The Sword of Fate

by Dennis Wheatley

  “All right then,” she said. “Let’s go into the library. I keep them there.”

  I followed her from the lounge, where they were still checking out great piles of counters, into a comfortable library at the back of the house. As we entered it I made to close the door after me, but she shook her head and whispered: “Better not. If anyone comes along and finds us shut up in here it will look suspicious.”

  I saw the sense of that in this Victorian household, although I groaned inwardly because I wanted so desperately to kiss her, but she motioned me to a sofa along the wall immediately behind the door, and no sooner had we sat down on it than she was in my arms.

  Long before I was willing for her to do so she wriggled free and whispered with a little laugh:

  “Stop, now; stop! I must get out the stamps so that we can be looking at them if anyone comes in.” From a cupboard below one of the big bookcases she produced two bulky volumes, but as soon as she sat down again I firmly took them from her and grasped her hands.

  “Listen, Daphnis,” I said. “I want to get this engagement business straight. You’re not in love with this fellow Paolo, are you?”

  She shook her head. “No. My mother and his arranged the marriage three months ago. He’s clever and interesting. He will give me a good establishment, and I like him as a friend. But I don’t love him.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “Yes. He saw me at a dance and at once got his mother, with whom he lives here in Alex, to approach mine.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he’s going to be unlucky,” I told her firmly. “You’re not going to marry him. You’re going to marry me.”

  “But—but wouldn’t you mind marrying a foreigner?” she said with a little gasp. “And I’m a member of the Greek Church, you know.”

  “Darling,” I laughed, “I don’t mind in the slightest!”

  “But—but I hardly know you,” she murmured.

  I laughed again. “You know what my kisses feel like, and although I’m not as rich as your stepfather, I’ve got quite enough money to keep you in every comfort. Surely that’s enough?”

  “But your family. They might object and it would be terrible to enter a family where one was not welcome.”

  “That needn’t worry you. I’m an orphan. Both my parents are dead and I have no near relatives at all. I don’t even want to take you away from your own family and friends. After the war we’d travel, of course, and see lots of interesting places; but I’d be quite happy to make our home in Alexandria.”

  “Would you—really?” her eyes were wide and bright. “Perhaps—oh, I don’t know, you must give me time to think.”

  “You don’t need time,” I insisted gently. “Either you love me or you don’t. If you do let me speak to your mother and stepfather tonight; then you can write to Paolo and tell him that your engagement to him is off, so that he gets it first thing in the morning.”

  “Dio mio!” she exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten, but Paolo should be here at any moment. He couldn’t dine because in these days he works so late at the Legation, but he said that he would come in at ten o’clock.”

  “All the better,” I grinned, feeling at the top of my form and ready to tackle anything. “I’m sorry for Paolo, but the sooner this thing is settled the better. When he comes you’d better have a showdown with him right away, and I’ll speak to your parents immediately afterwards.”

  “Oh, why are you in such a hurry?” she sighed.

  I kissed her lightly just behind the ear. “The main reason is because I’m nearly twenty-seven years old, and I don’t want to waste another day of my life without you.”

  She smiled. “You couldn’t take me with you to your camp in the Western Desert at the end of your week’s leave, you know.”

  “All the more reason for us not to waste a single hour but to get engaged this very night,” I countered. “Then I’ll be able to spend every waking moment for the rest of my leave with you.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “Because I want to make you an Englishwoman as soon as possible.”

  For obvious reasons I could not tell her that she was on Major Cozelli’s suspect list, and I felt that the one way to make quite certain that she would give up any Italian intrigues in which she might be participating was to get her to become engaged to me.

  But that was the real motive which lay behind my decision to force the pace for all I was worth.

  She considered a little, then she said:

  “Marriage can’t change one’s love for one’s own country, and I don’t know if you know it but I’m half Italian.”

  “Yes, I know that,” I said. “What of it?”

  “If Britain and Italy went to war you’d expect me to hate Italy, and I could never do that.”

  “Of course I shouldn’t,” I laughed. “Britain’s war with Germany is one thing. War between Britain and Italy would be quite another matter. The English and the Italians have always been good friends, and the Italians are no fonder of the Germans than we are, so if they did get dragged in through pressure exerted by Hitler, there’d be no real bitterness on either side. You and I would make the subject taboo—just ignore it.”

  “No, Julian,” she shook her head. “We might try to but we couldn’t do that. After a few months of this hateful modern war each side would have performed acts which the other would consider brutal or despicable, and we’d be bound to be affected. It would be taking an awful risk for me to marry you as long as there is any chance that war may break out between Italy and Britain.”

  “It won’t,” I declared with a confidence that I really felt. “I don’t want to belittle Italy in any way, but one can’t get away from facts. Italy couldn’t possibly afford a war. She’s only self-supporting in one of the six major commodities which are used in waging wars so she would be a liability rather than an asset to Hitler. At present Italy is the big hole in the Allied blockade. She’s taking in millions of tons of surplus merchandise each month and railing it straight through to Germany. Once she went to war our Navy could put an end to that overnight and the traffic would have to start to flow back the other way. Hitler would have to help feed and support the Italians and there are forty-five millions of them. Honestly, darling, this great trumpet-blowing act that Musso is putting on now is only another big bluff.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I hope so! But this morning all Italian shipping was recalled to its ports, and that’s a pretty serious step.”

