The Devil Rides Out ddr-6 Page 7

  ‘Well—what’ll happen then?’

  ‘That he will be given over entirely to the Power of Evil, because he will renounce “his early teaching and receive his re-baptism at the hands of a high adept of the Left Hand Path. Until that is done we can still save him, because all the invisible powers of Good will be fighting on our side, but after—they will withdraw, and what we call the Soul of Simon Aron will be dragged down into the Pit.’

  ‘Are you sure of that? Baptism into the Christian Faith doesn’t ensure one going to Heaven, why should this other sprinkling be a guarantee of anyone going to Hell?’

  ‘It’s such a big question, Rex, but briefly it is like this. Heaven and Hell are only symbolical of growth to Light or disintegration to Darkness. By Christian—or any other true religious baptism, we renounce the Devil and all his Works, thereby erecting a barrier which it is difficult for Evil forces to surmount, but anyone who accepts Satanic baptism does exactly the reverse. They wilfully destroy the barrier of astral Light which is our natural protection and offer themselves as a medium through which the powers of Darkness may operate on mankind.

  ‘They are tempted to it, of course, by the belief that it will give them supernatural powers over their fellow-men, but few of them realise the appalling danger. There is no such person as the Devil, but there are vast numbers of Earthbound spirits, Elementals, and Evil Intelligences of the Outer Circle floating in our midst. Nobody who has even the most elementary knowledge of the Occult can doubt that. They are blind and ignorant, and except for the last, under comparatively rare circumstances, not in the least dangerous to any normal man or woman who leads a reasonably upright life, but they never cease to search in a fumbling way for some gateway back into existence as we know it. The surrender of one’s own volition gives it to them, and, if you need an example, you only have to think of the many terrible crimes which are perpetuated when reason and will are entirely absent owing to excess of alcohol. An Elemental seizes upon the unresisting intelligence of the human and forces them to some appalling deed which is utterly against their natural instincts.

  ‘That, then, is the danger. While apparently only passing through an ancient, barbarous and disgusting ritual, the Satanist, by accepting baptism, surrenders his will to the domination of powers which he believes he will be able to use for his own ends, but in actual fact he becomes the spiritual slave of an Elemental, and for ever after is nothing but the instrument of its evil purposes.’

  ‘When do you figure they’ll try to do this thing?’

  ‘Not for a week or so, I trust. It is essential that it should take place at a real Sabbat, when at least one Coven of thirteen is present, and after our having broken up their gathering tonight I hardly think they will risk meeting again for some little time, unless there is some extraordinary reason why they should.’

  ‘That gives us a breathing space then; but what’s worrying me is that it’s so early in the year to ask a young woman to go picnicking on the river.’

  ‘Why? The sunshine for the last few days has been magnificent.’

  ‘Still, it’s only April 29th—the 30th, I mean.’

  ‘What!’ De Richleau stood there with a new and terrible anxiety burning in his eyes. ‘Good God! I never realised!’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Why, that was only one Coven we saw tonight, and there are probably a dozen scattered over England. The whole pack are probably on their way by now to the great annual gathering. It’s a certainty they will take Simon with them. They’d never miss the chance of giving him his devil’s Christening at the Grand Sabbat of the year.’

  ‘What in the world are you talking about?’ Rex hoisted himself swiftly out of his chair.

  ‘Don’t you understand, man?’ De Richleau gripped him by the shoulder. ‘On the last night of April every peasant in Europe still double-locks his doors. Every latent force of Evil in the world is abroad. We’ve got to get hold of Simon in the next twenty hours. This coming night—April 30th—is Saint Walburga’s Eve.’

  CHAPTER VIII

  REX VAN RYN OPENS THE ATTACK

  Six hours later, Rex, still drowsy with sleep, lowered himself into the Duke’s sunken bath. It was a very handsome bathroom some fifteen feet by twelve; black glass, crystal mirrors, and chromium-plated fittings made up the scheme of decoration.

