Complete works of peter.., p.337
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 337
He yawned. "In any event," he continued, "what does it matter? Whatever is fated will most assuredly happen, and will be, in the long run, quite logical. Of that you may be certain."
He gathered up the cards, shuffled them, began to lay them out again. He was thinking about women—women who, for one reason or another, had projected themselves into the "business" activities of Kane and himself; who had been used for the furtherance of such schemes as were necessary or desirable at the moment.
There was the woman at Soissons—the blonde woman, the woman who walked so alluringly, who was so lovely that it was almost impossible for any man—any normal man—not to be infatuated with her. Her name was Yvonne, and she came to Soissons after the German occupation. She lived in a small house in the Rue Lafarges and, apparently, kept very much to herself. She was said to be a good Frenchwoman and loathed the Germans with the most complete hatred.
But it was Fenton who smelt her out. It was one of Fenton's bright spirits who had discovered that the attractive and demure Yvonne was one of S.S. Reichsfuehrer Himmler's "specials"—one of the charming and delightful ladies that were "put in" to keep an eye on the comings and goings, the sayings and doings, of highly-placed German officers in occupied territory.
And then Kane and Guelvada had descended upon Soissons. Descended was the right word, for they had been dropped just before dawn from a British plane and had melted into the atmosphere to reappear some three hours later as inhabitants of Soissons with identity papers and backgrounds arranged promptly through the organisation of Fenton. Guelvada wondered if Yvonne's ears had burned that morning.
Four days' quiet work had enabled Kane to discover that the Town Commandant was one Captain Von Fiersch, a Prussian of middle age, a roving eye and a wife who, luckily, had permission to spend three weeks with him. It was lucky, or natural, thought Guelvada, that Frau Von Fiersch should be jealous of her husband and his roving eye.
They had worked quickly, expertly and ruthlessly. Guelvada remembered the afternoon of Kane's secret interview with Frau Von Fiersch when, almost with tears in his eyes, Kane, passing as a member of the City Surveyor's office, had entreated the good Frau to do something about her husband, who was casting ardent glances at Mademoiselle Yvonne, to whom he was engaged, and more than that, writing her letters which were more forthright than tactful.
Guelvada smiled pleasantly to himself. From there the situation had progressed wonderfully. From Frau Von Fiersch's first suspicions to jealousy, to the watch that she and Kane had kept upon the apartement of Mademoiselle Yvonne; thence to the making of the keys to the apartment; then the rifling of Mademoiselle's private papers by Kane whilst the Frau kept guard on the street door; then—without the knowledge of the good Frau—the planting of some of the less important papers in the Captain's room. All that had been very nice. A week later Kane and Guelvada were back in London with a haul of secret instructions from Himmler to the local agents of the Gestapo through Mademoiselle Yvonne.
And a week after that a little bird had told Fenton that the anonymous letter that had been dispatched to Yvonne had borne fruit, that Captain Von Fiersch's apartment had been searched, the incriminating documents found, and the Captain shot as promptly as such things were done under the taut organisation of the S.S. Reichsfuehrer Himmler.
Guelvada sighed. Never, he thought, would the good Frau Von Fiersch realise the part she had played in that small comedy, never would she know that she had assisted so expertly in the liquidation of her husband and the theft of the complete Himmler organisation scheme that operated throughout France, occupied or unoccupied.
Guelvada took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette. He drew the smoke down into his lungs with satisfaction, held it there for a few seconds and then expelled it slowly. He watched the cloud of tobacco smoke as it disappeared in the warm atmosphere of the bar parlour. In it he thought he could discern faintly the outline of the charming face of the Fräulein Marta Szelginger—the delightful Marta—unconscious heroine of the affair of the Buergerbraeu Keller, where Hitler had missed death by twelve minutes.
