Complete works of peter.., p.378
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 378
Miguales said: "I don't understand what this is. You come here. You have a pistol. You threaten me. Well..." He squared his shoulders. "Supposing you kill me, what good do you do? I'm a Spanish citizen—a neutral. My Government expect me to return. You will create a situation between our countries." He stopped talking because he saw that O'Mara was laughing.
O'Mara put the pistol in his pocket. He said: "All right. I won't threaten you. I've got something better than that. Sit down and listen to me."
Miguales said: "I am prepared to listen. I'm quite reasonable."
He was thinking quickly; trying to arrive at a conclusion. What was this? Miguales' mind raced as he endeavoured to come to some logical explanation. But he could find no answer. All he could do was to play for time.
He repeated: "I am quite reasonable."
"You'll be reasonable," said O'Mara. "You'll be reasonable because I'm not demanding much of you—not very much. I'm going to ask you a question and you're going to answer it. Exactly what happens to you depends on how you answer that question, but I haven't a lot of time to waste on you, Miguales," O'Mara went on with his charming smile. "I ought to warn you about that."
Miguales sat back in the big armchair, his hands on its arms. He had a peculiar cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was afraid of O'Mara.
O'Mara said: "A few nights ago a German agent called Lelley had an accident at Nelswood. An individual who was concerned in that accident—a man by the name of Kerr, whose wife you know—returned to London. Someone picked him up—followed him—on the way back—someone who could drive a car at night even with the present restrictions. Possibly"—said O'Mara with a cynical grin—"a car with Diplomatic Corps plate on it.
"In any event," he continued, "somebody picked up Kerr. And he was followed. You and your friends kept a tail on him for some time. Then fate was rather kind to you. The following day Kerr was given a list of British Agents in France. That evening he picked up a girl—a rather attractive girl I imagine—in a public house called the Green Headdress. He went home with her. Early in the morning she stole the list. She disappeared. You understand all that?"
Miguales said: "I understand what you say. But I do not see what it has to do with me. I do not understand why I should be interested in your friend Kerr. It is true that there was something between his wife and me. But that is finished. I know nothing of him. I——"
"All right," interrupted O'Mara. "Now who was the woman and where is she now?"
There was a pause; then Miguales said softly: "Señor, I assure you..."
O'Mara said: "Don't give me anything like that. Don't tell me one of your fancy stories, Miguales. You're going to tell me who that woman was. You're going to tell me where she is. Make up your mind about that. Now I'm going to give you a very good reason why you will tell me. Would you like to hear it?"
Miguales said: "Señor, I'm prepared to listen to anything. I do not of necessity know what you're talking about."
O'Mara said: "All right. Well, you listen to this. When your lady friend got that list from Kerr that was very nice for you—but not quite so good as you thought, because the list was a fake one. You see," said O'Mara sardonically, "we aren't such fools as you think—not quite. But there was something else that had to be dealt with. Ricky Kerr had to be dealt with. It was very necessary that the people who employ you and the lady that Kerr met at the Green Headdress should get him out of the way, because he'd seen that girl. He could recognise her. So Kerr had to be removed."
O'Mara drew on his cigar with pleasure. He got up, began to walk about the room.
He said: "That was quite a simple business. There was a white-faced young man employed by the organisation, who was put in to keep observation on Kerr's flat. His business was first of all to see if any one called on Kerr. The second thing was in due course to remove Kerr. Mrs. Kerr was got out of the way—quite cleverly, I must say"—said O'Mara—"by your good self.
"Now," O'Mara went on, leaning against the sideboard, regarding Miguales with an almost benevolent look, "the plot thickens—as they used to say in the story books. It seems that you wrote a letter to your employer. You weren't very keen on your employer. You hadn't had a straight deal, had you? You wanted to get out, Miguales, because you were getting frightened. So you wrote that letter and you addressed it to dear Señor somebody or other. You had that letter delivered and it was received by the person you intended to receive it. That person was your employer."
