CONTRABAND
Dennis Wheatley
Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones
To
my old friend
FRANK VAN ZWANENBERG
In memory of many kindnesses
and because he likes
‘straight’ thrillers
Contents
Introduction
1 Midnight at the Casino
2 The Coded Telegram
3 An Interrupted Idyll
4 Enter an Eminent Edwardian
5 Superintendent Marrowfat Takes Certain Steps
6 The Secret of Mont Couple
7 In the Silent Hours
8 A Night of Surprises
9 The Real Menace to Britain
10 The Strange Tenant of Quex Park
11 The Beautiful Hungarian
12 One Up to Gerry Wells
13 Gregory Sallust has Cause to Hate his job
14 By the Brown Owl Inn on Romney Marshes
15 Glorious Day
16 Hideous Night
17 The Raid on Barter Street
18 The Deciphering of the Code
19 Joy and Frustration
20 The Terrible Dilemma
21 The Trap is Sprung
22 Desperate Methods at Windmill Creek
23 Where ‘Sea-Nymphs Hourly Ring his Knell’
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
Midnight at the Casino
When Gregory Sallust first saw the girl it was already nearly midnight on the last day of his holiday. He had made a leisurely tour of Normandy, stopping at some of the less pretentious inns where the cuisine was still unspoiled by the summer tourist traffic, and was ending up with three days of riotous living at Deauville.
It was a little early yet for that: playground of the rich. Another ten days and la grande semaine would bring the wealthy and the fashionable, with their locust crowd of hangers-on, from every city in Europe; but the Casino was fairly full. English, French, and Americans jostled each other at the tables while here and there a less familiar type of face proclaimed a true Latin, Scandanavian, or Slav.
The women, for the most part, were middle-aged or elderly, except for a sprinkling of professional harpies. The majority of girls who filled the tennis-courts, the bar du soleil, and the bathing beach by day would be dancing, Gregory knew, and it was fairly easy for a practised eye like his to sort the few, who stood by their mothers or were gambling at the ‘low’ tables for a few francs, from their more adventurous sisters. The clothes of the latter, their jewels and general air of casual indifference to their surroundings, gave away no secrets; it was the way in which they watched the faces of their men rather than the piles of plaques, which represented so many thousand francs, that indicated to the shrewd observer where their real interests lay.
Gregory glanced again at the girl who had just come in; then lowered his eyes to the man she was accompanying, a strange little figure, now seated at the table. He was not a dwarf yet he was curiously ill-proportioned. His body was frail and childlike, but his head massive and powerful. From it a shock of silver hair swept back, giving him a benign and priest-like appearance, but his rat-trap mouth and curiously pale-blue eyes belied any suggestion of mildness.
Catching sight of him had first drawn Gregory Sallust’s attention to the girl, for Gregory knew him, which was not surprising since he knew most people of importance.
From his public school he had gone straight into the war but a nasty head wound had put an end to his trench service and he had been seconded to Intelligence. His superiors there thought him a cynical but brainy devil and came to value him as a reliable man who would stick at nothing to collect vital information. They had kept him on, specially employed in Paris after the armistice, during the whole period of the Peace Negotiations, and it was then that he had first co
me in contact with so many famous personalities.
At the time of the currency collapse in Central Europe he had left the Service to undertake certain confidential work for English banking interests in Vienna, and when that job had ended he had drifted into journalism in order to supplement his private income.
That had led, a year or two later, to his being sent out to the Far East as war correspondent to one of the big London ‘dailies’. On his return he had remained unemployed except for occasional literary work until an old friend of his had recommended him, as highly suitable to undertake a special investigation needing secrecy and brains, to a group of men who controlled one of Britain’s greatest commercial corporations. Gregory had accepted the offer and as a preliminary had taken his fortnight’s ‘holiday’ in Normandy. He was due back to make his first report the following day.
