Complete works of peter.., p.361
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 361
"After you, my dear Fells."
Fells said: "Thank you."
As he went out he looked over his shoulder up the stairway. He had been very comfortable in that place. He had an idea he would never see it again.
II.
Greeley sat by the side of the fire in his bed-sitting-room. An unlighted cigarette hung from his lip. He was reading The Evening News. He thought that the boys in the desert army must be having a hell of a time. Greeley thought he would like to be there. It would be colourful—exciting.
He looked at his wrist-watch. It was thirty-two minutes past ten. He thought: Well, that's that! He went over to the telephone. He dialled the number.
The blonde girl in Quayle's office answered: "Is that you, Mr. Greeley?"
Greeley said: "Yes, it's me all right."
She said: "Have you any message?"
Greeley said: "No, nothing at all."
The blonde girl said: "All right. I'll be getting on to Mr. Quayle in a minute. He should be round to see you very shortly. Perhaps you'd like to open the door."
Greeley said: "All right. I'll be waiting for him."
He lit the cigarette. Then he went downstairs; took the door off the latch; stood inside the dark hallway. Five minutes later Quayle came. Greeley lead the way upstairs to his room. When they were inside the room he took a quick look at Quayle. He thought Quayle looked worried.
Quayle put his hat on a chair. He took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette. He said:
"So there's been no sign of Foden—nothing at all?"
Greeley shook his head.
Quayle said: "Well, that means they're going out." There was a tone of finality in his voice.
Greeley sat down in the chair by the fire. He thought: I wonder what the hell's going to happen now. It looks as if he hasn't got anything up his sleeve. It looks as if somebody's played a trump card on him. He felt vaguely unhappy.
Quayle asked: "Exactly what happened last night?"
Greeley went through it in detail. When he'd finished, Quayle said:
"Well, it doesn't tell us a lot, does it? But I never expected we'd find anything at Foden's place. I never expected we'd find anything on him. He's too clever for that."
Greeley said: "This Foden bird seems pretty smart."
Quayle said: "Yes, he's smart enough. He ought to be."
"Why?" asked Greeley.
Quayle smiled a little. He began to walk up and down the room. He said: "Foden is one of the best men in the German Intelligence Service. He's a hundred per cent, dyed-in-the-wool Nazi. He's an absolutely first-class man." He looked at Greeley. "Look how he speaks English," he said. "He speaks three other languages as well as that. I wonder if he ever even thinks in his native tongue."
Greeley said: "Struth! So he's a Jerry!"
"That's right," said Quayle. "He's German all right. He's been playing it off the cuff all along, and it looks to him as if it's come off. A wise bird, Foden."
Greeley said nothing. He wanted to ask questions. Quayle went on talking. He said:
"There's no reason why you shouldn't know something about this now, Greeley. I haven't told you much about it before because you know it's my rule to tell agents only as much as they ought to know. My experience is that if you tell an operative too much—give them too big a picture to think about—they are inclined to go off the rails. I don't believe in that."
Greeley said: "I know that, Mr, Quayle. I don't think you ever let your left hand know what your right hand's doing. Maybe you're right."
"In our peculiar profession I'm definitely right," said Quayle. "But this time is perhaps an exception. Foden's been very clever about this business. He was put in by Schlieken—the biggest shot in the German External Intelligence Service—to work in Morocco. Foden was in the German Navy once. It was easy for him to get a job as second officer on some coasting boats. What he didn't realise was that Estalza—the man who owned those boats—was working for me."
Greeley whistled. "So you've been wise from the start?" he said, There was a gleam of admiration in his eyes.
"Oh yes," said Quayle. "I've been wise from the start. I've been on to Foden through every move in this game."
Greeley said: "You know, Mr. Quayle, I think sometimes we aren't half as bad as people think we are."