O'Mara paused and inhaled cigar smoke. Then he went on: "Writing that letter was a very foolish thing, Miguales. If you had any sense you'd have realised that you knew a little too much. That the people who'd been glad to make use of your services in this country—services which were doubly useful because you had an excellent background and also certain diplomatic privileges—weren't going to stand any nonsense from you. That letter showed them that you were getting a little out of hand; that you were going to finish; that you wanted to be paid off and done with the business. So they had to arrange something for you. Do you know what they planned for you? Would you like to know?"
Miguales said nothing. He sat, turned sideways in the chair, his eyes on O'Mara's. His face was set.
"This is what they planned for you," said O'Mara. "Exactly the same thing as they did to Lelley. They made a stooge out of Lelley. They let him work here for years. They left him here to die just so that they could get a line on us or one of us. In your case the technique was to be a little different. I'll tell you what it was. Your employer took the letter which you had written and rubbed out the name so that the letter began: 'Dear Señor—' That letter was put in an envelope and planted in the inside pocket of the white-faced young man who was keeping observation on Kerr's flat. You understand why, don't you, Miguales?"
Miguales said slowly: "No... no..."
"Well, I'll tell you," said O'Mara. "Don't you see, you poor fool, the person who employed you knew perfectly well that we should keep Kerr's flat under observation, and that we should get on to that white-faced young man; that if he were picked up or arrested, that letter incriminating you would be found in his pocket. Don't you understand that? It wouldn't have been so bad if this young gentleman had been picked up or arrested; there still might have been an out for you. You might have been able to evolve some sort of story—some explanation. But he wasn't picked up or arrested. Do you know what happened?"
Once again Miguales said: "No..." His hands were trembling a little.
"The body of that young man was found in an empty house," O'Mara went on. "He'd been killed—shot. Your letter was found on him. That letter was a letter of complaint that you hadn't had a square deal; that you were going to do something about it." O'Mara grinned. "You see, history repeats itself, my friend," he said. "The story is that you killed that young man. You killed that young man because there had been some quarrel, some difference between you two, both of whom had worked for Lelley and Lelley's boss. Now your diplomatic passport might possibly protect you against espionage, but you'll find it won't protect you against a murder charge—not in these days. You killed that man. You killed him because he knew too much about you. You killed him because some agreement made between you two had been broken."
Miguales said hoarsely: "That is a lie... that is a lie... ! I have never killed any one."
O'Mara said pleasantly: "I believe you. I don't think you've got enough guts to kill any one. You'd do it by proxy. But it's a good lie. It's going to stop you leaving this country. It's going to put you in a Court, it's going to try you for murder, and if I know anything about it, it's going to hang you by the neck until you are dead. And how do you like that, Señor Miguales?"
Miguales said in a thick voice: "This is a trick... a dirty despicable trick. This is a trap..."
O'Mara yawned. He said: "That's what I am trying to point out. This was a trap set for you by the person for whom you work—the person for whom Lelley worked. The technique, you notice, is always the same. Lelley did his job of work. He was left here to be disposed of. You've done your job of work—you're to be dealt with. The white-faced young man did his job of work and he got his. Quite a dry-cleaning organisation, isn't it?"
Miguales said: "I don't know anything about the killing of that man. How do I know that you are not bluffing? How do I know that the man is dead? I have only your word. I do not want to believe that he is dead."
"Of course you don't," said O'Mara amiably. "But the fact remains he is dead. I ought to know. I shot him. So I'm certain about that. The point is that there's an excellent case against you. Because that letter was found on him. Because you and he—according to that letter—had fallen out."
O'Mara grinned happily. "Naturally," he continued, "you will say that the letter was not written to the white-faced young man; that it was written to someone else. Well... if that's your case then you're going to find yourself, still, in a very difficult position. If you didn't write the letter to that fellow tell me to whom you did write it. I don't think you'll do that. Scared as you are, you haven't the nerve to do that."
