Evil in a Mask rb-9

by Dennis Wheatley

  Looking up, Roger's glance settled on Baob, who was stand­ing silently in the doorway, waiting to know whether he was to take back an answer to Lisala's letter.

  Baob was a very different type of man from Mobo. He was intelligent, self-confident, and was well acquainted with the layout of the de Pombal property. Moreover, he was already accepting money to act as the carrier of a secret correspond­ence between Roger and Lisala.

  After a moment's thought, Roger asked him, 'Would you like to earn enough money to buy your freedom?'

  The ivory teeth of the big black flashed again, and he re­plied in bastard Portuguese, 'Yes, lord. To do that I's your man.'

  Roger nodded. 'Then tell the Senhorita Lisala to have no more fears. I will do as she has asked. Later today—say be­tween seven and eight o'clock—return to the town and meet me on the foreshore below the square.'

  Salaaming deeply, the Negro said, 'Will do, lord.' Then he turned and went down the stairs.

  Thinking matters over, Roger could not decide whether this unexpected development was-a good thing for him or not. The thought of again enjoying Lisala, after not having done so for so many weeks, held an allure that, as he contem­plated it, made his heart beat faster. But he was nearly twice her age, and she was extremely highly sexed. In fact she was nearer than any woman he had ever known to being a nympho­maniac. Uneasily, he wondered whether he would prove cap­able over a prolonged period of satisfying her cravings. Again, enchanting though she was as a companion, he knew her to be utterly selfish, that on occasion she displayed a most evil tem­per, and that in her character there was a vicious streak.

  But she was now carrying his child; and in him lay her only hope of any happiness in the future. So fate had clearly or­dained that, for better or for worse, a link existed between them which he could not ignore.

  During the siesta hours he thought out in detail what had to be done to succeed in carrying off Lisala. Then he had himself rowed out to the Phantom. To Captain Jackson he gave a version of his situation which was very near the truth. He said that he was in love with a Portuguese lady who re­turned his love; but her father would not consent to their mar­rying. He had, therefore, determined to abduct her. He then asked the Captain if he would consent to receiving the lady on board and conveying her with him back to England.

  After a short hesitation, Jackson replied, ‘I should like to oblige you in this, Mr. Brook, and in these troubled times it occurs not infrequently that ladies must be accepted as pas­sengers in British men-of-war. But I am averse to letting my­self in for trouble with the Portuguese. If you can bring her aboard without their knowledge, well and good. But should they come after her and her father demand her return, I'll have no alternative but to let him have her.'

  This was as much as Roger could expect. Having thanked the Captain, he raised the question of money. Although he had been repaid by de Pombal for his original outlay on the house, his nine weeks in Brazil had made heavy inroads into the sum he had brought with him. He had also had an un­pleasant surprise when he had endeavoured to dispose of a few of his stock of small diamonds. Only then had he dis­covered that Brazil was one of the few countries in the world that produced considerable quantities of diamonds, and the sum he had been offered was so paltry that he had rejected it. Now he produced the bag of stones, emptied it out on the cabin table and said to Jackson:

  'I have another favour to ask. To carry through the enter­prise I intend to undertake I need gold to bribe a man to give me his assistance. In England that little lot would fetch at least three hundred guineas. Would you oblige me by taking them as security for a loan of a hundred?'

  The Captain prodded the stones with his finger and replied, ‘I do not doubt your word, Mr. Brook; but I know nothing of the value of precious gems. However, I will do as you wish if you are willing to back the transaction with your note of hand.'

  'By all means,' Roger agreed; upon which Jackson pro­duced for him pen, ink, paper and a sand-horn, then unlocked an iron-bound chest. Ten minutes later, having told the Cap­tain that he expected to bring the Senhorita aboard at about one a.m. the following morning, Roger was being rowed ashore, with the gold in his breeches pockets.