If Marta had not been born half a Jewess. If for that reason she had not been treated so cavalierly by an S.A. Group Leader who had thrown her over when the "stain" of her birth had become publicly known, she would never have found herself in the state of mind in which she could listen to the ardent pleading of Sigrid Wirt—that blonde and handsome Norwegian who, working with Kane—who was actually in the Beer Hall when the explosion occurred—had suborned the cleaner, drilled out the bricks in the main platform pillar and cleared the way for the insertion of the time bomb by Kane. Guelvada grinned. It seemed that the Fuehrer had as much to fear from jealousy of women as from the bullets of the enemy.
It was a great shame, thought Guelvada, about women; and the crosses they had to bear by reason of their sex, their beauty, their allure, were more than heavy. Most of their lives, he thought, they were being used, consciously or unconsciously, by someone.
A woman was like a harp. You could play tunes upon her if you knew how to do it. Because most women never ceased to think in terms of love; they laid themselves open to the operations and schemes of all sorts and conditions of men. For a woman—especially when she loves deeply—is unable to think logically—whatever feminists may say. Guelvada, for his part, thought this a good thing. He began to consider some aspects of this thought. For instance how annoying it would be if a woman deeply in love were able to think logically. What bad times many men would have.
Beauty, he considered, exacted a harsh tax. The more beautiful a woman was, the more she attracted men. To be admired, loved, desired, by many men, was not good for any woman's logic. It was obvious that after a few months of such process she would cease to think at all mathematically. She would think only in terms of love, of admiration, of marriage, and of her own desires.
And that was the time to strike. Because when a woman was subject to the admiration of men, her mentality ceased to help her. Guelvada could remember a dozen women (women who had been through the mill, who had served under the Himmler system, the Italian system, or even that outmoded and amusing service that the Vichy Government liked to describe as "Secret"—the operations of which were all so obvious that they were invariably laughable) who had all of them come up against the problem of falling in love with the right man at the wrong moment.
Guelvada sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. His eyes were on the cards, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of the little brunette, Gala Ziek, who had ruined a period of six years' service in one of Karl Hildebrand's Special Sections by falling in love with a railway traffic manager, and as a result, endeavouring to stop him travelling by a train which was to be derailed. Hildebrand had been very tough with Gala about this. They said she had gone mad eventually. And Guelvada, knowing something of Hildebrand, could believe this.
And there was Zoe Garin and Stehren Muller and Sabine Hertzman and Helda Marques... yes, there had certainly been Helda Marques.... Helda who had decided that it would be safe just for one little night to amuse herself with the oddly attractive Pierre Hellard, and who had thrown her astuteness, her intuition, her logic, and her life on the unstable altar of desire.
Love, thought Guelvada, was an odd thing. Love, assisted by Messieurs Kane and Guelvada, was sometimes a dangerous thing. Dangerous, at least, for those ladies whose paths strayed from the prosaic sphere of everyday life into the labyrinth wherein the Fentons of this word dwell.
Curiosity it was that killed the cat. And curiosity it was that had killed more women or, at least, wrecked their amours, than women knew or even dreamt of. Guelvada began to think about Valetta Fallon, who had decided—for some reason which would at some time be plain—to be suddenly curious.
She did not realise, he thought, what a stone she had thrown into the pond when she had been curious. She did not realise what circles in the water, what whirlpools, were even now stirring as a result of that stone. Perhaps she would be trapped in the whirlpool of her own making; perhaps she would escape.
If Kane were very interested in her she would be beautiful. And she would be beautiful in her mind. Guelvada—who was no fool about women—knew that women who appealed to Kane were of the first order. They had to be. Kane was a connoisseur. And why not? When each woman one met was just as likely as not to be one's last experience one might as well be a connoisseur.
Guelvada sighed. He got up from the table and collected his cards. He put them away. Then he went over to the service hatch and peeped through at Mrs. Soames, who was busy on the other side. She looked over her shoulder and saw him. He smiled at her. A bland, childlike smile.
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Guelvada?" she asked.
He said: "First of all I think you should call me Ernest, which is my name, and which I like to be used by women as completely delightful as you are. And secondly, if I were to tell you what you can do for me you would probably have me thrown out...."
