Complete works of peter.., p.374
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 374
O'Mara took out his cigar case. He selected a cigar, lit it. He said: "That's excellent. We'll take it away. You know where it's to go?"
Cordover nodded. He said: "That's all fixed, Mr. O'Mara."
O'Mara went to the door. As he passed Cordover, he said, looking at the heap: "There's one for your sister. Maybe with luck, we'll score a couple more before this is through."
They went down the passage.
IV.
SAMMY CORDOVER, driving a small official van with the words "London Telephone Service" painted on the side of it, drew up outside St. Ervins Court, got out of the van, went inside. He was dressed in overalls, carried a tool kit.
He said to the porter: "There's something wrong with the telephone at No. 22, I think."
The porter said: "Yes—Mr. Miguales on the first floor. It's just up the stairs and round the corner."
Cordover said: "Thanks."
He took the half-smoked cigarette from the corner of his mouth, stubbed it out, put the stub behind his left ear. He went upstairs, rang the bell of No. 22.
The maid opened the door.
Cordover said: "Telephone Service. You've got a phone wrong here, haven't you?"
She said: "Yes. Come in."
He followed her into the sitting-room, put down his tool kit, went over to the instrument. He said to the maid:
"I think somebody's been jiggling about with the connection—probably pulled the cord a bit too hard."
He opened his tool kit, began work.
Sandra Kerr came into the room. The maid said:
"Oh, Ma'am, this man's from the Telephone Service. He's mending it."
Sammy looked over his shoulder at Sandra. He said: "Good-morning."
She said: "Good-morning. Is it anything very difficult?"
"Oh no," said Sammy. "A few minutes' work."
She said: "Very well, Mary." The maid went out of the room.
Cordover, kneeling on the ground, continued with his work. He was fitting a new piece of flex, re-wiring the break. She came over to him. She said: "What actually was the matter with the telephone?"
He said: "I should think somebody has been playing about with the flex. They've broken the connection. It's nothing much."
He put one hand on the small table beside him. Between the knuckles was a small folded piece of paper. She slipped her hand over his, took the piece of paper.
She said: "Well, I'm glad it's not worse than that. If you want some coffee when you've finished the maid will give you some."
She went out of the room. In her bedroom she unfolded the piece of paper. It said:
32 Fayle Street, Fulham Road<—to-night, ten o'clock.
She went to the mantelpiece, put the piece of paper in an ashtray, put a match to it, watched it burn.
The Yellow Canteloupe Club—an attractive boîte not a hundred miles from Berkeley Square—presented a rarefied and sometimes enthralling atmosphere which had never failed to attract Mrs. Glynda Milton until to-night. And if, at the moment, she found herself unable to appreciate anything to any degree of satisfaction it was not because she desired such a situation but because of events over which she had no control.
Mrs. Glynda Milton was characteristic of a certain type of extremely good-looking woman who, in the fifth year of the war, finds herself unable to "take it."
There are many such women. She had a husband who loved her and whose suspicions were easily aroused, an adequate allowance, a delightful flat, a superb wardrobe. She had everything that could make for what most women would call happiness. She was unhappy because she was bored. Because she was bored she did things intended to relieve boredom. Things which, strangely enough, seemed only to accentuate it.
Glynda had affaires with such gentlemen as she considered worthy of the honour; she drank a little too much; she smoked too much; she spent too much. If she found the days too long it was because the nights were inevitably shorter.
She was slim and charming—with delightful hands and feet, and was one of those ladies who seemed to exist mainly for the purpose of gracing a chromium-legged high stool in a chromium-plated bar in one of the thousands of chromium-plated "clubs" which abound in the metropolis.
And if she needed an excuse for any of these things—if one were indicated—she had it pat. The reason was Mr. Hitler and The War and the fact that one was "browned off" by the process of having to stay put in London doing a little drinking in the aforementioned surroundings instead of rushing about the Continent from one plage to another, at the right times, in the right clothes, doing a little drinking in other, if similar, surroundings where you ordered your drink in some other language and where the young men were very passionate even if they were also financial-minded.
