The White Witch of the South Seas gs-11 Read online

  The White Witch of the South Seas

  ( Gregory Sallust - 11 )

  Dennis Wheatley

  Jan 1963 - 1963

  The White Witch of the South Seas is a spellbinding story of adventure and intrigue told in the true Wheatley tradition, featuring Gregory Sallust who, when visiting Rio de Janeiro, again 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.

  The White Witch of the South Sea's

  by Dennis Wheatley

  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 Rio great bay to the south of 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 affairs 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 cooperation 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 cafes.

  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 '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 Gongalvo 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 W
ar; 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 white, 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 Iam 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. Introduction’s 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 chain’s 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 h
ad 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; thee 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