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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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"No Ordinary Cheyney," Faber & Faber, London, 1950
YEARS spent in reading reviews written by sinister, unwashed critics, smelling vaguely of garlic and living unmentionable lives in deserted and bombed-out lean-to's in the Bloomsbury area, with minds permanently affected by their macabre environments (thereby proving that Lombroso not only knew, but was in advance of, his onions), reduce any writer to a state of neurotic excitement and hysteria in which practically any form of coherent thought is entirely impossible.
Even the better reviews of his work that may appear from time to time, which are, of course, penned by manly, good-looking men and svelte, soignée, supremely alluring women who radiate a suggestion of the better kinds of perfume and who invariably wear the sort of two-way-stretch girdles which are available only to ladies who have friends in the B.O.A.C. and the Department of Overseas Trade cannot wean the unfortunate scribe from this morose and negative state of mind.
There are, believe it or not, people who think that critics are an unnecessary evil; that they have no raison d'être; that they are a parasitic growth in the literary world. I do not subscribe to this. A critic merely expresses his own opinion. The fact that he makes the most definite statements presupposes that he has an embracing knowledge of every sort of literature, but that does not really mean a thing. What he writes is merely his opinion and not always that. Any critic would, of course, froth at the mouth were I to dare to suggest in the most humble manner that many reviews intended for publication as an honest and sincere opinion have been inspired either by Head Office or by some other and possibly more sinister influence—perhaps the Russians!
In days of yore it was considered that before a carpenter could give a definite and authoritative opinion on ancient wood-carving he should know how to wield a plane, a chisel and a saw, it being thought (in the most old-fashioned manner, of course) that before he criticised other and more successful carpenters' work he should at least know something of the technique of his trade. This mild standard, however, does not apply today when ladies and gentlemen, not necessarily authors, let alone successful authors, burst into print on the slightest provocation with paeans of praise or diatribes of abuse about a technique they have neither learned nor practised. I ought to know. Having been praised and harangued with invective (sometimes by the same people) for a considerable period I am now able to sit back and take what I hope is an unbiased, impersonal, but undoubtedly amused view of the whole bag of tricks.
Friends of mine, mostly unsuccessful authors, sometimes say that critics are (a) people who have failed as advertising copywriters; or (b) are unsuccessful authors trying to get their own back either on (1) successful authors, or (2) publishers who have refused to publish their work; and/or (c) anyone else who may happen to be passing at the moment.
I do not subscribe to any of these opinions because I have come to the conclusion, after a great many years of thought, that British critics are, in any event, a supreme class and that some of them are almost brilliant.
And why should they not be brilliant? Here are a class of men and women who have newsprint at their disposal, and who, within certain vague limitations and with the knowledge that our ancient law of libel works only one way, are able to sit down after a good or bad breakfast, lunch or dinner, and burst into abuse or paroxysms of praise with the utmost gusto, fortified by the thought that in any successful libel action it is necessary to prove malice, and that most authors, being of the malicious type themselves, are entirely unable to recognise malice in anyone else. Do not, however, be put off by this thought. Two or three hours spent in The Press Club, the Red Lion in Poppins Court, or the Falstaff in Fleet Street, with both ears kept wide open, should produce enough evidence of malice to keep the Law Courts going for years.
Let us be serious a moment and admit that the business of criticism requires a great deal of knowledge, of culture, technique and common sense—especially common sense. And in this connection I would say that common sense is surely the foremost and most valuable requirement for a critic. But he must be well-informed. He must be prepared to spend hours in research. If he does not, what a fate will befall him!
I would here and now like to tell the pathetic story of my young and brilliant friend McGonigle Peabody, who, as everybody knows, was one of our most cultured and inspiring critics. Here was a man whose otherwise brilliant career was damned by the fact that he would not permit himself to do the slightest research about the people whose books he was reviewing. Figure to yourself his horror when one day he found himself flung out on his ear from the newspaper office in which he had, for several years, occupied a desk in the worst-lighted and most badly ventilated corner, merely because he had dismissed with opprobrium a book written by a lady whom the slightest research would have discovered to him was the cousin of the managing Director of his newspaper.
Again a critic must realise the immense power in his hands, the great and far-reaching influence which he exerts upon the public. Let us take those distinguished ladies and gentlemen who "go in" for film criticism. You have probably noticed, after reading a slashing attack on one of the more leggy products of Hollywood, the crowds fighting to get into the cinema to see this film. It is on these occasions that a critic must stand on the far side of the street and note almost with awe the power of his pen. There are people, as I said earlier, who go so far as to profess an active dislike of critics. Yet I have known people of this type who will, while disliking certain critics to an extraordinary degree, still use them as a means to their selection of plays, films or novels. One of my most erudite and intellectual friends, for instance, reads the theatrical criticisms of one of our best-known scribes, makes a list of the productions which this critic praises highly, and then goes to see an entirely different assortment of plays. He uses his critic with a difference!
Now I come to something on which I can speak with authority, that is the criticism of novels. For a considerable period I have been writing novels which for secret and private reasons known only to themselves, the publics of most countries have bought in increasingly large quantities. This process has been described by different critics as being (a) indicative of the bad taste of the world, (b) indicative of world progress, (c) due to Soviet influence, and (d) due to all sorts of other things, too innumerable and deep for me to go into at the moment. The fact remains that during the years in which I have been producing these books I have been alternately lauded and damned by members of the critical profession or racket, whichever it likes to be called, all of which is very nice and very amusing and enables lots of paper to be filled up with printed words which unfortunately seem to mean remarkably little to anybody at all. Or so people tell me.
For myself I have other ideas, and I would like to state here and now that it is my considered opinion, arrived at after long thought, that far from critics being unkind or unfair to authors, it is authors who behave badly to critics. I know this to be a fact, and if anybody wants any proof of that, they need go no further than the actual case of the man Cheyney.
In telling this story I am actuated only by a desire to make some sort of amends for the tough things I have said about critics and reviewers generally both in sober and in rather more elevated states of mind.
Therefore, I would like it to be understood that in setting out the facts which follow I am telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Also—and this will be of great interest to readers—I am taking an absolutely impersonal and objective viewpoint of the man Cheyney as an author. I am looking at him. I have analysed the things in this man which make him tick over—that is in regard to his viewpoint on critics—and my conclusion is, as I have said before, that, being a person who has said tough things, hard things, about these ladies and gentlemen who belong to a class or tribe which is all the more valuable because it is fast disappearing, he has only been saved from making an utter idiot of himself by his complete change of mind on this important subject and on these important people.
What was responsible for the changed viewpoint of the man Cheyney? That is a question which we have to answer. The answer is simple. It was the work of a critic. Here in a few simple words I will tell the dramatic story.
Years ago, at a party given by my friend the late Humbert Wolfe—a person whose mind was in many ways akin to my own and whose sense of humour was a great joy to me—I saw a lady who, I was told, was a critic and a reviewer, and in spite of the fact that this lady may immediately rush madly to her lawyers and bring all sorts of actions against me, I am going to state in all humility that she was Miss Viola Garvin, and that she was leaning against the doorpost drinking gin and orange, wearing a blue frock and looking, I thought, not particularly brilliant and just more or less like any other critic or reviewer.
I was introduced to her. We talked for a little while. She said nothing which stayed in my mind as being indicative of brilliance or great analytical ability, and I went away with the usual vague picture or memory which one has after a party. But I was wrong. Only I know how wrong I was.
Time went by. One day I picked up a newspaper cutting which had been sent to me by the cutting agency, and I found a long review of one of my books by Miss Garvin. The review was headed, in the best of taste, "The Admirable Cheyney," and in it she wrote several things which I have known to be true for a long time, and which have since affected my mentality to a great degree.
For instance, she said that I possessed a rich Irish imagination. I had thought this, myself, for a very, very long time, but it was only after reading Miss Garvin's piece that my friends began to look at me in a new light. She said I was inclined to be psychic, and while I am not quite certain what she meant by this, there is no doubt that it was and is true, and is doubtless one of the reasons why I walk about (since reading the review), with a faraway and languorous expression in my eye which has caused some trouble in various directions which need not be gone into at the moment.
A foreign, and to my mind unnecessary line, was introduced into her criticism by a mention of my cat. I think this was a wrong thing to do, because it rather diffused the limelight which was being shed on me, and it could not make any possible difference to my cat who is, so far as I know, unable to read.
Altogether, taking this review impersonally and objectively, it seemed to me that the man Cheyney, author, psychic, possessor of a rich and vivid Irish imagination, was pretty good value for money. Members of my family and other people who read the cutting, which I left lying about for a considerable period, began to treat me with added respect, with the possible exception of my confidential secretary, who merely sniggered—obviously an acid type!
And that's that! And after this let no one say that the man Cheyney is unfair to critics. The trouble is, I believe, that critics will not permit themselves to realise the strange way in which their brilliant minds work. For instance, the reviewer who began a review of one of my books with the words "If it was good I wouldn't like it," was merely trying to create in the minds of his readers a peculiar curiosity about the book. He knew perfectly well that by saying that even if it was good he wouldn't like it, it was presupposed that if it had been bad he would have liked it. He was telling his public in effect that he did not like the book because it was good, and if he chose to do it in a mysterious manner, all the more credit to him.
To take another instance, last year I received an angry letter from a fan in France enclosing a cutting from a French newspaper. The cutting showed an interview between the French newspaper and a visiting English critic. This critic, my correspondent pointed out to me, had praised in the English papers every book I'd written over a considerable period but, on arrival in France, he proceeded to tell his interviewer when asked about me, that he did not like my work, and that he never would like it. Having regard to the fact, said my correspondent, that he had given my last book unmitigated praise, he failed to understand what this critic was trying to do.
Once again I hastened to the defence of a member of a profession for which I have now acquired the greatest admiration, and I was able to show my French correspondent that this critic's remarks were, in point of fact, actuated by the best intentions. I pointed out that he had always shown the greatest liking for my work in England, but that when he arrived in France and saw that quite a number of French book-shops were filled with Cheyney editions, he realised that to say anything good about me would simply be selling coals to Newcastle! Therefore, with that generosity and kindness which distinguishes this branch of the profession, he proceeded to damn me and my works, knowing that that process would increase the interest of the French people in Cheyney books. The following year, sales of my books in France advanced by over a quarter of a million copies and I have this critic, I am sure, to thank for this. All honour to him!
I hope, after this foreword, that everyone who reads this book, will know that when anything is said against the integrity, brilliance and sincerity of our book, theatre and film critics, the man Cheyney will be found fighting shoulder to shoulder in the forefront of their ranks. [Like hell he will!]
Finally, in order to assist my friends the critics in reviewing this book, I have overleaf appended a few suggestions.
AN author needs a host of acquaintances and very few friends. He should teach himself to be alone without experiencing loneliness. He should realise that it is impossible to think about people when one is with them. He should endeavour to acquire charm in order to attract people to confide in him and toughness in order to analyse their confidences. He will eventually discover that cynicism plus logic will always discover the truth—no matter how deep the well may be.
To be successful a young author should always know when to stop thinking and/or drinking. To him "atmosphere" should be what cocaine is to a dope addict. If his mind is not greatly affected by atmosphere he should give up writing.
Every writer must be interested in women. Very little —even a novel—is possible without them. Anything may be possible with them.
Ability to get out of trouble gracefully is a most necessary attribute to the technique of any writer. To get into trouble is a very simple matter for any writer who takes his business seriously.
No young author worthy of the name pays the slightest attention to any advice to young authors.
1. "Cheyney has done it again."
(This should be used when the reviewer is not quite certain how Cheyney stands with the newspaper generally. He should take care, however, not to divulge what Cheyney has done again.)
2. "The Last of Mr. Cheyney"
(Witty ammunition for the wise young reviewer who wishes to put on record that he once heard of Frederick Lonsdale's play. The critic should be careful to state, however, that the wish is not father to the thought!)
3. "A Vintage Cheyney."
(An invariable get-out for the boys and girls who wish to be generous but cannot be bothered to read the book.)
4. "A Non-Vintage Cheyney."
(A suggestion for critics suffering from acidity, who have not read the book, having sold their reviewer's copy without perusal in order to buy beer.)
5. "This book is not up to the standard of Cheyney's
(a) past
(b) present
(c) future work."
"Who the hell is Cheyney anyway?"
(A suggestion for a desperate critic!)
A brass dog's head was on the door,
The paned casement stole the sun.
The dresser on the red-tiled floor
Showed china plates set one by one.
And she was tall and fair and free,
With stars for eyes and pearls for teeth.
The simple linen frock she wore
Told of the supple grace beneath.
Oh let me back to Wales again
Where I may breathe of God's good air.
I wonder are her eyes still wet,
If she still sees my shadow there.
—December 1916.
THE advice "to those about to wed—don't" is, I think, trite, and not very intelligent. Most young lovers need advice before they begin their courtship. The advice, however, would in any event be redundant because if it were taken there would be no courtship.
It is impossible to live without love. It produces an exaltation only comparable to that secured by the imbibing of at least two bottles of champagne followed by at least half a bottle of the most excellent brandy. The hangover, however, is much worse.
It should be remembered that love which is entirely physical usually ends by being merely quizzical. I have also discovered that it is extremely difficult for a man enamoured of some woman to maintain his mental integrity. In fact, I would go so far as to say that many a brilliant and ardent lover discovers as the years pass that he has sold his brain for a mess of dotage.
I would like young lovers to remember the saying which proclaims that when a woman says no she means yes; that when she says yes she means no. This may be so, but he should beware that his own girl is not the exception that proves the rule.
The young lover should always be discreet. He will realise that a man is known by the company that he thinks nobody knows he is keeping. He will also realise that if love produces in woman— and this has been said by no less a person than Confucius—a tinge of insanity, there is more often than not method in her madness.
THE brown Mestizo boy came out of the blinding sunshine into the eerie coolness of the mangrove swamp. He thought that it was strange to come from such a heat into such a cold earthy smell. He began to whistle because he was afraid of the mangrove swamp. Evil spirits lurked there, he thought. He walked, carefully missing the gnarled roots of the trees with his moccasined feet. He crossed where the swamp was shallow. Through the thick trees he could see the shack in the clearing. He whistled more loudly.
Usually, when the boy came with an old newspaper or a message from somebody who required the peculiar services of Inglees, the owner of the shack would appear in the doorway. This morning he did not appear.
The Mestizo boy walked round to the back of the shack. He thought that Inglees would be drunk. He mounted the few wooden steps; crossed the rotting veranda; pushed open the door; looked inside. He grinned. Inglees was drunk. The boy could hear the sound of his snores from the far dark corner of the shack. The Mestizo boy threw the folded newspaper and the letter on to the floor.
He shrugged his shoulders; went away.
At noon the sun beat down on to the wooden roof of the shack. The interior of the place became like an oven. Inglees slung his legs off the bunk; sat, his head between his hands, ruffling his hair. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot. His mouth was foul. Both his hands were trembling and he had a dull ache in his left arm. He got to his feet; walked across the hut; kicked open the wooden door; stood looking outside.
He was wearing a pair of stained linen trousers tied round the waist with an old tie. He wore a pair of broken brown suede shoes. His ankles were bare. Above the trousers a thin, stained, American-knit vest covered his wide shoulders and spare stomach. He leaned against the door-post and yawned. Then he turned back into the hut; searched for the bottle. He found it. It stood beside the wooden sink in the corner. It was empty. He threw it into the corner of the shack and the noise of the glass smashing made his brain jump.
He sat down on the table. His face was tanned almost to the colour of liver. It was a thin, triangular face, lined; dull eyes peered from beneath black eyebrows. The thick, black, wavy hair was dirty and clung to his head with sweat.
He looked round the hut; shrugged his shoulders; pushed himself away from the table; went through the door. He walked through the swamp; splashed casually across by the bridge of stones so that the water came over his ankles. On the far side he stopped. He stooped, bent down, picked up a stone and threw it at the flat head of a water snake. He walked out of the grove on to the road that led down to the town.
It was twenty minutes past noon when he arrived at the small estancia. He kicked open the door; went inside. Through the window by the side of the door he could see the midday sun glinting on the white sand. At places where some bright object caught the rays of the sun it sparkled like diamonds.
Inglees turned towards the zinc-covered bar at the end of the frowsy room. The Señora Marandes, black-haired, her flat Carib face the colour of olives, sat behind the bar, her elbows on it, looking at Inglees.
He thought she had been a handsome woman once, but that was a long time ago. She had been handsome when she had married Marandes. Now she was a fat pig with no shape. Her eyes, he thought, were bright—too bright—and her brown skin shone with perspiration.
She said in Spanish: "Well, Inglees...?" Her voice was sarcastic.
He leaned against the bar, his head sideways, smiling at her. His teeth were strong and white. She thought that was the only clean, attractive thing about him— that and when he smiled.
He said in the same language: "Some cachasa...."
"You have the money, Inglees?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "Who has money on Bana after a fiesta? I would like a large glass." He moved his elbow, stood up straight and looked at her. "I will have a bottle, my little pumpkin."
She shook her head. "Inglees... you will have nothing."
He stretched out a thin, brown hand. He flipped open a box of West Indian cigarettes that stood at her elbow. He took one; put it in his mouth; lighted it with a match produced from his trouser pocket and struck against his leg. He reached out his hand; took three more cigarettes; put them in the sweat-stained pocket of his shirt. She watched him, her eyes dull and angry.
He said: "Do you remember the fiesta before last, my little pumpkin... my beautiful Estralista...? That was the day your husband went to La Tortuga about the wine shipment. He stayed there that night. That was the night when you were with the handsome llanero... you remember? I think it would be very unfortunate if somebody were to tell your husband about the llanero."
She said softly: "May the good God strike you dead...!"
"The cachasa," said Inglees.
She turned away. After a moment she came back with a bottle; put it on the bar. Inglees stretched out his hand and took it. He pulled out the cork and put the neck of the bottle in his mouth. He took a great gulp of the white liquid, then he began to cough. The fit lasted quite a while. He put the cork back in the bottle.
She said: "One day that stuff will catch up with you. Then you will be dead. Everybody on Bana will be very pleased."
He grinned. "I shall be pleased too."
She lighted a cigarette; smoked silently for a little while; blowing the smoke out of her brown, distended nostrils. Her eyes never left his face.
Then she said: "If you knew about the llanero, why have you not tried to get a bottle of cachasa before?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I like to save some things up for when I need them."
"Inglees, there are a lot of people on Bana, and some in La Tortuga, who are saving things up for you. One night they will find you with a knife in your back... or you will go over a canyon...."
"Yes? Or be bitten by a moccasin snake in a swamp." He grinned at her again. "Threatened men live longest," he said.
She put her elbows on the bar. She asked: "Have you been down to the town?" He shook his head.
She said in a sing-song voice: "The boat came in last night— the boat from La Tortuga. Pedrillo was on the boat... Pedrillo and some woman. He nearly made a good thing of it."
He drew the tobacco smoke down into his lungs; began to cough again. When it was over, he asked: "What good thing?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "It seems that the woman had some jewellery. She is in some way suspect. So Pedrillo, when the boat docked, saw Mendanda standing on the quay. So he called to Mendanda and said that the woman had some jewellery concealed about her— jewellery which she had not declared."
He yawned. "Had she?"
She nodded. "She had some. She had two rings and a brooch— very beautiful. Mendanda thought they were worth a lot of money."
He asked: "So what does he do?"
"He throws her in the can," she went on. "That's where she is. Then he gives Pedrillo two silver bolivars for a reward. So Pedrillo comes here and gets drunk. Then he hits the rurale. So they throw him in the can too."
"Why did Pedrillo give the woman away to Mendanda? Why did he say she had the jewellery?"
She shrugged her shoulders again. The movement made her immense bosom tremble. She answered: "He said the woman is beautiful. That is what he said. When he saw her, perhaps he tried to make her on the boat. You know what he is like. Perhaps that and she wouldn't play, so he gives her away to Mendanda. I hope she likes our jail. It must be like an oven today."
He nodded. He threw away the stub of his quickly-smoked cigarette; stretched out his hand and took another one from the box. He pulled the cork from the bottle; took a long swig.
He said to her in courtly Spanish: "My felicitations, Señora... to your health. To all who belong to you. God keep this house." He was grinning at her.
She looked at him with snakes' eyes. "My house and everything that is in it is yours, Señor." She spat on the wooden floor.
He sighed. He put the bottle in the hip pocket of his dirty linen trousers. She could see half the bottle and the neck protruding. She thought it looked as if he had a deformity.
She asked unpleasantly: "Are you going, Señor?"
He nodded. "It's the time for my walk." He walked towards the door.
She said: "It is noon and the sun is hot. You have been drinking spirits. I hope to God you get sunstroke."
"Señora, everything I have is yours...." He slammed the door behind him.
HE walked down the dirt track from the estancia. At the bottom the straggling wooden shacks, with one or two adobe houses in between, sparkled in the sun. Further on to the right was the small quay. The little single-funnelled Quivar that plied between La Tortuga and Bana was still tied up at the wooden wharf. He walked for a few minutes; then sat down. The sun was very hot. He wondered whether his head was bad because of the sun or last night. He took another swig at the bottle. He thought that you got used to sun or anything after a while. He examined the broken shoe on his left foot; considered that he would have to get it mended some time. After a few minutes he got up and walked towards the town.
Pinto was sitting at the table inside the adobe jail house. The place had once been painted white. The walls and the floor were filthy. An indescribable odour hung about the room. Pinto looked up.
He said: "Close the door, Inglees, and keep the sun out. You ought to wear a hat. Or maybe you eat a lot of salt. The sun should have killed you a long time ago."
Inglees sat down. He took the bottle from his hip pocket and put it on the table. He said: "Help yourself, Pinto. Help yourself to a drink and tell me about Pedrillo."
Pinto drank from the bottle. "This is good," he said. "Very good. This came from Marandes, Inglees. Did you pay for it?"
"I never pay for anything. You ought to know that. Tell me about Pedrillo and the woman."
Pinto laughed. When he laughed he lifted his lips like fangs and showed a mouthful of rotting teeth. A thin line of sweat was running down one side of his face from the bandana handkerchief tied round his head.
He said: "So you don't pay for anything; but you want me to tell you about Pedrillo and the woman. I will tell you..." he motioned with his thumb... "for this bottle."
"Why not? I can get another. I'll strike a bargain with you. Tell me about Pedrillo and the woman—and I'd like to look at them—it sounds like the beginning of an interesting romance. Then I'll give you the bottle."
Pinto got up. He was fat. His stomach sagged over the top of a pair of old black caballero trousers laced with silver.
He said: "So this woman comes from La Tortuga." He shrugged his shoulders. "She is beautiful. It seems that she was with Pedrillo on the boat. They talked together. Somehow she offends him, this chicken. So when they tie up, Mendanda is down there and Pedrillo tells him that the woman is running jewellery. So they hand her over to that fat cow Sylvia Garbuza, to search her. So they find some jewellery... not much but valuable. So"—he motioned with his thumb towards the iron door at the end of the room—"Mendanda throws her in here. Afterwards Pedrillo gets drunk. Then he hits Garcia in the face with a horse-shoe. So he is thrown in too. They are one at each end of the cell corridor. I hope they like it."
Inglees said: "Give me the keys, Pinto."
Pinto looked at the bottle. "Figure to yourself," he said, "that the bottle is a third empty. There are two-thirds of cachasa. I will have a drink and you will have a drink. The rest stays with me. That is for the story. For the keys I require another bottle of cachasa."
"Tomorrow?" asked Inglees.
Pinto nodded. "For once I take your word." He reached for the bottle; took another swig; passed it to Inglees. He went to the desk in the corner; came back with a steel ring on which were hanging a dozen keys, He said: "You know the cells... you've been there before."
Inglees took the keys. He walked across the room; unlocked the iron door in the far adobe wall. On the other side was a thirty-foot passage, crossed at the top with a "T" shaped end. He took the right fork; passed by the six steel-doored cells; finished in front of the last one. He leaned up against the door, the sweat running down his face from his dirty hair, the cigarette between his fingers stained with sweat, looking at the woman.
She was lying on the wooden bench on the far side of the cell in the corner where the shadow was deepest. She wore a white linen suit. She was asleep. Inglees thought that she was very beautiful. He thought he liked looking at her. He turned and went to the other end of the passage. This was cell No. 6. He grinned. They always put Pedrillo in there. No. 6 was as hot as hell.
Pedrillo, thin, acid, his saturnine face screwed up in the sun, sat on the floor with his back against the adobe wall on the far side of the cell. He looked up when he heard the keys rattle.
He said: "So, Inglees... you come to let me out...?"
Inglees said: "Your mother was a pig. I will tell you about your father." He told him as he unlocked the steel door; closed it behind him.
"So you come here to insult me," said Pedrillo. "I, who have been a good friend to you. Because I am unfortunate, because I get drunk and hit with a horseshoe this Garcia—this stupid policeman who tries to arrest me—you laugh at my misfortunes. You tell me that my mother was a pig."
Inglees picked up the three-legged wooden stool. He set it down in front of Pedrillo. He sat on it, his hands on his knees. Now the cigarette stub was burned almost to a level with his lips. He spat it out.
He said: "Pedrillo... tell me about the woman."
Pedrillo shrugged. "How should I know? I came across yesterday on the Quivar from La Tortuga. She was waiting there on the quay. She has style, you know. There is only one place you can be going to from La Tortuga, and that is Bana. On the boat I talked to her. She talks a lot this woman."
Inglees said: "You mean you tried to make her...? Son of a bitch, I bet she spat in your eye...."
"Always you laugh at my misfortunes," said Pedrillo. "Because I am polite to a woman I should be insulted...."
Inglees said: "Your mother was an unsuccessful whore...."
"That is a slander," said Pedrillo. "She was not unsuccessful. But what has that to do with the matter under discussion?"
"I am not disputing the point," Inglees said. "For seven months you have never been away from Bana. The day before yesterday you sneaked away on the Quivar at four o'clock in the morning. You went to La Tortuga to meet the woman. Tell me...."
"I would like a cigarette," said Pedrillo. "I never talk without tobacco."
"I'll give you a cigarette." Inglees got up. He picked up the stool. He threw it in Pedrillo's face. The stool bounced back on the floor and Inglees set it up on its legs again; sat down on it. Pedrillo had not moved. It seemed that the process of being hit in the face by a wooden stool meant little to him.
He wiped away the blood that was running from his mouth with a dirty hand. He said: "You always take advantage of a situation. Because I am here a prisoner you insult my mother. You throw a stool in my face. But I am content... except that now before I talk I shall need tobacco and alcohol."
Inglees said: "Listen, Pedrillo. You remember the night of last year's fiesta! You remember Parone? After the feast he went up to the canyon over the mesa by the stock farm...."
"I remember very well," said Pedrillo. "He fell over the canyon because he was drunk. May the saints preserve his bones... or rather the bones that were left."
Inglees nodded his head. "That was the story.... I know different. You will understand, Pedrillo, that our Chief of Police Mendanda would be very glad to find somebody who had, shall we say, pushed Parone over the canyon. You understand that he would not be particular who he found. Old Parone has been worrying him ever since that day. He says his son was murdered. If you don't talk, my Pedrillo, I will give you to Mendanda for killing Parone."
Pedrillo did not move. He was not even surprised. He said: "Today the saints scowl on me. Every man is my enemy. You will understand, Inglees, that this is entirely ridiculous. I have never killed any man."
Inglees said: "It doesn't matter. I was not at the feast. I was in my shack. From the doorway I can see the ravine. I am going to say that I saw you with Parone; that I saw you walking over the mesa along the path up the hill towards the ravine. They are going to believe me because they want to. Mendanda has never liked you, Pedrillo. Talk!"
Pedrillo said: "On all sides I am encompassed by enemies. I am without tobacco or alcohol or help. If I tell you something interesting, what do I get?"
The other said: "You get nothing. It's what you don't get. If you don't talk I will tell Mendanda. They will garrotte you."
Pedrillo shrugged his shoulders. He said: "After much thought I have decided to talk...."
Inglees put his hand into the pocket of the breast of his shirt. He produced two cigarettes. He gave one to Pedrillo; lighted his own. He sat on the stool, quiet, relaxed, watching the other.
Pedrillo said: "Consider, Inglees, that times are hard. It is difficult to conduct any financial operation with success on Bana. I hear about this woman. I hear that she is beautiful; that she is on La Tortuga and wishes to come here. I thought I could be of assistance to her. You will understand that always I am chivalrous where women are concerned."
Inglees spat on the floor. "I understand... but perfectly..." He grinned.
Pedrillo said: "So I go to La Tortuga. I come back with her on the boat. I discover something. I will tell you this... and I will tell no one else... only because I know you are my friend. Because I know that I can trust you to give a square deal to Pedrillo."
"I am not promising anything," said Inglees. "Except that you might get the garrotte for murder. Go on."
Pedrillo shrugged his shoulders. "I discover that this woman has jewellery... but a considerable amount. It is very valuable. I explain to her the regulations about bringing jewellery or precious stones on to the islands. I tell her that she will be searched on the quay by the Customs official; that she may find herself here in the jail. I tell her that if she declares the jewellery they will still take it from her; that it will be months, perhaps a year, before she gets it back again—if ever she gets it back."
"Go on," said Inglees. His cigarette was half smoked; the long ash trembled at the end of it.
"So," continued Pedrillo, "I tell her that I have a brilliant idea. I tell her that I am an unfortunate person inasmuch as invariably I am suspected of every sort of crime on these islands. I suggest to her that she should give me the jewellery, retaining for herself only one or two small objects—a brooch and a couple of rings—which she should hide about her person. Then, I tell her, when the Quivar arrives at Bana, before anybody has time to do anything, I will tell the Customs that the woman has jewellery concealed about her."
Inglees nodded. "A clever idea...!"
"But brilliant," said Pedrillo. "I know that they will become so excited about this that they will never think of searching me. Nobody would ever think that Pedrillo had a fortune in jewellery beneath his trouser waist. So they search the woman and I walk away. Unfortunately," he continued, "a little later I decide to celebrate... with this result..." He spread his hands; looked round the cell.
Inglees asked: "Pedrillo, where is the jewellery?"
"Señor Inglees, you are my friend," said Pedrillo. "You and I are birds of a feather. I am a caballero of fortune. I indulge periodically in a little thieving, a little cheating at cards, a little Customs running. But nothing on a grand scale. I do not compare myself with you who are probably the most successful thief, scoundrel and blackmailer on the islands. I regard you as my friend. I look up to you as a pupil to a master. But it is asking me too much to tell you where this jewellery is. Rather, when I am released, let me give you some small but valuable object for yourself."
Inglees said: "You know, the garrotte is not very good, Pedrillo. Where is the jewellery? Unless you tell me I will go to Mendanda. I will lay information against you for the murder of Parone."
"But, Inglees... you know perfectly well I did not kill this man."
"I know. But who is going to believe you? Mendanda would be quite indifferent as to whom he arrested for the murder, but he wishes to arrest somebody. Why not you?"
Pedrillo wiped the sweat off his forehead with a damp hand. He said softly: "I find myself entirely surrounded by enemies. Madre de Dios... I am a man without friends! It would seem that I am in a very difficult situation. Tell me, Inglees, supposing I tell you where the jewellery is hidden, what will you give me? What percentage of the spoils would be mine?"
Inglees thought for a moment. He said: "Tell me where it is and I will not talk to Mendanda about you. Also I will give you a quarter of the jewellery."
Pedrillo shrugged his shoulders. "So be it...! I have hidden the jewellery under the root of the third cactus bush ten yards on the left fork where the trail from the estancia runs over the hill into the mesa. It is easy to find."
Inglees said: "I shall go and find it. If I do find it I shall say nothing to Mendanda. If I do not you will find yourself with a broken neck. They tell me the garrotte does it very quickly."
Pedrillo got up. "You will find it.... And you will give me my quarter share?" He looked at Inglees. The expression in his brown eyes was almost pleading.
Inglees went to the cell door. He unlocked it; went outside; closed the door; locked it. He smiled through the bars at Pedrillo.
He said amiably: "Of course you will get your quarter share, Pedrillo... I hope...!"
Pedrillo sat down in the corner of the cell. He listened to the retreating footsteps of Inglees. He thought on occasion life could be very difficult.
IT was evening when Inglees dug up the parcel of jewellery from beneath the cactus bush. He put the bundle under his arm; walked down the dusty track; turned right at the bottom. A small breeze came from the sea. He opened his mouth; drew it down into his lungs. He thought the evening was the only time on the islands. Then one could think.
He walked through the mangrove swamp; splashed through on the bridge of stones. He went into his shack. He sat down at the table; opened the parcel. He spread the jewellery—necklaces, brooches, bracelets, rings—on the table before him. The evening sun, penetrating through clean patches on the filthy window, sparkled on the stones. Inglees thought they were worth a lot of money.
He went to the wooden cupboard in the corner of the shack; rummaged about in the rubbish on the bottom shelf. He found a chocolate box. It was a brightly-ornamented box tied with a pale blue ribbon. Inglees shovelled the jewellery into the box; folded a not-too-clean handkerchief on the top of it; replaced the lid; tied it securely with the ribbon. He put the box in the bottom of the cupboard; covered it with rubbish.
Then he went to a shelf above the bunk. Amongst a pile of old papers and magazines was an ancient copy of The Tatler. He went back to the table; scanned through the dog-eared pages. One, consisting of the usual society photographs taken at some night club in London, pleased him—one group especially. It was a group of men and women dining at a table at a fashionable night club. The faces were sufficiently indistinct to serve his purpose. He tore out the page; folded it; put it in his trouser pocket.
His eyes, wandering round the shack, lighted on the fragments of the broken cachasa bottle which he had thrown in the corner that morning. He grinned. He walked out of the shack, across the swamp on to the path down to the town. He went into the estancia.
The Señora Marandes was cleaning the zinc bar with a dirty dish cloth. She scowled at him. She said: "Well, Inglees... not twice in one day?"
He smiled. "My felicitations, Señora, on your brilliancy. Twice in one day... this day is a celebration."
She said: "I hope you are bitten by a water snake. They say the head swells, the blood boils. They say the death is horrible."
Inglees grinned at her. "Believe it or not, my beautiful, I have already been bitten by a water snake. I am still quite well, as you see..."
She spat on the floor. She said: "Of course... it was the snake that died." She reached for the bottle of cachasa; pushed it towards him.
INGLEES walked past the jail; took the narrow straggling
street that led down to the quay. He stood at the quayside for a
while, looking at the Quivar, thinking that it would be
nice to go for a journey on the ship; to any place, except La
Tortuga.
He lighted a cigarette; turned away and went towards the one-storied building at the end of the quay. Inglees kicked open the door and went in. He walked down the short passageway; opened a door on the left; entered the room.
Mendanda, chief of the Bana rurales, sat behind his dusty, littered desk. His brown face was covered with sweat; his olive skin glistened. The black pencil moustache beneath his aquiline nose, his bright eyes and the up pointed eyebrows gave him the appearance of an amiable devil. His dirty shirt was open at the neck. Underneath, his hairy chest gleamed like bronze. His linen trousers were soiled; his feet bare.
Inglees said: "Always to me you present the most charming picture, my Chief of Police!"
Mendanda grinned. He took a thin, straw-spined cigaro from his desk drawer. He threw it across the table to Inglees. He lighted another for himself.
He asked: "What brings you down here, Inglees?" He scrabbled with his long, dirty fingers, amongst the papers on the untidy desk before him. "Somewhere here I have a complaint against you from the police at La Tortuga. They say that last month four barrels of wine were stolen from the Quivar when she was tied up there before returning to Bana. They say that you were concerned with this, with three Caribs to whom you promised to pay five silver bolivars each and to whom you gave nothing." He grinned. "Which is the reason why they have laid the information against you."
Inglees sat down on the rickety chair. He said: "It's a lie. I gave them the five silver bolivars which I promised. It is possible that they were angry because I afterwards won them back at cards."
Mendanda said amiably: "You admit stealing the wine?"
"No," said Inglees, "not officially. Unofficially, yes.... You should know. You had a barrel of it."
Mendanda said: "Of course. I was forgetting. But you told me you only took two barrels. It is deplorable that you should lie to your friends."
Inglees shrugged his shoulders. "Listen to me, Juan.... You know that I am always loyal and faithful to my friends."
Mendanda nodded. He began to laugh. "Oh... hear me laugh! Of the people on Bana, ninety-nine out of each hundred would pay good money to see you garrotted. But continue. You were saying that you are always faithful to your friends...."
"As you will presently understand," said Inglees. "Listen to me.... Yesterday, some woman landed here on Bana. She came from La Tortuga on the Quivar. Pedrillo gave you some information that she had jewellery. You took it and threw her in the can."
Mendanda said: "All this is true. It is against the law to bring precious stones into Bana without a formal declaration. I have confiscated the jewellery." He smiled pleasantly.
"There are moments when your brilliance turns into utter stupidity, my friend," said Inglees. "You don't know what you did." He fumbled in his pocket for the folded page of The Tatler. He spread it open on the desk before Mendanda. He tapped with his forefinger on the picture of the supper party in the corner.
"Juan, I would like you to look at that picture. You will recognise—and if you don't I will tell you that it is so—the lady at the end of the table in the white evening frock. She is the sister of an English duchess. She is a member of a family that is important and rich. Do you think that you can throw such a person into our jail without there being a great deal of trouble?"
Mendanda raised his eyebrows. "Madre de Bios! How am I to know that we are honoured by the presence of the sister of an English duchess? At the same time I am concerned for this lady." He looked sideways at Inglees. "For once I believe you."
Inglees said: "You may well believe me. I do not wish to make a profit at your expense, Juan. As I have said, you are my friend, but it is my duty, if you don't take my advice, to go to La Tortuga on the Quivar tomorrow, and to inform the assistant to the English Vice-Consul that this lady is held here on Bana in the jail. I have no doubt I shall eventually be amply rewarded and there will be a great deal of trouble for you. So, because you are my friend, I hasten here to advise you."
Mendanda thought for a while. He looked at Inglees, his dark eyes half smiling, half serious. He asked: "What is your advice, my friend?"
Inglees said: "Tomorrow put this woman on the Quivar; send her back to La Tortuga. Tell Pinto to inform her that she has broken the law by bringing undeclared jewellery on to the island but that you are being kind to her because she is a foreign national. You are merely sending her back to La Tortuga; you are not keeping her in the jail for a long time. Let Pinto tell her that you are confiscating the pieces of jewellery on behalf of the Government."
Mendanda shrugged his shoulders. "So...?"
"Precisely," Inglees went on. "Take it from me, the woman will be glad to go. She is probably very scared. She will go and that is the end of the matter. Then, in a few days' time, I will go to the mainland. I will sell the two or three pieces of jewellery which you have confiscated. We shall divide the proceeds. Everybody will be happy."
Mendanda drew some cigaro smoke down into his lungs; then he spat artistically through the open frame window. He said: "Very often, my friend, your advice is right. I think perhaps it will save a lot of eventual trouble if I do what you suggest."
He opened the bottom drawer of the desk. In the drawer was an ammunition belt, a heavy revolver and a cardboard box. Mendanda took out the cardboard box; opened it; shot the objects inside on to the table. There were two rings and a diamond brooch. Mendanda picked them up; looked at them. Then he threw them across the table towards Inglees.
He said: "For me the diamond brooch and the ring with the two rubies. For you the other ring. Are you content?"
Inglees picked up the jewellery; looked at it. "I am content...."
Mendanda said: "What you do with the ring that is yours I do not mind. But you will tell me the name of the person to whom you sell the ring and the brooch which are mine. If I find you have kept for yourself anything off the price you have received I shall take action against you." He sat back, an expression on his face which was supposed to be one of authority and dignity.
Inglees asked: "What action?"
Mendanda grinned. "You have been blackmailing the husband of Garbuza, our Customs' searcher, for a long time. He came to me and told me about it. I have done nothing about this. I have taken no steps against you because you are my friend."
Inglees laughed. "My Juan, Garbuza told me that after her husband had told you of my offence you began to blackmail him yourself. So... I put business in your way and get no thanks."
Mendanda said: "I consider you to be the most impossible person in these parts. I will tell Pinto at the jail to tell this woman what you have advised. Tomorrow I will send her back to La Tortuga. Go in peace. May the saints preserve you."
"Adios, my Juan," said Inglees. "When you die I shall see that the flowers on your grave are ever beautiful."
He went towards the door. Mendanda spat this time even more artistically through the window.
AT eleven o'clock the Quivar blew her whistle; announced to the world that she was about to leave Bana. At the end of the quay, in the shadow of a disused Customs shed, Inglees, the chocolate box securely tied with twine and more ribbons under his arm, spoke to the Mestizo boy.
He said: "Little snake, observe the lady standing under the awning on the after deck of the Quivar. Do you see her?"
"Yes, Señor Inglees... I see her. She is very pale. Perhaps she comes from some place where there is no sun."
Inglees nodded. "Take this box; get on to the boat by the loading plank over the stern. Give her the box. Tell her not to open it until she is on La Tortuga. Tell her there is no Customs examination for people who are leaving the Quivar from Bana to La Tortuga. Tell her to go in peace."
He gave the boy the box; watched him as he ran with the long, easy lope of the Caribs towards the boat; saw him as he wriggled across the stern loading plank; as he handed the chocolate box to the woman.
The Quivar blew her whistle for the second time. The boy jumped quickly from the rail on to the quayside. The boat began to move out of the tiny harbour towards the open sea.
The Mestizo boy came back to Inglees. He said: "The Señora said to me thank you. She shook the box and then she asked me to convey her thanks to Señor Pedrillo."
"That will be unnecessary," said Inglees. He gave the boy a Spanish dollar. The boy looked at it, his brown eyes wide with amazement.
He said: "Señor... today will be a fiesta...!"
Inglees grinned at him. "For me too...!"
He turned away; began to walk towards the estancia of the Señora Marandes.
The boy ran after him. "Señor Inglees... yesterday, when you were asleep, I brought a newspaper. I threw it into your shack. There was a letter with it."
Inglees nodded. "I will find it."
He continued on his way towards the estancia.
It was late in the afternoon when he came out. He was very drunk. From his hip pocket protruded a new half bottle of cachasa. He walked unsteadily along the path that led towards the mangrove swamp. Every now and then he stumbled and fell; picked himself up with difficulty. Eventually, he splashed through the swamp, through the thick belt of trees on the other side.
He kicked open the rotting door of the shack. Inside, in the hot, half darkness, his eyes wandered over the floor; saw the newspaper. He opened it. Inside was a letter.
He sat down on the stool by the rickety table; tore open the envelope; read the letter. When he had done this he took a match from his pocket; struck it on his trouser leg; lighted the edge of the paper. He held the letter in his hand until it was burned.
He put his elbows on the table; covered his face with his hands. He sat there for a long time; then he reached for the cachasa bottle in his hip pocket; pulled out the cork with his teeth; put the neck of the bottle in his mouth; took a long swig. He began to cough.
When he had finished he produced from his trouser pocket the diamond brooch and the two rings. He thought that Mendanda should get a good price for the brooch and the ruby ring. He threw them on to the table. He picked up the second ring.
He slipped it over the top of his little finger. It was too small to go further than the finger-nail. He looked at the amethyst and diamond stones in the platinum band.
He thought it was an attractive ring. He remembered the day he had bought it for her in the Rue de la Paix.
CALLAGHAN—sole occupant of the grey and black cocktail bar just off Berkeley Square— finished his whisky and soda; took the bulky registered envelope from his pocket; split the seal; read the letter inside. It said:
Dear Mr. Callaghan,
It is quite impossible for me to thank you for what you've done for me. I feel I owe you a great deal. Perhaps one day we may meet again. I hope we shall.
In any event, because I would hate you to forget the Vendayne case and—I hope—me, please accept the enclosed as a memento of something which might have been interesting to you but which was almost a matter of life or death to me.
Sincerely,
Audrey Vendayne.
Callaghan took the package from the envelope; opened it; examined the red and white gold cigarette ease; read the inscription inside. He put the case in his pocket; yawned.
Windemere Nikolls, Callaghan's Canadian assistant, came into the bar. He ordered a large whisky and soda from the bored bar-tender, carried it to Callaghan's table; sat down.
He asked: "Are you comin' back to the office tonight?"
"No," said Callaghan. "It's six o'clock. I'm through. Why?"
Nikolls said: "Effie thinks you ought to come back. There's some mug waitin' to see you. She's put him in your room."
Callaghan raised his eyebrows. He asked: "Who told her to do that? The office closes at six."
"I know, but she thought this was different, see...? This fella's name is Rupert Maninway."
Callaghan said: "So what?"
Nikolls shrugged his shoulders. "Effie's got the dope on this mug. Maybe you don't remember the case? There was a lot about it in the papers five-six months ago— a divorce case. It caused quite a sensation. He's got a lotta money."
"I see," Callaghan signalled to the bar-tender to bring him another whisky and soda. He said to Nikolls: "Go back and tell him to wait. I'll be along when I've finished my drink."
RUPERT MANINWAY looked at Callaghan as he stood framed in the
doorway between the general office and his own room. Maninway was
tall, thin, well-dressed. His face was aquiline. Callaghan
thought that his eyes were shifty and that there was something
about his well-groomed appearance that was vaguely repulsive. He
thought he didn't like Maninway very much.