Of such was the kingdom of Glynda.
Now she sat at her table in the corner of the attractively furnished dining-room of the Yellow Canteloupe whose subdued lights were so kind to the complexions of the charming ladies who inhabited the place, that the ladies themselves were often more kind than they had originally meant to be.
She was, as always, perfectly dressed. On the other side of the table, eating a cherry on a stick which she had taken from her cocktail glass, Therese Martyr, superb in an expensive but simple black frock—created by a maestro—with a single string of real pearls, regarded the club, Mrs. Milton and the world in general with generous approval.
Glynda Milton thought bitterly: You're very happy, Therese, aren't you? You're awfully pleased with yourself. I think I'd like to cut your throat, you bitch!
These thoughts, however, did not alter the expression of her face.
She said: "Therese, I want another cocktail, please, and I hope dinner won't be too long."
Therese Martyr signalled a hovering waiter, ordered the cocktail. She said: "Dinner will be here in a minute, my dear, I ordered a special one. We're going to have a chicken. I thought we ought to have a little celebration."
Her friend asked: "Why?"
Therese shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she said. "Anyhow, why should there be any particular reason. Of course, you know that you're looking quite radiant to-night, don't you, Glynda? And I love your frock. But then you have such exquisite taste in clothes."
Mrs. Milton thought: To hell with my taste in clothes.
She was frightened—terribly frightened. Periodically, her eyes moved to the door which led from the bar to the dining-room. She was waiting for someone to come through that door. She was waiting for a very large, quite charming, individual who terrified her, to come through the door. She was waiting for Mr. O'Mara.
She thought life was very strange and not a bit funny. This morning she had been almost happy. She had enjoyed going to the hairdresser. Her appointment there had been entirely successful. She came out of the place with the pleasurable feeling that enfolds a woman when her hair has been well dressed. Her taxicab, faithful because of the inordinate tip which Mrs. Milton inevitably paid, stood at the kerb.
But she had not reached it. From somewhere in the neighbourhood, between herself and the cab, had appeared the large well-dressed figure of Mr. O'Mara. He had smiled at her, had taken off his hat with rather a flourish that seemed a little foreign to her.
He had said: "Mrs. Milton, I believe? My name's O'Mara. I'm awfully sorry to pounce on you like this so unexpectedly, but I think you and I ought to have a little talk."
She had said: "Really! I don't think I know you." She had made a movement as if she were going to pass on.
O'Mara had said: "You don't know me, Mrs. Milton, but don't make any mistake about it, you're going to know me. You can get into your cab if you like, but I think it would be much more clever of you if you came with me and had coffee and a little talk."
She had said with a touch of indignation: "Why should I come with you and have coffee and talk. Why should I?" While she spoke she was racking her brains in an endeavour to remember where—if ever—she had met this large, well-dressed, rather overpowering person...
At that moment she had begun to feel frightened.
O'Mara had said with a pleasant smile: "I'll tell you why. You know that Hubert—your husband—is a little bit fed up with your gallivanting about. Now, isn't he? You know that just now he's in a frame of mind when he could be very nasty. And you can bet, my dear, that he'd be goddamned nasty if I were to let him know about some of those interesting nights that you spent with Ricky Kerr. Hubert would be awfully pleased, wouldn't he? He'd probably take you apart just to see what made you tick over... hey? So let's go and have the coffee and the talk, you silly little fool!"
Thus Mr. O'Mara, who could sound very rude, very ominous.
Therese Martyr said: "Here's your cocktail, dear. Oh... darling, have you heard the latest definition of a meteorologist?"
Glynda drank the cocktail in a gulp. She said she hadn't.
"A meteorologist," said Therese, happily, "is a man who looks in a woman's eyes and sees whether..."
Mrs. Milton said: "How good... how very good." But she was thinking of O'Mara. Standing there, on the pavement, looking up at him at the smiling, fresh impertinent face, at the mouth that had just called her a silly little fool, she had thought: So this is blackmail. This is how it begins. Oh, my God!