  On the stony, wreck-strewn beach he found Baob waiting for him. He had decided that it could only prove dangerous to mislead the big Negro about his intention; so he told him that he needed his assistance not only to get up to Li­sala's room, but that he meant to carry her off. He then out­lined his plan. It was to arrive the following night at midnight on horseback, and with a led horse for Lisala. Having tethered the horses at the back of the big barn, he would go round to its entrance. Together they would raise the heavy ladder to Lisala's window. While Baob kept watch in case any of the slaves in the loft were aroused and possibly came out to see what was happening, he would go up and bring Lisala down. Baob was to tell Lisala what was planned, so that she would be fully dressed in travelling clothes and have a single valise ready packed with only a change of attire, fresh underclothes and her most precious possessions.

  The African showed no surprise at Roger's revelation that he had in mind much more than a secret meeting with Lisala, and displayed his intelligence by asking several shrewd ques­tions. Roger than produced a handful of guineas from his pocket and said:

  'Fifty of these are for you if you are willing to do all that I require of you: twenty-five before we leave, if I can get safely away with the Senhorita.'

  For a slave the sum offered was a fortune. As Baob stared down at the gold, his eyes opened wide, their whites contrast­ing sharply with the black skin of his face. Roger picked five of the guineas from the top of the pile in his palm and offered them to the Negro as an earnest of good faith. Eagerly Baob accepted them, bowed to the ground and swore on St. Balthasar, the patron saint of the slaves, to follow Roger's instruc­tions to the letter.

  The next day Roger could settle to nothing. The hours seemed to drag interminably. At last dusk fell. He supped, as usual, in the coffee room. Another two hours crept by, while the other inmates of the place went to bed. The inn fell silent. Having left in an envelope enough money to settle his score, he crept down the back stairs and let himself out into the yard.

  After supper he had ordered Mobo to saddle his horse, and another that he had hired from Philippe that afternoon, then take them out and walk them quietly up and down at the far end of the big, barren square. Slaves normally never asked questions, and were used to exercising infinite patience; so he was confident that, even if Mobo were left walking the horses for four or five hours, he would continue to do so until his master appeared. Actually he had been out there for only a little over two hours when Roger joined him, took over the horses and told him to remain near the fountain until he re­turned.

  At an easy pace he rode out to the house. There was a quar­ter moon, which gave more light than he could have wished for; but it was not yet high in the sky, so the trees threw big patches of shadow, of which he took advantage wherever it was possi­ble. In the outskirts of the city nothing was moving, and the silence was broken only by the croaking of the tree frogs. With­out incident, he reached the back of the big bam, tied the reins of his horses to a nearby tree and, going round to the front of the barn, found Baob waiting there for him.

  Together, making as little noise as possible, they got out the big ladder, carried it across the yard and set it up under Lisala's window. Roger took from his pocket a small bag con­taining the guineas he had promised the big Negro as the first instalment of his bribe. Baob murmured his thanks, kissed Roger's hand and took the money.

  Roger then mounted the ladder. Lisala's window, like all the others in the house, was in darkness; but it was open. Im­mediately he tapped on the upper pane, the curtains parted and she threw her arms round his neck. After a prolonged kiss he whispered, 'Give me your valise and I'll take it down; then I'll come back for you.'

  As he spoke, he felt the ladder suddenly shift beneath him. Another moment and it was w
renched away to fall sideways with a crash in the yard. Wildly Roger clutched at the win­dow-sill. Dangling there, he heard Baob shout:

  'Thieves! Thieves! A man is breaking into the Senhorita's room!'

  The Betrayal

  At that awful moment, as Roger clung to the sill of Lisala's window, the question that flashed through his mind was: Why should Baob have betrayed him? By doing so, the herculean Negro had nothing to gain. On the contrary, he was throwing away twenty-five pieces of gold—more than he could have earned, had he been a free man, by a year's hard work.

  But this was no time for idle speculation. Tensing his mus­cles, Roger heaved himself up, threw his body across the win­dow-sill, then clambered, breathless, into the room. Baob was still shouting, 'Thieves! Thieves!' and, by now, his shouts had roused the household. From the next room there came the sound of a creaking bed, then the opening and slamming of a door.

