Complete works of peter.., p.385
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 385
She said harshly: "That ain't so smart. I can use another telephone, can't I? Why do you think he's smart?"
Travis stood in front of the door. He barred her way. He said: "Relax, Lauren. Don't you think he didn't know you could use another telephone? Don't you think he didn't know there was more than one telephone line in London? That's not why he cut the wire outside."
She said: "O.K. Then why did he? You tell me."
Travis said: "It's a tip-off to you and me, sweetie pie—just a tip-off to mind our own goddam business and keep our noses out of something he considers his. You got it?"
She said slowly: "Yeah, I got it."
Travis said: "So you don't telephone. You just don't do anything at all. It might be healthier."
She went back to the desk. She sat down. She said wearily: "Maybe you're right, Travis. Maybe you're right at that."
Berg walked down Piccadilly towards the Circus. His mind dwelt bitterly on Travis and Lauren. Smart people, Travis and Lauren. Smart guys—tough guys. They knew how to play life, those two. Or they thought they did. They had flexible minds too. If they did not want to think about something that had happened they just let it ride. They were aware only of those things that they wished to remember. Other things they forgot—very easily. Too easily, thought Berg.
And they were not worrying about hind. Why should they? They thought they didn't have to worry about him. He was all washed up. Actually, in their minds, he was in the same sort of picture in which he had presented himself to them years ago. Lauren, of course, still had a lean on him. He had something she wanted. She was prepared to offer him a job and some dough just in order to have him stringing around; just so that Travis should know where he got off.
Life was goddam funny, thought Berg. You were thrown into life and it kicked you around. Things happened to you. As a result of the things happening to you, you thought things—did things. As a result of the things you thought and did other things happened to you. And so it went on, year after year—things happening because of something you had done—without end.
He wondered vaguely who was responsible for the original thing that started off the sequence of events, but he did not continue the line of thought. It was boring. It was boring, and it didn't get you any place.
Now he was crossing the Circus. He went into Shaftesbury Avenue, walked a little way. He came to a side turning that he remembered. He walked up the turning. A hundred yards down was the flight of stairs leading down to the Club.
Another Club, thought Berg. It seemed that one part of one's life was divided into night clubs—the times you had used them, what had happened there; what had happened as a result of the things you had experienced. He remembered this place well—an innocuous place where the drink was not bad, the women unattractive and stupid. He went down the stairs.
Outside the Club entrance a man in the usual little office with the usual book asked him if he were a member. Berg said he was. He went inside. The room was long and narrow. There was a bar—two women behind it. At the end of the bar was a door leading to other rooms where you could eat. Berg ordered a large whisky and soda.
He realized he had been drinking a considerable quantity of whisky, but drinking whisky was a rather nice thing, he thought. It hypnotized him. It made life seem a little easier. It made things seem possible. He stood looking at the drink, at the bubbles that were still rising from the bottom of the glass.
When he moved he found a girl at his elbow. He thought it was rather odd that always in a Club you found a girl. He thought there must be lots of girls waiting in Clubs for people like himself.
He said: "Well, cutie?"
She looked at him sideways. She was a young, pert thing, with a retroussé nose and lips painted the wrong colour.
She said: "Well, do I rate a drink?"
Berg said: "Why not? Whisky?"
She nodded. He ordered a large whisky and soda. She said: "You're an American, ain't you?"
Berg nodded. He said: "You like Americans?"
"Who don't?" said the girl. "We've had a lot of 'em here, you know. You've got to like 'em even if you don't and most of 'em are good guys. Besides, they got jack."
He nodded. He said: "Yeah...that's the answer, hey, cutie?"
She said: "It's a good answer. What are you—a soldier, sailor, an airman or a tired business man?"
He grinned at her. He said: "Believe it or not I don't have to be any of those things. I'm not even tired." She drank her drink.
Outside it was dark. Nobody saw the police wagon arrive. The back opened and a score of policemen ejected themselves onto the pavement. Led by a sub-inspector, they were down the stairs and in the vestibule of the Club more quickly than seemed possible.
The girl nudged Berg. She said: "A raid, hey? What the hell! It's in drinkin' hours. What're they after? This place is run straight. For Crissake! Why do they have to raid this place?"
Berg said: "I wouldn't know."' He was thinking quickly. When a place was raided they wanted your name and address. If you weren't English they wanted to see your papers. He breathed a sigh of relief. Well, that was all right. Ransome had even thought of that one.
He said: "Why worry, kid? Just another slice of life. There's always a to-morrow and the cops here are rather nice I think. They're much tougher where I come from."
She said: "Yes? I'm glad to hear it."
The police came into the bar. Nobody moved. It seemed as if the habitués had experienced raids before.
The sub-inspector said: "There's no need to get excited. Names and addresses please. Take it easy."
Behind him, four stolid, helmeted policemen regarded the occupants of the bar in very much the same way as they would have regarded prize cattle.
The girl slipped off the seat. She moved over to the inspector. She said: "Look, what is this? What are you knocking this dump off for? It's in drinking hours—it ain't even after time. What's the story?"
He was very polite. He said: "I just do what I'm told, miss. If I knew I'd probably be the Chief Commissioner."
The girl went away. She disappeared into the far room. Berg finished his drink. He moved towards the entrance.
The policeman said: "Are you a member?"
