Delphi collected works o.., p.316
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 316
Dulac said hoarsely: “What the hell do you mean?”
“You were going to collect the twenty thousand pounds insurance,” Callaghan went on, “on the policy you took out two years ago on your own life in the name of Charles Dulac. Unfortunately for you, you made a mistake in the date. The insurance company will pay on a suicide claim, but only two complete years after the policy is taken out. This policy had only been going one year and forty-eight weeks.
“When you realized this you were in a jam. There was only one thing to do, try and prove that Charles had been murdered. You thought you’d be safe. You imagined that the production of that letter would indicate to the police that it had been murder and not suicide, and that you’d draw the insurance money. But, of course, you had to slip up.”
Dulac said: “I see. So I slipped up.” He grinned sardonically. “I should like to know how,” he said.
Callaghan said: “When you first came to see me, you knocked your hat off the edge of my desk. I picked it up for you. When you’d gone I found the tips of my fingers were stained with the dye from the sweat-band of your hat. I wondered why you’d decided to dye your hair.
“I got an idea. I rang through to the Belling police and asked them if there was anything odd about the body they found in the cottage. There was. It seems that for some reason best known to himself, Charles had dyed his hair black.
“Of course,” Callaghan continued, “you didn’t know about that until the night you killed him and then you decided that you’d better’ dye your hair black, too, so that you could go back to the farm in Rhodesia as him.”
He felt in his pocket for a cigarette.
“So long, Dulac,” he said. “You’ll find a couple of plain clothes men outside. You wanted us to persuade the police that Charles Dulac didn’t commit suicide, that he was murdered. Well, we’ve done it, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
THE END
The Dark Series
Labour Corps Records Office, Nottingham, 1918 — during World War I Cheyney was shipped over to Flanders, transferred to near the Somme in 1916, wounded, promoted to full lieutenant and given a job in the Labour Corps Records Office in Nottingham in July 1917. His work was dull, but it did bring him into contact with great material for future characters.
Dark Duet (1942)
OR, THE COUNTERSPY MURDERS
First published in May 1942 this book, the publisher claimed, was the first British novel to be openly on sale in Paris after the Liberation during the War. Although it was published under the original title by Dodd, Mead & Co in the USA in 1943, it was subsequently published under the title of ‘The Counterspy Murders’ by Avon Books.
It’s a collection of four stories telling the adventures of Messers Michael Kane (an English spy who does not play cricket) and Belgian Ernie Guelvada. Their job is to get rid of known spies against whom actual evidence is lacking. They specialise in perfecting executions and carrying them out themselves; Kane performs the planning whilst Guelvada, who saw his wife’s body after the Germans had finished with it, is the quiet, purposeful killer.
Critics of the time responded positively to the book, with one declaring, “Their swift exploits should impress and entertain even the most hardened reader of crime and Secret Service fiction,” whilst another simply said, “This is Peter Cheyney at his best…narrative and action as slick and fast as ever.” Some were a little more loquacious calling this, “a volume that men will read for the swift action and adventurous quality that Cheyney always provides and women — irrespective of what they may say — for the disturbingly exciting characterisation of the two main masculine characters.”
Cheyney would go on to write a further ten books in this loose series, grouping together several different protagonists on a ‘dark’ theme. The books were widely praised during World War II for bringing more realism to espionage fiction. In their casual brutality and general ‘grubbiness’, the Dark novels seem to have foreshadowed much of the Cold War fiction of the mid to late 1960’s. Anthony Boucher placed these later works in the context of Graham Greene and Joseph Conrad. The characterisation of Ernest Guelvada is one of the high points of Cheyney’s career. A cheerfully sadistic war operative — whose objective is to deplete the ranks of opposing forces in a leisurely but thorough fashion — he still finds the time to dress immaculately, drink immoderate amounts of alcohol and remain a counter agent.