  Some people might have considered it a little too striking to be in perfect taste, but De Richleau did not subscribe to the canon which has branded ostentation as vulgarity in the last few generations, and robbed nobility of any glamour which it may have possessed in more spacious days.

  His forbears had ridden with thirty-two footmen before them, and it caused him considerable regret that modern conditions made it impossible for him to drive in his Hispano with no more than one seated beside his chauffeur on the box. Fortunately his resources were considerable and his brain sufficiently astute to make good, in most years, the inroads which the tax gatherers made upon them. ‘After him,’ of course ‘the Deluge’ as he very fully recognised, but with reasonable good fortune he considered that private ownership would last out his time, at least in England where he had made his home; and so he continued to do all things on a scale suitable to a De Richleau, with the additional lavishness of one who had had a Russian mother, as far as the restrictions of twentieth-century democracy would allow.

  Rex, however, had used the Duke’s Ł1,000 bathroom a number of times before, and his only concern at the moment was to wonder vaguely what he was doing there on this occasion and why he had such an appalling hangover. Never, since he had been given two glasses of bad liquor in the old days when his country laboured under prohibition, had he felt so desperately ill.

  A giant sponge placed on the top of his curly head brought him temporary relief and full consciousness of the events which had taken place the night before. Of course it was that ghastly experience he had been through in Simon’s empty house that had sapped him of his vitality and left him in this wretched state. He remembered that he had kept up all right until they got back to Curzon Street, and even after, during a long conversation with the Duke; then, he supposed, he must have petered out from sheer nervous exhaustion.

  He lay back in the warm, faintly scented water, and gave himself a mental shaking. The thought that he must have fainted shocked him profoundly. He had driven racing cars at 200 miles an hour, had his colours for the Cresta run, had flown a plane 1,500 miles, right out of the Forbidden Territory down to Kiev in one hop. He had shot men and been shot at in return both in Russia and in Cuba, where he had found himself mixed up with the Revolution, but never before had he been in a real funk about anything, much less collapsed like a spineless fool.

  He recalled with sickening vividness that loathsome, striking manifestation of embodied evil that had come upon them—and his thoughts flew to Simon. How could their shy, nervous, charming friend have got himself mixed up in all this devilry. For Rex had no doubts now that, incredible as it might seem, the Duke was right, and Satan worship still a living force in modern cities, just as the infernal Voodoo cult was still secretly practised by the Negroes in the Southern States of his own country. He thought again of their first visit to Simon’s house as unwelcome guests at that strange party. Of the Albino, the old Countess D’Urfe, the sinister Chinaman, and then of Tanith, except for Simon the only normal person present, and felt convinced that, but for the intervention of De Richleau some abominable ceremony would certainly have taken place, although he had laughed at the suggestion at the time.

  Sitting up he began to soap himself vigorously while he restated the situation briefly in his mind. One: Mocata was an adept of what De Richleau called the Left Hand Path, and for some reason unknown he had gained control over Simon. Two: owing to their intervention the Satanists had abandoned Simon’s house —taking him with them. Three: Simon was shortly to be baptised into the Black Brotherhood, after which, according to the Duke, he would be past all help. Four: today was May Day Eve when, again
according to the Duke, the Grand Sabbat of the year took place. Five: following from four, it was almost a certainty that Mocata would seize this opportunity of the Walpurgis Nacht celebrations to have Simon re-christened. Six: in the next twelve hours therefore, Mocata had to be traced and Simon taken from him. Seven : the only possibility of getting on Mocata’s trail lay in obtaining information by prayers, cajolery, or threats from Tanith.

  Rex stopped soaping and groaned aloud at the thought that the one woman he had been wanting to meet for years should be mixed up in this revolting business. He loathed deception in any form and resented intensely the necessity for practising it on her, but De Richleau’s last instructions to him were still clear in his mind, and the one thing which stood out above all others, was the fact of his old and dear friend being in some intangible but terrible peril.