  Lisala, staring wide-eyed at Roger, gasped, 'Holy Virgin! What are we to do?'

  Roger drew his sword. His blue eyes were blazing with anger and his lips were drawn back, showing his teeth in a snarl. 'Fight our way out. 'Tis our only chance. Otherwise this means death for me and a living death in a convent for you. Can I but get at that treacherous slave, I'll cut his testicles off and ram them down his throat.'

  He was still speaking when the door was flung open and Dona Christina burst into the room. Her hair was in curlers and her flabby checks unrouged. Without corsets, her breasts sagged beneath her hastily-donned dressing gown, giving her, with her broad bottom, a grotesque pear-shaped appearance. The moonlight was just sufficient for her to recognise Roger. At the sight of him her mouth fell open and her eyes bulged.

  Lisala was standing several feet nearer the door than Roger.

  With the ferocity of a tigress, she flung herself on the old woman, clawing at her face. Screaming, the duenna backed away, tripped and fell. In one spring, Lisala went down on top of her and pounded at her face, yelling:

  ‘I hate you! I hate you! You sanctimonious old cow! For spying on me all these years, take that . . . and that. .. and that!*

  Stooping, Roger seized Lisala and dragged her off, crying, 'Enough! Enough! Quick. Never mind your valise. We've got to get away. It may already be too late.' Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her after him out into the passage.

  The light there was dim, but sufficient for Roger to see the Marquis, sword in hand, hurrying towards him. Halting, he cried, 'My Lord, I beg you to put up your sword and parley with me.'

  'So it is you, Mr. Brook!' de Pombal rapped back. 'Nay, I'll not parley with an unscrupulous adventurer.'

  At that instant another door further down the passage opened and the Senhora de Arahna appeared. Turning his head for a moment, the Marquis snapped, 'Anna, return to your room and lock the door. You can be of no help to me in dealing with this villain.'

  Recognising Roger with Lisala behind him, and realising that this was an attempted elopement, Dona Anna wailed, 'Lisala, what are you about? Dear child, think of your future. To leave your father's roof with a man to whom you are not married would be a terrible thing to do.'

  'He wished to marry me,' Lisala retorted angrily. 'But Papa would not have it. 'Tis he who has driven us to this present pass.'

  The Senhora turned on her brother. 'Joaquim! Our reputa­tion can yet be saved. Mr. Brook is of good birth and some fortune. Far better let them marry than have the name of de Pombal dragged in the mud by such an appalling scandal.'

  'Nay, Anna,' the Marquis cried furiously, 'that I will never do. Have you not realised that this Mr. Brook is no other than Colonel de Breuc, whom we met in Isfahan? For years, on his own admission, he has played a double game, either as a spy for Bonaparte or the English. I know not which, but it is unthinkable that I should give my daughter to such an un­principled rogue.'

  It was Lisala who caused the already boiling pot to run over. With equal fury she shouted back, 'The choice is not yours. He has long been my lover, and I am now carrying his child.'

  The Senhora gave a gasp, 'Dear God! What have we done to deserve this tribulation!' Putting her hand to her head, she slid to the floor in a dead faint.

  De Pombal gave a sudden hiss. Seething with rage, he raised his sword and came at Roger, rasping, 'I'll kill you for this I I'll kill you!'

  Roger threw himself on guard, parried the Marquis' first thrust and cried, 'My Lord, I implore you to desist. I am ac­counted one of the finest swordsmen in the Emperor's army; and I am twenty years your junior. To have to wound you would distress me greatly, but if you continue to lunge at me, I'll have no alternative.'

  Ignoring Roger's warning, de Pombal continued like a maniac to thrust and cut at him. Such wild strokes could be dangerous; but from years of sword-play, Roger found no great difficulty in warding off the attack. For a good minute their blades clashed, slithered and threw out sparks. Suddenly, Roger felt his right ankle grasped, there came a sharp pull upon it which sent him off balance. He lurched, made a wild effort to recover his stance, failed and crashed to the floor face down.

