Delphi collected works o.., p.325
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 325
“Maybe you don’t,” said Kane. “The third thing is that when you went off to dance with Griselda they played that tune again. In other words they played the same tune three times within half an hour. You go downstairs, find out the name of that tune.”
“Willingly,” said Guelvada. “I’ll do my best. Is it permitted to ask why?”
Kane nodded.
“Fenton got through,” he said. “He got a telephone message through to the Embassy. One of the messengers came round here with it. There is a Spanish tune called ‘Sweet Conga.’ Fenton says it’s some sort of contact signal for their people. Get it?”
“I’ve got it,” said Guelvada. He smiled. “It looks as if things are beginning to get interesting, doesn’t it?” he said. “It would be amusing if the C.E. people had got on to us before we even knew what we were doing here.” He shrugged his shoulders; went out.
Kane lit a cigarette. He cocked one leg over the arm of the chair; smoked silently, blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. He was still blowing smoke rings when Guelvada came back. Guelvada came into the room, closed the door behind him, stood with his back against it.
“Mon cher Michael, wonders will never cease! The name of the tune was ‘Sweet Conga’...!”
Kane nodded. He looked depressed.
Guelvada went on: “I don’t know what it means to you — this tune, and Griselda and Mrs. Lahn, and all the rest of it — but it doesn’t mean anything particularly to me. Do you feel like explaining? If you do, I’ll be very interested.”
Kane said: “I want a drink — an old-fashioned whisky and soda.”
Guelvada went to the sideboard. “I think it’s an idea,” he said. “I’ll have one too. I don’t like whisky, but my brain always works better when I’ve had some.”
“Your brain?” said Kane acidly. “I like that. Your brain never works. You’re merely an automatic gangster. Somebody presses a button and you fog somebody.”
Guelvada began to pour out the whisky. Kane went on:
“I’ve told you about the message from Fenton; you know that tune was played three times to-night; you know Griselda’s disappeared into thin air. But you don’t know why... and you talk about your brain!”
Guelvada sighed. He came over to Kane, a whisky and soda in his right hand.
“Mon vieux,” he said. “I am not the brain department. You are the brains department. I do other things. I am merely a practical person who likes to do practical things in an artistic way. And I still don’t understand.”
“All right,” said Kane. “Well, you bring your practical mind to bear on this. Gallat should have been here yesterday. He should have come in on the afternoon plane. Well, he’s not here, is he? But we know he came in on the afternoon plane. Therefore something happened to him, didn’t it? You know damned well that if Gallat was supposed to contact us he’d have done it. Obviously he’s working for Fenton, and people who work for Fenton do what they’re told — unless something very drastic stops them. You understand that?”
“Very well,” said Guelvada. “All right.... Gallat got here and they’ve knocked him off. The German C.E. people have knocked him off.”
“That’s all right,” said Kane. “It is all right providing Gallat hasn’t any written instructions on him. But it’s a stone certainty that he has. If Gallat had come straight from England, Fenton wouldn’t have used him in order to send us instructions — he’s got other means — quicker, safer means — as you know. Therefore the probability is that Gallat’s come from somewhere else; that he’s got something in writing — because it’s got to be in writing — a list of names, one of the usual things, or something like that — things that can’t be remembered easily. Things that Fenton couldn’t get straight to me because they had to come from somewhere else.”
Guelvada nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “Gallat’s an American. Probably he came from America. He’s probably one of Fenton’s contacts in Washington.”
“Probably,” said Kane. “Well, if they’ve got Gallat, they’ve got everything he had on him. But that isn’t the point that’s worrying me so much.”
“What is worrying you, Michael?” asked Guelvada.
“I’m worried about ‘Sweet Conga,’” said Kane. “Look,... the first time they played that tune to-night was when we were up here talking. I imagine that they played it about the time that Mrs. Lahn and Griselda went into the restaurant. Maybe that was the recognition signal. Somebody was to recognise Mrs. Lahn and Griselda by the fact that that tune was played when they went into the room.”
