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    The White Witch of the South Seas
    The White Witch of the South Seas
    The White Witch of the South Seas
    Ebook477 pages8 hours

    The White Witch of the South Seas

    By Dennis Wheatley

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    'Before there was James Bond, there was Gregory Sallust.' Tina Rosenberg, Salon.com
    The White Witch of the South Seas is the eleventh in Dennis Wheatley's bestselling Gregory Sallust series featuring the debonair spy Gregory Sallust, a forerunner to Ian Fleming's James Bond.

    A spellbinding story of adventure and intrigue told in the true Wheatley tradition, featuring Gregory Sallust who, when visiting Rio de Janeiro, becomes drawn into perilous action. Circumstance leads to him becoming the friend of a young South Seas Rajah, Ratu James Omboluku, there to secure finance to recover treasure from a sunken ship lying off the island he rules; and he intends to use this treasure for the betterment of his people.

    But others, led by the unscrupulous Pierre Lacost, are also planning to recover the treasure, and it is not long before Gregory, having an affair with the passionate Manon de Bois-Tracy, finds himself surrounded by murder, magic, blackmail, kidnapping and some of the most ruthless thugs he has ever encountered.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateDec 3, 2013
    ISBN9781448212828
    The White Witch of the South Seas
    Author

    Dennis Wheatley

    Dennis Yates Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world's best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s. His Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming's James Bond stories. Born in South London, he was the eldest of three children of an upper-middle-class family, the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College. Soon after his expulsion Wheatley became a British Merchant Navy officer cadet on the training ship HMS Worcester. During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain. During his life, he wrote more than 70 books which sold over 50 million copies.

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      Book preview

      The White Witch of the South Seas - Dennis Wheatley

      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 Duke 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 naval 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

      Do join the Dennis Wheatley mailing list to keep abreast of all things new for Dennis Wheatley. You will receive initially two exclusive short stories by Dennis Wheatley and occasionally we will send you updates on new editions and other news relating to him.

      www.bloomsbury.com/denniswheatley

      1

      Doomed to Die in a Ditch

      Gregory Sallust was dining alone at the Copacabana Palace, the most luxurious of the many hotels situated along the great bay to the south of Rio de Janeiro, which is Brazil’s most famous playground.

      Since losing his beloved Erika he had spent much of his time alone; not from necessity, as he had many friends in Europe and, although no longer young, was still very attractive to women, but owing to a restlessness that impelled him to spend the greater part of each year travelling.

      To most places where he intended to spend a fortnight or more he took introductions; but new acquaintances could not be expected to give him all their time and, as no woman could replace Erika, for him the casual affaires he had indulged in had been short-lived. In consequence, he had become quite used frequently to going to his room immediately after dinner and reading in bed.

      But tonight he had an engagement, and one which promised to be very interesting. On arriving in Rio he had looked up an old war-time friend, Colonel Hugo Wellesley, who was now Military Attaché at the British Embassy. During the past few days Hugo and his wife Patricia had entertained him most kindly, and the Colonel had arranged for them to attend a Macumba ceremony.

      Macumba is the form of Voodoo widely practised in Brazil, and ceremonies of a kind were put on regularly to attract tourist money; but this was to be the real thing, from which all non-practitioners were normally excluded. The all-powerful Chief of Police had secured agreement for Hugo and his party to be present and, in case of trouble, they were being provided with a police escort.

      Gregory’s knowledge of the Black Arts was confined to his reluctant co-operation with a Jewish Satanist during the last years of the Second World War, when they had made use of Hitler’s belief in the occult to drive him to commit suicide instead of leaving Berlin for the Bavarian Alps where, with a still undefeated army, he could have prolonged Germany’s resistance. Voodoo and its allied cults were entirely new territory to Gregory; so, although he had no intention whatever of allowing himself to become involved, he was looking forward to the ceremony as a fascinating entertainment.

