THREE INQUISITIVE PEOPLE
Dennis Wheatley
Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones
Contents
Chapter
Introduction
1 Rex Van Ryn Misses Mr. Coward’s New Revue
2 The Duke De Richleau is Inquisitive
3 How the Letter “S” May Mean Murder Instead of Accidental Death
4 The Polite Young Man Who Wore White Kid Gloves
5 The Missing Pearls
6 Mr. Rex Van Ryn Also Becomes Inquisitive
7 The “Dark Haunt” of Silky
8 The Unofficial Policemen and the Unofficial Crook
9 Mr. Simon Aron Entertains
10How Lady Felicity Spent the Small Hours of the Morning
11Mr. Granville Schatz Asks Some Very Searching Questions
12 Superintendent Marrofat Admits Temporary Defeat
13 Mr. Simon Aron Himself Becomes Inquisitive
14 A Page From the Life of Richard Eaton
15 “Here’s to the Crime”
16 The Sensitive Fingers of the Duke
17 Three Inquisitive People Plan Their Campaign
18 News Out of Hatton Garden
19 Simon Aron Makes Insinuations
20 How the Duke Wiled Away the Hours Between Twelve-thirty and Three
21 The Duke de Richleau Dabbles in Finance
22 “Malice and Pain Coming From a Fair Woman”
23 The Curious Behaviour of Mr. Carrington Smythe
24 How Advantage May Be Taken of a Most Un-pleasant Situation
25 Simon Aron Goes to Brixton Gaol
26 The Defence Triumphant
27 Lady Felicity Valets Rex Van Ryn
Epilogue. Simon Aron Takes a Holiday
A Note on the Author
Introduction
Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.
As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.
There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.
There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.
He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ’all his books’.
Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.
He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.
He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.
The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.
Dominic Wheatley, 2013
1
Rex Van Ryn Misses Mr. Coward’s New Revue
Mr. Rex Van Ryn placed one gigantic hand upon the glass doors of the Mausoleum Club, pressed lightly, and passed within.
Green marble columns and a marble floor, a broad stairway carpeted with thick red pile, two enormous portraits so darkened by time as to be almost featureless in the dim light that struggled to combat the all-pervading fog of the November night.
Two strides brought Mr. Van Ryn opposite the absurd little roofed-in mahogany box, an oasis of brightness in the big, empty hall, which housed an elderly man in dull livery.
The elderly man was casting up figures in a small book; he had a bald head, and his wrinkled face was slightly reminiscent of an antiquated turtle.
“The Duke de Richleau,” said the tall visitor. “Would he be in?” And the manner of his words rather than his intonation disclosed the fact that he was an American.
The turtle-faced man did not look up, he sucked the stub of his pencil, jotted down a total and inquired: “Have you an appointment with His Grace?”
“I have,” declared the American briefly.
“Thank you, sir.” Without glancing to right or left, the porter struck a small hand-bell, which gave one clear single note; out of the darkness of the hall appeared a diminutive page. “And your name, sir?” The man looked up at last.
“Rex Mackintosh Van Ryn.”
“Thank you, sir. Boy, Mr. Rex Mackintosh Van Ryn to see His Grace the Duke de Richleau.”
With his eyes alone the turtle-faced man indicated a long and apparently uncomfortable horsehair settee opposite the box. “If you will kindly be seated, sir, we will ascertain if His Grace is in.”
“Mr. Rex Mackintosh Van Ryn to see the Duke de Richleau,” piped the page in a shrill treble.
“‘Is Grace, the Duke de Richleau,” corrected the bald man sharply, flashing into momentary animation; after which he drew the racing page of the evening paper towards him and returned to his seemingly endles
s computations.
Van Ryn did not accept the proffered invitation of the horsehair bench. It needed more than the solemnity of this aged institution to awe the fifteen stone of well-shaped matter and lively mind that made this young American such a popular figure among his contemporaries from Long Island to Juan-les-Pins.
Instead, he thrust his large hands into the voluminous pockets of his well-cut trousers, and began to pace the hall.
At the moment he was busy wondering what this foreign duke would be like. He recalled his last interview with Van Ryn the elder.