“All right,” said Guelvada. “Why did they want to recognise Mrs. Lahn and Griselda, or either of them?”
“Because, you nut-head,” said Kane, “Mrs. Lahn and Griselda are the only two people in this hotel that we’ve talked to to any extent since we’ve been here.”
“My God!” said Guelvada. He began to grin. “So they think that Mrs. Lahn and Griselda...”
“Exactly,” said Kane. “They think that Mrs. Lahn and Griselda are associated with us. Having established their identity for somebody who’s sitting in the dance room by playing ‘Sweet Conga’ when they come in, they play it again when we go in. That fixes our identity. There we all are. Mrs. Lahn, Griselda, yourself and myself. Somebody in that room wanted to identify us. Well, they’ve done it. They know who we are. The tune was the signal.”
“Excellent,” said Guelvada. “That looks like sense. I understand perfectly. But why does Griselda disappear?”
Kane lit another cigarette.
“Listen, hop-head.... Supposing they’ve got Gallat? If they got Gallat they’ve got the list or the instructions or whatever it was he had on him. That’s all right. Now the next thing they want to know is what we were going to do when we got those instructions. Whatever they intend to do with us it would still be useful for them to know what we were going to do. All right. So they want to make somebody talk, don’t they? And of we four people who would the easiest one be?”
Guelvada whistled.
“They’re going to make her talk,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Kane.
“Not so good for Griselda,” said Guelvada. “Especially as she doesn’t know anything, and therefore she can’t talk. Not so good...! Me — I am extremely concerned for her.” He took out his cigarette case. “You remember what they did to that woman at Soissons, Michael?” he said. He tapped his cigarette end on the case.
Kane said: “I don’t want to remember.”
Guelvada nodded.
“That’s the trouble with you,” he said. “You have a flair for forgetting unpleasant things. But me — I always remember them... every little thing and every bad thing that I have known them to do... I make one big mathematical sum in my mind, and then...”
“I know,” said Kane. “And then when you’ve added it all up, whenever you get your chance, you get your own back in your own way.”
“Precisely,” said Guelvada. He finished his whisky.
“Now I understand,” he went on. “Now I see why you smoothed down Mrs. Lahn. Why you pretended that we knew where Griselda was... you wanted to stop her....”
“I wanted to stop her shouting her head off all over this town, ringing police stations and hospitals,” said Kane. “That wouldn’t help us, as you know. If they’ve got Griselda, ringing police stations isn’t going to help us. What we need is a mortuary.” He stretched out his long legs; folded his hands behind his head.
Guelvada mixed more whisky and soda. He leaned against the sideboard; began to drink the whisky. Every time he took a gulp he made a grimace as if he disliked it.
“What are you going to do, Michael?” he asked.
Kane said: “I’m very sorry about Griselda — very sorry. But I ought to be concerned with Gallat. Gallat’s our business. Griselda isn’t. She’s just unfortunate.”
Guelvada nodded. “Agreed. But it’s tough luck that because a young woman and her mother are nice to us and like to talk to us in an hotel, somebody should do something not nice to her.” He sighed. “They’ll probably be very unkind,” he concluded.
Kane lit another cigarette.
“Well, we’ve got something to start on,” he said.
Guelvada raised his eyebrows. “Have we?” he asked.
Kane said: “Listen, stupid.... The band played ‘Sweet Conga’ three times to-night. We know ‘Sweet Conga’ is a contact signal. All right. Well, somebody told somebody to play it three times, didn’t they?”
“My God!” said Guelvada. “You mean the band-leader?”
“Precisely,” said Kane. “I mean the band-leader. You go downstairs and do a little snooping. Find out where the band-leader lives. Have you got that?”
Guelvada nodded.
“Perfectly,” he said.