  Feeling slightly better by the time he had shaved and dressed, he noted from the windows of the flat that at least they had been blessed with a glorious day. Summer was in the air and there seemed a promise of that lovely fortnight which sometimes graces England in early May.

  To his surprise he found that De Richleau, who habitually was not visible before twelve, had left the flat at half-past eight. Evidently he meant to put in a long day among the ancient manuscripts at the British Museum, rubbing up his knowledge of strange cults and protective measures against what he termed the Ab-human monsters of the Outer Circle.

  Max proffered breakfast, but Rex declined it until, with a hurt expression, the servant produced his favourite omelette.

  ‘The chef will be so disappointed, sir,’ he said.

  Reluctantly Rex sat down to eat while Max, busy with the coffee-pot, permitted himself a hidden smile. He had had orders from the Duke, and His Excellency was a wily man. None knew that better than his personal servitor, the faithful Max.

  Noting that Rex had finished, he produced a wine-glass full of some frothy mixture on a salver. ‘His Excellency said, sir,’ he stated blandly, ‘that he finds this uncommon good for his neuralgia. I was distressed to hear that you are sometimes a sufferer too, and if you’d try it the taste is, if I may say so, not unpleasant—somewhat resembling that of granadillas I believe.’

  With a suspicious look Rex drank the quite palatable potion while Max added suavely: ‘Some gentlemen prefer prairie-oysters I am told, but I’ve a feeling, sir, that His Excellency knows best.’

  ‘You old humbug.’ Rex grinned as he replaced the glass. ‘Anyhow last night wasn’t the sort of party you think—I wish to God it had been.’

  ‘No, sir! Well, that’s most regrettable I’m sure, but I had a feeling that Mr. Aron was not quite in his usual form, if I may so express it—when he—er—joined us after dinner.’

  ‘Yes—of course you put Simon to bed—I’d forgotten that.’

  Max quietly lowered his eyes. He was quite certain that his innocent action the night before had been connected in some way with Simon Aron’s sudden disappearance from the bedroom later, and felt that for once he had done the wrong thing, so he deftly turned the conversation. ‘His Excellency instructed me to tell you, sir, that the touring Rolls is entirely at your disposal and the second chauffeur if you wish to use him.’

  ‘No — I’ll drive myself; have it brought round right away — will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir, and now if you will excuse me I must leave at once in order to get down to Pangbourne and prepare the house for your reception.’

  ‘O.K., Max… . See-yer-later—I hope.’ Rex picked up a cigarette. He was feeling better already. ‘A whole heap better,’ he thought, as he wondered what potent corpse-reviver lay hidden in the creamy depths of De Richleau’s so-called neuralgia tonic. Then he sat down to plan out his line of attack on the lady at Claridges.

  If he could only talk to her he felt that he would be able to intrigue her into a friendly attitude. He could, of course, easily find out her real name from the bureau of the hotel, but the snag was that if he sent up his name and asked to see her the chances were all against her granting him an interview. After all, by kidnapping Simon, he and the Duke had wrecked the meeting of her Circle the night before, and if she was at all intimately associated with Mocata, she probably regarded him with considerable hostility. Only personal contact could overcome that, so he must not risk any rebuff through the medium of bell-hops, but accept it only if given by her after he had managed to see her face to face.

  His plan, therefore, eventually boiled down to marching on Claridges, planting himself in a comfortable chair within view of the lifts and sitting there until Tanith made her appearance. He admitted to himself that his proposed campaign was conspicuously lacking in brilliance but, he argued, few women staying in a London hotel would remain in their rooms all day, so if he sat there long enough it was almost certain that an opportunity would occur for him to tackle her direct. If she did turn him down —well, De Richleau wasn’t the only person in the world who had ideas—and Rex flattered himself that he would think of something.

  Immediately the Rolls was reported at the door, he left the flat and drove round to Claridges in it. A short conversation with a friendly commissionaire ensured that there would be no trouble if the car was left parked outside, even for a considerable time, for Rex thought it necessary to have it close at hand since he might need it at any moment.