Miguales said nothing. There were little beads of sweat on his forehead.
"So their story is," continued O'Mara, "that there was a connection between you and the young man who was put in to watch Kerr—to kill Kerr. The young man whom we know worked for a Nazi organisation in this country. You quarrelled with him. You wrote him that note. He refused to meet your demands and so you killed him. Well... it isn't very nice for you, is it?"
There was a silence; then Miguales said: "It seems that I am in a very difficult position. As a man of honour..."
O'Mara said: "Don't make me laugh. You're not a man of honour. Listen, you're leaving to-morrow by plane, aren't you? Your passport's in order. Your permit's in order. Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't leave. In point of fact you will leave. You'll leave because I'm going to let you leave. I want you to go, Miguales. I don't want you to stay here and die. But there's only one way you'll achieve the business of leaving this country. I want the name and the whereabouts of the girl who picked up Kerr in the Green Headdress."
Miguales got up. He stood, his back to the fire, looking at O'Mara. He said: "Supposing for the sake of argument that by some means I could give you this information... supposing I could... would you give me your word that I shall be permitted to leave?"
O'Mara said: "Have a heart. What's the good of talking like that, Miguales? It's theatrical. What's the good of my giving you my word or anything else? You're taking a chance on it. You know who I am. You can guess who I work for. I work for the people who dealt with your friend Mr. Lelley. I tell you this—give me the information I want about that girl and so far as I'm concerned you can have your trip to-morrow and I hope you'll enjoy it. But make up your mind quickly."
Miguales said: "My mind is made up. I have been treated with contumely and contempt. I have not been treated by these people as a man of honour. I shall tell you who the girl is. I shall give you her address."
He walked to the bureau in the corner of the room. He took a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote down the name and address. He gave it to O'Mara.
O'Mara looked at the piece of paper. He folded it, put it in his pocket. He said: "I think you are a very wise man, Miguales. Adios, Señor."
O'Mara closed the door softly behind him.
Miguales stood looking at the blank wall in front of him. He said to himself: "Madre de Dios, the escapes you have, Enrico... the escapes you have."
Outside O'Mara, his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down the street. He considered that the interview with Miguales had been eminently successful—as successful as he had hoped it would be.
He walked for a little way until he found at the intersection at the two main streets a telephone box. He went inside; dialled a number.
He said: "Quayle?... Oh, Peter, I'm having quite a nice evening. An interrupted dinner—but everything else seems to be turning over quite nicely. By the way, you remember that Green Headdress lady? Her name is Esmeralda Valoz. She lives at 117 Thorpe Court, Bayswater. I thought you'd like to know."
Quayle said: "I like to know very much. Nice work, Shaun."
O'Mara said: "Look... just a little idea of mine... don't do anything about the lady until I call you again. It might not be politic."
Quayle said: "You should know, Shaun. I'll do nothing before I hear from you."
O'Mara said: "That suits me very well. Good-night, Peter."
He hung up the receiver. He went out of the telephone box, looked at his watch. He sighed; began to walk slowly into the darkness.
III.
O'MARA stood in front of the radiogram, listening to a new rhumba record. He had a glass of whisky and soda in one hand, the stub of one of his little cigars in the other. He was unhappy in so far as such a process was possible to an individual of his characteristics and nature.
He was unhappy because of the music of the rhumba which touched a responsive chord somewhere in his being; produced a nostalgia for those places, those people who lived and loved with the music of the tango, the rhumba, the maxixe.
O'Mara who concealed and controlled a temperament as tempestuous as it was artistic, longed, he believed, for the hot pavements, the atmosphere, the odours of South America. For the horses, the women, the nights; for all those sights and sounds which rounded off his life in that place and made for what seemed to him now complete happiness.
He was, in fact, rather like the tragedian who wishes to be a comedian. He had a flair for not appreciating his own peculiar abilities. Abilities that suited and aided his career; that made him a superb employee at the nerve-racking job that was his.