“While you are downstairs,” said Kane, “you might take a look at the night porter. If he’s the one who was on last night, he looks intelligent, as if he might listen to reason. Tell me what you think of him. Talk to him if necessary.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Guelvada, “and when I’ve talked to him for a few moments I shall know all about him. I have only to talk to a man and I know all about him. I am very good indeed at judging people’s characters.”
Kane grinned cynically.
“So you can do that too,” he said. He lit another cigarette.
Guelvada went away.
Kane, his leg still cocked over the arm of the chair, looked at the ceiling ruminatively and blew smoke rings. He was a trifle worried — as worried as he ever allowed himself to be, because people in Kane’s profession are quick to realise that worry is non-constructive. It does not help — it merely blunts the instincts.
Kane was a little concerned with the situation. He wondered precisely how he was going to play this business.
He got up, went to the sideboard, poured himself another whisky and soda. In spite of the mixture of drinks during the evening, his brain felt clear and active. He made up his mind that somehow Gallat must be found. It was necessary.
A quarter of an hour afterwards Guelvada came back. He said: “I’ve found out about the band-leader. He’s a Spaniard — a nice fellow. Everybody likes him. His name is Juan Roccas. I’ve got his address. He lives near the Rua Augusta. I think it would be a good idea if I went to see him. I go very well with Spaniards.”
Kane raised his eyebrows. He said:
“Is there anybody you don’t go well with?”
Guelvada looked serious.
“Candidly, between you and me,” he said, “I have not discovered anyone yet — except perhaps the woman I was telling you about — the one I met here.” He smiled suddenly. “And even then,” he said, “things might have been all right if I’d played my cards with a little more finesse. In point of fact,” he went on brightly, “in spite of the fact that she wished, at the end, to kill me, I think she was very very fond of me.”
Kane said: “I see. They get so fond of you they want to kill you.”
Guelvada looked surprised.
“Why not?” he said. “It should be obvious to anyone that the businesses of love and hate are so near to each other that often it is impossible to separate them.”
There was silence for a few moments; then Kane asked:
“What was the night porter like?”
“The right sort of man,” said Guelvada. “I don’t know what you want him for, but he’s still the right sort of man. He’d be right for anything.” He grinned. “He’s one of those people — you know...”
Kane said: “One of what people...?”
“Well,” said Guelvada, “he’s not a bad-looking fellow. His clothes fit him very well; he’s fastidious and neat. He’s got tired bedroom eyes. He looks very experienced, which is natural, because to be a night porter in a place like this one must be experienced — very experienced. In fact,” he concluded, “he is the sort of man who would, I think, do anything that was required providing somebody gave him some money.”
“All right,” said Kane. “Well, I’ve got an idea. It may not work, but I’m going to try it, and in the meantime I want you to go and see this Spaniard Roccas. You find him. Maybe he’s at home.”
“And maybe not,” said Guelvada. “You know these band-leaders — when they finish work they go on somewhere else. They meet their friends. To them the night-time is their playtime. They sleep during the day.”
“Never mind,” said Kane. “You find Roccas. When you’ve found him, find out why he played ‘Sweet Conga’ three times to-night, but don’t start anything, will you?”
“Meaning exactly what?” asked Guelvada.
Kane said: “I want you for once to be tactful. I don’t want you to threaten this man. I don’t want you to be theatrical, or work out some wonderful act that is unnecessary and is going to have a lot of repercussions. Just be quiet and plausible. Work out a story that sounds reasonable. If someone asked him to play the tune, find out who it was. If you think he’s working for the other side, you’ll possibly discover the fact in conversation.”
“Possibly,” said Guelvada. “And supposing he is, do I still have to be tactful?”
“Why not?” said Kane. “Let’s try tact in the first place. Remember I want to get out of here with a whole skin if I can.”
Guelvada nodded. “Me too!” he said.
Kane looked at his watch.
“It’s four o’clock,” he said. “Try and get back here by five. And don’t get involved in anything, Ernie.”
