Delphi collected works o.., p.142
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 142
“That suits me,” says Nikolls, “an’ it’s a nice night for it. Come on, sweetheart.”
She says: “You can’t get away with this....”
Nikolls gives a little laugh.
“You watch me,” he says. “Now look, sister, I’m talkin’ sense to you. Maybe they’ve told you there is more ways than one of killin’ a cat. Well, they was right. If you like to come along nice an’ quiet maybe it’ll be quick. If you don’t I’ll give it to you where it will take you quite a few minutes to hand in your dinner pail. Now you have it which way you like. Come on, sweetie-pie.”
There is a pause. I ease back down the passage inta the kitchen. Then I see the door open. Nikolls comes out. He’s got hold of the dame’s left arm with a hand that’s almost as big as a leg of mutton. In the other hand I can see the automatic. He pushes her up against the wall while he opens the front door. Then he takes her out. The door shuts behind him.
Inside the sittin’-room I can hear the clink of the glass as Schribner pours himself out another drink.
I reckon he’s feelin’ good.
VI. THE DAME HAS TEETH
I STAND THERE in the passage thinkin’ what the next move in the game is goin’ to be. After a bit I hear some more clinkin’ from the sittin’-room, so it sounds like Schribner is havin’ another little drink just so’s he can sorta get things straightened out after the shock of meetin’ Rudy number two. Maybe Schribner is not feelin’ quite so good.
Anyhow it looks to me like these guys are desperate guys. Bumpin’ somebody off — whether it’s me or the dame he thought was Tamara — don’t seem to worry ’em a lot. Which means that the stakes they are playin’ for are pretty high, because even a heel like Schribner don’t go litterin’ up the countryside with stiffs unless the game is gonna be worth it.
But I reckon that I am gettin’ a little bit tired of this boyo, so I ease along the passage nice an’ quiet an’ push the door open a little bit more an’ take a peek.
The mug is sittin’ in the big chair set at an angle to the door. He can’t see me. He is slumped down in the chair smokin’ a cigarette, with the whisky decanter on the floor by his side an’ a glass in his hand. It looks like the big brain is at work on some campaign plan.
I stick there for a minute lookin’ at him, an’ then I give the door a smack an’ walk in.
“Hello, pal,” I tell him. “I was passin’ an’ thought I’d look in just to see bow you was makin’ out.”
He says: “Oh Jeez...!”
His face looks like pork drippin’. An’ some little beads of sweat come out on his forehead. Then he takes a pull at himself an’ forces a weak sorta smile across his thick lips. On the end of the mantelpiece I notice a bag of raspberries. The bag is open an’ they look like nice plump fruit. I remember what Charlie Milton told me about this guy bein’ crazy about raspberries. Maybe I can give him some more.
He says: “Well... if it ain’t Caution. I was just thinkin’ about you.”
“Of course you was,” I tell him. “You was thinkin’ what a nice feller I am an’ that you was all washed up, an’ that it was time you made a deal with me. Ain’t that what you was thinkin’?”
“Yeah...” he says, “I was thinkin’ that way. I reckon I know when I’m beat.”
He heaves himself up outa the chair an’ starts walkin’ towards the sideboard. He puts his hand out to get hold of the bottle of whisky that is standin’ there.
I grin at him. Because there is whisky in the decanter where he was sittin’. An’ I also notice that there is a drawer in the sideboard. I take a quick step towards him an’ bust him a smart rap on the snoozle that makes a noise like drawin’ a champagne cork. He flops over an’ sits up on the floor lookin’ at me sorta hurt.
“Look, you right royal bastard,” I tell him. “Maybe you think I am quite absent above the forehead, but if you think I’m gonna let you play games with me you think some more.” I flip open the drawer an’ inside is a little .25 special. I drop it in my pocket.
He says: “You got me wrong. I was goin’ for the whisky. It’s better than the other stuff. You don’t haveta get rough.”
I put my foot on his face an’ give him a push backwards. His head hits the edge of the sideboard an’ he lets go a howl. When he brings his hand away from his head there is blood on it. His pan goes even whiter than it was before. He lies there lookin’ like a porpoise that has been smacked in the belly by a passin’ U-boat.