      At half past nine he asked the hall porter to get him a taxi. As he stood waiting for a few minutes outside the hotel, he could see the whole curving sweep of the splendid Copacabana Bay. It was early January, so in Rio high summer and during the daytime the long beach was black with people. Even at this hour innumerable couples lay scattered upon it. Thousands more, enjoying the comparative cool of the evening after the long, hot day, were strolling along the promenade, lit by the myriad lights from hotels, shops and cafés.

      The city of Rio consists of several valleys which run like gaps between outspread fingers into the great mountain range that cuts it off from the interior, and Copacabana is separated from Rio itself by a lofty spur that runs right down into the sea; so Gregory’s taxi took him through a long tunnel under the spur, then through the streets in the nearest valley to a small park with many lovely tropical trees. High up on one side of the park stood the President’s Palace and, beyond it, still higher up and backing on to a mountain, the fine residential block in which the Wellesleys had an apartment.

      On Gregory’s arrival he found the small party already assembled. His host was a lithe, dark, handsome man in his late forties, his hostess a pretty blonde with merry blue eyes. When he had selected a daiquiri from a tray presented by a white-coated houseman, she introduced him to her other guests—a Brazilian couple named da Fonseca, a Madame Manon de Bois-Tracy and Captain Candido Sousa from Rio Police Headquarters.

      The da Fonsecas were middle-aged and, judging from the Senhora’s jewels, very wealthy. For a while the conversation became general, then the da Fonsecas resumed an animated discussion they had been having earlier with Hugo in Portuguese. The Police Captain—a big, round-faced, jovial man—spoke only broken English, but in an unembarrassed spate of words was obviously endeavouring to impress Patricia; so, having accepted a second drink, Gregory turned his attention to Madame de Bois-Tracy, whom he had rightly assumed to be French.

      She was of medium height and what the French term a ‘belle-laide’ when they wish to describe a woman who is not beautiful but definitely alluring. Her attractions lay in a pair of magnificent brown eyes beneath delicately tapering eyebrows and a pretty figure that her dress sense enabled her to display to the best advantage. Her nose was snub, with wide nostrils, her lips thick, which suggested a dash of coloured blood somewhere in her ancestry, and her complexion was sallow. Gregory put her age down as a little short of forty and was quick to realise that she was a sophisticated woman of the world who could prove intriguing and amusing.

      The outer wall of the main room in the Wellesleys’ apartment was one huge window which could be wound down during the great heats—as it was now, for the evening was oppressively hot and sultry. Having been there in the daytime, Gregory knew that from the window there was one of the finest views imaginable. It looked out over the President’s Palace and hundreds of other roofs to the world-famous entrance to Rio harbour and to Sugar Loaf Mountain, the outline of which could still be seen against a background of blue-black sky, twinkling with a myriad of stars. Further off, across a wide sheet of water, lay another mountainous shore. The Portuguese explorer Gonçalvo Coelho had come upon this great area of bays, capes and estuaries on January 1st, 1502. On sailing up into it, he had assumed that he was entering the mouth of a broad river and so erroneously named it River of January. Darkness now hid a great part of this magnificent panorama; but, from eighty feet above the park, which lay immediately below, thousands of lights gleamed in the dusk, giving this valley of the city a fairy-like quality.

      By unspoken agreement Gregory and Manon de Bois-Tracy carried their drinks over to the wrought-iron balustrade installed to prevent children or incautious people from falling from the big window. Finding her English halting, he changed his conversation to French, as he was fluent in several languages. She told him that she was in Rio only on a holiday and that her home was in Fiji. Friends there had given her an introduction to the wife of the First Secretary of the British Embassy, and it was at dinner with them that she had met the Wellesleys. Afterwards she and Patricia had chanced to talk about the occult, and it was this that had led to her being invited to witness the Macumba ceremony that night.

      As she talked, in an attractive, slightly lisping voice, she was studying Gregory acutely. Owing to the habitual stoop with which he walked, his lean head thrust a little forward like a bird of prey, he appeared shorter than his five foot eleven inches. His hair had turned nearly white, owing to the strain he had endured while a secret agent for long periods in Germany during the Second World War; yet his face belied his age. The only two furrows on it were deep laughter lines curving from nose to chin on either side of his mouth. An old scar ran up from the corner of his left eyebrow to his forehead, on which the thick hair came down smoothly in a widow’s peak. From long habit, when speaking in a foreign language, he used his hands to stress the views he uttered. On international affairs his opinions were well informed, highly practical and always tinged with a cynical humour.

      Gregory had not been talking to Manon de Bois-Tracy for very long before she decided that he was quite an exceptional man—considerably older than herself, but nonetheless attractive for that, and one with whom it might prove highly rewarding to become on intimate terms; while Gregory had come to the conclusion that she was the most unusual and intriguing woman he had met for a long time.

      Both of them had been in Rio for some days and to begin with they had compared their impressions of the city. She thought the main streets and shops unworthy of such a great metropolis, but the scenery superb. They had both been up the Corcovado, a rocky peak two thousand three hundred feet high dominating the whole area, from the top of which rises a one-hundred-foot-high statue of Christ, and agreed that the view from it must be one of the finest in the world. He found the obvious poverty of the masses depressing and spoke of the appalling shanty towns on the slopes of the mountains adjacent to the city, where tens of thousands of people lived without sanitation. But she shrugged that off, remarking that such a state of things was not unusual in countries as poor as Brazil, and that at least the people had ample food and appeared happy.

      ‘I’ll grant you that,’ he said. ‘And, anyway, Brazil can take credit for being one of the few countries in the world that have solved the colour problem. There really is equality here between whites, Negroes, native Indians and the people with an infinite variety of mixed blood.’

      She then asked him what form he thought the ceremony they were to see that night would take.

      ‘I have only a vague idea,’ he replied, ‘but I expect they will all smoke marijuana and dance until they have worked themselves up into a frenzy. Then some of them will have what appear to be epileptic fits, froth at the mouth, throw themselves on the ground, squirm about and prophesy.’

      Manon nodded. ‘When they behave like that they believe themselves to be possessed by one of their gods, don’t they? But we won’t be able to understand what they say, so if there is no more to it than that it doesn’t promise to be very exciting.’

      ‘You never know.’ Gregory gave her a slow smile. ‘I’ve heard that at times these shows end up in a general orgy.’

      She raised one eyebrow, then said quite calmly, ‘That would be fun and I’m all for it—providing I am not expected to participate.’

      His smile widened to a grin. ‘I’ll see to it that you don’t have to—provided, of course, there is some hope of your rewarding me afterwards.’

      As she laughed, she showed two rows of even white teeth. ‘I’ll make no promises, but, to echo your own words just now, You never know.’

      Their attention was momentarily distracted by raised voices behind them. Turning, they saw that Captain Sousa was insisting that the Senhora da Fonseca should leave her jewels in the Wellesleys’ apartment. Still protesting, she took them off. Manon followed suit with her more modest jewellery and Hugo collected the valuable pile of trinkets to lock up in his safe.

      Captain Sousa then talked to them for a while about Macumba. He said that throughout the whole of Central and South America very similar cults had grown up from a blending of the religion of the native Indians, the superstitions brought over by the Negro slaves from Africa and the imposing on both of the Roman Catholic faith. The vast majority of the people in these countries would tell you that they were Christians, and they regularly attended the ceremonies of the Church; but they also continued to believe in the potency of the old gods and worshipped them during midnight meetings held deep in the jungle. How widespread the belief in Macumba was could be judged from Copacabana Beach on New Year’s Eve, when the sea was white for a quarter of a mile out with the tens of thousands of lilies thrown into it by Macumba votaries to propitiate Yemanja, the goddess of the ocean.

