The White Witch of the South Seas

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘So that damned Macumba priest was right. I’ve been doomed to die in a ditch.’

  3

  A New Interest

  When Gregory opened his eyes he could not for a moment imagine where he was or what had happened to him. He was lying on his back on a surface of hard stone and a man was crouching over him, alternately, with widespread hands, crushing in his lungs and letting up.

  Gulping, he moved his head unhappily from side to side and tried to lift his own hands to defend himself, but could not. Staring up into the face above his own, he was seized for a second with the wild notion that he was in Hell and being attacked by a demon; for, in the uncertain light, his torturer’s head seemed twice the size of that of a normal man. Then he became conscious that it was pouring with rain and that he was soaked to the skin.

  With an effort he gasped out, ‘Stop! For God’s sake, stop!’

  The demon sat back on his haunches and exclaimed, ‘So you speak English. How fortunate.’

  ‘Where … where am I?’ Gregory wheezed.

  ‘In the Mourisco, on the Praia de Botafogo. I was making my way back to my hotel when I noticed one of the park benches and decided to rest on it for a few minutes. I found you pinned beneath it and, although you were unconscious, I realised that you could not have been so for long, so I carried you here. We are now a few feet above the water on the base of the statue to Pasteur. I applied artificial respiration and after some minutes you came round. That makes me very happy. Where do you live?’

  ‘Copacabana Palace.’ Gregory’s lungs were working again, but he was very far from recovered and could speak only with difficulty. Struggling into a sitting position he knuckled the water from his eyes. Again he thought he must be dead or dreaming. The man towering above him was huge, and his head, now outlined against the light coming from the nearest buildings, was enormous.

  At that moment his rescuer put a hand beneath his arm and lifted him to his feet. From his left ankle a ghastly pain shot up his leg. In his weakened state it was more than he could bear, and he slid into unconsciousness.

  When he came to, it seemed that he had passed into another phase of his nightmare. He was lying face down, with his head hanging over what felt like an iron bar. His body was balanced on some narrow structure, on either side of which his arms and legs dangled, the latter trailing in water. At a steady pace, he and the contraption on which he lay were being pushed forward. As he stared downwards, the light from a nearby window glinted on curved black metal only a few inches beneath his nose. It was a mudguard and he realised then that he was spreadeagled face down on a motor-cycle. Even had he been in a fit state to talk, the fact that his throat was resting on the handlebars would have made it difficult to do so; but memory was seeping back. Rightly, he deduced that, after carrying him some way, the giant who had rescued him had come upon a machine that its owner had not had the strength to push home, and was using it as a means of transport.

  Easing the position of his head from time to time, but still half comatose, Gregory let matters take their course. For what seemed to him an endless time, the machine continued to plough through knee-deep water, then it was thrust for some way up a slope on to a pavement, into a glare of light and brought to a halt. As the giant lifted Gregory from it, he saw that they were at the entrance to the Copacabana Palace.

  Now, for the first time, he could see his rescuer clearly. He was a splendid specimen of manhood. Young, good-looking, with copper-coloured skin, but features more European than native; and from his head, which had appeared so huge in the semi-darkness, rose a four-inch-deep halo of black hair.

  ‘Then I wasn’t dreaming,’ Gregory muttered. ‘You really are a giant.’

  The other grinned, showing two perfect rows of strong white teeth. ‘I am six foot five. But that is nothing exceptional in my country. I have a cousin who is six foot seven. It was quite a struggle to get you home, but here we are.’

  ‘I owe you my life,’ Gregory said gravely. ‘I can never thank you enough. Let’s get inside. We could both do with a drink.’

  As he spoke, his companion let go his arm to prop the motor-cycle alongside the hotel entrance. No longer supported, Gregory lurched, came down on his injured foot, lost his balance and fell forward, striking his head heavily against the door. Stars and circles flashed before his eyes and he again passed out.

  When he regained consciousness he was up in his room, being undressed by one of the night porters and an under-manager. As they got him into bed, he enquired for his rescuer. The under-manger shook his head:

  ‘ ’E left without giving ’is name. ’E said only that ‘e was sorry about your fall, but ‘e did not realise you were so weak. What a fine young man. A South Sea Islander. We do not often see such in Rio. Lie still now, sir, please, for a few minutes. I ‘ave telephone the ‘otel doctor but the flood makes it impossible for him to come; so I appeal to doctor who is a guest here. An American. ‘E is dressing and will be ‘ere soon.’

  Five minutes later, a tall, lean American arrived and took charge. Having examined Gregory’s ankle, he said that it was not broken but very badly sprained and it would be some days before he was able to get about again. By the time he had finished dressing it, the under-manager brought Gregory a double rum on the rocks that he had ordered and with many expressions of sympathy, they left him.

  As soon as they had gone, he put a call through to Manon. On hearing his voice, she gave vent, in her relief at knowing him to be safely back, to a spate of French, interlarded with many endearments. Then he told her of his hairsbreadth escape and how it had come about that the Macumba priest had seen him in his vision as ‘dead in a ditch’. She wanted to come to him at once; but he said that he badly needed sleep, and it was agreed that she should pay him a visit at ten o’clock the following morning.

