To the Devil, a Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  It was the sort of kiss calculated to rock any man’s senses, and John was no exception. She had nothing on over her thin day frock and through it he could again feel the warmth of her body; yet it seemed an entirely different body from that which he had held in his arms during the afternoon. That had been soft and hesitantly yielding with occasional tremors due to girlish diffidence. This strained against him with a fierce virility, and every few seconds was shaken by a spasmodic trembling caused by uncontrollable passion.

  Momentarily overcome as he was, his brain instantly protested that this was no time or place for love-making. Then instinct rowed in and told him that love played no part in this monstrous embrace, or even natural passion. It was night and Christina was not her true self. She was the victim of a primitive emotion which had been aroused in her by witnessing a scene of violence. She was the female who had just seen two males fighting over which of them should possess her. With shock, and almost a feeling of nausea, it suddenly came to him that had he been the senseless body on the floor and Jules the victor, it was Jules whom she would now be seeking to devour with her luscious, breathless kisses.

  Lifting his arms from about her, he grasped her wrists, broke her grip round his neck, thrust her away from him, and cried: ‘Christina! Pull yourself together! We’ve got to get out of here; and at once.’

  She seemed to sober, and murmured, ‘All right,’ but gave him a slightly sullen look as she turned to pick up from the back of a chair a heavy Shetland tweed coat, and added, ‘Now you have settled matters with Jules, what’s the hurry?’

  ‘I’ll give you all the reasons later,’ he said, endeavouring to humour rather than bully her, as he helped her into the coat.

  ‘Anyhow, there is time for you to get this off me.’ As she spoke she turned. He had noticed with vague surprise that she was wearing gloves, and drawing off the left one she thrust her hand out towards him.

  ‘D’you mean my ring?’ he asked in a puzzled voice. ‘But why?’

  ‘Of course, stupid!’ she exclaimed, turning away her head. ‘It has been hurting me all the evening. It’s like a hot band round my finger, and I can’t look at it. Every time I do it dazzles me.’

  He stared at the signet ring and wondered if he could possibly be imagining things. To him it was not dazzling, but its gold seemed to be shining with a brighter, purer light than it had ever done during the years he had worn it himself. His father, to whom it had originally belonged, had not been a pious man, but upright and fearless, and the thought flashed into John’s mind that perhaps the precious metal had mysteriously absorbed some of his father’s qualities; so was now having on Christina, in a minor degree, a similar effect to that of the crucifix his mother had thrown to her the previous night. Seeing that the knuckle above the ring was red, angry and swollen, he said: ‘You have been trying to get it off yourself, and failed; so I don’t suppose I can.’

  ‘That was Jules,’ she replied with an impatient shrug. ‘I asked him to try, and offered to kiss him if he could; but he couldn’t; so I wouldn’t. But you put it on; so you must get it off.’

  Suddenly it occurred to him that the ring might, perhaps, be acting to some extent as a charm against evil and, as long as she wore it, would reduce the strength of her nocturnal inclinations to play into the hands of her own enemies; so he shook his head.

  ‘No. I’ll take it off tomorrow morning for you if you like; but there is no time now. We’ve lost a couple of minutes as it is. And Jules isn’t the only person I’ve had to lay out in order to get hold of you. Ten minutes ago I slogged an officer. Any moment –’

  ‘Did you?’ she broke in, her eyes glowing again. ‘Oh, John, I think you’re wonderful! Let’s get away then. I’ll go anywhere you wish.’

  ‘Right; come on!’ He grabbed her by the arm and hurried her to the door. ‘It’s not Jules I’m worried about, but the other chap. The Captain may send someone to look for him. The moment they find him the hunt will be up. Alarm bells, lights all over the ship, and God knows what else. If that starts before we can get ashore our number will be up.’

