Complete works of peter.., p.380
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 380
He lay for a few minutes, yawning, rubbing his heavy eyes with his fingers. Then he got up, sat on the edge of the bed. He stretched out his hand for his cigar case, selected and lit one of his small cigars; sat, contentedly smoking.
Five minutes passed. The clock told O'Mara that it was ten minutes to seven. He got up, put the cigar in an ashtray, went into the bathroom. He came into the sitting-room ten minutes later, shaved and dressed.
He felt tired, vaguely uncomfortable. Always towards the end of an assignment O'Mara suffered a little from nerves, worried about the dénouement that was close at hand.
He moved to the sideboard, poured out a little glass of brandy, drank it. He wished he had time to make coffee; wondered if he had; concluded that he had not. He went to the telephone, dialled a number, waited.
Quayle's voice came over the line.
O'Mara said: "You know, Peter, you're an extraordinary bloke. You seem to spend your life sitting on the end of a telephone line. Do you ever go to bed?"
"I'm in bed now," said Quayle. "But I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. Do you expect me to sleep when I'm wondering and worrying all the time about you and your doings?"
O'Mara said: "You leave me and my doing alone. Between you and me and the doorpost I'm not doing so badly. However, to be serious, d'you think you could arouse our friend Ricky Kerr and get him to go along and see that Valoz woman. I think he ought to. And I think he ought to bring her in—if he can!"
Quayle said: "I wonder what you mean by that? Anyhow, I'll get through to him and tell him."
"He'd better get a ripple on," said O'Mara. "He'll need a car. Let him go round there and collect the lady and hand her over to whoever you decide shall receive her. It's just after seven now and I'd like him to be there by soon after half-past. So he hasn't got a lot of time. When he's done that he might come straight round to St. Ervin's Court, Miguales' place, in St. John's Wood. Tell him to meet me outside just before eight. And tell him not to be later because I shall be leaving there about that time and I don't intend to wait."
"All right," said Quayle. "Busy little bee, aren't you?"
"Somebody has to do the work," said O'Mara. "One of these fine days I'm going to be given a job that lets me sleep when I want and drink when I want with whom I want. One of these fine days...."
Quayle interrupted: "One of these fine days you'll get everything you want. In the meantime if you're very good I might send you to Rio, some time."
O'Mara said: "That's all I go on living for." He hung up.
He re-lit his cigar, began to walk about the sitting-room, his hands behind his back. He came to the conclusion that he was suffering from stage fright; began to plan in case there was a slip-up, in case somebody did not run true to form.
That was the devil with some people, thought O'Mara. You could study them, come to conclusions about them, work out exactly what they would do in any given set of circumstances, and then, if you were unlucky, they promptly did something else. O'Mara concluded that if somebody did something else on this occasion it wouldn't be quite so good for quite a few people. There would be too many explanations required; too much talking. Still, perhaps, once again, he could rely on his luck.
He realised that if he'd wanted to he could have made the coffee. He helped himself to another small glass of brandy, concluded that it was bad to drink brandy at just after seven in the morning; had some more. He felt better and the morning seemed less cold.
He put on his hat and overcoat, went downstairs, walked round to the garage where his car was kept. He drove, not too quickly, towards St. John's Wood.
It was twenty to eight when he arrived. He parked his car in a side street, walked quickly and quietly round to the side entrance of St. Ervin's Court. He glanced up and down the corridor. He saw no one. He walked along the passage that led to the front hall, noticed with satisfaction that there was no porter on duty, walked up the stairs.
Outside the door of Miguales' flat, O'Mara stopped, took some keys from his pocket. He began trying them, one by one, on the lock. Whilst he was engaged in this process he was thinking that it would be damned funny if, when he got inside, he found the place empty and the bird flown. That, thought O'Mara, would not be so good.
He found the right key, opened the door, went inside. The place was warm as if no windows had been opened and there was a smell of stale tobacco smoke that hung on the air.
O'Mara stood in the hall, listening. He could hear nothing. He crossed the hall, opened the door into the sitting-room, poked his head round. The place was in darkness, the black-out curtains still drawn. O'Mara fumbled for the electric light switch, found it, switched on the light.