“Now, Rex,” the President of the Chesapeake Banking and Trust Corporation had said, “you’ve got a whole stack of introductions to the right people on the other side, and you wouldn’t use the half, even if I let you stay twice as long as I’ve a mind to in that London office of ours, but I do want you to make contact with the Duke. We people spend a lot of time seeing the Pyramids, and Notre Dame, and Stratford, and places—well, the Duke, to my mind, is all these in one, he’ll give you the idea what Europe really stands for—and, incidentally, why on this side we’re not quite so marvellous as we sometimes like to think. That’s not our fault, mind—we started late, and you can’t get seven-year-old whisky out of a home still. But it is up to your generation to make the difference—get that?”
Yes, Rex had “got that,” and the old man was a great sport, but when he said a thing he meant it—otherwise Rex would never have been moving slowly up and down like a large fish in the dim green waters of this vast tank-like hall.
All the same, it was a bore, Rex reflected; more than a month had elapsed since his arrival in London before he had even sent in the letter of introduction to the Duke, and during that time his friends in the American Club had seen to it that he never had a dull moment—but even now he wished that he had wriggled out of the polite invitation that he had received a few days before. He had had to leave the Mowbray’s cocktail party early, and tonight was the first night of Coward’s new revue—he had wanted to take Felicity to that, and now she had probably gone with some other fellow—he’d see her at Irma’s dance later, of course, still it would have been more fun to dine Felicity first, do the show with her, and then go on. Perhaps she was at home this evening—he’d slip away after dinner just as soon as he could ring up—suggest calling for her, and then, with any luck, have half an hour alone with her if her mother was not in.
His square, ugly, attractive face lit up at the idea, then a frown creased his brows: “Damn the old man and his antiquated Duke, they’d be bored to death with each other for sure!”
An end was put to his reflections by the reappearance of the small page.
“If you please, sir, will you step this way,” he piped.
Up the broad stairs of that tank-like hall, down a long corridor, and then through silent doors into a gust of warm light—a lofty, well-proportioned room, with great fires blazing beneath handsome chimney-pieces, soft carpets, and tables strewn with literature of every kind, only a scattered handful of black-clad men, the nearest of whom rose to greet Van Ryn.
So this was the Duke de Richleau. The young American studied him closely. A slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, an aquiline nose and greying hair, a thin, delicate face that seemed as if it should have ended in a pointed beard; beneath grey “devil’s” eyebrows were grey eyes flecked with yellow, of an almost piercing brilliance. It needed only the cordon of some distinguished order across the white shirt-front of his almost too perfect evening dress to imagine him the accredited representative of some great foreign power in the days before the war.
Quite suddenly the rather grim face broke into a charming smile, the Duke extended both his slender, fragile hands.
“My dear boy,” he said slowly taking Van Ryn’s hands in his for a moment, “it is a great pleasure that you give an old man by sacrificing one of your evenings.”
For a moment Van Ryn was at a loss, the words so aptly expressed exactly what his feelings had been only a few moments before, yet as he looked into the almost supernaturally brilliant eyes which regarded him with shrewd, humorous kindliness he had a feeling that it was the Duke who had sacrificed an evening to him; but only for a moment, a broad smile dawned slowly on the younger man’s face. “It’s good of you, sir,” he murmured, “to have me come.”
“On the contrary.” De Richleau led him to a deep arm-chair.
“People like myself are no longer of any moment in this world of ours—even the fact that we have inherited an ancient name nullifies any little aptitude for affairs which we may have, whereas your father’s voice is a power in your great country; and what he is today you may be tomorrow.”
Van Ryn smiled again; he had been far too busy indulging in his passion for sport, surf-riding and dabbling in the lighter kinds of love, these last half-dozen happy years since he had left Harvard, to take a serious interest in world affairs; but occasional talks with his father, and his father’s friends, had given him enough understanding to appreciate the truth that underlay the half-humorous statement of his host. He gave another glance at the broad forehead and clever, sensitive face, and it drifted through his mind that this man might be a great force in the world if only he cared to enter the turmoil of modern business. He voiced something of his thoughts.