  As he entered the hotel from the Davies Street entrance he noted with relief that it was only a little after ten. It was unlikely that Tanith would have gone out for the day so early, and he settled himself to wait for an indefinite period with cheerful optimism in the almost empty lounge. After a moment it occurred to him that somebody might come up to him and inquire his business if he was forced to stay there for any length of time, but an underporter, passing at the moment, gave him a swift smile and little bow of recognition, so he trusted that having been identified as an occasional client of the place he would not be unduly molested.

  He began to consider what words he should use if, and when, Tanith did step out of the lifts, and had just decided on a formula which contained the requisite proportions of respect, subtle admiration, and gaiety when a small boy in buttons came marching with a carefree swing down the corridor.

  ‘Mister Vine Rine—Mister Vine Rine,’ he chanted in a monotonous treble.

  Rex looked at the boy suspiciously. The sound had a queer resemblance to the parody of his own name as he had often heard it shrilled out by bell-hops in clubs and hotel lounges. Yet no one could possibly be aware of his presence at Claridges that morning—except, of course, the Duke. At the thought that De Richleau might be endeavouring to get in touch with him for some urgent reason he turned, and at the same moment the page side-tracked towards him.

  ‘Mr. Van Ryn, sir?’ he inquired, dropping into normal speech.

  ‘Yes,’ Rex nodded.

  Then to his utter astonishment the boy announced : ‘The lady you’ve called to see sent down to say she’s sorry to keep you waiting, but she’ll join you in about fifteen minutes.’

  With his mouth slightly open Rex stared stupidly at the page until that infant turned and strutted away. He did not doubt that the message came from Tanith—who else could have sent it, yet how the deuce did she know that he was there ? Perhaps she had seen him drive up from her window—that seemed the only reasonable explanation. Anyhow that ‘she was sorry to keep him waiting’ sounded almost too good to be true.

  Recovering a little he stood up, marched out into Brook Street and purchased a great sheaf of lilac from a florist’s a few doors down. Returning with it to the hotel he suddenly realised that he still did not know Tanith’s real name, but catching sight of the boy who had paged him, he beckoned him over.

  ‘Here boy—take these up to the lady’s room with Mr. Van Ryn’s compliments.’ Then he resumed his seat near the lift with happy confidence.

  Five minutes later the lift gates opened. An elderly woman leaning upon a tall ebony cane stepped out. At the first glance Rex recognised the parrot-beaked nose, the nut-c
racker chin and the piercing black eyes of the old Countess D’Urfe. Before he had time to collect his wits she had advanced upon him and extended a plump, beringed hand.

  ‘Monsieur Van Ryn,’ she croaked. ‘It is charming that you should call upon me—sank you a thousand times for those lovely flowers.’

  CHAPTER IX

  THE COUNTESS D’URFE TALKS OF MANY CURIOUS THINGS

  ‘Ha! Ha!—not a bit of it—it’s great to see you again.’

  Rex gave a weak imitation of a laugh. He had only spoken to the old crone for two minutes on the previous evening and that, when he had first arrived at Simon’s party, for the purpose of detaching Tanith from her. Even if she had seen him drive up to Claridges what in the world could have made her imagine that he had come to visit her. If only he hadn’t sent up that lilac he might have politely excused himself—but he could hardly tell her now that he had meant it for someone else.

  ‘And how is Monsieur le Duc this morning?’ the old lady inquired, sinking into a chair he placed for her.

  ‘He asked me to present his homage, Madame,’ Rex lied quickly, instinctively picking a phrase which De Richleau might have used himself.

  ‘Ca, e’est tres gentille. ‘E is a charming man—charming an’ ‘is cigars they are superb.’ The Countess D’Urfe produced a square case from her bag and drew out a fat, dark Havana. As Rex applied a match she went on slowly : ‘But it ees not right that one Circle should make interference with the operations of another. What ‘ave you to say of your be’aviour lars’ night my young frien’?’