Dennis Wheatley - The Devil Rides Out

‘Not very logical—are you?’ Rex commented. ‘One moment it’s you who’re scared that he may do all sorts of strange things to us, and the next you tell me that he’s bolted for fear of being slogged under the jaw.’

‘My dear fellow, I can only theorise. I’m completely in the dark myself. Some of these followers of the Left Hand Path are mere neophytes who can do little more than wish evil in minor matters on people they dislike. Others are adepts and can set in .motion the most violent destructive forces which are not yet even suspected by our modern scientists.

‘If Mocata only occupies a low place in the hierarchy we can deal with him as we would any other crook with little risk of any serious danger to ourselves, but if he is a Master he may be able to strike us blind or dead. Unfortunately I know little enough of this horrible business, only the minor rituals of the Right Hand Path, or White Magic as people call it, which may protect us in an emergency. If only I knew more I might be able to find out where he has taken Simon.’

‘Cheer up—we’ll find him.’ Rex laughed as he set down his plate, but the sound echoed eerily through the deserted house, causing him to glance swiftly over his shoulder in the direction of the still darkened inner room. ‘What’s the next move?’ he asked more soberly.

‘We’ve got to try and find Simon’s papers. If we can, we may be able to get the real names and addresses of some of those people who were here tonight. Let’s try the library first—bring the bottle with you. I’ll take the glasses.’

‘What d’you mean — real names?’ Rex questioned as he followed De Richleau across the hall.

‘Why, you don’t suppose that incredible old woman with the parrot beak was really called Madame D’Urfe—do you? That’s only a nom-du-Diable, taken when she was re-baptised, and adopted from the Countess of that name, who was a notorious witch in Louis XV’s time. All the others are the same. Didn’t you realise the meaning of the name your lovely lady calls herself by— Tanith?’

‘No.’ Rex hesitated. ‘I thought she was just foreigner— that’s all.’

‘Dear me! Well, Tanith was the Moon Goddess of the Carthaginians. Thousands of years earlier the Egyptians called her Isis, and in the intervening stage she was known to the Phoenicians as the Lady Astoroth. They worshipped her in sacred groves where doves were sacrificed and unmentionable scenes of licentiousness took place. The God Adonis was her lover, and the people wept for his mythical death each year, believing upon him as a Redeemer of Mankind. As they went in processions to her shrines they wrought themselves into the wildest frenzy, and to slake the thwarted passion of the widowed goddess, gashed themselves with knives. Sir George Frazer’s “Golden Bough” will tell you all about it, but the blood that was shed still lives, Rex, and she has been thirsty through these Christian centuries for more. Eleven words of power, each having eleven letters, twice pronounced in a fitting time and place after due preparation, and she would stand before you, terrible in her beauty, demanding a new sacrifice.’

Even Rex’s gay modernity was not proof against that sinister declaration. De Richleau’s voice held no trace of the gentle cynicism which was so characteristic of him, but seemed to ring with the positiveness of some horrible secret truth. He shuddered slightly as the Duke began to pull open the drawers of Simon’s desk.

All except one, which was locked, held letter files, and a brief examination of these showed that they contained nothing but accounts, receipts, and correspondence of a normal nature. Rex forced the remaining drawer with a heavy steel paper knife, but it only held cheque book counterfoils and bundles of dividend warrants, so they turned their attention to the long shelves of books. It was possible that Simon might have concealed certain private papers behind his treasured collection of modern first editions, but after ten minutes’ careful search they assured themselves that nothing of interest was hidden at the back of the neat rows of volumes.

Having drawn a blank in the library, they proceeded to the other downstairs rooms, going systematically through every drawer and cabinet, but without result. Then they moved upstairs and tried the bedrooms, yet here again they could discover nothing which might not have been found in any normal house, nor was there any safe in which important documents might have been placed.

During the search De Richleau kept Rex constantly beside him, and Rex was not altogether sorry. Little by little the atmosphere of the place was getting him down, and more than once he had the unpleasant sensation that somebody was watching him covertly from behind, although he told himself that it was pure imagination, due entirely to De Richleau’s evident belief in the supernatural, of which they had been talking all the evening.

‘These people must have left traces of their doings in this house somewhere,’ declared the Duke angrily as they came out of the last bedroom on to the landing, ‘and I’m determined to find them.’

‘We haven’t done the Observatory yet, and I’d say that’s the most likely spot of all,’ Rex suggested.

‘Yes—let’s do that next.’ De Richleau turned towards the upper flight of stairs.

The great domed room was just as they had left it a few hours before. The big telescope pointing in the same direction, the astrolabes and sextants still in the same places. The five-pointed pentacle enclosed in the double circle with its Cabalistic figures stood out white and clear on the polished floor in the glare of the electric lights. Evidently no ceremony had taken place after their departure. To verify his impression the Duke threw up the lid of the wicker hamper that stood beside the wall.

A scraping sound came from the basket, and he nodded. ‘See Rex! The Black Cock and the White Hen destined for sacrifice, but we spoilt their game for tonight at all events. We’ll take them down and free them in the garden when we go.’

‘What did they really mean to do—d’you think?’ Rex asked gravely.

‘Utilise the conjunction of certain stars which occurred at Simon’s birth, and again tonight, to work some invocation through him. To raise some dark familiar perhaps, an elemental or an earthbound spirit—or even some terrible intelligence from what we know as Hell, in order to obtain certain information they require from it.’

‘Oh, nuts!’ Rex exclaimed impatiently. ‘I don’t believe such things. Simon’s been got hold of by a gang of blackmailing kidnappers and hypnotised if you like. They’ve probably used this Black Magic stuff to impose on him just as it imposes on you— but in every other way it’s sheer, preposterous nonsense.’

‘I only hope that you may continue to think so, Rex, but I fear you may have reason to altar your views before we’re through. Let’s continue our search—shall we?’

‘Fine — though I’ve a hunch it’s a pity we didn’t call in the cops at the beginning.’

They examined the instruments, but all of them were beyond suspicion of any secret purpose, and then a square revolving bookcase, but it held only trigonometry tables and charts of the heavens.

‘Damn it, there must be something in this place!’ De Richleau muttered. ‘Swords or cups or devils’ bibles. They couldn’t perform their ritual without them.’

‘Maybe they took their impedimenta with them when they quit.’

‘Perhaps, but I’d like even to see the place in which they kept it. You never know what they may have left behind. Try tapping all round the walls, Rex, and I’ll do the floor. There’s almost certain to be a secret cache somewhere.’

For some minutes they pursued their search in silence, only their repeated knockings breaking the stillness of the empty house. Then Rex gave a sudden joyful shout.