I pick up the decanter an’ give myself a short one. The stuff is good. This boyo Schribner certainly knows his liquor. I sit on the edge of the armchair an’ look at him.
“Look, love-child...” I say, “you an’ me are goin’ to have a little conference, an’ my advice to you is to talk good an’ plenty. An’ watch your step. First of all I think that you are such a goddam liar that you wou’d make Ananias look like George Washington sayin’ his favourite piece on Sunday afternoon, an’ secondly I don’t like your pan. Thirdly, I think you are such a goddam mug that any time you say anythin’ the conversation practically ceases to exist. Havin’ got these points into that lousy dome of yours, take a tip from me an’ open up, otherwise I am gonna split you up from the navel downwards just to see what makes a greasy, raspberry stuttin’ sonofabitch like you tick over. Savvy.”
He don’t say anything. He sits there, propped against the sideboard, lookin’ like the last days of Pompeii.
I think maybe he needs a little help so I go over an’ drop a few spots of whisky on his ugly pan. The raw spirit starts ticklin’ an’ he puts his hands over his eyes.
“O.K., hero,” I tell him. “Just relax an’ listen to what I got to tell you. First of all I wanta know where Julia Wayles is, an’ secondly I wanta know why that dame was snatched — that is if she was snatched.”
He takes out his handkerchief an’ begins to wipe his face. I’m tellin’ you mugs that little Maxie is beginnin’ to look like somethin’ the cat has found an’ dragged in.
He says: “Can I get up?”
“Why not?” I tell him. “Maybe you’d look better in a perpendicular position, but let me tell you, brother, that any time you try to start anythin’ I’ll do somethin’ to you that would make bein’ boiled in petrol a real pleasure compared with. You got that?”
He says he’s got it. He says he is gonna play ball. He gets up an’ grabs the decanter. He gives himself a good swig an’ does a fancy shudder. Then he stands leanin’ up against the wall.
“I don’t know a goddam thing about Julia Wayles,” he says. “I ain’t ever seen her. I wouldn’t know her if somebody was to produce her right now. I wish to Christ I’d never even heard of the dame.”
“Well, that’s somethin’,” I tell him. “So you’ve heard of her? Well, what didya hear?”
“She was supposed to come over here,” he says. “But whether she has or whether she hasn’t, I wouldn’t know. When she got over here I was to look after the dame. Well, by the way things are goin’ I’d rather be janitor in a bughouse. I’m gettin’ tired of that one.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But how was she gonna contact you? How was this dame goin’ to get in touch with you when she did get here?”
“Rudy Zimman was supposed to tell me that,” he says. “Rudy was supposed to be in charge of the job, an’ some other baby — Tamara Phelps — was supposed to look after her. Just so’s nobody got at her I mean. Well, you know what’s happened? Some bastards have put a phony Rudy Zimman in to jig up the works, an’ it looks as if the dame who was callin’ herself Tamara Phelps is also some more boloney.”
“Well, she’s paid a nice price for pretendin’, hasn’t she?” I say. “I was lurkin’ about outside when your pal Rudy took her out to give it to her. I reckon right now she’s floatin’ about the bottom of the river behind the thirteenth green with a brick round her neck an’ Rudy’s kind regards written all over her in lead. You’re a nice guy, aren’t you, Schribner?”
He looks like death. He says:
“Jeez...! So you was here then? You was here an’ you didn’t try to stop it. You coulda stopped Rudy...”
“Like hell I could,” I say. “An’ why should I? What does one more or less phony Tamara mean in my young life? She muscled in on this business an’ now Rudy has muscled her out again. That dame bein’ bumped is maybe goin’ to simplify matters.”
“How?” he says. “From your angle, I mean?”
“I got a murder charge on you,” I tell him. “I got a murder charge on you an’ Rudy. An’ that is one of the reasons you an’ Rudy are goin’ to tell me what I want to know.”
“He can tell you,” he says. “I can’t. I’ve told you everythin’ I know about this goddam business.” He thinks for a minute an’ then he begins to brighten up. He looks like he has got a big idea.
