirming round, he was able to sit up with his head still above the water level. Desperately anxious now, he began to shout for help. But no moving vehicle was in sight, nor any pedestrian. Through the half-blinding rain he could see the lighted windows in the not-far-distant buildings. There lay safety. In normal conditions the peo
ple in those rooms would have heard him. But the roar of the torrential rain drowned his shouts and the water was still rising. Grimly, he realised that his life now depended upon his ability to bear the atrocious pain in his ankle for another hundred yards until he was close enough to be heard.

  Gritting his teeth, he prepared to make the effort. Then, just as he put his weight on his good foot to stand up, something hit him hard on the back of the head, knocking him forward and sideways. As he rolled over and under, whatever it was came to rest across his body. Thrusting his head above the surface, he shook the water from his eyes. In the semi-darkness he peered at the thing that now pinned him down. It was a long wooden bench that had come adrift from its footings and was being swept out to sea. The bench was made of that heavy timber strangely enough known in Europe as ‘Brazil wood’ long before the Portuguese had discovered Brazil, but from which the country had taken its name. Strive as he would, Gregory could not lift it from his chest or squirm from beneath it. The water was lapping against his mouth and only by straining his neck could he keep his nostrils an inch or so above the wavelets.

  Up to that moment Gregory had been no more than considerably worried and still confident that, as had been the case so many times in the past, by keeping his head he would find a way out of his dangerous situation. Now he knew that he was trapped with little hope of escape. Faced with imminent death, he endeavoured to resign himself to it by fixing his thoughts on Erika. For a while he lay there gasping and spitting as, every few moments, the water lapped against his mouth and nose. Suddenly, he felt that he could bear it no longer. Animated again by the will to live, he gathered all his strength and made a final effort. It resulted in the heavy bench shifting a little without warning, so that its weight forced back his head. Next moment, his eyes bulging, he was gulping down water. Before he lost consciousness his last grim thought was: