The Man who Missed the War Read online

  THE MAN WHO MISSED THE WAR

  Dennis Wheatley

  Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones

  DEDICATION

  FOR

  IRIS SUTHERLAND

  who was my invaluable secretary through the dark days of 1941–42, and who has now most generously given up her rest days from her war job to deciphering my hand-written manuscript, in order that a fair typed copy of this present book should reach my publishers and readers with a minimum of delay.

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  10, Chatsworth Court,

  London, W.8.

  VE Day 1945

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1 The Challenge

  2 The Great Idea

  3 ‘In the Midst of Life…’

  4 Eavesdroppers Never Hear Good of Themselves

  5 Desperate Measures

  6 The Uninvited Guest

  7 The Bad Companions

  8 The Enemy

  9 The Unsought Bacchanalia

  10 The Horror that Lurked on the Foreshore

  11 The Silent Continent

  12 The Dark Prince

  13 The Strangest Kingdom

  14 The Showdown

  15 The Coming of the Dog

  16 The White Man’s Burden

  17 The Temple of the False Sun

  18 The Secret of the Mountain

  19 Among Those Old in Sin

  20 The Vital Hour

  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 ofthe 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 wasdeclared 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

  The Challenge

  If admiral jolly had not been nominated to attend the Naval Conference on Victualling and Supply that autumn; if the conference had been convened at any place other than Portsmouth; if Philip Vaudell’s father, Engineer Captain Vaudell, R.N., had not, many years earlier, come to the rescue of the gallant Admiral in a house of dubious reputation not far removed from the waterfront at Wang-hi-way—then Philip’s life might have run its normal course.

  But the Fates had decreed otherwise. An ugly fracas in a Chinese tea-house, where, on a sultry night long ago, two young British Naval officers had fought back to back against curved knives wielded by an angry crowd, was to have repercussions on the son, as yet unborn, of one of them. By the same spinning of the Three Weird Sisters: a girl-child from an American city was to found a new dynasty in a distant land; a Russian prince was to lose the strangest kingdom ever ruled by mortal man; and Hitler was to be struck a mortal blow at the most critical phase of Germany’s second bid to conquer the world.

  The day was September the 10th, the year 1937, the scene a medium-sized house set in its own trim gardens, looking out across parched grassland to the greeny-blue sea of Alverstoke Bay, near Portsmouth.

  Its owner, Engineer Captain Ralph Vaudell, was a careful man; not so much from inclination as from the habit of years, as he had never been blessed with a private income, and his wife had died years before, leaving him to bring up their two children. In consequence, he did not often entertain, but tonight he was giving a small dinner-party, and his womenfolk were in an unaccustomed flutter.

  Ellen his daughter, whose birth seventeen years earlier had resulted in her mother’s death, was for the twentieth time giving a last touch to the flowers in the drawing-room, in between self-conscious preenings before the overmantel mirror to reassure herself that her newly acquired make-up could not be improved upon.

  Mrs. Marlow, fat, homely, boundlessly goodnatured, the Captain’s governess when a boy and the only mother Ellen had ever known, wheezed and tustled a little as, displaying unwonted activity, she propelled her bulky form in a shuttle service between the kitchen and the drawing-room.

  ‘There!’ she exclaimed, coming to rest at last in her favourite arm-chair. ‘Cook says dinner will be done to a turn by eight, so I only hope they�
��re punctual.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Pin!’ replied Ellen with assured calm. ‘Of course they’ll be punctual. When the Canon was preparing me for confirmation he used to talk about lots of things that had nothing to do with religion, and I remember him saying once, “Punctuality is the politeness of princes!” ’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ Pin Marlow chuckled. ‘Let’s hope he thinks of himself as one then, though a funnier prince than that fat little ball of a man it would be difficult to imagine. Considering how rarely we see him, it’s a puzzle to me what led your father to ask him tonight.’

  Ellen shrugged her slim shoulders: ‘I think it was just that Father wanted someone outside the Services to meet the Admiral; and the Beal-Brookmans are distant relations of ours, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, my lamb. The Canon’s wife was your dear mother’s cousin, though it was only after Mrs. Beal-Brookman’s death that he came to live at Gosport three—no, four—winters ago.’

  At that moment Captain Vaudell came hurrying in. He was tallish, lean, grizzled, in his late forties, and the kindness of his eyes belied the hardness of his mouth. After a swift glance round, he moved over to a small table on which drinks were set, to see that everything on it was in order.

  ‘Where’s Philip?’ he suddenly demanded of Pin. ‘Woolgathering as usual, I suppose. Probably forgotten that we have guests tonight.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk!’ Pin answered placidly. ‘The boy’s not as bad as all that. He’ll be down in a moment.’

  She had hardly finished speaking when Philip joined them. Like his father, he was tall, but he had none of his father’s rugged compactness. He seemed all long, ungainly limbs, and his awkwardness was accentuated by large knobbly knuckled hands which always gave the impression of being out of control. His fine, high forehead and thin cheeks gave him a somewhat ascetic appearance, but his blue eyes were quick and friendly.

  His father’s glance appraised him from top to toe with a swiftness born of years of professional inspections.

  ‘Well?’ Philip inquired, a shade anxiously.

  ‘You’ll do.’ The elder man’s mouth relaxed into a faint smile. It was obvious to him that for once the boy had made an attempt to subdue his shock of fair unruly hair, but the sight of the ill-tied bow caused him to add: ‘It’s a pity, though, that up at Cambridge they don’t teach you to wear your clothes a bit better.’

  ‘That’s hardly a tutor’s job,’ Philip shrugged; ‘and few of the men bother much about clothes. Such tons of more interesting things to think about.’

  Captain Vaudell could hardly quarrel with that statement, as he knew that his son’s whole mind was absorbed in studying to become a Civil Engineer, and, although he said little about it, he was extremely proud of the boy’s rapid progress.

  Ellen walked quickly over to her brother and re-tied his tie. She had only just finished when Canon Beal-Brookman was announced.

  The Canon was a short, fat, red-faced man possessed of boundless energy and a certain artless charm which few could resist. As usual, he was a little breathless, having hurried from one of the dozen meetings which his forceful personality dominated each day in a dogged attempt to enforce social progress on a large, poor and apathetic sub-diocese.

  In less than a minute he had wrung his host fiercely by the hand, inquired after Pin Marlow’s asthma, complimented Ellen on her adult appearance, given Philip a friendly pat on the arm, and, having accepted a pink gin, sunk it with gusto.

  ‘Good gracious!’ he exclaimed a minute later. ‘I drank that one up pretty quickly, didn’t I? Wasn’t really thinking what I was doing. Never mind! It’s a pleasant change from the innumerable cups of tea that misguided women think it their duty to force upon us clergy. If only they would all provide Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe it wouldn’t be so bad. The thick black muck I have to swallow plays the devil with my digestion.’

  Without any false embarrassment he held out his glass to be refilled, just as the door opened and the maid ushered in Vice-Admiral Sir James Jolly.

  Although he did not look as fat as the little Canon, the Admiral was the heavier of the two by several stone, and his weight was emphasised by his rather ponderous gait. He was a florid-faced man with a fringe of grey hair round his shiny bald head and blue eyes which he liked to believe were stern, but which had a disconcerting habit of displaying a sudden twinkle at moments when he allowed himself to forget his self-importance. Having shaken hands all round, he gave free reign to his obvious pleasure at spending an evening with his old friend’s family. After ten minutes’ easy chatter, they went in to dinner.

  The meal was orthodox—tomato soup, fried fillets of sole, roast saddle of mutton and Charlotte Russe, washed down by a good claret. The Canon ate as though racing against time, but in spite of that he contributed his full share to the conversation. The Admiral talked more readily when any Service matter was touched upon, and Vaudell, having similar interests, naturally encouraged him. Pin and Ellen put in an occasional mild platitude, but Philip remained almost silent, wondering how soon the guests would go so that he could get upstairs again to his beloved books.

  At last the nuts and port were put on the table, and the ladies withdrew. The talk then turned upon the old days in China and went on to Singapore with its new vast Naval Dockyard, from a visit to which the Admiral had only recently returned.

  ‘Singapore’s the final answer to the Japs all right,’ he announced with a chuckle. ‘It’s put the lid on any ambitions those little devils may have had in the East Indies and Australasia once and for all.’ He went on to speak of the great Battle Fleet that the huge base would be able to accommodate when it was completed the following year.

  Up to this point it had required a conscious effort on Philip’s part to disguise the fact that he was vaguely bored; but now his face lit up with sudden interest and, in a voice made louder than he had intended through a slight nervousness, he exclaimed:

  ‘Surely, sir, battleships aren’t going to count for much in any future war!’

  ‘Eh, what’s that!’ The Admiral turned to him with a startled glance. ‘What do you know about Naval strategy, young man?’

  ‘Very little, sir. But it’s clear to most people that if there is another war the aeroplane will be the dominant factor in it.’

  ‘Oh come now! Aircraft will play their part, of course. Very useful for reconnaissance and harassing the enemy by dropping the odd bomb here and there. But they’re an unreliable weapon—darned chancy things—and no sane Commander-in-Chief would ever risk depending on his air force to play a key rôle in any major operation.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ Philip’s words came hurtling out. ‘As sure as I’m sitting here, the time will come when great fleets of bombers will render bases like Singapore untenable; and having driven the enemy’s Fleet to sea give it no rest until they’ve sent the last ship to the bottom.’

  The short pregnant silence which followed Philip’s outburst was broken by the sharp crack of a nut. Before the Admiral could speak again, Captain Vaudell laid down his nutcrackers and said:

  ‘You must excuse Philip’s wildly exaggerated belief in air power. Armament problems are rather a hobby with him, and because he’s going into an aircraft factory when he comes down from Cambridge at Christmas I’m afraid he’s come to believe that “Air” is the answer to everything.’

  ‘But it is, Dad,’ Philip protested. ‘Battleships won’t stand a chance against the bombers of the future. The Admiralty would do far better to devote any money it’s got to building lots of small fast ships.’

  The Admiral smiled indulgently. ‘Look here, my boy! I’ve heard the question debated scores of times—wasted many more hours on it than I care to remember—but there’s only one answer. The nation that has the biggest ships will always be in a position to gain and retain the command of the seas.’

  Taking some pieces of nutshell from his plate and dividing them into two heaps, he proceeded to demonstrate with them on the mahogany table.
‘It works this way. These bits of shell are ships. Out comes a little fellow from one side. The enemy sends out something slightly larger. The little ship is sunk, or must scuttle back to port. Number one sends out something bigger; the other side in turn has to beat a retreat. Now he sends out a cruiser, say—we’ll use a whole nut for that; and number one is sunk again. He sends out a heavy cruiser, that’s the nutcrackers here—and the poor old nut is cracked.’

  With a chuckle at his little joke, the Admiral suddenly stretched out and seized the port decanter. ‘But here comes the Queen of the Seas—a battleship; and if the enemy hasn’t got a bigger one his whole Fleet will have to spend the rest of the war bottled up in Port!’

  ‘Quite, sir,’ said Philip drily; ‘unless a squadron of bombers comes out and sinks the battleship.’

  The Canon choked suddenly, as he said later, on a nut; but Philip had a very shrewd suspicion that the violent fit of coughing which ensued had really been caused by the effort of suppressing a burst of laughter. When the Canon had recovered his breath his host suggested that it was time to join the ladies.

  While they were drinking their coffee in the drawing-room, it emerged that the Canon and the Admiral had a mutual friend in the Assistant Chaplain-in-Chief to the Fleet. This led to some talk on Welfare Services in the Navy, and thence to the Canon’s own labours among the seafaring population of the neighbourhood.

  ‘It’s uphill work,’ he said, with a shake of his dark, bullet-like head. ‘There’s nothing behind us—no good solid funds to draw on. We’re entirely dependent on grants from various charities, plus what we can raise locally; and of course, both those sources vary from year to year according to the prosperity of the country.’

  ‘And I suppose it’s just when there’s a slump, and the people start cutting down their subscriptions, that you need the money most,’ remarked Captain Vaudell.

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed the Canon. ‘Having to rely on voluntary charity makes it extremely risky to launch any new undertaking and militates against the steady progress of the old ones. Really, one must confess that these things are far better managed in the Dictator countries. Mussolini has devoted millions of State money to slum clearance in these last few years, and Stalin, I’m told, has erected whole townships of convalescent and holiday homes for the Russian workers in the Crimea.’