The girl remained standing behind her companion’s chair, and Gregory watched her covertly. He was wondering if she was a poule de luxe or just some friend’s girl in whom the old man was taking a fatherly interest; but Gregory knew that he was not the sort of old man to derive the least pleasure from the innocent conversation of respectable young women. He was almost a recluse, having cut himself off from all social life years before, and even when he travelled he rarely appeared in the public rooms of the hotels where he stayed owing to a sensitivity about his physical shortcomings. On the other hand, he was by no means the type of old rip who travels with pseudo ‘nieces’ in his entourage. He was reputed to be colossally rich, but Gregory had never heard the word ‘mistress’ breathed in connection with his name.
She must be a poule, Gregory decided, but a devilish expensive one. Probably most of the heavy bracelets that loaded down her white arms were fake, but you cannot fake clothes as you can diamonds, and he knew that those simple lines of rich material which rose to cup her well-formed breasts had cost a pretty penny. Besides, she was very very beautiful.
A little frown of annoyance wrinkled Gregory’s forehead, catching at the scar which lifted his left eyebrow until his face took on an almost satanic look. What a pity, he thought, that he was returning to England the following day. If only he had seen her soon after his arrival at Deauville it would have been fun to get to know her.
Gregory Sallust was no ascetic, yet it was quite a time since any woman had loomed on his horizon about whom he had felt that it was really worth while to exert himself. This girl was just the type to rouse him from his lethargy into sudden intense activity. He knew from past experience that he could sweep most women off their feet inside a week with the intense excitement of a hectic, furious, laughing, yet determined pursuit, and what magnificent elation could be derived from carrying a rich man’s darling off from under his very nose despite her better sense and the rich man’s opposition. Gregory had done it before and he would certainly have attempted it in this case if only he had had a few days left to work in.
The more he studied her, between making bets, the more the desire to do so strengthened in his mind. He could never bring himself to be anything but ‘uncle-ish’ to ‘nice’ girls, however attractive, and he barred respectable married women, except on rare occasions, on practical grounds. The aftermath of broken hearts and tear-stained faces with possible threats of being cited as co-respondent by an injured husband was, he considered, too heavy a price to pay. He preferred, when he took the plunge into an affair, a woman whom he could be reasonably certain was content to play his own game. Nothing too easy—in fact it was essential to his pleasure that she should move in luxurious surroundings and be distinguished of her kind, and so quite inaccessible except to men of personality even if they had the wealth which he had not. Then, when victory was achieved, they could laugh together over their ruses, delight in one another to the full and, when the time came as it surely must, part before satiation; a little sadly, perhaps, but as friends who had enriched life’s experience by a few more perfect moments.
‘Rien ne va plus’ came the level voice of the croupier and Gregory realised, too late, that he had failed to place his stake.
Really, he thought, I’m behaving like an idiot and if I’m not careful I shall be thinking of that lovely face of hers for weeks. I’ve known this sort of thing happen to me before, so I’d better go home to bed before I get her too much on my mind.
He pushed the cards away from him and, collecting his chips, stood up. Then, just as he left the table, a simple action caught his eye while the players sat tense receiving their cards for a new deal.
The elderly man had pulled out his watch, but he was not looking at it. He held it in the palm of his hand and the girl was gazing at it over his shoulder. She nodded and, turning from the table without a word, walked quickly away.
Gregory knew that it was just on midnight and, as he watched the receding figure, so graceful in its sheath of heavy silk, he paused to wonder just what lay behind that little act. He was certain that neither of the two had spoken. Was the old man sending her somewhere or reminding her of an appointment? Anyway, she was just leaving the salle—and alone!
The temptation was too much for Gregory. True, he had only a dozen hours or so before he must pack and catch his boat but much could be done in a dozen hours. With a long loping stride he made his way to the entre-salle.
Before she appeared in her wraps he had already collected his light coat and dark soft hat and had a taxi waiting a few yards from the entrance of the casino.