  “Of course I’m right,” I insisted. “Holding up his shipping for a day or two, or even a week, may cost Mussolini a bit of money but he can well afford it. With Britain, Germany and France at war Italy has been left without a rival for the Atlantic passenger traffic, and she’s making a packet out of it. While we’re all busy the Italians are cornering all the South American markets, too, and of course they’re making a huge profit on every single thing they send through to Germany. If the war lasts for two years Italy will have drained Germany dry financially and conquered huge new markets for herself overseas into the bargain. From near bankrupt she will have become one of the richest countries in the world, while we’ve been cutting each other’s throats. That’s why it’s absolutely inconceivable that the Italians would be such fools as to come in. Anyhow, if you won’t marry me right away, we can at least get engaged.”

  Her eyes danced as she murmured: “Yes. I suppose we could, but it will be an awful shock for poor Paolo.”

  “That’s settled then.” I kissed her hands. “You’ll break the bad news to Paolo as soon as he turns up, and while you’re doing it I’ll tackle your mother and stepfather.”

  “Oh, Julian! This is all so—so …”

  “Sudden!” I finished for her with a laugh. “That’s the classic phrase which a mid-Victorian girl would use for a situation like this.”

  The dimple on her cheek showed. “Do you really think that I’m so terribly old-fashioned?”

  “You have no time or perio
d. You’re just the loveliest and most adorable thing in the world,” I answered, staring straight into her eyes; and next moment we were locked in each other’s arms again.

  “Daphnis!” The exclamation of shocked surprise pierced our reeling senses, causing us to spring apart. Madame Diamopholus had come into the room unheard by us, and was staring at her daughter in anger and amazement.

  I was a little breathless after that long kiss, but I came to my feet with the best grace that I could muster and said, with a solemnity due to the occasion:

  “I know that I appear to have abused your hospitality shamelessly and—and that, before addressing myself to Daphnis, I should have gained the consent of your husband and yourself. But—well, I hope that you will forgive my impetuousness when I tell you that Daphnis and I love each other, and that she has just consented to become my wife.”

  Madame Diamopholus stood there, with her mouth half-open, staring at me as though I had gone crazy; but I had hardly finished speaking when a newcomer violently projected himself into the midst of this good old Lyceum drama family scene. He was a thickset, olive-faced young man with black piercing eyes, and had evidently been just behind Madame Diamopholus as she entered the room, but had remained hidden from me until that moment by the open door.

  “What you make ’ere wiz my fiancé?” he almost screamed. “You tella da lie and I am insult!” He thumped his chest angrily, and if looks could have killed I should have fallen stricken to the floor.

  There could be no doubt at all as to who this little fire-eater was, but I said coldly:

  “Am I to assume that I am adressing Signor Paolo …?”

  “II Cavaliere Paolo Tortino!” he roared. “And you ’oo maka da insult! My honour is tramped. I demanda we fight.”

  The name Tortino had a vaguely familiar ring, and as I stared at him I felt sure that I knew his face. In his rage he had gone white to the gills, and I think he would have attacked me there and then if Daphnis had not shown remarkable aplomb and courage in so young a girl.

  Instead of playing the part of a Victorian miss, to which I had likened her, and giving way to a fit of hysterics, she appeared as cool and collected as if we had been exchanging the most light-hearted pleasantries. Stepping between us, she said in Italian, which she knew that I could understand:

  “Mother, it’s quite true. Paolo, I’m sorry, terribly sorry, and if you hadn’t surprised me we should have avoided this most unpleasant scene. I meant to tell you or write to you tonight. I should like to have parted friends, but if that’s impossible it can’t be helped, and in any case I absolutely forbid either of you to fight. You must release me from my engagement. I can never make you happy because I don’t love you and I intend to marry Mr. Julian Day.”

  Her ice-cold words seemed to douse Paolo’s anger, and he was now staring at me with more curiosity than hate. The feeling that we had met somewhere before grew in me, and with sudden apprehension I remembered that he was a diplomat. It was quite possible that we might have been en poste in the same city during the short time that I spent in His Britannic Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. He spoke abruptly in Italian:

  “‘Julian Day’! No—that is not your name.”

  My breathing quickened; my heart seemed to shrivel up inside me. My worst forebodings were to be realised. I stood there white and speechless as he went on in a tone of such jubilant conviction that I knew it must sweep away all doubt in the minds of his hearers:

  “I remember you now. Your name is Fernhurst and you were a junior attaché at the British Embassy in Brussels. You and another man named Carruthers sold your country’s secrets to a gang of international espionage agents. When your treachery was discovered Carruthers at least had the decency to commit suicide, but you preferred to live on in dishonour and were expelled from the British Diplomatic Service with ignominy. Thief! Traitor! Scum! How dare you pollute with your presence any respectable house! Get out!”