Guelvada said: “I shall become involved in nothing. You may trust me implicitly.”
He went into the bedroom, got his hat; grinned at Kane as he passed through the drawing-room. Kane thought Guelvada looked happy. He wondered exactly what was going on in his mind.
Five minutes after Guelvada had gone, Kane got up. He went into his bedroom, opened a box of cigars, selected one, lit it. The cigar gave him an appearance of well-being, of ease, almost of complacency. He knew this. He took his hat and went downstairs to the lounge and looked about him. In the far corner, nearest the entrance of the hotel, was the night porter’s glass box.
Kane walked over casually. He looked through the glass door at the night porter, who was sitting at a desk writing figures in a notebook. Kane looked at the man quickly. He agreed with Guelvada. The night porter looked possible. Kane spoke in French. He said: “I am in a little difficulty. I think you might be able to help me.”
The night porter got up. He was of middle height, slim, quite good-looking. Kane realised that when Guelvada had said that he had tired bedroom eyes he was for once understating the case.
He said in a pleasant voice: “I am at your disposal. Anything that I can do to help...”
Kane said: “The position is as follows: Yesterday I have reason to believe that a friend of mine arrived at the airport by plane. He should have come here to see me. He has not arrived. I am wondering what’s happened to him. At the same time I do not want to make inquiries that are too obvious. For instance, I do not want to go to the police or get hospitals checked or anything like that.”
The night porter said: “Quite!”
“As a matter of fact,” Kane continued, “it may be that my friend, before coming to see me, decided to call on someone — possibly he has lady friends here — I don’t know. It occurred to me that you might know a police officer — a junior police officer — an intelligent, agreeable individual who might be inclined to help a little — in an unofficial way, of course.”
The night porter sat down. He closed his little notebook with a snap. He folded his hands together. He looked at Kane and smiled. He said:
“I understand, but you will realise that an inquiry like that is sometimes a little difficult, especially in these times...” He shrugged his shoulders. “Lisbon is a difficult place....”
Kane inhaled from his cigar. He blew the smoke slowly through his nostrils.
“Why?” he asked pleasantly.
“Consider,” said the night porter, “all the time people are trying to find things out. Sometimes they are people who are interested in the German point of view; sometimes they are people who are interested in the English point of view, or the French. One is always in rather a difficult position, because, as you will understand, it would be unfortunate if I were to put you on to the wrong man.”
“Precisely,” said Kane. “Shall we say that the individual I would like to meet is one who might be more interested in the English point of view?”
The night porter smiled.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he said, “because I am very much for the English. I dislike the Germans very much. So does my friend.” He took a piece of paper and wrote on it. “Here is his address,” he said, “his private address. He ought to be at home now. I’m certain of that. His name is Serilla. He is an assistant inspector — on the plain-clothes branch — and he is concerned with the movements of foreigners in Lisbon. He is very fond of the English, and,” he concluded with a small smile, “is always prepared to listen to reason.”
“Excellent,” said Kane. He took out his pocket-book, extracted four or five notes, folded them, handed them to the night porter. “I’m most grateful to you,” he said.
“And I to you, sir,” said the night porter. “I am now and always at your service.”
Kane put the piece of paper into his pocket. He put on his hat and went out.
IV
Guelvada sat back in the corner of the taxicab. He smoked a cigarette. He felt quite contented. A discussion with the driver had informed him that there were two Rua Augustas — the one he knew in the Praca do Comercio and one in the Biarro Alto, almost on the edge of the Alcantara. Guelvada had told the driver to go to the second Rua Augusta because it seemed to him that the leader of an orchestra as well known as that which played at the Estrada would be more likely to live on the Biarro Alto.
Guelvada wondered whether the band-leader would be in and, if he were in, whether he would talk. He wondered what he would do if the band-leader was not inclined to talk. He began to smile a little. The cab stopped. The driver looked back through the open partition and said:
