The Launching of Roger Brook

by Dennis Wheatley

  The Doctor spread out his hands in a pathetic gesture and looked at Roger.

  Still nursing his twisted arm, Roger muttered angrily: ‘’Tis naught but blackmail!’

  Fouché’s small mouth broke into a thin smile. ‘Call it by any name you like, but I need the money. Either I get it or I’ll lay an information with the police of Rennes. Monsieur le Docteur will be held upon my affidavit, the warrant will then be forwarded by courier from Nantes, and executed.’

  Roger saw that there was no way in which they could escape the demand and, with bitter reluctance, began to undo his shirt to get out his money belt. As their funds were all in the one long narrow sack he could not pretend that they were incapable of paying the full sum but in an effort to save part of the amount he announced with such firmness as he could muster: ‘Half of this belongs to me.’

  ‘Does it so?’ said Fouché quietly. ‘How much have you there altogether?’

  ‘Fifty-four louis,’ Roger replied as he took off the belt.

  ‘I’ll have the lot, then!’ cried Fouché with another sudden display of brutality. The extra four as a penalty for your impudence.’

  As he spoke he snatched at the end of the belt that dangled free. But Roger had firm hold of the other end and, springing back, endeavoured to wrench it from his grasp. The thought of all their savings from two long months of toil being taken from them by the unscrupulous amateur crime-investigator lent him strength and he almost jerked the tall young man off his feet.

  ‘Let go!’ shouted Fouché, his white face flushing with anger. ‘For rogues like you what I say is the law! D’you hear me! And learn that I’ll take this but as an interim payment. We’ll meet again from time to time, never fear. And each time we meet I’ll empty your pockets for you, if I’ve a mind to it. Let go, now, or I’ll swear you both into jail this very evening.’

  It was perhaps the threat to his future earnings, the thought of a never-ending blackmail, that stirred the Doctor into sudden, violent action. As the other two swayed wildly back and forth, struggling for the belt, they had moved round so that Fouché’s back was now turned to him. Grabbing up Roger’s sheathed sword from a chest nearby he struck the blackmailer a heavy blow on the back of the head with its hilt.

  Fouché gasped and fell, half stunned, to the floor. But he still had hold of the belt and the sudden pull upon it dragged Roger down with him.

  The Doctor, his watery blue eyes now mad with desperation, raised the sword to strike again. But Fouché was too quick for him. Letting go the belt he rolled over and pulled a small double-barrelled pistol from inside his grey coat. As he cocked it Roger heard the click. Next second there came a blinding flash and a loud report.

  Roger staggered to his feet. He saw the Doctor drop the sword; then that one of his eyes had become a hideous red patch. The blood began to trickle from it. He had been shot clean through the head, and with a long, low moan sank slowly to the floor.

  Still holding the belt Roger stood for a second, transfixed with horror, staring down at the Doctor’s crumpled body. Then he heard Fouché cock the second barrel of his pistol. The sound released a spring in his momentarily petrified brain, and in one bound he reached the door.

  He was barely through it and out on the landing when he heard the informer begin to shout: ‘Help! Murder! A man has been killed here. Stop, thief! Below there! Stop the murderer!’

  In a flash Roger realised that Fouché intended to pin the Doctor’s killing on to him and, in a panic of terror from a vision of the hangman’s rope, he launched himself down the stairs.

  11

  L’Ancien Régime

  Some eleven weeks previously Roger had gone crashing down the rickety stairs at the ‘Widow Searron’s’ in Le Havre. Then, his flight had been actuated by a sudden wave of physical revulsion; now, he knew that he was flying for his very life. There, with a hand on the banister rail he had gone down three steps at a time; here, he jumped the first short flight in one swift bound. Yet here, as there, he had barely crossed the upper landing before the sound of opening doors and excited voices coming from below told him that the cries from the attic had already roused the house.

  The money-belt still dangling from his hand, he hurled himself down the second flight. Suddenly his foot slipped on the highly polished wood. His legs shot from under him and sprawling on his back he slithered down towards the next landing. In an effort to save himself he flung out his hands. One end of the long purse caught round a banister. In his fall he had relaxed his grip and the precious belt was jerked from his grasp.

  At the bottom of the flight he rolled over, jumped to his feet and swung round to regain the belt. In the faint light from the landing-window he could just see it as a whitish blur where it now lay, a few feet beyond his reach. One end of it was on the stairs, the other hanging over in the gulf beyond the banisters. Springing up two stairs he thrust out a hand to grab it. At that second he heard Fouché’s heavy footsteps on the upper stairs. The sound threw him into fresh panic. In his haste, instead of grasping the end of the belt firmly, he overshot it, merely knocking it with his hand. Before his fumbling fingers could catch at it again it had slid from under them. The weight of the coins in its far end carried it over the edge into the dark abyss of a passage below which led to the kitchen quarters.

  All hope of recovering it for the present had gone, but life was infinitely more precious than money. Without wasting another second, Roger turned to resume his flight. Dashing across the landing he reached a broader staircase that led to the ground floor. The sound of Fouché’s pursuing footsteps spurring him to fresh recklessness he charged down it. At its bottom, attracted by Fouché’s cries, three men and a serving-maid were standing; he glimpsed their excited faces staring up at him.