He said: "Good evening. I believe you want to see me." He threw his hat on to the hat-rail; walked over to his desk; sat in the big chair behind it.
"Yes, I did want to see you," said Maninway. "I waited half an hour for the purpose."
Callaghan said softly: "Too bad! You didn't have to."
"Precisely," said Maninway. "I didn't have to, but I wanted to." He went on: "I'll make this interview as short as possible, Mr. Callaghan. I take it that you're not a moralist?"
Callaghan said: "I don't know what you mean by that."
"I'll tell you," said Maninway. "My motive in coming to see you is, quite frankly, revenge, and I'm prepared to pay quite a considerable sum of money to get it. Do you understand?"
Callaghan nodded. He asked: "What is it you want me to do?"
Maninway said: "The story is briefly as follows: Just over a year ago my wife decided to divorce me. We won't go into her reasons. I've no doubt she considered them adequate, but I didn't. She brought her divorce suit at a very bad time. Things hadn't gone well with me. Financially, I was embarrassed."
Callaghan grinned. "I hope the embarrassment was temporary."
Maninway said: "Don't worry, Mr. Callaghan... it was." He went on: "For some reasons best known to herself, my wife considered that I hadn't treated her very well in the matter of money. When she married me she had a certain amount of money of her own, but as is usual in these cases it got mixed up with mine. There had been some argument about her allowance, and finance generally. You understand?"
"I understand," said Callaghan. "But you can't get a divorce for that."
"I'm not suggesting that you can. However, when she decided to bring the action for divorce she felt that she needed some money to do it. She got this money in a rather peculiar way. Two or three weeks after she left me I went to a wall safe in the library in which I had kept a sum of money—three hundred and fifty pounds. It was in new five-pound notes. Unfortunately, I hadn't taken a note of the numbers. I discovered the money was gone."
Callaghan said: "And you suspected your wife?"
Maninway shook his head. "I didn't suspect anybody at the time. But I made enquiries. It was only when the servants began to be vaguely uncomfortable about it that the house-maid— who's been in my employ for some time—told me the truth. She knew that the money had been stolen from the safe by my wife's brother—a young ne'er-do-well—about four or five days after Mrs. Maninway left me."
Callaghan said: "I see. And you thought that he handed the money over to his sister in order that she might have funds to live on and to bring this action for divorce against you?"
Maninway said: "Yes, that's the idea."
There was silence for a moment. Callaghan blew a smoke ring and watched it sail across the office. Then he asked: "What is it you want me to do?"
Rupert Maninway smiled slowly. His lips curled over his teeth. Callaghan thought he looked rather like a wolf.
He said: "I'll tell you what I want you to do, Mr. Callaghan. The decree is due to be made absolute in a week's time, and my wife will be feeling very happy at getting her freedom."
Callaghan said: "And you don't like that idea?" He grinned.
Maninway answered: "I don't like her. I think it might possibly spoil this happiness of hers if I was in possession of sufficient evidence to apply for a warrant for the arrest of her brother so that the news got into the papers on the day the decree is made absolute."
"Quite a nice revenge," said Callaghan. "There was a certain amount in the newspapers about your divorce case, wasn't there?"
Maninway nodded. "A great deal. None of it, I regret to say, very complimentary to me. But you know what newspapers are. They always take the woman's side."
Callaghan said: "And you think that the publicity caused by the arrest of her brother would be a nice change for her." He stubbed out his cigarette; lit a fresh one. He went on: "I suppose you want me to see your housemaid; take a statement from her; check on the brother; try and get some sort of confirmation that he did steal the money and hand it over to Mrs. Maninway? And then all that remains is for the warrant to be applied for."
"Very succinctly put, Mr. Callaghan," said Maninway.
"Tell me," said Callaghan, "you say you missed the money about three weeks after Mrs. Maninway left you."
"Yes. Actually, I very seldom go to that safe. I'd kept the money there in case I needed a sum of money at any odd time. The only other contents of the safe were some old correspondence and account books."
Callaghan asked: "When did you last go to the safe— before the discovery of the theft I mean?"
"I don't remember. It must have been five or six months before. That's when I put the money there."
Callaghan nodded. "What made the housemaid suspect Mrs. Maninway's brother?"
Maninway said: "Apparently the young fool had made a pass at her some time or other and she was a little keen on him. It was only when she got worried and thought she might be accused of knowing something about the missing money that she talked. It seems that four or five days after my wife left me young Mervyn— that's his name—came to the house at a time when it's usually empty, let himself in with a key and went to the library. The housemaid saw him from the first-floor balcony coming up the drive; saw him enter the house. She heard him go into the library, and she heard him move the picture that conceals the wall safe, and open the safe. She heard it shut; the picture put back. And then he went."
"So he knew the combination of the safe?"
"He didn't know," said Maninway. "My wife must have given it to him, and the key to the front door. Also the information that the house would be empty— as she thought—at that time. It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
Callaghan said: "Yes, I think it is. This looks like a nice set-up for your revenge, Mr. Maninway. You must be enjoying the situation immensely."
"I am," said Maninway.
There was another silence; then Callaghan asked: "How much?"
Maninway said: "Don't you know what your usual charges are? Haven't you some sort of tariff?"
"Yes, but not for revenge cases. We never have a tariff for revenge," said Callaghan.
"I thought two hundred and fifty pounds for the successful completion of this case would be adequate," said Maninway.
Callaghan said: "I don't. You realise as well as I do that this thing wants handling with kid gloves. It costs you five hundred or I don't do it."
"Very well," said Maninway. He took his chequebook out of his pocket.
CALLAGHAN lit a cigarette; looked at the woman through
the flame of his lighter. He thought Mrs. Maninway was a rather
attractive person. A mental picture of Rupert Maninway came into
his mind and the idea occurred to him that his wife had been wise
to leave him. She was too beautiful for Maninway, Callaghan
thought.
She said: "I think it's very kind of you, Mr. Callaghan, to come and see me and tell me all this. It's a pretty awful situation, isn't it?"
"I don't know yet," said Callaghan. "I came to see you, Mrs. Maninway, because I always like to hear both sides of the story. Quite obviously, your husband doesn't like you very much. He knows you will be free in a couple of weeks' time. He's vindictive and he proposes to score off you through your brother. The fact that you were ignorant of your brother's having stolen the money doesn't make the situation any better."
She shook her head unhappily. "I ought to have known. When my brother came to me soon after I left my husband and said he had been able to raise some money—sufficient for me to live on and start the divorce action—I believed him. I suppose because I wanted to believe him."
Callaghan nodded. "And your brother thought he was justified in getting the money in the way he did— by taking it from Maninway's safe. He knew that Maninway had got through most of your money during your marriage, and he probably thought he was paying him back in his own coin."
She asked: "What can they do to my brother, Mr. Callaghan?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "They've got to sentence him," he said. "When all the facts are produced in Court—which is just what your husband wants—your brother will, if he's lucky, get off with a year's imprisonment. It might be more."
She looked at him. "I wonder why you're taking all this trouble, Mr. Callaghan. You're working for my husband, aren't you? And yet I have the idea in my head that you're trying to help me. Why?"
Callaghan grinned. "I came to see you because I was curious about you, Mrs. Maninway. Now I've seen you"—his smile broadened—"I'm even more curious. I like beautiful women."
She said nothing at all. Callaghan threw his cigarette stub into the burning fire.
He asked: "What's worrying you most at the moment?"
"I'm worried about my brother more than anything else," she said. "What he did, he did for me. His motive was good and the fact that he acted so foolishly is easily forgiven. My husband must have had thousands of my money," she said bitterly.
Callaghan lit a fresh cigarette. He said: "I like everybody to be satisfied."
She looked at him. She smiled a little. "I don't see how that's possible in this case, Mr. Callaghan. Even a person as clever as you could hardly hope to satisfy a vindictive and revengeful man like my husband, and at the same time to help me, because I believe that's what's in your mind."
Callaghan grinned. "You never know," he said. "Are you prepared to take a chance to save your brother?"
"Yes, of course. I'd do anything for him."
Callaghan said: "Maninway has got a criminal action against your brother for stealing three hundred and fifty pounds. He's relying on proving that your brother did steal the money by the evidence of the housemaid, who saw your brother let himself into the house, heard him go into the library and open the safe. I don't know anything about the housemaid. My assistant is making some enquiries about her. But that's her story and she'll probably stick to it. How would you like the action transferred from your brother to you?"
She said: "I don't understand."
"Supposing you had asked your brother to go and steal that money? Supposing you'd given him the key of the front door and the combination of the safe in the library? Supposing you had told him that that money was yours?"
She said: "Yes?"
"If you'd done all those things," said Callaghan, "your husband could not succeed in any action against your brother, and he'd know it. He'd never even bring one."
She nodded. "What could he do?" she asked.
Callaghan said: "He'd have a civil action against you. He could bring a suit against you for the return of the money. That's all."
"What would happen then?"
"I don't know. He could get judgment for the amount and you'd have to pay it. But you might consider that would be better than your brother facing a criminal charge."
She said: "Anything would be better than that, Mr. Callaghan."
"All right, Mrs. Maninway. Let's get busy." He took out his fountain pen; unscrewed the top. He went on: "I suggest that you sit down at that desk in the corner and write a full and complete statement saying that it was at your instigation that your brother took the money."
He handed her the pen. "I'll tell you what to write."
She looked at him for a moment. Then she said: "I don't know why I trust you, but I do." She sat down at the desk.
IT was nine o'clock. When Nikolls came into the office
Callaghan was sitting, his feet on the desk, smoking a cigarette,
blowing smoke rings.
He said: "Well?"
Nikolls hung up his hat. He placed his large bulk on the edge of a chair; fished out a packet of Lucky Strikes; lit one. He said: "It's a funny set-up. It all smells a bit to me."
Callaghan said: "Tell me about the housemaid."
"I found out a lot about that baby," said Nikolls. "The cook likes a drink. She likes talkin' an' she don't like the housemaid."
Callaghan asked: "What did she say?"
"She thinks that Maninway was stuck on the housemaid. She's even got an idea in her head that the housemaid thought that Maninway might marry her after the divorce went through. She practically said as much."
Callaghan said: "And Maninway doesn't intend to marry her?"
"No," said Nikolls. "Not according to the cook. He's got his eye on some other baby."
Callaghan said: "And the housemaid's not so pleased?"
"You bet she's not. Would you be?"
Callaghan blew another smoke ring. "It's funny," he said. "This girl sees the brother come to the house; let himself in. She hears him go to the safe and take the money. She does nothing about it for two or three weeks—until she thinks that she might be suspected. Why should she worry about being suspected?"
Nikolls nodded. "She might if there'd been something on between her and Maninway. She might think that Maninway would say she'd pinched the money to get back at him."
Callaghan said: "That's an idea. Do you know what her name is?"
"Her name's Evie Johnson," said Nikolls. "She's twenty-eight and a blonde—good-looking but a little tough."
Callaghan asked: "Do you know the telephone number?"
Nikolls nodded.
"Get through on the telephone," said Callaghan. "Get her. Don't let her know who's talking."
"O.K.," said Nikolls.
Two minutes afterwards he handed the receiver to Callaghan. "Here she is," he said.
Callaghan took the receiver. He said: "Miss Johnson, my name's Callaghan. I'm a private detective. I'm working for Mr. Maninway about that theft from the library safe. I thought you might like to come and see me."
The voice at the other end of the line said: "Really? Why, Mr. Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "According to you this money was stolen by young Mervyn a few days after Mrs. Maninway had left her husband. But you didn't tell him anything about it for three or four weeks. That seems to me a little odd. But of course there might be an explanation."
She said in a hard voice: "What do you mean?"
"You come and see me at seven o'clock tomorrow night and I'll tell you. It won't be so good for you if you don't."
She said: "I don't know what you're talking about, but I'll come."
He gave her the address of his office in Berkeley Square and hung up.
Nikolls said: "Are you playin' this off the cuff or are you? What are you tryin' to do?"
"I'm not quite certain," said Callaghan. "But I'm trying to please everybody."
IT was eleven o'clock and Effie Thompson—Callaghan's
secretary—was busy at her typewriter in the outer office
when Maninway came in.
She said brightly: "Good morning, Mr. Maninway. Mr. Callaghan's waiting for you. Will you go in?"
She looked at Maninway's back as he crossed the office. She felt vaguely sorry for him.
Callaghan got up as Maninway came into the room.
He said: "Good morning, Maninway. I'm sorry I have some bad news for you."
Maninway raised his eyebrows. "Meaning what?" he asked.
"Meaning this," said Callaghan. "I've got a line on your wife. She was responsible for the burglary."
Maninway said: "What do you mean?"
Callaghan answered: "Just this: We saw young Mervyn and scared him. He told us the truth. It was at his sister's instigation that he came and took that money. She gave him the key of the front door—the combination of the safe. She told him that it was her money. So that right throughout he was merely acting as her agent and believing that the money was hers." Callaghan shrugged his shoulders. "You'll never succeed if you bring an action against him. As a matter of fact you'll only succeed in making yourself look rather stupid. Don't you think?"
Maninway was silent for a while; then he said: "Maybe there's something in what you say and I'd hate to give her the satisfaction of getting the better of me even now." He looked up. "But I can bring an action against her," he said.
Callaghan nodded. "You can do that," he agreed. "Only a civil action of course, because at the time she took the money she was your wife."
Maninway said: "That's better than nothing." He smiled. "It would be rather a good idea to wait until the end of next week when her decree is made absolute and then serve her with a writ." He smiled sardonically.
Callaghan said: "Yes... if you had some evidence...."
Maninway asked: "What do you mean by that? You've got the evidence, haven't you?"
Callaghan nodded. "I took a statement from Mrs. Maninway. She made it in order to protect her brother. But I don't know whether I'd be justified in putting that statement in as evidence." He smiled at Maninway. "It was a confidential document as between her and me merely for the purpose of showing you that in bringing a criminal action against her brother you'd be making a fool of yourself."
"Maybe," said Maninway, "but that statement's evidence— especially if it's in her handwriting."
"It is in her handwriting." Callaghan's grin became a little wider.
Maninway asked: "How much?"
Callaghan said: "That will cost you another hundred." He smiled beatifically. "Revenge is sweet, Maninway, but it's also expensive. But the evidence to enable you to issue this writ and serve it on her on the day she gets her decree absolute is surely worth another hundred. Six hundred pounds isn't a lot of money."
Maninway said: "All right. When do I get the statement?"
"I'll come and see you tomorrow. I'll bring it with me. You can have the hundred pounds waiting for me in notes. There are just one or two other small things I want to check up on first. I'll come along at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
Maninway got up. "Very well. I'll be waiting for you. But see you bring that statement with you or else——"
Callaghan smiled sweetly. "Or else what? You're not going to start threatening me, are you?" The voice behind the smile was ominous.
Maninway said doubtfully: "I'm not threatening anybody."
Callaghan said: "You are. You're threatening your wife because you think she can't take care of herself. But I can take care of myself. You know, there are a lot of lawyers in this country who might believe that you were asking me to conspire with you to bring any sort of action against your wife. See?"
"You wouldn't forget I'm paying you six hundred pounds altogether, would you?" said Maninway.
Callaghan said: "No. That's why I'm working so hard for you."
He held the office door open for Maninway to go out. Then he went back to his desk. He lit a cigarette; rang the bell.
When Effie Thompson came in he said: "Effie, write out a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds. I'll sign it right away. Then go round to the bank and cash it. Get it in new five-pound notes."
Miss Evie Johnson was what is commonly known as "an eyeful". She was tall, blonde, well-figured. She sat gracefully in a chair on the other side of Callaghan's desk, looking at him with large and demure blue eyes which were turning a little tough.
She said evenly: "You know, Mr. Callaghan, I don't quite get all this. I know what I saw and I know what happened."
Callaghan smiled at her. "Maybe. But listen to what I've got to say and see how you like it. Because I think when you've listened you'll want to do what I say."
She said: "I'm listening."
Callaghan said: "Maninway didn't like his wife, but he wasn't too keen on her leaving him—not because he wanted her but because he thought he might not like to make an accounting about her money. I think he'd spent most of it. But eventually she left him and she was penniless. Her brother knew that that three hundred and fifty pounds was in the safe and somehow or other he got the combination, and somehow or other he got a key to the front door of the house. I don't believe he got the combination or the key from his sister, but he got them.
"He went and took the money and told her some fairy story about where he'd got it from. That money enabled her to bring the divorce action. In any event, young Mervyn thought he was justified in doing what he did. You were alone in the house and you saw him arrive. You saw him go into the library. But you didn't tell Maninway at once, because"—Callaghan grinned —"you weren't awfully pleased with Maninway just at that moment. You told him when you had to tell him. Right?"
She nodded her blonde head. "That's right. That's what happened."
"But it's not my story," said Callaghan. "And my story sounds a great deal better than the truth. It's this: Mrs. Maninway eventually decided that she'd had enough of her husband when she discovered that he was keen on you." He put up his hand. "Now don't interrupt," he said. "Listen. And so she went off and when she went off you wanted her to bring a divorce action, because you thought then that when the divorce had gone through he'd marry you. So you told young Mervyn about the money in the safe. You let him into the house and you gave him the combination. He'll swear to that if he has to, and his word's as good as yours. Nobody's going to believe you anyway. That makes you an accomplice before and after the theft."
She began to talk. Callaghan interrupted: "Take it easy. The point really doesn't arise because Mrs. Maninway on my advice, in order to prevent a criminal action being brought against her brother, has said that what he did he did on her instructions. I think, having regard to the fact that she knew nothing about it, that that's pretty decent of her, don't you?"
She said: "I suppose it is."
"Now," Callaghan went on, "Maninway proposes to bring a civil action against her. If he does that it's not going to be so good for you, because if he brings any action, that little story about you and him is certain to come out."
There was a silence; then she said: "Well, what's the big idea?"
Callaghan said: "I'll tell you. Maninway doesn't like Mrs. Maninway. He doesn't like her because he's the sort of person he is. He wants to be revenged on her, I don't think that's very nice. You don't like Maninway because he's walked out on you and he doesn't like you because you know too much about him."
Callaghan leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He said with a grin: "I feel it's my business to bring a little sunshine into everybody's life. I think we can settle this business so that everybody's happy. Except possibly Maninway." He smiled at her.
She said: "I'm listening."
"Do what I tell you," said Callaghan, "and you'll be all right. In addition, you'll get twenty-five pounds. You can buy an awfully nice coat and skirt for that."
She asked: "What do I have to do?"
Callaghan took the packet of new five-pound notes from his pocket. He pushed them across the desk towards her.
He said: "I'll tell you——"
IT was just after three o'clock when Callaghan and
Windemere Nikolls arrived at the Maninway house. They went into
the library where Maninway was waiting.
Maninway said: "Well, have you got the statement?"
"Don't be in too much of a hurry," said Callaghan. "I thought it might be a good thing if I checked on the finger-prints in the safe. I've got young Mervyn's finger-prints and it might be just as well to establish the fact that he had been to the safe. So if you don't mind Nikolls will check on it for finger-prints."
Maninway said: "Very well." He got up; went to the far wall; moved a picture; opened a wall safe behind it. There were some account books and a pile of documents in the safe.
Nikolls opened his attaché case; took out his fingerprint powder and sprayer; began work on the safe.
Callaghan said: "It won't take long." He lit a cigarette.
Nikolls, wearing gloves, began to move the books out of the safe. He said suddenly: "Hey... hey...! What d'you know about that!" He held an account book towards them, open in the middle. Caught between the leaves of the book was a packet of new five-pound notes.
Callaghan picked up the notes; counted them. He looked at Maninway. "Three hundred and fifty pounds," he said. "The amount that was supposed to have been stolen from the safe."
Maninway said: "What the hell do you mean?"
Callaghan shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody's been taking you for a ride," he said. "Somebody who knew the combination of that safe moved those notes and stuck them in between the leaves of that account book so that you should think they'd been stolen; so that you should make a first-class fool of yourself."
Maninway said curtly: "Who the hell would do that?"
Callaghan grinned. "I don't know. But it seems indicated that it was the person who was able to give you all the information about that robbery. Where's that housemaid of yours?"
Maninway said: "I had a note from her this morning. She's left. Look, I'd like to know what's going on. I'd like to see the statement that Mrs. Maninway made."
Callaghan's smile was bland. "I'm sorry, Maninway, I'm afraid I was stringing you along. Mrs. Maninway didn't make any statement. She says she never had any money from her brother or anyone else. Personally, I think you've tried to frame her. Maybe you and that housemaid of yours, who's taken a run-out powder on you. This doesn't look so good for you, does it?"
Maninway said: "What the hell do you mean?"
"Listen," said Callaghan, "I'm a private detective and I have to keep my nose clean with the police. I'm not getting mixed up with any conspiracy charge."
"Meaning what?" said Maninway.
Callaghan said coolly: "On your instructions I went and saw young Mervyn and practically accused him of being a thief. If you don't do something about it, he's certainly going to take some sort of action, isn't he? It's not going to be so good for you."
Maninway sat down at the table. He looked very unhappy.
Callaghan went on: "Getting revenge isn't so easy sometimes, Maninway. If you're a wise man you'll do what I advise."
"What do you advise?" asked Maninway.
"I should give a couple of hundred pounds out of that three hundred and fifty that wasn't stolen to young Mervyn and keep him happy. Mrs. Maninway isn't inclined to do anything, but it seems to me that whatever you do you'll find yourself in a tough spot."
Maninway thought for a long time; then he counted forty of the five-pound notes; passed them to Callaghan. He said: "I'd like a receipt for that."
Callaghan said: "We'll send you one, and we'll send you a chit after we've seen Mervyn, saying that he isn't taking any action." He smiled. "He's a nice young fellow. He wouldn't do anything to hurt his sister."
He picked up his hat.
IT was six o'clock when Nikolls came into Callaghan's
office. He said: "D'you want me any more?"
Callaghan said: "No."
Nikolls went on: "It's been a pretty successful sorta case, this Maninway business. Everybody's happy, an' we make a hundred and twenty-five on the job."
Callaghan said: "Yes. Everybody's happy except Maninway—and possibly the housemaid."
"That babe's all right," said Nikolls. "I gotta date with her for tonight." He went out of the office.
Callaghan grinned. He reached for the telephone. He began to dial Mrs. Maninway's number.
1. Simplicity
The most effective weapon in an author's armoury. No good "situation" ever needs "writing up."
2. Economy
Be brief. People think quickly these days. Economy in words breeds "speed"—the thing that holds your readers' attention.
3. Montage
The development of "situations." Remember every novel must have a beginning, a middle, and an ending.
4. Climax: Anti-Climax
Remember that what goes up must come down. Even in a novel.
During the last six years thousands of men and women have adventured throughout the world with the British Forces. Their horizons—bounded in 1939 by views from the office window; a vista in the suburbs; the quiet countryside—changed with the war to scenes of difficulties and danger; to strange backgrounds; to grotesque and sinister atmospheres.
Hundreds of you have written to me during the war years. Dozens of you are planning to write books about your adventures. Many of you have asked my advice. Through the columns of the Sunday Dispatch I am glad to meet you again.
Nobody can write a novel until they have learned to think about writing a novel. Think along the right lines, and the business of writing should be almost automatic.
Here is an example: a system of thought which I employ in my own work.
Some time ago I received a letter from a W.A.A.F. officer. It was a long letter. In it she told me her story. Let us use this letter as an example. First of all let us make a précis, or close analysis, of what was a very long document.
1. She was brought up in a provincial town.
2. Her life was dull and uninteresting.
3. She came to London.
5. Secured a job in an office.
5. Made friends there.
6. She settled down to a routine existence.
7. Then came 1939 and the war.
8. The atmosphere of the war unsettled her.
9. She discovered that she desired to adventure.
10. She joined the W.A.A.F.
11. W.A.A.F. training.
12. A period of administrative work.
13. She goes to Egypt.
14. She meets and falls in love with an English infantry officer.
15. They exchange life stories.
16. They become engaged.
17. They agree to marry directly the war is over.
18. She finds his enthusiasm wanes and becomes suspicious.
19. Is there another girl?
20. He disappears.
21. She is bitterly unhappy.
22. She tries to forget him.
23. She fails to do this.
24. A letter from the man, delayed by misadventure, arrives.
25. She learns that he went on an important, dangerous, and secret mission.
26. She is happy again.
27. But very worried.
28. What has happened to him?
29. She is transferred to another job.
30. She visits a hospital and finds him—severely wounded.
31. Their reunion helps his recovery.
32. Finale.
You will see that I have divided the Synopsis into three parts, A, B, C. These are the Beginning, the Middle, and the Ending of the story. If you plan your book for, say, 75,000 words, divide the story in your mind into a Beginning, Middle and Ending of roughly 25,000 words each.
You will notice that each part ends on a "high" note or situation: In A she joins the W.A.A.F. In B her lover disappears. In C all is well and they marry.
Now how can we "sustain" the reader, keep his interest, and bring him to each of these "high" notes or situations? To do this we must sub-divide our parts A, B, and C, into spaced climax and anti-climax.
Part A. 4 7 9 10
Part B. 13 14 18 20
Part C. 22 24 25 28 30 32
(Note that we "pack" our "Ending" part with "high" notes. We want our reader to finish the book with zest.)
If you have "high" spots you've got to come down to earth. But why not be interesting about it? Even if each climax brings an anti-climax the anti- can still be very good.
Now plan your story in your mind. Never mind about the writing of it. I spend three months thinking about a story that I dictate in four weeks.
PART A.—Start your book on a "high" note (4); for the anti-climax work back to (1) (2) and (3). Go on to (7) (8) and (9). Extend (8) to create suspense in the reader's mind, i.e., she is unsettled and is uncertain what to do; create an interesting "situation" that makes her decide to join the W.A.A.F.
By now you will probably have decided that when writing Part A you will reduce it to 20,000 words so as to give yourself another 5,000 for Part B. If you've secured your reader's interest in Part A, Part B is "money for old rope." You can't go wrong.
PART B.—You have four first-class "high" notes. Your anti-climax in each case gives you great opportunity for Egyptian backgrounds, atmosphere, party scenes, characterisation. Don't give long descriptions of characters. Let the reader find out about them by the way they talk.
PART C.—You have six "high" notes here. In between you have lots of opportunities for carrying your reader along with you. Tell the reader how she tries to forget him; how she seeks relief from worry in good times, parties, etc., and fails. If you think any particular bit is letting the story down, cut it ruthlessly. Another idea will come to take its place.
Ask yourself Why and How all the time. Don't be satisfied with slipshod work. If you are doubtful about anything, do your own research. You'll learn a lot in the process.
And when you have thought about your story on the lines I have indicated for a month or so, you'll be roaring to sit down and write it. Then get cracking. Work with confidence. Don't ask anyone's advice. Get it finished by yourself. It's your job; it's your story; written with your mind and personality.
Be Brief; Be Confident; Be Audacious; Don't Be Afraid To Wear Your Heart On Your Sleeve.
Well... I'll be seeing you! Here's to the book! And good luck to you!
MR. KRASINSKY said: "Having acquaintance with the minds of most men, I have found that these minds are, in the main, occupied with women. Things in this respect are as bad as ever and civilisation invariably brings with its appalling evils one good thing—a more rarefied atmosphere in the perpetual competition between wives and mistresses.
"Although why a wife should compete with a mistress I do not know; for the very necessity for competition would appear to indicate that the wife has already lost what she possessed and has therefore nothing to gain.
"Her opportunity for competition should, surely, precede the appearance of the mistress, which is impossible, as in that event she would have nothing to compete with.
"So we see that in any event wives must perforce experience continuous connubial difficulties, their only hope being to be mistresses and wives simultaneously, which, believe it or not, is a great strain on the imagination, but whereby they may possibly gain on the swings what they are like to lose on the roundabouts."
"What," says Evelynda, tossing her dark curls; gazing with passionate intensity at her hang-dog husband, "what," she repeats—the words almost hissing from her raspberry-coloured mouth, "has she got that I haven't got?"
He shrugs his shoulders. He considers for a moment. Then: "Nothing," he says. "Nothing or very little more... my Sweet..."
She looks at him with the unutterable scorn of a woman who has already realised that she has taken six to four on a hundred to eight outsider that has as much chance of staying the course as a celluloid rat in Hell.
She speaks with difficulty. She is obsessed by rage, jealousy, and a sincere desire to improve her own technique for the future.
"What?" she asks in a low and trembling voice, "do you mean by 'or very little more'...?"
A peculiarly optimistic and sheep-like expression lakes possession of his analgesic and waterlogged features. His eyes, invariably inert, emerge from their usually spiritless condition.
"Oh boy!" he murmurs....
From Le valet prend la dame.
I STOPPED the car, lit a cigarette, and looked at the I sea. This, I thought, is not one of my better moments. But definitely not.
It was dusk. Behind the car, the long Torquay seafront swept in a wide half-circle. In front of me, on the crest of the hill, I could see the Hotel Splendide. And in one of those rooms, whose lighted windows twinkled in the half-darkness, was Robert—or was he? And if he was, who was with him—supposing someone was with him.
I shuddered a little. I began to think of Yvette.
I thought I didn't like Yvette. She pretends to be an angel but the only angelic thing about her is that she's always harping on something or other. And she had harped about Robert when I had shown her the letter—or rather when she'd taken it out of my hand and read it when she found me crying in my bedroom. That beastly anonymous letter——
No nice woman—especially a woman who is married to as charming a man as Robert—my husband—should ever take notice of an anonymous letter. No nice woman ever does. Well—not until she's read it. And then—well then, Yvette had mixed the poison.
She said: "If there's nothing in it, Robert won't mind. He'll just love you turning up at the hotel all suddenly without letting him know you're coming. Of course he won't like it if the letter is true and he's got an assignation with a woman. Of course, that's impossible, I know, my sweet. But if it were true I wonder who she would be. It could be Dolores— couldn't it? Or it might be Esmeralda Valance. They're both crazy about him. And he is so charming and attractive." She sighed. Sometimes I believe she's rather too partial to Robert herself.
I said: "Shut up, Yvette. You make me sick!"
She said: "I know, dear. I often make myself feel that way. But you've got to do something, haven't you? I mean—this letter. Either you're going to find out about it or you'll worry for the rest of your life. Of the two evils you've got to choose one or the other. See what I mean?"
"I see what you mean!" I said firmly. "I suppose it never occurred to you that I might throw the letter in the waste-basket and forget about it?"
"It did occur to me," she said. "But not for long. I've never known a woman who's done such a thing yet."
I said: "I suppose I've got to choose one of your two evils. I wonder which?"
She yawned. "If it were me," she said. "Of the two evils I'd choose neither. Haven't you some excuse to go rushing off after Robert suddenly without telling him?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Of course there's that letter that came for him this morning," I said. "A letter marked: Urgent and Confidential."
"Well, what are you waiting for?" demanded Yvette. "Take the letter, get into your car, drive down to Torquay and go to the hotel. You'll be there by seven o'clock this evening. If this anonymous letter is nonsense, all you have to do is to tell Robert that you felt he ought to have the urgent and confidential letter that came for him this morning, at once. If on the other hand, you find that there is some lovely down there with him— well, you'll know the worst." She shrugged her shoulders.
I said: "Go away, Yvette. I dislike you and I shan't do it. That's my final decision."
She yawned delicately. She said: "A woman's final decision is not necessarily the one she makes later."
Then she looked at me sideways and went.
She didn't know how right she was!
I sat in the car looking miserably at the sea. Then I opened my handbag and took out the anonymous letter. It was typed and there was no address or date. It said:
How fond you must be of your very attractive husband. Not only attractive, but also romantic. It must be amusing for you to consider the important mission on which he is engaged at the moment. At any rate, dear Comtesse d'Epernay, that's what you think! Actually, you poor sucker, instead of being engaged in "Secret Service" he is, at the moment, in Suite 201 at the Hotel Splendide, positively revelling in the company of an extremely good-looking line in real blondes who seems, forgive me for saying so, to have something that you haven't got. These French husbands can be very trying—don't you think? Of course, you don't believe this, do you? You bet you do. And if you want to make certain why don't you get into your car, drive down to Torquay, arrive this evening and catch him out? If you don't, you'll regret it.
A Friend.
I folded the beastly letter and put it back in my handbag. I thought—supposing it was true—just supposing—And Robert had been very odd lately— absent-minded and forgetful and miles away.
And the letter said he was in Suite 201. How did the writer know? But it would be very easy for me to find out. Suite 201 was the suite in which Robert and I had stayed last time we had visited the place. The suite was on the ground floor in one of the wings of the hotel There were french windows to all the rooms, looking out on to the hotel gardens.
And I knew where there was a side door—the gardener's door— that led from the side drive into the gardens. I made up my mind. And if I ran into Robert, and found that there wasn't any blonde, I'd tell him the truth, show him the beastly anonymous letter, apologise for ever having listened to Yvette and that would be that.
I parked the car in the side drive, walked along until I came to the gardener's door in the wall, breathed a sigh of relief when I found it open and went through into the hotel gardens.
The gardens sloped down to the edge of the cliff. On the left was the line of french windows of the different private suites. No. 201 was the fourth from this end.
At the far end of the gardens, just visible in the dusk, was the figure of a man in a brown raincoat. I supposed he was an hotel guest. I walked along the flagged path that ran between the rhododendron bushes and the french windows. I tried the windows of Suite No. 201; they were open. I slipped into the room and closed the windows behind me.
I was in the bedroom. Immediately, I recognised Robert's large suitcase on the luggage stand at the foot of the bed. I stood in the middle of the room sniffing.
Perfume... good perfume! And the woman who had been wearing it had been quite recently in the room. I could even recognise the scent—Esprit de la Nuit.
I stood there, very unhappy, very undecided. I felt guilty and jealous and angry—I wasn't sure whether with Robert or myself— but the feeling did not last long. I saw something that stopped any sort of feeling except sheer fright.
There was a heavy velvet curtain over the doorway that led into the sitting-room. The door was half open, but someone was hiding behind the curtain. I could see the toes of a pair of men's well-polished shoes showing beneath the edge of the curtain.
I stood there frozen into immobility. I'd got to do something, but I didn't know what. Behind every other idea in my mind was the thought that whatever happened Robert would be furious.
I moved slowly and, I hoped, nonchalantly towards the door, but I moved only one step before the curtain was drawn aside and the man came out.
He reached out his hand for the electric light switch. I heard the click, and the room was flooded with light. In his other hand I saw the automatic pistol.
WE stood looking at each other. He seemed quite at ease
and faintly amused. I was much too petrified to think about
anything except, vaguely, that I would like to tell Yvette just
what I thought about her... and that never again would I take any
notice of an anonymous letter!
He said: "Well... what can I do for you?" He was smiling a little but his voice was extremely grim.
I said in a voice which I hoped would sound dignified: "I am the Countess d'Epernay, and I am here to see my husband. May I ask who you are and what you are doing here?"
He came a step closer. "If you are the Countess d'Epernay," he said, "perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what your husband looks like. When you've done that, perhaps you'll produce any other evidence you have showing who you are. Then I'll talk to you."
I described Robert's appearance, and then I showed him my visiting card.
He grinned at me and put the automatic pistol into his hip pocket.
"It's all right, Countess," he said. "I'd seen you before somewhere or other, but I had to make certain that you were you."
He produced a small leather case from his coat pocket and handed it to me. Inside the case was a warrant card which stated the bearer was "Detective-Inspector John Grantley of the Special Branch, Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard."
I breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the bed.
I said: "Well, Inspector, I'm very glad you're you. I've never been so scared in my life."
He smiled at me. "I'm going to give you a drink, Countess. You look as if you need one. Incidentally, I'm very glad you've arrived. The Count and I are in a tough spot and I think you can help."
He went into the sitting-room; came back after a minute and handed me a whisky and soda. He gave me a cigarette; lighted it; took one himself.
Then he said: "I suppose you don't know—or do you —what the Count is doing down here?"
I shook my head. "I knew he was supposed to be on some official business," I said. "But he didn't tell me what it was."
He nodded. "Naturally, he wouldn't," he said. "But I've got to tell you and I know he would approve."
He pulled the heavy curtains across the french windows.
Then he said: "The Count came down here to receive some very secret and important documents from a lady who was to arrive by air this evening. But before her plane got in I was sent down to advise him that there were some people in the neighbourhood who were here for the purpose of preventing those documents getting to London at any cost. Those people know your husband is the person who is supposed to take those documents to London. And they'll stop at nothing—not even murder—to get the documents out of this country as quickly as possible. You understand?"
I nodded.
"Therefore," he continued, "we realised it would be foolish to take any chances. The Count did not go to the airport as arranged to meet the lady who brought the documents. We telephoned through to the officials and she came straight here. She arrived some fifteen minutes ago, and she is in Suite 207, along the corridor. Just before you arrived I brought her here and explained the situation." He smiled at me.
"Exactly what am I to do?" I asked. I wanted badly to help. I felt I'd got to do something to square myself with Robert. I shuddered when I thought of the explanations that would be necessary when all this was over.
He said: "The Count is in another hotel in the town telephoning London. The lady in 207 has the documents in an oilskin ease. They are both known to the people who want to get the documents. But you are not. Did anyone see you come in?"
"No," I answered. "I came through the gardener's gate into the private garden."
"Good," he said. "That makes things easy. Now listen carefully. Go out into the corridor, walk along to Suite 207 and knock on the door. Madame Delarme will open the door. Tell her that you come from me and give her this note"—he scribbled a note on a page torn I mm his notebook—"and she will give you the documents, which are in a sealed oilskin envelope. Then walk to the far end of the corridor, go out into the private garden, through the door by which you came in and walk down to the Devonia on the front, opposite the bandstand. Order some coffee and wait. In five minutes from the time you leave me I will telephone my plainclothes sergeant who is waiting at the local police station to go to the Devonia Café, meet you and take the documents from you. He will get them delivered to London by a police car, while our friends here will waste their time trying to find your husband and Madame Delarme."
I got up. "I'll go at once," I said. "I'm glad to be of use."
"I'll tell the Count when I see him," he said. "I don't know what we should have done without you. Good luck."
I thanked him and went out through the sitting-room, into the corridor. The Detective-Inspector, I thought, seemed very pleased I'd arrived. I hoped that Robert too would be pleased!
TEN minutes later I slipped out through the gardener's
gate and began to walk down the side drive towards the seafront.
I breathed an immense sigh of relief. Clutched under my summer
coat, against my side, was the large oilskin case containing the
documents which Madame Delarme had handed over to me with a
certain amount of satisfaction. I expect that she was glad to get
rid of them, poor dear.
She was quite good-looking, I thought. Of course, she was wearing a shade of make-up that wasn't too suited to her colouring, and her hair—she was a blonde I'm certain—had been touched up just a little. I thought too that there was just the merest suggestion of a cast in one eye. But beyond that—and the fact that she was wearing a trifle too much Esprit de la Nuit; it was a little too obvious—beyond that, as I have said, she was almost beautiful. Almost....
I reached the bottom of the curving drive. I was nearly on the front and the Devonia Café was not far away. I began to feel almost happy. I began to feel that Robert would probably laugh at my story about the anonymous letter. Perhaps, I thought, we might even stay on for a few days and enjoy the sunshine. That's what I thought.
And then it happened. Out of the shadows stepped a figure. The street lamp opposite threw a beam of light on the man in the brown raincoat—the man I'd seen hanging about in the private gardens at the Splendide when I'd arrived, before going into Suite 201.
He stepped straight in front of me. He said: "Excuse me, but who are you, where are you going and what have you got under your coat? And don't try any funny business."
I was furious. This, I thought, would be one of the people— foreign spies probably—who were trying to I the documents I had under my coat. The people who would stop at nothing—not even murder!
But I didn't feel too badly about it because, just at that moment, there appeared the large form of a Torquay policeman, strolling along from the front towards us.
I said: "How dare you speak to me? I know all about you. If you don't go away immediately I shall give you in charge of this police officer."
He sighed. Then he called out to the police officer: "Come here, Stevens!"
The policeman came up to us. Then the man in the brown overcoat produced a small leather case. I looked at it. It said inside:
DETECTIVE-SERGEANT ERNEST JAMES MALLOW.
CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT.
TORQUAY DIVISION.
The policeman said: "What's wrong, Sergeant?"
I said: "Sergeant Mallow—you must listen to me. It's terribly urgent. I'm the Countess d'Epernay and I'm carrying some very secret documents my husband has to take to London. The situation is extremely dangerous. I have just left Detective-Inspector Grantley of the Special Branch, and he has asked me—"
Sergeant Mallow looked at me as if I was a small piece of cheese. He said, rather rudely: "Put a sock in it, sister. You're not the Countess d'Epernay. You're one of the people we're looking for. You'd better come along quietly. The police station's not far from here and I've got a nice little police car round the corner."
I nearly burst into tears. I said: "But Sergeant Mallow—you must listen to me. You must. I can explain everything."
"That's what they all say," he said grimly. "You do your explaining to the Superintendent."
He turned to the policeman. "Keep your eyes open, Stevens. They'll have to come out some time. The man is about thirty-five; five feet eleven inches, with a fair complexion and brown hair. Smartly dressed with highly polished shoes. He's wearing a blue, double-breasted suit with a fine pin-stripe, a navy blue tie with a lighter blue stripe in it—"
"Exactly," I almost shrieked. "Exactly—that's Detective-Inspector Grantley. You've described him perfectly. He—"
"You keep quiet," said Sergeant Mallow, looking at me as if I was something that the cat had brought in. "I'll get around to you in a minute."
I subsided.
"The woman," Sergeant Mallow said to the policeman, "is calling herself Madame Delarme or something like that. She's a smart dyed blonde with a slight cast in one eye. The front of the hotel is being watched— we've got four men there—and you'd better stay here and watch the side drive.
"I'll take care of this piece of trouble," he concluded, with a dirty look at me.
Sergeant Mallow led me to where the police ear was parked. A police officer in uniform was in the driving seat.
"We've picked one up," Sergeant Mallow told him. "This one. We'll get back to headquarters and see what's happened."
We got into the car and it drove swiftly off. I tried not to think. Any time my mind wandered to Robert I shuddered. I sat quite still, peering through the windscreen, hoping that we might drive into the sea and be drowned and forgotten.
Sergeant Mallow looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Then he offered me a cigarette. He said: "You'd better have one now. I expect it'll be a long time before you get the chance to smoke another one!"
THE Superintendent looked at me over the top of his
horn-rimmed glasses. He said: "It's a nice story but it's not
quite good enough." He looked at the oilskin package
containing the secret. "I think we'll take a look at this,
Mallow," he said. "It might be interesting."
I gulped. I said: "Superintendent, I advise you not to open that package. It contains documents which are extremely secret."
Sergeant Mallow said: "Nuts!"
The Superintendent took out a penknife and slit open the package. Then he looked at me and grinned.
"Some secret documents," he said.
I was speechless. Before him, on his desk, lay the contents of the oilskin package—six carefully-folded copies of The Torquay Star and Argus—a local newspaper—and nothing else.
The Superintendent said to Sergeant Mallow: "Take her down to the cells. Then you'd better get through to Mr. Williams at the sub-station and ask him if he can come along. Give him a description of this woman. He'll probably want to talk to her."
My heart sank right into my shoes. This was the end. Because "Mr. Williams" was the name that Robert used when he was on Secret Service work!
It was nine o'clock when the door opened and Robert stepped into the cell. The policeman went away and he stood with his back to the door looking at me. He was grinning. I said: "Oh, Robert— oh, Robert—I'm so unhappy." I just managed to stop myself bursting into tears.
He said, with that touch of French accent which only comes when he's very annoyed: "I bet you are, Mignon. Supposing you tell me what all this is about? What were you doing down here? Tell me right from the start and don't leave out anything." He sat down beside me and put his arm round my shoulders.
I felt awful. I wouldn't have minded if he'd been fearfully angry. As it was, I felt merely rather stupid, and not a bit dignified.
I told him. I told him about the anonymous letter, and Yvette and her suggestions. I told him how I'd come down hoping to catch him out with some blonde. I told him that I felt absolutely lousy about everything.
When I'd finished, he said: "It isn't so good, is it? You see, you've, played into the hands of the other side. Unwittingly, you've been helping them—the people who wanted to get those documents. Perhaps, through you, they have got them."
My heart felt like a lump of lead.
He went on: "They wanted to get you out of the flat in town. So they had that anonymous letter delivered to you. They hoped you'd fall for it. Well, you did fall for it. You did what they wanted."
I said, very meekly: "Please tell me about it, Robert."
He gave me a cigarette and took one for himself. He said: "I received the documents yesterday afternoon. I knew that this place was full of their agents who would stop at nothing to get them. So I made up a fake package, tied up in that oilskin cover—an exact replica of the original package which I had received— and locked it up in a drawer in my bedroom in Suite 201. I guessed they'd go after it. You see, we wanted to catch them out; to discover who they were.
"This evening I left the suite knowing they'd probably make an attempt to find the documents. They did. The man you found hiding in the bedroom was one of their people. He had a forged warrant card describing him as 'Detective-Inspector Grantley' in case he was discovered. He forced the drawer, took the oilskin package of documents which I had faked and passed it to his accomplice 'Madame Delarme' in Suite 207. She probably informed him that all the exits to the hotel were being watched and their difficulty was to pass the stuff to another accomplice outside."