Quayle smiled. "That's a matter of comparison," he said. "We'll know before this war's over. Well, Estalza was wise to Foden. Even then Foden was preparing for the big job—getting over here. He went twice to our people in Morocco with information about the Germans. Of course the information was true—but unimportant. He was annoyed with them when they wouldn't listen to him. They wouldn't listen to him because they knew all about him. Estalza had seen to that. So Foden began to be a little suspicious of Estalza. Soon after that Estalza got himself killed. Foden thought that somebody—if they were wise enough—might get the idea—and quite rightly—that he had something to do with this, so he arranged to get himself sent to the Vichy Internment Camp. He was still building up his story. But unfortunately something happened in that camp which hasn't done him any good."
Quayle stopped pacing. He drew on his cigarette and looked at Greeley.
"You remember that photograph he showed you," he went on, "the photograph of the group taken in the internment camp?"
"I remember," said Greeley. "He showed it to me down at the port. And you found it behind the dressing-table in Zilla Stevenson's flat."
"That's right," said Quayle. "It was rather unfortunate for Foden that he didn't know I had a duplicate of that picture. When that picture was taken in Morocco, one of my people bought a print of it. He wanted to get it back to me. He got it back to me. He identified on the back of the picture the people in it, and he said just who and what Foden was."
Greeley sighed. "What do you know about that?" he said.
"That's why Foden had to kill Zilla Stevenson," said Quayle. "When he went to her flat he was doing that act about Morocco; telling Zilla the story he told you. He took that photograph out of his pocket and showed it to her. I can imagine what happened.
"She recognised that photograph because the man who got that picture back to me was her husband. She was very fond of her husband, and now she knew who Foden was. He'd identified himself to her."
Quayle sighed. "Poor old Zilla," he said. "You can guess what happened, can't you, Greeley? He gave her that picture. She looked at it. They were probably standing in front of the fire—she nearest to the door of her bedroom. How she must have hated Foden—the man who was responsible for her husband's death." He shrugged his shoulders.
"She probably thought that Foden was getting away with it. She probably thought that I didn't know who he was. She lost her head. She went into the bedroom and she came out with the picture in one hand and her automatic pistol in the other. Her idea was to hold Foden up, telephone through to me and get him picked up. Poor Zilla...."
"I get it," said Greeley. "He took a jump at her; got hold of her hand with the pistol in it and turned the gun on her?"
"Yes," said Quayle. "Well, that was all right. He thought he'd cleared that one up. I imagine that during the struggle Zilla threw that photograph into the bedroom. It fell behind the dressing-table. Foden didn't worry about it, because it didn't mean anything to him. He probably thought that Zilla was a come-on girl working for one of our Intelligence Departments; that she suspected him and was going to turn him in. So he didn't worry about the picture."
Greeley said: "He must have had the breeze up. He must have known he was skatin' on thin ice."
Quayle shrugged his shoulders. "Foden's used to skating on thin ice," he said. "I believe he likes it. In any event he wasn't worrying about Zilla. He knew we wouldn't do anything about that."
Greeley nodded. He was beginning to understand.
"Well, to go back to Morocco," Quayle went on, "when he got away from the Internment Camp, Foden waited a bit; then he got in touch with one of our people in Marrakesh. He thought it was time to get moving. His instructions were to get into England, and he thought he was on a good wicket. He put up a very good story—the story being that he'd had his information turned down twice. This time he'd got some really big stuff and wanted paying for it.
"Our people in Marrakesh made out they'd fallen for this—hook, line and sinker. They put him on to somebody in Suera and this somebody put him on to a Mrs. Ferry." Quayle smiled reminiscently. "Mrs. Ferry," he said, "is a woman of great perception. She's been working for me for years. It was through her that Foden got over here and when he got here you were waiting for him."
Greeley said: "Pretty neat that. You're no fool, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle said: "I don't know about that. We'll see." He resumed his pacing. "Foden still thought he was on a good wicket," he went on. "He looked at it this way. He knew that sooner or later he'd get in touch with somebody who mattered. That story of his was too good for him not to. Well, they were either going to believe him or they weren't. He really didn't mind very much because he knew this: Supposing we did suspect him? The obvious thing for us to do would be to let him get out just to see how he would get out. He would reason that we must know that if he had a way into England—and he'd found a pretty good way—he'd have a way out. He reasoned that if we suspected him we would know he was working for Schlieken—the idea being that if we came to this conclusion we would most certainly put him in touch with Fells.