  When he awoke, apart from some soreness in the lungs, he had fully recovered from his night’s ordeal; but his ankle proved a severe handicap in getting to the bathroom and he managed it only with the aid of a chair, which he alternately leant on and pushed in front of him. Back in bed, he telephoned the Wellesleys. Hugo had already set off on an attempt to get to his office in the Avenida Presidente Vargas, so it was to Patricia that Gregory related his adventure. She wanted to bring him books to read while he was laid up, but a glance out of the window had shown him that the rain was still descending in a solid curtain, so the floods must be as bad as ever; and he persuaded her to put off her visit, anyhow until the following day.

  Manon had had the same thought about reading matter; for she arrived with an armful of magazines and three French novels, perched herself on the edge of his bed, embraced him with Gallic warmth, then made him tell her every detail of his near-drowning and rescue.

  After a while she told him that she was due to fly up to Mexico, and thence home, on the following day; but many landslides had been reported and she was wondering if she would be able to get out to the airport.

  Gregory said that, even if the road out to the international airport was blocked, she should be able to get a plane to it from the local airport on the waterfront near the city centre. Then he went on to say how distressed he was to think that their romance must end so soon, and he asked whether she could not possibly postpone her departure.

  Screwing her full lips into a grimace, she replied, ‘Chéri, I have fallen for you completely, so I would like nothing better. But, alas, it is a question of money. I brought with me only as much as I thought I would need, and to get a further grant of currency from Fiji would take a week at least.’

  Patting her hand, Gregory smiled and said, Then, my sweet, don’t give it another thought. You must stay on as my guest.’

  Manon made a pretence of demurring; but she needed no great pressing, then accepted with becoming grace. Meanwhile, she had been thinking: ‘How right I was to try it on. Now I won’t have to sell one of my rings. And the danger to him is past, thank God. His ankle is a nuisance: but no, perhaps it is all for the bes
t. While he is cooped up here I’ll be able to find out all his likes and dislikes, and he’ll have no chance to become interested in another woman. Oh, if only I can hook him.’

  Her belief that she would have Gregory to herself for several days proved correct. When the American doctor paid him a visit he said that his patient would do far better to remain in bed, or at least in his room, with his foot up, rather than try to hobble about on crutches—even if a pair could have been procured—and that would have been far from easy, as few shops other than those supplying food had opened for business that morning.

  For his part, Gregory was happy to accept Manon’s administrations. It was much more fun to have a pretty woman support him while he shaved and help him have a bath, than to call on the services of a valet. Apart from the siesta hours and at night, when Manon returned to her own room, she never left him. They had their meals sent up, swopped stories, laughed and made love, hardly noticing the rain which continued mercilessly as though it meant never to stop.

  He had noticed that she wore several rings and that one, on the index finger of her left hand, was an enormous aquamarine, in an old-fashioned setting of gold filigree work. On the second morning of the deluge she was sitting on the edge of his bed, enjoying a pre-lunch glass of champagne with him, when he asked her where she had found the ring.

  ‘Ah!’ she laughed. ‘That is my Borgia ring and if you cease to love me I shall make use of it; then you will die in a fit.’

  For a moment he thought she was joking about the ring’s containing poison; but, taking it between the first finger and thumb of her right hand, she pressed a secret spring in the filigree work. The stone slid back, revealing a hollow cavity. In it there lay a small, round pill.

  Closing the ring again, she smiled at him. ‘Georges, my late husband, gave it to me at the time when the troubles in Algeria became really serious. As I told you the other day, we lived for many months on his estate far up-country. Several times the house was attacked and if those devils of Arabs had overcome our people things would have gone ill with me. It is all very well for cynical people to say that if a woman cannot escape being raped she should “lie back and enjoy it”, but after the first two or three times in quick succession there can be no more pleasure in it. Soon afterwards, I am told, it becomes agonising and after about twenty men have had a woman one after the other, she dies from it. As I was the only white woman there, you can be certain that every one of those brutes would have demanded his turn with me, and some more than once. That is why Georges bought the ring for me and made me promise to swallow the pill in it if I was captured. The pill is cyanide of potassium and would have killed me instantly.’

  ‘And you would have taken it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course. I am not afraid of death, only of pain.’

  That same evening their pleasant privacy was temporarily interrupted by a visit from Hugo Wellesley. With the initiative so frequently displayed by British officers when abroad—however reluctant to make themselves conspicuous when at home—the handsome Colonel had gone to the local circus and hired an elephant and its mahout to transport him about through the floods.

  He had a depressing tale to tell of devastation and distress. Only the higher ground sloping up to the mountains now remained above water. Millions of pounds’ worth of goods had been rendered useless by the flooding of countless basements. Still worse, many of the favelas—the sprawling shacktowns on the hillsides—had been swept away by the torrents. Thousands of people now had no roof over their heads, hundreds had been seriously injured and several score were believed to be dead.

  Gregory was anxious to trace his rescuer and asked Hugo’s help. Except that he was an exceptionally tall young man and a South Sea Islander, there was nothing to go on, and in a city of nearly four million inhabitants this would be no easy task, but the Colonel promised to do his best. Then, after finishing his second drink, and being satisfied that Gregory lacked for nothing and was in good hands, Hugo took his departure.