      These meetings were conducted by both men and women, who were known either as ‘Godfathers’ or ‘Godmothers’. They said the prayers, invoked the spirits and, with a trident, stirred a cauldron from which rose lurid flames. Meanwhile, initiates of both sexes, already under the influence of drugs, performed a dance which continued for several hours. From time to time a spirit would enter into one of the dancers. He or she would then break from the ring, gyrate wildly and become the voice of the spirit, calling out messages from the gods. Then, exhausted, the possessed would fall writhing and jerking to the ground.

      With one exception everyone wore white, as the symbol of good. The exception—a concession to the doctrines of the Christian Church—was a representative of the Devil, who was painted red and wore red clothes.

      Finally, Sousa told his listeners that they must make no comments, because the ceremony they were about to witness was normally attended only by believers and, should they be suspected of ridiculing it, there would be serious trouble. But provided they remained quiet all should be well. Recently quite a number of socialites in Rio had become converts to Macumba, so the good clothes worn by the members of the party would not alone give them away as non-believers.

      After a last drink they all went down in the lift to two large, waiting cars. In addition to police drivers, a detective was in one and a police-woman in the other. Introductions were made, everyone shook hands, then the party of eleven squeezed into the cars and they set off.

      They left the city by one of the tunnels and continued for several miles up into the mountains. It was now almost pitch dark, but on either side of the road they could make out dense jungle. After some twenty minutes they came upon a long line of parked cars. A few hundred yards further on, their cars pulled up and the party got out, to be led by Captain Sousa up a long flight of some sixty steps cut out of the bare earth, which was kept in place only by rough pieces of wood. On the steps they passed several chickens which had been decapitated, and, as they mounted, the rhythmic beat of many drums grew ever louder.

      At the top of this flight they emerged on to a small plateau that had been made into a primitive auditorium. In the centre there was an oblong, open space about the size of a tennis court, surrounded by a waist-high wall. A line of tumbledown huts faced one side of the open space; on the side opposite there were benches for the congregation and, at the far end, where the ground sloped up, more benches. These latter faced the other narrow end of the ‘court’, the whole length of which was occupied by an altar. It consisted of long, white, draped tables, above which there were shelves to the height of about ten feet. Every inch of space was occupied with an extraordinary collection of objects, crammed higgledy-piggledy together—offerings of all kinds including melons, bottles of rum and beer, sugar cakes, crude paintings, jam jars holding wilting flowers, a number of quite large figures, including those of the Virgin Mary, St. George and the Devil—the whole being lit by chains of fairy lamps.

      Except for the open space the whole area was swarming with people, and Gregory had already noticed that the women of the congregation were separated from the men: the former occupying the benches to one side of the ‘court’ and the men those on the slope at its far end. When they reached the slope the police-woman led the other women of the party off, while Captain Sousa found places halfway up the slope for the men. As they squeezed through to them they were given some rather ugly looks and there were angry mutterings about ‘Americanos’. But both Sousa and da Fonseca spoke to the Macumba votaries in Portuguese, the surly muttering was replaced by smiles and the party settled down without incident on a bench.

      It was now getting on for midnight and the whole auditorium was packed. The majority of the people were apparently of pure Negro blood, but there were complexions of every shade, through coffee up to white tinged only faintly with yellow; quite a number had hooked noses and a few even had blue eyes and straight, golden hair.

      Here and there among them were people wearing quite expensive clothes, but most of the congregation were poorly clad; many were barefooted and in rags. It was very hot. The atmosphere was most oppressive and unpleasantly acrid with the smell of stale sweat. Few jackets were to be seen; the rows of black faces stood out sharply against open-necked white shirts, and the native women appeared to have on only a single garment.

      For a time the drumming contended with the noise and laughter coming from the crowded benches. Then, suddenly, there fell a hush and the tempo of the drums became faster. An elderly Negro walked a little unsteadily out into the middle of the open space. He wore dirty white cotton trousers, bagging at the knees, a sagging jacket and, at a rakish angle on his head, an old cloth cap. His grey hair was wavy and he had a beard. He was smoking a pipe and carried a walking stick with a crook handle. After grinning round at the congregation he began gradually revolving in a very slow shuffle.