“Another thing,” he says. “I don’t know that you got anything on me. I never bumped that dame. Rudy done it. An’ you was here when he took her off an’ you never did a goddam thing to stop it. O.K. Well... about this Julia Wayles jane.... Well, what about her? I ain’t done nothin’ to her, have I? I ain’t even seen her. I just been paid to come over here an’ stick around to wait for a dame who is comin’ over because she wants a sea voyage. You can’t do anything to me for that. What the hell...?”
“You don’t say,” I tell him. “Just fancy that now, Schribner,” I go on. “You are like a big lump of suet studded with raspberries. You look like a perrormin’ seal an’ you gotta brain like a one-way street with a traffic block at the end. You are so goddam unconscious that it somebody was to hit you on the dome with a cokehammer you’d never know.”
He says: “You go to hell, copper.” His voice is sorta surly. “You go to hell, You can’t get to work on me here. This is England, an’ they don’t have any third degree around here.’
“Oh, they don’t?” I say. “Just wait a minute, pal, an’ I’ll give you a little demonstration.”
I get what is in this bum’s mind. He is stallin’ along, waitin’ tor the guy he thinks is Rudy Zimman to come back. He reckons that as Rudy has bumped the dame, he’ll haveta take care of me as well, an’ that he can still slide out from under.
This Schribner is a punk all right, an’ I can even believe him when he says that he don’t know anything much about the Julia dame. Why should he? Any mob that is aimin’ to pull somethin’ is not goin’ to use a yellow heel like Maxie to do anythin’ that really matters. They have probably used him as a stooge — a guy who ain’t ever done anything sufficiently bad to give him a police record, a guy they could send over here an’ who would stick around an’ do the donkey work until Rudy Zimman an’ Tamara Phelps — who I reckon are the real dyed-in-the-wool mugs — arrive. That sorta matches up with Schribner an’ the way he is standin’ up to a little trouble.
I take another swig at the decanter. One thing is plain to me an’ that is that I have gotta get rid of this heel somehow while I am investigatin’ into this Tamara piece again. I reckon by now Nikolls has got her in the car an’ is takin’ her around to my place on Jermyn Street. Maybe he’s doin’ a little investigatin’ himself. Still, I don’t suppose it’s gonna do any harm even if he is interested in her particular brand of hipline. It might even help. You never know with dames.
“Look, Schribner,” I say, “you gotta nice stone cellar around here somewhere, an’ you’re goin’ in it. You’re goin’ to stay there nice an’ quiet until I got some other use for you. The question is are you goin’ quiet or are you goin’ to try an’ get tough?”
He says: “I ain’t gonna do anythin’! I’m stayin’ right here.”
I go over to him an’ I take hold of him by the lapel of his coat. He just stands there lookin’ at me like a cock-eyed sheep. But his eyes are sorta smoulderin’. I reckon this lousy mug could be cruel if he wanted to.
“One of these days,” he says, “I’m gonna have a chance to do somethin’ to you an’ then I’m gonna do it.”
“Why don’t you try now, pal?” I ask him. But I don’t wait for any answer. I bust him one. A nice easy short-arm jab that contacts with his jaw an’ sounds like somebody choppin’ wood. He goes out like a light.
I go over him. I find a notecase with some English money in it an’ some pictures of some dames — the sorta pictures that you would expect a guy like Maxie to have on him — an’ a bunch of keys.
I take the keys an’ a flashlamp that I find on the end of the mantelpiece an’ start to take a look around the cottage. I don’t reckon that Schribner is goin’ to be interested in anything for quite a bit.
It don’t take me long to find the cellar. On one side of the kitchen there is a door with a circular flight of stone stairs that leads down to the cellar. It strikes me as bein’ a bit peculiar for a one-storey cottage to have a cellar — an’ a stone one at that. I reckon that maybe these guys thought they’d have a use for that cellar. Maybe they was goin’ to store the Julia dame in there. Who knows?
I go back, stick Schribner across my shoulder, take him downstairs, prop him up against the end of the cellar wall an’ lock the door. Maybe I’ll come back some time an’ let him out — maybe not. If I don’t he can amuse himself eatin’ coal.
