Complete works of peter.., p.356
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 356
"I'll be careful," said Greeley. "Don't you worry about me, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle smiled. "I don't, Greeley," he said. "All right then. Give Foden Quayle's address." He went behind the desk, took a piece of paper, wrote it down, brought it to Greeley. "There it is," he said. "Make an appointment for him to come along to the Pall Mall office and see me at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. But be very careful to make another appointment to meet him later in the evening after he's seen me—the idea being that you want to know what's happened about the money. You want to make certain that you get your cut. Do you know if Foden's got any money?"
"I don't know," said Greeley. "I should think he'd got a bit."
"You're probably right," said Quayle. "He'll have enough but not too much. He probably needs some money anyway. Well, I'll see he gets something on account. By the time I have finished with him," said Quayle, "he'll believe that he's getting away with it. He'll have given me some sort of indication of the information he's got to sell. He'll realise that I'm interested. When he sees you later in the evening you'd better suggest a little celebration. You've got to make him fall for that idea. In any event he's not supposed to know anybody in London, so he will fall for it all right. About nine o'clock you get him to a little upstairs club called the Silver Boot, off Albemarle Street. There'll be a woman in the bar there—a very good-looking woman. Her name is Mayola Green. She'll recognise you. She'll come over to you and talk to you. She'll remind you that you met her once with your sister; that she's a friend of your sister's. She'll ask about Zilla and you'll tell her that Zilla's away on sick leave. You understand?"
"I've got it," said Greeley.
"It's more than possible," Quayle went on, "that Foden is going to be rather interested in that woman." He smiled. "She has a great deal of appeal," he said. "She's the sort of woman that a man like Foden will probably fall for. If possible she will take you both back to her flat in the vicinity. When you arrive there she'll probably find an opportunity to give Foden a 'Mickey Finn,' and then you get over to his place in Victoria and go over his room. Go over it with a fine tooth comb. Of course you'll go over him first."
Greeley said: "Yes, that sounds all right. But what's this Foden guy going to think when he comes round after the Mickey? He's going to be a bit suspicious, isn't he?"
Quayle laughed. "I don't think so," he said, "not the way that Mayola will do it. They're never suspicious with Mayola."
"All right," said Greeley. "Well, when I go over his place what am I looking for?"
"You're looking for anything that doesn't fit in with the story you've heard from Foden—anything at all."
Greeley said: "Well, that doesn't tell me very much, but if you'd wanted to tell me any more you would have. I suppose you wouldn't like me to ask you a question, Mr. Quayle?"
Quayle said: "There's no reason why you shouldn't ask a question, Greeley. I don't have to answer."
Greeley said: "No, but I'd like to ask this: Is there some thing screwy about this Foden bird?"
Quayle said: "Don't you worry your head with that."
Greeley said: "I'm not. I just thought it might help me a bit if I knew a little more about him, because apparently you know more than I do."
Quayle said: "You're wrong about that, Greeley. The thing for you to do is to do what you're told. If you know too much about anything it's inclined to alter your point of view. You begin to think about all sorts of things that it's not necessary for you to think about. Believe me I've told you as much as it's good for you to know."
"All right," said Greeley. "Well, what's the next move?"
"Don't spend too long in Foden's place," said Quayle—"not more than an hour. You can get in touch with me at the usual place on the telephone late to-morrow night. Let me know what's happened. Then possibly I'll be able to give you some further instructions."
"O.K.," said Greeley. "Is that all, Mr. Quayle?"
He got up. Quayle went to the window. He stood there for a few moments looking out; then he turned. He said:
"There's only one thing, Greeley. You've done quite a bit of work one way and another with Mr. Fells, haven't you?"
Greeley grinned. "I've done a hell of a lot of work with Mr. Fells. What him and I haven't done together is just nobody's business."
"Quite," said Quayle. "You get on with him pretty well, don't you?"
Greeley said: "I'm very fond of Mr. Fells. If ever there was a gentleman he's one. I like him. He's quiet and he's as brave as a lion."