“But you, sir, why d’you say you’re old? I believe you could give my old man points—if you sat down to it.”
“You think so?” The Duke gave his charming but ever so slightly cynical smile.
“How nice of you. Well, sometimes I have dreamed for a little of sinking my identity, to start life again in your great country. The big business man, eh? But no—truly—I am not so old, only perhaps a little more than twice your age, yet I am old in spirit. I have seen and done too much in my fifty-six years for anything really to be worth a great effort any more. Besides,” he added on a lighter note, as he reached for the decanter that waited upon the little table before them, “I should be forced to give up the very passable sherry we have in this club. I hope that you will forgive that I cannot offer you a cocktail.”
Van Ryn took the proffered glass. Like all his educated compatriots, he was just a little supersensitive about his race; the lighter literature of the last decade has not made life easier for the cultured American in Europe; too many people have been apt to accept the portrait of the rich, but vulgar, Middle Westerner as typical of the whole. The young man’s face was clouded by a frown.
“I like cocktails,” he declared firmly, “and lots of ’em; but in this place they just wouldn’t do—and this sherry,” he sipped appreciatively, “I’ll say it’s a marvellous wine.”
The elder man leaned forward and placed a hand upon his knee.
“My dear fellow,” he began, “forgive me. I, too, at times drink cocktails—but that leads to the reason why I have asked you here to dine. It would have been easy to take you to Claridge’s or the Ritz, and, since they have no sherry that I care to drink, we should assuredly have drunk cocktails together, but I felt that you must know these places as well as I, and that if you were in any way your father’s son, it would interest you to step back into the days of Queen Victoria for an hour or so. Therefore I asked you to dine in this quaint old place, behind closed doors through which the word socialism has never penetrated, and women do not come.”
“That was a marvellous idea, and a very kind one, too,” Van Ryn grinned. All his natural good-humour had returned to him.
“You know,” he added ingenuously, “I didn’t want to come, not a bit, but the old man made a real show about my meeting you, and now I have—honestly, I’d have kicked myself if I’d missed the opportunity.”
The Duke pulled for a moment at his long Turkish cigarette.
“That is the charm,” he said suddenly, “of you Americans, your utter frankness—a most delightful trait; and I, even with the interest I have in youth—so often disappointed yet always tempted to try again—I feared to waste another of my precious eveni
ngs, in which there is always so much to do, upon another commonplace young man. Come, my dear fellow, another glass of this excellent sherry; then let us make the best of each other and dine.”
2
The Duke De Richleau is Inquisitive
Some two hours later, de Richleau and his guest sat entrenched behind long cigars; they had just savoured the last drops of a sixty-year old bottle of Madeira, and both were filled with the sense of well-being that succeeds a carefully chosen dinner and fine wines.
“What are your plans for the evening?” the Duke inquired. “If you are free, I am entirely at your disposal; as it happens, my old friend Wilberforce is laid up with a sprained ankle, he is bound to be at home, and since you are interested in aeroplane design, it might amuse you to meet him; few people know more about the history and, perhaps, the future of, the aeroplane. But there, at your age I imagine your evenings are devoted to more pressing matters?” He lifted his slanting eyebrows with a smile.
“Well,” Van Ryn hesitated, “that’s really kind of you, and I’d just love to meet Wilberforce some time, he’s a great man, but tonight I’m supposed to drop in on Lady Ingram’s party.”
“Ah, well, in that case, since you are to stay in your father’s London office for some time, it is easily arranged. We will go then to my flat in Curzon Street and we will look up those addresses in Paris which I promised you, then my car can take you on. Would you care for a liqueur brandy before we go?”
“No, thanks all the same, that Madeira was just too marvellous—I’d hate to ruin the flavour of that yet awhile.”
Van Ryn rose as he spoke, the two men passed out of the club, and the waiting footman tucked them into the Duke’s great Hispano Suiza that stood ready at the entrance. Slowly the big car made its way through the gloom of the fog-laden streets, but the distance was short, and a few moments later they drew up before Errol House in Curzon Street.
The flat was on the first floor of the blocks and they did not therefore use the lift, but walked up the wide stone stairway.
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