      His supporting cast then appeared. It consisted of about twenty women, mostly black, but including a few near-whites. All of them were dressed in white, with high-necked bodices and long, full skirts that swept the ground as they moved. Forming a line, with their backs to the female congregation, they swayed, rather than danced, slowly backwards and forwards, gradually forming a circle.

      The old ‘Godfather’ continued to puff at his pipe of marijuana while shuffling round and round, occasionally waving his stick and, in a quiet voice, calling out a few words. As he grinned after each utterance, Gregory thought it probable that he was making jokes, and he certainly had more the appearance of a clown than a witch-doctor.

      Without any alteration, except for a slight acceleration in the pace of the shuffling and swaying, this went on for a good twenty minutes. Becoming bored, Gregory moved restlessly in his seat. Hugo, who was sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered:

      ‘Pity we couldn’t have come in later; but they wouldn’t have that. I gathered that they don’t really get going until about two o’clock in the morning, so we’ll have to be patient.’

      Gregory nodded, and lit one of his fat, four-inch long Sullivan cigarettes.

      With little variation, the sombre dance continued for a further quarter of an hour. Then there came a spattering on the leaves of the trees that surrounded the enclosure. It had begun to rain.

      Hugo swore under his breath. ‘Let’s hope this is only a shower. If it’s one of our big tropical storms, we’ve had it.’

      ‘With so much thunder about, I’ll bet you it’s a downpour,’ Gregory replied. And after a few minutes it was clear that he was right. From large, scattered splashes, the rain rapidly increased until it was sheeting down. In tropical countries Negroes go about lightly clad, but they nearly always carry umbrellas. A solid mass of them shot up, obliterating the congregation, but the torrents of rain descending were such that the umbrellas offered little protection.

      Thunder boomed like a broadside of heavy guns, temporarily drowning the sound of the drums. The strings of fairy lights above the altar suddenly went out, but great jagged streaks of forked lightning continued from minute to minute to light the scene. By their light, through the curtain of rain, it could be vaguely seen that the ceremony was still proceeding. The old Negro continued to stumble round, but was now waving his stick above his head and yelling at the sky. Captain Sousa leaned forward and shouted, ‘’E is telling rain to go away, but I think ‘e don’t ‘ave much luck.’

      Within a matter of minutes everyone was soaked to the skin. As the rain was lukewarm, the discomfort it inflicted was minimised; but the storm showed no sign of abating and the congregation rapidly began to break up.

      ‘No good staying on,’ said Hugo abruptly. ‘We must find the girls and get them to the cars.’

      Leaving their seats, they began to struggle through the seething mass of people. Captain Sousa blew his whistle. There came a shrill reply from some distance off and, knowing that it came from the police-woman, they headed in that direction. Five minutes later, to their great relief, they found Patricia and the others. Taking the arms of the women, they strove to get them through the crowd to the head of the long flight of steps. At length they succeeded, but only to find that rain from the plateau was cascading down the primitive staircase like a waterfall.

      Gregory was leading, with Manon de Bois-Tracy. In one swift movement he picked her up and plunged knee deep into the torrent. Some of the boards supporting the steps had already given way. The earth had turned to mud and was extremely slippery. Lurching from side to side and only just succeeding in keeping his balance, he got her down to the solid road and, gasping for breath, set her on her feet.

      For several minutes they waited for the others. Stumbling, sliding, some on their backs, scores of the congregation were swept down the steep slope, but none of Hugo’s party was among them.

      With a frown, Gregory said, ‘They must have decided that the steps have become too dangerous, and mean to wait up there until the storm is over. We had better try to find one of the cars.’