  The passage was empty. No one was battering on the door of the galley; evidently the steward and the chef had not heard the struggle in the saloon, or yet discovered that they were locked in. Still holding Christina by the arm, John drew her up the companionway after him. As his head emerged above deck level he glimpsed through the stern rail a man standing on the quay, some thirty feet away, by a bollard round which was looped the yacht’s stern hawser. It looked as if he was awaiting orders to cast off, but the deck of the yacht was still in darkness.

  Feeling certain that if they ran the length of the deck they would be bound to attract the watchman’s attention and that, with his suspicions aroused, he would dash down the ladder from the bridge in an attempt to stop them before they reached the gangway, John whispered: ‘Steady, now. We must walk off just as if we had dined aboard and I was now going to see you home. With luck the watchman may take me for Jules, as he and I are about the same height. If we could be laughing over something, that would be all to the good. My mind is a blank about funny stories at the moment, but perhaps you can think of one.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Christina promptly, as they set off along the deck. ‘Do you know the one about the five brides describing to one another what had happened on the first night of their honeymoon? The first said, “My husband was just like Roosevelt, he…”’

  The rest of her sentence was drowned by the siren of a car. Next moment its headlights rolled back the darkness from the quay. As it ran past them it was slowing down and its driver brought it smoothly to a halt opposite the gangway.

  ‘Hell!’ exclaimed John, pulling Christina up. ‘That will be the Marquis! Quick! We must hide!’

  But it was too late. He had scarcely got the words out when there was movement on the bridge, a whistle shrilled, and all the lights were switched on. Momentarily dazzled by the glare, they were caught in it, standing between two of the skylights right in the middle of the deck.

  The passengers were getting out of the car; two tall men and one short one. A bearded officer, who looked as if he might be the Captain, was leaning over the after-bridge rail looking down at them. Another man stood beside him. Two more sailors ran out from the bridge-house and took up positions on either side of the gangway.

  Suddenly it dawned on John that of all these people not one was looking in the direction of Christina and himself. If they could get below again and find some place in which to conceal themselves Jules would believe that they had succeeded in getting ashore before his father’s arrival. With luck they might remain as stowaways, undiscovered, until the yacht reached its port of destination, then slip ashore there. Swiftly he turned Christina about and pushed her towards the after-hatch at a quick walk.

  They still had ten feet to go when they caught a muffled shouting from the galley; then, as they reached the hatch, a loud banging on its door. The steward and the chef had just discovered that they were locked in, and were endeavouring to draw attention to their plight.

  Before John was halfway down the companionway, the banging abruptly ceased. As he neared its bottom he saw the reason, and consternation seized him. Jules had come round from being knocked out and striking his head on the chair leg much more quickly than might have been expected, and had staggered out into the passage and unlocked the door. He now stood swaying, a little drunkenly, as the steward and the chef tumbled out through it.

  Once more John’s lack of experience in affairs of violence had let him down; but it was vain now for him to curse himself for not having had the forethought to tie Jules up and gag him while he had the chance.

  A trickle of blood was running down from a cut on Jules’s forehead into his left eye. With a shaky hand he brushed it away and focused his unsteady glance on John’s legs as they appeared down the companionway. The second he saw his face, he flung out a pointing arm and shouted to his men: ‘There he is! Get him! Get him!’

&nbs
p; The chef was a small plump man with a mild expression, and did not look at all a type who would willingly get himself mixed up in a rough house; but the steward was a brawny specimen with a low forehead, flattened nose and bull-dog jaw. Jules’s description of him earlier as ‘quite a gorilla’ had been an apt one.

  John gave the group one glance, swung about, yelled to Christina to get back up the ladder, and scampered after her. Quick as he was, they would have been on him before he was halfway up had it not been that the chef, who was nearest, hesitated a second and the steward had to push past him.

  Christina stubbed her toe and tripped over the top step. Hopping out on to the deck she let go a spate of foul language that sounded peculiarly shocking coming from her young, innocent-looking mouth. In tripping she had held him up for a moment. The gorilla-like steward was right on his heels and grabbing at them. He cleared the top step only just in time, but, swinging round, managed to kick his pursuer in the face.