O'Mara, who enjoyed his profession because it brought adventure and colour into his life, would—had he been permanently employed in the Argentine, have longed for the sounds and sights of London. Always, to him, the women who were, at the moment, unattainable were doubly attractive. Because he was in London the lady in Rio was eminently desirable. Had he been in Rio she would—as she had before—have had good cause to worry over his infidelity.
It was this streak in his nature which, at the moment, produced the feeling of dissatisfaction. His flat, although new to him, gave him a feeling of wellbeing and satisfaction. He felt he would like to stay in it, listening to Argentine music, drinking quietly by himself.
The idea of the night's work before him gave him little pleasure. It was a job. It was necessary. It must be done, and as successfully, in as finished a manner, as possible. For in his own manner O'Mara was an artist.
The little patent clock on a side table, an inanimate witness of many peculiar scenes in O'Mara's life, struck a single note. He looked at it. It was half an hour after midnight. He went into the bedroom, took off his velvet dressing-gown, put on his double-breasted coat, examined the Luger pistol, replaced it in the inside pocket, prepared to go out.
O'Mara smiled a little cynically. He was thinking of the innumerable times, in innumerable places, when he had prepared to go out; adjusted his tie, set his soft hat at its jaunty angle; felt, beneath his left armpit, the weight of the bulbous-nosed Luger pistol. This was a scene which he had enacted so many times that he was inclined to associate it with something akin to boredom. For himself—not for others. For that same preparation for departure had, often, spelled death for quite a few people whose end, at the apt hands of Mr. O'Mara, had been artistic if somewhat violent.
One day, he thought, he would go out and, possibly, would not return. One day, no doubt, someone would be a little more clever, a little quicker than himself.
He sighed, looked round the sitting-room, turned off the light, closed the front door of the flat quietly behind him.
Walking, not too quickly, towards Therese's flat, he thought about Miguales. The world was filled with people like Miguales, O'Mara considered. They almost grew on trees. They were clever people; egotists; people with an overdeveloped sense of their own abilities, their own instincts; their own intuitions. They were fair game for the really clever ones of the world, the fanatics, the really tough, dyed-in-the-wool, Nazi type that took no heed of life or death if it could achieve the will of the Führer. Vaguely, cynically, O'Mara felt a little sorry for Miguales. Anyhow, the thought was a sentimental one, thought O'Mara—who liked to consider himself a sentimentalist—and in any event it cost nothing.
It was one o'clock when he arrived at the flat. He rang the bell once, stood waiting patiently, his soft hat in his hand, thinking about Therese, being glad that, at least she had found sufficient attraction in him, his manner and personality, to allow the processes that were slowly working themselves out to be possible.
She opened the door. She stood, smiling at him, the door held wide. He looked at her appreciatively. She wore a long corded velvet house-coat in a peculiar shade of cerise—almost matching her lipstick; her small feet were shod in mules of the same colour. The buttons down the front of the house-coat were in antique silver and there was a wide sash of velvet, of the same shade as the coat, but in a plain pattern, about her waist.
O'Mara said: "You look good enough to eat. And I could eat you!" His voice sounded a little thick.
She said: "Gallantly spoken, Mr. O'Mara. But you will probably prefer the omelette. Come in."
O'Mara stepped into the long hallway. He turned towards her as she closed the door, took her in his arms.
She kissed him passionately. She said: "You are an appalling, unfaithful, person. I wouldn't trust you further than I could see you. But you've got something. Definitely... Shaun."
She released herself from his arms. "I hope your interview with your chief was successful?" she queried. "I hope he's going to let you do what you want to do."
O'Mara followed her into the drawing-room. It was a long delightful room. The walls were of pale green, the brocade curtains of a deeper shade; the furniture covered with a dark green velvet. A fire glowed in the grate. By its side a small table was set for O'Mara's supper.