On the cover of one of the later editions the publisher noted that, “During the war years the Cheyney ‘Dark’ novels were a thorn in the side of our Nazi enemies. Circulated through Sweden into Denmark they carried a message to those who needed cheer and encouragement in their secret and dangerous tasks.”
The first edition
CONTENTS
IT DOESN’T HURT MUCH!
SWEET CONGA
YOU CAN ALWAYS DUCK
SOUVENIR
Faded the tinkling music of the minuet
And when its mincing cadences were sped
There echoed through that ballroom of the dead
Two ghostly voices in a dark duet
IT DOESN’T HURT MUCH!
I
THE OFFICE WAS a small, square room on a third floor near Golden Square. It was sombre and unassuming. The furniture was nondescript. A suggestion of efficiency was provided by a steel filing-cabinet.
Outside, between this office and the corridor, was another even smaller room. In it MacMurray, a big, broad-shouldered, truculent-looking man, dozed over an evening paper. He wished Fenton would go home.
MacMurray — who had been “lent” by C.I.D. Central Office, and who spent most of his time wishing he was back there — divided his attention between the Greyhound Racing news and wondering about Fenton. MacMurray was curious about Fenton. Damned curious. He wondered why it should be necessary for him to stay put in the outer office for twenty-four hours at a stretch whilst Fenton sat at the desk in the other room waiting for telephone calls that seldom came, or spent an odd hour going through the filing-cabinet making pencil notes on folders. Folders which MacMurray never saw.
He did not like being curious. But there was no way of satisfying his curiosity. His orders were to take his instructions from Fenton and to keep his mouth shut. Excellent orders, thought the plain-clothes man, and none the less excellent because he could not have done anything but keep his mouth shut. He had nothing to talk about.
Fenton, sitting at the desk in the other office, seemed at first glance to be as nondescript as the furniture. He was in the late fifties. His hair was thin, but what there was of it was plastered artistically. His moustache was small, well-brushed. When you looked at him carefully, noted his good, well-cut, if old, clothes, you thought he might have been a senior Civil Servant or possibly a retired Army officer. It wouldn’t matter what you thought anyhow. Fenton never answered any questions, maintained a background in which questions were not asked.
He moved the desk-lamp a little nearer so that the light fell on the papers he was examining. He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock — a dark, cold, wintry night, with a sharp rain beginning to fall. He yawned. He leant back in his chair, produced a cigarette-case, lit a cigarette, wondered how much longer he was going to sit in the little office... waiting.
Fenton thought that you were always waiting for something. From the moment you were born till the time when death was imminent, you were waiting for something — something good or bad. It might be the right woman, or a divorce to get rid of the wrong one — or some money, or revenge — or a chance to make good. But you were always waiting. And it was annoying. The telephone rang. Fenton sighed. He took off the receiver. He said:
“Yes.... Yes, sir.... I’ve got all the information we had on her... there’s nothing new on her at all, sir.... No... no real dossier and no official record.... But we know quite a lot about her.... Hold on, sir, I’ll let you know in a minute...”
He put down the receiver, went to the filing-cabinet, unlocked a drawer, pulled the steel file out and began to check through the carefully-filed folders inside. He took one out, went back to the desk, opened the folder, picked up the receiver.
He said: “She’s here as Mrs. Marques. She came from Norway, a reputed refugee — a rich refugee. She’s supposed to have money — both in Lisbon and New York. She’s very clever, sir — awfully clever. The C.E. people definitely attribute the sinking of the Maratta Star to that quarter.... You remember the Maratta Star, sir? It was one of the ships that were taking children to Canada.... Yes, sir... they got it... a submarine was waiting for it.... Not a very nice business, sir.... They found a dozen of the children in an open boat twelve days afterwards, dead from exposure.... That was Mrs. Marques all right, sir. There are a lot of other things too — some of ’em not so bad — some, if possible, worse.... Oh... she’s done that too, has she, sir!” He began to smile a little. “Well, if that’s so, sir, then even you might begin to get annoyed with her....