      Like two drowned rats, their clothes clinging to them, while the rain still sheeted down, they set off along the line of motors parked at the roadside. A few, the owners of which had got away early, were pulling out and setting off for Rio, but the majority were lightless and unoccupied. Angrily, Gregory realised that the drivers of the police cars must have left them to go up and see the ceremony and were now trapped among the milling mob above the torrent. It was too dark for there to be any chance of identifying the cars, so for a few moments he stood silently cursing while wondering what best to do.

      There came a deafening clap of thunder. Lightning streaked down from almost immediately overhead, a great tree nearby was struck and one of the larger branches was peeled off, to crash across the roof of a car. Manon screamed and threw her arms round Gregory.

      ‘All right, all right,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t be afraid. As long as we stay clear of the trees we’ll come to no harm. But we must find shelter somewhere.’

      Swinging her round, he drew her back up the road. After covering a hundred yards he glimpsed through the trees the white walls of a bungalow. Taking the path that led to it, they went up the steps to the porch and he banged on the door. There was no reply, but the door swung open.

      Staggering inside, they found the place deserted, but an oil lamp that had been turned low was burning in the main room. Turning up the wick, they looked about them. The room was better furnished than might have been expected. It even had shelves on one wall, carrying a hundred or more books, and a writing desk in front of one of the windows. Exhausted after their struggle against the elements, they sank down on the sofa.

      The rain drummed with unceasing ferocity on the roof, thunder continued to roll and every few moments lightning made the window a blinding glare that lit up every detail of the room.

      Gregory soon pulled himself together, stood up and went to explore the other rooms of the dwelling. After a short absence he returned carrying a bottle three-quarters full of rum and two mugs. He had already taken a good swig himself and now he made Manon do likewise. As the fiery liquid went down her throat she gasped, but her sallow cheeks took on colour and she gave him a faint smile. Then she asked:

      ‘What now? How will we ever get back?’

      He grinned at her. ‘All the odds are that the owner of this place went to the party and is still stuck among the crowd. When he does return we’ll ask him to get a car for us or, if he can’t do that, fix us up here for the night.’

      ‘Perhaps he won’t be able to get back,’ she hazarded.

      Gregory’s grin deepened. ‘I’m afraid that’s too much to hope for. All the same, you ought to get those wet things off. There are some women’s clothes in the second room on the right down the passage. In the circumstances, their owner is hardly likely to object to your making temporary use of them.’

      As he spoke, his glance swept over her from top to toe. Her thin frock was so saturated that it clung to her skin, revealing every detail of her good figure. After a moment he added:

      ‘It looks as if you are going to have difficulty getting that dress off. If you do, give me a shout and I’ll come and help.’

      ‘I’m sure you would like to,’ she replied a shade tartly, ‘but at the moment I’m in no mood to accept such attentions from a gentleman.’

      ‘Now, don’t pretend to be a prude,’ he mocked her. ‘No woman with such a lovely figure as yours isn’t glad of an excuse to show herself off in a bikini or her undies. As for the attentions you appear to fear, you wrong me. I indulge in that sort of pastime only in warm and comfortable surroundings, with a magnum of champagne at hand and after having given my companion an excellent dinner.’

      Before she could reply, sounds came from the front door and a little group of people came hurrying into the room. At their head was the old ‘Godfather’; he was followed by a gangling-limbed but quite well-dressed young Negro of about nineteen and three of the Negro women who had taken part in the ceremony, their long white skirts now slushing round their ankles.

      The old man looked at Gregory, gave a sudden start and dropped his stick. Picking it up, he stared at Gregory for a moment as though seeing a ghost, then spoke to him in what Gregory took to be a bastard form of Portuguese. Hoping that one of them understood some English and choosing the simplest words he could, he explained that he and Manon had taken refuge there from the storm. Whereupon the youth said in a squeaky voice:

      ‘Americanos, eh? I speek yo’ language. Am educating at university. My father an’ the womans not. My name Enrico.’

      Gregory then asked if it was possible for him to get them a car, to which Enrico replied, ‘I ’ave auto in garage. Later I takes yo’ to city. But not yet. Much, much rain. Yo’ wait here fo’ while.’