  With a howl of rage and pain, the man swayed backward. His eyes goggling and his hands clutching frantically at the empty air, he hovered for a second, then overbalanced. More yells came from below as his heavy body went crashing down on the little chef and Jules, who had been mounting the ladder behind him. Seizing the advantage this débâcle had given him, John stepped back, swung to the double doors of the hooded hatch cover, and flicked over into its staple the stout iron hook that secured them.

  But his victorious retreat from below gained him no more than a breathing space. The shouting and sounds of strife had been heard up on deck. The group from the car were now halfway along it. In the lead was the tall, hatchet-faced Marquis, and beside him a man of about forty, with a large, fair, fluffed-out moustache of the style favoured by R.A.F. pilots. Close behind them were the little man, who looked like a valet, and the two sailors who had stood by the gangway. Others were running up from amidships, and the officers on the bridge were now staring aft to see what the commotion was about.

  John gave a hurried glance over his shoulder. The stern rail was only a few feet behind him. In three paces he could reach the spot where it curved in towards the wharf. To balance on it for a jump would be almost impossible; but he could scramble over, cling to the rail with one hand, then leap. The ease with which he had cleared the gap when coming aboard proved that it was nothing like as formidable as it looked.

  Now, though, his situation was very different. Someone on the yacht had only to call ‘Stop Thief’ to the wharf-hand, who was waiting to cast the hawser off from the bollard, for the man to run forward and grab him as he landed on the quay. Then there was Christina: her legs were long enough to make the jump, but might easily become entangled in her heavy coat. To urge her to attempt it would be asking her to take an appalling risk.

  These thoughts flashed through his mind within a moment of his fastening the doors to the companionway; but even in that brief span of time the dispositions of the other protagonists in the scene had changed. The approaching group and Christina had both taken a few quick steps towards one another. Barely fifteen feet now separated them. With a swift contraction of the heart John accepted it as certain that in another minute he would be attacked, and that against such odds he had no possible chance. Then all his preconceived ideas of what was about to happen were suddenly altered by the totally unexpected attitude of the Marquis.

  Sweeping off his hat he made a smiling bow to Christina. ‘My apologies, Mademoiselle, that a tiresome appointment should have prevented me from joining you earlier. And Mr Fountain, is it not? This is an unexpected pleasure. When we met the other night in Cannes, I did not know that you were an old friend of Jules. I trust that he has been giving you both a pleasant time?’

  John was so nonplussed that he could think of no immediate reply. Then it occurred to him to take the Marquis’s words at their face value, in the wild hope that he meant them. Hastily he blurted out, ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, it’s been grand. I’m sorry you should arrive to find us on the point of leaving.’

  By then the Marquis had taken Christina’s hand and was going through the gallant motion of kissing it. By then, too, Jules, the chef and the steward had had time to sort themselves out at the foot of the companionway, and one of them had run up it. There came a loud hammering on the doors of the covered hatch, accompanied by muffled shouts and curses.

  The Marquis glanced in that direction, shrugged, and said suavely, ‘I fear some of my new crew are ill-disciplined fellows. No doubt the reason why Jules is not with you is that he remained below, endeavouring to quell a brawl among them. I am desolated that your visit should have been terminated so unpleasantly. Permit me to escort you to the gangway.’

  He was still holding Christina’s hand. Drawing it through his arm in a paternal manner, he turned and led her forward. John could hardly believe his ears and eyes, but followed automatically and found himself in the middle of the little group that had come aft.

  As they walked forward the Marquis conveyed kind messages to Christina from his wife. It seemed that the Marquise had also intended to dine aboard, but had been prevented from doing so by a slight indisposition. Had she not been aware that young English ladies were quite accustomed to dispensing with the presence of a chaperon she would naturally have made a special effort, but as things were she felt sure Christina would forgive her.

  No one said a word to John. The sailors and the little man had deferentially stepped aside, so were now behind him; the tall R.A.F. type with the fluffy moustache was walking at his side, but in silence.