  For what seemed an age there was an utter silence. The Italian was glaring at me with confident fiendish triumph in his dark eyes. Madame Diamopholus had one hand pressed to her forehead. Daphnis’ face was a white mask of agony and fear. She was fighting against belief, I knew, and urging me with all the power of her will to say something—to give Paolo the he—to deny this ghastly thing of which I had been accused. But what could I say? Certainly nothing that Madame Diamopholus or Paolo Tortino would believe.

  “Is—is your name Fernhurst?” Daphnis asked in a whisper.

  “It was,” I murmured. There could be no purpose in denying that now.

  There was another awful silence. Then a calm English voice suddenly cut in, breaking the tension as swiftly as the flick of a finger would snap an overtaut violin string. It was the British naval captain, and he had just appeared in the doorway. Either he did not sense the tragedy that was being enacted there, or in view of what he had to say deliberately chose to ignore it.

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said in a casual tone, “but I’ve just received a belated message from my ship. The fool of a marine who brought it got himself lost in the town. Mussolini made a declaration at eight o’clock, our time, that Italy will enter the war against Britain tomorrow night. All British officers are ordered to return to duty immediately. I have a car here, Day, so I thought I could give you a lift back to your hotel on my way down to the harbour.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, and swallowing hard I stepped past Daphnis. The captain was already out in the passage, but I was still crossing the threshold as she staggered and fell fainting into Paolo’s arms.

  Chapter VI

  The War is on in Earnest

  I Shall never forget the night and day that followed. For a well-proportioned blend of physical discomfort and acute mental distress I have never lived through their equal. First in darkness and later under a torrid, gruelling, merciless midsummer North African sun the endless chain of cars and lorries of which my vehicle was one stopped and started, crawled and spurted, hour after hour, along the coast road to Mersa Matruh.

  We passed the old railhead at Hammam while it was still dark and reached El Imayid just before dawn. El Alamen, with its tattered palms and mud-walled houses, showed clear in the cool early-morning light, but by the time we reached El Daba we were already sweating, and after that the journey was positive unadulterated hell.

  As I was not driving I had not even the job of keeping the car to its place in the steady stream of traffic to occupy my mind, and my thoughts revolved ceaselessly round that awful scene with Daphnis in which I had cut so sorry a figure.

  It was largely my own fault for having kept my past concealed from her. I had meant to tell her the whole story of the tragedy which had ruined my promising career at its very outset as soon as a suitable opportunity occurred; the trouble was that I had really spent such a very little time with her, and Major Cozelli’s suspicions had caused me to force the pace in a way that I should never otherwise have done.

  How right he had been about the possibility of the Italians’ coming in and how wrong everybody else’s complacence, including my own! Perhaps he was right, too, in his guess that Daphnis was concerned in conveying information to—yes, they were now quite definitely the enemy. I closed my eyes and my heart went sick at the thought. I tried not to believe it, fought against its acceptance with all my will, yet the damnable suspicion persisted. But if I had the least shadow of a doubt about my love for her it was gone now. Whatever she was, whatever she had done, made no difference. I loved her as I had never loved anyone before or should ever love again. I knew that to the very depths of my being, now that I had lost her.

  My exposure by Paolo Tortino could not have been fuller or possibly have occurred at a more decisive moment. As the long sweltering hours dragged by I tried to face up to it that my chances with Daphnis were now utterly ruined. If only I had been able to get hold of her and talk to her on the morning after the scene there might have been some hope for me; but the sudden call to return to dut
y had put that out of the question. I could write to her, but I had little hope that a letter reaching her days later could undo the terrible blow to her pride and belief in my decency that she had sustained.

  As soon as I was back with the battalion—and could get a few moments to myself—I did write to her. In a letter I could not say very much except that, while there were things in Paolo’s statement which I could not deny, I did deny absolutely that I had ever betrayed my country’s secrets, and that the facts he had related were capable of a completely different explanation from the one which he had put upon them. I said that I had been meaning to tell her of this wretched affair which had caused certain people to misjudge me at the first chance that arose and begged her to have faith in me. I told her that, during the great summer heats, there was little likelihood of any major operations taking place on the Libyan border, so that, my week’s special leave having been cut short, as soon as the excitement of Italy’s coming into the war had died down, I thought that I would be able to get twenty-four hours in Alex to give her a full explanation. All I asked, before applying for leave, was that she should send me one line saying that she was willing to give me a hearing.

  Perhaps it was stupid of me to have asked her consent and I should have strained every nerve to see her without waiting for it; but, in the mood of black pessimism which had settled on my mind like an evil fog, I felt robbed of all self-confidence and half-convinced, even before I sent the letter, that I should receive no reply to it.

  Six days went by, then a letter arrived for me addressed in that same thick angular hand as the note that I had received in the hospital, and which I knew instantly to be Daphnis’. My feelings were so stirred at the very sight of the writing that I dared not trust myself to open it in the mess, where it was handed to me. Hurrying to my tent, I ripped open the envelope with shaking fingers. It had no beginning and no end, and every world of it burnt into my brain.