      Having thanked him, Gregory asked if Manon could be provided with a change of clothes. The youth translated to the women, who had been standing staring wide-eyed at them from the doorway. Their black faces broke into wide grins, then they beckoned to Manon and she went off down the passage with them.

      Meanwhile, the old Macumba priest had seated himself in a rocking chair. He had a white film over one eye, but the other was as keen as that of an eagle. He was regarding Gregory in a by no means friendly fashion.

      Glancing at Enrico, Gregory said, ‘Please tell your father how distressed we are for him that the storm should have spoilt his ceremony.’

      Enrico translated, then said in English, ‘He much opset. He believe yo’ an’ yo’ friends who come with Police enemies of him an’ make bad magic that bring rain.’

      Gregory raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Please assure him that is not so. We came only out of scientific interest and were just as disappointed as he is that the ceremony had to be stopped.’

      When he learned this the old man looked slightly mollified and Gregory said, ‘I would very much like to hear what would have taken place if the ceremony had continued.’

      ‘Spirits enter bodies of some of the womans,’ Enrico answered. ‘Then spirits talk; denounce bad peoples, make prophecy, help father to tell future.’

      Manon had just re-entered the room with the other women. She had not accepted a loan of clothes but stripped and wrung her own out, knowing that in the intense heat they would soon dry on her. Hearing Enrico’s last words, she said with swift interest, ‘So your father, ‘e tells fortunes. ‘E make me very ‘appy if ‘e tell mine.’

      Enrico grinned at her. ‘I make persuade him. That is, if yo’ pay ’im good money.’

      Turning to Gregory, she said in French, ‘When you were carrying me down that stairway I dropped my bag. Could you lend me enough money for this?’

      ‘I expect so,’ he smiled, and took a two-inch-thick wad of half-sodden notes out of his jacket pocket. They looked to be worth a small fortune, as most of them were five-thousand-cruzeiro bills, the highest value normally then in circulation in Brazil. But, largely owing to the immense sums expended in recent years on the new capital of Brasilia, Brazil’s finances have fallen into such a parlous state that the cruzeiro had slumped to over six thousand to the pound sterling. So, to the considerable inconvenience of people who live fairly expensively, such unwieldy packages of currency had to be carried about.

      Peeling off five of the five-thousand-cruzeiro notes, Gregory offered them to the old man while Enrico was making Manon’s request. His solitary eye glinting brightly, he stretched out a claw-like hand and took the money.

      Enrico then walked over to the desk. From a drawer he took a canvas bag and a piece of similar material, both of which he handed to his father.

      The ‘Godfather’ eased himself out of his rocking chair on to his knees and spread the piece of canvas on the floor. It was about two feet square and marked on it in black there were a number of crude symbols. Picking up the floppy bag, he began to mutter what was evidently an incantation, meanwhile shaking the bag gently up and down and to and fro.

      With each movement something inside the bag made a soft clicking sound and, from what Gregory had read of Negro magic, he had little doubt that this descendant of long-dead African witch-doctors was about to ‘throw the bones’.

      He proved right. After chanting in a low voice for about five minutes, the old man loosened the string round the neck of the bag and tipped a score or more of small bones out on to the square of canvas.

      For quite a while he silently studied the way they had fallen in relation to the symbols, while the three woman peered timidly over his shoulder. Then he looked up and spoke to Enrico, who translated:

      ‘My father, he say yo’ soon have new lover. But yo’ very fond of another mans. Also, with him yo’ have big money interest. So your heart divided; understand? Much happiness for yo’ with new lover, but to keep much courage needed. My father then ask: Have yo’ ever kill? Kill a man, that is. He think yo’ have.’

      Manon suddenly went pale and her brown eyes distended until they looked enormous. Giving a slight nod, she whispered, ‘Yes, but—but only because I had to.’

