Complete works of peter.., p.351
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 351
Love was a hell of a business. It knocked a man sideways if he was silly enough to let it get hold of him. It was rather like drinking too much. You lost your sense of proportion and, worse than that, you began to talk. Love released something in men that made them juvenile. They wanted to strut about the place. When a man really fell for a woman she'd got him where she wanted him. She could play tunes on him. Love was a serious proposition that wise men sidetracked if they could.
After a while he took out his dilapidated lighter and re-lit his cigarette. Life was damned funny, he thought. Life was damned funny and there was nothing you could do about it. One of two things happened. Either you played it along or it played you along. It wasn't very much good struggling against it. It was just one of those things. Just occasionally a woman like Zilla floated into your life quite suddenly. And something happened to you.
He remembered his first meeting with her at Kingstown—the meeting in a soft Irish mist. He remembered the funny little public-house, and he remembered that marvellous snapshot of Zilla's that had saved his life. Then she'd gone. Some years had rolled by and she'd floated in again on this Foden job. He wondered what she'd been doing in the meantime. He wondered what other jobs she'd been doing. He wondered how many other people she had used her charm on in order to extract information. He wondered about a lot of things.
He began to think about Mrs. Greeley. This line of thought disturbed him. He sighed, lit another cigarette and concentrated on Miss Garson.
That was the thing to do—to concentrate on Miss Garson. That was the safe sort of love. You could fall for a woman on the screen and you could go along and pay your two bob every time the right film came to the local cinema, and you could see her and think about her. If you wanted to, you could write her a letter and, if you sent the stamps, maybe she'd send you a signed photograph. You could imagine yourself in situations with her; you could make up all sorts of things about her. All you wanted was imagination and two bob—or even less if you didn't mind the cheaper seats.
That was the safe sort of love. Playing it that way, you knew just where you were, and any time you got tired of the baby you could get up and go out.
And the worse thing that could happen to you was that somebody might tread on your toe in the darkness.
Not very far away was the hum of the traffic in Leicester Square. Foden, sitting on the high stool in the saloon bar, ate a sandwich and drank a whisky and soda. Near him two American soldiers talked about Morocco. He lit a cigarette and listened to what they were saying. It amused him.
He began to think of Zilla Stevenson. He wondered what she would be like. According to her brother Horace she was a good-looking girl and she had brains. Foden grinned a little. He liked good-looking girls—especially when they had brains.
His experience of women had shown him that a woman with a certain amount of intelligence was an easier proposition than one who was dumb. Words and technique were wasted on the dumb type. It was like talking to a brick wall. But if a woman was intelligent you could watch closely and see how things were going.
Up to the moment everything had been smooth and very lucky. Making a contact with Mrs. Ferry (Foden's grin broadened when he thought of Mrs. Ferry) through the unfortunate Aked had been a bit of luck. He thought about Aked. He came to the conclusion he had been wise to deal with that situation in the way he had.
And running into the fool Horace Stevenson had been lucky. It was just one of those things which had broken at the right spot and at the right moment, because even if the Stevenson woman wasn't as useful as she might be, perhaps through her he could reach somebody else—get nearer to what he wanted.
Foden, who had been supplied with some clothes coupons by the dock people at the port, looked very presentable. He was wearing a dark-blue suit with a faint stripe, a light-blue shirt and collar, a dark-blue tie. A slate-grey felt hat slightly on one side of his head accentuated the slimness of his face, the angle of his jaw-line. He looked like a tough, hard-living colonial, or might have been a tough soldier in plain clothes.
He looked at his wrist-watch. It was half-past six. This, he imagined, would be the best time to telephone the Stevenson woman. He thought about what he would say to her. The best line would be that he was a friend of her brother Horace; that Horace had put him on to her; that Horace had suggested that his, Foden's, business might interest her. Foden thought that quite casually he would let Zilla know that Horace was in a bit of a jam. That would intrigue her. She'd want to know what it was, but he wouldn't tell her—not until she had agreed to meet him. He ordered another whisky and soda. She'd meet him all right, and when she did, well, it was up to him.
When the whisky and soda came, he drank it quickly. He put his cigarette back into his mouth, got off the stool, walked out of the bar. Across the road was a tube station. Foden went into the entrance. He looked about him for a telephone box.
III.
Zilla Stevenson sat in front of the dressing-table in her first-floor flat in a little street off Lower Regent Street. She looked at herself in the triple mirror; concluded that she looked quite attractive. She was dressed to kill. She had worked out in her own mind the sort of woman who would appeal to Foden. Foden was tough and a sailor and he had brains. So he would want a woman to be intelligent, well-dressed, good-looking. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Definitely, she thought, she was intelligent, well-dressed and good-looking.
She made a little moue. It was an awful pity that one had to develop allure merely for the purpose of men like Foden; men in whom one was not interested; men on whom one was to have a certain effect, in order to make them think along certain lines—do certain things.
She got up. She crossed the room; went to the mantelpiece; helped herself to a cigarette. She lit it; turned away and looked at her full-length reflection in the pier glass in the corner of the room. She was wearing a black coat and skirt—very cleverly cut. The skirt was perhaps a little too tight at the hips and the cut of the coat accentuated Zilla's superb figure. This effect was deliberate and planned for Foden's benefit.