I sighed. "And I very kindly helped them to do it," I said. "Oh, Robert, what a fool I've been...."
"You arrived at the crucial moment for them," Robert went on. "The pseudo Detective-Inspector Grantley told you to go to the Devonia Café and wait for their accomplice. 'Grantley' knew that he could telephone this man from the hotel suite after you'd gone. But Mallow picked you up—and I'm very glad he did."
I said: "Robert, I feel terrible about this. Is everything all right now? Are the real documents safe?"
He looked serious. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm rather scared about that."
Ten minutes later we were speeding towards London. The speedometer needle was on the sixty-five mark and Robert's eyes, concentrated on the road in front, were grim.
It was half-past two in the morning when we arrived at the flat in London. I was so tired I could hardly see. And very worried. Robert had hardly spoken on the way back. I wondered, when all this business was over, just what he was going to have to say to me.
He opened the front door of the flat and went in. I stood in the hallway, my tiredness forgotten, with my mouth wide open.
The escritoire in the hall had been broken open and the contents scattered all over the floor. Robert went into the study, the bedrooms, the drawing-room. I followed. Everything in the flat had been turned upside down. Beds were thrown back, desks broken open, cushion covers cut.
We stood in the centre of the drawing-room looking at the chaos around us.
Robert said grimly: "It's as I thought. They were taking no chances. They're no fools. They guessed that I might have done what I did do and they organised for it. Now I am sunk."
I said in a very small voice: "Exactly what does it all mean, Robert?"
He sat down wearily and then lit a cigarette.
He said: "I got those documents—the real ones— early yesterday afternoon. I knew that they'd do anything to get them. And I didn't intend to take any chances. I went straight back to the hotel, made up the fake package of documents and locked them in my bedroom drawer. Then I took the real documents out of the oilskin packet, folded them into a smaller envelope, addressed the envelope to myself, at this flat, and posted the letter in the hotel post-box—inside the hotel. Then, this afternoon, having made my arrangements with the Torquay police and the C.I.D. I went out so as to give those beastly crooks a chance to try to get the faked documents and give themselves away in the process.
"But their head man is no fool. He guessed that I might do what I had done. So he had that anonymous letter delivered here to get you out of the flat, and tonight some of their London people broke in here and got the documents. They must have found them with the post. Then they searched the place just to see if they could find anything else of importance."
My heart began to beat quickly. I was so excited I could hardly speak.
I said: "Robert... when you addressed that letter to yourself, did you put 'Urgent and Confidential' on the envelope?"
He said: "Yes... Mignon. Why?"
I was trembling with excitement. I said: "Robert... they haven't got the documents. They haven't. I've got them. I found that letter with the post in the hall this morning and took it down with me to Torquay so as to have an excuse for chasing after you. It's in my handbag."
I tore open my handbag. I took out the long envelope and handed it to Robert.
He looked at it. Then he looked at me. Then he began to grin. He said: "Kitten... you're the silliest, most stupid, adorable, luckiest woman I've ever met in my life. Come here and be kissed, Kitten...."
I knew everything was O.K. When Robert calls me Kitten my stock is on the up-grade!
AT three o'clock in the morning, Robert and I were having
coffee when there was a knock at the flat door. I went out and
opened it. It was Yvette—she lives in the apartment above
us. She was wearing an eau-de-nil wrap, no make-up and a
bored expression.
She said: "Hello, Mignon.... I couldn't sleep and you've been making a hell of a noise down here tonight. Is Robert back?"
I said: "Yes... we're having coffee. Do you want some?"
She said yes. On the way to the kitchen she said: "So you didn't go down to Torquay? You didn't take any notice of that anonymous letter?"
I said, in my most superior voice: "Of course not. I'm not that sort of woman."
Robert appeared at the kitchen door. He looked at me and his eyelid fluttered.
He said: "You're telling me!"
Pale ghosts tread softly when the stars are
dark,
Moving beside me in the silent street,
Pressing upon me with a shadowy guile,
Encompassing my being with their scorn.
Sometimes they laugh with thin malevolence
To poison memory with envenomed note;
Sometimes they cry with horrid bitterness
And my feet falter at the gutter's edge.
They frighten me these pale and dreadful ghosts
The street is dark and there is no escape.
Uncertainly my fearful steps progress,
Seeking the joyful nimbus of a light—a lamp
Flashed by some happier soul. My mouth is dry
My mind still trembling at their spectral touch.
They talk to me: they tell me of the years.
Some woman's voice speaks soft of youthful love
Reincarnating passion. As my limbs relax
The yearning voice grows cold with jealous hate.
I am so weary in this silent street
Where every shadow hides a fearful thought,
That mocks me. I am so tired of night
Bringing pale ghosts—soft phantoms of dead days
That will not lie in peace. I change direction
Seeking ease in some side turning. But they still
Are there waiting to haunt me in the sombre hours
Lurking, impatient in the starless dark.
Are there no happy ghosts who walk at night
To say some gentle thing to those abroad?
There is a light. It glimmers down the street,
Casting a hopeful ray upon the stones.
The ghosts retreat—they cannot bear the light;
They crowd uncertain on each other's heels.
The door is open and I leave them there
In serried ranks upon the darkness' edge;
Fearsomely turning in this sanctuary
Afraid to look at what I cannot see.
Now I am safe awhile. Here is sweet rest
Until tomorrow when the dark street calls
And all the whispering ghosts of cold, dead years
Smirk in the shadows when they hear my steps.
Pale ghosts tread softly when the stars are dark,
I fear the night that brings them close to me,
Wond'ring if on some deathly eve I too shall wait
A wraith with them to dog some mortal's feet.
Author's Note.—The following series "Paris Crime" was written in France for the Sunday Dispatch in 1946.
IT will be realised that there have been changes in the personnel of the Prefecture of Police since that date but the names mentioned in the series refer of course to police officers and other personnel of that year.
WITHIN a few days the trial will begin, in Paris, of France's greatest murderer since Landru; a murderer without scruple or mercy, whose scientific technique enabled him to escape both German and French justice for some time. It is estimated that Doctor Petiot has murdered between forty and fifty people. The circumstances under which they met their deaths and the method used by the Doctor made the crimes more than merely interesting.
I have been lucky inasmuch as Monsieur Charles Badin, Deputy Director of the Police Judiciaire, has produced to me, in his office, the entire set of photographs taken by the Criminal Police section, covering every aspect of the murders. The story I relate is exactly as he told it to me.
Doctor Petiot who was a Registrar Doctor—roughly equivalent to our own Medical Officer of Health in a Borough—had two residences in Paris. His consulting room—where he could also sleep—was near the Place de l'Opéra. He was also the owner of a small house near the Rue de Varennes.
The situation as regards the Rue de Varennes house was interesting. The back of the house faced on to a small square or courtyard, the other three sides of the courtyard being composed of the backs of three other houses. Immediately opposite the back door of Petiot's house was the sub-basement window leading down to a cellar. The other three houses whose backs faced the courtyard were empty.
It was impossible to see into this courtyard except from one point. In the vicinity was a tall apartment house, from the top windows of which a view of one small sector of the courtyard could be seen. It was characteristic of the thoroughness of Doctor Petiot that he had erected, on the roof of the house opposite the apartment house, a hoarding which cut off this view. Now the courtyard was entirely secret as was necessary for the technique of Doctor Petiot.
At this time the German Gestapo were "liquidating" every Jew they could lay their hands on. These unfortunates were being sent to concentration camps in Germany or otherwise disposed of. This process was more than repugnant to the good Doctor Petiot who allowed it to be known to a small circle of patriotic Frenchmen that he was sick and tired of the Gestapo methods and was planning to counteract them.
Apparently, his planning was successful, for soon Petiot was able to let his friends know that he would be able to arrange the escape from Paris of anyone who was threatened by the Gestapo providing that they would see him secretly in his consulting room near the Place de l'Opéra.
Within a few days the first of the would-be escapists arrived at Petiot's consulting room. He was an old Jew who was high up on the Gestapo list. And he was very frightened. Petiot, neat and trim in his white doctor's coat, reassured his victim. Everything was going to be all right and all the old Jew had to do was to present himself at Petiot's house at a given time, bringing with him one small bag containing his clothes and available money. Petiot would then give him his instructions; he would be met, taken off to a secret air-field, and flown away from Paris to safety.
At the appointed time the victim arrived at Petiot's house. He had come secretly and in the darkness. No one saw him arrive. He was met inside by the good Doctor, who told him that everything was well and that very soon the people who were going to get him away would be arriving by the back entrance.
This scene took place in the front room of the house. It was a well-furnished room with two large arm-chairs placed side by side. Petiot and his victim would sit in these chairs whilst the escape plans were discussed. Then Petiot would inform his victim that before he went it was necessary that he should be inoculated. In a minute the hypodermic syringe was produced and the injection made. Then Petiot would rise and lead his victim into the next room. He would shake hands, and the unfortunate creature, now on the threshold of death, would probably thank the good Doctor for all he had done.
He would be told to sit down and make himself comfortable. He would do so, and he would not be perturbed when Petiot left the room and locked the door behind him. Because, at the other end of the room, were two folding doors through which the rescuing friends were to enter. The victim was not to know that these doors were false; that they were merely two folding doors fixed in front of a solid brick wall for the sole purpose of reassuring him whilst he was dying!
Within a minute or two the unfortunate would begin to feel the effects of the death injection which Doctor Petiot had given him. But he would not know that every movement of his death struggle was being watched with grim satisfaction by the murderer. High up, on the opposite wall, Petiot had bored a hole and fixed, on the far side of it, a magnifying glass from a telescope. This enabled him to look through into the death chamber and to see without being seen. When he was certain that his victim was dead the doctor would re-enter the room, remove the money and effects from the body, and proceed to dispose of the corpse.
For this purpose he had an excellent organisation. The body would be dragged across the short courtyard and pushed through the basement opposite. It would fall into a cellar and in this cellar was a twenty-foot well, complete with a chain, the bottom of which was entirely filled with quicklime. Petiot would fix the body on a chain, lower it into the well, leave it until the quicklime had done as much work as possible, and then, approaching the bottom of the well by means of another opening, a ladder and a passage, Petiot would remove such parts of the body as the quicklime had failed to dispose of, place them in a furnace which stood in one corner of the cellar, and leave the remains to be consumed by the flames. A very simple and nearly successful procedure.
Now Fate played one of those strange tricks in which she specialises. Information came to the German Gestapo that Doctor Petiot was helping Jews to escape from Paris—Jews who were badly wanted by the Gestapo. Jews who were either on the death list or were due for concentration camps.
So a trap was set for Petiot. An old Jew who was for execution was told that if he cared to present himself to Petiot as a would-be escapist, his life would be spared. He was to get into touch with Petiot and report what happened to the Gestapo authorities. He did so and disappeared.
So the Gestapo arrested Petiot!
The "good" Doctor must have felt a trifle odd when the Gestapo police car arrived to take him away on a charge of assisting in, and organising escape for, wanted people.
But Petiot got away with it. He was eventually released by the Gestapo. This fact is, in itself, very interesting, and, it seems to me, could have been for only two reasons. First that Petiot, being a Municipal Doctor, was necessary to the Germans, and that he was able to persuade them that it was impossible for him to assist people to escape; that he had no means of doing so and managed to prove it to the Gestapo authorities. The second reason (and the one which seems most plausible to me) is that Petiot told the Gestapo what he had been doing, and the cynical German mind delighted in the fact that such unfortunates as were planning to get out of France would merely find their way into Doctor Petiot's furnace. It is not difficult to imagine the German mind being rather amused at such an idea.
In any event they released Petiot, who returned to his consulting room near the Place de l'Opéra and his sinister house near the Rue de Varennes. One imagines that his reputation as a patriot had been improved by his arrest and that victims came even more easily to their deaths.
One day a great deal of black smoke was seen issuing from the chimney of a house near the Rue de Varennes. It was believed that the house was on fire and the owner—Doctor Petiot—was telephoned. He was informed that the fire brigade and police had already entered the house. Needless to say, when the police went to his consulting room to ask a few questions about the human remains they had found in the cellar, the Doctor was gone.
But the Police Judiciaire have long memories, and after the Liberation, as a result of intensive enquiries, Petiot was run to earth in the barracks at Reuilly, where he was passing himself off as a captain in the F.F.I.
THIS is the story of the life and death of a traitor. A murderer; a rapist; a type who had nothing on Judas Iscariot, who must have been his patron saint. It is the story of Chamberlain alias Lafond, who finished his career on this earth in such small pieces that no one would be bothered to sweep them up.
Today, within the structure of the Parisian police, there still exists a secret section called the Anti-Gestapo Section. The fact that such a Section is still necessary says a great deal for the efficient organisation of the Germans before the Liberation.
Before I deal with the Lafond case, it is necessary that a picture should be given of the circumstances which led to this scoundrel obtaining powers of life and death over his fellow-countrymen. Briefly, the Situation was this: When the German Gestapo headquarters had settled themselves firmly in Paris, they imagined that the control of the country and the Metropolis would be simple. They were wrong. Very soon they became aware of the existence of underground movements; of the maquis and of those small but secret sections of gallant Frenchmen, which afterwards became the official F.F.I., secret sections which specialised in hiding Allied flyers who were forced to come down; in getting our agents in and out of the country; in doing anything to put a spoke in the German wheel.
The Gestapo did everything they could to put an end to these activities. I have seen pictures of the tortured bodies of such of these brave men and women as were captured, and in torture as in everything else the Gestapo was very thorough. But even these methods were of no avail. Not only did the resistance movements continue, but they became stronger.
The Gestapo therefore adopted methods by which they hoped, periodically, to draw into their net such resistance movements as were operating in Paris. In this process they endeavoured to use the services of the French police, and in such a way that obstruction would be, the Germans thought, impossible. They would telephone through to police headquarters and order that in ten minutes' time everyone in the Rue so-and-so, or this or that Place or Square, was to be arrested and brought in police wagons to Gestapo headquarters.
They hoped by these means, interrogations, threats, and torture if necessary, to collect such patriots as were operating in Paris. But they failed. They failed because the French police had, long before, organised their own Movement—called the Anti-Gestapo (today directed by the Commissaires Mettra and Clot), and it was the police who on the occasion of these sudden raids planned the escape of the wanted men and women between the time they were picked up and the time the trucks arrived at German headquarters.
On one occasion, when a maquis "detail" carrying Sten guns dropped by the British in attaché cases was rounded up, the flic who was putting them into one of the police trucks told them to run. The three men dashed away and the French police opened fire with their automatics. But they fired on each side of the escaping men, so as to prevent pursuit by German soldiers or police, and on this occasion the only person to be shot was a German military policeman who was hit "by accident".
The Gestapo soon tired of this sort of thing, and they produced a scheme to combat it which, for cynicism and beastliness, would be hard to beat. They opened up the French prisons and released the worst types of criminals. Murderers, rapists, thieves and scoundrels of every description, were turned loose. They were promised immunity from arrest; that their police records should be destroyed, and that they would be allowed to make money in their own peculiar ways without interference. Provided they joined the special police sections of the Gestapo and worked for the Germans. Especially in countering the French Police Resistance Movement.
And, amongst the morons released under this scheme, was the arch-criminal Chamberlain, who took the new name of Lafond, and who liked his new work so much that he soon became chief of one of the new "crook" secret police sections.
So successful were his methods that, the Commissaire Mettra informed me, a large proportion of one of the arrondissements was forced willy-nilly to collaborate with the Germans.
Lafond had brains. One of his schemes for making money and dominating his own particular section of Paris was his bread-ticket selling organisation. In conjunction with the Gestapo, who provided the necessary printing, Lafond sold through agents all the bread-tickets in his neighbourhood. He made a profit of fifty centimes—an infinitesimal sum—on each ticket, and sold enough to make himself a profit of over 500,000 francs a month.
This scheme served a double purpose. Either you worked for Lafond, in which case you would get a little of the bread-ticket money as a bribe, or you did not. If you did not, you got no bread-ticket at all!
Naturally, the Gestapo were very pleased with Lafond and Lafond was pleased with the Gestapo, but this state of happiness did not continue. It became more and more obvious to the traitor that he was very unpopular. It became more and more obvious to him that the Anti-Gestapo Movement in the French Police was growing. Already a certain Corsican known as "Jo" had formed a complete spy ring to work for the Allies through the Anti-Gestapo Section right in the heart of Lafond's district. He began to feel that perhaps he was not so safe after all.
He would have felt even less safe had he known that walking about the streets of Paris was a policeman—a humble member of the Police Resistance—who had sworn to himself that he would "get" Lafond. And Lafond was not at all happy. He had power and money, and he felt unable to use them as he would have liked to. The gay night life of wine and women which he had promised himself was conspicuous by its absence— mainly because he was by now afraid to go out at night. So he took his troubles to the Germans, and the Gestapo, always ready to oblige a friend, laid on a special night club for Lafond and his group—a night club protected by German military police and secret service men, where everyone was checked in and out and where Lafond would feel very safe.
But outside in the dark shadows of the street lurked the figure of the policeman who did not like Lafond. Once or twice he was challenged by the German police.
He produced his police papers and pointed out that he had been detailed to keep the place under observation in order that no harm should come to Monsieur Lafond and his friends. They believed him.
At home the policeman had a bomb. He had made it himself. He hoped it would work all right, and that when it did work he would have time to get away. But he was unable to use it. The night club which the Gestapo had reserved for Lafond was too big. And sometimes there were artistes and performers there—decent Frenchmen and women who were forced to work in the place. The policeman saw no reason why they should also die.
Weeks passed, and Lafond began to feel much more comfortable. No one had threatened him of late. No one had sent him insulting letters, and he was beginning to tire of the night club. It was too big; it was not sufficiently intimate for the rather peculiar pastimes in which Lafond and his friends liked to indulge. And then someone suggested to him that it would be much more amusing at No. 4 Rue Fontaine—a really intime little cabaret run by a Corsican.
So one night Lafond, courageous through a skinful of wine taken at the big night club, decided that he and his group would pay a visit to the Corsican's place. The car was brought to the door and they drove off. Soon they were happily drinking in a specially reserved room at the cabaret, waiting for the show that was to be put on for them.
Then the policeman arrived. He went to Lafond's room and saw that gentleman. He produced his police pass and warned Lafond against staying too late at this cabaret. He pointed out that there were many people who did not like him, and that the streets, late at night, might be dangerous.
Lafond did not think so. He felt very brave. He told the policeman to go away.
The policeman apologised for troubling Monsieur Lafond. He went away. And he left his home-made bomb, with the time-fuse set at a few seconds, behind a flower-pot. He walked slowly out of the room, praying that he would have time to get out and that the bomb would work.
He had and it did! There was a terrific explosion and Lafond and his friends (every senior member of his section was with him) ascended in small pieces to be tried by a Higher Court.
The policeman still walks the Paris streets on duty. I will not mention his name; I have been asked not to do so. But someone will show him this article, and he will know that he is remembered.
I PRESENT to you Monsieur Alain de Bernady de Sigoyer who, despite his aristocratic name, is an extremely nasty piece of work. He is to be tried very shortly and, in the picturesque language of his own country, "risks death." This time, I believe, Alain will not get away with it as he has done on previous occasions. For him the shadow of the guillotine looms.
One day, whilst I was discussing the case with a police officer responsible for the interrogation of one of the principal witnesses, at the Prefecture, he pointed out to me that I was sitting in a red armchair; also that it was lucky that this red chair was part of the furniture of his office because it had, in some degree, been responsible for clearing up the mystery of the disappearance of Jeannine de Sigoyer.
The disappearance of Jeannine was, very nearly, a good specimen of what is called the "perfect crime". It would have been perfect if the criminal had not made the usual mistake so beloved by fiction writers.
Before I begin to talk of the details leading to the disappearance of Jeannine let us take a look at the background of the principal actor.
He is forty years of age and has been sentenced three times for the "abuse of confidence" which is French for "the confidence trick"; for theft and the fabrication of false papers. In 1923 he was arrested in Toulon as a con man and the following year for theft. In 1927 he was arrested for what is mildly described as "cheating" and again in Paris in 1929 for theft. The Marseilles police caught up with him in January 1930, and in 1931 the Strasbourg authorities "took him in" once more for confidence tricks and passing worthless cheques.
Alain, faced with a considerable packet of trouble, decided that it was time he did some acting. He therefore arranged to froth a little at the mouth, and on December 1931 was lucky enough to be confined in the lunatic asylum at Hoerdt. In 1937 he persuaded the authorities that he was sane and they liberated him. Feeling that he had wasted quite a lot of valuable time in the asylum, Alain promptly rented a villa in the valley of Chevreuse, and, believing that the time had come to change his technique, kidnapped a Bulgarian.
This did not come off. He was arrested, charged with "arbitrary kidnapping", and also of the murder of one Richnowski, who had disappeared and whose papers were found in de Sigoyer's villa.
Believe it or not, Alain managed to pull another really good histrionic act. Once more he got off on the grounds of insanity, and this time was shut up in the asylum at Clermont, from which he managed to escape in June 1938. He took refuge in Belgium. There he was arrested for using false identification papers; was liberated and returned to France in 1939.
In October of that year he met and married a young woman named Jeannine Kergot, who was twenty-two years of age. And he started business as a wine and spirit merchant at No. 7 Boulevard de Bercy in Paris. It might be remembered that when de Sigoyer started this business he was entirely without means, but when he was arrested in April of this year he had something like two million francs at his disposal. So that it seems he did pretty well during the years that the Germans were occupying Paris. It is now known that in addition to his wine and spirit business he also worked for the Gestapo. Which accounts for the money.
In March 1944, Madame de Sigoyer came to the conclusion that she had had enough of Alain and sued for divorce. The divorce was concluded and soon afterwards she went to No. 7 Boulevard de Bercy to collect the alimony which the Court had awarded. She promptly disappeared.
Madame Kergot, her mother, reported the disappearance to the police. Suspicion, naturally enough, fell on de Sigoyer, who was interrogated. He said he knew nothing about his wife's disappearance; that she had been to see him; that he had paid her the alimony due to her and that she had driven off in a car. The police, of course, were not inclined to accept Alain's word without corroboration, but two women—Mesdames Carcelli and Figus—who were employed in the de Bercy warehouse, confirmed what he had said. Both these women, who were interrogated separately, deposed that Madame de Sigoyer had, after a short interview with her husband, in his office, left the building and driven off in a car. They were quite definite in their evidence and could not be shaken.
However, there is no doubt that de Sigoyer was not feeling at all pleased with the attentions of the police, because at this moment the enquiry was promptly terminated by the Gestapo.
It was extremely annoying for Alain when Paris was liberated, and in spite of the fact that he had suddenly developed patriotic characteristics, and was now posing as a member of the patriot militia of the 12th arrondissement, in September 1944, Chief-Inspector Hillard and Inspector Juillot arrested him and re-opened the enquiry.
But no progress was made. De Sigoyer stuck to his story and the women Carcelli and Figus stuck to theirs. It seemed that the affaire de Sigoyer had reached a stalemate.
Then the police had one of those pieces of luck that sometimes come along. The Inspector learned from a confidential source that on April 19th a man had delivered to No. 7 Boulevard de Bercy a small keg. Commissaire Pinot decided to have a look at this keg, which was smaller than those used by de Sigoyer in his business.
The keg was discovered in a cellar under the ground floor. It contained a woman's handbag, a string bag such as is used for shopping, a brown three-quarter-length fur coat and a woman's wrist watch.
The Commissaire—no longer disturbed by Gestapo interference— carried out an intense search throughout the building, and a letter was found written by de Sigoyer to a maid employed on the premises—one Irene Lebeau, a girl of twenty-two years of age who was known to be de Sigoyer's mistress. This letter referred to "the story between you and me; the story of the red chair."
Irene Lebeau had already been interrogated. She had told a story which confirmed the stories told by de Sigoyer and the women Carcelli and Figus. She had an open and charming face and the police believed that she was speaking the truth.
However, the Inspector decided to make one more effort, and the girl was brought to his room at the Prefecture and sat, facing his desk, in the red armchair which I have already mentioned.
The method of examination was entirely psychological. Lebeau was asked to repeat her story. She did so at length, recounting the exact sequence of events as she had before. When she had finished, the Inspector apologised to her and said that he had missed one or two small details and would be very grateful if she would repeat the story once more. The girl did so, and by this time was so full of confidence that, in spite of the fact that she was tired, she glibly recounted the series of events leading up to the departure from the warehouse of the missing Madame de Sigoyer.
When she had finished, the Inspector thanked her. Then he said: "Mademoiselle... observe the armchair—the red armchair— in which you are sitting. Does it remind you in any way of the other red chair—the chair so well known to you and Alain de Sigoyer?"
The girl's mouth sagged open in surprise. She began to tremble. She said: "So you know... you know..."
"Everything" said the Inspector, who knew precisely nothing at all!
Irene Lebeau shrugged her shoulders. She sighed. She said: "The time has come when I must speak."
Without more ado she made a full confession. On the day of the disappearance of Jeannine, Alain de Sigoyer took her to a room on the second floor, pulled forward a red armchair with a high back and asked her to sit down. He then worked himself up into a rage over some affaire which he accused his ex-wife of having with a friend, and suddenly passed a cord round her neck and knotted it round the back of the chair, twisting it until the woman was dead. Then, assisted by Lebeau, he carried the body to a previously dug grave under a small water viaduct which was itself one and a half metres under ground level.
The dead woman's clothes were destroyed, and had it not been for the fact that de Sigoyer probably thought that the fur coat, the handbag and the other small articles would be of use, and arranged for their return to the warehouse in the keg, the crime would probably have been undiscovered.
De Sigoyer then instructed and rehearsed Irene Lebeau, the women Carcelli and Figus (to each of whom he paid five thousand francs) in the story that they were to tell in the event of enquiries being made. They all learned it off until they were word perfect. Not one of them made a slip when being interrogated.
Lebeau told the truth because she believed that the police had discovered the body. She believed this merely because of the reference to the red chair made by the Inspector.
One would have thought that with all the money he had made from the Gestapo, de Sigoyer would have been glad to have paid his wife her alimony and allowed her to go.
But some people are never satisfied!
THERE is a certain naiveté—a bland insolence—which distinguishes the French criminal and which, I think, is not found either in our own country or America. Our native murderers usually work from the three old-world motives of jealousy, greed, or mere hatred. They kill because they feel the process is necessary. In America, the killer will murder, often, for a relatively small sum of money. But he seldom kills just for the fun of the thing.
Before I come to Monsieur Roland Gosselin I would like to give an example of this insolence peculiar to the French crook. One day Police Commissar Galy—who is in charge of the anti-narcotic department—told me that he had been very worried about the large quantities of Indian hemp which were being circulated in the region of Paris. Indian hemp (Cannabis Indicus) is an extremely potent drug which can be smoked in the same way as opium or added to tobacco. It produces a complete loss of will-power—a complete loss of willpower accompanied by an absence of perception of time and distance.
After extensive investigation Monsieur Galy came to the conclusion that the drug was not being imported into the country; yet the cafés of Belleville and the 15th arondissement were carrying on a tremendous trade.
Eventually it was discovered that a select organisation of French North Africans, assisted by Armenians, were actually growing the drug in specially laid out gardens in the region of Paris, under the very noses of authority.
This business was being carried out in the most scientific manner. The fatal hemp was being produced by skilled gardeners almost with the love usually associated by the keen horticulturist with the growing of prize roses!
The position was all the more amazing because it had always been believed that the drug could not possibly be grown anywhere except in its native climate.
When the principal offender was arrested, all he had to say was: "Monsieur... is it not wonderful what our French soil can do when properly tended!"
Of such a type is the hero of this week's story. I present to you Monsieur Roland Gosselin, who (archly, I think) described himself on the charge sheet as a "navigator."
Roland, I am sure, suffered from a perverted sense of humour, an intense impatience and a liver. If he disliked an interruption, a person or a mere thought, he felt that he must do something really definite about it.
Such as murdering somebody! Actually he was the most illogical murderer I have yet experienced. In fact, he could have done just as well without killing, but I rather think he liked it.
Originally, Roland Gosselin and his girl friend—a lady named Maria Labat—had specialised in sheet stealing. Sheets, as any housewife in Britain knows, are very valuable these days, and were even more valuable in France. Roland and Maria would arrive at a small hotel or apartment house in Paris, well padded out with newspapers, would engage a room for the night, steal all the sheets they could wrap around themselves in place of the newspapers, and disappear. Roland, who possessed a unique sense of humour, would afterwards sell the sheets back to another hotel after an appropriate interval.
It is said that one day he actually endeavoured to sell sheets back to the proprietor of a small hotel from which he had stolen them some days before; that the deal was nearly completed, and the money on the table, when the hotel proprietor noticed, in the corner of one of the sheets, his own name and the name of the hotel. He promptly had a fit, during which Roland happily removed the money, and the sheets, and took his leave, leaving the unfortunate proprietor to have (one imagines) another fit on discovering the further insult which had been added to the original injury.
Eventually, as all good things do, the sheet-stealing business came to an end mainly, one imagines, because Roland and Maria had "worked" all the available hotels. So they looked about for a more progressive business. Unluckily for himself, at this time a Monsieur Moses Nahon, who was engaged in selling cigarettes on the black market at Saint-Ouen, came to the conclusion that he needed assistance. He sought counsel from a friend and was advised to get in touch with Roland Gosselin. He wrote the name "Gosselin" down on a piece of paper so that he should not forget it, and promptly dropped it in a corner of his apartment under some rubbish at No. 39 Boulevard Lannes. But he remembered to get into touch with Gosselin, and an appointment was made for the two to meet at Nahon's apartment on the 31st December of last year.
Gosselin arrived, and the business talk began. Nahon, who was sixty-nine years of age, was not, one gathers, particularly taken with Gosselin, and he was still less taken when that worthy promptly demanded a sum of money in advance before he did any work at all. Nahon refused, and was a little rude to Gosselin, who then produced a long stiletto "because he was annoyed" and stabbed the unfortunate Nahon, not once but about twelve times, in the region of the heart. It seemed that Gosselin discovered that he liked stabbing people and found great difficulty in stopping the process once he had started.
It was quite unnecessary for Roland to have stabbed Nahon twelve times. I have seen the post mortem photographs of the unfortunate cigarette dealer and he was, as I have said, sixty-nine years of age and of poor physical type. A good open-handed smack on the jaw would have knocked him out, and he could not have gone to the police because the business which he was discussing with Gosselin was in itself illegal.
The police investigation into the murder of Nahon produced no results. There was no connecting link between the dead man and Gosselin, and there is little doubt that our friend Roland would be at large today were it not for the fact that he could not let well alone.
He and his girl friend had a further meeting and came to the conclusion that it was time that they really got going in a big way. This time, said Roland, burglary was the thing. They would rob a really well-appointed flat, and they would be tactful and discreet about it. They would find and break into a flat when the occupants were out.
And Roland's enquiries told him that the apartment of a couple named Braun at No. 15 Boulevard Lannes— the same boulevard in which the unfortunate Nahon had lived—was the very thing. So, on 11th April of this year, knowing that the Brauns were going out that night, he telephoned to the apartment, spoke to the maid, said he was a delivery man from a shop in the neighbourhood, and asked if it would be convenient for him to make delivery of some goods ordered by the Brauns. He suggested that he arrived soon after nine o'clock.
The maid—Lucie Chauvet—a woman of fifty-eight years of age— said it would not be convenient as she would be out at that time, and Gosselin hung up.
All was well, he thought. There would be no one in the flat. This was going to be a really first-class burglary.
So Gosselin and Labat went round to No. 15 Boulevard Lannes. Gosselin rang the bell, expecting no reply. He had his skeleton keys in his hand, and was about to start work on the door, when it opened, and the maid, Chauvet, stood in the doorway. She had, it seemed (poor woman), decided that she would not go out after all, and she asked, somewhat tartly, what Gosselin wanted.
Gosselin put up some story and the maid took them into the kitchen. There Gosselin held her in conversation about something or other, whilst his girl friend wandered through the flat "valuing" the movable property and deciding what they should take away.
It is quite certain that the unfortunate Lucie Chauvet would have been unable to prevent them doing as they liked. Alternatively, Gosselin could have tied her up and gagged her. But no.... Suddenly he remembered his stiletto and the impulse was too strong. He produced it and stabbed the maid a dozen times in the region of the heart. This was extremely foolish of Roland. If he had been wise he would have stabbed her once only.
They took some fur coats and other effects and left the apartment. When the murder was discovered, the police took one look at the post mortem photographs, and realised that the person who had killed Lucie Chauvet was the person who had murdered Nahon.
I have seen the post mortem photographs of the bodies of Nahon and Chauvet. The stab wounds are in the same place, are of the same number and the same pattern. If Gosselin had wanted to advertise the fact that one person was responsible for the two murders he could not have selected a better method.
The police re-opened the Nahon case and fate decided to take a hand. A police inspector, going through the Nahon apartment, saw, kicked under a chest of drawers, a tiny ball of paper. He knelt down, picked it up, smoothed it out. There was one word on it— the word "Gosselin" that Nahon had written down and thrown away.
The police went after Roland and Maria. In an hotel in the Passage des Abbesses, where they had stayed, was found a crèpe-de-Chine handbag and a fountain-pen which were identified by Madame Braun as being part of the property stolen from her apartment.
Roland and Maria were arrested in a small hotel in the Rue Malakoff on the Chatillon road. They were registered under the name of Tollu, and were, one imagines, considering going back to the old sheet-stealing racket.
Gosselin has confessed. He is charged with fifteen thefts and two murders. He will have to be a very good "navigator" to sail past the guillotine, whose knife is heavier than his and which works once only.
ON the 31st May of this year, Marcel Peugeot arrived at his home at No. 7 Rue de Bretagne at Maison-Alfort, and was informed by his mother and his brother Jules—who were naturally extremely perturbed— that his brother Roger had been taken away in a car, after a perfunctory interrogation by three men—one of whom was dressed in the uniform of a soldier—to some unknown destination.
Marcel was naturally rather worried about this. The identity of the three men was unknown to the Peugeot family, and according to Madame Peugeot they seemed to be officials of some sort. Marcel wondered what his brother had been up to.
However, his curiosity was not to remain unsatisfied for very long. At nine forty-five that evening a car drew up at the front door and the same three individuals emerged. They informed Madame Peugeot and Marcel that they were members of the Military Security Police Force and that they had reason to believe that the brothers Peugeot were carrying on a traffic in gold with the Germans.
They proceeded to search the house and eventually found a small rouleau of gold pieces in a bedside table in a bedroom on the first floor. Then they left, taking with them the third brother—Jules Peugeot—"for interrogation."
As neither Roger nor Jules re-appeared, the police were informed. An inspector carried out a search at the Peugeot house and discovered very little, except a telephone number belonging to a young woman, one Jacqueline Beausergeant. Jacqueline, it appeared, was twenty-three years of age, and was a great friend of Marcel Peugeot, the remaining brother.
The police considered that there were certain indications in the method employed that reminded them of another recent case of unexplained "disappearance". On the 18th May a banker, named Haim Cohen, of forty years of age, had been called for at his house. He had not reappeared, but the safe at his home had been opened and emptied.
So Jacqueline Beausergeant was interviewed. It transpired that, besides being a friend of Marcel, she was also a friend of Jules Peugeot. She informed the police that through another friend she had also made the acquaintance of one Paul Damiani who, since the Liberation, had been arrested and interned at Drancey. Jacqueline seemed to have a great many friends.
But if she thought that her statement that Paul Damiani had been safe in internment would prevent the police going after him, she was wrong. I think that she was, on this occasion, a little naive.
The police went to Drancey and talked to Paul Damiani. Paul was extremely indignant at being suspected of anything that was at all wrong. The police, however, took some photographs of Paul, and on these being shown to Madame Peugeot and Marcel, they promptly recognised him as being one of the men who had called for Roger and Jules.
Damiani had lived at No. 22 Rue Lalo, and the Inspector in charge of the case decided that it might be a good thing to visit these premises even if—as Paul had suggested—there was no one there. However, Paul was wrong, because on arrival at the house the Inspector found Joseph Damiani, the younger brother of Paul, in bed with a broken thigh. This injury, Joseph complained bitterly, was the result of being knocked down by an American car in the Bois de Boulogne. But the Americans had behaved fairly well about it. According to Joseph, they had put him into the car after the accident, taken him to a clinic at Neuilly where his injury had been attended to, and then brought him back to his home.
The Inspector was sympathetic. He said it was a great shame that Joseph should have been left in the house all by himself; that he must have medical attention, and that he, the Inspector, would send a couple of police doctors round to take a look at the invalid.
Joseph did not seem awfully keen on this idea. He liked it even less when the doctors, having examined Joseph, pointed out that the injury had not been caused by a car but by a bullet. Asked to explain about this, Joseph was extremely vague. The police began to take a vibrant curiosity in the friends and acquaintances of Paul and Joseph Damiani, the idea being to discover who had shot Joseph.
They ran across a third individual, a young gentleman of twenty-six years of age named George Accad, who lived at No. 179 Rue de la Pompe. George, on being questioned as to his means of living and background generally, displayed the same reticence, not to mention acidity, as the brothers Damiani.
At this time the police were presented with a "clue". The clue consisted of two bodies discovered on the Nantes Road in Seine-et-Oise, near Chesnay. Photographs were produced by the local police and were identified as being those of the bodies of Roger and Jules Peugeot, both of whom had been shot.
In the meantime, a close watch was being kept on George Accad, and on his attempting to leave the district, he was arrested.
George now decided that the time had come when he should cease being tough. He thought that he might save his own skin. He confessed to having taken part in the kidnapping of Roger and Jules Peugeot. No identification had been possible in his case because, as he pointed out, he had not entered the Peugeot home but had remained in the car because of a scar on his face which, he considered, might be remembered by the Peugeot family.
And he was not at all nice about Jacqueline Beausergeant, who, it will be remembered, was the friend of Marcel and Jules. Jacqueline, said George, had started the whole business by informing the Damianis that the brothers Peugeot had some gold pieces in their possession. The business was then planned by the Damianis and George Accad, assisted by one Jacques Menassole.
In the meantime Paul had managed to disappear. But not for long. He was traced to an hotel in Strasbourg; was arrested by the Strasbourg judicial police. He was brought back to Paris and decided that the game was up. He made a complete confession. It is interesting to note that Paul was betrayed by George Accad who gave the information which led to his arrest.
George having started to "shop" his friends, now went ahead with the process with great gusto. He informed the police that he had made an appointment to meet Jacques Menassole—the fourth accomplice—at the metropolitan railway station at Montmartre. Two inspectors of police kept the appointment and Jacques turned up.
On being informed that the police would like to ask him some questions, Jacques became very angry. He drew a revolver and took several pot-shots at the inspectors. Jacques' shooting, however, was not good; bullets flew all over the place but hit nobody. This infuriated the unfortunate Jacques, who had made up his mind to shoot someone; so as a final gesture of disgust he shot himself in the head—a process which satisfied everyone.
The motive behind the murders—for the unfortunate Haim Cohen had also been killed in the same way after being subjected to torture in order to divulge the combination of his safe—was theft. In the case of the Peugeot brothers some gold pieces. The woman Beausergeant, who started the whole thing off, received as the price of her collaboration a few of these pieces. This was Jacqueline, who was the "friend" of Jules and Marcel. If this was the way she treated her "friends", I would like to know what she would do to someone she really disliked!
The Peugeot brothers had been murdered by the following method: The first victim, Roger Peugeot, had been taken to a shelter at Clamart. He was then "interrogated" (what an ominous business this interrogation must have been!), after which he was shut up in the basement. Joseph Damiani was left behind to guard him whilst the others went off to kidnap Jules Peugeot.
After a while, Roger, not liking the situation at all, banged on the basement door and asked Joseph for a drink of water. When Joseph opened the door, Roger attempted to escape. A bitter struggle then ensued, during which Joseph pulled out a revolver and in the course of the struggle shot himself, accidentally, in the right thigh. But the unfortunate Roger had no luck. Joseph's shooting was better than Jacques Menassole's, and lying on the ground, he fired several shots at Roger, who fell dead.
The second brother, Jules, was then brought to the shelter, "interrogated" as to any further gold at his home, and then shot in cold blood. The bodies were then taken by car to the Nantes road and thrown out in a lonely copse.
And all this trouble and organisation and killing and suicide was for a few gold pieces. The mind of the criminal is supposed to be a strange thing. In this case it seems merely stupid.
And behind it all is the figure of "the woman in the case." Jacqueline—the lady who started the whole thing; whose pay-off was "a few gold pieces." I wonder if she thinks it was worth while.
Mysterious queen,
enthroned serenely
in the underground,
your eyes shaded by weeping willow lashes,
your silken knee, your lips demure,
your crazy little hat,
command me to come on.
They advertise the promise
of diversion,
shared confidence,
and inspiration,
snatched from time's swiftly flowing tide.
The failure to obey will mean
that Opportunity has flown
and you are lost in night.
My impulse quickens yet my feet,
shackled by chains of custom,
fast bound by Old School Ties,
(unlike G.I.'s)
remain immobilised.
My mental traffic lights
both red and green,
flash simultaneously,
and while I stand
thus paralysed,
you pass,
so you remain
an unsolved mystery
of tantalising possibility.
God damn Society and its rules,
The Decent Chap and Public Schools,
a system by whose iron dictate
chances fly by like streams in spate,
ne'er more to be recalled.
And yet perhaps on more consideration
the rules impose a salutary caution
for "Dames" mean trouble for enthusiastic males
See Peter Cheyney's Lemmy Caution tales.
Look, Muggsy...
Be your age; get wise.
Why not get cracking?
You got a yen for cheesecake An' some blonde
Has knocked you for the loop,
So what!
Why don't you take a chance
An' do your stuff
Why don't you button up your trap
Until
Some steamed-up baby takes a jump at you
An' smacks your ears back.
You're so goddam slow
You creak. Get hep. Remember what Confucius says
(An' this boy knows his Spam)
"The guy who thinks is lost
An' if he don't—So what!
For what is writ is written,"
Says this Chink.
An' if you play with Babies, Janes or Broads,
Frills, Femmes, soft Glamour-Cats and Honey-Belles,
Blondes, Mädchen, hot Señores
Sultry an' supple Sugar-Cats,
Or other goils
Too sweet to rave about.
You gotta take a chance.
I'll say you have!
An' if you don't what happens?
Well... just this
Eventually you get lined-up,
By some old chicken with a face of brass,
No future an' no hope,
An' what goes with it.
When I said Dames mean trouble,
Did I know,
My Oats!
I'll say I did!
But life is trouble anyway,
An' goes a durn sight slicker if
Some glamour-puss is hangin' on your neck.
So be your age
Pull up your socks, big boy, an' try your luck
Because
Remember, muggsy, you can
Always Duck.
THE time has come, I feel, to relate the rather extraordinary events which led to the death of my friend Michael O'Shaughnessy, whose body—as you will doubtless remember—was found in a coppice in the grounds of Honiton Place on the Somersetshire border. The finest brains of Scotland Yard were unable to trace the murderer. Nothing ever came to light except a one-legged sailor from the Argentine who gave himself up for the murder in order—as he put it—"to get a nice rest from his wife," and who was promptly sent about his business when it was discovered that he was in an intoxicated condition in Lambeth at the time of the tragedy.
The medical evidence shows that my friend Michael had been murdered with a large-bore pistol, and as he had few friends and such relations as he possessed merely regarded the whole business as rather vexing, the matter was left where it was.
Michael O'Shaughnessy was a very charming and attractive man of thirty-five years of age and the fact that he was rather bored with life has nothing to do with this story except that he believed, and often told me, that there is little romance in these utilitarian days; that life is indeed inclined to be weary, flat, stale and unprofitable. The ideal of beautiful woman, he would say, was falling into desuetude. And he would invite me to observe their lot. They stand all day in queues, he said, and thereby acquire large feet; they lack cosmetics and thereby acquire red noses. They waste their nerves, temper and their sweetness in obeying or evading the hundred and one controls that restrict normal life. And, as their men folk are much too busy getting into or keeping out of the black market to spare any time at all in the consideration, much less the practice, of the finer technique of romance, life, thought O'Shaughnessy, was almost redundant.
His background was interesting. He had been born in England of Irish and French parentage. He was temperamental in a queer way. When war broke out in '39 he had been only twenty-six years of age and was learning to be an architect.
He enjoyed the war. To him, it spelled adventure and romance. That tense atmosphere of excitement, which on occasion could make even a doodle-bug seem interesting, brought with it a certain glamour which appealed to him. Naturally, he fought for his country, and as an officer in a cavalry regiment whose light tanks were famous at the Battle of Alamein, he achieved experience, and a philosophy which stood him in good stead during his life and, I must confess, at the moment of his death.
He was tall. His face was inclined to be thin; his figure elegant. He had the soft eyes and high cheekbones of his Irish ancestry; the charm of manner and ease in conversation of the French—his mother's—side of the family. He liked to laugh, but was not averse from weeping if it would get him any place. He was attractive because... well, he couldn't help being attractive.
