Complete works of peter.., p.318
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 318
Kane grinned. She found that grin maddening.
He said: "I hope for very little and expect nothing. I'm damned glad of what I get." He went on: "Let's be constructive about you. When a woman falls in love with a man she has to get something out of it, doesn't she?"
She got up, slipped off the kimono, began to wriggle into her stage frock. She had a superb figure. She hoped he would realise that. It was some time before she said:
"Well, what does she have to get out of it? She doesn't have to get something out of it, does she, Michael?"
He nodded. He was smiling quite pleasantly.
"She must get something," he said, "otherwise it's no soap. When a woman definitely realises that a man is no soap she does something about it, especially a woman like you, Valetta."
She smiled at him. She powdered her nose, leaning forward so that the powder should not touch her frock.
"Has it never occurred to you that I may have got something out of you, Michael?" she said.
He raised one eyebrow. "Such as...?" he queried.
"Such as a lot of fun for one thing," said Valetta.
"I wouldn't describe myself as a particularly amusing type of man," he said.
She sat down on the chair suddenly, her hands clasped in her lap, looking at him. She was concentrating.
"Neither would I," said Valetta. "You're not. But there is something damned fascinating about you. You're one of those men who don't require a background. Have another cigarette, Michael."
He said: "Thanks."
She took a cigarette from the box, lit it, handed it to him. He noticed the mark of her lipstick on the end. He drew on the cigarette.
"This is interesting," he said. "So I'm the type of man who doesn't require a background. Elucidate that mysterious remark, Valetta."
She thought for a moment.
"Well," she said eventually, "one meets some men and one's only really interested because one knows all about them. For instance, you meet a man. He's rather brusque; he seems hard. You wouldn't be attracted in the normal course of events; and then you find that he's a man who's done quite big things in his life. You realise that the things he's done have made him tough. They're responsible for his character. Knowing that, you're still prepared to be interested in him. If you didn't know you'd probably dismiss him from your mind. Do you understand? I'm not very good at explaining what I think," she concluded.
"I understand," said Kane. He blew a smoke ring, watched it sail across the dressing-room.
"But you'd be all right anyhow," she said. "Whatever you were, whatever your job was, whatever you did, you'd still be you. You are a fascinating person. You are an intriguing person. Quite independently of whatever it is you do... which reminds me——" She stopped speaking, looked at him. Her eyes were bright and a little wicked. Her mouth was smiling. Kane wanted to take her in his arms.
"Which reminds you of what?" he said.
"Do you remember the first time we met, Michael?" she said. "The night they dropped that bomb and blew that place in, with all those people underneath? Do you remember how I flung myself into your arms for protection? Was I scared!"
"And was I scared?" said Kane.
"I don't know about that," said Valetta. "You weren't too scared to take full advantage of the situation."
"I beg your pardon!" said Kane.
"There is no need to," she said. "I thought your technique was superb. But the point I was getting at was this: When we arranged to dine together and I was getting ready to meet you, I made up my mind to ask you exactly what it was you did, and somehow when the time came I didn't want to. I thought I'd like to keep you, in my mind, as a rather mysterious sort of person."
Kane nodded.
"I see," he said. "So you'd already put me down as a sort of 'steady,' had you?" He grinned at her ironically. He showed a fine set of white teeth.
"What I thought is my business," said Valetta. "But the fact remains I didn't ask you what you were, and when I'd left you and we'd arranged to meet again, and I was lying in bed looking at the ceiling and thinking about you, I made up my mind that the next time I saw you I really would ask you."
Kane said: "What was it made you forget?"
"Oh, you wouldn't know, would you?" said Valetta.
"I've got an idea... But go on..." said Kane.
"Well," she continued, "I've sort of carried it on from time to time. One of these fine days I'll satisfy my curiosity." She stopped speaking. Then quite suddenly said: "Michael, what do you do?"