  With a final bound he reached the hall, stumbled and fell again. It was his fall that temporarily saved him. The two nearest men had sprung forward to seize him, but neither had anticipated his mishap. Going down head first he slithered along the boards between them and they came into violent collision above his prostrate body.

  His hands stinging, his knees bruised, gasping for breath, Roger rolled away from them and stumbled to his feet. He was hardly up before the third man came at him. Instinctively Roger put up his fists. The Frenchman not understanding this manœuvre ignored it and came charging in. With a fleeting memory of George Gunston, Roger struck out at the man’s face. The blow took him on his fleshy nose, bringing him up with a jerk. Pain, surprise and indignation showed in his eyes as they suddenly began to fill with water and the blood came gushing from his injured member.

  The two men who had collided wasted a moment cursing at one another, but they now simultaneously turned on Roger. To avoid their grasp he dodged behind a large table that stood in the centre of the hall. For a second he thought himself temporarily safe from a renewed attack, as all three men were on the far side of it; but he had reckoned without the serving-wench. She had snatched a copper bed-pan from the wall. Lifting it, she now struck at his head from behind.

  His eyes riveted on the men, he had not even seen her. It was pure chance that he moved a little sideways at that instant. The heavy bed-warmer missed his head but struck him on the shoulder. Swinging round he seized it by the middle of its handle and wrenched it from the woman’s grasp.

  Less than a minute had elapsed since he had arrived sprawling in the hall. His wild career down the stairs had left the more cautious Fouché well behind; but now he had arrived on the scene and was bellowing orders to the others for Roger’s capture.

  ‘Quick, get round that side!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll take the other!’ and he ran round the table to the serving-maid’s assistance, just as Roger snatched the bed-pan from her.

  Caught between two fires Roger now seemed lost; but, once again, his agility temporarily saved him. Since he was holding the bed-pan by the middle of its handle he could not use it as a weapon, but he flung it with, all his force in Fouché’s face. As the informer ducked to avo
id it, Roger side-stepped and darted past him. The rest, following instructions, had raced round the other end of the table, so that the whole group was now upon its far side, leaving Roger a clear run to the door. Without pausing to glance behind him he dashed through it and out into the street.

  It was now nearly dark outside and there were lights in the windows of many of the houses. Dashing across the road he gained the deeper gloom of a double row of plane trees that lined the south side of the Champe de Mars. Turning west, between them, he pelted along the avenue that they formed.

  Already he could hear the shouts of his pursuers as they streamed out of the inn. Then came a cry from Fouché: ‘There he goes! There he goes!’ and he knew that he had been seen entering the shadow of the trees.

  For a moment they lost him in the gloom and, thinking that he had struck straight across the square, charged in a ragged line through the trees towards its open centre. Then, not seeing him ahead of them in the half-light, they halted uncertainly; but only to catch the patter of his flying footsteps farther along the avenue to their left. With renewed cries of ‘Stop, thief! Stop, murderer!’ they came pounding after him.

  The avenue was three hundred yards in length and their false start on leaving the inn had given him a hundred yards’ lead, but it was all that he could do to keep it. With his head down and his arms tucked in to his sides, as he had been taught to run at Sherborne, he sped on. The ground flew from beneath his light, swift feet. But they had the longer pace and, still shouting, came thundering on between the trees behind him.

  The end of the avenue loomed into view. From his walk with the Doctor that afternoon Roger knew that the big building he was now approaching, on the south-west corner of the square, was the barracks. Through the lower branches of the trees he could see a hanging lantern above its gate. The thought flashed upon him that if there were any soldiers lounging there, he would be caught between two fires. He had scarcely had it when there came a sudden stir of movement beneath the light, and shouts ahead of him answered those in his rear.

  Swerving violently he dashed from between the trees and across the street again. The soldiers at the barrack gate had not yet caught sight of him. For a precious moment they remained where they were, peering into the shadows of the avenue. He had reached the corner of the Rue du Colombier and shot round it before one of them spotted him; then, with excited cries, they joined the chase.

  Roger’s breath was coming fast now; his heart was thumping wildly. Up to the time of his leaving the avenue he had managed to keep his lead on Fouché and the people from the inn, but the soldiers had entered the chase at an angle and turned into the Rue du Colombier barely fifty yards behind him. Their nearness lent him fresh vigour and he tore on in terror of his life.

  For a brief interval he was hidden from them by the curve of the street. During it, he looked desperately to right and left for an alley into which he could dive, but the houses on both sides of the street formed solid blocks; none of them had even an open doorway offering some chance of sanctuary.

  As the street straightened out the soldiers caught sight of him again. They gave a yell that told him how close upon his heels they were. Ahead he could now see a crossroads. Rallying himself for a final effort, he spurted towards it in the vague hope that he would be able to elude his pursuers there.

  The crossroads proved to have five streets radiating from it. He was hidden again for a second from his pursuers by an outjutting building on the corner of the Rue du Colombier. Instead of dashing across the open space ahead of him he swivelled round the hairpin bend to his right, almost doubling back on his pursuers. The street he had entered was a narrow one and it was almost blocked by a big, stationary coach.