So much for my murdered friend. Having introduced him to you, I can now recount the events which took place on the night of his death.
AT nine o'clock on the night of the 30th January 1948,
Michael O'Shaughnessy, who was spending the week-end at the Moat
Farm in a romantic and secluded part of the country, the name of
which cannot possibly matter, decided to go for a walk. For some
reason he was, on this particular evening, a little affected by
some peculiar quality in the moonlight. There was something
curiously romantic and attractive about it and, walking down the
lane which turned into the road that led towards the county
border, he noticed, or fancied he noticed, a strange radiance on
fields, trees and hedges cast by this full, brilliant and, as it
were, tantalising moon.
He walked for some twenty minutes; decided to smoke a cigarette. But he found, when the time came to light it, that a small breeze had sprung up. So he stepped off the road into the little wood that fringed it and, after a minute or two, found himself in a small clearing, at one end of which was a felled tree. He liked this place, sat down on the tree, lit his cigarette and gave himself up to ruminations on the past, present and future.
Quite suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. Sitting on the other end of the tree was the portly figure of a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a suit of shepherd's plaid check. He was smoking a very small cigar and now and then, for some reason best known to himself, he wiped the corner of his mouth delicately with a lady's fine suède glove which he produced from his waistcoat pocket.
O'Shaughnessy gazed at this apparition; wondered how he had arrived on the scene. And he began to get an odd impression that he knew this person; that he had seen him before in several places; that, in fact, he had seen him and talked to him in Alamein on the night before the attack, wearing a battle jacket; and somewhere else, wearing something else.
The new-comer turned his head towards O'Shaughnessy, removed his bowler hat courteously and said: "Good evening, Sir. My name is Krasinsky. I think you know me."
"I believe I do." O'Shaughnessy smiled disarmingly. "But I cannot for the life of me place you."
"Men never can," said the other, "because I am one of those nebulous kinds of person who get about considerably. Some men think I am their conscience; others apprehend me as a sort of astral body driving about the place warning people. They think a thousand things about me."
"Exactly," said O'Shaughnessy. "But forgive me— I'm rather puzzled by your sudden arrival here. I didn't see you come through the wood."
"I didn't," said Mr. Krasinsky. "I arrive at any place where I wish to be without appreciable effort. And I wanted to be here because I think I should tell you the story of a young friend of mine who looked somewhat like you. He was staying in this part of the world at one time, and circumstances led him, one evening, to a certain mansion not half a mile from here."
O'Shaughnessy nodded. "You mean Honiton Place; I've heard about it. In point of fact I'd intended to walk there tonight."
"A most interesting house," said Krasinsky. "Would you care to listen to my story? I think you ought to."
A pleasurable feeling of anticipation stole over Michael O'Shaughnessy. He felt, for some quite inexplicable reason, that the story which Krasinsky proposed to tell him was bound up with his—O'Shaughnessy's—life.
He said: "I should like very much to hear it."
"I'll tell it to you," said Krasinsky, "and I'll make it as short as possible because I observe"—he looked at the moon— "that time is getting on. Well then, my young friend, whom I will call Armand Dulac, was staying at the Moat Farm, and one night he decided to go for a walk. He walked down this roadway and half a mile further on found the fork in the road. The right side ran away over the hills and disappeared into the horizon. The other, which he took, led him straight to the entrance, gates of Honiton Place.
"When he reached them Armand stood by these antique, wrought-iron gates awhile and contemplated the broad parkland that spread out before him. It was dotted with rhododendron bushes, shrubberies and trees. Beyond these, at the top of some terraces, lay the large, historic building. He found it most attractive in the moonlight, which was as bright as it is tonight....
"But," continued Krasinsky, "he was struck by one thing. He had heard the house spoken of as uninhabited; yet the darkness was interrupted, in one single corner on the second floor, by three lighted windows. Who, he wondered, could possibly be the occupants of such a place, at such a time.
"Now curiosity was a strong point with him, as it is with most young men, so he followed the carriage-drive, mounted the terraces and approached the house. When he got there the entrance doors were, he was amazed to find, open, and he walked through large and imposing portals into the hall. There he received a second surprise, for the moonlight, flooding through high stained glass windows, disclosed that, far from being empty, the wide hall before him was furnished with what seemed to be costly antique furniture. Valuable oil-paintings graced the walls and here and there delightful figures, carved in bronze or marble, looked down at him stonily.
"He stood in the middle of this hall possessed by a strange, and possibly odd, desire to know more about the place. Then he concluded that as he had found the doors open it was his duty to find his way up to the apartment, the windows of which were lighted, and to inform the occupant who might, he thought, be the caretaker, that the entrance doors were unlocked."
Krasinsky inhaled from his small cigar which, however much he smoked it, never seemed to grow any smaller. He continued: "Armand then ascended the flight of wide marble stairs on the other side of the hall and presently found himself in the first floor gallery which surrounded the hall. The walls of this gallery were lined from floor to ceiling with mirrors, and it was only after some time and by the aid of the moonlight that he discovered the glass knob on one of the mirrors.
"He turned the knob. The door opened. Armand stepped through and closed the mirror door behind him. He was facing a curving carpeted staircase and, without more ado, began to walk up it. At the top was a small landing and on the other side a translucent glass door. Inside this glass door there was a softly diffused light which intrigued him. He opened the door and went in.
"Now," said Krasinsky, "I shall have a little difficulty in describing to you the atmosphere in which my young and enterprising friend found himself. He was in a corridor, thickly carpeted, and furnished with rare furniture and pictures. There was a strange atmosphere about the place—a suggestion of the most delightful perfume—a certain fascinating languor in the air which touched something within him. At the end of the corridor he saw a door ajar. He approached it, knocked, and a voice said: 'Come in....'"
Krasinsky smiled. "Are you interested, Mr. O'Shaughnessy?"
O'Shaughnessy nodded. "I'm more than interested. I'm enthralled. Please go on."
"I should explain to you," said Krasinsky, "that the words 'Come in' are two very ordinary words. In point of fact they are spoken by millions of people all over the world in all sorts of circumstances every day. But these two words were different. I would like to be able to describe to you," said Krasinsky, stroking the head of a baby white owl which had curved down and settled on his hand, "the quality of the voice which uttered them; the low and vibrant tone; the superb and complete enunciation of the two words, but I am afraid that I have not sufficient vocabulary. Let it suffice that my young friend was so entirely shattered at hearing these two words so beautifully spoken that he felt a little weak in the knees. It was only after a minute's hesitation that he was able to push open the door and step into the room."
"And what did he find there?" asked O'Shaughnessy.
"I will tell you," answered Krasinsky. "The room was long, with a low ceiling. The walls were of a rather mysterious shade of grey, but the lighting which was concealed above them gave them an even more mysterious colour. Opposite to him, beside a large log fire which glowed brightly, was a lady. It was she who had said 'Come in'." Krasinsky sighed heavily. "Armand gazed at her with eyes that almost popped from their sockets because never in his life had he seen a woman with so much beauty, with so much allure... well, so much everything..." murmured Krasinsky, spreading his hands, at which the white owl flew away.
"Her face was superbly modelled. Her hair was auburn and fell about her shoulders. Her eyes, which were of an exquisite shade of hazel, regarded him coolly. But it was her mouth which fascinated Armand. It is impossible," said Krasinsky, "quite impossible for me to describe the tremulous beauty of her mouth." He paused and drew on his cigar; then: "Armand stood there and eventually was able to speak. He said: 'I'm sure you'll forgive me for coming here but I was walking in these parts and, inspecting the house, noticed that the front doors were open. I thought I'd better come in and tell you.'
"She said very softly: 'How nice of you. Wouldn't you like a drink? And please sit down.' Armand sat down. He found it impossible to take his eyes from her. He watched the superb grace with which she moved to a nearby table; poured out the whisky and soda; brought it to him. When she came near him he trembled at her proximity because there came to his nostrils a suggestion of such exquisite perfume that his senses were inclined to reel.
"He took the drink from her. He said hoarsely—and as he spoke the words it was almost as if someone else were speaking—'I don't think I've ever seen anybody quite as lovely as you are. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who speaks or moves as exquisitely as you do. I think I adore you.'"
Krasinsky sighed again. "Don't you think that was rather charming?" he asked.
O'Shaughnessy started. "I think it was utterly charming," he said in his agreeable voice. "What happened then?"
Krasinsky continued: "The lovely lady was not at all surprised at this declaration of love," he said. "She returned to her couch, sat down and regarded my young friend Armand with her large, melting hazel eyes. She examined him carefully from top to toe. Then she nodded her head and smiled. She said in the same ravishing voice: 'How strange that you should say that, because I have thought about you for a long time. I have sat here night after night hoping that somebody that looked like you would come here and talk to me. That is why I had the front doors left open. I think I shall always love you.'"
Krasinsky exhaled cigar smoke. "Now what do you think of that?" he asked.
O'Shaughnessy shook his head. "I can't think," he said. "Go on."
Krasinsky went on: "Imagine the stupor into which this declaration from the lady threw Armand. He found himself unable to move, to speak or think. He would have sat there, I have no doubt, permanently, but for one thing...."
"What?" asked O'Shaughnessy impatiently.
"This," said Krasinsky. "The lady moved a little. Then she got up. She stood in front of the fire, looking at him. Then she said softly, and with a most delightful smile: 'Come here, my darling.'"
Krasinsky regarded his finger-nails. "He went there," he said. "And at this moment, presumably by some occult influence, the lights went out."
He stopped speaking. From the other end of the tree-trunk came a long sigh.
Krasinsky drew on his small cigar. "It was just after midnight," he said quietly, "when Armand Dulac, having taken a lingering farewell of his most beautiful companion, left the apartment and began to descend the curving staircase that led to the gallery below. As he reached the bend in the stairs he stopped and his jaw sagged a little, for approaching him rapidly, no less than two stairs at a time, was a very large, stalwart, black-bearded and burly gentleman whose normal ferocity of countenance was barely concealed by a frosty smile.
"This person stopped three stairs below Armand and regarded him with undoubted hostility, tinged with curiosity. Armand moved to the side of the stair. He said: 'Good evening.' The other gentleman, who was immaculately dressed in a dinner suit, said: 'I hope it will be, sir.' His accent was unmistakably Polish. He went on: 'I observe that you are leaving my wife's apartment. I shall be grateful if you will return with me in order that we may indulge in a little talk. Don't you think,' he added sternly, 'that a little explanation might be in order, having regard to the time, the circumstances, my absence and my wife's predilection for love?'
"Armand shrugged his shoulders. What could he say?" asked Krasinsky, regarding O'Shaughnessy with equanimity. "So he allowed the Polish gentleman to pass him and followed him docilely into the apartment, along the exotic corridor, past the drawing-room, the door of which was open; then to the right past another open door, through which the large gentleman put his head and said politely: 'Good evening, my dear'. Then to the end of a smaller corridor, through a door and into a comfortable and well-furnished library.
"Armand stood in the middle of the room whilst his host pulled two large arm-chairs in front of the fire. He accepted one and sat down. The Polish gentleman sat in the other. He beamed. He said: 'Sir, my name is Count Alexis Michalovski.'
"Armand said: 'I'm charmed to meet you. I am Armand Dulac.'
"'Excellent,' said the Count. 'Now having presented ourselves to one another we can indulge in a little conversation. It will be quite obvious to you, sir, that I have brought you back here for the purpose of killing you. I return to my wife's apartment at midnight to find you leaving with an expression of equanimity on your face which can only be likened to that of a cat which has swallowed a canary—the canary being, in this case, the wife of my bosom. It will be obvious to you as a gentleman that this situation is not possible. Therefore you must die. Do you understand?'
"Armand thought that life was sufficiently sweet, having regard to what had happened earlier in the evening, to make some effort to prolong it. So he said: 'Sir, I should like to tell you that you are making a very grave error. At ten o'clock this evening I did not know of the existence of your wife; I had barely heard of the existence of this house. I did not imagine it was inhabited. I came out for a walk. I came through the iron gates because in the moonlight I thought that this mansion looked old, romantic and interesting. I saw that there were three lighted windows on the second floor; then I noticed that the front doors were open. I looked into the hall and I saw that there were some valuable pictures, antiques, and so on, there. I concluded that it was my duty to tell the caretaker or whoever occupied the mansion that the front doors were open and that any burglar could have entered and stolen what he wanted.'
"The Count fingered his moustache. He said: 'I am not certain that some burglar has not done exactly that thing, even if his interest was not in pictures.' He paused to regard Armand for a long time. 'You know, Mr. Dulac,' he continued, 'I'm rather inclined to believe your story. You have about you an air of innocence and truth. Also, I am reminded of my grandfather.'
"'Indeed,' said Armand. The more prolonged the conversation, he thought, the more his chances of life.
"'Yes, indeed,' said the Count. 'My grandfather— Count Alexandrei Michalovski—was exceedingly partial to Englishmen. When I was a little boy he used to talk to me about "the word of an Englishman." In those days it was considered to be extremely good.'
"The Count got up from his chair; began to walk about the room with long strides. 'I am inclined to believe your story, Mr. Dulac. In fact, I will go so far as to say that I do believe it. I hope my acknowledgment of your veracity pleases you.'
"'Yes, indeed,' said Armand with a sigh. 'I'm most grateful to you, sir. Naturally, I expected to be believed because I was telling the truth.' He added under his breath: 'May God forgive me'.
"The Count said: 'Very well then, all that remains is for me to wish you a very good evening.' Armand got up. They walked down the corridor into the main passage towards the entrance to the apartment. The Count held the door open. He said: T wish to tell you this, sir: I have decided that I will believe what you say, mainly because I like the shape of your face and also because in some vague way you remind me of my grandfather. But I should also tell you that if I ever see you inside this house again I shall, with pleasure and with a certain horse-pistol which I possess, without one moment's hesitation, murder you. Do you understand?'
"Armand said: 'I understand perfectly.'
"'Then, good night, Mr. Dulac,' said the Count. 'As you go down the stairs you will observe on the landings, double electric light switches. The upper ones illuminate the floor before you; the lower one on each landing turns out the light above you, so that you will have no difficulty in finding your way out.' He turned away, closed the door behind Armand and disappeared.
"Armand sighed. He thought that not only was there a little romance left in life, but also a certain amount of luck. He began to descend the curving staircase but, slightly disturbed, and incoherent in his mind at the events of the evening, as he got to the bottom he switched the wrong switch, so plunging the staircase behind him and the gallery in front of him into darkness. Worse, he found himself unable to find the switch again, and he stood there, on the threshold of the wide gallery surrounded by mirrors, not knowing literally or metaphorically which way to turn. For the moon had disappeared and the place was dark with an inky darkness.
"Armand considered the situation. He thought that if he could find the flight of marble stairs that led to the main hall, he could grope his way down, and once there surely, he concluded, it would be a matter of time before he found the entrance doors."
Krasinsky exhaled cigar smoke. "Do you not find this a very interesting story, Captain O'Shaughnessy?" he enquired.
O'Shaughnessy started. "I am very much interested," he said. "I don't know why but I've never been quite so much interested in my life."
"That," said Krasinsky, "is comprehensible. I will continue. Our friend Armand then took a few cautious and diffident steps in the direction, as he thought, of the marble stairway. But just at this moment he tripped over some small projection, fell forward, shot over the edge of the balustrade and pitched head foremost into an immense Grecian urn which stood immediately beneath the gallery almost as if it intended itself as a receptacle for him."
Krasinsky shrugged his shoulders. "He must have struck his head slightly against the side as he fell," he said, "for at this moment an even inkier darkness engulfed him and he lay in the bottom of the urn unconscious...."
O'Shaughnessy experienced a peculiar feeling. He could no longer see the figure of Krasinsky at the other end of the tree-trunk. He could no longer see anything. He thought that the moon must have gone behind a cloud. He felt vaguely bemused and bewildered. His head ached. He found himself for some reason no longer sitting on the tree-trunk but lying in a recumbent position. He put out his hands, to discover that they touched stone walls which were cold. He sat up in amazement. What had happened? He felt in his pocket for his cigarette lighter; found it; snapped it on.
With the aid of the light he looked about him. Utter astonishment overcame him because, believe it or not, he found himself sitting in the bottom of what he took to be an immense vase for no earthly reason that he could think of. He got up. With difficulty, in spite of his agility, he managed to scramble out of the vase; to drop down on the other side. Now the moon came out again.
He was standing at the side of just such a large hallway as Krasinsky had described to him a short while before. But what was this? What was he doing in this place? How had he arrived here? Obviously, this was the scene of Armand Dulac's adventure which Krasinsky had recounted. Dreamily, O'Shaughnessy remembered it. But what had he to do with this place? Why should he be here?
He moved towards the wide flight of marble stairs, sat down and considered the matter. Either he was mad or he was sane. If he was sane he must somehow have dreamed the encounter with Krasinsky; dreamed the whole of the story which Krasinsky had told him— the story of Armand Dulac.
He remembered exactly what had happened. He had been taking a walk; had stepped off the road into the clearing to light a cigarette; had sat down on the tree-trunk where he met Krasinsky. He shrugged his shoulders. There was no use in going over it. Here he was and what was he going to do?
He began to smile. His native curiosity asserted itself. Surely, thought he, if I know this place because Krasinsky or somebody told me of it; if I know it well enough to be here, then the rest of the story must be true. O'Shaughnessy remembered the description of the mirrored gallery on the first floor, the concealed door with the glass knob which led to the curving staircase by which one reached the apartment of the lovely lady. He thought: Why not see if such a gallery exists; if such a door with its attendant glass door-knob exists?
The moon through the stained glass windows was helpful. He ascended the wide marble stairs. At the top he found himself in the mirrored gallery. He walked slowly round, searching the reflecting walls for the doorknob. After ten minutes, with a sigh of relief, he found it. He pulled the knob. The door opened and he stepped through on to the stairway. He ascended the stairs slowly.
At the top he knew he would find a glass door. All he had to do was to push it open. At the end of a corridor, if he remembered rightly, was Madame's drawing-room and next to it her bedroom. He reached the top of the staircase, opened the glass door. He stepped into the corridor. To his nostrils came the vague and exotic perfume that Krasinsky had mentioned.
O'Shaughnessy walked slowly along the passage. He had reached the end; was considering tapping on the door in front of him, when at the end of the shorter passage a door opened and, framed in the doorway, he saw the figure of the Count.
Here was something which he had not anticipated. His heart jumped a little; but he regained confidence when he saw that the Count was smiling.
"I am very glad to see you again," said that gentleman. "Won't you come in?"
O'Shaughnessy moved slowly down the short passage and into the library. The Count closed the door and indicated the arm-chair in front of the fire.
"I am extremely surprised to see you back so soon, Mr. Dulac," he said. "I warned you what would happen, didn't I?"
O'Shaughnessy said: "I'm afraid you are making a mistake, Count. My name is not Dulac. My name is Michael O'Shaughnessy. I came out for a walk and—"
"Nonsense," said the Count. "How did you know the geography of this house? You knew, sir, because you are Armand Dulac and you were here less than an hour ago. In this room you told me a story which I desired to believe. I believed it at that time, although, after you had gone and I had looked into my wife's bedroom and observed the seraphic expression on her face, I decided I had made a mistake in believing you.
"And now, after my warning, you have the effrontery to return. You know exactly what is going to happen to you?"
O'Shaughnessy thought: This really isn't so good. But he was overcome by a sense of the strangest philosophy. He knew what the Count had threatened to Armand Dulac. He knew that the same threat menaced himself—more especially as the Count was certain that he was Dulac. And was that to be wondered at?
O'Shaughnessy gave it up. He said: "I presume you are referring to the horse-pistol, sir?"
The Count nodded amiably. "Exactly," he said. "I should like to show it to you." He moved to an old carved cupboard in the corner of the room, opened it, produced an immense horse-pistol. "This pistol, Sir, belonged to my grandfather, of whom I spoke— that one who was so well inclined towards Englishmen. It is a large pistol and takes an extremely large ball. But I assure you you need not fear that. I am a crack shot and death, I believe, is practically instantaneous. Would you care to stand up, as I hate to shoot at sitting targets?"
O'Shaughnessy stood up. He said: "If you will pardon the interruption, Count, I think you will agree that a man who is about to die has a right to ask one favour."
"Certainly," said the Count with a smile. "If it is possible. What do you want?"
O'Shaughnessy said: "We have a proverb in this country that one might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. It is quite useless for me to point out to you that I am not Armand Dulac because I quite understand that it would be impossible for you to believe that. If I were you I should not believe it myself, because it seems to me that some rather extraordinary occult forces have been at work. However, to return to the favour I wish you to grant me. In the circumstances, and having regard to what is in your mind, I do not think it would do you any harm to permit me merely to take a farewell glance at your most beautiful wife, who is, I believe, asleep. That is all I ask."
"But why not?" said the Count with a smile. "I grant this favour willingly. I will await your return expectantly."
O'Shaughnessy murmured his thanks, left the library, walked down the passageway and pushed open the door of the bedroom. He looked in.
Lying in the middle of the wide bed, on which was a coverlet of embossed green velvet, lay the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life. Her bosom rose and fell with extreme regularity; her slightly parted lips showed exquisite teeth.
O'Shaughnessy gazed at her in wonderment; then, with a slight sense of dread, he realised that he must go. He smiled at her. He said softly: "Good-night, my dear."
She moved a little. She murmured sleepily: "Good-night, darling."
O'Shaughnessy sighed and turned away.
In the library, the Count was standing in front of the fire, a whisky and soda in one hand, the horse-pistol in the other.
He asked: "How do you think she looked?"
"Unutterably delightful," said O'Shaughnessy. "I should like to tell you, sir, that I think it was worth it. I no longer fear death."
"That," said the Count, "is the spirit. Would you care to help yourself to a whisky and soda?" He indicated the sideboard.
O'Shaughnessy went to the sideboard. Turning his back on the Count in the process, he mixed a stiff whisky and soda. He knew that as the glass touched his lips the Count would fire the pistol, and that would be the end of Captain Michael O'Shaughnessy.
He raised the glass slowly towards his mouth. Then several things happened simultaneously. The door opened and the lady, in a lace robe, stood framed in the doorway. She said to the Count: "Alexis... must you do this...? It always makes such a noise..."
At the same moment O'Shaughnessy heard the report of the pistol; dropped the glass; crashed to the floor.
This then was death! Darkness descended upon him.
O'SHAUGHNESSY opened his eyes. He lay flat on his back
looking up at the moon. After a little while he sat up. He found
himself leaning against the felled tree-trunk in the clearing. He
was alive. He had not been shot.
He began to laugh. The whole thing, of course, was unutterably ridiculous. The whole thing had been a dream. He remembered some time ago coming into the clearing and sitting on the felled tree-trunk and lighting light a cigarette. He had, he supposed, fallen asleep during the few seconds that had elapsed before he had fallen off the log—those few seconds which can be so extended to aeons of time in dreams. He had dreamed the whole thing; had dreamed the meeting with Krasinsky, the gentleman in the check suit who had sat on the other end of the tree; he had dreamed the story of Armand Dulac and the mysterious house and the lighted windows; he had dreamed of finding himself there; of the Count, the horse-pistol and the very lovely lady.
A hell of a dream, thought O'Shaughnessy. It had been so realistic that he had almost lived it.
He got up, brushed some dry leaves from his clothes. He lit a cigarette. Life, he thought, was not so unromantic after all, even if romance only occurred in dreams.
He crossed the clearing; found the road; began to walk up it. It was a line night and the moonlight was still cold and hard. O'Shaughnessy stepped out manfully. Ten minutes' walking brought him to a fork in the road. The right fork ran away over the hills; disappeared over the horizon.
Dimly, O'Shaughnessy remembered Krasinsky in the dream, telling him about that fork.
He took the left road. In three minutes' time he found himself face to face with old, wrought-iron gates. He walked through. Before him, at the end of the long carriage drive, cleaving a large park, stood a house. It was large and old, and it was in darkness except that, on the second floor, three windows at the corner were lighted.
Slowly, almost in spite of himself, O'Shaughnessy began to walk along the carriage drive towards the house. He mounted the terraces and approached the entrance. He thought: It is quite impossible that I shall find the doors open.
He found the doors open. He went in. The moonlight, flooding through the stained glass windows, showed him a hall which he knew—the hall which Krasinsky had described to him in the dream....
Or was it a dream....?
Slowly he crossed the hall, began to mount the flight of wide marble stairs that led upwards to the mirrored gallery. If the dream had been true, he thought, somewhere in that mirrored gallery was a door with a glass knob. He looked at the wall.
In front of him was the glass knob.
He put out his hand and pulled the knob towards him. The door opened. He went through. Before him lay the curving staircase leading upwards to the glass door.
He sighed happily. Slowly, smiling to himself, he began to ascend the stairs towards the glass door....
B....
Holland. 21st April, 1946.
Dear Mr. Cheyney,
A few days ago I read your book "I'll Say She Does." It is only a very short while ago it reached Holland, and I must say that I am very lucky to have been able to lay my hands on it, especially on this book-of all books.
In 1940 it was still possible some time after the beginning of the Occupation of the Netherlands by the Germans to get books in other languages than the German language. By accident, when looking over a row of English books at a bookseller's, I saw your name at the back of some of the books, and I must say it has been one of my most lucky hits up to now. Not only myself, my entire family and all my friends you have been helping through the war by your books: they were exactly the things I needed at the time, not only as relaxation but also as some sort of instruction in the beginning of our underground period they were serving.
In September 1940 we felt something had to be done and of course we had no experience at all. So, automatically, we applied certain things out of your books to our methods; maybe the best lesson Lemmy Caution taught us was: Be careful, use your eyes and your ears, don't use your "talking-piece."
And we had a lot of fun with your books. I was so lucky to get "This Man is Dangerous" first of all, so I appreciated the surprise you prepared for us fully. On certain times everybody was talking something they thought Lemmy would have said in their place. Afterwards I got other of your books, but it is actually about "I'll Say She Does," my last addition to the collection, that I write to you.
You see, during the war we have been gaining experience ourselves in this respect, especially communications has been my branch. After some preliminary setting up of departmental organisations, everybody on his own, there was some big merging together of a few of the most important clans about May 1941. At that time most people were realising, seeing the possibility of counter-espionage of the Germans, as we were using the telephone a bit too much, that the next thing was radio.
In the first place for the communication with England, in the second place for national communication. Radio with England was existing practically the very first day of the Occupation. As to the national communications, we wanted to create something like the networks American radio-amateurs use in emergency, for instance with floods, hurricanes; every station gets his own frequency; a second also known frequency is used when his first frequency is jammed in some way. All traffic is cleared by preference through a district centre; when this falls off for some reason a second station, appointed beforehand for this task, becomes district centre.
But first it is very necessary I tell you something about the purposes of the several underground organisations. Here goes:
(a). O.D. (Order Service). The oldest and from the beginning, biggest thing. Its purpose was in the very first place to retain law and order after the liberation. That this organisation was founded already in 1940 finds its cause in the fact that nearly everybody (we were all a bit mad) thought the war would be a very short one, except some very pessimistic people. You must realise that especially in the beginning, everybody hated the Quislings (their party was called N.S.B. National Socialist Movement) like hell, and we were looking very much forward to the moment we could arrest them; furthermore it was feared the Germans would do some plundering and looting and destroying at the capitulation.
(b). K.P. (Fighting Section). When the slave labour requisitioning was getting more and more severe, a great many people were going into hiding ("diving under" it was called) and they had to be supplied with ration cards, money, etc. In the beginning this was easy; every distribution-centre had some patriotic employees; later on the demands were so big (in May 1944 some 150,000) that the only way to get them was by means of hold-up on big distribution-bureaux. This was done by the K.P. Their work was also to liberate people out of prisons, especially men with death sentences.
The K.P. was a daughter-organisation of the:
(c). L.O. (National Organisation), which had to advise the K.P. which bureaux were easy to take, and they distributed the ration cards to the users. This was a hell of a job. When the Germans got wise to the possibility of hold-ups they gave the bureaux the cards only a few days before the actual distribution period started. The periods were mostly from 2-4 weeks long, so the L.O. had to look snappy about their work when they wanted to be efficient. This was a very big organisation, but one of the least dangerous; which it had in common with the O.D. Still, you could easily be condemned to death when the Germans found you out with some 1,000 ration cards.
(d). R.v.V. (Board of Resistance). About a year older than the K.P., founded in the first half of 1943 by some very embittered people who had lost their brother or a very good friend, and had the Germans to thank for it. Did the same work as the K.P. but had an efficient radio-communication with England that was existing already before its foundation. Had been very near to organising a good radio-network over the most active districts.
(e). P.B.C. (Identity Card Centre). Here were made the best false identity cards; already existing cards were altered with the most extreme precision. Did furthermore all thinkable falsifications. Reached its maximum height of activity about summer 1944.
(f). N.C. (National Committee). A rather small, but very well-informed, group of persons, who administrated the activities of all existing organisations and acted sometimes as liaison between groups. On first sight they were just lookers-on, but actually they were indispensable, thanks to the very regrettable state of affairs that several organisations were not on good terms, especially at the beginning. They were not on fighting terms, not by a long way, but just a bit jealous.
The great service the N.C. rendered was the laying of the foundation for the N.B.S., the great organisation existing after the merging of all groups into one in September 1944. After that time the N.C. had mostly been clearing traffic and making reports; they were the proprietors of important telephone-exchanges in the Hague, Amsterdam, etc.
(g). N.B.S. (Netherlands Interior Forces). Founded after the aforementioned merging of September 1944 of all existing, already efficient, groups into one by order of Prince Bernhard. Although in England he was as well informed as anyone of us by people who made the voyage to England in some way, sometimes by canoe, sometimes by submarine. And of course he received every day reports by radio. After the foundation of the N.B.S. a great many people joined; they were called a bit disdainfully by us old hands "September-nights". Still, they were, generally speaking, not less or more courageous than we; they were only lacking experience. The N.B.S. has been responsible for a great many acts of sabotage, by single people or by groups.
For instance, the Waalbrug near Nijmegen was saved by one single-working boy; on the other hand, after the dropping of arms in quantity every night, the railway was blown up somewhere or the German lorry traffic was made mighty unpleasant for the Huns. And this was done in the most difficult circumstances, when there was practically no food, rationed or black-market, anywhere. The N.B.S. functioned until three months after the Liberation, so these people had the specially pleasant task to put the Quislings behind bars, big noises and small fry.
In September 1940 I joined the O.D.; in October the first arrests of my friends took place. Everybody was naturally very afraid; you had to get used to these things; activities— spreading the organisation through the country—went on as usual. During the entire spring and summer of 1941 I was constructing and trying out several types of transmitter-receivers (transceivers), but they were always too big and complicated.
In 1941 (June) we got a boss who was really capable to manage affairs in a town of 12,000 inhabitants. He was the local police superintendent (commissar, as it is called here). In the autumn and winter nothing much was done, as there were no arms and it was not the task of the O.D. to sabotage. I used my time to pass a few examinations in the summer of 1942.
Before this time we were very much upset as it became known that a group of 72 people, later on a second group of 24 people, was shot. When I was in the German concentration camp later, I learnt that these people were not shot somewhere in the dunes in Holland, but first transported to Germany and then gassed or poisoned in a concentration camp. They were practically all O.D. men; most of them I knew very well.
In November 1942 we learnt there would be a big slave-labour transcription for students and I prepared to "dive under." On 6th February 1943 there followed an extensive razzia on all Universities.
In the meantime I "dived under" at a farm, owned by an uncle of mine, in the east of Holland. I stayed there until November 1942, got to know a few illegal-people from... and heard the first rumours about the R.v.V. My plan was made at once. As soon as I got a chance I would join them, as I was not very satisfied with milking and running around on horses, though it was fun while it lasted.
During this summer of 1943 a child could see it would still take some years before the war would be at a point where the O.D. could begin with real work and, the board of the O.D. consisting of (from our point of view) old and too thoughtful gentlemen who wanted to be on the safe side at all cost, there was no chance we could do anything. You can understand that this state of affairs was not very satisfactory, especially when you are wasting your time at a farm. It was no longer possible to pay visits to the University; when you wanted to study you had to sign a declaration of loyalty to the Germans, and nobody was interested in that. So most of us were waiting, dodging searches of the Germans—all people of our age were supposed to be working in Germany—with more or less falsified papers and just wasting our time.
And so we were very glad to hear about the R.v.V.; the big noises of this organisation were mostly communists, but nobody cared a damn about politics during the War. And thanks to these circumstances, when I got my chance in November 1943 I considered myself lucky, and after a quiet talk with my future boss, I consented.
The head of the radio-section, my direct boss, was a man named Jan Thyssen. (He was caught about November 1944. The Germans never quite understood the part he was playing; but on the 8th March 1945 he was shot with some hundred other people as reprisal to the attack on the S.S. Commander in Holland. Slowly he has become an historical person; in several places streets are named after him).
I knew him very well; his was a very great responsibility and as he was very long he was called Lange Jan—Long John. He had a rather difficult time and had to be very careful because the Germans, knowing he was an important fellow, but never quite knowing why, were always on the look-out for him. He used to do every mile of his inspection tours on bicycle. Besides being a radio expert he had a talent for organising. The latter part of his life must have been very difficult; his co-bosses were not always of the same opinion as he, and during his life his merits were not so much appreciated as afterwards; but I know one thing! we, his subordinates, obeyed him blindly, and before, and since, my arrest, I have made good use of his advices. Besides, we had many a. good time with him after service hours!
I was asked by Thyssen in November 1943 to join the radio section of the R.v.V. Quite soon I got a good job. North west of A... there is an enormous surface, covered with heather and woods, called the .... Thyssen wanted to excavate enormous caves, spread over this entire district, about twelve of them; they had to be fitted with a roof, with beds, tables and a kitchen. After the excavating was done they would be covered with a roof of plate-iron, supported by wooden poles. The roof would be flush with the ground and was to be camouflaged with heather, little trees, etc. The caves were meant to be billets for medium fighting units (24-36 men).
And we had to have a radio-unit. Because it was impossible to use the telephone—only doctors had a telephone at that time. I had to make a lot of transceivers of a modified model; originally we used crystal oscillators, but we had not enough crystals. The parts we received from a Philips transmitting works in...; aluminium, transformers and batteries (because the electric power-network was not to be trusted) from other places. I had my headquarters in the centre of this district on the Zuiderzee, in a very little village. I lived like a prince in the kitchen of a big castle that was not inhabited, and worked like hell together with four other people with one girl as liaison.
Shortly before I settled down in this village early in 1944 (where we were trying to organise a small transmitter works) I brought, with a car, a good load of parts and tubes, and all this was dumped at the castle. During the war the castle was also used as a store of very valuable paintings and books which it was too dangerous to keep in the musea in The Hague or Amsterdam, where it was always possible they would get bombed and destroyed.
The family I lived with and who owned the castle didn't use it any more because it was too big as they were only four—father, mother, daughter and son. They were living in a wooden house, more or less like the chalets you find in Switzerland, in the neighbourhood. The things in the castle were guarded by two painters—artist chappies of about my own age. We told them, as they were quite dependable, that the castle would be used for some underground purpose, having something to do with radio, in order not to make them too curious and because we would have to co-operate with them.
Everything was hunky-dory practically, except for one hitch. A week before I came definitely to the village, the owner of the castle—my friend's father—had consented to two men, who pretended to be sought by the Germans, living in the kitchen temporarily: precisely the room we should use! My friend, when he knew I would come, told them they had to find some other shelter and they promised they would be off in a short time.
But they were not! I never spoke to them, and didn't show myself to them, not because I was suspicious, but it was always better at the time to let everybody know as little as possible, in the meantime I stayed as a guest with the family at the wooden house; the father was informed by Jan Thyssen for what purpose his castle would be used; the mother was kept in absolute ignorance (being a bit nervous), and the daughter, my friend's sister, was told everything there was to know, and she proved to be a great help later on. And all the time the fellows in the kitchen stayed on and on, and after a week we were sure they were sabotaging in some way or other.
They pretended to have "dived under", but nearly every day they took the bus to... and one of them even went to Rotterdam and The Hague now and then. One of them, the oldest, pretended to be a clairvoyant or something; and furthermore we strongly suspected the couple to have really unpleasant characters. We tapped one of their long-distance telephone calls to the Hague and this proved to be in some ridiculous code, with many rather suspicious intimations.
In the meantime I had been told two more men, radio-experts, would be sent to me, when the preliminaries—supplies, location— would be ready. Supplies were O.K., only the location was blockaded by these two chaps, and slowly I got to hate them, as it was clear to me they knew there was something to happen in the neighbourhood. We got more information about them. Before they came to the castle they had inhabited with some more fellows a dug-out in the woods nearby; they had been kicked out of there because of their black market dealings with ration cards supplied to them by the underground and because of their unpleasant characters.
At last we had had enough of them, and we decided to shoot them, as they were clearly sabotaging by staying too long. While they were away for a few days we got everything ready for the shooting—guns, a car to get rid of the bodies, and some good deep holes to put them into. But they didn't return on the day we expected them, and so we lost our last chance of a nice shooting party; the next day the castle was requisitioned by a unit of the Hermann Goering Panzer Division and you can't shoot very well with the whole place swarming with little black, ugly-faced Huns!
The next day these two fellows from the kitchen returned and declared to the artist chaps that they didn't dare to come back on the appointed day as the clairvoyant had a feeling something terrible was going to happen to them at the castle. And was he right!
As the Hermann Goering fellows requisitioned the castle it had to be emptied of all paintings and books; these were transported to specially constructed cellars in the dunes near..., and the entire castle was full of painter chaps and removers in civvies for a week or so.
In the meantime our plan to use the castle exploded and we had to look for another location that had to answer to several conditions:
1. no kitchen maids, etc., liable to be curious.
2. no children liable to shoot their mouths.
3. no Quislings in the neighbourhood.
4. a doctor with a telephone connection in the neighbourhood.
5. a connection to the electrical net as we didn't like to have a petrol generator puff-puffing all day to give us away. And we had to have electricity—for soldering irons, testing apparatus, charging batteries when the network was functioning.
There were several more conditions. So you see, it was not easy. We were greatly helped by the local knowledge of the entire district of a man whose usual occupation was transferring parachuted allied pilots back to England, and some espionage.
One night, about half-past eleven, when we were sitting around a wood fire at my friend's, the bell rang. It proved to be Germans coming to search the house. As to me they could do it all right; my papers were O.K. Those of my friends a bit worse, but still, for outsiders, none too bad. A lot of microphones, electrical gramophones and amplifiers were standing around in the house serving as camouflage in case someone might find a real transmitter. I didn't like it very much as the same day I had brought home with me several transmitting crystals. They were hidden somewhere in my socks in a wardrobe, as I hadn't yet had time to bury them.
As soon as we realised the Germans had come to search the house my friend proposed to beat it, but I didn't like the idea because very probably they would have the house surrounded and, as I said before, we hadn't much to fear. But at last he talked me round and first we tried one window (the Germans were all the time kept talking by his father) but we could see a guard standing in the moonlight. The second window proved to be better on first sight and he went first, then I. We were one second outside, and we heard someone say in a rather unpleasant voice: "Halt!" The moment I heard it I turned round and disappeared again into the dark room, but when I lay on the windowsill the rascal had a shot at me and missed.
I stayed a few moments on my belly, but when everything quieted down outside I left the room and entered the hall where everything was in a bit of a mess. At once a German N.C.O. asked my papers, and was content they were in order, as he didn't know I had tried to escape. But a moment later the guard from outside came in with my friend and told the N.C.O. I was the other fellow, and then the fun started! A good lot of shouting; the entire house was searched and all the gramophone things looked very suspicious to them as they proved not to be able to tell the difference between a gramophone record and a transmitting antenna.
A Lieutenant took me with him to the castle—they were people of the Hermann Goering outfit billeted there—uttering loud threats that he would shoot me with his tommy-gun if I tried to escape. At the castle he interrogated me and I declared I was a fellow of the government postal services, radio branch, and my papers proved it sufficiently. Very soon one of their radio experts was brought in and he declared that all the gramophone things were certainly no transmitters or receivers (to have a receiver in your possession was already forbidden at that time).
My friend was allowed to stay at home when he promised he would not try to escape, in which case his father would be taken as hostage. I myself had done one clever thing; when the lieutenant took me away I asked him to be allowed to take a few things with me; tobacco, a warm jersey and a good amount of closet paper, and all these things have proved to be very valuable some time later. The jersey I used nearly a year later in the very cold winter, when I was in the German concentration camp. Furthermore I asked him to let me take a German dictionary with me, but he answered this was not necessary at all, as we would only speak English, French or Dutch, but no German at all. I think this was meant as an allusion to the fact he suspected me of being a parachuted allied information agent or something. The moment I was arrested I heard one German tell another: "Er sieht aus wie ein Engländer" (he looks like an Englishman).
During the night I had to sleep in a room with some N.C.O.'s with one standing guard in the room itself. The next morning I was brought to a room on the first floor. There I was alone, with a guard before the door in the corridor. This was a decent fellow who allowed me to go to the w.c. as much as I wanted. Here I gradually got rid of all the papers I had in my possession— including some German money and a pocket book with a lot of notes in it. I had a good wash and generally felt a lot better after smoking some cigarettes. All the time I remembered the lessons my boss had taught me— escape!! Don't have yourself interrogated! And gradually I got a workable plan.
My room was above the room of the original artist chaps. At a proper moment I might attempt to climb down the blinds (a thing I have always been very good at), reach the balcony in front of the room of the artists, order them to open up the french windows, and leave the house via their room, the hall and the front door. I was then in the garden and might avoid the gate and its guard, take the other direction, go through the garden, cross in some way the wide ditch that was around the garden and be free. Under my window was the big pond and I couldn't try to cross it although it was frozen, without attracting attention, so I simply had to go through the castle.
Meanwhile some N.C.O.'s were trying to interrogate me, probably to get promoted in the long run, and were very annoying. I had to tell the same story ten times or more and at the time I didn't know for sure that my friend was left behind with his parents, and I didn't know what he had been telling. Later on it proved to be he hadn't been interrogated at all; they only wanted to keep him at home.
Some rather decent privates brought me bread with jam, which I was glad of because I had missed my breakfast, a process which I would get used to in a few months. About nine o'clock the lieutenant came in and told me a car would arrive in a quarter of an hour's time by which I would be transported, after which he left. I decided this was the time. My luck was with me. At a certain moment an entire regiment seemed to pass, judging by the racket they were making on the wooden boards of the corridor with the nails of their boots, and I could open the window without anybody noticing. Outside, on this side of the house, they hadn't posted a guard and nobody was passing.
Everything went according to plan. The artist chaps opened their window when they saw me on the balcony, and in a few moments I was in the garden, the ice in the ditch proved to be strong enough, and I was free again.
Already I had decided to go to people I knew in a hamlet north-west of... I was lucky enough to meet the butler of my friends and requisitioned his bicycle, and after a few minutes I was travelling along little roads in the woods at a good pace, only everywhere there was ice on the roads, and I had to look out not to fall on my nose.
After some ten miles I came back on the high road and had to follow this for some time. Then I heard a car. I hid in the wood on my belly, which proved to be very lucky, for the car contained Feldgendarmerie (M.P.) very probably on the look-out for me. I abandoned the plan to follow the high road, left my bicycle behind some trees and crossed right through the woods to the home of my next hosts.
At about one o'clock I arrived there and found nobody at home except the maid who, though rather young, had, I knew, already served with the family a long time and proved generally to be very trustworthy.
I told this maid my story, at least the part about being arrested and having escaped again, and being no ordinary fugitive. (An under-diver it was called.) She gave me a good meal I remember perfectly—a hell of a lot of bacon!
During my walk all the time I had been remembering I had left those crystals in my socks without anybody knowing about them; I didn't like the idea at all. Any moment the S.D. (Sicherheitsdienst or Gestapo) might arrive and search the house properly, find the crystals and a small transmitter which, though hidden a lot better, might still be found, and the fun would start. It might be possible with some care to despatch a letter to my friend or his sister and warn them.
I decided to write a letter to the sister as clearly as possible; furthermore I had to write a letter to my base at... to warn them. I didn't dare to telephone as I then had to ring up a doctor (the districts themselves were automatic, but the connection was by a non-automatic centre and this might be watched by the Germans).
I wrote both letters and ordered the maid to go to the village at ..., but first to post the letter to my base. I myself stayed at the house, where in a short time the mistress arrived. We had a pleasant chat and I enjoyed a good tea, and at six o'clock while I was waiting for the return of the maid and her report, a car with four Feldgendarmerie people arrived, surrounded the house in five seconds, and I was taken again.
The first thing they asked me was if my real name was... I replied in the affirmative; it was no longer any use to deny it. I was taken to the police station at... where all the constables had a good laugh about my being able to escape (a good lot of the police personnel was and stayed non-Quisling), and at about ten-thirty that night the S.D. from .... came to take me with them.
The maid had, apparently, proved to be not as good as she looked. She went down to the police station at... with my letters. The one to my friend's sister was copied by the Quisling police lieutenant; the letter to my base he kept and gave it with the copy of the other letter to the S.D.