She laughed. "You are funny, Mr. Guelvada," she said. "I meant what would you like?"
Guelvada sighed. "You must ask me that question in private," he said. "Then I should be able to answer it adequately. In the meantime, a whisky and soda from your hands—a nightcap—would satisfy me for the moment."
She gave him the drink. Guelvada looked at it and sipped it; then, carrying the glass in his hand, he went out of the bar-parlour and up the stairs to bed.
VII
Guelvada braked the taxi-cab to a standstill just round the corner, off the main road. He got out of the driving seat, stamped his feet on the snow-covered pavement after the manner of taxi-drivers, and began to bang his woollen-gloved hands against his sides. The flag on the taximeter was down, and to all intents he was waiting for his fare to come out of one of the entrances of the Vallance Apartments.
He was wearing two overcoats, a woollen scarf pulled well up round his chin, and an old felt hat. His licence-plate with its number hung from the conventional top buttonhole of his uppermost coat. He had omitted to shave, and his face looked red and rough. He looked at his watch. It was twelve minutes past seven. Then he clambered back into the driver's seat and sat, hunched-up over the wheel, after the approved fashion of taxi-drivers on a cold day, and waited.
From where he sat he could just discern, in the blackout, the main entrance of the Vallance Apartments. Guelvada yawned and watched his breath turn to steam on the cold air; then he fumbled in one of his coats, produced an old tin box, took a cigarette from it, lit it, smoked silently.
Two minutes passed. Then the blackout on the door of the Vallance Apartments shifted for a moment and a man came out. He turned towards Guelvada's cab, passed it, went down the street. It was Nielek. Guelvada switched off his engine quickly. He listened intently. After a moment the footsteps of the individual who had come out of the apartments stopped suddenly. A minute after that Guelvada heard a motor started.
Guelvada listened. The purr of the car down the street went on. Someone had started the engine and was waiting.
The blackout on the entrance-door moved again. Someone came out and stood outside the doors. It was the hall-porter. He stood looking up and down the main street.
Guelvada let in his clutch and drove the cab slowly round the corner. As he appeared, the hall-porter shouted, "Taxi!" Guelvada pulled into the kerb by the entrance.
Kane came out. He said to Guelvada: "Drive to Philmore Street. It's near Notting Hill Gate Station." He got into the cab.
Guelvada drove off. Just down the street he slid back the glass panel behind him and turned his head. He said:
"Michael, just before you came out, a man came out of the apartments. He passed me and started-up a car just down the street behind me. He may have been waiting to tail you when you came out. Is there anything behind?"
Kane said: "Yes... there's a car tailing us now. He's having to keep pretty close up because of the blackout. Keep on driving and I'll see if he keeps after us."
He sat back in the corner of the cab and lit a cigarette. Guelvada accelerated. They were moving now at a good thirty—a fast rate having regard to the snow and the frozen roads.
When they were in Church Street, Kane said: "He's still after us. It's a tail all right."
Guelvada said: "Shall I shake him off? It would be very easy."
"No," Kane replied. "Just carry on. By the way, d'you think he got your number when he passed you while you were waiting? D'you think he was at all interested in you?"
"No," said Guelvada. "He walked straight past. It was too dark for him to see the number unless he stopped and looked. He didn't stop."
"All right," said Kane. "At the top of this street, on the right, there's a one-way street. It's 'one-way' into this street. Chance it and drive round the corner; stop, and I'll get out. Then run through into the main road, turn left, and with luck you'll catch him as he runs into Notting Hill Gate. He'll think he's lost us. Drive after him for a bit to see what he does and then get back to the Vallance Apartments as quickly as you can. Park the car somewhere and keep an eye on the place. If he drives back there, and parks the car, see if he uses the Vallance Garage. If he does, it's a certainty that he's living in the Vallance Apartments. That'll give us plenty to work on. Telephone me afterwards and tell me what happens."