She had said something like that.
O'Mara, still smiling, had continued: "Don't worry, Mrs. Milton. Nobody's going to blackmail you or frighten you—well, not much—providing you do what you're told. Now will you take your cab or shall we use it to go somewhere where we can get some coffee?"
She had said shortly: "Very well."
She had gone; they had coffee. And now she was waiting for Mr. O'Mara. Having been primed in what she was to say; drilled in what she was to say, she was waiting for Mr. O'Mara... wondering what the next thing would be; wondering if she would have to do other things, play other parts.
Therese Martyr said: "I've never known you drink cocktail like that before. You just swallowed it in one gulp. Don't tell me you're taking to drinking?" She smiled playfully.
Mrs. Milton said: "I didn't notice. I'm a little perturbed—a little worried."
Therese said: "No?" She raised her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you've something really to worry about, Glynda. Can I know about it?"
"You know about it already," said Mrs. Milton. "Damned well you do. I'm worried about Sandra."
Therese raised her pencilled eyebrows again. She asked: "But why? Why should you worry about Sandra?"
Mrs. Milton said: "Because I think you've played a stinking trick on her." Her eyes blazed. "Because I think she's in a devil of a position. She happens to be a friend of mine, you know. I'm really her friend and I don't mean your sort of friendship either, Therese."
Therese smiled. It was rather a pitying sort of smile. She said: "You're being very rude for a guest, aren't you, Glynda? Whatever are you talking about? Do you know?"
Glynda Milton said: "Listen. I know you've made a fool of yourself with Ricky Kerr. I know you were his mistress and he threw you over, didn't he? He got tired of you, so you had to do something about it. So you schemed to be revenged on him. And you brought that suave Spaniard, Miguales, along, told Sandra an awful lot of lies about Ricky, worked her up into the most fearful rage against him, and then flung her into the arms of Miguales, who was waiting to receive her."
Therese said: "Dear... dear... dear! Doesn't this all sound terrible?" There was a sardonic note in her voice. "And you're fearfully concerned about her?" she went on. "But why, my dear girl? It might surprise you to know that Miguales intends to marry Sandra. I think they'll make a wonderful couple."
Glynda Milton said: "Therese, you're a liar."
"Really!" said Therese. She was quite unperturbed.
"Oh yes, you are," Mrs. Milton went on. "Of course you wouldn't know that the business on which Miguales came to this country is over; that his mission has been a failure; that he's got to leave within two or three days' time; that it's quite impossible for him to marry Sandra."
She laughed bitterly. "She's got to get a divorce first, you know. And, quite candidly, I shouldn't think that Ricky would be very keen on making the process easy for her—not after the way he's been treated."
Therese Martyr said seriously: "Is all this true, Glynda? This is really rather terrible. Is it true that Miguales is leaving? But I thought he was going to be here permanently. I thought——"
Glynda Milton said: "Whatever you thought you were wrong. That's the position. Why couldn't you wait a little? But of course you couldn't. You had to be revenged on Ricky even if it meant making Sandra permanently unhappy. What's she to do now? She's left Ricky and she can't go back to him. And Miguales is going off. My God! What a situation."
Therese said casually: "I agree, Glynda. It's not a very good situation. Incidentally, where did you hear all this?"
Glynda lied glibly. She had learned her part well. She said: "Sandra telephoned me this morning. She told me."
Therese asked: "And did she tell you that Ricky had had an affaire with me? Did she tell you that?"
Glynda shook her head. "No," she said. "Ricky told me that. I telephoned him after I'd spoken to Sandra. I don't think he's feeling awfully well disposed towards you, Therese. Why should he? What a nasty little beast you've been to everybody."
Therese smiled. She said: "My dear, you always exaggerate. If I were you I should have another cocktail and relax."
Glynda Milton said: "I think you're quite right. In any event I don't believe in quarrelling publicly."
"Don't you?" said Therese sweetly. "I was beginning to think you did, my dear." She ordered another cocktail.