“Well, what are you going to do, sir? You can’t move through the Department of Home Security, can you? There is nothing official on the woman.... You can’t prove anything....” Fenton shrugged his shoulders. His smile became more incisive. “Well... if you think the case merits it you could always use Process 4 or 5....” He paused. “In this case, Sir, I would suggest Process 5.... You would probably save a lot of people’s lives that way.... Very well, sir.... You needn’t worry any more about it. I’ll take the necessary steps. Just forget it... write the lady off in your mind.... Good-night!”
Fenton hung up the receiver. He was smiling. He sat for a little while looking straight in front of him at the expanse of black-out curtain that shrouded the window. After a while he pressed the bell-button on the desk. The man from outside came in. Fenton said:
“I’m going off now, MacMurray. If anything urgent turns up you can ring me at home. But I don’t think it will. I think we’ve finished our urgent business for to-day.”
He smiled. MacMurray nodded and went back to the outer office.
Fenton went to the hatstand in the corner of the office. He put on his overcoat and hat. He went back to the telephone. He dialled a Mayfair number. After a minute he said:
“Hello... Kane? How are you...? There’s a little business for you.... You can get the details from your usual contact.... I’ll have a chance to talk to him on my way home. He’ll make the necessary arrangements if he can.... Yes, it’s one of those things.... Process 5.... You understand? And remember this is England... see? Play it carefully.... Good-night, Kane....”
He hung up. He said good-night to MacMurray as he went through the outer office. He walked down the corridor towards the lift, whistling softly to himself.
When he’d gone MacMurray went into the inner office and looked round. He tried the locks on the filing-cabinet. He went into the outer office, closed and locked the door between the two offices. He set up a folding-bed in one corner and laid out some blankets on it and a pillow. He took an automatic pistol from his hip pocket and put it under the pillow. He locked the door leading to the corridor, lit a spirit stove and put on it a small kettle. Then he undressed. He lay on the camp-bed reading the last edition of The Star, waiting for the kettle to boil.
II
Kane was tying his tie in front of the cheval glass when the telephone rang. He answered it and afterwards resumed the process of tie-tying. He felt a little sick in the stomach. He was not quite certain whether this feeling was the result of the telephone call or too many double Martini’s after whisky. He thought it did not matter anyhow.
He was tall and slim. But his shoulders were good and his hips very narrow. He appeared lithe. He moved as if he were putting very little energy into the process; as if he could produce much more vitality if necessary. His hands were peculiarly long, narrow and compact for so large a man, and his feet were small. He looked like a man who would be able to dance the tango very well... to do most things well... if he wanted to.
The sensitive mouth, the humorous and Celtic cut of the cheekbones, the set of the lips, indicated that he was not wanting in humour. Yet this attribute stayed with the lower part of his face. Above the cheekbones and nose — which was long and quivered at the end when he smiled, so that you wanted to look at it all the time, especially if you were a woman — there appeared a peculiar indefinable grimness. Not a definite grimness associated with a heavy type of face, but something fleeting; certainly not permanent. Directly you had assured yourself that it was there it disappeared and the brow opened and the eyes smiled, and you believed you were wrong. You were... but not the way you thought.
Kane opened a box of Player’s cigarettes that stood on the dressing-table near the mirror, and lit one. One side of his face was almost framed in a wave of unruly dark brown hair. And the end of the eyebrow beneath it curled up in a mischievous Machiavellian manner. If you had been watching Kane you would have decided, if you were a man, that you liked him. And if you were a woman, that you liked him, but that you wouldn’t take many chances about it. Not too many.
His clothes hung well on him. When he crossed the room to get an overcoat out of the wardrobe, his walk indicated that he was impatient about something. Yet the indication was belied by the almost casual way in which he put on the coat and a black soft hat.