He stepped into the room, stopped, stood leaning against the doorpost. He was smiling and if it was not a smile of happiness it was at least a smile of satisfaction.
Miguales' body was slumped over the small bureau in the corner of the room. He had been stabbed through the neck. The bureau was covered with blood, which had trickled down the side of the desk and formed a dark pool on the carpet. In the right hand of the dead man a pen was still clutched in a spasmodic grip.
O'Mara stood quite still, regarding the scene with the practised, almost disinterested, eye of a man who has seen death in most of its violent forms and who is not surprised at the grotesque.
But Miguales had been surprised. O'Mara visualised the scene. Miguales sitting at the desk, writing the note which he had been asked, or ordered to write, and then, while he was doing it, the sudden blow, struck by a sure hand which had adequately put paid to the not-too-efficient operations of the late Señor.
O'Mara walked across the room, stood behind the dead Miguales, taking care to keep his feet away from the dark stain. There was a piece of paper on the desk, near Miguales' right hand which clutched the pen so fiercely. Written on it was one word... "Received"...
O'Mara grinned. That was very funny that one. So Miguales had been taking the pay-off. Miguales had been paid some more money and was about to write the receipt for it when he had been stabbed through the neck. A fitting occupation for his last few seconds of this life.
O'Mara sighed and turned away, switched off the light, closed the sitting-room door. He went out of the flat. He descended the stairs quietly, went out by the side entrance. He walked round the back of the block. Fifty yards from the main entrance a car was parked. Ricky Kerr was sitting at the wheel.
O'Mara said: "Good-morning, Ricky. How are you?" He grinned. "And how's that nice wife of yours?" he said. "One of these fine days I look forward to meeting her."
Kerr returned a grin. He said: "I expect you will—fairly soon, I hope, O'Mara. Can I do something for you?"
O'Mara said: "Yes. Did you find that Valoz woman?"
Kerr nodded. "I found her," he said. "She was dead."
O'Mara said: "No? What do you think she'd died of?"
Kerr said: "I know. She took poison."
O'Mara said: "I wonder. Well, that's that. Do you think it looks like a good suicide?"
Kerr said: "It looked like suicide to me."
"Did any one see you go in or come out?" asked O'Mara.
Kerr shook his head. "No," he said. "Nobody did. And there was no one in the apartment except the Valoz piece. I wonder why she decided to kill herself?"
"She didn't," said O'Mara. "Someone else did that for her. But it's just as well it looks like a suicide. Right... thank you very much, Ricky. That's all I wanted to know."
Kerr raised his eyebrows. He said: "Well, I am surprised. I thought maybe there was a little work in the offing. I thought maybe——" He jerked his head in the direction of the entrance to St. Ervin's Court.
O'Mara said: "No. There isn't any more work—well, not much." He smiled a little. "Someone has decided to liquidate our friend Miguales," he went on. "I've just had a look at him. He's as dead a man as ever I've seen, which I think is a very good thing."
Kerr said: "It looks as if something's been happening lately—or someone has been making things happen."
O'Mara said mysteriously: "I think so too. Well, so long, Ricky. I'll be seeing you sometime." He went away.
He walked quietly round to the side street where his car was parked. He looked at his watch. It was three minutes to eight. He got into the car, started the engine. He drove rapidly towards Therese's flat. He wanted not to be late.
IV. — A FAREWELL FOR LOVERS
ALMOST as soon as O'Mara touched the bell-push the door was opened. Therese stood inside the hallway smiling at him.
She wore a small black and white check coat and skirt beneath a snow leopard coat, and a black turban. She made a delightful picture.
She said: "I was beginning to think you were going to be late, Shaun. You can't imagine my sigh of relief when I heard the door bell."
He said: "You don't mean to tell me you were waiting in the hall for me? Is it as bad as that?"
She said: "Do you know, I think it's as bad as that."
O'Mara said: "You damned liar!" He looked at her. His eyes were like hard diamonds.