  For a further forty-eight hours the rain continued without ceasing. It was not until the fifth day that it eased to a drizzle, the low, black clouds remaining overhead. The four days’ downpour had resulted in the worst disaster Rio had suffered for over eighty years. The only access to the city is along the coast roads. These had been cut, so it was isolated and food had become short. Over twelve thousand people had been rendered homeless and there were three hundred and sixty dead. The sewers had been disrupted, so there was acute danger of a serious epidemic. But the ever-generous Americans had rushed in teams of medicos with a newly-invented injection gun, which punctured arms and sterilised itself, so that a queue of a hundred people could be immunised in a matter of minutes.

  As Gregory was rousing from his siesta on the fifth day, a page brought to his room a bouquet of flowers that had wilted a little from the intense humid heat. Attached to them was a card, inscribed Ratu James Omboluku, and beneath that was written: I do hope you are fully recovered, and an address: Hotel Gloria.

  Gregory had a vague idea that ‘Ratu’ was the equivalent in the South Sea Islands to Rajah or Prince. Later that evening, after two unsuccessful attempts, he got on to James Omboloku and asked him to lunch next day; for he had already had the hotel carpenter make him a crutch, and with it was now able to get about without Manon’s assistance.

  Taking note of this, Manon had decided that her next move should be to make Gregory miss her. Actually she knew very few people in Rio; but she invented several whose invitations she said she could hardly refuse, now that the flood was subsiding. Gregory accepted the situation with a readiness that by no means pleased her; but he had become so used to making his arrangements without reference to anyone else that he was glad that she had already said she was going out. Feeling no obligation to ask her to join them when he gave lunch to the Ratu, he had not even mentioned his own appointment.

  It was on Wednesday, the 12th January, that the Ratu James lunched with Gregory. Jackets had to be worn when eating in the restaurant; but it was air-conditioned, so, in spite of the intense heat outside, they felt no discomfort while partaking of an excellent meal.

  On seeing the South Sea Island Prince again, Gregory was more than ever impressed by him. His bronzed features had a noble cast and he displayed the quiet self-assurance that is the hallmark of the aristocrat whatever the colour of his skin. Gregory soon learned that his guest was the hereditary Chief of the Nakapoa Group, which lay between Fiji and New Caledonia, but was nearer the former although it had, since 1853, been subject to France.

  When Gregory expressed surprise that he spoke English so well, he smiled and said, ‘I have many relatives by marriage among the hereditary royalty of the South Pacific. Queen Salote of Tonga was my aunt and the Ratus of Fiji are my cousins. So, although I happen to be a French citizen, my family has always preferred to think of itself as British. I was sent to school in New Zealand and afterwards took my degree there at the University of Dunedin.’

  Over their meal they talked of many things and formed an increasing liking for each other. Two hours had sped past very pleasantly and they were sitting over their brandy when Gregory remarked casually:

  ‘I’ve no wish to pry into your affairs, but you say business brought you to Rio. You don’t seem at all like a business man and I’d be most interested to know what your business is.’

  The young Ratu hesitated for a moment, then shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Mr. Sallust, I feel that you are a man I can trust, but this should go no further. Off Tujoa, the main island of my group, there is the sunken wreck of an old Spanish ship. I have good reason to believe that when she went down she had aboard her a great fortune in gold. Should others learn of this, they might forestall me in retrieving it. I have come to Rio because there is a prospect of forming a company here that would finance the salvaging of this gold.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘I see. You speak of a prospect. Does that mean you are fairly certain of getting all the money you require t
o finance this venture?’

  ‘I would not say that. My prospective backer is very rich, but he is hesitating to assume the sole responsibility for this enterprise.’

  For a moment Gregory remained thoughtful. For a long time now he had been at a loose end, with no interest to engage his mind fully. The vivacious and attractive Manon had dropped into his lap, but, as far as he was concerned, after Erika no woman was capable of doing more, for any length of time, than assuming the role of a pleasant playmate. The retrieving of sunken treasure offered both activity and excitement. At length he said:

  ‘I happen to be fairly rich. And I owe you a debt that no money could repay. Unless you can get all the finance you require without difficulty, let me know, and I’ll consider rowing in with a few thousand.’

  4

  Spanish Gold

  The Ratu gave Gregory a look of pleased surprise. ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘Yes, providing there is a reasonable prospect of getting my money back. What evidence is there that the ship does hold a cargo of gold?’

  ‘She is in fairly deep water, but not too deep for our best native divers to have gone down to her many times during the years, and several of them have brought up gold coins. Last year I bought an aqualung and went down to her myself. In one of the stern cabins I could see several chests. One of them had broken open and had spilled on the floor a crucifix, a chalice and other items, which undoubtedly are treasure. But I could not get at them because part of the roof of the cabin had fallen in, blocking my way. To move those heavy beams without endangering the lives of the divers will require special machinery: powerful cranes and so on.’

  ‘That certainly sounds promising. What share are you prepared to give your backers for providing the machinery and expert divers?’