With the hat on he looked more attractive than ever. He adjusted it at the right angle in front of the cheval glass. He liked it to be just so. He fumbled in his pockets for some gloves, and wondered if there would be a cab anywhere near Queen Anne Street.
Queen Anne Street.... He looked into the glass and wondered why the devil he should have a bedroom in Queen Anne Street — that quiet and select backwater of Cavendish Square. He decided to take the question seriously, and sat down suddenly in a high-backed chair. He smoked the cigarette and wondered why the devil he should live in Queen Anne Street. After a little while he concluded that it was because it was quiet and a backwater. Maybe, thought Kane, he was getting a little old and beginning to think in terms of quietness and backwaters.
This thought made him laugh. Then he wondered if thirty-eight was old; decided that it didn’t matter anyhow. He threw the cigarette stub away, lit another one and went downstairs.
It was cold outside in the street. He crossed Cavendish Square, went through Hanover Square, Conduit Street, Bond Street and down St. James’s Street.
There were few people about and Kane could hear his own footsteps distinctly. For some unknown reason the usual traffic noises of London seemed stilled. He began to think about Fenton.
Fenton was a one. He took you for granted. But then Fenton took everything for granted. Fenton was the type of Englishman who appeared to be a little grey and faded and undecided and odd, and who was, in reality, underneath, as hard as seven devils in hell. Definitely hard. You could depend on Fenton for damned little. He was afraid of nothing, but if it suited the book he’d walk out on you and leave you cold and dangling... dangling was about the word for it too.... A nice word... dangling....
A sudden gust of wind almost blew him into the roadway. He thought November was a hell of a month. As if to justify this thought one or two large snowflakes began to fall. Kane moved nearer the shelter of the houses.
He came to the post office at the bottom of St. James’s Street. In the shadow between the post office and the Conservative Club a man in an old raincoat was leaning up against the wall. Kane stopped and said good-evening.
The man said: “We’d better go round the corner. This isn’t a good place to talk, is it?”
“Just as you like,” Kane said. “It seems as good as anywhere else to me.”
The man in the old raincoat led the way down the narrow street by the side of the Conservative Club. He stopped fifteen yards past the side entrance to the Club. He leaned up against the wall. Kane stood facing him, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his shoulders drooped. “I suppose Fenton’s spoken to you?” said the man in the raincoat.
Kane nodded.
“Oh, yes,” he said. There was a peculiar sound of finality in the two words. They indicated somehow that whatever Fenton had said it produced a definite process of thought in Kane’s mind — a process that was not subject to any alteration.
“Guelvada’s in Surrey,” said the other man, “playing around at some place called Tyrrell’s Wood. I’m going to get a call through to him just as soon as I can. He’s got a car down there. He can get back pretty quickly.”
Kane said: “There seems to be an awful hurry, doesn’t there?” He took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette.
“Why not?” said the man in the old raincoat. “Do you want to spin it out?” His tone was mildly sarcastic.
“I don’t like spinning anything out,” said Kane. “But I like to take my time.”
The other man shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose Fenton didn’t say anything to you about the Maratta Star?” he said.
“No,” said Kane. “And anyway what’s the Maratta Star got to do with it?”
“It was one of the boats that was supposed to take children to Canada,” said the man in the raincoat. “A submarine got it. It was waiting for it. That was Mrs. Marques — that was. That’s her business. Well, maybe there’ll be some more ships. Perhaps that’s why Fenton’s in a hurry.”
Kane moved his head slightly. He looked down the narrow street towards St. James’s Street. He said:
“That’s all right, but I still don’t approve of being too fast. I don’t like all this quick movement. I don’t like Ernie dashing back from Tyrrell’s Wood in that car of his. One of these fine days somebody’s going to ask how it is that a Belgian refugee — —” Kane grinned suddenly— “I beg his pardon — a free Belgian — is able to go dashing about the country in a high-power motor car just at any odd minute. Then they’re going to ask questions.”