Also it has recently been proved that at the village of... I was betrayed by the wonderful clairvoyant in the kitchen of the castle. He wrote an unsigned letter to the Hermann Goering fellows, but later on after my arrest he was in very close contact with them and also with the .... S.D.
Of course, because we were always liable to be arrested, we were more or less trained in dodging questions the S.D. put to us. Jan Thyssen had taught us to tell the Germans no more than they knew already; furthermore, that you could lie, up to some limits, with success, especially when you were the only one caught of a group. And I must say, literally applying these methods, I put the S.D. in rather impossible circumstances. They could prove only one thing; that I had something to do with transmitting equipment. And I learned afterwards (while in the concentration camp in Germany) that the letter with which they proved that, was stolen from them some days after my arrest. And it was stolen by people from the German Hermann Goering division, who had originally arrested me, but who were bribed in the meantime by our message girl—my friend's sister—with coffee and American cigarettes. It was not so difficult after all; they were Austrians, but the girl must have had a lot of courage as a Hermann Goering division always had picked men. That I was not shot I have her to thank, but there were some more lucky circumstances:
(1) The S.D. was too busy with women, drink and sending food to their families in Germany. By the theft of the letters I profited very much, though not knowing it myself. They had only one proof—the crystals they confiscated in my friend's house. They found the transmitter too but it had spent a night in the central heating plant and a few days under the goat stable and they couldn't make head or tail of it. So the entire affair was too obscure for them and as soon as they could they neglected it, being too busy with their girls. (After "D" day their attitude changed thoroughly; more than fifty per cent of all people arrested were shot).
(2) I was the only one arrested; my friend escaped practically at the same moment as I, being talked round by his sister. His father was arrested but got ill in prison and was released after six weeks. As I was alone, and I realised it after some time, I could tell the most awful lies as long as these were rather probable. This was another reason why the entire affair got too obscure for the S.D.
(My friend was arrested in June. I met him later in Germany in the concentration camp, and we were together until he was sent to... near Hamburg, where he died in February 1945. The S.D. did not then remember my affair and made no connection between him and me.)
(3) The letter to my base at ... was probably overlooked by the S.D. during the short time it was in their possession; at least I was never interrogated about it.
During the time I was held by the S.D. I was interrogated persistently, but I told them I didn't know a thing, which made them good and mad, and then when I reckoned my friends would have had the good sense to beat it, I told them what they knew already. Actually they wanted me to tell them I came from England and was dropped because according to them I talked German with an English accent, which was very possible as I have never been a very great hand for German and have been in England for a year before the war.
But everything went well. They still distrusted the whole thing, as I had only said that I played about with transmitters just for fun. I took to them, like other people take to drink. They thought I was a bit mad and sent me on to The Hague S.D. Headquarters. And I told them exactly the same thing; that I was just making transmitters for fun. And I never saw any S.D. again, but of course I stayed inside. The rest of my story is simple.
From March 1944 until 1st May 1945, when I was liberated by the International Red Cross, I spent in various political prisons and concentration camps in Holland and Germany. And I was very glad and very happy, and I still am in this state, because nobody was arrested owing to things the Germans got out of me, when they were interrogating me.
During my time in Germany I had pneumonia and was in hospital for two months. Directly after the Liberation I was all right; I even had caught no T.B.! I chiefly read English books, a lot more than Dutch books.
Directly after the war we experienced a general apathy throughout the entire Dutch nation. I believe everybody in England was and is troubled by the same thing to a great extent. Of course everything, our trade, our works, our railway, our bridges, etc., was in great disorder thanks to the Huns; but that wasn't the big thing.
When we were liberated the reaction to that stress we had been under during the war made its presence known. But slowly (to our opinion too slowly), everything started to function again. Our monetary system is getting all right again; the outlook in the Dutch East Indies is a bit better; a good part of the railways got electrified again in record time. And now after a year we realise that the war was of great use to our mentality. Little incommodities you don't mind, always telling yourself that during the war you had the worst time of your life so what does this little thing matter! Everybody knows a bit better what he wants, and our endurance is better.
At the beginning of May this year I had the honour to interrogate my own S.D. interrogator, now in the same prison as I used to live in after my arrest. He was not as fat as he used to be and had some more grey hair. He was very honest, but when matters got interesting his memory failed. And it is like this with all these fellows, partly because it is so long ago and partly because they are sabotaging.
The sister of my friend—the girl who practically saved my life—became my fiancee not so long ago, and but for the fact that her brother died in Germany in 1945 everything would have a happy ending.
Wishing you the best of luck and thanking you again for everything you have done for us with your books.
Yours sincerely,
..........
I FELT unhappy when I got into the lift. I didn't know why. But when I walked into the drawing-room and found Robert—Robert is my husband—mixing cocktails at the sideboard, I knew it was the film.
I said: "Oh dear... I'm unhappy." Robert poured out a cocktail and brought it over to me.
I think I ought to tell you here and now that Robert is an extremely good-looking and very attractive man. His face is clean-cut and sensitive. He has the most delightful eyes and smile, a tender mouth which can be very firm if he wants it to be, and is generally a poppet. As husbands go, there is no doubt that Robert is extremely good value.
He said: "What you need is a drink."
I said: "I don't need a drink. I'm worried about you."
He raised his eyebrows. He said: "Really!" But a rather peculiar expression flitted across his face, as if my saying I was worried about him had caused something to leap into his mind.
Every woman who is in love with a man will know what I mean. You are so used to watching him that you know every expression on his face. I'd just seen one which I didn't understand. I felt more unhappy than ever.
He said: "And why do you have to worry about me, Kitten?" He stood leaning against the sideboard, looking at me.
I took off my furs. I said: "I don't know. It's probably the film I've seen this afternoon."
He said: "Yes? Was it a bad picture?"
I said: "No... a very good one. Practically a record of our own lives."
Robert said: "No? Did you like that? And why has it made you unhappy?"
I said: "Well, in the film I saw this afternoon, the man and the woman were happily married, and then the woman was stupid— just as I was stupid about you. She suspected her husband unjustly, and so he deliberately faked the evidence which gave her a divorce—just as you did, Robert. Afterwards, she discovered that she had been stupid just as I discovered that I'd been stupid, and they re-married."
"And were happy ever afterwards?" Robert said, drinking his cocktail.
I said: "That's just the trouble. They weren't."
He lit a cigarette. He asked: "Kitten, you've got a fit of the blues. What's it all about?"
I said: "I don't know. I wish I did. I wonder how much I really know about you, Robert." I sighed. "You were a very good soldier—a good airman. You've done all sorts of things for your own country. Here everyone likes you—especially the women. Oh dear... I suppose I'm not explaining this very well."
He grinned at me. I should tell you that Robert is the Comte d'Epernay. You wouldn't know that because he speaks English like a native, but sometimes he can look very French. He was looking like that now.
"I know exactly what's the matter with you," he said. "It sounds to me like a slight attack of liver."
I said: "Robert, how can you be so unromantic?"
"I'm not unromantic—not at all. And I'm afraid I'm going to be even more unpopular with you in a minute. You know we're engaged to dine out tonight. Well, I've got to call it off. I can't go. Something's turned up— something rather important."
I said: "Oh... business, I suppose?"
He nodded. "Yes, business," he said. And I saw that peculiar expression in his eyes just for a moment, and I had a definite idea that Robert was telling me a lie.
Mind you, I was sensible enough to think that possibly I was being quite stupid; that I was probably having a fit of temperament about Robert. Every woman has those. But underneath a nasty little suspicion had crept into my mind. I had a definite feeling that Robert wasn't telling me the truth about not keeping our engagement.
I endeavoured to be bright. I said: "Well, if you've got business, you've got business. I'll go and dine with the Veres and make your apologies. Shall you be late?"
He said: "No, I shan't be late. I hope to be back by about ten." He smiled at me. He looks fearfully handsome when he smiles. He said: "I hope you'll be feeling better by then, Kitten."
I left the Veres rather late, and I decided that I'd go for a little walk before returning home. Presently, I found myself in some rather attractive narrow turnings that lie between the Brompton Road and Kensington Gardens.
I was passing through a narrow winding street when I got a shock. Just in front of me, parked outside the entrance to an apartment block, was Robert's car. I stood on the other side of the road, wondering. In the ordinary course of events I shouldn't have thought anything about it. I suppose I was still suffering from the effects of the film I had seen in the afternoon. I don't know what made me do it. It was almost as if I was propelled by an unseen hand. But I walked across the road and went into the entrance of the flats.
The hall was well-furnished and attractive. It was obviously a very nice place. On one side was a lift and just in front of me was a long corridor with a door at the end—apparently the door leading into someone's flat. Just inside the door—which was slightly open— was a table and on it were Robert's hat and his driving gloves. I'd know them anywhere. I walked quickly down the passage and looked at the number on the door—No 7.
Then I walked back to the hallway and looked at the indicator. The name of the occupant of Flat No. 7 was Señora Eulalia Fernandez.
I went through the entrance, crossed the road and stood in the deserted street, feeling very miserable. I could not possibly understand what business Robert could have with a woman who had as attractive a name as Eulalia Fernandez at eleven o'clock on a February night.
I began to feel very suspicious and slightly angry. I knew just how attractive Robert was to women, and I wondered. Then I thought I was stupid. Then I thought I wasn't. If you've ever been really in love with a man you'll know what I mean. Then I thought of something that Robert had once said when we'd been talking about husbands and wives falling out. He had said: "Most women are stupid when they're in love with a man. They don't realise that suspicion breeds on suspicion. They just work themselves up into a frenzy, instead of being cool and calm and collected, and taking steps to find out if they're right or wrong."
I thought to myself: Very well, Robert... I'll be cool, calm and collected as you advised, and I'll find out whether I'm right or wrong.
IT was half-past twelve when Robert came to my room to say
good-night.
I asked: "Did you have a successful business talk?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Not bad, Kitten," he answered. "It could have been worse."
I said casually: "A funny thing happened tonight. I didn't drive back from the Veres. I decided to walk. When I was coming through a small street in Knights-bridge I thought I saw your car outside an apartment block."
He said: "Really!" He took out his cigarette case and busied himself with lighting a cigarette. He went on: "That's quite possible. You see, I lent the car to one of my business associates for an hour or so this evening."
I said: "I thought you didn't like other people driving your car."
He raised his eyebrows. He said, after a moment: "I don't. But if a man asks for the loan of one's car——"
He shrugged his shoulders.
I felt very angry. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he'd lent his hat and driving gloves too. Then he said: "Well, I'm very tired. Good-night, Kitten."
He kissed me and went off to his room. I sat up in bed—very determined. Suddenly, I remembered Callaghan Investigations—the detectives who'd been so very useful to Glynda when she lost her jewellery. I made up my mind to see Mr. Callaghan.
NEXT morning, I telephoned Callaghan Investigations. I nearly
had a heart attack because Robert came in just as I'd got the
number. I hung up quickly and waited till he'd gone. Then I spoke
to Mr. Callaghan. He said he'd see me at once. I went round
immediately.
Mr. Callaghan was very sympathetic. I told him I was worried. He smiled. Then he said: "That's not unusual in women who are as beautiful as you are, Countess. It's the plain ones who never have anything to worry about. What's the trouble?"
I told him all about it. I told him what had happened the night before.
He said: "I think I ought to tell you that I don't handle divorce cases."
"But, Mr. Callaghan," I said, "this isn't a divorce ease. I don't want to divorce Robert. I want to keep my husband. But I'm certain there's something on between him and this Eulalia Fernandez. You see, he's terribly attractive, and you know what men are?"
He grinned. He said: "Yes, I know what men are... and women!" He went on: "I take it then that you want me to find out, if I can, what is happening; whether there is something serious between this lady and your husband? Do you think he's being blackmailed?"
I sat bolt upright in my chair. I said: "Good Heavens! I never thought of such a thing. Is it possible?"
He said: "Anything's possible. However, don't worry too much, and don't let your husband suspect that you are"—he cocked one eyebrow at me—"shall we say a trifle jealous."
I said I'd do my best. He took my telephone number and arranged to get into touch with me. I went home more miserable than ever.
THE next two or three days weren't at all good. I didn't
see very much of Robert. He was supposed to be very busy on some
business scheme. He began to miss coming home to dinner. He rang
up with excuses for missing appointments with me. I felt very
miserable. I began to hate the Señora Eulalia Fernandez. I felt
that I could willingly go round there with a carving knife and
cut her throat.
It was on the third day that I received a note from Mr. Callaghan, asking me if I would go and see him as soon as possible. I got into a cab and went round.
He put me into a comfortable chair, gave me a cigarette, and said: "I've managed to find out some details in this business, Countess, and I think with a little luck we may straighten things out. But you've got to be very sensible. You don't want to make a mistake a second time, do you?"
I asked: "What do you mean?"
He said: "I like to check up about my clients. I have discovered that you divorced your husband four years ago; that actually you hadn't any real reason for that. It wasn't a very clever business. You suspected him and he got angry and gave you some fake evidence. Then you re-married him. Isn't that right?"
"Perfectly right," I said a little hotly. "And are you suggesting that the same thing is likely to happen again; that there is no ground for my suspicions?"
He shook his head. He said: "No. But I don't want you to do anything in a hurry. You told me that you wanted to keep your husband."
I said: "I do. But I don't propose to share him. Do tell me, Mr. Callaghan... what is going on?"
He said: "There's no doubt that this Señora Fernandez is extremely attracted by your husband, and it seems to me that, to say the least of it, he is very fond of her company. They have been spending an awful lot of time together, lunching and dining in restaurants. He takes her back to, her apartment. She's a very beautiful woman—in a tropical way, of course," he added quickly.
I said miserably: "I see. It doesn't look quite so good, does it, Mr. Callaghan?"
He got up; began to walk about the office. He said: "On the face of it, it doesn't. There are, however, redeeming features."
I clutched at the straw. I said: "Could I have a list of the redeeming features, Mr. Callaghan?"
He said: "The main redeeming feature is a gentleman who comes from the same country as the Señora. His name"—he looked at a note on his desk—"is Señor Miguel Alvara, and"—he grinned at me—"this will amuse you. I got into touch with him through no less a person than a man friend of your husband's who is I think also worried about the situation. This friend of the Count's suggested that it might be a good thing if Alvara came to see me."
"And did he come?" I asked.
He nodded. "He's just as worried as you are," he said. "You see, he is very much in love with Eulalia and engaged to be married to her. He's not feeling very good about Robert. In point of fact, he told me that he might easily feel inclined to kill him."
"Good Heavens," I said. "Whatever happens that must be stopped."
He said: "We won't worry about that for the moment. I have an idea in my head—something that was almost suggested by Alvara himself. But I won't tell you about it until I have seen him again."
I said: "Mr. Callaghan, you are, I am sure, a very experienced man. You know all sorts of things about men and women. Do you think that my husband is really in love with this woman?"
He shrugged his shoulders. Then he said: "Actually, I don't think he is, but men are very strange creatures, Countess. They do the oddest things and are sorry for them afterwards. I think that this Eulalia Fernandez is a very beautiful woman. I think she has that attraction and charm which many southern ladies possess. I think that possibly she thinks she is in love with your husband. Maybe he thinks he's in love with her."
"That's all very well," I said. "But if they go on thinking for long enough something is going to happen."
He nodded. "If it goes on long enough something will happen. The thing is to stop it going on."
I asked: "Have you any ideas about that?"
He said: "Yes, I have. This sort of case is not in my line of country, but I'm going to do my best—even if I have to take a chance about it. I'm going to try and pull a fast one. You've got to be prepared for anything. Shall you be in town for a few days? Can I get you on the telephone?"
I said: "I'll never leave it."
He laughed. He said: "You'll hear from me. And remember that it's the last battle that counts."
We shook hands and I went away. I felt a lot better until I began to think about Robert. And then I was so angry that I couldn't begin to tell you.
Next afternoon at three o'clock I was sitting in front of the mirror in my bedroom, looking at my face and wondering what that beast Eulalia had got that I hadn't when the telephone rang. I almost flung myself at the instrument.
It was Mr. Callaghan. He said: "Listen carefully. This is good news. I've seen Miguel Alvara. And he's very worried about losing Eulalia."
"I hope he doesn't," I said. "I'm the one who wants to lose Eulalia. I'd like to lose her in a cage of man-eating lions."
He went on: "I've arranged for you to meet Alvara. He will be waiting for you in a restaurant in a street in Soho at ten o'clock tonight. The restaurant is called the Cubanola. Alvara is a short man. Black-haired, with a pencil-line moustache, brown eyes, very well-dressed and—at the moment—with an expression of supreme misery. You'll find him very reasonable."
"I see," I said. "And what do I have to do that he's going to be reasonable about?" I felt slightly scared.
"You don't have to worry," said Mr. Callaghan. "Alvara's got a proposition to make to you. I think it's a very fair one. And it concerns you particularly. I think that if you are prepared to take a little bit of a chance everything is going to be all right."
"Any woman would take any sort of chance to keep her husband," I said. "I'll be there at ten o'clock. I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Callaghan. You've been so helpful."
"Not at all," he said. "I like being helpful. Au revoir, Countess. And good luck."
I put the receiver back on its cradle. I felt happier. And I thought... Robert, when I've rescued you from this Eulalia character I'm never going to take a chance on losing you again. I'm going to be the most seductive wife that ever happened. But seductive.....
THE Cubanola was a rather attractive little restaurant not
far from Oxford Street. The décor was subdued, and the
pink-shaded lighting had been planned by someone with an eye for
bringing out the best in women's complexions.
The Señor Miguel Alvara was sitting at a table in an alcove at the far end. He sprang to his feet and made me a very courteous bow. We introduced ourselves; the waiter brought coffee. The Señor gave me a very good cigarette, and I relaxed on a comfortable sofa seat against the wall. I thought that Miguel Alvara was not at all bad-looking, courteous, charming and probably very kind.
He said, in very good English: "Madame, I will not waste time or words. Eulalia thinks she loves your husband. He thinks he loves her. But they are merely infatuated with each other. Something must be done about it, and quickly."
"I couldn't agree more," I said. "Tell me what you suggest, Señor Alvara."
"I have a plan," he said. "I have talked it over with Mr. Callaghan. But your help ees necessary. In a few words this ees my scheme."
I listened attentively.
"Tomorrow, I can, if I desire, return to Cuba. This ees inconvenient because I have business here still to do. But I am prepared to leave tomorrow. Because if I go I know I can talk Eulalia into coming with me. We were to be married next year. But if I insist on an immediate marriage she will come with me. This, Madame, will put an end to this silly flirtation that has been going on. What do you think?"
"I think it's a marvellous idea," I said.
He said: "I will sacrifice the business prospects that I had in this country willingly provided that you will do your part, Countess."
I raised my eyebrows. "My part?" I asked. "But what have I to do with Eulalia going away with you?"
He interrupted with a wave of his hands. "Countess... I am doing my part. You must do yours. Listen to me, please. You must know that my hobby is miniature painting." He smiled apologetically. "I am considered to be one of the best amateur miniature painters in Europe. For the last five years I have been painting beautiful pictures of my beloved Eulalia. Two each year. There are ten of them. In every sort of dress. In the magnificent dress she wore at our Legation Ball; in what you call country clothes; in every sort of attire; even in a swimming suit—I must say that the one in the swimming suit is very good. Consider how hurt and infuriated I was when I discovered that she has given every one of them to your husband!"
"Oh dear," I said. "That isn't quite so good, is it?"
"It ees terrible," he said gloomily. "And you have got to get them back for me. Why should he have them?"
"But where are they?" I asked.
"At your house," said the Señor. "I know. Eulalia's maid has been bribed by me to tell me what goes on. She delivered them addressed to him some days ago."
I had a terrible wave of jealousy. At that moment I could have slaughtered Eulalia without a second thought.
"They must be in my husband's room," I said. "I'll have to search for them. If I find them, when and how can I return them to you? You will be leaving early tomorrow?"
He said tensely: "This is how it must be. When I leave you I shall go straight to Eulalia. I shall talk to her. I shall insist that she packs at once. We shall leave early in the morning—very early. It ees necessary that we should be on board the Homeric by eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. I have made all arrangements and the ship sails from Southampton at twelve o'clock."
I thought quickly. "Very well," I said. "If you're certain that the miniatures are at my house I'll find them tonight— somehow. Then I'll leave tomorrow morning very early. I'll bring them to you on the boat. I must drive to Southampton and be there between eleven and twelve o'clock."
"Excellent," he said. "Countess... you must do that, otherwise I will not leave. I must have my Eulalia, but I must also have my beloved pictures. I cannot bear the thought that he has them."
"Neither can I," I said. "I'll get them by hook or crook. And now I must go."
He got up. He bowed. He kissed my hand. He said: "Countess... you are a brave and delightful woman. I know that we shall be successful. The miniatures are small. Only three inches long—in oval plaques. You can slip them in your coat pockets quite easily. Good luck to you, Countess, and great and prolonged happiness. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow morning on the Homeric. My stateroom is number six. Au revoir."
I BREATHED a sigh of relief when I parked the car a
hundred yards from where the Homeric was berthed. I looked
at my watch. It was ten minutes past eleven. On my drive from
London I had been haunted by the fear that something might go
wrong with the car; that I might be late. I locked the car; began
to walk towards the ship. Spread over the two outside and two
inside pockets of my fur coat were Señor Miguel Alvara's ten
miniatures. And very lovely miniatures they were—
especially the one in the swimming suit.
I told the ship's officer on the Homeric gangway that I had come to say goodbye to the Señora Eulalia Fernandez and the Señor Miguel Alvara. He directed me to Stateroom No. 6. The door was ajar and I went in.
They were both there—both looking very happy. Despite the early hour, cocktails for three stood on a table. I took a long look at Eulalia. Personally, I didn't think she was so hot. She was good-looking—yes—and she had what might be described as a perfect figure. I'd gathered that from the swim-suit miniature. I suppose by a stretch of imagination she might be called beautiful. But only just.
Alvara got up; bowed. He kissed my hand; welcomed me; introduced me to the Señora.
He said: "Ees not this wonderful? Everybody ees going to be so happy. Eulalia and I look forward to the future with great joy."
I smiled at him. I said to her: "I'm very glad to meet you. Now you're going, I suppose I shall he able to look forward to the future with great joy."
She smiled slowly and luxuriously. She said: "But, of course... I am glad for your sake to be going. I am so sorry my presence in your country has been annoying. I find that mos' men fall in love with me."
The Señor said quickly and diplomatically: "The past is forgotten. You have the miniatures?"
I said: "Yes." I handed them over.
"Now everything ees perfect," he went on. "Now we will drink to our future happiness."
He gave me a cocktail. I must say I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course there would be a certain amount of explanation when I got back to London and saw Robert. I expected he was wondering what had happened to me. I expected he was wondering where the car was. He was going to be very surprised when I told him of the time I'd spent crawling about his bedroom on my hands and knees finding those miniatures.
And there were going to be other explanations too.
I drank my cocktail. I'd just put the glass back on the table when the door opened and two men came into the stateroom. They both wore raincoats and bowler hats. One of them had a handlebar moustache. He came over to me and began to speak. I couldn't hear what the other man was saying to Miguel and Eulalia, but I was unutterably astounded at what my handlebar-moustached friend was saying to me.
He said: "I believe you to be the Countess Mignon d'Epernay. I am an officer of the Special Branch."
He brought a warrant card out of his pocket. It was in a leather case and I could see that it said he was a Detective-Inspector Malins.
I said: "Oh, yes?"
He went on: "I am taking you into custody on a charge under the Defence of the Realm Act which will be divulged to you in due course. I am taking you to the Southampton Police Station, and I must tell you that anything you say from now on may be taken down in writing and used as evidence."
I went away with him. I couldn't think. I was wondering what Robert was going to say to this one.
I didn't feel at all well.
The other Special Branch man—with Miguel and Eulalia— preceded me down the gangway. I had been lucky after all. They had handcuffs on.
AT five o'clock in the evening, I was sitting in a small
bare waiting-room, where I had been locked since my arrival at
the police station, when the door opened. Robert came in. He
looked awfully pleased with himself.
He said: "Hello, Poppet... how do you feel?"
I said: "I don't feel so good. Robert..." I must say I felt a little scared... "what does all this mean?"
He said airily: "Oh, it's rather an interesting story really, Kitten. You've been of the greatest possible use."
I said: "Really!"
He went on: "I expect you're a bit tired of sitting in this room. Of course the other two are in the cells, but I fixed it with the police to make you more comfortable."
I said: "Thanks a lot." I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I can only describe his expression as smug.
He said: "You must be hungry. Let's go somewhere and get tea."
I followed him out of the police station.
Suddenly, I remembered that I was the indignant wife. I said: "Look here, Robert, I want an explanation from you." I tried to look very dignified, but it didn't succeed very well because he was walking fast and I had almost to run to keep up with him.
He said airily: "Oh, that will keep. Let's have tea first."
We had tea in rather a nice place in the town. I didn't say a word. When we'd finished he gave me a cigarette.
He said: "You see, the whole thing was rather difficult. We knew that Alvara and Fernandez had stolen some documents from the Cuban Legation. We didn't know where they were. Our only chance was to try and get them when they were getting the documents out of the country."
DAYLIGHT began to glimmer in my brain. I said: "So that's
why you made love to Eulalia?"
Robert smiled. He said: "That's why I pretended to make love to Eulalia." He went on: "We knew they were both too clever to have those documents in their possession. We knew they were being kept somewhere else, but that they would have to have them when they got out of the country. So"—he grinned at me impishly—"I arranged a nice little plot."
"In other words," I said, "you used me!"
He nodded. "When you told me that you'd seen my car outside Eulalia's place, I had the idea that you might know something. And when you suddenly stopped telephoning when I walked into the flat the day after, I wondered why. So I looked at the open telephone book. You'd made a pencil mark against the name 'Callaghan Investigations'. So I went round and saw Mr. Callaghan after you'd been there."
I said: "I see. So you and Mr. Callaghan plotted this?"
"Right," said Robert. "He got into touch with Alvara and told him that story about your being jealous. Alvara did what we thought he'd do. When he saw you at the Cubanola we had a fellow watching you from the other side of the street. Alvara got the miniatures, gave them to Eulalia." He grinned. "She gave them to me as a farewell gift that night. We thought micro-photographs of the documents were concealed in the backs of the miniatures. But we weren't certain. If I had tried to get at them by destroying the miniatures when Eulalia gave them to me it wouldn't have done any good. We could have arrested her, but we had no evidence against Alvara and he was the important person. In order to prove our case up to the hilt we had to get them both with the documents on them."
I said: "So the miniatures weren't in the house before that night?"
"Of course they weren't," said Robert. "I put them in the drawer of my dressing-table just before I went to bed. I tried to make it as easy as possible for you to find them!"
I said: "Robert, do you mean to say that you were awake when I was crawling about your bedroom on my hands and knees?"
He said: "Yes. I thought you looked very nice in that pink nightgown."
GOING back in the car, I said: "Robert, so you're still
doing that awful Secret Service work. You didn't tell me."
He said: "Of course not. That's why it's called secret."
I said: "Robert, you weren't really in love with that Eulalia woman, were you?"
He was looking straight ahead like a good driver. He said: "No, not a bit."
I said: "Do you think she was beautiful?"
"So-so," said Robert.
I asked: "Did you kiss her?"
"Well," he said, "I may have given her a peck." I said: "I bet... some peck! What do you mean by a peck?"
He pulled the car into the side of the deserted road and stopped. He said: "I'll show you."
He gave me a peck. It was a peck. I said: "I see."
He said: "Is that any good to you?"
"No, Robert," I replied. "Now show me how you didn't kiss Eulalia."
He showed me.
She is a shadow in the street,
Appearing every night,
Moving on small, seductive feet,
She needs no lamp upon her beat,
For she herself is light.
Her heels tap-tap across the Square,
Across from north to south,
Her skin is fair and smooth as milk
Her raven hair like fine spun silk
And sweet her painted mouth.
The shadow moves—a figure trim
With dainty sensual grace,
Her eyes—mascara'd—still enhance
With softness each inviting glance
The smile upon her face.
In winter rain and summer eve,
The slender heels click by,
Upon unhappy journey bent,
On wicked chase, unending, sent
To some dark Calvary.
Sad shadow! Fashioned to seduce,
Mistress of every move,
Your fretful eyes are quick as flame,
You know each gambit in the game,
Only you know not love.
—London, 1941
There was a man on Guana Cay...
Ho there, my sweetheart...
Who never moved by night nor day.
Throw me a line, my sweetheart.
With a noggin o' rum and a cask o' gin
With his eyes put out an' his skull stove in
An' the tide lays out an' the tide lays in.
Ho there, my sweetheart....
So give me a noggin of juniper gin
Ho there, my sweetheart....
And the tide will wash me clean o' sin
Waitin' for my sweetheart....
Ho sing of a quean in Plymouth Town....
An' a sonsy rig was she
With eyes hot blue an' a tress of brown
For a salt gob from the sea.
So haul in close for Plymouth Town
For a sight o' jades like she.
O blow me a kiss from the north or the south
An' a dram of Jamaica to stop up her mouth
If I have the choice, Sirrah, what do you think?
Why... you take the woman and I'll have the drink.
From "The Reclamation of Captain Kidd," 1939.
I JUST can't begin to tell you how bored I was. I went up to her and I said: "Clairette, it's been the most lovely party. I'm terribly sorry I've got to go... but I've the worst sort of headache and I must lie down. I've had a lovely time...."
"But not at this party?" she asked, with a smile that was definitely acid. "Of course, Mignon darling, I'm awfully sorry you've got to go. I must say you look a little tired... but then you've been to see that fortune-telling woman this afternoon, haven't you? Did she depress you?"
"Not particularly," I said. I was frenzied to get to my own apartment—which is next to Clairette Glynn's—because we had a cocktail party due to start in a few minutes and I wanted to see Robert—Robert is my husband—first. "On the contrary, she was really rather hopeful," I added. I began to move towards the door.
She said over her shoulder: "Was she? I'm so glad for you. I thought she might have said something depressing about Robert...! Goodbye, darling."
I wriggled through the crowd and made my way into the hall. I wondered exactly what she had meant by that last snooty remark. I began to think about the fortune-teller....
Why women ever go to fortune tellers I don't know. To pass the time I suppose. But this one had seemed very definite. She'd said that I was to meet a slim, good-looking, dark-haired man; that he was to cause trouble in my life: that I should beware of a disagreement with someone very close to me—that would be Robert. I wondered what Clairette had meant by that parting shot about Robert. Robert, I thought, had been a little strange lately. Sort of far away and diffident—if you know what I mean.
Sebastian Glynn—Clairette's husband—was standing by the entrance door. There was no one else in the hall. Sebastian is, I think, one of nature's most agreeable blunders. He is head over heels in love with his wife and lets her know it too often. He is short, plump, vague, slightly short-sighted and depressing.
He hissed in my ear: "Mignon, I've got to talk to you for a moment before you go—secretly. Please... just one moment!"
He took me by the hand and dragged me into the dining-room. He said: "I'm fearfully worried about Clairette... terribly worried."
I said: "Yes, Sebastian? Is she worried too?"
He shook his head. "A woman only worries about the future before marriage," he said grimly. "A man does the worrying afterwards. Mignon... believe it or not, there is another man!"
"Good Heavens!" I said. "Not another! The trouble with Clairette is that she has a head like a doorknob. Anyone can turn it."
I felt slightly better after that one!
He hissed: "This time it's serious. Mignon, I've got to go back now, otherwise Clairette will miss me. For Heaven's sake ring me up later when she's gone out and tell me what to do. She says she's going off with this man. He's a poet or a writer or something equally repulsive." He pressed a folded sheet of notepaper into my hand. "This is a letter she had from him this morning. Take it away, Mignon, read it and think about the whole thing and telephone me. Clairette says she can't bear me any longer; that she wants a divorce. I'm going mad—but mad!"
"You're not going mad," I said. "You are mad. She probably wants a new hat or something. Tell her to stop listening to those Sinatra records and do some housework."
"I must go," he said. "Or she'll suspect. Promise you'll telephone me at ten o'clock tonight."
"Oh, very well," I said. "I'll do that."
"Thank you, Mignon," he spluttered. "I don't know what I'd do without Clairette."
"I know what you ought to do with her," I muttered. "Something with a slipper." I walked out of the dining-room and sneaked through the front door.
I felt rather more depressed. I didn't see why I should get mixed up with the affairs of Clairette and Sebastian and "the other man". I regretted going to her cocktail party. Definitely, I thought, a "fate worse than death!"
I walked quickly down the corridor and let myself into the flat. I looked across the hall and saw, through the half-open door of the drawing-room, that some guests had already arrived. Then I heard Robert's voice talking to somebody. I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped quickly into my bedroom. I switched on the light, closed the door and read the letter which Sebastian had thrust into my hand.
It was written on a sheet of violet notepaper, with a monogram in one corner, and the handwriting was, I thought, weak and spidery. There was no address or date, and the note read:
My Darling,
After our last talk I know that you belong to me; that I must take you away from him.... "To where the nodding flowers bend, we'll wend our way until the end...." Charming, don't you think?
He is not the man for you, dearest. He doesn't understand you. How could he? He is coarse, materialistic, and could never realise the subtle and innate nuances of your sweet nature.... "Oh doubly blest, oh dearly missed, oh sweetly met, oh dearly kissed".... Doesn't that describe you, my own... but actually... definitely?
I know that you are dining out tonight. Whilst you are out I shall come to the flat and see him. I shall tell him that I am going to take you away. I shall beard him in his own den. His blustering and bullying will not affright me, my own.
In deepest, most solemn love,
Your Hubert.
I felt vaguely sick, except that the idea of the unfortunate Sebastian blustering or bullying anyone was rather amusing. I threw the note on my dressing-table. Now my head was really aching rather badly.
I took off my hat, sneaked across the hall, down the long passage. I went into the bathroom and bathed my temples with eau-de-cologne. I stood there, in front of the mirror, putting my hair to rights and wondering how I could possibly advise the unfortunate Sebastian. Of course, the honest thing to do was to tell him to let things take their course. If any woman ever deserved Hubert—whoever he was—Clairette did!
After a while I gave it up and walked into the drawing-room. There were a lot of people there and everyone seemed very happy. In a moment I was surrounded by all the people who wanted to talk to me, whilst out of the corner of my eye I was looking for Robert, who—at that moment—was the one person to whom I wanted to talk.
I could not see him. I wondered what had happened to him. It was certainly unlike Robert to disappear in the middle of a cocktail party.
Just then, Annette, my maid, passed me with a tray of cocktails. I stopped her. I asked her if she knew where my husband was.
"Mais oui, Madame," said Annette, who is French— and pert. "'E went away joos some leetle time ago. 'E ees in the library weeth anozzer gentleman."
I went on talking to people, but I felt vaguely worried about Robert. I wondered what had happened. It was not like him to leave his guests and disappear in the middle of a party in order to confer with a friend. Still... I shrugged my shoulders. Men do the most extraordinary things, I thought.
And while I was thinking that, he came into the room. I went over to him very quickly and said: "Good evening, Robert. Are you glad to see me?" I gave him my best smile.
He looked at me in a very odd manner. Very odd. He looked very dignified and stand-offish, and there was a certain icy hauteur about him that reminded me of the line of family portraits of the Comtes d'Epernay which hang in a line in the gallery of his grim and very draughty castle in Gascony.
He said coldly: "Not particularly, Kitten. Is there any reason why I should be?"
I looked at him in amazement. Then I saw that he had hurt his right hand. There was a large piece of adhesive plaster covering a dressing on the back of his hand.
I said: "But I don't understand, Robert? And what have you done to your hand?"
He said caustically: "We'll discuss these things later when all these people have gone. In the meantime, you might try and behave like the Comtesse d'Epernay, and not like a... a..." He stopped for want of breath. He was so angry he could hardly speak.
He turned on his heel and went away.
I stood looking at his back—a rather nice back. I wondered what could have happened. Then I realised that my headache was worse than ever and that I disapproved of everyone in the room.
And I came to the conclusion that I disliked intensely Sebastian Glynn, Clairette, Robert, myself and the rest of the world. Directly I had an opportunity I sneaked out of the drawing-room. On my way I told one of the maids to ask Robert to apologise for me and to say goodbye to people when they decided to go. I threw myself down on the bed and began to wonder about Robert. Then I had a good cry. Then I began to think about Sebastian Glynn and Clairette and the ridiculous poet Hubert.
I got up and went over to the dressing-table to re-read Hubert's fatuously dramatic letter. When I got there I experienced a rather nasty shock. The letter was gone!
IT was half-past eight when I went into the drawing-room.
Robert was standing by the sideboard mixing himself a whisky and
soda. He turned and stood looking at me. He didn't say
anything.
"Robert," I asked, "whatever is the matter? Whatever did you mean by that odd remark you made to me during the party? I don't understand."
"No," said Robert. He grinned cynically. The devil of it is that whatever Robert does and however he looks and behaves he's always really quite adorable—if you know what I mean. It's awfully difficult to be really angry with him. "No?" he repeated. "So you don't understand. You carry on an intrigue with a disreputable crétin in corduroy trousers and a dark brown shirt that could do with a good washing. One of those people! A person who isn't even shaved by seven-thirty in the evening and whose acquaintance with ordinary washing soap is of the slightest. An individual who wears terrible perfumed hair-oil and has the latest thing in not-too-clean-fingernails. An...."
I boiled over. "How dare you!" I hissed. "How dare you!" I stood in the middle of the room almost speechless with rage.
"A charming scene," I said eventually. "Monsieur le Comte Robert d'Epernay—a member of one of France's oldest, families— talking to his wife in a manner that is reminiscent of a not very sober apache. Behaving...."
"Nuts!" said Robert. Like most Frenchmen he loves using American slang. "Don't bother to put on an act. And don't bother to deny it. I know all about it. I know where you met him and what has been going on. Nothing you can say will make the slightest difference, so you can save your breath. Nothing!"
"That's so very fair," I said icily. "But as you know so much perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me just where I did meet this man?"
"You know perfectly well that you met him at that charlatan's to whom you go to have your fortune told. That fearful gypsy person who was introduced to you by that Clairette Glynn creature. That's where you met him as you well know."
He took out his cigarette case and casually extracted a cigarette. But his fingers were trembling with rage.
My head was spinning. I didn't know what to say and if I had known what to say I shouldn't have known how to begin to say it. I was almost in tears. What had happened to Robert? What was all this about?
"Perhaps," I managed to splutter eventually, "you'll be good enough to tell me where you managed to obtain this fearfully fatuous extract from some very cheap novelette that you've been reciting. Possibly you will tell me...."
He interrupted. "Yes, I'll tell you. I've had the information first hand. From the man himself. From your lover. This cheap, and unmitigated squirt has the effrontery to come to this house and to tell me in my own library that he intends to go off with my wife; that I am to be divorced; and what financial settlement do I propose to make on her! That's where I got my information. From your weird-looking conquest Hubert Pelliflow—the long and greasy-haired near-poet!"
I nearly sprang into the air. Hubert! So that was the explanation. Hubert—Clairette's new boy friend! I took a pull at myself and refrained from laughing with great difficulty. I just stood there and, after a moment, managed to assume the most terrible air of injured innocence ever seen.
"He told me all about it," said Robert, almost choking with anger. "And then, as if that wasn't enough, after I'd taken him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants and thrown him down the stairs; after I'd done that, I went into your bedroom to find you, and discovered, on your dressing-table, that sickening epistle written on scented notepaper!" Robert began to walk up and down the room waving his arms about in a manner intended to be dramatic or poetic or both. "To where the nodding flowers bend we'll wend our way until the end.... Oh doubly blest, oh dearly missed, oh sweetly met, oh dearly kissed...."
He began to roar with laughter. And I did some quick thinking. It was really very funny. The unfortunate Hubert had arrived for his interview with Sebastian— whom he had never met; had gone to the wrong flat— it's fearfully easy to mistake our apartment for the Glynn's, which is at the other end of the corridor; had walked straight into Robert in the hall, mistaken him for Sebastian; said his little piece and was then thrown out on his ear—as the Americans say—for his pains. Robert had then gone tearing about the flat and had found Hubert's letter to Clairette—which had no name on it; and was, by this time, convinced of the worst.
A lovely situation—for me. I wondered just what my delightful Robert would do when he learned the truth. This, I thought, is where I must teach the Comte Robert d'Epernay a lesson.
I said, in a small and very hurt voice: "Robert... would you care to listen to me for a moment?"
"No," he said, glaring at me. "No... I wouldn't.... No.... 'Oh sweetly met.... Oh dearly kissed....' No, I don't want to listen. I've heard quite enough for one evening."
"You haven't heard half as much as you're going to hear," I retorted. "Do you think you can talk to me like you have this evening, Robert? I can't understand it."
"Oh, can't you?" said Robert. "There are a lot of things you can't understand. And there are one or two things that you will have to understand."
"Such as?" I queried in what I intended to be an extremely dignified voice.
Robert's attitude changed. He put down the cocktail glass, which he had been holding in his right hand, on the sideboard. He shrugged his shoulders. He said in an odd sort of voice:
"Listen, you might as well know that I'm not too upset about this business of yours with this Hubert Pelliflow for one reason."
I raised my eyebrows, but I felt very scared. "Really! What reason?" I asked.
Robert said: "Well, I might as well admit it...so far as I'm concerned there's someone else too."
I felt as if some icy fingers had gripped my heart. I don't think I'd ever realised until that moment just how much I loved Robert.
I said airily: "This is most interesting. Perhaps you'd like to tell me about it."
I felt terribly miserable.
He said: "Well, you'll have to know about it sooner or later, I suppose."
I asked: "Who is she... and what is she like? I expect she's terribly attractive—very nice? I expect she has all the virtues—all the charm—that I haven't got." I intended this to sound very caustic, but my voice broke in the middle of the sentence. I wanted to go away and cry.
He lit a cigarette. He said: "Actually, she is very charming— a most delightful person. And I'm very very fond of her." There was a pause; then he went on: "I don't think I've ever thought about any woman so much in my life as I have about her."
"I see," I said tersely. This last part of Robert's speech I thought sounded very definite and final. I said to myself: Mignon, my girl... it looks as if you've had it!
I asked: "Who is she?"
He hesitated for a moment; then he said: "Her name is Dulac— M'selle Angele Dulac."
"Angele...." I repeated. "Some angel! And may I ask for how long this has been going on?"
"I couldn't tell you exactly," he said airily. "But I should imagine just about as long as this business of yours with this Hubert person has been in existence. By the way, if you have to have affairs with people, why don't you pick somebody who washes sometimes?"
I almost flew at him. But I restrained myself.
I said: "If you don't mind we won't discuss Hubert for the moment. So you're in love? So you can't go on without Mademoiselle Angele Dulac? You think about her more than you've ever thought about any other woman?"
He drew on his cigarette. "What are you getting excited about? You can't accuse me of letting you down. You've let me down."
I thought to myself: You don't know what's coming to you, Robert. How very small you're going to feel when you know the truth. I said: "Well, where do we go from there? It's not a very good situation, is it?"
He said: "Oh, I don't know. It's one of those things, isn't it—one of those things that people tell you you must be sensible about? Well, all we've got to do is to be sensible."
"What does that mean?" I asked. I'm afraid there was just a touch of misery in my voice.
He said: "Well, these things can always be arranged. This Hubert of yours was kind enough to suggest that the right thing for me to do was to allow you to divorce me. Well, that's all right. I'm quite prepared to consent to that. Then you can have your Hubert." He grinned cynically.
"And," I countered, "you can have your Angele."
"Precisely," said Robert. There was a long silence; then I said:
"Do you think I might have a drink, please?"
"Of course," he said. He mixed me a cocktail; brought the glass to where I stood. I drank a little. I needed it. I thought: No one ever makes a Dry Martini like Robert.
He went back to the sideboard, stood leaning against it looking at me. He said: "I'll get in touch with my lawyer tomorrow morning, and we'll get things arranged." He grinned at me. "I'll make it pretty easy for you, Kitten," he said.
I nearly burst into tears. I thought the thing for me to do was to get away quickly before I did or said something quite silly.
I said with dignity: "Thank you very much, Robert. I'll leave everything to you. And now, if you don't mind, I'll go and lie down. I have a headache."
He said: "I'm not surprised. I think any woman who's struck on a man like Hubert would have a headache."
"That's what you think," I replied.
"That's what I think," said Robert. "And you can quote me." He walked out of the room.
I went to my bedroom. I lay down and looked at the ceiling. I'd never felt so unutterably wretched in all my life. This, I thought, was the end of everything. It was bad enough in all conscience to be accused by Robert of being in love with a man like Hubert. Goodness knows... that was bad enough... but then on top of all that to be told that he wanted to go off with somebody. This was too much.
I was drying my eyes when there was a tap at the door, and Annette put her head round. She said: "Madame.... Mrs. Glynn ees in the drawing-room. I 'ave shown her in there. She ees very excited about something. She wants to see you mos' particularly."
"Very well, Annette... tell her I'll join her in a minute."
I got up and powdered my nose. I wondered what Clairette wanted. Advice—I imagined. I thought cynically that it was rather amusing that at a time like this when I was up to my neck in trouble with my own domestic affairs, I should have to give advice to Clairette.
