Complete works of peter.., p.158
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 158
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.
We go along a long wide corridor that's got old pictures on either side of it. At the end are a coupla foldin' doors. When he pushes them open I can see the sorta sight that you see in any big city in the world--a dance floor with tables round it an' a five-piece band playin' on a platform at the end. Would you believe it? Here you are stuck away in the country thirty miles outside London, an' you get, even in war-time, the same old imitation of a night club that guys all over the world have just gotta have--war or no war.
It looks as if they are just packin' up. Two or three of the band guys are puttin' their instruments away an' about a dozen people are movin' from the tables to the doorway. The guy who has led me in starts walkin' across the room. Away on the right-hand side of the band platform is a table by itself an' sittin' at this table eatin' is a dame. So this is Tamara--the real one. Boy!
Maybe I have told you guys before that whenever you get mayhem you get beautiful janes. Maybe a lotta you mugs have wondered why it is that when I am in on a case most of the frails in it have certainly got somethin' to sell. Maybe you wonder why we don't have some ugly dames now an' again. Well, the reason is not far to seek. It is not the ugly baby who leaves the farm an' scrams up to the big city because she needs a little excitement. No, sir! It is always the good-lookin' one who thinks she is not gettin' a break where she is an' that when she gets in the big city she'll get a little appreciation from guys. Once she gets there she finds things not so good. Sometimes she slips.
An' it is always the dame with looks that falls to the guy who is in some racket or other. I never heard of a mobster usin' an ugly dame for anythin' yet. So when I tell you that this Tamara has got somethin' I mean it. Not only has she got somethin', but she knows how to sit an' she knows how to dress. I could spend hours lookin' at this dame--if I was that sort of a guy.
I follow the guy towards, the table an' all the while I am tryin' to take what they call a mental picture of this baby, tryin' to get some idea as to how I can play her along the way I want. An' I come to the quick conclusion that it ain't gonna be easy.
This one has style an' looks an' every other goddam thing an' she also looks demure. Maybe this last thing don't mean a lot to you, but I am a guy who is scared of demure dames. They always pack a load or trouble, I have always round that janes are either brassy, tough or demure. The tough ones you know about, but the demure ones keep you guessin'. You never know whether they're really like that or just frontin'. An' you very seldom make a sap out of a demure dame. Well--not often.
In all my time I only knew one guy who ever took a demure lookin' baby for a ride up the garden path. This guy was so goddam ugly that if he had been hit in the face by a cannon ball it woulda been a great improvement. O.K. Well, he was stuck on some demure lookin' baby an' he reckoned he was gonna marry the dame by fair means or foul. So he got himself introduced to her during an air-raid practice when everythin' was black an' she couldn't see his pan. After which he arranged to call around an' see her.
Directly he arrived around at her place he took a quick jump at her an' started kissin' her like mad. Bein' the demure kind she turned the light off, after which she never got a chance to look at the guy until they was married--an' then it was too late. I reckon if that guy Confucius hadda known about this he'd have thought up another wise-crack. Or maybe not.
Any demure dame is dangerous because if she's that way natural then you gotta watch your step, because a really demure baby is one of them guaranteed virgins. An' there ain't a steam whistle you ever heard that could make a noise like a guaranteed virgin makes when she gets necked by accident. If she ain't really demure an' is merely puttin' up a front then she is twice as dangerous, because she is a dame who knows all the answers an' is pretendin' that she don't for reasons best known to herself. You get me?
Me--I have always been a guy who likes a jane to know her vegetables an' not conceal the fact, an' in this idea I am in good company because old man Confucius said: "The woman who pretends purity seeks to disguise guilty knowledge." All of which will show you mugs that old Confucius woulda held his own with any blonde that come out of Ma Licovat's love parlour on fourteenth at Barrel alley--that is if he coulda got out his notebook an' found the right proverb in time.
This dame Tamara is a pip. She is sittin' there all alone eatin' sorta slow an' very nice. She is wearin' a tight black lace dinner frock that advertises her figure, beige silk stockin's an' black georgette shoes with four-inch red heels. Around her shoulders an' over her hair is a sorta mantilla of powuer-blue georgette.
Her hair is blonde an' real. That colour never came outa any bottle. She has got a swell skin an' a mouth that a guy would go mad over. It is one of them beautifully chiseled mouths that drive you nutty because you want to look at it all the time, which sorta makes it difficult to keep to the business on hand. The dame had also got a swell foot an' a nice way of puttin' it on the ground. You know what I mean, sorta neat an' graceful an' tidy.
When she puts a piece of bread in her mouth I can see she has nice hands with long fingers an' that the tight fittin' sleeves of her frock have got little tiny turn-back cuffs of the same powder blue georgette.