Quayle said: "I know. Well, that being so I'm certain you're going to play this thing very carefully, because owing to this spanner in the works I'm afraid Mr. Fells is going to be in rather a spot."
Greeley said: "I see. So it's like that, is it?"
Quayle nodded. "It's like that," he said. "He hasn't got much of a chance of getting out of this, but there's a slight chance. One never knows. So let's take all the trouble that we can to see that he does get a chance."
Greeley said: "O.K., Mr. Quayle. I'll remember that."
"Right," said Quayle. "I'll be seeing you."
Greeley picked up his hat. He went to the door. He said: "Good afternoon, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle said: "Good afternoon, Greeley."
Greeley closed the door quietly behind him; nodded to the middle-aged man in the outer office; went down the wooden stairs. At the bottom he paused to light a cigarette.
He was wondering about Zilla Stevenson.
IX. -- THE DEAL
I.
AN east wind was blowing. Foden, whose blood—thinned by years in the heat—had not accustomed itself to the English climate, shivered a little and turned up the collar of his recently purchased overcoat. The cold, however, did not annoy him. He walked down Pall Mall with an assurance, his hat at its accustomed angle, his lean handsome face and jaunty air winning more than a few glances from feminine eyes.
He turned in through the imposing doorway of a large block of offices. A commissionaire, seated at a table in the hall, looked at him inquiringly.
Foden said: "My name's Foden. I've an appointment with a Mr. Quayle."
The commissionaire consulted the list on his desk. He said: "Oh yes, sir. You might fill in this pass form, will you? You'll need it to get out of the building."
Foden filled in the pass. The commissionaire rang a bell and a messenger appeared. Foden followed the man along the corridor to the lift. They went up two floors, down the passage. The messenger knocked on a door; opened it. He said:
"Mr. Quayle's waiting for you, sir."
Foden went in. The room was large—expensively furnished. The desk at which Quayle was sitting was ornate and matched the dignity of the room.
Quayle got up. He came round the desk with hand outstretched. He was smiling. He gave the impression of being a wise, benevolent and understanding man. The sort of man who would win a big job for himself in a department dealing with matters where tact and knowledge of human nature were of primary importance. They shook hands.
Foden thought to himself this is pretty good. I think this is going to be easy. He's going to play this the nice way first of all. He's going to try and make friends. If he gets what he wants without trouble, well and good, but he could be nasty and tough enough under that good-natured exterior if he wanted to.
Quayle said: "Take your coat off, Mr. Foden, and sit by the fire. It's a cold day and I expect you're feeling our English weather."
Foden said: "I am, I'm afraid. I haven't got used to it yet. Anyway I don't like it. I like the heat."
Quayle said: "You mean you like Morocco?"
Foden grinned. "That's it," he said. "I like Morocco. Morocco suits me. This place"—he jerked his head towards the window—"is a dead and alive hole in war-time. If I were here for long I'd die of boredom."
Quayle brought a box of cigarettes from the desk. Foden took one. Quayle snapped on his lighter. He said:
"Candidly, Mr. Foden, I don't think you're the type that would like to live in war-time England for very long. We English are a cabbage-like nation. We attune our point of view to the weather. We're inclined sometimes to be dull-witted."
Foden grinned again. He said: "I wouldn't go so far as to say that."
Quayle went back to his desk. He sat down in the big chair. He looked very benevolent—almost jovial. He said:
"You wouldn't say a thing like that, but I expect you think it, and I don't know that I blame you—not after the deal I understand you got from our people in Morocco."
"So you know all about that," said Foden. He drew on his cigarette appreciatively. It was a good cigarette—the sort he liked.
"Yes," said Quayle. "I heard about that from Horace Stevenson. A bright, intelligent fellow that—a characteristic Cockney with all the astuteness of his type. Every time I think of him I thank Heaven that he had enough common sense to stop you going to the police and reporting that unfortunate business about his sister. However, we don't want to talk about that at this moment. But I wanted you to know that I think our people in Morocco were foolish to treat you so cavalierly."