He blew another smoke ring. He said:
"I suppose one could say that you were fairly well experienced, Valetta. You're no fool, are you? You're a pretty good judge of character. Now, what would you think I was?"
She shook her head.
"I'm damned if I know," she said. "You might be anything. You're one of those people that you can't put in any sort of box. You're a type and yet you're not a type."
Kane said: "I suppose what you really mean is why aren't I in the Army, or the Navy or the Air Force?"
She said: "All right. Why aren't you?"
Kane said: "I'll tell you. I was run over by an express train when I was about seven. It cut my liver entirely in half, so they won't pass me fit." He sat grinning at her.
She said: "You're a pig, Michael, aren't you? But then you once told me you didn't like being asked questions."
He said: "Oh, I don't mind from you. So you really want to know what I am and what I do. Do you know"—he leaned forward suddenly—"I think you're a marvellous woman, Valetta," he said, "to know a man, to get around with him, to sleep with him for nine months and only then to ask him what he does. I think it's too amazing."
"Never mind about that," she said. "You tell me..."
There was a knock on the door. "You're on in two minutes, Miss Fallon," said the callboy.
She got up.
Kane said: "That interruption came just at the right moment. Now I've got lots of time to think something up."
She said: "So long, Michael, I've got to go now. Am I going to see you to-night?"
He shook his head. "I've got to meet a man I know," he said. "A little business. I'm sorry, Valetta. I'd have liked to have had supper with you to-night."
"Me, too," she said. "I'll be seeing you, Michael. Take some cigarettes if you want some. Au revoir."
He heard her high heels pattering down the stone passageway. He sat in the chair looking straight in front of him at the make-up table; his long, thin hands hung straight down between his knees. He presented a picture of ironic despondency.
After a little while he got up. He put on his hat, walked slowly along the passageway, down the stairs, out of the stage entrance.
IV
Presenting Mr. Guelvada—"Ernie" Guelvada—the Free Belgian. The gentleman with a mission.
Ernie was disquieting. Definitely disquieting. It was impossible to sit and talk to Ernie, or even to look at him or be in the same room with him, without experiencing a sense of vague discomfort. When you were not with him you wondered about this; concluded that you were suffering from nerves or imagination; that you were stupid. You became certain about the nerves or imagination until the next time you saw Mr. Guelvada, when you noted that the effect of discomfort became greater as you got to know him better.
Of course you did not get to know him better. No one ever did. Except Kane. Kane knew him, and about the worm that lived in Mr. Guelvada and spent its time wandering from the mind to the guts. When it was in the mind Ernie made people uncomfortable. When it descended to the stomach other—and possibly more interesting—things happened.
Guelvada sat at the corner table in the bar parlour at the Grain Tavern in Tyrrells Wood. He was watching the proprietress. He was thinking that she had an excellent figure, a well-proportioned figure, that her breasts were absolutely in proportion to her hips and waist. Guelvada spent a great deal of his time pondering on the figures of women. Not in any lustful or even mildly exciting manner but in a quiet and dispassionate way that was distinctly impersonal and almost remote.
While he was engaged in this process, he used, at the same time, to think about other things—things that were not disconnected from the object of his vision. Sometimes he would think in French or Walloon or Flemish or in Russian or Spanish or Portuguese or English. He spoke all these languages almost perfectly. Perfectly enough to get by. When he thought in English he would do all sorts of strange things to amuse himself. He would think in pedantic—or what he considered correct—English, or in English interlarded with slang and Americanisms that he had learned from the moving pictures. He was not the sort of man that you would "put" with languages. He was not the sort of man that you would consider to be at all erudite. Yet he was extremely erudite.
He seldom talked about himself, and preferred to believe that he behaved in a mediocre and uninteresting manner. He was on the short side, and seemed a little plump. He was not in fact plump. He merely gave the impression. He was strong and nimble on his feet when he wanted to be. His face was round, pleasant and good-humoured. His mouth was mobile and good-natured. Seeing all these things accompanied by the half-smile that usually played about Guelvada's lips made you wonder more than ever why you felt uncomfortable when you were with him.