      The old man spoke again and Enrico interpreted. ‘My father, he say, Then yo’ should kill again. There is a White Witch. She comes into yo’ life. Yo’ will lose yo’s happiness—lose all, unless yo’ kills her when yo’ has the chance.’

      There fell a sudden silence. Having understood what the ‘Godfather’ had said, the woman were regarding Manon with awed curiosity. Enrico had thrust his thumb between the first and second fingers of his hand, and was pointing it at her as a defence against her possibly malign influence. Gregory, hearing her confess to having killed a man, caught himself looking at her with increased interest. To break the tension, he again pulled out his wad of notes, peeled off another five and offered them with the request that the bones should be thrown for him.

      The old man swiftly gathered up the bones and thrust them back into the bag, but he did not take the money. Waving it away, he got from his knees and spoke swiftly to his son.

      Enrico’s mouth fell open and he gave a slight gulp. Then, recovering himself, he said in a tremulous voice, ‘My father, he say yo’ have no future to tell. Sometimes he have visions. Jus’ now, when he come in this room, he have one. He see yo’ this time tomorrow night as dead—dead in a ditch.’

      2

      His Last Twenty-four Hours

      Again a shocked silence fell. They could hear the rain still pattering on the roof, but none of them noticed that its beat had lessened or had registered the fact that thunder now rumbled only in the distance. At length Gregory said to Enrico:

      ‘Please thank your father for his warning. And now, with my apologies for having abused your hospitality while you were absent, do you think I could have a little more rum?’

      ‘But yes!’ The young man eagerly stretched out a hand to the bottle and poured a lavish portion into Gregory’s mug, then he went on, ‘I’s sorry; mos’ sorry ’bout this. But my father, he is very honest mans. He could not take money an’ lead yo’ up garden path.’

      ‘It can’t be true!’ Manon burst out. ‘It can’t! This filthy old rogue is just being malicious. He is trying to frighten you because he believes we brought the rain that spoilt his ceremony.’

      As she had spoken in French, Enrico remained unaware of her insult to his father. But Gregory abruptly waved her to silence and asked the young man, ‘Does your father often have these visions, and do they afterwards always come about?’

      Enrico shrugged. ‘I regrets. I’s mos’ unhappy for yo’! His visions do not come frequent, but when he has them it is as seeing true.’

      Gregory turned to Manon. ‘Then things don’t look too good. You remember what a shock he appeared to get when he looked at me on first coming into this room? Unless he did see something unusual about me there’s no accounting for that.’

      ‘But it must not happen,’ she protested vigorously. ‘And it can’t if you take care. From midday onwards you must not leave your hotel.’

      He smiled at her. ‘The Arabs have a saying, The fate of every man is bound about his brow, and there is no escaping Fate. I’ve been mighty lucky. They say a cat has nine lives, but I’ve had at least a score of narrow escapes from death. And I’m not afraid to die. In fact … Anyhow, please don’t upset your charming self about me.’

      Silence fell again; then, after a moment, Enrico said, ‘The rain, he has stopped. There will be much water still, but yo’ wish it and I make try to get yo’ home.’

      Gregory thanked him and he went out to fetch his car. When he had brought it round to the door the visitors made formal adieux to the old man and the three woman, then went down the steps.

      Water was still rushing ankle-deep down the sloping road, but the little car slushed steadily through it. Then, as they entered the tunnel on the outskirts of the city, Enrico asked, ‘Where I drop yo’?’

      ‘I stay at ze ‘Otel Copacabana Palace,’ said Manon.

      Gregory turned to smile at her. ‘Why, so do I. How very convenient.’

      A quarter of an hour later Enrico set them down outside the hotel. Gregory had palmed twenty thousand cruzeiros. As he shook hands with the young man, he said in a whisper, ‘Just for the petrol,’ then added louder, ‘Good night; we cannot thank you enough.’

      With a happy grin, Enrico shook hands with Manon and drove off. It was by then after two o’clock in the morning, but Latin American cities are said never to sleep. There were still a number of people about and

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