  The coach was facing away from him. A footman, holding a lighted torch, was waiting in the doorway of the house before which the coach stood. Both he and the coachman on the box had their backs turned. It flashed into Roger’s mind that the occupant of the coach must have gone into the house, so it would be empty. If only he could get inside it unobserved and remain there for two minutes his pursuers would run past, he would then have a new chance to elude them in the darkness.

  He knew that if the lackey turned and saw him the game would be up; but his chest was now paining him so badly that he also knew he could not run another hundred yards. It was a choice of attempting to conceal himself in the empty coach, or of capture.

  From fear of attracting the man’s attention he dropped into a walk; he had no more than ten paces to cover. In a moment he had reached the offside of the coach. Now that it was between him and the lackey he felt more confident. Seizing the curved door handle he turned it and pulled the door open. To his horror there was a sudden movement in its shadowy interior. It was not empty after all.

  The heavy boots of the running soldiers striking against the cobbles could be heard clearly now. The lackey in the doorway turned and lifted his flambeau on high to find out the cause of the approaching clamour. The light from it shone into the coach and Roger could see its occupant plainly.

  It was a girl; a girl so young that she still carried a doll, and so could not yet have fully left childhood behind. Yet, all his life long, Roger was to remember the staggering impression her beauty made upon him in that first glimpse before he scrambled into the coach and fell panting at her feet.

  Her eyes were a bright china blue; her hair, golden and unpowdered, fell in thick, silky ringlets about her small shoulders. She wore no paint but her skin was flawless and her complexion of milk and roses. Her mouth was small and delicately modelled, the upper lip short, the lower a little full. Her nose was thin and of Roman cast; her face oval, ending in a firm, determined chin. She sat bolt upright and so looked taller than she was in fact. Every feature of her face, and her whole attitude, expressed a completely natural imperiousness and absolute right to command immediate obedience to her slightest whim.

  ‘Save me!’ gasped Roger. They’re after me for a killing that I didn’t do! I swear I didn’t! For God’s sake, hide me!’

  The clamour at the street corner could now be heard by them both. Voices, amongst which Roger could distinguish Fouché’s, were calling: ‘Where is he? Which way has he gone?’

  As Roger stared up at the girl the light from the torch now lit his face too. She did not appear the least frightened and had made no attempt either to shrink away from him or to cry out. Her arched eyebrows had risen in a little frown, creasing her smooth forehead, but as she saw his face, nearly as young as her own, and gazed straight into his deep blue eyes fringed by their dark lashes, her lips broke into a smile, showing two rows of white, even teeth.

  ‘What is it to me if you have done a killing?’ she laughed suddenly. ‘I like your face, so I’ll protect you. Quick! Get over there and draw your feet up!’

  The cushioned seat opposite, to which she pointed, was both wide and deep, and as on speaking she snatched up a large fur rug, Roger saw that she meant to hide him under it. Flopping into one corner he pulled in his legs and next moment the fur blanketed his sight but not his hearing.

  Two seconds later he caught a loud voice: ‘Has a young fellow passed this way? He wore a blue coat, and would be running!’

  The inquiry was evidently addressed to the lackey with the torch, and the voice hurried on: ‘What of the coach? If ’tis empty he may have hopped inside while your back was turned. With your leave I’ll ascertain.’

  As the near door was pulled open the girl’s high treble came: swift, haughty, dominating: ‘Hands off my coach, villain! How darest thou push past my lackey to have speech with me! I have seen no fugitive. Close that door instantly and get about thy business!’

  With a muttered apology the man closed the door, but the high childish voice went on now, evidently calling to the footmen. ‘Up on thy stand, Pierre! I’ve a mind to get home and will not wait for Madame Velot. The coach can return to pick her up later.’

  Then, unseen by Roger, she gave a violent jerk to a silk cord attached t
o the coachman’s little finger and, as he lifted the hatch in the roof of the coach, trilled up at him: ‘A l’hôtel, Baptiste! Depêche-toi!’

  The footman sprang up on his stand at the back of the coach, the coachman shook the reins of his horses, and the great cumbersome vehicle rumbled into motion. It had not covered twenty yards before the girl pulled the rug from off Roger and said: ‘You can sit up now, and tell me about yourself.’

  On his jerking his feet from the seat one of them struck a dark object in a far corner of the foot space, near the door opposite to that by which he had entered. The object gave a little bark of protest and, until that moment, owing to the deep shadows, he had not realised that a dog was lying there. As it reared up he saw that it was a black poodle.

  ‘Down, Bougie! Down!’ cried its young mistress. ‘Quiet now, or I will order the Englishman to eat you!’

  For a second Roger thought that she was referring to him, and stared at her in astonishment, wondering how she could possibly have guessed his nationality so quickly. But at that moment they were passing a street corner lantern and she held up her doll for him to see, as she said:

  This is my Englishman. Is he not hideous? And the English do eat dogs, you know. My uncle, the Count, commanded the last expedition that we sent to aid Monsieur de la Fayette in the Americas and he told me so on his return. They are a most bloodthirsty and barbarous people.’