Then I go upstairs, take a little swig of whisky just to help me relax, an’ start lampin’ around this place. I don’t find anything interestin’ inside except there is a big basket of raspberries in the kitchen. I reckon this Schribner must spend a lotta time an’ trouble gettin’ supplies of raspberries in, because you know as well as I do that the fruit market ain’t so good in England these days.
After a bit I go outside. Outside the kitchen door is a little garden railed off with white palin’s like the front of the house is, an’ over on the left-hand side is a shed. This looks to me like the garage. The door is closed but it is not locked. I go inside an’ take a look. There is a big Benz car inside — a fancy sorta car that was never built in this country. I flash the torch inside an’ I see the upholstery is raspberry coloured, so I reckon this car is Maxie’s all right.
An’ then I see somethin’. On the passenger seat, where you couldn’t help seein’ it when you look in the car, is a piece of paper, an’ written on it is: “Where the hell are you? Sometime, when you’re not busy, you might look in at The Waterfall, Capel.” The note is not signed.
I fold it up an’ put it in my pocket. Then I go back inta the cottage, sit down in the big chair in the sittin’-room, have a little more whisky an’ light a cigarette.
Things are beginnin’ to move.
It is a quarter to three when I start walkin’ across the fairway towards the avenue of limes on my way to pick up the car that I left stuck in some little lane off the Reigate Road. I wonder what this Waterfall dump is — whether it is an hotel, an inn or one of those fancy night places they’ve got out in the country. Anyhow I reckon I’ll have a look.
I start up the car an’ drive in towards Dorkin’. It’s pretty good an’ dark an’ I can’t see a soul. But out on the other side of the town I meet a cycle cop. I ask him if he can tell me where Capel is. He tells me it is not very far away. I then ask him if he knows a dump called The Waterfall. He says yes, but that he thinks they’ll be closed now. He’s lookin’ at me in an odd sorta way. I think maybe he’s heard somethin’ about this dump.
I say thanks a lot an’ go on my way. Pretty soon I get to this Capel place. It is a nice little place, but bein’ dark I don’t appreciate the scenery very much. I leave the car behind the hedge an’ start walkin’ through the iron gates up the avenue the cycle cop told me about that leads towards The Waterfall.
This Waterfall is one of those places that have been converted inta whatever it is from an old-time country mansion. As I walk towards it the moon comes out from behind the clouds an’ I can see the place is a pretty swell sorta dump — the sorta place that requires guys in wigs an’ silk an’ satin clothes an’ swords an’ all that sorta stuff. There is a portico entrance an’ some steps leadin’ up to it, but everything is dark an’ quiet.
After a bit I come to the conclusion that I don’t like the front entrance to this place, so I get around the side an’ see what I can find there. Around at the side there are more doors but no life. I get around to the back an’ find another door. I stand there listenin’. From inside very softly comes the sound of some music an’ it sounds hot to me. I knock on the door. I stand there with my hands in my pockets waitin’. After two or three minutes the door opens a little bit. There is no light inside. I reckon maybe they got a blackout curtain behind the door.
Some guy says: “Yes?”
“Good-evenin’,” I tell him. “I thought maybe some friends of mine was here.”
He gives me a funny sorta grin. “Well, I can’t say yes until I know who you are, can I?” he says.
I grin back.
“Oh, that!” I tell him. “Well, I wonder if it would mean anything to you if I said I was a pal of Maxie Schribner’s?”
“It might,” he said. “Who do you want to see?”
I give him another beautiful grin.
“So she is here, is she?” I tell him.
“She might me,” he says. “What’s her name?”
I take a chance. “The name is Phelps,” I tell him, an’ I can see by his face that I am right. “What are we wastin’ time for?” I say. “Don’t you know that Miss Tamara Phelps is expectin’ a caller?”
“O.K.,” he says. “Come in.”
I close the door behind me an’ he hold aside the blackout curtain so that I can go in. We go across a big kitchen, through a place that looks like a servants’ hall an’ along a passage. We pass by a doorway where I can see a coupla guys cookin’, then we go up some stairs. The music is comin’ from somewhere up there. When we get to the first floor some good carpets start. Everythin’ is bright an’ well-furnished. All the windows are very carefully blacked-out and curtained. I reckon this is one of them places all right.