In her wardrobe were many coats and skirts—many frocks—most of them provided on the generous expense account supplied by Quayle. She smiled wryly. Even if Quayle didn't overpay his operatives, he certainly took trouble to ensure that they were well supplied with adequate "make-up" and "props" for the jobs they had to do. She thought that her own wardrobe must have cost at least five or six hundred. But it was a pity, she thought, that such excellent clothes should be wasted and merely used as properties in an act. She thought it would be very nice to dress oneself carefully and well because one was going out to meet someone who mattered—instead of some pig-headed sailor with a bee in his bonnet about selling information.
She drew on her cigarette; gazed at her reflection analytically and finally approvingly.
She wore black court shoes of glacé kid with heels that were high enough to show her well-turned instep and ankle to the best advantage; sheer beige silk stockings. Beneath the superbly cut coat was a chiffon blouse in a very soft shade of duck-egg blue with a ruffle about the throat that accentuated the lovely colour of her skin. She wore a smart little tailor-made hat with a tiny curled ostrich feather matching her blouse caught on one side of it. Beneath the hat, her expertly done titian red hair formed an exquisite framework for her face. She hoped Mr. Foden would be duly impressed.
She went back to the dressing-table and sat down. She tapped the ash from the cigarette into the onyx ash-tray. She said to herself:
You're an awfully good-looking woman, Zilla. You've got a good figure. You're still young. You're attractive. You know how to dress. Men look at you. You've taken a lot of trouble with yourself. What for? For some damned ridiculous sailor—some man who thinks he's got information to sell. For some man who wants to drive a hard bargain—and you, my dear, are to use such gifts as you possess, and any you can develop, in order to see that the bargain isn't too hard. She laughed. What a waste! Or was it?
She began to think about Greeley. Why, she asked herself, did she think about Greeley? What was there about this odd, rather common man that made the picture of him spring uninvited to her mind. She could find no answer. It was all the more extraordinary because since her husband had died there had been no man who mattered in her life. Perhaps, she thought, there was some point of similarity between Greeley and her husband, whom she had adored so utterly.
But certainly not in appearance or education or outlook—only in a certain characteristic of casual courage, of not caring, of being above fear. She liked Greeley and, because since her husband she had liked no man, she thought she more than liked Greeley. Perhaps, she thought, she was even a little fond of him—just because of that thing. And that was the greatest thing—courage. No man could have true courage, which is neither a physical nor a moral thing, but a mixture of both, without having something good—something very good—in his make-up. She pondered on this.
Zilla realised that she admired Greeley. Once or twice Quayle had amused himself by giving her small sidelights on some of Greeley's experiences—not enough to tell her anything that mattered, but enough to show her what sort of man he was.
Nothing would ever frighten Greeley. She sighed. She thought: Because of this, because Greeley had this thing which her husband had, she thought about him. It was for this reason that his odd, rather humorous-looking image came to her mind. It was for this reason that she felt close to him. She began to smile. She thought: You're becoming an introvert, my dear. You're beginning to indulge in self-analysis—the first sign of an inferiority complex.
She held her face between her hands, stared at herself in the glass. She thought: If I continued doing this for long enough I suppose I could hypnotise myself. She thought it would be wonderful to be able to hypnotise oneself—to take oneself away from life—to find some pleasant place in the recesses of the mind in which to rest.
She thought back through the years. She saw herself as a bride. She remembered her honeymoon in Paris; then the years that had come afterwards; then the time when she had discovered that beneath the façade of being an engineer her husband had another job—that he worked for Quayle. She remembered the travelling and the ships—the liners and the dingy cargo boats; the cold and the heat. She remembered Morocco. Suddenly, she began to cry. She covered her face with her hands. She sobbed bitterly.
The telephone on the little table in the corner of the room began to ring. Zilla got up and walked towards it. Two large tears were running down her cheeks. She sat for a moment in front of the telephone regaining control; then she picked up the instrument.
She said casually: "Yes? Who is that?"
A voice came to her—a strong, cheerful and attractive voice which told her that the speaker's name was Foden.
IV.
When Fells came in, Tangier was sitting at her desk in the far corner of the room. She looked at him over her shoulder. She smiled, and there came to Fells that peculiar feeling of happiness and well-being that he invariably experienced when he saw her.
She was wearing a coral wool frock and there were small coral leather buckles on her shoes.
There was no one else in the world like Tangier, Fells thought—no one who radiated the same kind of happiness—of quiet poise. To him she represented something for which he had been looking most of his life—a woman who was experienced, beautiful, good.
She got up and came towards him, her hand held out.
"How are you, Hubert? Sit down and help yourself to a cigarette." She went to the sideboard. "Believe it or not," she said, "I can give you a whisky and soda, which I think is what a man needs at this time of an evening."