He had been born at a baconry near Ellezelles. It was a profitable baconry and had belonged to his father. His mother, who had noticed that Guelvada was not particularly happy with pigs, decided that he should go into the priesthood. She saw him as a curé. The picture of Ernie in a cassock delighted her. It was for this reason that he was educated so that he should be a successful priest. His mother, if asked, would not have known what a successful priest was, but to her education was a step in that direction. The World War of 1914 put an end to these dreams. It also put an end to his father, who was shot out of hand by the Germans for cutting the throat of a Corporal of Engineers, and to his mother, who was killed by the Corporal of Engineers because she put one of his eyes out with her thumb whilst he was endeavouring to rape her. Ernie, considering all these things in the light of the peace that followed, concluded that they were—in their way—quite logical, and became a courier.
Being a courier was an interesting business, he thought. You seldom stayed in any place long enough to become bored with it. You met a lot of people who passed on quickly. You had no time to become tired of anything. Your life became a kaleidoscope of middle-aged English ladies with dogs and money, surreptitious trips to the Casino with younger English ladies who wanted to see what night-life was like, and arguments about hotel bills with women of other nationalities who seemed to want to spend their lives arguing about a franc or two.
He picked up his glass and walked across the room towards the little bar that connected the bar-parlour with the saloon bar. Across the counter, in the other bar, he saw one or two men he knew casually. They grinned at him and he smiled back. When he smiled his face became almost transfigured. There was something cherubic about it. His smile was, in any event, prepossessing.
He put the glass down on the counter and asked in a soft voice for a gin and lime-juice. He watched the proprietress whilst she reached for the bottle. Reaching for bottles showed off a woman's figure, he thought, and it was for this reason that he always asked for drinks that came out of bottles on the highest shelves. One night, in Lisbon, at a place where they kept an egg-flip mixed with rum, that nobody ever wanted, on a high shelf, Guelvada had spent the whole evening ordering the foul stuff merely so that he could watch the girl who was serving reach for the bottle. He was like that.
When the proprietress put the gin and lime on the counter in front of him she said: "I haven't seen you for a day or two, Mr. Guelvada. But then you've been busy, I expect?"
Guelvada smiled at her.
"Oh, no!" he said. "Not at all, Madame. On the contrary. I have been walking about your so beautiful golf course, thinking."
She laughed. He thought she was a very pleasant woman.
"What—in the rain?" she said. "Whatever were you thinking about?"
Guelvada became suddenly serious. Then his round face lit up with a smile. He said quietly:
"Believe it or not, but one of the things I was thinking about was your figure. I think it is superb. I only hope the Germans don't invade England."
"Why?" she asked. "Whatever has that got to do with my figure?" She bridled a little. She thought she had a good figure too.
"It might have a lot to do with it," said Guelvada. "The Boches like figures like yours."
She flushed.
"They could go on liking," she said. "I've got an axe in the tool-shed for Germans."
Guelvada nodded.
"I know..." he said thoughtfully. He smiled at her again. "I knew another woman like that," he said. "She had an axe in the tool-shed too. They cut her breasts off..."
He picked up the glass of gin and lime, carried it back to the table. As he was raising the glass to his lips, the barmaid from the public bar put her head round the door.
"Mr. Guelvada," she said, "there's somebody wants you on the telephone. When I asked him who it was, he said to tell you it was Peter."
Guelvada said: "Thank you, honey..."
He got up and went out of the bar parlour, down the little passageway. The wall-telephone was at the end of the passage. Guelvada picked up the receiver and said hello. The voice at the other end said: "Is that you, Guelvada?"
"Correct," said Guelvada. "This is 'E' for Ernie."
"Right," said the other voice. "And this is 'P' for Peter. There's a woman called Mrs. Marques..."
Guelvada interrupted. He said very quickly:
"Yes...?" He was smiling a little—an odd sort of smile. His lips were drawn back over his teeth.