He thought: How pitiful it is, how redundant and wasted that this woman, who looks so beautiful, who has such attraction, such ability to charm, should be so foul within. For her the arts of the harlot, the cunning of the monkey, the viperish tactics of the snake; that she who might have had so much to give should take so much from a world already stricken of beauty and peace.
Therese stiffened. Her voice became hard. She said:
"What do you mean? What is this?"
O'Mara said: "You wouldn't know, would you?" He closed the door behind him with a bang. He went on: "Go into your sitting-room, my sweet, and don't try anything funny. It's all over bar the shouting."
She turned on her heel, went into the sitting-room. Inside she faced him. She said:
"Shaun, I don't know what's happened——"
He interrupted: "Don't be a fool, my dear... don't be a fool, Therese. You're much too clever to talk like that. And you've had a busy night, haven't you?"
She began to say something. He put up his hand. He said: "What's the good of talking? You know and I know we've done enough talking." He smiled at her—a sardonic smile.
Therese stood in the centre of the room, her arms hanging straight by her side. She seemed quite relaxed except that she was breathing a little quickly.
O'Mara said: "The trouble with you beautiful and clever Nazi babes is that you're so damned clever you never think of the little things."
She said: "No? So we clever Nazis don't think of the little things! Perhaps you'll tell me what I forgot. It would be kind of you, you ——" The obscene word came easily to her lips.
O'Mara said: "Aren't you a beastly little thing. Knowing words like that, my sweet. So you want me to tell you what you forgot. I've been dealing with your sort of people for a long time. You always do the most stupid things, because your minds are so tortuous they work things out to such a degree that a thing that's obvious is seldom seen." He said: "Do you know, Therese, you might have got away with this except for that letter thing—the letter that Miguales wrote to you."
She raised her eyebrows. She said: "To me?"
O'Mara said: "To you. Miguales wrote that letter to you and it began 'Dear Señora.' You erased the 'a' so that it read 'Dear Señor——' Then you planted it in the inside pocket of that white-faced rat that you sent to keep observation on Kerr's flat. You knew damned well that we were going to catch up with him, and you imagined that that would put us on to Miguales. You thought we'd do the same thing with Miguales as we did with your other employee. I refer to the late lamented Mr. Lelley. You thought we'd kill Miguales, which, of course, was what you wanted. Then you could have continued with your job here. You thought that with Lelley and Miguales out of the way we should have been satisfied that we'd cleaned up the whole gang. You thought that we might consider that the unfortunate Miss Valoz wasn't worth worrying about.
"Well"—O'Mara shrugged his shoulders—"I made you do the job for me, didn't I?" He laughed. "My God, Therese, you must have had a busy night," he said. "You fell for that line I told you—you fell for that little fable about my calling on Miguales this morning and confronting him with a proposition. You see, I did that before I came here last night. I knew where that woman was before I came here. But you believed that I was going to see Miguales this morning. You had to take desperate measures.
"When I left here you went round to the Valoz woman and dealt with her. Perhaps she was a good Nazi—perhaps she did poison herself. Perhaps you poisoned her. I don't care. Then you went along and had a showdown with Miguales. You killed Miguales, and there was just the chance that you were going to get away with it."
O'Mara took out his cigar case, selected a cigar, lit it. He said: "But I doubt if even you would have had the nerve to do these things if I hadn't arranged our little trip to Eire. You thought there was still a chance of making a getaway, Therese, didn't you? How marvellous it would have been if I'd come to the conclusion that Miguales had been killed by someone else; if I hadn't known you were responsible for it. Well, I might have come back here, picked you up, caught the plane, gone to Eire. I might have—if there'd been a plane; if the journey had been really planned. You might still have got away with it."
He sighed. "Heaven only knows what you'd have done to me in Eire. You'd have probably been on a good wicket. You've got so many friends there."
Therese said harshly: "All this is lies!"
"Rubbish!" said O'Mara. "It's all truth—all of it. And you know it. Do you mean to tell me that Miguales did not write that letter to you?"
She said: "Does it matter what I say? Supposing I said that he did not write that letter to me. Supposing I said that I'd never seen it."