Fells said: "Thanks." He did not want to talk; he was quite prepared to sit there and to be happy. Simultaneously, he realised that it was impossible for him to sit there and be happy. Something had to be done about Tangier, and in his life Fells had found that most of the things that had to be done were unpleasant things. It would be nice, he thought, if just occasionally—just for once—something had to be done that was a nice thing.
She came towards him with the glass in her hand. She said:
"You owe me an explanation. You haven't been to see me for a long time. You haven't even tried to get in touch with me on the telephone. Why?" She stood close to him, the glass of whisky and soda held out towards him, smiling.
He took the glass from her. He said: "Well... I've been busy. I've had a lot to do. It isn't because I haven't wanted to see you."
She sat down on the arm of a nearby chair. She said: "So you wanted to see me, Hubert? But you haven't tried. I believe that people always do the things they want to. Your explanation isn't good enough. You've been in London, haven't you?"
He said: "Yes, I've been in London."
She said: "Well, when you're in London you've got to see me. I insist. That's what my friends are for."
Fells drank some of the whisky and soda. He said:
"You know, Tangier, I've got to talk to you. I've got to. Perhaps I'm not being fair to you."
She said: "I wonder what you mean by that, and I wonder why you have to be so mysterious. Do you feel you don't know me well enough to talk to me?"
He shook his head. He said: "It isn't that. I feel I know you very well."
"That's just it," said Tangier placidly. "You do know me very well. I suppose we've met about half a dozen times altogether. Yet we feel we know each other well. That's because we're really and truly friends. But you're not satisfied with the situation. You feel you've got to tell me something?" She smiled. "Well, that means you've told me a lot already."
Fells said: "Really! What have I told you?"
She said: "You've got some idea that there's something I shouldn't like, haven't you? But you're much too nice to go on knowing me and not tell me about it. If that's so you'd better get it off your chest, because in any event it won't matter."
Fells said: "I wish I could believe that." He finished the whisky and soda, got up, carried the glass back to the sideboard. He turned and stood leaning against it, looking at her.
He said: "D'you remember when we first met? D'you remember how it was we met? I don't."
She said: "We met at a party. I saw you there and I made up my mind I wanted to know you. So I got my host to introduce us. Then we talked and we liked each other. That's all."
Fells said: "Yes."
There was a pause; then she said placidly: "Hubert, what's the matter?"
Fells said: "Well, here it comes. This is the end of it. When you telephoned me this afternoon I was very glad. I was glad to hear your voice. It does something to me. The sound of your voice and the sight of you brings me as near to happiness as I think I shall ever get. I'd be quite content with that," Fells went on, "but I can't even have that. I haven't the right."
Tangier said: "That's awful nonsense, Hubert. In any event, that must be nonsense."
He shook his head. "No, it isn't," he said. "It's the truth. You see, you don't know very much about me. If you did, you probably wouldn't want to know me."
She smiled mysteriously. She said: "Hubert, how do you know what I know or don't know about you? In fact, I know an awful lot about you. One has only to look at you to know practically all there is to know about you. You're a very nice man."
Fells said: "I'm glad you think so. But you're wrong; I'm not. Supposing I were to tell you——"
She laughed. She laughed very softly—a delightful musical laugh that interrupted Fells more effectively than any words could have done.
"Supposing you were to tell me that you'd had an awfully troublesome period in your life," said Tangier: "that some rather nasty woman or someone had got you into a jam that you couldn't very easily get out of; that as a result of all this business you were cashiered from the Army and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Well...?"
Fells said: "My God! How did you know?"
"I've known for quite a time," said Tangier. "Someone who saw you at that party evidently recognised you. They told me about you. I was very curious. I looked up the newspaper files. A little thought soon told me that you must be the same person."
Fells said: "I see. And you were prepared to go on knowing me."
"More than that," said Tangier. "I was prepared to go on liking you." She went on: "You know, whatever people may say or whatever people may think, I happen to know that you are not that type of man. There's an explanation for all this somewhere, one which doesn't matter—at least not so far as I'm concerned."
Fells said: "Of course this is quite wonderful—your knowing and not caring. But it still doesn't help."
"Doesn't it?" said Tangier. She put her hands behind her head and lay back in the chair looking at him provocatively. The cigarette held between her lips sent out a little spiral of smoke. Fells watched it. He was thinking: Isn't life amazing? One never knows what's waiting round the corner.
He said: "It still doesn't help. The world doesn't consist of just you and me, Tangier. There are lots of other people. They might not be half as forgiving—half as nice—in their minds, as you are."
She said: "Candidly, Hubert, the rest of the world doesn't matter. Things are moving much too quickly these days for people to worry about other people's pasts, and I don't suppose that one in ten thousand people would even remember what you looked like in those days. Anyhow, it doesn't make any difference to me, and it mustn't make any difference to you."
He said: "It must make a difference to me. I'm not going to take advantage of your generosity. I had my fling and I've got to pay the price."
She said: "Honestly, Hubert, I don't think you've ever had a fling in your life, and in any event so far as I'm concerned I'm not going to allow you to sacrifice yourself for some odd idea you have. There are some people who feel they must go on paying indefinitely. You're one of those people. But I don't see why you should. Even if you do, I don't see why you should make me."
