Dennis Wheatley - The Devil Rides Out

‘Monsieur Castelnau?’ the Duke inquired of the concierge.

‘This way, monsieur,’ the man led them through a spacious stone-faced hall to the lift.

It shot up to the fifth floor, and as he opened the gates, the concierge pointed to a door upon the right.

‘Number Seventy-two,’ he said quietly. ‘I think Monsieur Castelnau has just come in.’

The gates clanged behind them, and the lift flashed silently down again to the ground floor. De Richleau gave Rex a swift glance and, stepping towards the door of Number Seventy-two, pressed the bell.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE MAN WITH THE JAGGED EAR

The tall, elaborately carved door was opened by a bald, elderly manservant in a black alpaca coat. Rex gave his name, and the servant looked past him with dark, inquiring eyes at the others.

‘These are friends of mine, who’re seeing Monsieur Castelnau on the same business,’ Rex said abruptly, stepping into the long, narrow hall. ‘Is he in?’

‘Yes, monsieur, and he is expecting you. This way, if you please.’

Marie Lou perched herself on a high couch of Cordova leather, while the other three followed the back of the alpaca jacket down the corridor. Another tall, carved door was thrown open, and they entered a wide, dimly-lit salon, furnished in the old style of French elegance: gilt ormolu, tapestries, bric-a-brac, and a painted ceiling where cupids disported themselves among roseate flowers.

Castelnau stood, cold, thin, angular and hatchet-faced, with his back to a large porcelain stove. He was dressed in the clothes which he had worn at the banquet. The wide, watered silk ribbon with the garish colours of some foreign order cut across his shirt front and a number of decorations were pinned to the lapel of his evening coat.

‘Monsieur Van Ryn.’ He barely touched Rex’s hand with his cold fingers and went on in his own language. ‘It is a pleasure to receive you. I know your house well by reputation, and from time to time in the past my own firm has had some dealings with yours.’ Then he glanced at the others sharply. ‘The gentlemen are, I assume, associated with you in this business?’

‘They are.’ Rex introduced them briefly. ‘The Duke de Richleau — Mr. Richard Eaton.’

Castelnau’s eyebrows lifted a fraction as he studied the Duke’s face with new interest. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Monsieur le Duc must pardon me if I did not recognise him at first.

It is many years since we have met, and I was under the impression that he had never found the air of Paris good for him; but perhaps I am indiscreet to make any reference to that old trouble.’

‘The business which has brought me is urgent, monsieur,’ De Richleau replied suavely. ‘Therefore I elected to ignore the ban which a Government of bourgeois and socialists placed upon me.’

‘A grave step, monsieur, since the police of France have a notoriously long memory. Particularly at the present time when the Government has cause to regard all politicals who are not of its party with suspicion. However,’ the banker bowed slightly, ‘that, of course, is your own affair entirely. Be seated, gentlemen. I am at your service.’

None of the three accepted the proffered invitation, and Rex said abruptly: ‘The bullion deal I spoke of when I called you on the telephone was only an excuse to secure this interview. The three of us have come here tonight because we know that you are associated with Mocata.’

The Frenchman stared at him in blank surprise and was just about to burst into angry protest when Rex hurried on. ‘It’ll cut no ice to deny it. We know too much. The night before last we saw you at that joint in Chilbury, and afterwards with the rest of those filthy swine doing the devil’s business on Salisbury Plain. You’re a Satanist, and you’re going to tell us all you know about your leader.’

Castelnau’s dark eyes glittered dangerously in his long, white face. They shifted with a sudden furtive glance towards an open escritoire.

Before he could move, Richard’s voice came quiet but steely, ‘Stay where you are. I’ve got you covered, and I’ll shoot you like a dog if you flicker an eyelid.’

De Richleau caught the banker’s glance, and with his quick, cat-like step had reached the ornate desk. He pulled out a few drawers, and then found the weapon that he felt certain must be there. It was a tiny .2 pistol, but deadly enough. Having assured himself that it was loaded, he pointed it at the Satanist. ‘Now,’ he said, icily, ‘are you prepared to talk, or must I make you?’

Castelnau shrugged, then looked down at his feet. ‘You cannot make me,’ he replied with a quiet confidence, ‘but if you tell me what you wish to know, I may possibly give you the information you require in order to get rid of you.’

‘First, what do you know of Mocata’s history?’

‘Very little, but sufficient to assure you that you are exceedingly ill-advised if, as it appears, you intend to pit yourself against him.’

‘To hell with that!’ Rex snapped angrily; ‘get on with the story.’

‘Just as you wish. It is the Canon Damien Mocata to whom you refer, of course. When he was younger he was an officiating priest at some church in Lyons, I believe. He was always a difficult person, and his intellectual gifts made him a thorn in the sides of his superiors. Then there was some scandal and he left the church; but long before that he had become an occultist of exceptional powers. I met him some years ago and became interested in his operations. Your apparent disapproval of them does not distress me in the least. I find their theory an exceptionally interesting study, and their practice of the greatest assistance in governing my business transactions. Mocata lives in Paris for a good portion of the year, and I see him from time to time socially in addition to our meetings for esoteric purposes. I think that is all that I can tell you.’

‘When did you see him last?’ asked the Duke.

‘At Chilbury two nights ago, when we gathered again after the break-up of our meeting. I suppose you were responsible for that?’ Castelnau’s thin lips broke into a ghost of a smile. ‘If so, believe me, you will pay for it.’

‘You have not seen him then today—this evening?’

‘No, I did not even know that he had returned to Paris.’ There was a ring in the banker’s voice which made it difficult for his questioners to doubt that he was telling them the truth.

‘Where does he live when he is in Paris?’ the Duke inquired.

‘I do not know. I have visited him at many places. Often he stays with various friends, who are also interested in his practices, but he has no permanent address. The people with whom he was staying last left Paris some months ago for the Argentine, so I have no idea where you are likely to find him now.’

‘Where do you meet him when these Satanic gatherings take place?’

‘I am sorry, but I cannot tell you.’ The Frenchman’s voice was firm.

De Richleau padded softly forward and thrust the little pistol into Castelnau’s ribs, just under his heart. ‘I am afraid you’ve got to,’ he purred silkily. ‘The matter that we are engaged upon is urgent.’

The banker held his ground, and to outward appearances remained unruffled at the threat. ‘It is no good,’ he said quietly, ‘I cannot do it, even if you intend to murder me. Each one of us goes into a self-induced hypnotic trance before proceeding to these meetings, and wakes upon his arrival. In my conscious state I have no idea how I get there; so this apache attitude of yours is completely useless.’

‘I see.’ De Richleau nodded slowly and withdrew the automatic. ‘However, you are going to tell me just the same, because it happens that I am something of a hypnotist. I shall put you under now, and we shall proceed to follow all the stages of your unconscious journey.’