  The sixty feet of after-deck was soon covered. They passed round the big squat funnel. Just beyond it, to starboard, lay the gangway. Six feet further on the bridge-structure rose up across the whole breadth of the yacht. Between it and the funnel lay a band of deep shadow. It was broken only in the middle by the glow of light coming up from the main companionway, which lay under the centre of the bridge.

  The Marquis turned towards the gangway, and said to Christina, ‘I see there is no car here to fetch you. But no matter; you must allow me to send you home in mine.’

  Suddenly into John’s brain there flashed an explanation for the Marquis’s strange behaviour. The reason why he had pretended not to grasp the fact that he had come upon them endeavouring to escape, and continued to ignore the shouts and banging that still came faintly from the stern, must be because it had never been intended to take Christina to sea in the yacht. As C.B. had pointed out, their contract was to get her to England by the 6th, and they now had barely two days in which to do the job. It must be that Jules had got hold of her much earlier than he had expected; so brought her to the yacht as a temporary measure until his father had completed their other arrangements. The Marquis had arrived only to collect her, and was now in the act of doing so.

  In an instant John forecast the next move. The Marquis would put Christina in the car, get in himself, then give a swift order to his men. They would seize him, so that he could not attempt to follow, while the Marquis drove off, carrying Christina to some dive where she would be doped, then put on a plane for England. There were only a matter of seconds to go and John raked his mind frantically for a means to sabotage this plan at the last moment.

  There were four men round him and others within close call; so he knew that any attempt to stop the car or rescue Christina was far beyond his powers. The only thing he could do was to anticipate the order to seize him. If, the second his foot was on the wharf, he dodged between the men about him and ran for it, he might get away. Should he succeed, he could be with C.B. at Henri’s bar in ten minutes; and although he would temporarily have lost Christina, they could at once set about tracing the car in which she had been kidnapped.

  These swift thoughts had barely coursed through John’s mind when the Marquis reached the head of the gangway. Still keeping hold of Christina’s arm, he halted and looked back. Suddenly he shot out his free hand, pointed it at John and cried: ‘Throw him down the hatch!’

  Chapter 11


  The Marquis Calls the Tune

  Before John could raise a finger, the man with the moustache and one of the sailors were upon him. His assumptions had been only partially correct. The Marquis had, in fact, assessed the true situation at a glance as soon as he had come on board; but his subtle tactics had had a different aim from the one that John had guessed. He had been quick to realise that a fight on the open, brightly-lit deck could be seen from the buildings on the quay, and that later police enquiries might elicit the fact that a woman answering Christina’s description had been involved in it; so he had led his visitors into the shadow cast by the bridge and funnel before resorting to violence to prevent their escape.

  The mêlée in front of the companionway was brief. John saw the Marquis pull Christina back from the gangway and push her towards a dark doorway that stood open in the bridge-structure. After that he had only a confused impression of a violent struggle with himself as its centre. Both his arms were seized and he was forced forward. Next moment he was hurtling down the companionway ladder. He struck the middle steps, which slightly broke his fall, and slithered head-first to the bottom. Following him came the sound of pounding feet, and before he could rise his attackers were on him again. One kicked him in the ribs; two more grabbed him by the shoulders and lugged him to his feet. As he stood swaying there, half-dazed between them, the man with the moustache hit him hard beneath the chin. Stars and circles in vivid array danced on a background of dense blackness before his eyes: he felt his knees sag, and he passed out.

  When he came-to, his first sensations were the throbbing of his head, a horrid ache in his ribs, another in his right forearm, and several minor pains in various parts of his face and body. After a moment he remembered how he had come by them and realised that he was still on board the yacht.

  For a while he lay unmoving, wondering vaguely how long he had been unconscious. The yacht was pitching slightly, so obviously she was now at sea, and he had the impression that it was days ago that he had been flung down the companionway, although he knew that it could not really be so.