"All right," said Guelvada. He pushed the accelerator down and drove quickly. When he came to the one-way street he was momentarily out of sight of the car behind. He swung the taxi quickly round the corner on the wrong side of the road and slowed down. Kane jumped out while the taxi was still moving and ducked into a doorway. Guelvada accelerated, shot round the curve and disappeared. A few seconds afterwards, from his doorway, Kane saw the tailing car appear and drive straight up the main road.
Guelvada pulled round into Notting Hill Gate with a sigh of relief. He drove slowly along for a few minutes but could see no sign of a car that was moving slowly, or stopped. He drew into the kerb, lit another cigarette, refused a fare on the grounds that he had not any petrol, turned the cab and drove quickly back to the Vallance Apartments by way of Park Lane.
He stopped in the street behind, parked the taxi in a cul-de-sac with the flag down, walked quickly round the block and stood a few yards from the entrance-doors. He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned against the wall, invisible in the darkness.
He waited ten minutes; then a car appeared. It passed the entrance-doors, turned the corner, drove slowly down the side street. Guelvada walked quickly after it, stepping softly. The car stopped fifty yards down the street and, as Guelvada came up, he saw it turning down the ramp that led to the Vallance Garage.
Guelvada smiled. He lit a cigarette and walked slowly back to where he had left his cab. He started it up, backed it out of the cul-de-sac and drove slowly back to the garage near Jermyn Street. People were very silly, he thought. That very old idea of planting someone in a place in order to be on the spot to tail someone else was too old-fashioned. Yet what could they have done? It was quite obvious that they would not be able to have much notice of when Kane appeared. They would have to keep an eye open to see when he left and it was necessary that they should be able to follow immediately.
This explained the car planted down the street, the car that was started up just before Kane came down to the entrance-floor, and this presupposed that whoever it was had tailed them had known before Kane got down to the entrance-floor that he was leaving the apartments.
Very amateurish, thought Guelvada. But what else could they do? It was tough working under such conditions. But then the Boches were not very good at last-minute organisation.
That was their trouble. In the last war they were at the gates of Paris, and then, at the last moment, had lost their heads, had decided to retreat. In this war they were unable to follow up their initial success against the French quickly enough. The British had got away at Dunkirk, and then the Boches had wasted fifty-five days before turning their attention to England. Whereas if they had struck at once...
Guelvada took his hands from the wheel for a moment and banged them together. That was the trouble with the Boches. They had to have a cut-and-dried organisation. Even in their secret service and undercover work they relied on a set plan. While the plan worked everything was all right, but if the slightest thing went wrong, they went to pieces.
In this case they thought they were safe. Either they believed that Valetta Fallon would not, by her sudden change of attitude, arouse Kane's suspicions, or they had thought that even if he did suspect something he would not regard the matter seriously. He would dismiss it as a temperamental outburst of a woman who was in love. Even if he did suspect that something was afoot, they would think that he would do nothing at once; that he would probably wait to see what further evidence of curiosity Valetta showed; that he would try and discover through any further questions on her part exactly what she was trying to find out. If further questions were not forthcoming then, they surmised, his suspicions would be lulled.
Such people, thought Guelvada, were not worthy antagonists to people like Kane. They were not worthy of his steel. There was something childlike in their make-up and their planning. And they were not last-minute experts.
That was the difference between the opposing forces. The British undercover services worked by themselves with little official backing and on schemes adapted to circumstances, often at the very last moment. Operatives were trained from the start to work by themselves, to rely on themselves. Astuteness and impertinence were the main weapons of the British agents, and against these weapons the consistent planning, the thoroughness, the ruthlessness, and the admitted bravery of the German services were not effective.
Guelvada swung the car round into the mews and sounded his horn. In the dim light of his headlights he saw the garage doors open. He drove the taxi in.
Searle limped out of the office in the corner. The limp was a memento of six months in the Haltz Concentration Camp and then, after having him for six months, the damned fools had let him go—without even discovering who and what he was!
