Complete works of peter.., p.382
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 382
Berg grinned again, lifting his upper lip from his teeth, looking a little like a good-natured wolf. The idea of Shakkey being a Chief Machinist's Mate in the United States Navy was funny—definitely funny—very funny. He wondered what story Shakkey had told the U. S. Naval Authorities when he joined the Navy. Berg's grin became wider—if they had known what Shakkey's job was in the old days!
Berg concluded that Shakkey in any event would have been equal to the U. S. Naval people. He would have had a story for them all cut and dried—the sort of story that could be checked. Because he was clever and tough they would be glad of him. Now he was a Chief Machinist's Mate—a responsible person—a good citizen of the United States—a sailor deserving well of his country. Berg's grin developed into a smile. He said softly to the wall beside him: "Jesus...is that funny! Is it funny!"
He turned and looked at himself in the small mirror. He adjusted his hat to a more suitable angle, pulled up the white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his double-breasted jacket. Berg had always been a neat dresser. He liked tidiness.
He looked round the room. There was something of a farewell in his glance. When you were undecided as to what you should do, he thought, you must leave the matter in the hands of fate. It was not very often that you were undecided but of course there must come times, like this time, when you were not quite certain as to which way you should deal with a problem. In those circumstances you left matters in the hands of fate.
He began to think once more about Shakkey and the pair of .45 automatics. Supposing, for the sake of argument, he thought, that somebody had got the guns. It was odds against it. It was extremely improbable that any of the people who worked for Ransome would have found them. But there was a chance someone might have found them. Ransome himself might have come across them. If this were so, Berg was certain that the guns would have found their way to Shakkey, because he had asked that in the event of anything happening to him any effects should be returned to the Chief Machinist's Mate, and if Shakkey had them what would he do with them?
First of all he would not want them. Berg thought that Shakkey might not have a great deal of use for small arms in these days. Then again Shakkey was an extraordinary person. He had always said of Berg: "That guy's always gonna turn up. Nobody's ever gonna knock off that guy. Jesus... if you was to stick him in a pit down the bottom of hell and-put a ton weight on top of him, the bastard would get out somehow. I'm tellin' you and I know."
Berg grinned again. He could hear the strident nasal tones of Shakkey saying the words as he had heard them several times before in his life. If Shakkey believed that; if he had believed that Berg would come back somehow, there would only be one place for the guns. It would be very funny, thought Berg, if the guns were there, it would be very funny. It might be considered to be an act of God! If the guns were there, then Berg would know that it was O.K. for him to get on with the business that he had in the back of his mind. It would be a sign!
Vaguely he remembered from out of the past a small hot Sunday-school room in the Ozark mountains where he and other children sang hymns on arid Sunday afternoons. He remembered their teacher giving them a talk on one occasion on a sign from Heaven. It had seemed to Berg that in Biblical days one's life was peppered with signs from Heaven telling you what you should or should not do. Well, if the guns were there he reckoned that would be a good enough sign for him.
He went out of the house. He began to walk down the Earls Court Road towards South Kensington. The rain had stopped now; the evening was cool. It was a nice evening, thought Berg. He remembered an English saying that some woman had said to him sometime: "The better the day the better the deed." Berg said to himself: That's O.K. by me. You're telling me. By God, you're telling me...
A cab passed him. Berg whistled sibilantly—a decided, penetrative whistle. The cab stopped. Taxicabs always stopped for Berg.
The man said: "It's a nice evening, sir. I hope you're not going too far. I haven't much petrol."
Berg said: "I'm not going far." He told the man where to go.
He leaned back in the corner of the taxicab, took a flat cigarette case from his pocket, selected a cigarette, lit it. He looked at the case—a neat case of black enamel with his initials in gold in one corner. He thought it was lucky that the shop where he had bought the case also had some odd initials. The "R.B."—his first name was Rene—gave a touch of quality to the case—of exclusiveness. He thought that was very nice.