Foden said: "Perhaps you're right there. But that's all over. I'm a man who's always inclined to let bygones be bygones."
"That's as maybe," said Quayle. "But it doesn't alter the fact that you must have been annoyed." He got up; came round the desk; pushed a leather armchair to the other side of the fire; sat down facing Foden. He said:
"Let me tell you what's in my mind, Mr. Foden, so that you and I may understand each other perfectly. I don't think you had a square deal from our people in Morocco. After all, Consulates and Agents should be intelligent. You went to those people as a patriotic man to give information which was—as we know now—important. They didn't treat you very seriously. In point of fact I believe that one of them was inclined to be rather rude to you."
Foden shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I want you to get all that right out of your mind," Quayle went on. "I want you to realise that I'm very interested in what you've got to say; that I'm not inclined to do anything that's going to annoy you in the slightest degree. You understand that?"
"I understand perfectly," said Foden. "And I'm very relieved that Stevenson did the right thing in telling me not to go to the police about that unfortunate girl. It was a nasty business. I've been worried about it."
"Naturally," said Quayle. "But I don't want you to worry about it. Quite candidly, I'm not fearfully surprised about it."
Foden raised his eyebrows. He said: "No?"
"No," said Quayle. "You see, Miss Stevenson's done one or two odd jobs for me—jobs which were outside her normal business as my secretary. She was keen on them. I think she found a certain romance in imagining herself as a sort of semi-secret service agent." Quayle smiled—a sad little smile. "In point of fact I think she talked too much, and there are quite a lot of people in this country who might have had reason for thinking she would be better out of the way.
"The lucky thing about the whole business was," he went on, "that her brother Horace Stevenson, had enough sense to take the trouble to find out where I was and got in touch with me, without getting unduly excited and going to the police."
Foden said: "That was lucky. Most men would have done just that."
"I know," said Quayle. "But if there's one thing that we in this Department don't want to do it is to draw too much attention to ourselves. As far as the Zilla Stevenson business is concerned, you can remove it entirely from your mind. Officially, she's been given a month's leave to go to Scotland. Well, she'll be taken ill there and she'll die. As far as you're concerned you needn't worry about it. Now shall we talk about more interesting business?"
Foden said: "I'm at your service, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle got up. He went to the wall opposite his desk, pulled down a cord, switched on a wall-light. Foden saw that Quayle had pulled down—in the same manner as one pulls down a blind—a large scale map of Morocco. The wall-light illuminated it perfectly.
Quayle came back to the fire. He stood with his back to it, looking at Foden. He said:
"Stevenson told me that his sister had an idea that you have some very important information to give me; the idea that you weren't very pleased with the deal that you had from the British authorities before; that you wanted paying for it, and well paying for it. Well, that's all right with me, Mr. Foden. If you've got the information, we've got the money. But we've got to know that you have got the information."
Foden said: "That's fair enough, Mr. Quayle, but you've heard the proverb 'Once bitten twice shy.' I'll tell you what I propose to do. I propose to tell you just enough about what I know to show you that I know what I'm talking about. After that, we'll come to terms about money if you don't mind. Then I'll give you the rest of it. How's that?"
Quayle said: "That's all right. You go ahead."
Foden said: "I was working for some time with the Two Star North Moroccan Line in the Crystal and the Evening Starlight. Those two ships were owned by a man called Estalza. I've got an idea that it was Estalza who was responsible for having me put away."
Quayle raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he said. "What happened?"
Foden grinned. "Nothing very much," he said. "But my idea is that after I'd been to the authorities for the second time with my bits of news, Estalza got wise to me." Foden drew on his cigarette. "I believe Estalza was working for the Germans," he said. "I believe he'd been working for them for years. Although I didn't know that at the time. But I guessed it a year ago when they wiped me up and chucked me into that filthy Vichy internment camp." He sighed. "It wasn't so good there, I'm telling you, Mr. Quayle," he said.