Too old a bird to attempt to speak to her, he watched, a little surprised that no car was waiting to pick her up, as she walked down the steps and turned to the south along the gardens which fringed the plage. He gave her about five minutes’ start, then boarded his taxi, giving the man precise instructions in fluent French.
The taxi slid along the asphalt road, easing down to a crawl when the lady once more came in sight. A moment later she turned round the far corner of the Normandie. The taxi speeded up until it came level with the corner. Gregory peered out. Opposite the Deauville branch of the famous jewellers, Van Cleffe et Appel, situated in the side of the Normandie Hotel, stood a large limousine. The girl was just getting in.
‘Follow that car,’ said Gregory softly to his driver, and then sat back again.
The limousine ran silently through the almost deserted streets, crossed the little Place with its now darkened bars, dress shops, and confisserie, then took the road to Trouville. The parent town, once fashionable in its own right but now, as Margate is to Cliftonville, the holiday resort of greater but less wealthy crowds, lay only a mile or so away, and their route ran through the suburbs which connect the two.
At Trouville Harbour the limousine halted. The taxi pulled up in the shadow of some buildings two hundred yards behind. Gregory turned up the collar of his coat to hide his white shirt-front and with his soft hat pulled well down to conceal his face leaned out of the window.
The girl had descended from her car and evidently dismissed it; for the limousine swung about and sped back towards the big villas and great hotels along the Deauville plage.
A man came forward from behind the deserted customs shed. Quiet greetings were exchanged. The girl called a solitary taxi that still lingered on the rank. She pushed the man in before her and bent forward to whisper an address to the driver then she too got in and the taxi moved off towards the centre of the town. Gregory sat back and his taxi followed.
For a few moments they wound in and out the old-fashioned twisting streets, then Gregory’s taxi pulled up once more. The other stood some way along a narrow turning outside a lighted doorway. The man and the girl were getting out. Gregory could see now that the man was hatless and wore breeches topped by a leather airman’s coat.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered as he stepped down into the street, softly closing the door of his cab behind him. The driver grinned. ‘C’est une maison de passe, M’sieur. L’autre a de la chance ce soir.’
‘Thank you for nothing,’ Gregory snapped. Then he smiled resignedly. ‘C’est la fortune
de guerre’ he translated the English idiom literally but incorrectly for the driver’s benefit. It did not always suit him to draw attention to his proficiency in foreign languages; then, being a very thorough person, he took the trouble to walk quietly down the street to verify his taximan’s statement.
The other taxi, now paid off, had driven on. The place seemed to be a cheap café open to the street. A few night birds were sitting silent, with drinks before them, at the little tables. The girl and the man were not among them but Gregory’s quick eye had immediately noted a side door giving separate entrance from the street to the rooms above. He shrugged his slightly stooping shoulders impatiently. What an ass he had been to bother. The girl was a cocotte all right, and this was undoubtedly a ‘house of accommodation’. It surprised him a little that so gloriously lovely a lady should consent to meet her lover in a sordid joint, but he knew well enough that women care nothing for such things if they happen to have got the great madness for a particular man. The old chap might be running her but obviously she was of the type who insist on having their freedom at certain times, and this was one of them.
He was just about to turn away when a sharp cry came from the room above the café. It was a little muffled by the thick window curtains, through which chinks of light filtered, but Gregory’s ears were almost abnormally keen that night.
A sudden grin spread over his lean face. In three strides he had crossed the narrow street. His raised foot crashed against the flimsy lock and the private door to the rooms above swung open with a bang.
Crouched like a leopard, he raced up the narrow flight of stairs, dashed across the landing, and flung his weight against the only door beneath which there appeared a streak of light.
The room was not the cabinet particulier which he had expected but almost a replica of the café below. In one corner four men were writhing in a struggling heap. Three wore the blue cotton blouses of French dock labourers. The fourth, who lay beneath them, was the fellow in the airman’s coat. The girl stood nearby with distended eyes, her hands gripping the sides of a little table over which she leaned, apparently too paralysed by fear to scream.
Contraband Page 1