When I went into the drawing-room she was walking up and down, smoking a cigarette. She looked fearfully happy. Before I could speak she almost ran towards me.
She said: "My dear...I'm so excited. What do you think?"
I said: "I don't know what I think, Clairette. What are you excited about.... Hubert, I suppose..." I added sarcastically.
"Yes, in a way," she said. "But I'm fearfully excited about Sebastian. I think he's too too wonderful."
I took a grip on the back of a chair and then sat down. The idea of Clairette thinking that the unfortunate Sebastian was too too wonderful was rather too much for me.
I said: "Exactly what do you mean by that?"
She sat down beside me. She said: "My dear... I'll tell you. You know I thought I was fearfully keen on this Hubert Pelliflow I met at this fortune-teller's—the one I recommended to you? Well, I thought I was in love with him, Mignon, but actually of course I wasn't. Actually, all the time I've been in love with Sebastian, but I didn't realise it. My dear, isn't it too divine... the idea of being in love with one's own husband?"
"Definitely a new experience so far as you're concerned, Clairette," I said. "But why this sudden change of front?"
She sank her voice dramatically. She said: "I've just discovered something about Sebastian. Of course he's not a lot to look at. He's short and plump and rather vague. Sometimes he seems rather ridiculous, but underneath that...underneath that, I tell you, my dear, he's a cave man... almost a pocket-sized Tarzan..."
I said: "Really! How did you discover this?"
Clairette said: "I'll tell you. Hubert had written me a letter saying that he was coming to the flat tonight to have a show-down with Sebastian and tell him that he was going to take me away. I had arranged to go out so that he could have a clear field when he came. Apparently there was an awful row. It seems that Sebastian got hold of him, threw him down the stairs and kicked him out into the street. Isn't it wonderful?" I asked: "Who told you this?"
Clairette said: "I heard it from the hall-porter when I came in. He didn't see it, but he'd heard about it from some people who were standing outside."
"I see. Well, it looks, Clairette, as if everything's all right for you. I'm glad you've fallen in love with Sebastian."
She said: "Yes... I'm going to tell him so when I go in. I think I've been rather stupid about Sebastian."
"I'm certain you have," I replied. "However, give yourself a cocktail and smoke a cigarette. Don't go for a moment. I've got to make a 'phone call. I'll be with you in a few minutes."
I went back to my bedroom. I thought that even if I was miserable myself there was no reason why I shouldn't try to give Sebastian a hint for his future happiness. I went to the telephone on my bedside table. I rang the Glynns' number.
Sebastian answered the telephone. I said: "Listen, Sebastian... this is Mignon d'Epernay. Clairette's here in the flat. It seems that Hubert Pelliflow arrived here tonight to have his interview with you and came to the wrong flat. He came to our apartment. He saw Robert. He thought Robert was you."
Sebastian said: "Oh dear...."
"It's not a matter of 'Oh, dear' at all," I said. "It's very good for you. Robert listened to what he had to say and thought he was talking about me, not Clairette. So he threw him out of the flat and kicked him down the stairs."
Sebastian said: "By jove... that was pretty good.... I like that!"
"I'm glad," I said. "Now listen to me.... Clairette says she's fallen in love with you all over again, because she thinks it was you who kicked Hubert out. She thinks you're a he-man. So for Heaven's sake go on being one. Why don't you come in and collect her? But for Heaven's sake be tough. Clairette needs that."
He said: "All right, Mignon... I will.... Just watch me. From now on things are going to be very different in this ménage."
"I'm glad of that," I said. I hung up. Everybody, it seemed, was going to be happy except me. I stood in the middle of my bedroom. I realised what a happy life I'd had. I realised too that no one ever appreciates happiness until it's slipping away. Rather miserably I went out of the room; began to cross the hall towards the drawing-room. When I passed the hall table I saw that the telephone directory was open. It was open at the letter "D". Something told me that Robert had been looking up M'selle Angele Dulac's number. I stiffened with anger. I looked through the list of names. There it was... Mademoiselle Angele Dulac... and she lived not half a mile away.
I made a mental note of the number; closed the book; went back to my bedroom. I picked up the telephone and called the number. As I waited I could feel myself trembling with rage.
A very charming voice with a pronounced French accent said: "'Ello!"
I asked: "Is that M'selle Angele Dulac?"
"But yes," said the voice. "Who ees that who speaks, plees?"
I said: "I am the Countess d'Epernay. I wanted to talk to you. I..."
The charming voice at the other end interrupted. "But of course... that will be the dear leetle Mignon.... Robert's wife. For so many years I 'ave wanted to meet you and to talk to you. Always Robert was so pleased with the idea of our meeting. But, alas, the war... and all thees trouble... has stopped that. When I saw 'eem last time... when 'e was dropped in France during the war... such a dangerous mission, ma petite... I was able to 'elp him.... And I told 'eem to arrange it as soon as possible. That ees why I am over 'ere now. You see, I 'ave known him for sooch a long time... and there ees nobody loves a man more than the woman who nursed 'eem..."
I said: "Just a moment, Angele...." I stood there, the telephone clutched in my hand. If ever a woman's heart sang, mine did. I gulped into the telephone: "Of course you were Robert's nurse. You see, he'd never told me your name."
She laughed. "That doesn't matter," she said. "Yes... I nursed Robert since he was a leetle tiny boy... so small that you could hardly see 'eem."
I said: "Angele... we're going to meet tomorrow. And we're going to have a celebration. For the moment, au revoir."
I hung up. I went over to the dressing-table and powdered my nose. I looked at myself in the glass. I thought I looked rather good-looking. The suggestion of tears about my eyes was, I thought, rather attractive.
I went back to the drawing-room. When I arrived, I found Clairette talking to Robert. Robert looked very, very sheepish.
I said to him in a grim voice: "Well, has she told you?"
He said: "Yes, Kitten... an extraordinary coincidence that... fearfully extraordinary. I ought to explain..."
"You don't have to explain anything," I said. "I've just been talking to Mademoiselle Dulac. She's rather a sweet, isn't she?"
He grinned. He said: "So she told you?"
I nodded. There was a prolonged ring on the front door bell— so long and so loud that I thought the place must be on fire. It was Sebastian. He came into the drawing-room; nodded casually to Robert and me.
He said to Clairette: "Don't you think it's time you came home? It's the maid's night out, and tonight you cook dinner. Get cracking!"
Clairette got up. She said in a weak voice: "Yes, darling." She looked proudly at me. She followed Sebastian out of the drawing-room.
I looked at Robert. I said: "I'm very glad that you discovered my taste in men wasn't quite so bad. I'm rather sorry that you thought I could fall for a man like Hubert."
He looked very uncomfortable. He said: "Well, one can believe anything sometimes, and when a woman goes to a fortune-teller one always thinks she is in love with somebody else."
I said: "Yes? So you thought that?"
He nodded. "I suppose I did," he said. "Of course it was fearfully stupid of me." He went over to the sideboard. He said: "I think we both need a drink."
My anger had disappeared. I felt I'd had a very near escape. He mixed the drinks.
He said: "By the way, Kitten, what did that fortuneteller tell you?"
"She told me I was going to have a rather exciting experience with a man."
He said: "Yes? What sort of man?"
"A man who is tall, slim, dark and rather good-looking," I replied.
He said: "Oh...." Then he looked in the mirror. He began to grin. "By jove, I'm tall... I'm slim... I'm dark...."
"And in certain circumstances," I said, "you might be considered to be good-looking."
He brought me my drink. He said: "Well, you know what to expect." He grinned at me over the rim of his glass.
I said: "What am I to expect, Robert?"
He said: "You ought to know... the gypsy warned you...!"
This afternoon I passed you close
So near to all the joys
That I had known one day
How many years away?
So natural and neat were you,
So beautiful in style,
So lovely despite the years;
The ecstasy of old time tears
Was with me for a while.
The leaves were blowing in the Square,
Enlivened by the wind,
You moved with such vivacity,
Rhythm and grace and symmetry.
Your eyes are still bejewelled, my dear,
Your face is still a flow'r,
Your smile still bears a lovely twist
Of lips that I have loved and kiss't
In many a lustrous hour.
The leaves were dancing in the Square
Dead things imbued with breath,
As love that dying yesterday
Lives when you pass this way.
For you the scent of asphodel,
Perfume of ancient love,
The balance, ease, felicity,
The elegance, the purity
That fits you as a glove.
I passed you close today, my love,
And passing spanned the years,
My eyes too dim to see
If you remembered me.
—London, 1942
EFFIE THOMPSON regarded the jangling telephone with green eyes that flashed malevolently.
She said to Nikolls: "I'm sick of answering that 'phone and telling people they can't speak to him. I suppose he was cock-eyed last night?"
Windemere Nikolls, Callaghan's Canadian assistant, grinned at her. "And how!" he said. "Gettin' ready for his birthday today, I suppose. I bet he's got a sweet hangover right now."
She took off the receiver. She said: "Yes... this is Callaghan Investigations. No, I'm afraid you can't speak to Mr. Callaghan. He has a most important conference. No.... I couldn't tell you when he'll be free. I haven't the remotest idea." She hung up the receiver.
Nikolls lighted a cigarette. He looked at Effie Thompson sideways. He asked: "Didya buy a birthday present for the boss? You didn't? Well... well... well.... Maybe you're slippin', babe? Maybe you don't go for him as much as you usta."
Her eyes regarded him wickedly. "Don't, talk rubbish," she said. "And don't call me 'babe'. I suppose it's never occurred to you that a secretary might have merely a platonic regard for her employer?"
"Hear me laugh," said Nikolls. "Playtonic regard is good. Play for him an' tonic for you." He stretched. "You're so stuck on that guy that he could even make you eat peas offa knife."
She said: "Nuts! You're not only fat; you're also crazy."
"O.K.," said Nikolls airily. "I'm crazy an' you're playtonic. All the same you better call him again. I gotta talk to him. Somethin's turned up."
CALLAGHAN turned over as the telephone on his bedside
table rang. He opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling with
animosity. Then he threw back the bedclothes; swung his legs off
the bed; sat, running his fingers through his thick black hair.
His head was aching. His tongue felt like orange plush.
He was wearing scarlet silk pyjamas and the remains of a two-day jag.
The telephone continued to ring. Callaghan knew that the call came from his office on the floor below. He knew it would be Effie Thompson wanting instructions about the morning's post. He scowled at the instrument.
The telephone stopped ringing. Callaghan walked into his sitting-room; crossed to the cupboard in the corner; extracted a bottle of whisky. He put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and took a long swig. He shuddered. The telephone began to ring again.
He went back to the bedroom, carrying the whisky bottle; picked up the receiver.
Effie Thompson said: "Good morning, Mr. Callaghan. It's a quarter past twelve." Her voice was slightly acid.
He asked: "Any calls?"
"Yes," said Effie. "Several, including one from Mrs. Jevons. You remember you worked on a case for her last year. She says she's very worried. She thinks her husband is in love with the housemaid. She says she doesn't know what to do."
Callaghan said: "How do I know? Tell her to ask the housemaid. Give me Nikolls."
Nikolls' voice came on the line. "Good mornin'. Happy birthday. I bet you gotta head this mornin'. How did the party go?"
Callaghan said: "Mind your own damn business. What is it?"
"It's the Globe & International," said Nikolls. "A jewellery job."
"All right," said Callaghan. "I'll be down in half an hour. Ring down to the housekeeper and tell her to send me up a pot of very strong tea."
AT one o'clock Callaghan walked into the office. Out of
the corner of her eye, Effie Thompson looked at him approvingly.
He was wearing a navy blue suit, a fawn shirt, a blue tie.
She said: "I've dealt with most of the post, Mr. Callaghan. I'm sorry you're so tired. And many happy returns of the day."
"The same to you," said Callaghan absently.
He went into his office. Nikolls was sitting in the armchair smoking a cigarette.
Callaghan asked: "Well, what is it, Windy?"
Nikolls said: "The Globe & International are carrying the insurance on a pearl an' diamond necklace. The necklace is owned and insured by some guy called Jerrington. He's got an office at 146 Aldwych. He's a broker or something. The necklace belongs to his wife, but she don't wear it very often. They live outside London an' he keeps the necklace in the office safe."
Callaghan asked: "Did the Globe & International approve the necklace being kept there?"
Nikolls nodded. "Yeah... they'd inspected the safe. They said it was O.K."
Callaghan sat down at his desk. He lighted a cigarette. He said: "Go on, Windy."
"Four days ago," said Nikolls, "Jerrington goes inta the office. He's takin' his wife to the theatre that night. An' she wantsta wear the necklace. So he opens the safe an' the necklace is gone."
Callaghan asked: "Was the safe forced?"
Nikolls shook his head. "No... It was just opened, and it was opened by somebody with gloves on— somebody who knew the combination."
Callaghan said: "If this thing only took place four days ago, what's the hurry? Has the robbery been reported?"
Nikolls nodded. "Yeah... but the Globe & International wanta check up good an' quick because this guy Jerrington is due to close down his business and leave for South Africa with his wife in a week's time. He wants the claim settled before he goes, see? The Globe want you to do a quick routine check-up on it."
Callaghan asked: "Who did you talk to at the Insurance Company?"
"I talked to Lloyd. He's been in touch with Scotland Yard."
Callaghan asked: "Have they any ideas?"
Nikolls shrugged his shoulders. "The only thing they can think of is the secretary. This guy Jerrington had a secretary—a heavy blonde—a good-looker—one of those dames with what it takes. There's a sorta rumour that Jerrington was stuck on her. A fortnight ago he gives her a week's notice an' she goes."
"Is the idea that the secretary stole the necklace and took it with her?" asked Callaghan.
"They wouldn't know," said Nikolls.
Callaghan yawned. "Well, if the thing's been stolen, the Insurance Company have got to pay."
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "They don't mind so much because they think they're lucky anyway."
Callaghan asked: "Why?"
Nikolls said: "Look... this pearl an' diamond necklace was insured with the Globe & International ten years ago by Jerrington, see? He insured it for fifteen thousand pounds. He's always paid his premiums and everything's been O.K. Four weeks ago Jerrington rings through to the Company an' says he thinks he oughta increase the insurance. He's dead right too. That necklace is worth about five times what it was worth when he bought it. So the Globe & International sent a man along to value it. This guy says the value of the necklace today is somewhere round about fifty thousand pounds. They suggest that's the sum it should be insured for, but the premium would go up too an' Jerrington isn't so sure about that. He says he wants some time to think it over. Well, he hadn't made up his mind before it was pinched."
Callaghan drew on his cigarette. He said: "The Globe & International were lucky. If Jerrington had paid the additional premium and taken out the extra insurance, they would have had to pay out fifty thousand instead of fifteen."
Nikolls nodded. "That's right."
Callaghan looked at his watch. He said: "I'm going to lunch. Maybe I'll look in and see Jerrington some time this afternoon."
He stopped at the doorway. "Does anybody know where the secretary is—the girl Jerrington sacked?"
Nikolls said: "Yeah... she's got an apartment at Carfax Court at Hampstead—No. 10 or 11 or somethin'. I got the address written down."
He went into the outer office; returned with a folded slip of paper. He gave it to Callaghan who put it in his pocket.
Nikolls asked: "Are you going to be back today? You look to me like you got a hangover."
Callaghan said: "I have got a hangover and I don't know if I'll be back."
He went out.
CALLAGHAN took a long time over his lunch, which consisted
of two large whiskies and sodas, four cigarettes and three
aspirin tablets. Eventually, he paid for the whisky, got into his
car and drove to Aldwych. He found the Jerrington office on the
first floor.
When he was shown into Jerrington's room, he said: "I won't waste a lot of your time, Mr. Jerrington. My name's Callaghan, of Callaghan Investigations. I'm investigator for the Globe & International Insurance. They've asked me to talk to you about your claim for the missing necklace. Is there anything you'd like to say about it? This enquiry is, of course, merely routine."
Jerrington nodded his head. He was about thirty-five; well-dressed—an attractive and manly type. He indicated a chair for Callaghan.
He said: "This robbery is a damned nuisance so far as I'm concerned. Not so long ago I thought that I ought to increase the insurance on the necklace. I got the Globe & International to value it and they assessed the value at nearly fifty thousand pounds—very much more than it's insured for at the moment. I said I'd like to consider the business because the new premium would be very heavy. Then I came to the conclusion that it would be better for me to sell the necklace than to pay the additional insurance. You see, my wife wore it very seldom—so seldom that I kept it here in the office safe.
"Four days ago I arranged to take my wife out and went to the safe to get the necklace for her. It was gone. It's tough luck on me because if I'd re-insured it for the extra amount, the Company would have to pay me nearly fifty thousand instead of a measly fifteen; or, if I'd sold it at once, after the valuation, I should have got at least forty thousand."
Callaghan nodded. "It's not so good for you," he said. "By the way, I'm told that your secretary left you not long ago. I suppose it isn't possible that she might have taken the necklace? Did she know the safe combination?"
"I don't know," said Jerrington. "I've never told her what it was, but she's seen me open that safe so many times that it's a stone certainty that she must have learned the combination. However, I can't make myself believe that she'd do a thing like that. She'd been with me a long time." He hesitated; then he said: "Except for one thing...." He stopped talking suddenly; shrugged his shoulders.
Callaghan asked: "What thing?"
Jerrington smiled. "Oh well, I might as well get it off my chest. Marion Lanning was a very good-looking girl—a blonde. Quite beautiful in fact. Well... some business friends of mine rather foolishly ribbed my wife about my secretary's looks. They were only pulling her leg, of course, but unfortunately she took it seriously and it made a little trouble between us. So I thought the easiest way out was to give Miss Lanning her notice. I did that two weeks ago. I gave her a cheque as a present and we parted the best of friends."
Callaghan nodded. "I suppose there wasn't any truth in the joke your friends made about you and Miss Lanning?"
Jerrington grinned. "Well... not really," he said diffidently. "I suppose Marion and I flirted a bit now and again."
Callaghan lighted a cigarette. "Women do funny things," he said. "Do you suppose it's quite impossible that Marion Lanning, fed up with your wife being responsible for her getting the sack, took the necklace with her when she left. So as to get back at your wife?"
"I can't think it's possible," said Jerrington. "Of course I couldn't swear it's not possible. Women can do the most extraordinary things."
Callaghan nodded. "Especially if they're jealous."
He got up; flicked the ash from his cigarette. He said: "I think I'd better have a word with Miss Lanning? Do you know where she's to be found?"
"She used to live at St. John's Wood," said Jerrington. "But she told me when she left that she was moving. I don't think I asked her to leave the new address. There was no need."
Callaghan said: "It doesn't matter. I remember my assistant gave me her address—No. 11 Carfax Court, Hampstead. I'll go along and see her. Just a routine call. So as to clear every possible angle. Naturally, you want the claim paid as soon as possible."
"I do," said Jerrington. "My wife and I are leaving England in five days' time. I'd like everything to be settled before then. When do you think you can let me know about the payment?"
Callaghan said: "The police have nothing to report —although they haven't had much time. Still... I'll go and see Miss Lanning at four-thirty this afternoon. After I've seen her I'll get through to the Globe & International and give them my report on the telephone. As you're leaving, they'll probably pay the claim within the next two days with the proviso that if the necklace is recovered they will be entitled to any additional profit on the sale. That's the usual thing."
Jerrington said: "It's going to be tough if they pay me the fifteen thousand, and then they find the necklace and sell it for fifty thousand. Especially after all the insurance premiums I've paid on the damned thing."
Callaghan nodded. "But if the necklace doesn't turn up, you'll have the fifteen thousand, which is better than nothing." He lighted a fresh cigarette. "I'll see Miss Lanning at four-thirty and telephone to the Company afterwards. Then, when I've spoken to them, I'll call you on the telephone and tell you when you can expect their cheque. How's that?"
Jerrington held out his hand. "That's very kind of you," he said. "I'll be working late here today, so you can get me any time up to eight o'clock tonight." He grinned at Callaghan. "Give my regards to Marion Lanning when you see her," he said.
Callaghan said he would. He went away.
JUST after four-thirty, Callaghan stopped his car outside
the apartment block at Hampstead.
He went in through the main entrance. An arrow on the wall opposite him informed him that the first corridor to the right led to Flats Nos. 1-20.
He walked down the corridor. Three-quarters of the way down it turned abruptly to the left. As he walked round the corner, a woman came out of No. 11. He stopped. She was well worth looking at.
She was a blonde—tall, shapely, exquisitely dressed, with big blue eyes and a demure expression.
She asked: "Were you looking for No. 11 by any chance?"
Callaghan said: "Yes. I'm looking for a Miss Marion Lanning."
She smiled. "I am Miss Lanning. Can I do something for you? I was going to tea." Her smile deepened. "This is one of our milkless days. The milkman didn't deliver this morning."
Callaghan said: "That's a pity. I'd like to talk to you, Miss Lanning, on a rather important matter. I wonder if you'd be good enough to have tea with me?"
She raised her eyebrows.
Callaghan said quickly: "Actually, I'm an investigator from the Globe & International Insurance Company. A necklace belonging to the wife of your late employer, Mr. Jerrington, has been stolen from his office. I thought I'd like to talk to you about it."
She said: "Oh, dear... how dramatic.... I'm most interested. And there's a rather nice tea-rooms near here."
The tea-rooms were empty and quiet. Callaghan watched her as she poured the tea. He thought she was a very attractive woman; that maybe Mrs. Jerrington hadn't been so stupid.
She asked: "Now, Mr. Callaghan, how can I help you?"
"You can help me by not being offended at what I'm going to say, Miss Lanning. As you probably know, when a valuable piece of jewellery is stolen and the police have been advised by the owner, the Insurance Company make their own enquiries. Their idea is not necessarily to put anybody into prison for stealing the necklace, but if possible to secure its return. Do you understand that?"
She nodded. "I understand."
He went on: "I called on Mr. Jerrington this afternoon. Apparently, he is the only one in the office who knows the combination of the safe. The safe hadn't been forced; it had been opened by somebody who knew the combination; somebody who knew that the necklace was there; somebody who knew that it was left there for long periods without even being looked at." He smiled at her. "There is only one person who seems to fill the bill, Miss Lanning."
She raised her eyebrows. She said: "Really!"
"Yes," said Callaghan. "You see, Jerrington told me that some of his friends had been ribbing his wife about his lovely secretary." He smiled at her. "They were right, too. I think you are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in my life."
She said: "Thank you very much, sir!"
"He told me," Callaghan went on, "that his wife began to take this ribbing rather seriously; that it caused a little trouble between him and her, so he decided that the best thing to do was to give you a substantial cheque and your notice. Is that right?"
She said: "Yes... I suppose so. I was sorry to go, but, well..." She shrugged her shoulders prettily. "I understood the position."
"Quite!" said Callaghan. "Now, please don't take offence. You'd been with Jerrington for a long time. He's quite an attractive man. Maybe you were a little keen on him. If you were, it might be that you were very angry at having to leave him because of Mrs. Jerrington. Possibly you didn't like that. It occurred to me that you might have taken that necklace just to put her nose out of joint, and not because you are a thief."
She looked at him demurely. She said: "Mr. Callaghan, what am I supposed to say?"
"You're not supposed to say anything. Here's the point: Supposing, for the sake of argument, you did take that necklace, it's not going to do you any good. You'll find it fearfully difficult to dispose of. Even a professional cracksman would have to have that necklace and its pendant broken up and sold at a great loss in order not to risk detection. You can understand that, can't you?"
She nodded.
He went on: "I've told you that I represent the Globe & International. I'm not a policeman. I'm not interested in arresting anybody. I want, if possible, to look after the interests of my principals; to get that necklace back."
She said softly: "I see...."
"I wonder if you'd care to trust me," said Callaghan. "To believe what I'm going to tell you."
She looked at him for a long time. He thought her eyes were very blue, very beautiful.
"Yes, I do trust you, Mr. Callaghan," she said eventually. "Now tell me why I have to trust you."
He said: "Miss Lanning, let's suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you were fearfully annoyed with Mrs. Jerrington; that you didn't want to leave Jerrington's employ; that when he sacked you, you planned to do something to hurt her; that, through having watched Jerrington open the safe, you knew the combination; that on the day you left you opened the safe and took that necklace. All right. That necklace isn't very much use to you, except as a means of annoying Mrs. Jerrington. But it's of use to the Insurance Company. If it isn't returned— supposing you've got it, and we certainly can't prove you've got it until you try to dispose of it—then the Insurance Company will have to pay Jerrington fifteen thousand pounds. See?"
She nodded her blonde head.
"Now, as you probably know," he went on, "an Insurance Company is always prepared to pay a reward of approximately ten per cent of the value of the article stolen to anyone who gives information that leads to its recovery. Ten per cent of fifteen thousand pounds is fifteen hundred pounds, isn't it, Miss Lanning?"
She said: "Yes.... Quite a nice sum."
Callaghan drank some tea. He smiled at her. He said: "Now if by, shall we say, tomorrow morning, you were prepared to come to my office to see me personally, and to tell me, as between you and me, that you might know where the necklace was, knowing that you'd get fifteen hundred pounds for the information—having understood all that, Miss Lanning, will you now tell me definitely that you know nothing about the disappearance of the necklace?"
She thought for a moment; then she said: "Mr. Callaghan, I think you're a very understanding man. I believe what you say, and I'm sure I trust you." Her smile was radiant. "But if you wouldn't mind, I would like to think this over. I wonder if you'd Like to give me your office address. I'll come and see you tomorrow about eleven o'clock."
Callaghan said: "That will be wonderful." He felt in his pocket for a piece of paper and a pencil; took out the folded half sheet of paper that Nikolls had given him that morning with Miss Lanning's address written on it. He tore a strip off; wrote his name and office address on the piece of paper; gave it to her.
He said: "I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock. Now, will you forgive me if I go?"
She smiled at him.
Callaghan smiled back. When he stopped at the cash-desk to pay the bill, he took the opportunity to take another look at Miss Lanning. He thought she was worth it.
CALLAGHAN drove slowly towards Carfax Court. When he
arrived he parked his car on the opposite side of the road;
walked across and entered the building.
Twenty minutes afterwards he came out; started up the car; stopped at a call-box two hundred yards down the road. He dialled his office number. When Effie Thompson came on the line, he said:
"Effie, tell Nikolls to get cracking and find out Jerrington's private address. Tell him he's got to get a ripple on. I'll be ringing through for it in fifteen minutes."
She said: "Very well, Mr. Callaghan."
Callaghan hung up. He went back to the car, lighted a cigarette and relaxed. He was still thinking about Miss Lanning. He thought that she was nice to think about.
At a quarter to eight that evening, Callaghan pushed open
the outer door of Jerrington's office and went in. He walked
across the deserted secretary's office, tapped on the door of
Jerrington's room; pushed it open without waiting for a reply;
went in. Jerrington was sitting at his desk signing letters.
He said: "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Callaghan. I hope you have good news for me."
"I'm not certain," said Callaghan. "We'll wait for your wife."
Jerrington said: "What the hell do you mean?"
"You've slipped up, Jerrington," said Callaghan. "When I was leaving my office this morning to come round and see you, my assistant, who'd got some information from the Insurance Company about this matter, told me your secretary had left you not long before the necklace was stolen. I asked him what her address was. He said it was 'No. 10 or No. 11 Carfax Court—or something like that.' He said he had the address written down on a piece of paper. He gave it to me, but I didn't look at it. I put it in my pocket. When I saw you I had the idea in my head that Miss Lanning lived at No. 11 Carfax Court. I told you that she lived at No. 11 Carfax Court.
"I also told you that I was going to see her at four-thirty this afternoon. That suited your book. Immediately I'd left your office, you telephoned through to your wife, who is also your accomplice in this little matter, told her to drive to Carfax Court as quickly as possible, to stand inside the main entrance so that she could see when I approached, and to be discovered in the act of leaving No. 11. You knew that because you'd described your secretary as blonde and beautiful, and because I saw this blonde and beautiful woman leaving No. 11, I should think that she was Miss Lanning, your secretary.
"Well, I did think that—more especially as I was assisted in the process by Mrs. Jerrington, who told me she was Miss Lanning. We went and had tea, and she did all the things you told her to do. She deliberately gave me the impression that she had stolen the necklace to get back at Mrs. Jerrington. She arranged to see me tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock to decide whether she'd return it and take the ten per cent reward, which I'd held out to her as a bait to confess that she'd got the necklace."
Callaghan lighted a cigarette. He went on: "Up to that time I was the sucker. I'd fallen for the whole thing hook, line and sinker. I believed that the woman I was talking to was Marion Lanning. I believed that she had stolen the necklace because she hated Mrs. Jerrington." He grinned happily. "And then one of those things happened," he said. "She asked me to write down my address so that she'd know where to come the next day. I knew I had a piece of paper in my pocket—the paper my assistant had given me with Marion Lanning's address on it. So I tore a piece off that to write my office address down, and on the other side of the remaining piece I saw Marion Lanning's real address. It wasn't No. 11 Carfax Court—it was No. 10 Carfax Court. And how do you like that, Jerrington?"
Jerrington gasped; looked at Callaghan with his mouth open.
Callaghan continued: "I went back to Carfax Court—to No. 10—and found the real Marion Lanning. You'd planned it very nicely. You knew that she's leaving tonight for Canada, where she'd got a job, so that tomorrow, when the supposed Marion Lanning didn't turn up at my office, then we should be certain that she'd stolen the necklace and taken it with her. In which case the Insurance Company would have paid you fifteen thousand pounds. And you'd have the necklace too!"
He blew a smoke ring and watched it sail towards the ceiling. The office door opened. Mrs. Jerrington came in. She closed the door; stood with her back to it, her blue eyes moving from her husband to Callaghan.
She said: "It didn't come off, Harry. He knows!"
Jerrington said shortly: "Well... what are you going to do, Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "Where's the necklace? I want to see it. Show it to me; then I'll tell you what I'm going to do."
Jerrington got up. He moved across the room to a book-shelf; took out a book. From the recess behind, he produced a blue leather jewel case. He handed it to Callaghan; went back to his chair.
Callaghan opened the case; examined the necklace. He put the case in his pocket. He looked at them and smiled.
He said: "You people planned to have both the necklace and the insurance money. You were going to get out of the country and when you got out, you were going to sell that necklace for big money. And in order to pull off your scheme you didn't give a damn about throwing suspicion on Marion Lanning—that was a dirty bit of work. For which you're going to suffer."
He went on: "If I go back and tell the whole story to the Globe & International, they won't give a damn. They'll just cancel the policy and let it go. They won't have suffered, so why should they worry? But if I do that, you'll still have the necklace and you can sell it and make a very good profit on the job.
"So I'm going to take it with me. I'm going to report that I have an idea who the crook is who stole it. I'm going to advise the Insurance Company to pay you the fifteen thousand pounds due to you."
Mrs. Jerrington said sharply: "But what about the necklace? What are you going to do with the necklace? It's worth fifty thousand pounds?"
Callaghan grinned at her. "Two or three days after you've received your cheque from the Insurance Company, I'm going to 'find' that necklace," he said. "Through my underworld connections. I'm going to hand it in to the Insurance Company, and as they will have paid the insurance on it to you, it will be their property. They'll make the profit when they put it up for sale. And how do you like that?"
Jerrington got up. He said: "Look here, Callaghan—"
Callaghan said: "Shut up, Jerrington. Do what I say or be arrested, with your wife, on a charge of conspiracy to defraud. And a further charge of criminal slander against Marion Lanning. You tried to be too clever and it's going to cost you about thirty thousand pounds."
The woman said: "Do as he says, Harry. We've got to."
Callaghan picked up his hat. He said: "Well, my children, next time you try something like this, think up something better. I'll report to the Company tomorrow. You ought to get your cheque by the end of the week. I hope you'll like it!"
Mrs. Jerrington's eyes flashed. She said: "Damn you, Mr. Callaghan. You've got us where you want us. I suppose you're getting a hell of a laugh out of this."
Callaghan smiled at her amiably. "Not only a hell of a laugh, Mrs. Jerrington," he said. "But, in a few days' time, when I manage to find the necklace, I shall also get the fifteen hundred pounds reward from the Insurance Company. Good evening!"
He went out; closed the door quietly behind him.
KERR came through the door from the sitting-room into the bedroom. He was softly whistling a tune he had heard in some bar. He thought that you were always hearing tunes in bars and then forgetting them. But it didn't matter. You always heard another tune sometime. Life was like that.
He went to a chest of drawers; opened the top drawer; took out a .32 automatic in a soft Mexican leather shoulder holster. He slipped his left arm through the brace; settled the holster comfortably under his armpit. Then he put on his tuxedo; stood looking towards the window.
He was thinking about Metzler. He was thinking that Metzler was a fool but tough. How tough? He grinned at the idea. Only fools or very wise men could afford to be very tough.
Somewhere on the other side of the narrow street, a woman began to play a tango on a Spanish guitar. Kerr thought the music wasn't bad.
It was evening—a close, half-misty, Parisian summer evening. The shadows were just beginning to lengthen. When the woman stopped playing the guitar, somewhere in the distance a man started to sing a French song in a monotonous and metallic voice. Kerr stood in the middle of the room, his hands hanging straight down by his sides. He stood relaxed, immobile.
He was tall, slim; with a good line to his jaw; black hair. His face was hard. It was a strange, not unattractive face— lightened sometimes by a peculiar and apparently whimsical smile. He had good teeth. He moved easily, quickly, like an athlete. He might have been anything. He gave an impression of a hard efficiency beneath a superficial exterior of nonchalance. Looking at him casually, you might have thought of the iron hand in the velvet glove. If you were a man. If you were a woman you would feel interest, and possibly curiosity. He liked women to feel like that. He had found the process useful.
The woman began to play the guitar again. Kerr took a cigarette pack from his left-hand jacket pocket; struck a match; lighted the cigarette. The light, cupped in his hand, illuminated his face. He threw the match away; picked up a black soft hat from a chair; went out of the room, down the narrow winding stairs, into the street.
He began to walk towards Metzler's place. He thought that Metzler must be out of the money. Otherwise he would not be living in the Rue de Venice. He began to whistle softly to himself again. He could not get the tune out of his head. Through the half mist, he could see the neon bar signs lighting up... Le Moulin Bleu... Dingo-Bar... Astor Bar... Au Nègre Blanc....
He walked for quite a while. He stopped on the corner opposite Metzler's apartment house. He stopped whistling. He realised that he had arrived at exactly the right time.
Metzler came out of the shabby house. He stood for a moment in the doorway looking up and down the street. Kerr, leaning against the wall in the shadows on the opposite corner, watched him. He thought that Metzler was getting nervy. So much the better. After a second's hesitation, Metzler turned right; began to walk up the street.
Kerr overtook him at the first lamp-post. He said quietly: "Hey, Metzler. How's it going?"
Metzler spun round. Then he saw Kerr. He grinned in an undecided manner. He said: "What the hell!"
Kerr cocked one eyebrow. "Yes...? Feeling scared?"
Metzler ran his finger between his neck and the soft shirt collar. He said: "Maybe it's you I'm scared of."
"Maybe," said Kerr. "Have you thought about it?"
"Yeah. I been doin' a lot of thinkin'."
Kerr asked shortly: "Well?"
"Look," said Metzler urgently, "I told you I'd come across, and I'm not likely to break my word, am I? I wouldn't string you along."
"No, you wouldn't string me along. You've got too much brains." Kerr's voice was grim.
Metzler said: "Look, you don't have to push me around. You——"
Kerr interrupted. "I'm not pushing you around. You know what I want. All you have to do is to do it."
"I know... I know.... Listen... tomorrow.... O.K.... see? Tomorrow." There was a note of pleading in Metzler's voice.
Kerr said: "All right. Not later than seven-thirty tomorrow evening. But it's got to be then, see?"
Metzler nodded. "O.K... O.K."
"Seven-thirty at the—" Kerr hesitated for a moment, thinking of a place. He went on: "At the Bar Perroquet."
Metzler said in a definite voice: "No... not there."
"Why not?" asked Kerr.
"I don't like the place." Metzler's voice was impatient. "You better call me tomorrow evening. Call me round about seven o'clock."
"All right," said Kerr. "Seven o'clock. But remember, there's going to be no more waiting. I'll be seeing you."
He turned on his heel; walked down the street. Metzler stood for a little while, his hands in his pockets, watching Kerr's retreating figure.
THE mist was a little thicker. Now it was difficult to see
more than the distance across the road. The streets became wider.
Kerr stopped; lighted a cigarette. As he threw the match away a
neon sign flashed into action on the other side of the street.
The sign read Bar Perroquet. Kerr stood for a moment
looking at the sign; then he began to cross the road.
The Bar Perroquet was one of those places. It had atmosphere, a long mahogany bar, three white-jacketed barmen, a Parisian version of a juke box which played quietly at the far end; anything else you wanted within reason—and a few things that weren't even reasonable—if they knew you. Opposite the bar, running the length of the long room, were small tables. The place was full of types, remnants of an atmosphere which had passed with the departure of the troops. The Perroquet could have told a thousand tales—some romantic, sonic quite sordid. Now it rested on its laurels, forming a meeting place for all sorts and conditions of men and women, most of whom were looking for something— or somebody.
Two men were standing at the bar at the end next to the entrance. The man Salvador was tall, slim, well-dressed— obviously a Latin. The other man—Dupont—was definitely a character. He was of good height; plump. His face was round. It exuded a certain bonhomie. His eyes—brown, intelligent— were perhaps too watchful for the rest of the face. He reminded you of a smiling edition of Horace Greenstreet.
The barman said: "Monsieur Dupont, you are wanted on the telephone."
Dupont said: "Thanks, Philippe...."
He went into the telephone booth in the corner.
Kerr came into the bar. He walked to the far end. He ordered whisky.
Dupont came out of the telephone booth. He rejoined his companion. Salvador nudged his arm; indicated Kerr at the far end of the bar.
Dupont said: "That ees marvellous, Salvador. My lucky star ees working. I want a theeng to 'appen and eet 'appens .... Voyez vous...." He jerked his head towards Kerr. He picked up his glass; drained it. He put the glass back on the bar with a peculiarly neat and decided movement. He moved with a light, almost jaunty step to the far end of the long bar. He stopped beside Kerr.
He said: "Good evening, M'sieu... what about 'aving a leetle drink with me?"
Kerr looked at him casually. "Thanks a lot. Why?"
The plump man said: "My name is Dupont— Marcel Dupont. Quite a lot of people know me... you know?"
"Maybe...." Kerr smiled reflectively. "But I don't."
Dupont shrugged. "In any event, M'sieu Kerr, let us 'ave the drink. I think it 'elps." He ordered two fines à l'eau.
Kerr lighted a fresh cigarette. He seemed disinterested. The barman brought the drinks.
Dupont said: "Bonne santé, M'sieu." He drank some of the brandy. "You are not a ver' curious type, M'sieu Kerr."
Kerr said nonchalantly: "You'll talk when you want to. But I haven't a lot of time."
"No?" said Dupont. There was a silence; then: "I 'ave a leetle proposition to make to you, M'sieu Kerr. I theenk it ees going to interest you. I 'ave a fren'—Madame Dominguez. Maybe you 'ave 'eard about 'er. She ees a rich woman. But ver' rich... you know? Also she 'as 'ad five 'usbands... she ees fond of 'usbands. The last one died about six months ago."
"Yeah?" Kerr's voice was bored. He drank half the brandy in his glass.
Dupont went on: "Madame Dominguez 'as seen you once or twice. She 'as seen you at the Café Rendezvous— at Gaston's place. She 'as seen you around dancing. She likes you." He smiled amiably at Kerr.
Kerr said: "Fine." He finished the drink; signalled to the barman to refill the glasses.
Dupont continued: "Madame 'as a ver' beeg idea. She ees going to make a trip... you know... by airplane. She 'as a mos' marvellous airplane. It ees so beeg, you cannot believe it... a new toy, you understand. She ees taking some fren's for a trip all round the place. I theenk it ees going to be ver' good fun. I am in charge of the arrangements, so I know it ees going to be good fun."
Kerr asked: "What's all this to me?"
The barman brought the fresh drinks.
Dupont said ruminatively: "I theenk it would be a good idea if you came on this trip. Madame Dominguez would like eet. If anybody makes 'er 'appy it ees always good for them. I theenk that you weel come. Hein?"
Kerr seemed disinterested. "Why?"
Dupont shrugged his shoulders. He dropped his voice. "Mon vieux ... I live in Paris and eet ees my business to know what goes on... you know? They tell me that there are two hundred and sixty-seven deserters from the American Army in Paris. Mos' of these boys don' want to go back to the United States for many different reasons. One can understand that. Mos' of them 'ave... well, not-so-good records. Mos' of them are wanted by the police in the States. You see, M'sieu Kerr?"
"I've heard something about it," said Kerr. His voice was no longer bored.
Dupont said: "Oui? Well, it 'as not been too bad for them. They 'ave 'ad a nice time 'ere. But now it ees not going to be so good for these boys." He looked at Kerr. His eyes were wide and smiling, but there was an ominous note in his voice. "They tell me that the F.B.I.... you know, the American Federal Government... 'ave sent feefty agents to Paris. These agents are going through Paris weeth what you call a fine-tooth comb! They are going to find all these people. They are going to take them in. They theenk it will only take them t'ree four days to get the whole two 'undred and sixty-seven."
Kerr finished his brandy. "Tell me some more about the airplane trip, Dupont."
Dupont's voice changed. It changed almost imperceptibly to a light-hearted note. Now he exuded casual bonhomie>. "Call me Marcel... everybody calls me Marcel... Reecky. Now, I tell you about the trip. We are going to leave tomorrow from Le Bourget. And tonight we 'ave a leetle supper party at the Coq d'Or. Madame Dominguez will be there. You 'ad better make your arrangements quickly, hey? And you need not worry. I can make all the arrangements. All you have to do ees to be at the Coq d'Or tonight at nine-thirty; meet Madame Dominguez. I will tell 'er that you are an old fren' of mine; that I have been looking for you to ask you to come on this trip; that I have only succeeded in finding you today. You understand? Get your packing done tonight; be ready to leave tomorrow morning."
Kerr said: "It's pretty short notice."
Dupont shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe.... But theengs move ver' quickly these days... you know... like these Federal agents. They tell me they are ver' quick once they get working."
Kerr said quickly: "All right. I'll make it. I'll see you tonight at the Coq d'Or at nine-thirty. I'm looking forward to meeting Madame Dominguez."
Dupont smiled expansively. "I'm so glad. We are going to 'ave a lovely trip. Leesten, Reecky... maybe you 'ave one or two leetle things to settle before you go away, and Madame Dominguez likes her guests to be ver' 'appy and comfortable...." He took out a wad of notes. "Two 'undred thousand francs... not ver' much, but enough to buy one or two theengs and some cigarettes. Another dreenk...?"
Kerr said: "No. And thanks for the chicken feed." He put the notes in his pocket. "Well... the Coq d'Or at nine-thirty. I'll be seeing you."
He went out.
Dupont walked slowly to the other end of the bar. The man Salvador was leaning against the mahogany counter, smoking a cigarette. Dupont told the barman to bring drinks.
Salvador asked: "Well...?"
Dupont grinned expansively. "Of course... of course.... Don't you know that Marcel Dupont always gets what 'e wants...? My star ees steel working... voyez vous.... Jus' at the moment I want 'eem 'e comes into this bar.... Such luck, mon vieux!"
KERR came slowly out of his sitting-room into the bedroom.
He took off his hat; threw it on to a chair. The woman on the
other side of the street began to play on the guitar. This time
she played a slow Spanish love song. Kerr thought that the
plaintive melody matched the macabre mood of the
evening.
He took off his tuxedo; threw it on the back of the chair; reached under the bed for a suitcase; put the suitcase on the bed; opened it. He went to the chest of drawers by the window; began to take out shirts, ties, underclothes. He carried them towards the bed. Halfway there he stopped. He began to think about Metzler. He threw the things into the suitcase; put on his coat and hat; went out. Outside, through the mist, he could see the lights of a taxicab. He stopped it; told the driver to go to the Rue de Venice. When he got out of the cab and had paid off the driver, it had begun to rain. Kerr thought it was an odd sort of night. There was something in the air which he could not understand—a peculiar tension.
The concièrge—an old woman—was sitting in the small shabby office just inside the hall.
Kerr said to her: "Good evening. Is Mr. Metzler in?"
She nodded. "Out, M'sieu. 'E 'as been in some time. 'E went to bed with an 'eadache."
Kerr went up the stairs. The stairway was narrow, dark and unswept. Half-way up at the curve there was a wall bracket with a dim electric light. The carpet on the stair was worn. The place presented an atmosphere of shabby poverty.
When Kerr got to the second floor hall-way, he stood for a moment looking, at Metzler's door. A gleam of light came from beneath it. He felt in his jacket pocket for the cigarette pack; put a cigarette into his mouth. He did not light it. He tapped on the door. Nothing happened. He stood there waiting for a moment or two; knocked again. There was no reply.
Kerr put his shoulder to the door; held the doorknob between both hands; pushed hard. The old, cheap lock splintered away from the woodwork almost without noise. Kerr went inside; closed the door quietly behind him. He was in a small dusty hallway. Opposite him was a door, half open, leading to the sitting-room. The light was on in the sitting-room.