  It was Dona Christina. Bleeding and bartered she had crawled out from Lisala's room unnoticed, while the terrific altercation was taking place. Thrusting an arm past Lisala's feet, she had grabbed Roger's ankle and jerked it towards her with all the strength of which she was capable.

  Catching sight of her duenna's outstretched arm, Lisala stooped, seized the old woman by the hair and banged her head viciously against the wall, until she became unconscious.

  As Roger hit the floor, his breath was driven from his body, and his sword jerked from his hand. He needed no telling that he was now in peril of his life. Still fighting to get air back into his lungs, he managed to swivel round his head and look up. The Marquis towered over him, his eyes gleaming with intense hatred. He had drawn back his sword, so that it now pointed downward, and was about to thrust it with all his force through Roger's body, pinning him to the floor.

  Only just in time, Roger jerked himself aside. The point of the weapon passed within an inch of his side, pierced the woven matting along the passageway, penetrated an inch deep into the floorboards, and remained quivering there.

  Frustrated but undefeated, de Pombal flung himself down on Roger's prostrate body, grasped him with both hands by the throat and strove to throttle him.

  Roger seized his wrists and endeavoured to tear them apart. For what seemed an age, the awful struggle continued. Al­though getting on for sixty, the Marquis had kept himself in good condition. His tall, slim figure was almost entirely bone and muscle. With the strength of a madman he clung on to Roger's neck, forcing his nails into the flesh until blood began to seep from the wounds.

  Squirming, kicking and striking at his attacker's face, Roger, half strangled, fought desperately to wrench himself free. Sud­denly the Marquis gave a long, agonised groan. His grip re­laxed and he collapsed inert on Roger's prostrate body.

  It was the best part of a minute before Roger got his breath back sufficiently to pull dc Pombal's now limp fingers away from his throat and push his unresisting form aside. He could only suppose that this unexpected ending of the conflict was due to his adversary's having had either a heart attack or a haemorrhage of the brain. Still panting, he sat up, then wrig­gled round on to his knees. As he did so, his glance fell on the Marquis's back. The light was dim, yet sufficient for him to see that a narrow object about five inches long was sticking up from it. Next moment, petrified with horror, he realised what it was.

  The roads being dangerous, it was not unusual for ladies in southern Europe, when going on a journey, to wear a sti­letto under their skirts, strapped to their leg. Lisala evidently followed this custom. She must have whipped out the weapon and driven the long, thin blade up to the hilt through her father's back straight down into his heart.

  Staggering to his feet, Roger stared at her. With her eyes half closed, her lips drawn back, she returned his stare, and whispered in a hoarse voice, 'I... I had to do it.' Then, with a sud
den change of manner, she burst out defiantly, 'He would have forced me to take the veil. I'd kill a dozen men rather than live buried alive as a nun.'

  Roger swallowed hard, picked up his sword and muttered, ‘What's done is done. Come! We are not yet out of the wood.' Lisala's aunt still lay where she had fallen, in the doorway of her room. She had not come out of her faint, but showed signs of doing so. Stepping over her legs, he led the way downstairs.

  Normally he would not have been afraid of the slaves, as for one of them to give a white man even a surly look could lead to a terrible thrashing, and to lay a hand on one meant certain death. But Baob was of a different kidney and, having betrayed him, would have good reason to fear retribution if Roger got away. It was an unpleasant possibility that, on the excuse that Roger was carrying off the Marquis' daughter against her will, Baob might induce the others to attack him.

  There were, too, the Portuguese servants de Pombal had brought with him: a valet, a cook and the Senhora de Arahna's personal maid. Their quarters were in a separate wing of the house, on the far side of the staircase. As Roger came down the hall, he found them crouching there together, apprehen­sively. The valet, Miguel, was holding a pistol; but his hand was trembling.