Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

Sweating now with a fear greater than he had known for many years past, Roger faced the fact that within a few minutes he might be dead. Those saucer-​like eyes into which he was staring were now impelling him to lower the point of his weapon. Desperately he summoned every ounce of willpower he had to resist the impulse. There was cold, calculating evil in those eyes and an undisguised hatred. He felt certain that the moment he gave up his now rapidly weakening efforts to guard himself, the point of Malderini's pike would be thrust into his heart.

Gasping, and with the sweat pouring from him, so that his shirt was now sticking to his back and chest, he plunged wildly from side to side across the already brutally trampled earth. It flashed into his mind that it was madness to stay there and be slaughtered. A serious wound he would have faced rather than be branded as a coward; but this was a question of life or death. And to die in fair combat was one thing; to be rendered helpless by invisible bonds, then murdered, was quite another. Whatever the shame he would have to live down, he decided to throw away his pike and dash off into the woods.

Yet, no sooner had he taken the decision, than he realised that it was beyond his power to carry it out. Those enormous soulless eyes held him captive.

Suddenly a sharp, agonised cry pierced his half-​dazed consciousness. Within seconds those huge eyes that had blotted out everything else contracted. With startling rapidity they shrank back to normal and Roger found himself able to focus the whole of his terrible antagonist's person. Malderini was standing rigid, his head thrown back, his mouth still wide open from the cry he had uttered.

With blind instinct, impelled by the imperative urge of self preservation, Roger rushed in upon him. The point of his pike caught the Venetian on the left side of the chin and tore a long gash from it right up to his ear. Malderini screamed again, lurched side-​ways and thrust at Roger's face. He ducked and the pike passed harmlessly over his left shoulder. At the same instant his own pike ripped through Malderini's coat just below the armpit. Wounded again, the Venetian swung round, and with the blood now gushing from his slashed cheek, fell face forward to the ground.

Panting, Roger stared down at him. He could hardly believe The feathered shaft of a long arrow was sticking up from Malderini's backside.

Chapter 6

The Venetian Strikes Back

The point of the arrow had buried itself in the right-​hand side of Malderini's broad bottom. Major Rawton was also staring down at it. His pendulous cheeks going a deeper shade of purple and his blue eyes popping, he exclaimed:

'First pikes, now arrows! Damme, I'm mad; or mixed up with a set of madmen!'

The Doctor ran up with his black bag. The seconds, with the exception of Sheridan, crowded round. He was looking in the direction of the temple, and gave a loud shout:

"There she goes! There! The devilish jade! She should be put in the stocks for this!'

Roger followed his glance and was just in time to catch a glimpse of pale gold hair as, to the left of the knoll on which the temple stood, and some way beyond it, a running figure disappeared into the woods.

'By God, I'll see to it that she's not!' he cried, 'This carrion here had hypnotised me. I had no more fight left in me than a rabbit set before a snake. He would have butchered me by now had she not shot him in his fat arse the moment that she did.'

Although he had seen the running figure indistinctly and for only a second, he had no doubt that it was Clarissa who had saved him. In the garden of the Governor's residence in Martinique there had been three targets at which guests sometimes amused themselves by shooting. One of her beaux had persuaded her to take up the sport and, at medium range, she had become a surprisingly good bow-​woman. At Stillwaters, too, there were targets at the far end of the bowling green; so she would have had no difficulty in getting hold of a bow and arrows. He wondered now if the Princess, with intent to strengthen this chance of getting rid of the husband she hated, had incited Clarissa to the act. But it was most unlikely that the two women would have exchanged confidences, or even had an opportunity of meeting during the night. It seemed more probable that Clarissa, having had personal experience of Malderini's hypnotic powers, had foreseen that he might use them during the duel, and so taken this desperate means of intervention.

Another yelp of pain from the Venetian drew Roger's attention back to him. The muscles of the buttock contract and exert a tight grip on any weapon which pierces them; so to get the arrow out, the Doctor had had to grasp it with both hands, put a foot in the small of Malderini's back, and give a sharp tug. Major Rawton then helped him turn the wounded man over so that he could examine the injury to his face. The gash was long but not deep and after swabbing it with an astringent to check the bleeding, he said:

'There's nought dangerous about that; but there may be about the wound in his side. Look, blood is seeping through his coat. Help me to get him out of it. Perhaps, though, it would be better to cut it off him.'

'No!' cried Malderini. 'No!' Clutching the lapels of his coat, he held them fast against his chest, and went on in his indifferent English. I forbid! You will not cut him! I not have it. I forbid! I forbid!'

'Heaven defend me!' exclaimed the Major. 'This is the maddest meeting that ever I attended. A man who will not let a doctor staunch his blood should be in Bedlam.'

Sheridan added a swift expostulation in French. 'You must let doctor get at your wound and plug it. What's a coat matter when your life may be in danger?'

Using the same language, Malderini gasped out, 'It is not serious! If it were I'd know it. My servant, Pietro, has salves and will do all that is needful.'

Meanwhile, unnoticed by them, Pietro had appeared on the edge of the group. Servants sometimes accompanied their masters to such encounters to act as horse-​holders, but were left at some distance from the place of meeting and never permitted to witness the actual engagement. So Sheridan, catching sight of him at that moment, asked him what the devil he was doing there.

The tall, black-​haired valet's bony face showed his agitation and he replied: 'My master ordered me to follow, and to watch from the edge of the wood. He said that, should he be wounded, I was to let no one touch him and bind up his wound myself.'

'Then Major Rawton is right,' murmured Colonel Thursby. 'He ought to be in Bedlam. Were the wound serious he might, by rejecting the services of a qualified medical man, die of it before he could be moved.'

'I know what I am about,' Malderini snarled, 'and I am worried only for my face.' Breaking into English, he added, 'Will it make scar, doctor? Tell me. Make no hidings. Will I have scar for life?'

Although his plump face was so lacking in distinction, its skin was smooth, a good colour, and of a fine texture; so there was justification for his concern at the possibility of an ugly blemish on it. All the same, they were distinctly taken aback by the vindictiveness his vanity led him to display a moment later. On the doctor's replying: 'Providing no infection sets in, the wound should heal fairly quickly; but I fear it will leave a permanent mark,' Malderini looked up at Roger, his eyes blazing with hatred, and gulped out:

'As you have spoiled my face, so I will spoil your life. Remember that! Remember! Sooner or later you shall pay for this a hundredfold.'

In normal circumstances, Roger would have offered a defeated antagonist his hand, and expressed the hope that he would soon be recovered from his wounds. Faced with such malice, there was nothing to be said. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away and walked towards the place where he had left his coat.