"When we do that," said Quayle, "what's he going to do? The obvious thing for him to do is to tell Fells the truth; to arrange to take Fells out with him; to arrange to make use of Fells. He thinks we're going to let them both out because that puts Fells in touch with Schlieken."
Greeley said: "I've got it."
"But what you don't know," Quayle went on, "is that Fells was working for Schlieken before this war. I put him in to do that. He worked very hard for them for quite a while," said Quayle with a smile. "They'd be able to find a use for Fells even if they didn't exactly trust him. He'd still know a lot that they could make use of."
Greeley said: "I've got it. Foden reckoned that if Fells was working for you you'd let him take Fells out just on the chance of making a contact with this Schlieken in Germany. He reckoned that if Fells wasn't working for you—if he was still prepared to play along with Schlieken—he'd have information for those boys that would be worth a million."
Quayle nodded. "That's right," he said. "And in any event you realise that they have ways and means of making people talk even if they don't want to."
Greeley said: "I know. I've heard about it. I wouldn't like to be Fells."
He took a box of cigarettes out of his trouser pockets; lit one. He was thinking that it was pretty tough on Fells.
There was silence for a little while; then Quayle said: "It's a tough game this."
Greeley grinned. He said: "You're telling me. Well, I suppose this is the end of the story. It was nice of you to tell me about it. It makes it very interesting. I've sort of got the whole picture now, which is a thing I've never had all the while I've been working for you, Mr. Quayle."
Quayle smiled. He said: "Well, Greeley, I thought it was about time that you might actually know something—not that it'll do you any good."
"No," said Greeley. "I don't suppose it will."
Quayle stopped his pacing. He threw his cigarette end in the grate. He walked to the chair. He picked up his hat.
Greeley said: "Well, I suppose if you want me you'll get in touch with me, Mr. Quayle?"
Quayle nodded. "Yes. You'd better stay here for a bit. If I want you I'll call you."
Greeley got up. He said: "It's tough luck on Mr. Fells. I was thinking——"
Quayle stopped. "What were you thinking, Greeley?" he asked.
"I was thinking it might have been me," said Greeley.
"Yes," said Quayle, "it might have been you. If you'd been Fells—if you spoke German as well as he does—if you'd taken the chances he's taken—if you'd done all he's done—you might have had the great reward of——" His face was grim. He shrugged his shoulders. "Good-night, Greeley," he said.
He went down the stairs.
III.
Mayola Green opened the door of her flat; closed it quietly; walked across the dark hallway; switched on the light in her sitting-room. She was tired. She looked at herself in the wall mirror. She thought, This is a hell of a life. Won't it be nice when this war's over? You won't know yourself, Mayola. I wonder what you'll do when it is over. I should think you'd make a pretty good actress. But I think you'd be bored being an actress. She sighed. Her head was aching. She realised she'd drunk a lot too much the night before. She thought that it wasn't very much fun to drink too much when you didn't want to; having to play parts; to be somebody else all the time.
She lit a cigarette. She was physically tired, but her brain was not tired. It was revolving like a squirrel in a cage. The trouble with life is, she thought, that you never know from one day to another what you're going to do, my girl. Perhaps you'll stay here in this flat for two or three weeks or a month before anything else happens. Then Quayle will come on the line, or that blonde girl of his. You'll have to go somewhere, pretend to be something that you are not, behave in a way that's quite foreign to you. All for what? Something you'll never even know about.
She stretched. She walked across the room into the bedroom. The bathroom door was open. The idea of a warm bath appealed to her. She switched the light on in the bathroom; turned on the taps.
The door bell rang. Mayola thought for a minute. She turned off the taps, quickly closed the bathroom door, switched the light off in the bedroom, closed the door behind her, walked across the sitting-room, opened the door. She opened it just a little way.