He put the case back in his pocket. For some reason which he could not identify, the opening of the case and the taking out of the cigarette, reminded him of Carlazzi's in Chicago. No one in his class called Chicago Chicago in those days. It was always Chi—the home of the leery ones—the smart guys—the mugs who could always beat the rap.
Had Berg possessed a super memory he would have known that the cigarette case reminded him of Carlazzi's because on his first visit there, Travis, talking to him, had taken from his pocket such a cigarette case and helped himself to a cigarette. With a super memory he would have remembered that at that moment there had flashed through his mind the thought that he would like to possess such a cigarette case. As it was, his mind played vaguely with the picture of Carlazzi's, with Travis lolling back in the satin-backed window-seat with Lauren in her exquisitely cut tailor-made seated by his side—her lovely eyes moving slowly and wickedly round the small but expensive restaurant then filled with Chicago's smart guys.
The cab stopped with a jerk. The driver put his head round and said through the open front window: "'Ere you are, guv'nor. This is it. You're a Yank, ain't you?"
Berg got out. He paid his fare and gave the man two shillings for himself. He asked: "Why?"
The driver said: "You haven't got much of an accent, but you look like one. There's somethin' about a Yank. You look to me like an airman. Maybe you are an airman?"
Berg said: "Nope. I'm-not an airman." He smiled at the taxi-driver. He said: "Maybe one of these days I'll learn to fly all the same."
The driver said: "Yes. It must be nice—flying." He let in his clutch and the cab went away.
Berg turned, walked a few yards, passed the alleyway near Down Street, looked up and saw the flag flying outside the American Club. He thought to himself that a hell of a lot had happened since the last time he had seen that flag. He went into the Club, walked down the passage through the door at the end on the right. In front of him was the cloakroom and the letter delivery service. Berg took off his hat as the trim girl in the blue-grey uniform of the American Red Cross came towards him.
She stood, her small brown hands resting on the counter in front of her. She said: "Can I help you, soldier?"
Berg liked that. The thought that the girl took him for a U. S. soldier in plain clothes for some reason made him happy.
He said: "Maybe a friend of mine left a parcel here for me, but only maybe. It's just as likely he didn't. There's just a chance that he did. My name's Rene Berg."
She said: "If somebody left a parcel for you what would the name be?"
"The name would be Shakkey—Cyram Shakkey—U. S. Navy. If anybody left a parcel for me that would be the guy."
The girl said: "I'll go see." But she stood for a moment looking at Berg—she didn't quite know why. She thought that his face was rather attractive. His eyes, looking squarely at her, were smiling. She went away slowly. She found herself thinking that this Rene Berg who had come for a parcel must be rather a nice man to know in spite of the fact that he was not particularly good-looking—in spite of the fact...She shrugged her shoulders and wondered why she was thinking about Berg. She did not know that a lot of women had wondered why they were thinking about Berg. How could she?
Five minutes passed. Berg leaned against the counter smoking his cigarette slowly, inhaling the tobacco smoke deep into his lungs, keeping it there as long as he could, exuding the remnants. The girl came back. She carried a package wrapped in stout brown paper, tied with thick naval cord. Berg noticed that the package was heavy.
She said: "Well, you're lucky, Mr. Berg. This package was left for you—some time ago. Your friend who left it said he reckoned you'd come in for it sometime."
Berg said: "Thanks a lot, lady." He smiled at her.
She held the package towards him and he took it. He knew by the weight what it was. It was the pair of .45 automatics. It was the sign!
Berg said: "So long, lady!"
He put the parcel under his arm, put on his hat, walked down the passage. The girl stood looking at his back for a few seconds; then she went away.
Berg turned out into Piccadilly and began to walk in the direction of the Circus. The weight of the parcel beneath his arm gave him a peculiar feeling of mental comfort. He was relaxed. He considered that now fate had definitely taken charge. So there were other things to be done—things to be planned. He must be constructive.