He went in. He stood relaxed just inside the doorway, his arms hanging down by his sides, the unlit cigarette in one corner of his mouth, looking about him. But there was a certain wariness about him. His attitude gave the impression that nothing would surprise him; that life held few things that would shock or affect him unduly.
The room presented a peculiar atmosphere of desolation.
Kerr looked at the door in the far corner of the room. He went over; pushed it open. Before him, set in the centre of the wall of the shabby and dusty room, he could see in the dim half-light the bed with its old-fashioned wooden headboard. Protruding round the edge of the bed was a pair of legs, the feet turned outwards. He switched on the light.
Kerr walked round the bed and stood looking at the prone figure of Metzler. He remembered his unlit cigarette which still hung from the corner of his mouth. He felt in his pocket for the packet of matches; produced it. It was empty. He put the empty pack back in his pocket; knelt down by the side of the body. He undid the waistcoat; saw the stab wound. He rose from his knees, stood looking at the broad face of the dead man. Then, almost casually, he turned on his heel; went back into the sitting-room. He walked towards the door; stopped as his eyes saw something on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. It was a small ruby—a good stone—about one-eighth of an inch in width. He stood, the precious stone in the palm of his hand, looking at it. He put in it his jacket pocket.
He went out of the flat, closing the broken door carefully behind him.
Downstairs the concièrge said: "Bonsoir, M'sieu.... I 'ope Mr. Metzler's 'eadache is bettaire...."
Kerr said: "No...."
The idea of Metzler having a headache was amusing. He grinned at the concièrge. "The headache's worse. Mr. Metzler says he wants to sleep. He doesn't want to be disturbed... not before tomorrow afternoon."
She nodded her head.
Kerr said: "Good night."
He went out into the street.
It was nine-thirty. Kerr went into the Coq d'Or; walked towards the bar in the corner; ordered a drink. He stood waiting for the drink with his back to the bar, looking round the restaurant.
The place was crowded. A buzz of conversation, punctuated by laughter—sometimes subdued, sometimes sudden—filled the large room. In the corner, farthest from the bar, on a raised platform with a scenic backing, an alleged Mexican band sat regarding the scene with bored eyes.
Kerr's eyes roved round the restaurant; stopped at the corner opposite the band. This, he thought, would be the Dominguez party. Several people sat closely round the table talking and laughing. They seemed in the best of spirits; the men mostly handsome, of mixed types, well-dressed; the women... Kerr began to concentrate on the women. He recognised Madame Dominguez easily. A big woman, heavily bejewelled, expensively dressed, with a certain refinement in her face which gave the lie to the rest of her appearance and made her present a not unattractively incongruous figure.
Kerr turned his attention to the other women. He was too late. The band began to play. People rose from the table and went to the dance floor. Dupont came through the entrance. Kerr turned as he heard the voice at his elbow.
Dupont said: "Well, Reecky I am glad to see that punctuality ees another of your virtues."
Kerr grinned. "I've never lost anything by being late... not yet."
Dupont raised his eyebrows. "You are right, mon vieux," he said. "They say that the early birrd catches the worm." He smiled amiably at Kerr. "I should theenk you 'ave caught a lot of worms in your time."
Kerr said: "Maybe... maybe not. Sometimes you can get up even too early for the worm."
"You are right," said Dupont. "Because some of the worms sleep late. I suppose you 'ave been making what they call a leetle reconnaissance of the party. Before I tak' you over, let me tell you about some of the people you are going to meet. You see, at the top of the table... that ees Madame Dominguez. Charming, but no fool. A woman who does the mos' unexpected theengs always at the mos' unexpected times. Sometimes she gets up early too, like the worms. But she ees ver' nice. She likes people. She likes people that I like. That ees why I knew that you and she would get on well together."
Kerr said: "You think she'll find me amusing. I wonder why."
Dupont shrugged his shoulders. "Per'aps the reason why I theenk she'll find you amusing is because I do not know why you are amusing," he said. "Work that out for yourself. I mean that you are not obvious, Reecky... you understand? And Eulalia Dominguez does not like the obvious. Then, another theeng... you look nice in your clothes. You know, you 'ave an air. She likes men who know how to wear their clothes. And also you are quiet. I theenk she will like your quietness because mos' of her fren's are a leetle loud. And then you don' say anything very mooch. Well... per'aps she weel like that because you leesten while she talk."
"You think I'll be interested in hearing her talk?"
Dupont shrugged his shoulders. "What do you care? She ees what you call a good meal ticket, Reecky."
Kerr drank some of his whisky. "You think I'm looking for a meal ticket?" His voice was cynical.
Dupont said: "I do not theenk anything... I know.! I am not particularly concerned as to whether you are looking for a meal ticket. I know you want to get out of Paris." He dropped his voice. "I would go so far, my fren' Reecky, as to say I know you 'ave got to get out of Paris. You see"—he smiled—"I know everything. I'm a ver' lucky man. I always meet the right people at the right moment. I 'ave my star, you know."
Kerr said: "I see. Your own particular little star—a good luck star that shines for Marcel Dupont?"
Dupont nodded. "Oui!"
"I hope the star will never let you down," said Kerr.
"Why should eet?" Dupont asked. "Eet nevaire 'as."
Kerr put down his glass. "I wonder what the strings are...."
"Streengs... what streengs...?" asked Dupont.
Kerr said: "You expect me to believe that because Madame Eulalia Dominguez has seen me once or twice around Paris she's not going to have a successful trip unless I'm in on it. On the strength of that you give me two hundred thousand francs tonight. I'm wondering what the catch is."
Dupont asked softly: "You theenk there 'as to be a catch?"
Kerr said: "There always is a catch."
"You are cynical," said Dupont. "But I theenk maybe that ees a good thing to be. It suits you. All right... well, supposing for the sake of argument that there ees a leetle catch somewhere, what do you care so long as you get out of Paris? Come on, my fren'. Let us meet Madame."
He led the way towards the table in the far corner. They reached the table. There were only a few people there. Madame Dominguez, the man Salvador, who had been with Dupont in the Bar Perroquet, two other tough-looking but nondescript individuals—all well-dressed. The men might have been anything.
Dupont said: "Eulalia... here ees my latest acquisition. May I present my good fren' Reecky Kerr? Reecky... the Señora Eulalia Dominguez... your 'ostess—one of the mos' delightful and charming women I know. Eulalia, 'e ees very deep... ver' amusing. 'E ees nice-looking too... you know... and 'e 'as brains."
The Señora Dominguez spoke. Her voice was deep, easy and cultured. There was something very attractive in its touch of hoarseness. She spoke English almost perfectly.
She said softly: "Ricky... if you had not all those virtues which Marcel ascribes to you, I am sure you would still be very nice. Sit down by me here. Give yourself some champagne. First of all... this is Antonio Salvador—a good friend. These gentlemen are Messieurs Gastare and Laront. The others will be back in a minute. They are dancing. I had better make the most of my opportunities and talk to you quickly."
Kerr sat down. He smiled at her. His smile was quite delightful even if it was artificial. It illuminated his face. The Señora Dominguez thought that he was a very attractive man.
"Tell me, Señora, why do you have to talk to me quickly?"
She said: "First of all I am not 'Señora' to you. I am Eulalia... always Eulalia to my friends." She put a plump, beringed hand over Kerr's large brown one for an instant; then removed it. "I say quickly because in a minute I am going to have some competition. There are two charming women coming on this trip— Sonia Delarme who is nearly beautiful—and Paula Gerrard who is quite beautiful. When they come back from the dance floor you will no longer want to talk to me."
Kerr said: "Beauty isn't everything. A woman sometimes gains by experience and intelligence—and years."
She raised her eyebrows provocatively. "You think so-o, Ricky. I was very experienced when I was quite young, and I hope you are not going to suggest that I was not intelligent."
Kerr squeezed her hand. "You could never have been unintelligent... never." He looked at her ruby bracelet. "I think that's one of the most marvellous bracelets I've ever seen. It suits you perfectly. It's rather a pity..."
She interrupted. "What is rather a pity?"
Kerr said slowly, as if he was thinking of something else: "It's rather a pity that you've lost one of the stones. See... there's one ruby missing... I wonder when you lost that."
She said: "Oh dear... such a nuisance. One should never lend jewels to other people. I loaned this bracelet to Sonia Delarme this afternoon. She wanted to wear it. The ruby must have fallen out whilst she had it. Never mind. We will say nothing to her about it. I will have another stone put in its place. But wait, my friend.... In a second I am going to be eclipsed. Here are the others."
Two men and two women made their way back to the table as the band stopped playing. Kerr thought that the women certainly had something. The first one was a blonde of about thirty-five years of age with a lovely skin, good eyes, a supple and attractive figure, an expression of charming experience. The man behind her was tall, good-looking, dark. Kerr got up.
Dupont appeared. He said: "Sonia, I want you to meet my good fren', Reecky Kerr. Reecky, this is Sonia Delarme. The others will be here in a minute."
Kerr saw that the second man and woman had stopped half-way to the table to talk to some friends.
Sonia Delarme put out her hand. She said: "I'm glad to meet you. Marcel has been telling us about you. He painted such a picture that I thought I might be disappointed."
Kerr said: "I'm sorry if it's like that."
She smiled at him. Her smile was slow and very attractive. "I'm not a bit disappointed." She looked straight at him. "On the contrary...."
The band began to play again.
Kerr said: "That speech gives me sufficient courage to ask if I might have this dance. Or maybe you're tired."
She said: "I'm never too tired to dance."
They went on to the floor. When they had gone, the man Salvador said to Eulalia Dominguez: "Yes?"
She smiled slowly. She was looking at Kerr. "Yes..." she said. "I think so."
The band played a slow tango. Kerr realised that Sonia Delarme was a perfect dancer. He thought the perfume she was wearing was very attractive. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other girl Paula, dancing with her companion. Sonia noticed his glance.
She said: "She is lovely, isn't she? And very charming."
"Yes. And you ought to know. I should think you were an expert on loveliness."
She said: "In a minute I shall think you're going to say something really nice."
He said airily: "I was just thinking that I have never seen anybody quite as beautiful as you are."
She laughed. "Ricky, that's a nice speech, but you haven't had a good look at Paula yet."
"I don't think it would make a lot of difference," said Kerr.
There was silence for a moment; then she said: "I think I'm going to change the subject before you get too intense. I'm getting a little scared."
"Yes?" he queried. "Of what?"
She said: "I don't quite know, but I think that in a quiet way you're rather overpowering, if you know what I mean."
"I don't.... One of these fine days I'll get you to tell me about it."
She said: "All right. One of these fine days perhaps I will. Tell me, do you like Paris? I suppose I'd be awfully curious if I asked you what you were doing here. Are you on business, or is this pleasure? Or perhaps you don't like curious women."
Kerr looked at her. She moved a little closer to him.
"I'm very fond of curious women. But I don't have to satisfy their curiosity."
She raised her eyebrows. She said smilingly: "Mysterious as well. That's very attractive."
The band stopped. She said: "They're not going to play an encore, and anyway, it's time that you met Paula."
They walked back to the table. Sonia led the way to the end of the table farthest from Eulalia Dominguez. The girl Paula and her dancing companion were already seated.
Sonia said: "Paula, this is Ricky Kerr. I think he's going to be a great asset to the trip. I've danced with him once and I feel I have known him for several years. He's like that. He grows on you very quickly." She turned to Kerr. "This is Paula Gerrard. Well? Was I right about her? Are you going to tell me now that I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?"
"I'm going to tell you that you're the two most beautiful women I've ever seen," said Kerr.
She went on: "You'd be ready for anything, wouldn't you? The answer is always on the tip of your tongue. You know all the answers."
Kerr grinned. "Yes... if I have a good idea of what the questions are going to be."
Dupont came down the table; slipped into the seat next to Kerr. He said: "Now all you people go on talking. I want to 'ave a few words with Reecky. There are one or two leetle things we 'ave to discuss."
Sonia said: "Go ahead, Marcel. You're never happy unless you're discussing something or organising somebody. By the way, what time are we leaving?"
"We leave tomorrow at eleven o'clock," said Dupont. "From Le Bourget. I've seen the plane today. Everything ees ready—the pilot, the wireless officer, everything. She ees quite beautiful—as beautiful as her name."
Sonia said: "It is a lovely name. Don't you think so, Ricky? The plane is called Angel in the Sky."
"And that ees what she looks like," said Dupont. "The mos' beautiful lines... the loveliest wings. To be up in that plane ees like being in the arms of an angel, so the name ees appropriate." He dropped his voice. The others went on talking.
He said to Kerr: "You are all ready to leave in the morning?"
"Yes...." Kerr's eyes were on the doorway.
Two men had come into the Coq d'Or. One was short and plump; the man behind him tall, thin, tough-looking. After a minute, the two men moved over to the bar; stood with their backs to it, looking round the restaurant.
Kerr turned his face away. Dupont said softly, with a grin: "Ees something worrying you, Reecky? Per'aps you need a drink." There was a touch of amusement in his voice.
Kerr put his finger between his collar and neck. "No, I don't think I need a drink. I think I need some air. It's hot in here." He turned his head; looked again in the direction of the bar.
NOW the two men had moved away. They were talking to some
Americans at a nearby table. After a moment they moved to the
next table.
"They look like policemen, don't they?" Dupont said. "You know, you can tell a copper anywhere, can't you, Reecky?"
Kerr said: "Can you?"
Dupont nodded. "I can. But then I am used to studying types. The short man ees an Inspector at the Sûreté Nationale. The other one ees an American. He ees a Federal agent. I expect they 'ave started this comb-out for these American deserters."
"Very likely," said Kerr. "But I still think I need some fresh air."
Dupont smiled. "I wouldn't worry about the air if I were you. Besides, if you look, you will see they 'ave left a flic on the door. Don't worry. Dupont theenks of everything."
The two men came to the table. The short man said: "M'sieu Dupont, I believe you are leaving Le Bourget tomorrow with Madame Dominguez on an airplane trip. I am sorry to inconvenience you but I am an Inspector from the Sûreté. We are having a check-up—a special one. There are some people in Paris we wish to find."
"Of course," said Dupont. He smiled cheerfully. "And you want to make certain that I'm not going to take any of them away with me, hey? I theenk you are perfectly right to do eet. Well, here is my list of passengers and here are their passports." He began to read through the list, beginning with Señora Eulalia Dominguez. He came to what seemed to be the end of the list. He paused.
The Inspector said: "And this gentleman?" The F.B.I, man, who had said nothing, was looking at Kerr. He said quietly: "I've an idea I've met you before some place."
Kerr looked up. "Maybe.... I've been to a lot of places."
Dupont said: "Ah, yes... this ees Mr. Reecky Kerr—an American citizen. I was just coming to his name on my list." He brought the last passport out of his pocket; added it to the pile on the table. "And there ees his passport. You will find everything ees in order. Dupont ees always careful to 'ave everything perfectly organised." He smiled at Kerr.
The French police officer went through the passports, examined the photographs, looked at the people round the table. He put the passports and the list back on the table.
He said: "Thank you very much, M'sieu Dupont. Everything is in order. I hope I have not inconvenienced you."
"But not at all.... It ees always a great pleasure for me to be of assistance to the police. Good night."
The two men went away. Half-way between the table and the door, the F.B.I, man took another look over his shoulder at Kerr. Then they went out.
Dupont grinned at Kerr. "You see, Reecky... you didn't need the air after all. Have a dreenk?"
"Thanks. I need the drink. Where the hell did you get that passport?" Kerr spoke under his breath.
"I'm a good organiser," said Dupont. "And I always take care of my fren's."
Sonia Delarme said: "I think I like policemen. I liked the look of that F.B.I. man. He looked very experienced."
"They get that way," said Kerr.
Paula Gerrard said smilingly: "I'd hoped you were going to ask me to dance, but I suppose having had one dance with Sonia, nobody else matters."
"On the contrary," said Kerr. "I've been waiting to ask you to dance for the last five minutes. Shall we make up for lost time?"
"I'd like that," she answered.
Kerr looked at her. She was dark, with a fine skin; a slim, supple figure. She was younger than Sonia by some years, he thought. He noticed that her eyes were tired. She looked worried. They went on to the floor. Now the band was playing a slow fox-trot. The tune was haunting.
"It's nice music," said Kerr.
She nodded. "Yes... but a little sad." She looked up at him. "Rather like life."
"I don't think so," said Kerr. "I don't think life sounds like that. Do you find it sad?"
She said: "I suppose so."
"Life shouldn't he sad for a woman who looks like you do," Kerr said quietly. "Beauty should be associated with gaiety. What have you to be sad about?"
"This is no time for telling life stories." She smiled sadly. "But I find I spend most of my time trying to forget things; trying to be gay. I don't want to be unhappy."
"Being unhappy is no sort of proposition," said Kerr. "It doesn't get you anywhere. Besides, there's no need to be unhappy."
"No?" She raised her eyebrows. "Can you explain why?" she asked.
"Most of the things that we worry about never happen," said Kerr. "Usually, it's our point of view that makes us unhappy. If you've a lot of grief the best thing to do is to tell somebody about it." He smiled down at her. "Somebody like me," he added.
"I see. I wish I could think that you were right." She smiled a little cynically. Kerr noticed the beauty of her mouth. She went on: "So all you have to do is to talk to somebody else about it?"
"That's right," said Kerr. "Two heads are better than one."
"All right. I'll take you up on that one day. One day when I have sufficient courage I'll try to talk to you."
"Fine," said Kerr. "So that's fixed."
She smiled at him. "It's odd that I should feel that I could talk to you."
Kerr grinned back at her. "No, it's not. Maybe you think I look tough enough to act as a sort of sounding board. Perhaps you've had too much sympathy and you think you'll get good hard advice from me."
She moved her hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I need good hard advice."
The music stopped. They went back to the table. Looking towards the door, Kerr was relieved to see that the policeman in uniform had gone.
Paula sat down; began to talk to the other people at the table.
Madame Dominguez said: "Come and sit by me here, Ricky. I need some good conversation, and I think you watch life closely."
He looked at her. "Yes? Why?"
"You were quick to notice that the stone was missing from my bracelet. I think you are a very clever person. Tell me... what do you think of Paula?"
Kerr grinned. "What do you want me to think of Paula?"
"You're being too clever," she said. "She's worried, isn't she?"
Kerr asked: "Is she? What's worrying her?"
She looked at him. "It's a story that maybe you've heard before. She has a brother. A not-so-good brother. She thinks he had what you call a raw deal; that he was... what is the word... framed...? Yes, that's it... framed...."
"It can happen," said Kerr.
Madame Dominguez shrugged her shoulders. "The silly boy is in prison. He got a life sentence... for killing someone. She thinks he's innocent... you know...?"
"I know. I've heard that one before." Kerr grinned at Madame Dominguez. "Brothers in prison are always innocent—to their sisters."
She said: "Poor girl... she worries a lot. That is why Sonia suggested to me that she brought her on this trip. So that she could forget and have a little peace."
"A nice idea," said Kerr. "You're a nice person, Eulalia. A kind person..." His smile was insolent.
She looked at him. She began to smile. "When I look at you, Ricky, I want to be kind." She put a cigarette in her mouth. "Give me a light, Ricky...."
He leaned towards her; lighted her cigarette. He said: "I'm going to get a breath of fresh air. It's hot in here. Think up some more nice things to say while I'm away."
He went away. He walked past the bar, into the men's room. He took a piece of tissue paper out of his jacket pocket; opened it. On it lay the ruby he had found in Metzler's room. He looked at it closely.
It was the ruby missing from Madame Dominguez' bracelet.
He began to whistle softly.
He went back to the table.
THE giant plane droned smoothly through the air. Far below, the moon glinted fitfully on the surface of the sea. The night was still. For a moment there was complete silence except for the droning of the motors; then there was a burst of laughter from the main cabin, where a poker party was in progress.
Dupont walked through the main aisle of the plane; opened the door of the pilots' compartment. The co-pilot turned his head.
Dupont asked: "Well, when weel we make it?"
"In about six hours," said the co-pilot. "It's good weather and we've had a tail wind since we left the Azores. Maybe we'll make it in less."
"Good," said Dupont. He looked over his shoulder; then, quietly: "Did Mees Gerrard hear what she wanted. She was interested in sometheeng... hey?"
"Yeah," said the co-pilot. He grinned at Dupont. "She wanted to catch the midnight news from Washington—the Federal Police Bulletin. We got it all right."
"How interesting," said Dupont. "What was eet she wanted to hear?"
"There was a news flash about some dope case. Something tied up with a killing in Oklahoma. The F.B.I, have re-opened the investigation. They're looking for a coupla guys who got away. She seemed plenty interested."
Dupont smiled. "Everybody ees interested in crime... even when in an airplane. O.K.... boys...."
He turned away. He walked down the aisle; went into the main cabin. The party was gathered round a table, playing poker. Kerr stood watching.
Madame Dominguez looked up from her cards. She asked: "Marcel, where are we... and where are we going?"
Paula said: "You don't mean that you still don't know where we are going, Madame Dominguez?"
The older woman shook her head. She laughed. "No, my dear... I don't know. This is an idea of Marcel's. It is a surprise trip, you see. We go from here to there... and when we arrive we know. I think it is rather a nice idea."
Kerr said: "I think so too. You don't know what you have to look forward to."
Madame Dominguez looked at him sideways. "You know, Ricky, there are moments when I think you say some very clever things."
He grinned. "Me too. The trouble is that not a lot of other people do."
Dupont said casually: "Sonia, come into the bar and 'ave a leetle dreenk."
The game went on. Kerr's eyes followed Dupont and Sonia as they went out of the cabin.
Dupont led the way to the small bar. He went behind it. "I can mak' a beautiful Cuba libre, my sweet...."
She said: "Why not?"
Dupont began to mix the drinks. She took out her cigarette case; lighted a cigarette. She was watching him.
Dupont, busy with the bottles, asked: "Well... ees Paula still worrying?"
"Yes," said Sonia. "She wants to get it all off her chest. She's the sort of girl who has to confide in somebody."
"My dear... all women are like that at some time or another." Dupont put the glasses on the bar; poured the drinks. "Try that, Sonia... you'll like eet."
She picked up the drink; drank a little.
Dupont asked: "What did she tell you?"
"She's got an idea the Federal Government are going to start a fresh investigation. She heard something on the radio."
Dupont shrugged his shoulders sympathetically. "Poor keed...." Then casually: "Why did she go to Paris?"
"For the same reason as I did. She wanted to find Metzler."
Dupont nodded. "She didn't find 'eem?"
Sonia shook her head. "She didn't find him. She couldn't find him." She added: "Why should she find him if I couldn't. She didn't even know what he looked like. And I wanted to find him badly enough." She picked up her glass.
Dupont said: "It ees a shame about you, Sonia. Getting yourself married to a bad one like that Metzler.... Why did you do eet... a nice girl like you?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Why does anybody do anything? And when a man's in uniform you only see the good things about him."
"And find out when eet ees too late...." Dupont grinned at her. "What else did leetle Paula say?"
Sonia said: "Before she left America, the Federal authorities told her they'd got some new angles; that they might re-open the whole case. Her story is that the day before the shooting took place her brother wrote a letter. That letter proved that he was innocent."
"Eet ees always the way," said Dupont. "When they get inside the penitentiary they 'ave always got something that proves they didn't do eet. And, usually, they can't find eet. Where was this letter?"
"She says Metzler had it."
Dupont nodded. "Yes? Very interesting."
"She says she got some papers," said Sonia. "From the F.B.I. Some pictures of Metzler so that she'd know him if she came across him. And some other pictures."
Dupont said: "I see." He paused; then: "Look, Sonia... you know what I theenk? I theenk that Paula ees a leetle bit stuck on Reecky. I 'ave seen 'er looking at heem. Maybe she'd like to talk to heem about all thees business, hey? Maybe she'd like to get rid of her worries to a strong man like Reecky."
Sonia said casually: "Maybe."
"They always do," said Dupont. "Look, I am going to 'ave a word with Reecky. Maybe she weel have a talk with heem, you see.... When you get your chance you 'ave a look at those papers. See what ees in them. I'd like to know. You need not tell 'er about eet."
Sonia looked at him. "What does it mean to you, anyway... and why don't you want her to know?"
Dupont shrugged again. "Maybe I could 'elp 'er. I know a lot of people in Paris. You find out what ees in the papers she 'as got and maybe I'll find Metzler." He grinned happily. "Then," he added cheerfully, "maybe she gets the letter she wants and you... well, you can feex your divorce with 'eem...."
She said wearily: "Maybe...."
"Feenish your dreenk," said Dupont. "You are depressed. But you'll feel better. Come... let us go back."
They went back to the poker party. They stood watching as the game went on.
Kerr came over to Dupont. He said quietly: "We're flying pretty fast. It's a good night. When do I stretch my legs?"
Dupont said: "We 'ave a tail wind. We shall be landing tomorrow morning sometime. There ees lovely sunshine ahead... everything ees going to be fine. You weel be able to stretch your legs all right. Also," he continued, "I 'ave a ver' nice dreenk in the bar. Come and join me."
They went into the bar. Dupont asked: "Wheesky...?"
Kerr nodded. Dupont went behind the bar; poured the drinks.
"Reecky, this girl Paula... you know, she ees worried about something."
Kerr said: "Yeah... Madame told me at the Coq d'Or. Her brother's in the penitentiary for life. A killing job, wasn't it?"
Dupont nodded. "'Er brother got himself tied up with some mob that was distributing dope in a ver' beeg way. The police got wise to eet. There was some shooting. Some officers got killed— two of them. There was a lot of trouble. There were four or five men in the mob concerned with the shooting, but the only one they got was 'er brother. He got life."
Kerr said: "It can happen. What's he worrying about?"
Dupont spread his hands. "Eet ees the old story.... You know, she theenks 'e ees innocent. She theenks there ees some evidence that will prove that 'e did not do eet; that 'e was just—what you call a sucker. You know... the usual story. She was trying to find the evidence. That ees why she was in Paris."
"And she didn't find it?" asked Kerr. "Is that why she left Paris?"
Dupont said: "Madame Dominguez thought that eet would be good for 'er to take her mind off this business. She was worrying too mooch. Sonia thought so too. That ees why she was asked to come on this trip." He went on: "You know, Reecky, I theenk this girl Paula ees a bit stuck on you." He smiled. "You 'ave a way with women. All the women like you, you know. Maybe eet would be a good thing if you talked to 'er—found out what all this trouble ees about. Maybe we could do something to 'elp 'er somehow."
Kerr asked: "Who was she looking for in Paris?"
"Some man... a deserter from the Army," Dupont answered. "She thinks he was one of the men who was mixed up in the shooting. She theenks eet might be one of the people she saw around with 'er brother. She did not find 'eem. 'E was a man called Metzler." He smiled at Kerr. "Maybe you came across a fellow called Metzler in Paris?"
"Maybe," said Kerr. "If I did I don't remember."
Dupont nodded. "Look, Reecky... tomorrow, when we land, we weel be there for a day and a night. We stay one night at the 'otel. You 'ave a quiet talk with Paula. I theenk eet would be good for 'er. Then, afterwards, you can tell me all about eet. We weel see if we can do something to 'elp 'er."
Kerr said: "O.K. I'll try anything once."
"Good.... Maybe you weel try a theeng twice eef you like eet? Let us go back."
Kerr got up from his stool. Dupont came round the bar. Sonia came in.
She said: "Hello, Ricky."
"Hello, Sonia. A drink?"
She smiled at him. "Why not?"
"All right," Dupont said. "I weel leave you two together. Don' forget what I told you, Reecky." He grinned. "And don' be too long with Sonia... because, you know, Madame Dominguez ees liable to get a leetle bit jealous sometimes eef she misses you. So long, mes enfants."
He went out.
Kerr asked: "What's the drink?"
"I was drinking Cuba libre. There's some left in the shaker."
He went behind the bar; poured the drinks. He took out his cigarette case; gave her a cigarette; lighted one himself. A burst of laughter came from the main cabin. Somebody's voice could be heard exulting over a win.
She said: "You're a strange sort of guy, Ricky, aren't you?"
Kerr leaned on the bar. He looked at her. He was smiling. "Am I? How would I know?"
She said: "You look out of place somehow."
"Anybody's out of place in a plane." His voice changed. "Tell me something, Sonia... do you like jewellery?"
She asked: "Who doesn't?"
He went on: "That last evening in Paris, did Madame Dominguez lend you her ruby bracelet?"
She looked at him. "Of course she didn't. That old she-devil wouldn't lend anyone her jewellery. What the hell do you mean, Ricky?"
"I wouldn't know what I mean," he said slowly. "Listen... can you keep that little mouth shut up?"
"I learned to do that a long time ago. Besides, who do I want to talk to in this menagerie. What did you mean about that bracelet?"
"The night I met Madame Dominguez, I noticed that a stone was missing. And I'd found the missing stone earlier in the evening."
"Where did you find it, Ricky?" she asked.
"In some guy's room. A man called Metzler. You hadn't been there?"
She caught her breath. "No... I hadn't been there.... You believe that, don't you?"
He said slowly: "Yes... I believe it...."
There was a silence; then Sonia, said: "Tell me about this Metzler."
"He was too popular or too unpopular. I don't know which," said Kerr. "Someone stabbed him. He was dead."
She put her hand on the bar to steady herself. She said in an odd voice: "Is that true?"
"Yeah.... Why? Does it mean anything to you?"
Her voice was flat. "Nothing much. I was just married to the guy... that's all!"
Kerr leaned across the bar. He said evenly: "Who do you think did it, Sonia? Who'd want him out of the way... most?
"How would I know? I hadn't seen him for years. After I married him I found out he was in a lot of trouble. He was a bad guy. He got into the Army to make a getaway. Then I heard he'd deserted in Paris. I went over there to find him. I wanted a divorce."
"And you met Dupont there?" asked Kerr. "Yes... and Madame Dominguez and Paula. She was looking for Metzler too. I talked her into coming on this trip. Madame asked me to. They thought it would be good for her. And I knew it wouldn't do any good if she met Metzler."
Kerr drank. He put down his glass. "This looks like turning into an exciting' trip."
"Nothing's exciting," said Sonia wearily. "Sometimes I think I'm fed up with everything; that I'd like to get out and live in some small place somewhere where it was quiet and there was no trouble or excitement."
Kerr said: "You might be bored."
"I might be.... I don't think I would be—not with the right man."
Kerr grinned. "That's always the trouble, isn't it...finding the right man? But maybe you have some ideas about that."
"Plenty." She looked at him. "I think you might be the right man, Ricky."
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, now... what is this... a proposal?"
She picked up her glass. "If you like...."
Kerr said: "Life can be funny. What's the big idea? What's in the back of your mind?"
She looked around her. She dropped her voice. "I'm sick of all this. I'd like to be well out of it. And that's between us two."
"Maybe you're scared of something," said Kerr.
"Maybe.... These people seem odd to me— Dominguez and Dupont and the rest of them. There's a funny sort of atmosphere. I don't like things I can't understand. You don't seem particularly gay yourself."
He said: "Me? You're wrong. I'm happy. I'm always happy." He grinned at her. There was a touch of cynicism in the grin.
"So you're happy. You'll tell me in a minute you came on this trip because you wanted to come on it."
"That's right."
"Like hell!" she said.
"All right," said Kerr. "Supposing you were right... then what?"
"This. I like to get out when the going's good. I don't think you're a fool. I go for you, Ricky. You've got something. I don't know what it is, but...." She sighed. "I don't know where we're going to, but it's obvious we're going to stop somewhere where it's going to be nice and big... you know, wide open spaces.... Why don't you and I make a break?"
He said cynically: "It sounds lovely... and romantic. What do we live on—bread and cheese and kisses? I've heard that story before."
"Don't worry," she said. "I've got some money— quite enough for us—quite enough for us to get started in something somewhere. And what do you think of that, Ricky?"
He laughed at her. "I don't think anything."
She went on: "I wonder where our next stop is. Dupont's too close about everything."
Kerr said: "The trouble with you is you've got nerves. Marcel's not close. I think it's a marvellous idea... flying around in a plane like this and not knowing where you're going to land. That's a real sort of holiday, I think."
"Yes? Well, think about what I suggested, Ricky."
"The idea appeals to me a lot...running off into the desert some place or other." Kerr came round the bar. He stood looking at her. He said with a little laugh: "O.K.... Sonia, I'll think it over. That—and a lot of other things."
She got up from the stool. She put her arms up; took his face between her hands. She kissed him on the mouth. She smiled. She moved towards the doorway; said over her shoulder: "It's not for publication, but that's the way I feel about you."
Kerr looked up. Madame Dominguez was standing in the doorway of the bar. She was smiling—a tight-lipped smile.
She said: "Very pretty. Just like two love-birds." She laughed. "Ricky... come back to the game. We're going to play roulette. And you, Sonia...."
Sonia went out of the bar. Madame Dominguez waited until Ricky was close to her. She said softly: "You like kissing? It's amusing, hey?"
"It depends on the person," said Kerr. He grinned at her.
"Of course," she said. "But remember, Ricky... it can be dangerous... sometimes...."
KERR stood in the moonlight leaning against one of the
posts of the back verandah of the hotel. The band in the
restaurant was playing a rumba. He stood, smoking a cigarette,
looking across the open countryside.
Paula came out of the shadows. She said: "Ricky, I've been looking for you."
He turned towards her; smiled. He asked: "What's wrong? Isn't the trip being successful?"
She said: "I wish I'd never come. I ought to have stayed in Paris."
Kerr asked casually: "What were you looking for in Paris, Paula? Was it something to do with your brother?"
"Yes.... So you know about it?"
"Just a little," said Kerr. "Madame Dominguez told me that he was inside on a murder rap. That's not so good."
"He's innocent, Ricky, I know it. That's why I ought to have stayed in Paris."
Kerr asked: "You think that there was some proof of this innocence in Paris?"
"I know there was. If I could find it. Before my brother went to prison he told me that the day before his shooting occurred he wrote me a letter. My brother told me that if I could find that letter he'd get out of prison. They'd know he was innocent."
"Yeah...?" said Kerr. "Look... what was all this business about? Who killed who—and why?"
She said urgently: "My brother got a job in Oklahoma with a man named Francini in a trucking business. Jerry worked in the office. He never met Francini. Nobody ever saw him. The man who hired Jerry was a man called Metzler. Metzler was in charge of the depot where the office was. Poor Jerry thought that he was working for a legitimate trucking concern. He wasn't. Francini, Metzler and the rest of them were running a dope distribution organisation."
Kerr raised his eyebrows. "That wasn't so good."
She said miserably: "No, it wasn't so good. After a little while Jerry began to suspect that something was wrong. He noticed the extraordinary secrecy that took place whenever merchandise arrived; the way it was handled; the way it was moved off on the trucks either very late at night or early in the morning. He began to watch. Quite accidentally, he stumbled on the truth."
"Yeah? What did he do about it?"
She went on: "The parage was in a lonely spot. He was scared. He never was a very brave guy. He didn't know what to do. So he wrote me the letter."
Kerr asked: "And you never received it?"
"No. Jerry wrote the letter late at night. He had it in his pocket to post the next day, but he never posted it. Federal officers had got wise to what was going on. The State Police and the F.B.I, raided the trucking depot. There was a lot of shooting. Two police officers were killed. It must have been horrible."
Kerr asked: "Did anybody else get hurt?"
"Yes, my brother. That poor boy was caught up in the whole business. He was trying to get away; to get out of it, but he was wounded. When he recovered consciousness, he found himself in a police wagon. They'd found him with a gun in his hand."
Kerr said: "Yes... go on...."
She continued: "There were four men at the depot who shot it out with the police. Metzler got away and one other man. Of the remaining two—one was shot dead by the police; the other—a man named Scansci— was badly wounded. He got away. But he was so badly wounded that they know he must have died."
"That's not so good, is it?" said Kerr. "What happened to the letter?"
"The letter was gone...."
Kerr nodded. "The idea being that Metzler got it before he made his getaway?"
"That's right," she said. "Metzler got in the Army; deserted in Paris. I know he's got that letter."
"Yeah...? But why should Metzler keep the letter all this time? If he took it so that your brother would be framed wouldn't it be clever of him to destroy it?"
"No..." she said. "He wouldn't destroy it. He wouldn't destroy it because that letter would give the police the evidence they wanted. They thought Metzler would keep that letter. It would be worth money to him. And he always wanted money."
"Blackmail?" asked Kerr.
She nodded. She looked at him. "Ricky, what am I to do? All the time I worry. I think of that poor boy in prison with the long years stretched before him with no hope. If only I could have found Metzler."
"All right...." Kerr grinned. "Supposing you'd have found Metzler, what do you think was going to happen? Do you think he would have handed that letter over to you just like a lamb? He'd have put himself in pretty bad if he'd done that, wouldn't he?"
She said: "You don't understand. Before I went to Paris I saw the Federal police. They were interested in this thing. They still are. They haven't got the man Francini, who was the head of the job. They don't know who he is or where he is, and there are more people in this business. It's a big racket. But they couldn't do anything about my brother without proof. He'd been found guilty and sent up. Ricky, that poor kid never had a chance. I thought if I met Metzler; if I told him the truth, he might have done something. He might have been persuaded to talk and save his own skin."
"So the police had an idea he was in Paris?" asked Kerr.
"They knew he was in Paris. They were looking for him. That's why I went there. The authorities put me in touch with a Federal agent in Paris. You remember the two police officers who came into the Coq d'Or the night before we left Paris. The people who examined our passports. Well, the American was the Federal man I knew. They knew that if they approached Metzler he'd get scared and maybe destroy that letter."
Kerr nodded. "They thought if you talked to him it might be better; that he'd believe you; that he might be prepared to make a deal for himself... if he agreed to talk?"
"Yes... that's what they thought. And if I failed they would have got to work on him. But they wanted me to try first. They helped me all they could. They even started a rumour that there was going to be a check-up for American Army deserters in Paris...."
Kerr grinned. "I suppose they did that to get this guy Metzler good and scared. Not a bad idea." He shrugged his shoulders. "A good idea, but it didn't come off."
She shook her head miserably. "No... it didn't come off."
"And you decided to come on this trip?" asked Kerr.
She said: "When Sonia asked me to come, I felt so miserable, so very unhappy. I thought it might be a good thing to do, but now I'm beginning to be a little scared."
"Yes...? What's scaring you?"
"This trip," said Paula. "It's so mysterious. Madame Dominguez says it's a surprise trip. We don't even know from day to day where we're going."
Kerr said: "I think that's a lot of fun. I like that. So would you if you weren't so het up about your brother. Is that the only thing that's scaring you?"
"No." She came a little closer to him. "I'm scared of Dupont. Sometimes I find him looking at me in an odd way. Sometimes I feel that under that happy, laughing exterior of his there is something that's not so nice."
Kerr asked: "About your brother... you seem to have done a lot of talking to the police?"
She said: "Don't you think that's a good thing?"
"Sometimes it's not a good thing to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds," said Kerr. "I should think you'd have stood a better chance with Metzler if you'd seen him; it you'd tried to find him and left the police out of it. Did they tell you anything else—the Federal people, I mean?"
"I heard that they'd re-opened the whole case. I heard that the day we left Paris. The F.B.I. man gave me a packet of documents and photographs. I haven't looked at them yet. They asked me to go through them carefully; to take a lot of time to consider them; and, having regard to what my brother had told me, to see if I could give them any new ideas."
Kerr asked: "When are you going to look at them?"
She said: "I received them only a few hours before we left. They're in my room in the hotel here. I don't suppose anything will help. I feel quite hopeless. Oh, Ricky...." She put her face in her hands; began to sob.
He put his arm round her shoulder. "Keep your chin up, kid. Everything comes out right"—he paused— "sometimes."
She said: "There are moments when I think I dislike you, Ricky. You're cynical. You're tough. You don't believe in anything that's good."
He grinned. "What do you mean by that? Maybe you mean you think I don't believe in your brother's innocence. Why should I?"
She said in a low voice: "Because I tell you he was innocent."
"You told that to the police," said Kerr, "but they didn't believe you. They want something more than a pretty girl telling them a bedtime story. They like evidence. That's their business. They probably thought you were talking hooey."
"Is that what you think?" Her voice was angry.
Kerr shrugged his shoulders.
She pulled herself together. She said slowly: "I thought you might have helped."
"Be your age," said Kerr. "How can I help? What the hell can I do? Talking never got anybody anywhere. Listen, that's a nice tune they're playing. Why don't we dance?"
She said angrily: "I don't want to dance. I don't want to dance with you anyway." She turned on her heel; walked away.
Kerr fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette pack. He lighted a cigarette; stood looking at the moon. After a minute he walked down the verandah; turned into the hotel. He began to walk towards the restaurant. In the corridor he met Dupont.
Dupont said:. "Well, Reecky... are you 'aving a good time? Ees not life wonderful? Don' you like Havana?"
Kerr grinned. "Me... I'm happy anywhere."
Dupont said: '"Ow's the leetle Paula? I saw 'er dancing with you earlier thees evening."
"She's not very happy. She spends most of her time thinking about her brother. I wonder if there's anything in that story of hers."
"Not for me," said Dupont. "I theenk thees boy was in with the mob all right. He shot a copper so he got life. Maybe he was lucky. But she ees his sister. She does not like to believe eet."
"That's the way it goes," said Kerr. "Where's Sonia?"
"I don' know. I saw her about somewhere. Why don' you talk to Eulalia? She ees asking for you. She says that all the time you're always somewhere else." Dupont grinned at Kerr. "Don' forget she's your meal ticket..."
Kerr grinned back at him. "Yeah I'll go and find her."
SONIA DELARME stopped pacing up and down her bedroom. She
went to the dressing-table; took a cigarette out of the box;
lighted it. Then she went to the window. She looked out on to the
Cuban moonlight. She stepped on to the balcony.
She began to think about Kerr. She thought he was a strange man—strange, mysterious and attractive—very attractive. She wondered why he had come on the trip. She thought she knew about that. At the back of her head was an idea that Dupont had something on Kerr; that he had more or less forced him to come. She wondered why. Once or twice on the flight from Le Bourget to the Azores and thence to Cuba, Dupont had dropped light-hearted remarks which had confirmed her ideas. She thought it was an odd party.
She began to think about Metzler—her husband. She was not surprised, when Kerr had said he was dead, that she had taken the news so easily. Metzler had meant nothing to her. He had failed her; deserted her when he wanted to. He thought of nothing but money.
She began to think about Dupont. Dupont was a strange character, she thought. Always he professed to be wanting to help people. She shrugged her shoulders. When she had met Dupont and Madame Dominguez in Paris they had both suggested that she should come on the trip. She had agreed because she was bored; because she was tired of looking for Metzler and because she had an idea at the back of her head that even if she found him he'd want too high a price for the divorce she wanted.
He was like that.
Then Paula. It was she who had told Dupont about Paula in the first place. He had been full of sympathy; suggested that Paula should come on the trip. Sonia moved back into her bedroom; began to walk up and down.
Now once again Dupont was trying to be helpful. When she'd told him about the papers and the photographs that the F.B.I, agent in Paris had given to Paula he had appeared to be a little too interested. His explanation that he would like to know what those papers and photographs were so that he might possibly help Paula seemed a little thin. No matter how many people he knew in Paris, she knew that looking for Metzler was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Possibly Dupont had some other reason for wanting to know what those papers and photographs were. She stopped pacing suddenly. Why shouldn't she find out?
Sonia was intrigued with the peculiar air of mystery; the strange atmosphere which seemed to be surrounding what had begun as a light-hearted airplane trip given by a rich woman. Nobody seemed to fit in or match up. She thought that if she saw the documents that Paula had, she might satisfy at least some part of her curiosity. And the documents were in Paula's room. That was certain. And Paula at this time would be deep in conversation with Ricky Kerr. She had told Sonia she was going to find him; to talk to him. She made up her mind.
She stubbed out her cigarette; went out of the bedroom; walked down the hotel corridor towards Paula's room. From downstairs came the soft music of the Cuban orchestra in the restaurant.
Sonia stopped outside Paula's bedroom door; looked up and down the corridor; tried the door. It was unlocked. She went in. She had not long to search. There was a writing-case on the dressing-table. She opened it. On the top was a large flat envelope. The flap was not even gummed down.
Sonia took out the papers inside. There were some official documents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation on top. She glanced quickly through these; then as quickly through a dozen photographs. She put the papers and the photographs on one side casually; picked up and examined the last photograph.
It was a picture of Kerr! Underneath was a typed caption—the sort of caption which is attached to a photograph used in a newspaper. It said:
F.B.I. Re-open Oklahoma Dope Probe. Elvin Maynes—Wanted by the F.B.I. in Oklahoma Drug Killing.
Sonia put the picture down on the dressing-table. She stood looking blankly at the photograph. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not hear the door open. She moved only when she heard Paula's voice.
Paula asked angrily: "Why, Sonia... what are you doing in here?"
Her eyes fell on the open envelope. She saw the papers and photographs on the dressing-table. She stepped forward. She saw Kerr's picture; read the caption.
She said: "My God...! Kerr!"