O'Mara said: "You poor damned fool—your fingerprints were all over that letter."
Therese said nothing. She looked at him through half-closed eyes.
O'Mara said: "It's the old story. I've no doubt that some five years ago a Miss Therese Martyr did go to Biarritz—the place where you were supposed to meet Miguales. But I'll bet all the money I've got that she never came back. I expect that when we check up we shall find that the Miss Therese Martyr who went to Biarritz had no relatives in this country. Then you played the old game, didn't you? She disappeared in Biarritz and you came back as Miss Therese Martyr and you've been here ever since doing your job for the Führer. Well, it's all over. All that remains now"—O'Mara smiled at her—"is the trip to Eire. My car's outside. Come along, Therese."
She said: "I don't feel at all well." She looked at him. "Do you think I might go to my room for a moment? I think you owe me that, don't you, Shaun?"
He said: "Yes, you can go to your room." He put his hand inside the breast of his jacket, brought out the Luger pistol. "But you wouldn't try anything else, would you—not that there's anything to try. The game's finished."
She said: "The game is never finished. I may be finished—and my friends, but more of us will come. The game will go on—always."
She went through the opposite door in her bedroom. She closed the door behind her.
O'Mara stood in the sitting-room, inhaling the pungent smoke from his cigar. Three or four minutes passed. He crossed the room, slowly opened the door of the bedroom.
Therese lay on the floor, huddled against the side of the bed. Her hands were pressed to her stomach; her face was ashen; her lips were stained. As O'Mara came into the room she turned her eyes to him with a last conscious effort. Something green and terrible fluttered in them as she looked at him. Then her head drooped; her body twitched spasmodically; her limbs relaxed. She was dead.
O'Mara stood looking at what had been Therese. He drew easily and contentedly on his cigar. Through his mind there flashed a series of pictures—the scenes in which Therese had starred.
A damned clever piece, thought O'Mara. A born intriguer—a born mistress of men—a born killer.
And this was the end of her conquests and her victories.
O'Mara shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned away, closed the bedroom door quietly behind him; went out of the flat.
O'Mara opened his front door; went into the sitting-room; threw his hat and coat on a chair. In the kitchen the woman who came in and did the flat each day was busy making coffee. She made good coffee. O'Mara could smell it.
He called out: "Good-morning, Mrs. Sykes. I'll have my coffee in here. Lots of it."
He went to the telephone, dialled Quayle's number. When Quayle answered O'Mara said:
"You can go to sleep now, Peter. Everything's on the ice."
Quayle said: "A clean sweep, Shaun?"
"A clean sweep," said O'Mara. "Therese did it all for me. Incidentally, somebody had better go round to her place and discover what's happened. She's in the bedroom. Sandra Kerr would be a good person to do that. It would be in the picture—don't you think?"
"You were always so artistic, Shaun," said Quayle. "Anyhow, I'll look after that part. And our Spanish friend?"
O'Mara said: "It was too bad about him—and Esmeralda too. I'm afraid Therese got very angry with them both. You can imagine what she could be like when she was really annoyed. Kerr can tell you all about Valoz."
"He's here now," said Quayle. "You take a rest, Shaun. We'll sweep up all the pieces."
"Thanks a lot," said O'Mara. "Oh, by the way, Peter, can I go off sometime?"
"You're going off next week," said Quayle. "Believe it or not, you're going to Rio de Janeiro. It would seem that some of our not-so-nice friends are working much too much stuff over there. Our people there think that you might be useful. How's that?"
O'Mara grinned delightedly. He said: "Is this really true, Peter? Am I really going to Rio?"
"That's right," said Quayle. "You'd better come and have lunch with me. I'll tell you all about it. Well... so long, Shaun. Till lunch time."
O'Mara said good-bye; hung up. His eyes were sparkling.
Mrs. Sykes came in with the coffee. O'Mara poured out a cup; began to drink it. He put the cup down; went to the radiogram; put on a record—a rhumba. He stood, listening to the music, swaying his shoulders in time to it.