Glynda Milton looked towards the door. She shuddered a little inside. Through the door had come the large and smiling figure of Mr. O'Mara. She thought to herself: Well, here he is. I've done what he told me. Now perhaps I'll be safe... perhaps...
O'Mara stood just inside the entrance to the dining-room. His eyes wandered round the room, stopped on Mrs. Milton. A smile of surprise and satisfaction appeared on his face. He came quickly across to the table. He said:
"Well, if it isn't little Glynda—and after all these years."
She looked at him. After a moment, as if she recollected, she smiled. She said: "Shaun, where have you been? Oh, by the way, Therese, this is Mr. O'Mara—a very old friend of mine... Miss Therese Martyr."
O'Mara threw a smile at Therese. He said to Glynda: "I've been in South America working for the Ministry of Supply. And am I glad to get back. You know it's all very well to be out of this war, and the Argentine is a marvellous place, but give me London."
Mrs. Milton said: "I'm very glad to see you back, Shaun. You look the same as you always did—perfectly pleased with yourself and the world in general."
He asked: "Why not? By the way," he went on, "how are all my friends? How are Ricky and Sandra?"
Mrs. Milton said dubiously: "Well..." There was a pause. "Ricky's working in the Ministry of Supply now," she said.
O'Mara asked: "How is he?"
"He's all right," said Mrs. Milton. "I suppose you'll be seeing him soon, won't you?"
"When I have time," said O'Mara. "I want to get settled down first and have a look at one or two of the spots in England I've always liked; then I'll get around to people."
A waiter came to the table. He said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Milton. There's a telephone call for you."
"Oh dear," said Glynda Milton. "I never get a moment's peace."
She went away.
Therese Martyr said: "Won't you sit down, Mr. O'Mara?"
"Thank you," said O'Mara. He pulled up a chair, sat down at the table. He said to the waiter: "I'll have a double Martini, please."
He looked at Therese appreciatively.
She said: "So you know the Kerrs?"
He nodded. "I've known Ricky for years," he said. "An awfully nice fellow—a bit volatile, you know, but very sound at heart. A great fellow. I'm very fond of him. I suppose you know them well?" Therese said: "Yes, I know them very well. You know, there's been a little trouble there."
O'Mara raised his eyebrows. "No!" he said. "That astounds me. I'm very sorry to hear it. But it can happen, you know—even in the best regulated family."
Glynda Milton came back. She said: "Believe it or not I'll have to go. Hubert's just telephoned me from home. He's going off to the country somewhere and wants me back at once. So, like a dutiful wife, I must go."
Therese said: "Aren't you even going to wait for dinner, Glynda?"
"My dear, how can I?" said Glynda. "You know what Hubert is. He's always complaining that I dine out every night, and I believe I actually told him I was going to be in to-night. I must go." She looked at O'Mara. "Perhaps Mr. O'Mara would like to eat my chicken," she said.
Therese Martyr said: "That would be very nice. Why don't you, Mr. O'Mara?"
He looked at her. The admiration in his eyes was quite obvious. He said: "You know, Miss Martyr, I'm a very lucky man. This is my first night in London and I find myself dining with a beautiful woman. One of those sudden and unexpected surprises that make life so delightful. Glynda, I feel under an obligation to Hubert. I think it was marvellous of him to ring you up."
She said: "Well, put it to my credit. I really must be going. Good-night, Therese. So sorry to leave you. Good-night, Shaun. Come and see us sometime."
She went out of the dining-room, through the bar, into the club vestibule. She waited there miserably while the commissionaire tried to get her a cab.
She thought: "I hope I did what he wanted. Now perhaps he'll leave me alone...."
She was uncertain, unhappy. She was scared stiff. Scared of Mr. O'Mara, his schemes, his fake telephone calls, his threats, his smile—of everything about him. Somewhere inside her was an instinctive feeling that Mr. O'Mara was an ill wind that would do nobody any good.
The commissionaire got her a cab. She went home.
For once she was glad to be going home.
Sandra turned into the dark street; flashed her torch on to the door of the first house, worked out where Number 32 would be, hastened towards it.