"Yes!" said "P" for Peter. "Process five. Does that please you?"
"Why not?" said Guelvada. "It's logical, isn't it?"
"In this case definitely so," said the other voice. "I understand she'll be at a party at a place near Hampstead to-night. The party will start somewhere around ten-ish. It will be a late party. You and 'M' for Michael will have to get in on it somehow. Somebody wants this job done quickly."
"I see," said Guelvada. "Do I have any contacts?"
"Unfortunately they're rather vague," said the voice. "But there's a pub in Mayfair called the Yellow Bottle. There's a woman goes there called Mrs. Mallary. She's a friend of Mrs. Jeanes who's throwing the party at Hampstead. This Mrs. Mallory knows an awful lot of people. She might have met you some time. She was at Eden Roc three years ago and fell off the wooden jetty there. She broke her leg. Two nights afterwards, with one leg in plaster of paris, she went to a card party and won twenty-five thousand francs. Will that help?"
"It might," said Guelvada, "providing she goes to the Yellow Bottle to-night."
"She'll be there," said the voice. "I can arrange that. I'll try and put a man in to make it easier. But after she gets there you'll have to play it on your own."
"All right," said Guelvada. "But if you put a man in how shall I know him?"
"He'll know about your other identity card," said Peter. "He'll know the name on it is Pierre Hellard. You be Pierre Hellard and let him remember you. If he does, he's my man. But, remember, he'll get out before the business starts. He's an inexperienced one, that one. You can't rely on him for anything and he knows nothing—nothing that matters. Understand?"
Guelvada said: "It's all right." He smiled in that peculiar way again. "I can do this on my own. If she goes to the Yellow Bottle it's easy.'
The voice said: "You're not going to do it on your own. Sometimes you're a little too decided, Ernie. You'll do it with Kane. You'll take your orders from him. When you've seen Mrs. Mallary at the Yellow Bottle you'd better hang about there. Michael will come through on the telephone. You can tell him what the position is. After that you two can carry the baby."
Guelvada began to laugh.
"You're telling me!" he said. "Carry the baby is good. Some baby! But we'll carry her.... Tell me, what does she look like—this Marques I mean?"
"Pretty good, I believe," said the voice. "That sort always look good. They have to. You understand what you've got to do. You'd better get back to London right away."
Guelvada said: "All right. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Take your time," said the voice. "There's no need to get picked up for speeding."
Guelvada hung up the receiver. He went back into the bar-parlour, finished his drink, picked up his hat. He said good-evening to the proprietress and went out. When he had gone one of the men in the saloon bar said to her:
"He's a funny little fellow, isn't he, Mrs. Soames?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry for him," she said. "I'm sorry for all those Free Belgians. They've got no homes or anything. They've got nothing to do—just sort of sitting about waiting for us to win this war so that they can go back home and start cleaning-up."
"He's a funny little devil,' said the man.
"He is strange," said Mrs. Soames. "I think he's very pleased with himself about something. But you never know with these foreigners...."
V
It was raining when Guelvada drove through Berkeley Square. He parked the car at the end of Charles Street. When he got out the keen wintry wind cut his cheeks. He shivered a little. He did not like the cold. He began to walk towards Shepherd Market, his hands in his pockets, his head down against the wind; his round, good-humoured face concerned with some immediate problem.
The immediate problem was the weather. Guelvada was thinking that, in his part of Belgium, the wind was not so cutting nor the rain so cold. He wondered what life would have been like had he been a priest. He thought possibly it might have been more amusing; then again the lives of priests were not so amusing after all.
He traversed Shepherd Market and, on the other side, turned into the street that led to the cul-de-sac—the end of which was formed by the Yellow Bottle. He went into the saloon bar. The place was full of people, and inside, standing to the right of the black-out curtain, he was able to look quickly at the bar and to see that there were two people serving behind it—one a potman of indeterminate age and, at the other end, an attractive barmaid.