Quayle was standing outside. He said: "Good-evening, Mayola."
She held the door open. Quayle entered, put his hat on the chair in the hall.
Mayola said: "Wonders will never cease—a visit from the boss himself. My! This must be important. Would you like a drink?"
Quayle said: "No thanks. I'll smoke a cigarette if I may."
She brought him one.
He said: "What did you think of last night, Mayola?"
"Candidly," she said, "I didn't think it was very good. I thought it was rather amateurish. I don't know anything about your boy friend Foden, but he'll be an awful mug if he doesn't suspect. It was rather like a scene in a film."
Quayle smiled. He said: "He'll suspect all right. But what does that matter?"
Mayola asked: "Did you really expect to find anything on him?"
Quayle shook his head. "No, Mayola. Tell me something: What happened? Did you give him the usual dose?"
She said: "I gave him the dose you advised—a small one. It was too small for him. That man's as fit as a horse. He was coming out of it in about half an hour."
Quayle nodded. "And then?" he said.
"I did what you said," said Mayola. "I gave him a little sniff out of the bottle you gave me."
"I see," said Quayle. "And what happened then?"
"He just went off again," said Mayola. "He was mattering and grumbling and writhing about the place. Some anaesthetic, I must say, that stuff of yours!"
Quayle said: "I suppose you took the trouble to listen to what he said?"
She laughed. "I tried to," she said. "He said a hell of a lot of stuff. You know how they talk. It never means anything."
Quayle nodded. "I know," he said.
"It's easy to see he was a sailor," Mayola went on. "He was talking about the tides, and he did a little bit about latitude and longitude. That was all Dutch to me. Then he said something about a hell of a joke. Then he said some foreign sort of name."
Quayle said: "Was the name Schlieken?"
"That's right," said Mayola. "That's what he said—Schlieken."
"What else did he say?" asked Quayle.
Mayola said: "He was obviously thinking about ships of some sort. He was talking about boxing the compass. Tell me, how do you box a compass? What does that mean?"
Quayle was smiling. He said: "It would take a long time to explain that, Mayola, and I've got to be going."
She said: "It's been an honour, I'm sure. It's a long time since you were here last. What's going to happen to me now? Do I just stay around and wait for the telephone to ring?"
Quayle said: "No, you can have two weeks off, Mayola. I think things are going to be quiet for a bit."
She said: "Do you mean that?"
Quayle nodded.
"All right," she said. "You won't see me for smoke. To-morrow I'm off to a little quiet spot in the country, where nobody thinks of cocktails and the most exciting thing is looking at a cow in a field."
Quayle said: "I envy you. That sounds good to me." He got up. "Good-night, Mayola," he said. "I'll be seeing you."
"Good luck," she said.
She followed him into the hall; closed the door quietly behind him. She went back to the sitting-room. She said to herself: Mayola, my girl, you've got two weeks' leave, and you can put a lot of bath salts in your bath. You've earned it!
XII. -- EXIT
I.
THE MOON was full. Fells thought it must be somewhere around three o'clock. It was a quiet and beautiful night.
In front of them the road stretched up over the hill, between the woods on the top of the hill, like a twisting ribbon. Through the open window of the car the breeze came. It brought in the salt tang of the sea. Fells wondered where they were.
Sitting beside him, hunched back in the corner of the car, was Foden. His cigarette tip was glowing. It glowed regularly as Foden drew on it. He was breathing quietly, without haste. Fells thought it would take a great deal to disturb Foden's equilibrium.
In front of him he could see the slim back of the girl who was driving the car. Fells thought: They're pretty hot having women working for them over here. I suppose she's a German. She's pretty good. And she can drive.
He lit a cigarette. Quite obviously, he thought, there was a very good organisation over here. This car, for instance—a big touring car with a Hackney carriage plate on it. Somehow, with all the regulations and restrictions about cars and petrol, they could run a car like this, and have a girl to drive it. Nice work, thought Fells; then qualified the thought with the idea that in all probability Quayle had a similar service somewhere in Germany. Why not?