The idea came to him. If Shakkey had had enough sense to leave the guns, which he had done, maybe he would have had enough sense to tell Berg about one or two of the things which he knew were of interest—about the whereabouts of people they had known, for instance.
Fifty yards past Bond Street, Berg turned off to the left. He remembered the Club. He thought it might be a good thing to drink a little whisky—to do a little quiet thinking, to endeavour to find out how intelligent Shakkey had been. He turned up Sackville Street, turned again, crossed the road. He went up the stairs into the Club. The girl with the hennaed hair was still behind the bar. Berg had always remembered her hennaed hair, her mascaraed eyes, her fully-blown figure and four-inch heels. She was bow-legged too, so perhaps it was a good thing she worked behind the bar, because the top half of her was by far the most attractive.
She remembered Berg. She said: "Well, if it isn't Mr. Berg! You're quite a stranger. We thought maybe something had happened to you."
Berg raised his eyebrows. He said: "No? Why should anything happen to me?" He smiled at her.
She bridled a little. She said: "Well, believe it or not things have been happening to people during the last two or three years, you know."
He ordered a large whisky and soda. He nodded when the girl held the piece of ice and looked at him inquiringly. She dropped the ice in. Berg drank the whisky right off, put the glass down, and nodded again. She re-filled it.
He said: "I wonder have you ever met a side-kicker of mine—a guy called Cyram Shakkey? Did he ever come in here? Do you remember the name?"
She shook her head. She said: "No, I don't remember anybody of that name, and I've got a very good memory for names. I know everybody who uses this place! I never forget a thing."
Berg said: "No?" He looked at her mouth—tight-lipped, unrelieved by the artificial smile she put on occasionally. He thought: I bet you never forget a thing. He said: "Don't let anybody steal my drink, will you? I'll be back."
He went out of the bar, up the stairs. On the half-landing was a lavatory. He went in, locked the door, switched on the light. He opened the parcel that Shakkey had left for him.
When Berg removed the paper wrapping, opened the corrugated cardboard, there was a smaller parcel inside. The parcel consisted of something that looked like a pair of polishing cloths tied with white string. Berg undid the string. He threw aside the wrapping, disclosed the two .45 automatics. He stood looking at the automatics as they reposed on the back of the lavatory seat.
The sight of the guns brought many memories back to Berg—a dozen vibrant scenes passed before his eyes—a dozen acute situations. In his mind's eye he could hear the staccato clatter of the guns. He stood there for quite a while looking at the two inanimate pieces of metal, wondering just how much they were to have to do with his forward life—his life from now on.
After a while he shrugged his shoulders as if he had come to a diffident or not quite certain conclusion. Above him was the lavatory cistern. He looked at it; then looked back at the guns. He picked them up. He stood balancing the two guns in his left and right hands. After a moment or two he selected the one he wanted.
He slipped it into the pocket cut under the left armpit of his double-breasted jacket—a pocket which had intrigued the English tailor very much when Berg had ordered it. Berg smiled at the recollection. At the time he had not been quite certain that he would ever want that pocket again, but because he had always had one there he thought he might as well have one now. Well, he had been right.
The other gun, he wrapped in the brown paper, tied the string round the parcel, stood on the lavatory seat, put the parcel on the back of the cistern. No one could see it there. He had left the cloths in which the automatics had been wrapped on the seat. Vaguely he had thought he might need them for cleaning the gun he had kept. He picked up the two cloths, folded them carefully. He was about to put the folded bundle in the pocket of his jacket when he noticed something stamped on the selvedge of one of the cloths. He held the cloth close under the dim electric light in the lavatory. The words were quite clear: "The Double Clover Leaf Club."
Berg sighed. So Shakkey had wrapped the automatics in a couple of polishing cloths filched from the Double Clover Leaf Club. Berg visualized the Chief Machinist's Mate—possibly a little high—the guns secreted somewhere about his person, planning to leave them at the American Club for Berg, wondering what he could use as a wrapper; then stealing the polishing cloths.