Sonia looked at her. She said slowly: "I came in here because I wanted to help you. I was talking to Dupont about you. He knows a lot of people in Paris. He thought he might be able to find out where Metzler was."
Paula picked up the picture of Kerr. She looked at it with startled eyes.
Sonia said: "It's not so good, is it?" She smiled wryly. "Quite a trip, this. Some people might consider it amusing to know that there's a killer on the plane."
Paula said urgently: "What am I going to do?" She was white-faced; tensed. "Sonia, we've got to do something."
"I shouldn't be in too much of a hurry. Think for a moment and you'll realise that we can do a great deal more by saying nothing."
Paula said quickly: "But why? We know—"
"All right," Sonia interrupted. "We know about Kerr—or whatever his name is. But he doesn't know we know." She smiled. "We're a great deal safer that way."
Paula said: "But he's a killer—a murderer."
Sonia nodded. "It looks like it. But I think you'll have more luck in finding out about your brother if you keep quiet. Remember Kerr was in Paris. So was Metzler. Metzler had some evidence that you think would have proved your brother's innocence. The probability is that that evidence would also have proved Kerr's guilt—his and anybody else's who was in that racket. I think Kerr and Metzler met in Paris."
"Why?" asked Paula. "Why do you think that, Sonia?"
"I'll tell you Kerr told me that Metzler was dead."
Paula caught her breath.
"That surprises you, doesn't it?" said Sonia. "It surprised me too when I heard it. But I'm not surprised now. If Metzler's dead, if he was killed, my guess is that someone killed him for that letter."
Paula said quickly: "Kerr!"
"Maybe.... Maybe Metzler knew too much about Kerr."
Paula said: "Maybe he killed him to get the letter Metzler had—the letter that proved Jerry's innocence. Is that the answer?"
Sonia said wearily: "It could be. Life's funny, isn't it, Paula? You were rather stuck on Ricky, weren't you?"
"No," said Paula. "I think I've always distrusted him. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't think anything. I went for him in rather a big way." Sonia smiled sadly. She sighed. She shrugged her shoulders.
Paula asked: "What are we going to do?"
"I don't know.... But it's no good standing here looking at each other. We'll put those things back in the envelope and seal it down. We'll say nothing until——"
"Until when?" asked Paula.
Sonia looked at her. "Until I've had time to have a little talk with Kerr. Maybe he can do some explaining. He can explain how he knew that Metzler was dead. I want to know about that."
Paula said, almost hotly: "You want to know. Why?"
Sonia said: "Why not? You might as well know now, Paula. I've been married to Metzler for a long time. I came to Paris to find him to fix up a divorce. But it looks as if I don't have to worry any more."
THE plane flew swiftly through the afternoon air. In the main cabin Madame Dominguez, her hands folded over her ample lap, slept peacefully. Everybody was tired. Paula, relaxed in a low chair, idly turned the pages of a magazine.
Dupont, in the pilots' compartment, held deep conversation with the pilot and co-pilot. There was an atmosphere almost of drowsiness. Kerr sat before the table in the small bar playing patience. He was whistling softly to himself. It was the tune he had heard the woman playing on the guitar in Paris.
Sonia came in. She said: "Hello, Ricky."
He looked at her; smiled. "Well... how's it going, Sonia? How did you like Havana?"
"It's a surprising place. I wonder where we're going to now. Have you a cigarette, Ricky?"
He gave her a cigarette; lighted it. She sat down at the other side of the table.
"What did you find surprising about Havana?" he asked. He lighted his own cigarette; looked at her sideways through the flame of the lighter.
She said: "This and that. I saw you having a heart-to-heart talk with Paula in the moonlight."
He said easily: "Yeah? I don't think she likes me a lot."
She raised her eyebrows. "No? Why not?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe I'm a bit too tough for her. What she wanted was sympathy and I wasn't feeling that way."
"She's beginning to bore you a little, isn't she? This story about her brother. I wonder if there's anything in it, Ricky. I wonder if he is innocent."
He said: "Why not? People have been sent up before for something they didn't do. But in the long run the law's usually right, you know. The F.B.I. make a mistake sometimes, but not often. Anyhow, what's she worrying about? They've re-opened the case, haven't they?"
She nodded. "Yes.... That means there must be something in what she says."
"Maybe there is," said Kerr. "If there is they'll find it."
"I wonder.... They want fresh evidence. They wanted to find my husband. Well, if what you say is right he can't talk."
Kerr said: "It doesn't seem to worry you a lot—his being dead?"
She looked at him. "Why should it? He never meant a lot to me. He was a bad guy."
"There are a lot of bad guys about," said Kerr.
She smiled. "Plenty Well, maybe they think they can find some of the other people. There was a man called Maynes. He got away." She looked at Kerr. "Maybe they'll find him."
Kerr dropped his eyes. He collected the cards on the table; began to shuffle them.
She said: "I used to think I knew everything there was to know about my husband—Willie Metzler. I didn't know a thing. He had a private life of his own that I never even knew about. I suppose he was a gangster. It isn't much of a life, being like that, is it?"
"I wouldn't know," said Kerr. "I've never been a gangster. Well"—he grinned at her—"not much...."
She said: "So Willie Metzler is out of the picture. Somebody killed him. Somebody wanted to stop him from talking." She looked at Kerr. "I wonder who that was. Perhaps it was the man Maynes. Perhaps he was scared, too."
Kerr drew on his cigarette. "It could be."
"I wonder what he was like," she said. "Whether he was just another type like Metzler."
"I don't know. Maybe he was a bad egg. Maybe he wasn't. A lot of people get sucked into things without wanting to lead lives like that." He began to set out the cards for patience. "You get in and you can't get out. The more you try to get out the harder you get in."
"Yes?" she queried.
He went on: "Look at Willie Metzler. There was a guy— miserable, unhappy, and scared. On the run— afraid of everybody; with just one thing that could help him."
She asked: "What thing."
"The letter. While he had that letter he thought he could blackmail the guy behind this racket—the big shot—Francini. Maybe he thought he'd duck if things got too bad. Or maybe he thought he'd get some money for handing the letter over. It didn't do him any good. It didn't keep him alive."
She said: "I wonder who's got that letter."
He grinned at her. "You're interested in this, aren't you?"
"Yes. Mainly because Willie was in it. He was an awful fool." There was a pause; then: "Tell me about yourself, Ricky."
He smiled at her. "You're in interested in people, aren't you? There's nothing much to tell. I've just kicked around like everybody else."
She asked: "Were you in the Army?"
"No, I was busy." He grinned at her.
"Busy doing what?" she asked.
"This and that," said Kerr.
Sonia said: "I think you were pretty glad to get on this airplane trip, weren't you?"
Kerr nodded. "I like change of air and scenery. This way I get it."
She said: "Yes. And maybe you feel a lot safer, Ricky."
"What do you mean by that one?"
She said: "You know what I think?"
"No, tell me."
She said: "I think you're Maynes."
He whistled in astonishment. He raised his eyebrows. "What do you know about that now? People say the funniest things. Why do you think that?"
"I don't think," said Sonia. "I know."
Kerr put the cards down on the table. He stubbed out his cigarette end. He took the pack out of his pocket, lighted a fresh one. The expression on his face had altered.
"What do you mean—you know?" His voice was ominous.
She said: "Paula got some pictures and stuff from the F.B.I. I had a look art them last night. They were pictures of the people wanted in that Oklahoma shooting. There was her brother; the man called Scansci, who was badly wounded but got away, and died. There was Willie Metzler, my husband, and there was another man. He got away. He's the man they're looking for—Elvin Maynes. That was your photograph."
Kerr picked up the cards; began to lay them out again. "Yeah? Is this clever...?" His tone was metallic.
She asked: "Is what clever?"
"Telling me," said Kerr. "What did you do that for?"
"I don't know, Ricky. I've been thinking about it ever since we left Havana. I got a funny idea. Maybe I wanted to have it."
He asked: "What idea?"
She answered: "Well, I thought as Paula thought, her brother was framed; there might be a dog's chance that you were framed too."
"You wanted to think that. Why?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose I'm a fool, but I'm stuck on you, Ricky, like I told you. It's funny but I always seem to go for bad men."
He grinned. "Nice women always do. You didn't think it might be dangerous?"
"Yes, I thought of that too. It didn't even matter. So you're Elvin Maynes?"
"All right," said Kerr. "So I'm Elvin Maynes. And what are you going to do about it? If you're wise you're going to keep that little mouth of yours shut up so tight you'd be surprised. You know what happened to the codfish that got caught?"
"Tell me, Ricky. What happened to him?" she asked.
"He'd have been all right if he had kept his mouth shut," he answered. He almost spat the words at her.
"Ricky, what does it matter if I talk or if I don't talk? Somebody's going to talk."
He said: "Meaning who?"
"Meaning Paula," she replied. "She knows."
"Yes... so she does. And what do you think she's going to do about it? Look, Sonia, if you have any regard for Paula you give her the tip-off that it might be a good thing for her to keep quiet, see? It wouldn't do any good for that baby to think she could start pushing me around."
She said: "If she was going to talk I bet she's done it already."
"Who to?" asked Kerr. "Who would she talk to?"
"She'd tell Dupont. She'd have to. She couldn't keep a thing like that inside her. She knows Dupont would have to do something about it."
"All right," said Kerr. "Well, I hope she hasn't told him for her own sake."
"Ricky, I don't like to hear you talk like that. You don't mean to say that if you thought she'd talked, you'd—"
"I don't mean to say anything." His tone was sharp and dangerous. "I don't like people who talk. That's all I'm saying, and that goes for you too."
She asked: "What happened in that shooting, Ricky? Tell me the truth."
He looked at her. "What the hell! What's it matter anyway? My guess is that Paula's right and that damn fool brother of hers didn't know anything about it. I reckon that mug was innocent, see? It was one of those things—just a smart crowd of boys working for some guy who was smarter. Nobody ever saw him. They knew his name, but nobody ever knew where he was, except Metzler. He gave his orders through Metzler."
She asked: "Did you know what was going on?"
He looked at her. He grinned. "I knew it wasn't straight, but the pay was good and at the time I needed dough."
She said: "Who shot the officers?"
Kerr grinned. "I didn't. I was too busy taking a run-out powder. I reckon that would have been Metzler and Scansci. They were pretty tough eggs. They weren't going to jail anyway."
"And you think that boy had written the letter to Paula; that it was in his pocket; that Metzler took it off him after he was wounded and put the gun in his hand. You believe that's true?"
Kerr said: "I wouldn't be surprised. I don't know. I wasn't there. I'd got out. But that looks like Metzler. If he could get away with that letter he'd be on a good thing. He'd have enough on Francini to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. I wish I'd thought of it myself."
There was a pause, then he said: "Well, how do you like that?"
"I don't like it, Ricky. You're an awful fool, aren't you?"
"Who? me?" said Kerr. "No, I'm just an ordinary guy trying to play it along. Life hasn't been good to me, and when life isn't good you've got to do the best you can. Once you're in you can't get out. You just go on getting in deeper and deeper. The only thing you can do is to try and play it off the cuff. And try and keep your head above water."
She said slowly: "You're a fool, Ricky."
He picked up the cards. "You'll be quoting proverbs at me in a minute. You'll be telling me it's never too late to mend."
"I'm telling you that now," said Sonia.
"Yeah? That would be nice if the cops believed it."
She got up.
Kerr said quietly: "Sonia...." His voice became hard. "Take a tip from me and forget this little conversation."
"I intend to," she said slowly. "Why, I don't know. I ought to turn you in."
He grinned: "Yeah... maybe you would... but you know you don't have to."
She asked: "What do you mean by that?"
"You know what I mean. You think your girl friend'll do it for you; that she'll save you the trouble."
Sonia said: "What if she does?"
"If she does it won't be so good for her."
She stood looking at him. "You're a strange guy, Ricky. I ought to hate you, but somehow I don't. I wish I knew why."
Kerr grinned. "Didn't they tell you that some poet or somebody said that love was akin to hate?"
Madame Domínguez came into the bar. She asked: "What goes on?" She smiled. "Has he been kissing you again, Sonia?"
Kerr said: "No... I only do that on the second Tuesday in each month."
Sonia turned away. As she got to the door, Kerr said: "Remember what I told you."
She looked at him over her shoulder. "I have a good memory." She went out.
Madame Domínguez sat down in the chair opposite Kerr. She smiled at him. It was a peculiar smile.
Dupont came in. He said: "What about a leetle dreenk? It ees a lovely day. Everything ees wonderful."
Kerr said sarcastically: "Yeah... I bet that star of yours is still working."
"Always... always my star 'e works." Dupont came round the bar with the drinks. Kerr cleared the table of the cards; put them together; stacked them on one side.
He said grimly: "Marcel... shut the door....." Dupont raised his eyebrows. "Of course.... What ees this... a conference?"
"Why not? Talking's a good thing sometimes."
Madame Dominguez said: "Yes, Ricky?" She was watching Kerr.
Dupont shut the door. He came back; stood just behind Madame Dominguez, looking at Kerr. He smiled. He said softly: "Well... Reecky...?"
Kerr drew on his cigarette. "I think you two have been making a mistake about me. Who did you think I was anyway?"
Dupont shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn't quite certain, but I knew you weren't Reecky Kerr. You were a fren' of Metzler's. And Metzler didn't know any nice people. I 'eard about you. You are a deserter from the American Army. You were a fren' of Metzler's. That tol' me what I wanted to know about you."
Kerr asked: "Is that why you wanted me to come on this trip?"
"Why not?" The smile had disappeared from Dupont's face.
"The trouble with you is you're too clever," said Kerr. "Has Paula been talking to you?"
"No... why?"
Madame Dominguez' eyes never left Kerr's face.
"I'll tell you why," said Kerr. "You wouldn't know me, but maybe you've heard my name before. My name's Elvin Maynes."
Dupont whistled. "Mon Dieu." He looked at the woman. "You 'eard that, Eulalia?"
She said: "I heard." She was still watching Kerr.
"You're quite right," said Kerr. "I was a friend of Metzler's. I was after the same thing as you were." He grinned at Madame Dominguez. "That was a nice job you did on Metzler. I went to see him after you'd been there. You killed him. You wanted to get that letter... that letter Paula's brother wrote about Francini and the mob."
She said quietly: "You know an awful lot, Ricky. Perhaps you know too much."
"Maybe I do. I know you didn't get the letter."
Dupont said in a soft voice: "Look, we don't want to get angry with each other. Everything ees easily arranged between fren's. You don't want to get excited, Eulalia. Everything ees going to be all right."
"Sure it's going to be all right," said Kerr. "It's going to be all right because I want it that way."
Madame Dominguez said: "You think you're the one who can make terms?"
"I don't think... I know." He went on: "Jerry Gerrard—that mug brother of Paula's... well, he wasn't the only mug in that Oklahoma set-up. I was mug No. 2. But I'm not a mug now."
Dupont said: "So you were in with that bunch? Ees not life funny?"
"You're telling me! Yes, I was in with the bunch. I was the fifth man. Jerry Gerrard, Metzler, Scansci, Anselmo, and your humble servant Elvin Maynes. Metzler knew what the racket was and he knew who Francini was and where he was. Scansci didn't, I didn't, and that sucker Jerry certainly didn't. After the shooting, Metzler took that letter off the kid and made a getaway. They tell me that Scansci crawled off some place and died. They never found him. The other mug Anselmo was killed, so he doesn't matter."
Madame Dominguez said slowly: "So he doesn't matter...."
Kerr went on: "Metzler thought the best way out for him was to get into the Army. So did I. He deserted in Paris and so did I. I met him there. I put the heat on him. I didn't see why he should blackmail Francini and get a wad of dough for that letter and me get nothing."
Madame Dominguez said: "So you went to see him?"
"I saw him plenty. I knew he was talking to some guy of Francini's in Paris about selling that letter." Kerr laughed. "I reckon Francini wants that letter badly. Well, Eulalia here thought she'd have a go to get it. The night before we left Paris I saw Metzler. I gave him till the next evening to cash in. Then I left him. When I went into the Bar Perroquet later you were coming out of the 'phone box, Dupont. You'd just been talking to Eulalia here... that's my guess. She told you that she'd been round to see Metzler; that she hadn't got the letter. And afterwards she told you that she'd stabbed him. What she didn't know was that one of the stones in her bracelet was loose. It fell out on to the floor. I found it there when I went round after she'd left."
Madame Dominguez said: "Ah... that is why you were so interested when you saw the stone was missing?"
"That's right." Kerr grinned at Dupont. "You must have thought I was a gift from the gods when I walked into that bar just at the time you wanted to see me. You wanted me on this trip pretty badly. You wanted me on this trip because you thought I had that letter. Right?"
Dupont said: "That ees right, Reecky. You are a ver' clevaire man. We thought you had that letter and we wanted it."
Kerr went on: "You got Paula aboard the plane too. You got her on this trip because you thought she was taking too much interest in Francini. He must be a big guy this Francini. Anybody who wants to know too much about him you just get on this airplane. Angel in the Sky... some angel!"
"Leesten, Reecky. Nothing can interfere with good fren'ship. Any leetle theeng between fren's can always be arranged, you know."
Kerr laughed harshly. "You're telling me. We're going to arrange this all right. But I'm going to make the arrangements."
Madame Dominguez said: "You think you're on top of the job. You think you can talk to us like that. You're a fool. Maybe you'd like what happened to Metzler to happen to you. Would you like that?"
"Don't talk hooey! You're not going to do anything to me while I've got that letter." Kerr smiled at her. "You don't think I was mug enough to bring it with me, do you? It's in a nice safe place, and if anything happens to me somebody's going to send it to the F.B.I. in Washington."
She looked at him evilly.
Dupont said: "Now... now... now... Don' let's get excited. Let's keep nice and cool. Everything can be arranged between fren's. After all, Reecky, you are not in a ver' good spot, are you?"
"No, I'm not in a good spot. The F.B.I. are looking for me, too. They know I worked in that garage in Oklahoma. They're not going to believe me if I tell them that, like that mug Jerry, I didn't know what was going on till it was too late. Well, I've been sucked in and now I'm going to look after myself."
Dupont asked: "Reecky, what ees eet you want?"
"What do you think? I want dough. I want to go on living, and I don't want to see the inside of a penitentiary or the electric chair."
Dupont said: "All those theengs are quite easy to arrange. All we have to do is to keep cool." He went on: "Eulalia, my dear... why don' you let Reecky and me 'ave a nice quiet little talk? Go back to the main cabin; play a leetle poker; distract your mind."
"She doesn't have to distract her mind," said Kerr. "She can forget anything in five minutes. A killing or so means nothing to her, does it, Eulalia?" He grinned at her cynically.
She got up. "Ricky, believe it or not, I'm very fond of you. I like you." They smiled at each other. She went on: "Be advised by Marcel. He's always right. Look, you've got something that we want and we've got something that you want. Francini wants the letter. I want him to have it. Once that letter is destroyed nobody knows anything about him, who he is or where he is. He's safe. He can go on with his business."
Kerr said: "Some business!"
"What ees the matter with the business, Reecky?" asked Dupont. "All over the world a lot of people want dope. All right, he supplies eet...supply and demand.... They are going to get eet from somewhere... why not from us?"
Eulalia said: "Exactly. Ricky, you've got to be sensible about these things. Talk to Marcel. You'll get your money, and Francini will be safe."
Kerr said: "You seem stuck on this mug, Francini, Eulalia."
"Why not?" she answered. "I'm an old woman. I'm entitled to be fond of my son, aren't I?"
Kerr grinned. "Some mother... and some son...!"
Dupont said: "Don' let us 'ave a family quarrel. 'Ere we are in this beautiful plane... one beeg 'appy family. Eulalia, go and play some poker."
"It's a good idea, Marcel. I've been lucky. I've won some money." At the door she looked over her shoulder at Kerr. "Be sensible, Ricky." She went out.
Dupont sat down in the chair opposite Kerr. "You know, Reecky... thees ees wonderful. Eet ees betaire than you know. Look, thees leetle airplane trip... we 'ave 'ad eet arranged for a long time. You see, we knew things were getting pretty hot. The Federal Government 'ad got wise to a lot of theengs. They 'ave been working with people all over the world to find out about Francini... about all of us. All right. They 'ave got some of our people... those they know. What can we do about them? It ees too bad for them. But the people on this plane who all belong to our leetle organisation—all except Sonia and Paula—they are people they don' know. So we're just going to 'ave a leetle meeting, and then we start off again."
Kerr asked: "A meeting with whom?"
"With Francini of course. You see, ver' soon we are going to make a forced landing... that ees the story... in New Mexico. Everything ees arranged. The pilot and co-pilot on thees plane are good fren's of ours. A nice organisation, you know.... All right, we meet Francini. We do a leetle business. We get out and we take 'eem with us. Tonight we shall be on our way to our new headquarters, and nobody will be ver' much the wiser until it ees too late."
Kerr said: "That sounds O.K. But you're forgetting one thing."
Dupont asked: "What, Reecky?"
"You're forgetting about me. Francini's safe enough, and so are you. So's Eulalia. Nobody knows anything about you three... or those other guys here. But they got my picture. They know about me. So does Paula. Has she talked to you yet? Has she told you about the picture?"
"No," said Dupont. "She 'asn't 'ad the chance. Eef she does, well... I weel stall 'er along for a bit."
"You can stall her along as much as you like, but she's going to talk some time, isn't she? What's going to happen to her?"
"Reecky... give me a cigarette." Dupont took a cigarette from Kerr's pack; lighted it. He said: "We 'ave got to be sensible about thees. Paula 'as seen your picture. As you say, some time she ees going to talk."
"She's not the only one. Sonia's seen it. But I'm not worrying so much about her."
Dupont raised his eyebrows. "No?"
"No," said Kerr. "She's a bit stuck on me. I don't think she'll talk. I'll look after her."
Dupont said: "She seems a sensible sort of girl. But this Paula she ees always thinking and talking about 'er brother. Something weel 'ave to be done about Paula."
"You're telling me," said Kerr.
Dupont went on: "Reecky, very soon we are going to make thees forced landing, you know... in the desert... right away from anywhere. It ees lonely. There weel be nobody about. That ees why we picked that spot. It ees a good place to take care of leetle Paula... for all our sakes."
"Yeah... I'll take care of her." Kerr's voice was grim.
Dupont smiled. "Then what are we worrying about? Look... when we land we weel get these leetle business with Paula settled. You can do that. After that we meet Francini. Well, you can do a leetle business with 'eem. You want some money. 'E wants the letter. You weel get your money and you let 'eem 'ave the letter in due course. In the meantime you streeng along with us and 'ave a good time and make a lot more money. All right?"
Kerr said: "That's all right with me." He got up.
"You see," said Dupont, "everything ees always arranged so easily between fren's. Let's 'ave a dreenk."
He went to the bar. The door opened. Paula came in.
She said: "I want to talk to you, Marcel." She was looking at Kerr. There was hatred in her eyes.
"Of course," said Dupont. "Everybody wants to talk to Papa Marcel. I'm always so popular with the ladies." He picked up his drink. "Reecky, I'm going off to talk to Paula. I theenk she 'as fallen for me in a beeg way. I'll be seeing you."
He put his arm through Paula's; took her out of the bar.
Kerr picked up the drink; drank it. He lighted a cigarette; went back to the table. He began to shuffle the cards for patience.
A few moments passed. Sonia came into the bar. She closed the door behind her; stood with her back to it.
She said: "Well, Ricky, it looks as if the balloon's going up."
"Yeah?" Kerr continued placing the patience cards. "What balloon?" he asked.
"Paula," she said. "She's going to talk to Dupont. She's going to tell him about your photograph."
Kerr looked up at her. He grinned. "That won't get her anywhere. Dupont knows."
"Dupont knows... how?" Her voice showed her astonishment.
"I told him," said Kerr.
She looked at him in amazement. "You told him?"
He sat back in his chair. He looked at her coolly, his elbows resting on the table, the cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth.
"I told Dupont all about it. He was very amused."
She said: "Amused! What is this?"
Kerr said: "Dupont and Dominguez are part of the Francini organisation. That's why they wanted to get Paula on this trip. She was sticking her nose into their business, so they talked you into persuading her to come. They didn't know how much she knew. The same thing applied to you. They take a lot of trouble, these people."
She looked at him. She was still standing with her back to the door.
He went on: "They wanted me on this plane because they thought I'd got the letter—the letter Paula's brother wrote. See?"
"I see. So you were in that job with Metzler. Both of you were out to blackmail Francini?"
Kerr said coolly: "If you like. A nice situation, hey? Pretty good for everybody except Paula. It's not so good for her."
There was a pause; then she said: "Why not, Ricky?"
"She knows too much. She knows I'm Elvin Maynes. She's going to talk. So she's got to be taken care of— just like Metzler was taken care of."
She put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were frightened. "No... no...!"
Kerr interrupted: "The next thing is you. You know too much, don't you? I'm sorry for you. You were wished on to this trip. But now you're in you can't get out. What are you going to do? There's only one of two things." He grinned at her. "It might have been a good thing if you and I had taken that run-out powder at the Azores or in Havana."
She said: "I wish I'd gone then. What's going to happen?"
"To you?" Kerr queried. "You've got to make your mind up, haven't you? If you like this bunch of people; if you're stuck on me, you can string along. While I trust you, you're safe enough. I'm on top of this job and I'm going to stay there. If I don't trust you..." He shrugged his shoulders—"it'll be like Paula...."
She asked tensely: "What do you mean? What are you going to do to Paula?"
Kerr said: "This trip is no pleasure trip. It's business. Pretty soon we're going to make a forced landing in some nice lonely spot in New Mexico. Francini is somewhere around there. There's going to be a gathering of the clans. The people on this plane are people in the Francini organisation that the Federal authorities don't know anything about. It's a nice set-up. Now Metzler's dead, he can't talk. So they reckon they're pretty safe. There's going to be a little meeting. There's going to be some talking and I'm going to do it. If I'm going to string along with Francini they're going to pay me plenty and like it. As for Paula..." he shrugged his shoulders again. "I'll take care of her."
"What do you mean, Ricky?" Soma's voice was hoarse.
"What do you think I mean? Her mouth's got to be stopped once and for all. I'm going to stop it. The place we're landing at is going to be an ideal place at which to stop it."
She said: "Ricky, for some reason that I don't quite understand, I've always been for you. When you told me that you were sucked into that Oklahoma business, I believed you. When you told me that you hadn't done any killing there I believed you. Maybe because I wanted to believe you; maybe because I was happier that way."
She moved away from the door. She came over to the table; stood opposite Kerr, looking down at him.
She went on: "I'm going to tell you this... if you do anything to Paula; if you do what you say you've got to, do it to me too, because if you don't, in spite of the fact that I'm for you, I'll turn you in if I'm alive to do it."
Kerr said cynically: "Very pretty. I wonder if that's the truth."
"It's the truth all right, Ricky."
"I wonder," said Kerr. "Well, time will show."
"I hope time won't have to show. You heard what I told you... if you did that, I'd tell them. I'd send you to the chair."
Kerr smiled at her. "Yeah? How are you going to tell them? You're not meeting any coppers in the place we're landing at. You can be certain of that, and there aren't going to be any call boxes. How are you going to tell them?" He laughed. "You think that one out and if you find an answer you'll be good."
They looked up as the door opened. The co-pilot stood in the doorway. He said: "Everybody in their seats, please. And put your belts on. We're going down." Kerr got up. He looked at Sonia. "Here we go.... The Angel in the Sky comes down to earth.... And how...!"
THE giant plane lay in the sunshine. Around it was
desolation. North, south, east and west lay the desert, bounded
in the distance by foothills. Here and there patches of scrub
accentuated the loneliness of the plane, and far to the right a
rough track could be seen winding its way across the desert.
The passengers stood around in groups, talking. Paula and Sonia sat on some rocks away from the main party. Kerr stood leaning against the fuselage of the plane, smoking a cigarette. Madame Domínguez and Dupont stood talking between him and the main group.
Dupont came over to Kerr. He said: "Give me a cigarette, Reecky."
Kerr gave him a cigarette.
Dupont continued: "A perfect landing, hey? Everytheeng 'as worked out according to plan." He looked at his wrist watch. "In a few minutes the car will be 'ere. Nice organisation, hey? Then we weel go and 'ave a leetle talk with our fren', and after that we move on. While we are talking, they re-fuel the plane. In a few hours we should be away. Pretty good, hey?"
"Not so bad," said Kerr. "You're a good organiser, Marcel."
"I'm all right. Leesten, Reecky, I want to talk to you for your own good. Madame Dominguez likes you, you know. It ees all right. But she ees ver' fond of Francini... that ees natural. She doesn't like the idea of you two not being good fren's."
Kerr said: "I don't see why we shouldn't be good friends if I get what I want."
Dupont spread his hands. "Why shouldn't you get what you want? Eef Francini gets that letter; eef he knows that 'e's safe, you weel get what money you want. He 'as a lot of money. Then you streeng along with us and you get a good time."
"That's O.K. by me," said Kerr.
Madame Dominguez walked slowly towards them. Dupont said: "The car 'as to make two trips. We weel 'ave to leave some people for the second trip. I thought we would leave you, Sonia, and Paula for the second trip. The co-pilot will stay here with the plane."
Madame Dominguez said: "And me... I come on the second trip with you, Ricky."
"That suits me," said Kerr.
Madame Dominguez walked away.
Dupont continued: "Not ver' far from 'ere ees a leetle canyon. It ees just off the track. It ees a ver' lonely and deserted place. I thought it would be a good place for Paula...."
"Yeah..." said Kerr. "That's one thing that's got to be taken care of."
Dupont said: "The sooner the bettaire... when we go..." There was a pause; then: "What about Sonia, Reecky...? You theenk she ces going to play ball?"
"What can she do?" asked Kerr. "She's got to play ball."
"Yes.... Well, you are responsible for 'er, Reecky. You know what you are doing."
Kerr asked: "Have you got a gun?"
"Yes, I think of everytheeng..." Dupont passed an automatic pistol to Kerr.
There was the sound of a car. A station waggon drove off the track towards the plane.
Dupont said: "Good... here ees the car. I'll get the first lot in."
"O.K.," said Kerr. "I'll talk to Paula."
He walked towards where Paula and Sonia were sitting. Madame Dominguez was just behind him.
Kerr said: "Listen, Paula... maybe you don't like me, but there are a lot of things you don't understand. I never had anything to do with what happened to your brother. Maybe I was just another mug. While we're waiting for the waggon to come back, you and I'll go for a little walk and have a talk about it."
Sonia said: "Paula, stay where you are."
Madame Dominguez looked at Sonia. She brought her right hand from behind her back. A knife lay in the palm.
She said: "Sonia, you remember what happened to Metzler? Don't talk nonsense. Be a good girl... or else... You see, my dear, you don't know how lucky you are."
Sonia said caustically: "Lucky...!" She shrugged her shoulders.
"Yes," said Madame Dominguez. "Lucky because Ricky is stuck on you. You've got to learn to be good. We'll teach you to be good."
Kerr brought the automatic out of his pocket. He said: "Come on, Paula... you and I are going to have a little talk."
"That's right," said Madame Dominguez, "a little quiet talk. And, my dear Sonia, you and I will go along too... all good friends together."
Paula got up. She said nothing. Kerr took her by the arm. The car drove away with its first load of passengers.
They began to walk towards the track and the scrub in the distance that Dupont had indicated. Paula and Kerr walked in front. Behind them came Sonia and Madame Dominguez.
They came to the place. The scrub was thicker. Just in front of them was the sloping edge of the ravine. Kerr looked over his shoulder.
He said: "Eulalia, you stay here and take care of Sonia. I'll be back."
She said: "All right, Ricky."
Paula was looking straight in front of her. Her face was deathly. She moved like an automaton. Kerr, still gripping her left arm, led her through the scrub. Before them, the ravine sloped downwards.
Kerr said quietly: "Don't be too scared, kid. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems."
She said in a hoarse voice: "There's one thing you can do... don't talk to me."
They moved over the edge of the ravine, down a narrow path. Just below them was a wide shelf—a small scrub-covered plateau. They stopped there.
Kerr looked over his shoulder. Madame Dominguez and Sonia were out of sight. He said: "Look, Paula, it's no good talking to you because sometimes talking doesn't help, and whatever I said you wouldn't believe it. So it's got to be this way... see...?"
He tilted her chin with his left hand; drew back his fist; hit her with a short arm jab under the jaw. She fell into the scrub; lay there—a prone figure—unconscious. Kerr raised the automatic; fired a shot down into the ravine. He put the gun back into his pocket. He walked quickly away from the ledge up the ravine.
Madame Dominguez was sitting on a large stone. She was alone. She said: "Well, have you done it?"
"Yeah.... Where's Sonia?"
"She got away. The fool...she hit me in the face and ran. That's one thing I can't do, Ricky... I can't run." She laughed.
Kerr asked: "Where's she going to run to?"
Madame Dominguez said: "You may well ask that. She can keep on running and running, but she won't find anything. She won't find any place... any people. Don't worry about her. We'll find her all right."
He shrugged his shoulders.
Madame Dominguez said: "Show me Paula."
He took her to the edge of the ravine. She looked down at the scrub-covered shelf. She saw the prone figure of Paula.
She looked at Kerr. She smiled. "That's all right....Now I trust you."
Kerr said: "Come on... let's get out of here."
They began to walk back to the plane. The co-pilot was sitting on the ground, smoking. They went towards him.
Madame Dominguez said: "Nico, Sonia has decided to run away."
The co-pilot looked up. He smiled. "Where does she run to, Eulalia?"
Madame Dominguez laughed. "That's what I'd like to know."
The co-pilot asked: "When are we going to re-fuel?"
"Pretty quickly, Nico. You wait and see that is done." She turned to Kerr. "Don't worry about your little friend Sonia. She can't get very far. When we get to the hacienda I will arrange for Francini to send out some cars to find her. We'll get her all right. Come on, Ricky... we'll go and meet the station waggon. A walk would be very nice."
Kerr said: "O.K."
They began to walk towards the track. When they reached it, in the distance they could see the station waggon coming towards them. It stopped as it reached them. They got into it. It made a "U" turn; drove away.
THE co-pilot stretched. He was tired. And it was a drowsy
afternoon. He wondered how long he would have to wait for the
re-fuelling truck. He lighted a cigarette; sat down, his back
against a boulder. He yawned. After a few moments he threw the
cigarette away; closed his eyes. He fell asleep.
Sonia watched him from behind the patch of scrub where she was hidden. She could see the outline of the shoulder holster under his left arm beneath his open jacket.
She moved slowly towards him, pausing now and then to make certain that the man still slept. Her face was tense. In a few moments she was behind the boulder. She bent down; snatched the pistol from the holster.
The man awakened. He looked at her for a moment. Then he sat up. He grinned at her. "What the hell! What do you think you're doing with that gun, sister?"
Sonia said: "I know what I'm doing. Where are we?"
"Where do you think you are? This is New Mexico. You're in the desert. Why don't you put that gun down? You might shoot somebody."
"Do you think I'd mind if I killed you?" asked Sonia. "Listen to me. You're going to do what I tell you or I'll kill you like the rat you are."
"O.K.... And then whaddya think they're gonna do to you... huh?"
"D'you think I care?" said Sonia harshly. "They've killed Paula... poor kid. They'd fix me too. They're probably planning to get around to that anyhow. But if you don't do what I want I'm going to fix you first... see? Where's the nearest town?"
He grinned. "Thinking of taking a walk? I reckon the nearest town is Silver City—about seventy-five miles away. And what are you going to do about that?"
"I'll show you," said Sonia. "Get up."
The man got slowly to his feet.
She said: "Get into that plane. Every aeroplane has a Call Sign book in it. You look up the State Police at Silver City. Get them on the radio. I reckon they'll have some patrol cars nearer than seventy-five miles."
The man's voice changed. He looked scared. "Listen, sister..."
She pushed the gun against his side. "If you don't I'm going to kill you now."
The man looked at her. He spat on the ground. He began to walk towards the plane.
THE afternoon sun was brilliant when the car arrived at
the hacienda. The Mexican house lay a little away from the wide
dirt track. The driver of the car slowed down; drove into the
patio. Kerr and Madame Dominguez got out of the car.
Madame Dominguez said: "Reecky, you will like Francini. He is nice, you know...."—she looked at him sideway "—if you treat him the right way."
They went through the entrance; found themselves in a large room. Dupont and the rest were standing about, drinking. There was an air of quiet joviality. It might have been a meeting of old friends.
Francini stood at the far end of the room, talking to Dupont. He looked up as Madame Dominguez and Kerr came into the room. He advanced to meet them, Dupont just behind him.
Francini was short, thin, immaculate. He wore a cream tussore suit; a black silk tie. His hair was black; his face thin, intelligent, alive. He wore a perpetual half-smile which gave a grotesque aspect to his ascetic features.
He spoke to Madame Dominguez in Spanish. They embraced. The embrace over, he looked at Kerr.
Dupont said: "Francini, thees ees Reecky Kerr. That ees what 'e calls himself now. You weel be surprised to 'ear who 'e really ees.... He ees Elvin Maynes...."
Francini said: "Yes? Are you certain about that, Marcel?" His voice was soft. He spoke English almost as well as Madame Dominguez.
Dupont nodded. "The F.B.I. want 'eem. They know 'eem. And you weel be glad to meet 'eem because 'e ees the one who 'as that letter—the letter that Metzler 'ad."
"Yes?" Francini was still looking at Kerr. He asked: "Where's the letter?" His voice was still pleasant.
Kerr said: "I don't carry a thing like that about with me. I'm not such a fool. I'm not Metzler. The letter's safe enough. If you and I agree to terms you'll get the letter."
Francini said: "That's all right. But you know, one must be very careful these days." He smiled at Kerr. "So many people would like to know who I am and where I am, and it wouldn't be good for any of us if they found out too much. Please help yourself to a drink."
"Thanks..." Kerr went to a table; mixed himself a whisky and soda.
Francini said: "That business in Oklahoma wasn't very good. I trusted Metzler a little too much. I thought he was all right. The rest of the people there didn't know anything much. They couldn't talk. Tell me exactly what happened—before the police came, I mean."
"There were five of us there," said Kerr. "Metzler, the boy Jerry Gerrard, Scansci, Anselmo and me. I didn't know how much the other guys knew, but Metzler knew all about it."
Francini said: "Of course. It was his business to know ail about it. That's what I paid him for."
Kerr went on: "But a couple of days before the cops came in, Jerry Gerrard started talking to me. Somehow or other he'd found out plenty. He told me that the stuff we were despatching was dope. He told me about you. He said that he was scared and wanted to get out. I didn't believe him at first. I asked him what he was going to do about it. He said he didn't know. Then he told me he reckoned he was going to write a letter to his sister in New York. He was going to get her to try and get a line on what was going on."
Francini said: "Yes? And what did you do?"
Kerr thought for a moment; then: "I talked to Metzler about it. I wanted to know if what the kid was saying was true. I told him that the kid was going to write to somebody and start something. Metzler said it wouldn't be so good for him if he did."
Francini asked: "What did you do then?"
There was a silence in the room. Everybody was watching Kerr.
Kerr grinned. "I thought the best thing to do was to keep my mouth shut. The next morning the trouble started. Maybe the kid had talked to somebody. It started early. The cops came in and somebody started shooting. I think it was Scansci. There was quite a battle. The kid Jerry got hit while he was trying to get out. Metzler took the letter out of his pocket. He had been watching him all the time. I was looking after myself."
Francini asked: "What happened to the other—to Scansci and Anselmo?"
"Anselmo got it.... He was shot dead. Scansci was badly hurt. He got away, but he was so badly hit he must have died. He's dead all right. Then I got out."
Francini said: "Yes... go on, Ricky."
Kerr continued: "I met up with Metzler in Paris. I was on the run too. I knew they were looking for him and me. And I knew what he was going to do. He'd got that letter and he was going to make you pay plenty for it. I didn't see why I shouldn't have my cut." He grinned. "Dupont can tell you the rest. He knew about Metzler. He was looking for him. He must have seen me around with him. He thought I'd be safer on the plane. It was all right with me. It suited me. I wanted to get out of France. I wanted to do a deal with you. I wanted some dough."
"That's fair enough," said Francini. "You're sure it isn't something else you wanted? You're sure it was just the dough?"
"What else should I want? What do you mean?"
Francini said: "You've described what happened at the Oklahoma garage. That's the story I heard. You could be Elvin Maynes all right. He's never been seen or heard of from that day. But I like to be certain about anything. I'm going to make certain about you. You see, you made one little slip-up in the story about Scansci. You were not quite right when you said he was wounded and crawled away to die. He didn't die."
Francini stood smiling at Kerr. There was a complete silence in the room. Then Francini moved. He moved to the door at the back of the room. He called: "Scansci...!"
Everybody looked towards the doorway, except Kerr. Kerr ran his finger round his neck between the collar and the flesh. A peculiar expression crossed his face. He looked round the room.
Francini said: "Ricky.... This is Scansci."
A man came through the doorway... a short thick man. He dragged one leg after him. He stood in the doorway looking at Kerr.
Francini asked: "Scansci... is that Elvin Maynes who was working in the garage at Oklahoma with you?"
Scansci laughed—a short brittle laugh. He spat on the floor. "That...! That's the goddam copper who shot me!"
There was a sudden movement in the room. Francini put up his hand. "Take it easy, my friends. There is no need for excitement. Everything is very convenient." He looked at Madame Dominguez. He smiled affectionately at her. "It was so nice of you to take care of Metzler," he said softly. "But it was unnecessary. Metzler had been negotiating to sell the letter to a good friend of mine for days. He knew he hadn't much time. The Federal people were close behind him... maybe this gentleman...." He smiled at Kerr. "Metzler sold the letter to my friend not long before he was disposed of. It is on its way to me now." He shrugged his shoulders. "Now," he continued smoothly, "nothing remains to be done but to deal with our friend Ricky...."
There was a second's silence. The man standing nearest to Kerr pulled out an automatic. On the other side of the room the telephone began to ring. The man nearest to the instrument picked up the receiver. He spoke in Spanish. His voice was excited.
He said to Francini: "The cops... the cops...."
For a second the man who had Kerr covered turned his head. Kerr hit him under the jaw. He was across the room like a flash; through the open window.
Everybody turned towards Francini. Voices were raised. From outside somewhere, came the sound of cars speeding; of shots.
IT was evening. The shadows were beginning to lengthen.
Sonia sat at a table in the corner of the estancia. She
smoked a cigarette; leaned back in her chair relaxed. She was
thinking. From somewhere outside came the sound of a Spanish
guitar. It was playing the same plaintive tune as the woman had
played in Paris—the tune that Kerr had heard and liked.
Kerr came into the estancia; looked round; saw Sonia. He walked over to the table. He said: "Well, how do you like Silver City?"
She looked at him. She took the cigarette out of her mouth.
He sat down. He asked: "What about a little drink?"
"Why not?" said Sonia.
Kerr whistled to the waiter. He ordered the drinks. She said: "Listen, who are you, anyway?"
He smiled at her. "Didn't they tell you?"
She shook her head. "Everybody seems to be very confidential about you."
Kerr took a leather case from his pocket. He held it open for her to see his F.B.I. Identity Card.
She said: "Huh... huh...!" She sighed. "Of course you couldn't trust a girl, could you? You couldn't have told me?"
Kerr lighted a cigarette. "How could I? I didn't know whether you were in with that mob or not. There was only one way to play it and I took it. You've got to take a chance sometimes. I took the chance on you."
She said: "What do you mean by that one?"
"I knew if you'd meant what you said about me killing Paula, when you thought I was Maynes... if you meant it, you'd get on to the police. When Madame Dominguez told me you'd made a break, I thought you'd try something."
She said: "You took an awful chance, Ricky."
"You've got to take chances in my business," said Kerr. "That's why I gave you the tip-off in the plane. Don't you remember...?"
"Yes... you said 'how are you going to tell them... there aren't any telephones in the desert...' That made me think of the radio...."
He grinned. "I'm glad you did. Maybe it wouldn't have been so good for me if you hadn't."
She said slowly: "No... it wouldn't have been so good." She looked at him. Her eyes were very soft.
He asked: "What are you going to do?"
"I'm waiting for a train," said Sonia. "My bag's down at the depot. Paula's there fixing about the tickets. She's got a lovely bruise on the jaw. She doesn't know whether she likes you a lot or not."
Kerr said: "I should worry. Does she know they've released her brother? He's O.K."
She nodded. The waiter brought the drinks. Kerr picked up his glass.
He said: "Well, here's to the Angel In the Sky."
He finished the drink.
She got up. She said: "I'm on my way."
Kerr got to his feet. He said: "That's a nice tune that guy's playing. I heard it in Paris. You remember what you said about you and me making a break into the wide open spaces. Well, it's wide open enough around here."
She smiled at him. "I'll think about it." Suddenly, she moved closer to him; put her hands to his face. She kissed him.
She said: "It's not for publication, Ricky... but that's what I think about you...."
MR. CHEYNEY urgently appeals to any reviewer who may wish to condemn any short story in this book, to ascertain beforehand that it has not been purchased by his own Editor at some previous time, as this—as in the case of his friend McGonigle Peabody—may lead to complications.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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