Quayle said: "I bet it wasn't. This is interesting."
Foden smiled. He said: "You'd be surprised. The thing was," he went on, "they never intended me to get out of that camp. I was for it. I was going to be rubbed out. Fortunately, I had a bit of luck. I made a break and got away. Well, with what I knew before I went in there, and what I found out while I was there, I know plenty."
Quayle nodded. He said: "You've got some general idea as to what the Germans proposed to do there?"
Foden grinned. "Don't kid yourself, Mr. Quayle. When you talk about 'proposed' as if it was all over. Just because you've pulled off this landing in Tunisia—just because the Americans and the British are there—you think everything's in the bag. Don't you kid yourself you've finished with the Germans in that part of the world. It isn't what they proposed to do; it's what the people they've left behind propose to do now."
Quayle said: "I see." His face was serious. "So there's still some sort of organisation there?"
"There's a lot of organisation there," said Foden. "For four or five years before this war the Germans were organising Intelligence sections, working from hide-outs spread all over the country. I wouldn't mind betting some of the allied armies have been right over them without being any the wiser. Those people are absolutely big personnel. They're out to make all the mischief they can, and they'll do it."
Quayle said: "I see. The usual business—sabotage, espionage, murder, assassination?"
"All those things," said Foden. "They've got enough organisation out there to start trouble any time they want to, and when I say trouble I don't mean the sort of trouble the army can deal with. I mean underground stuff. That's sometimes much more dangerous."
He threw his cigarette stub into the fire; got up, walked to the desk, helped himself to another one. He said:
"I hope you don't mind my helping myself, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle said: "No, I like you to. But go on. I'm interested."
"I'll interest you a great deal more," said Foden. "The British had a man working for them in Morocco called Gervase Herbert. He had an accident last year, didn't he?"
Quayle said, "Yes, that's right."
"All right," said Foden. "Well, he didn't have an accident. He just found out something that I knew. He found out the situation of three or four of the German organised groups. Two of 'em were situated in the foothills about ten miles outside Casablanca—in well concealed hide-outs with everything that opened and shut. Herbert walked into it by accident. So they got him and they finished him. Right?"
"That's right," said Quayle. "Do you by any chance know the location of those organised groups—the exact location—Mr. Foden?"
Foden said: "Come over here and I'll show you." He went over to the map; indicated two points. He looked at Quayle. He was smiling. He said: "Well, is that right or is it?"
Quayle said: "That's right, Mr. Foden. It's quite obvious to me that you know what you're talking about." He walked slowly back to the fireplace. "Tell me this," he said. "Could you give me in a few words some idea of the extent—the scope of your information."
"I could do that very easily," said Foden. "My information extends practically to the complete German organisation in Morocco, and when I say organisation I mean not only the organisation which existed a year or eighteen months ago, but the organisation they prepared and had ready to leave behind in the event of any successful allied landing." He grinned. "I could go on talking for hours," he said. "You've got to realise, Mr. Quayle, I'm no fool. I've spent years thinking about this job. I've spent years watching it happen under my nose. You see, I'm a sailor and nobody takes very much notice of a sailor. He's always supposed to be cockeyed when he's ashore."
Quayle said: "I'm taking you very seriously, Mr. Foden. Don't worry on that score. Now tell me this: Supposing I was to ask you to give me a résumé of all the information you have—everything in your power—with such maps as you care to draw—details as you care to give us; supposing you could promise us that you could give us sufficient information to wipe out this entire enemy organisation? Do you think you could do that?"
Foden said: "I don't think. I know. I'll tell you something. When I was in that camp they gave me a pretty bad time, but it improved a little when they discovered I was first-class at mixing cocktails. Eventually I became a sort of bar steward in the camp officers' mess. On my way from the bar to the store-room where the reserve stock of liquor was kept, I had to pass the commandant's room. All right. During the day he used to lecture to three or four young fellows who were attached to the camp. They were German Panzer officers in fact, and he used a map. It was stuck up on the wall. It was a map of one sector of the system."