Berg stiffened suddenly. Or was there something more to it than that? Was this another tip-off from Shakkey? Was this a message from Shakkey? Berg smiled to himself. Shakkey had always been an odd one—a weird type—inclined to be a little mysterious, vague. Shakkey was not the sort of man who would take a pencil and a piece of paper and write a message and leave it in a parcel. He might prefer to do it this way. The Double Clover Leaf Club! Berg thought that here was the hand of fate, through Shakkey, taking him to that place. Well, why not?
He put the cloths in his pocket, took one last look at the cistern. He hated to leave the single gun there. He had always used the two of them. Now he had only the one. One day, he thought, he would come back here and reclaim the pistol. He switched off the light, went down the stairs, back into the bar. He walked up to the counter.
His drink was still there. He picked it up. There was one other occupant of the bar—a girl who sat on a high stool to his right...A good-figured girl=a brunette—with a clear complexion, nice eyes and a coat and skirt that looked as if they had been pasted on to her. Berg put the glass to his lips.
She said: "Well, sailor, aren't you going to buy me one?"
Berg smiled at her. He said: "Sure, I'll buy you a drink. But I'm not a sailor."'
She laughed. She said: "Does it matter? Usually people who come in here are sailors or soldiers or airmen or something. But it doesn't really matter."
Berg said: "No, I suppose it doesn't. What would you like to drink?"
For some reason unknown to himself he felt strangely superior, almost godlike at this moment. He thought he was possibly a messenger of fate carrying out some series of actions, creating a series of events which had been laid down by some higher power. This girl, with her urgent eyes, hoping for something more than the drink, was to him merely a small pawn in this game—a pawn which would perform its service and then pass on.
She said: "I'd like whisky. The whisky here's good. I'm fond of whisky."
Berg ordered a double whisky and soda. The girl behind the bar served it arrogantly as if she resented the intrusion of her second customer. Berg pushed the glass towards the girl. She picked it up, drank it greedily.
He said: "You needed that drink, didn't you?"
She said: "Yes, I did."
Berg asked: "Why?"
She shrugged her shoulders. She said: "Well, I haven't had a drink for some time. Liquor's dear here, you know. They charge six and sixpence for a double whisky. How do I get six and six?"
Berg said he wouldn't know. He ordered two more large whiskies and sodas. When he noticed the disapproving look in the eyes of the barmaid he ordered three.
He said: "You have one too, sweet."
The barmaid served the drinks. The three of them stood, their glasses in front of them, leaning on the bar, looking at the drinks, looking at each other. It was for, the moment, as if they were vague floating personalities who had met by chance, who did not know why, who were looking for the answer.
Berg broke the silence. He said: "Well, here it is." He drank his whisky.
Two or three people came into the bar. They came up to the counter, ordered drinks. A man—big, paunchy, bulbous-faced—began to tell some rather nasty stories.
Berg felt the strange sense of discomfiture which always came upon him when men told nasty stories in a bar.
He said to the girl sitting beside him: "Take your drink and sit in the corner. Let's talk."
He ordered another drink for himself. When it was put before him he picked it up, joined the girl who was sitting in the furthest corner at a small table. Now her eyes were bright. She regarded Berg as a potential customer. She thought things might be looking up.
He sat down. He said: "Listen, cutie, have you ever heard of a Club called the Double Clover Leaf Club?"
She looked at him for a moment. Then she said: "You're a strange person, aren't you?"
Berg smiled at her. He said: "Am I? Why?"
She said: "I don't know. But you're not like other men. You behave differently. You look different. And what the hell do you want with the Double Clover Leaf Club? Is that all you asked me to sit over here for?"
Berg said: "Did you think I had another idea, baby?"
She said: "Yes, I did. Why not?"
He shrugged his shoulders. His smile was easy and pleasant and caressing. He said: "Look, honey, there are other things in the world beside that, you know—but maybe they didn't tell you. Drink your drink and tell me what you know about the Double Clover Leaf Club."