Berg said: "I think so. I used to come here a long time ago."
The policeman asked him his name and address. Berg gave them: "Rene Berg-126 Redwood Avenue, Earls Court."
The sub-inspector moved over. He said over the policeman's shoulders: "Are you English?"
Berg said: "Nope, I'm an American."
The sub-inspector said: "Have you got some papers?"
Berg said: "Yeah." He put his hand in his pocket. He brought out the leather wallet. He produced the cards from the back pocket—the cards that Ransome had left.
The inspector looked at them. He cocked an eye at Berg. One of the permits said that Rene Berg was attached to Special Service, American and British Special Intelligence Liaison.
The inspector handed the papers back. He said to the policeman: "O.K. You got the address?"
The policeman nodded.
The inspector said: "It's all right for you to go if you want to, Mr. Berg. We know who you are."
Berg said: "O.K."
He went up the stairs, out into the street, back into Piccadilly. He began to walk westwards. Police raids, he thought, were funny things. He wondered why it was that the English police raided places and just took names and addresses. There was none of the excitement, police wagons and people being taken away that you got in Chicago, for instance. They played it quietly around here.
But you gave your address. He did not like that.
Outside Duke Street he waited on the pavement. Presently a cab came by. Berg whistled. Of course the cab stopped. He told the driver to go to Redwood Avenue, got in, sat in the corner, lit a cigarette. He thought it was time he was getting a move on. He did not like this business of addresses being taken. Maybe it did not mean a goddam thing, but you never knew. He settled back in the corner of the cab; puffed slowly at his cigarette.
It was after midnight when he finished his packing. He had not very much—just one suitcase; another suit, some underclothes, one or two odd things that a man collects.
Mrs. Frane—fifty, deep-bosomed and motherly, stood at the door of his room. Berg gave her a little wad of notes.
He said: "You been swell to me, Mrs. Frane. Thanks a lot. I've got to be gettin' along."
She said: "I'm sorry you've got to go so suddenly, Mr. Berg. It's been nice having you," She smiled at him. "You've been a nice lodger," she said.
He smiled back. He said: "Yeah. All good things have to come to an end."
She said: "Where are you going to, Mr. Berg?" For some reason which she did not know she was interested in him.
Berg said: "I've got to get a move on. Another thing, I've got to get myself a motor-car."
She said: "Yes?" Lodgers in Redwood Avenue who wanted motor-cars were strange people—beyond her ken.
He said: "You wouldn't know where I could get a car?"
She shook her head. "There are places where you can hire cars," she said. A sudden thought came to her. "I've got a friend just around the corner in Claremont Grove. He's got a car. He's in business. He's got some petrol too. Maybe he'd loan it to you."
Berg took the address. He said: "Thank you, Mrs. Frane. I'll go see him."
She stood aside for him to pass. As he went through the doorway, diffidently she held out her hand. Berg shook it. He smiled at her almost shyly.
He said: "Thanks a lot, Mrs. Frane. You've been swell."
He went down the stairs.
The pinnace cut through the dark waters in Dartmouth Harbour. The man in the bow peered ahead towards the spot where the dark grey hulk of the destroyer rose out of the water. The petty officer in the stern blew two blasts on his whistle. The pinnace slowed down, came alongside.
Ransome went up the companionway, touched his hat to the officer of the day, went down to his cabin. He threw his uniform cap in a corner, lit a cigarette. He sat at his desk. He rang the bell. The night messenger—a matelot of two years' service—stood in the doorway, his cap in his hand.
Ransome said: "Good evening, Curtin. The officer of the day, please."
Curtin said: "Aye, aye, sir:" He went away.
The officer of the day came into the cabin. He was a young sub-lieutenant in the R.N.V.R. He had red hair and a wide smile.
Ransome said: "Good evening, Johns. Any messages?"
Johns said: "Yes, sir...they're marked important—one from the Admiralty Intelligence." He held the slip of paper towards Ransome, who read:
"To-night at twenty-one hours an individual calling himself Rene Berg arrived at the American Club, Piccadilly. He asked for a parcel which might have been left for him by Cyram Shakkey Chief Machinist's Mate U. S. Navy. The parcel was given to him. He took it away."
Ransome put the piece of paper down on the desk. He held out his hand for the second message. He read:
"Special Branch Liaison Department informed tonight at twenty-four hours the Blue Peter Club 124 Stanhope Street Shaftesbury Avenue was raided according to instructions. An individual with a special liaison intelligence pass in the name of Rene Berg was present. He gave an address 126 Redwood Avenue Earls Court and was allowed to leave according to instructions."
Ransome put the second note on top of the first one. He said: "All right, Johns. Thank you." The officer of the day went away.
Ransome picked up the telephone receiver on his desk. He said to the shore exchange: "Captain H.M.S. Whelp speaking. This is a Government priority call. Give me Whitehall 1212."
He got the number inside three minutes. He asked for an extension number. A voice came on the line.
Ransome said: "This is Captain Ransome, H.M.S. Whelp Dartmouth. Will you arrange to pick up Rene Berg, 126 Redwood Avenue, Earls Court. Ask him please to proceed immediately to Dartmouth by car and contact me here. He will understand. Repeat please."
The message was repeated. Ransome replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke through pursed lips, thinking.
He wished he had come aboard earlier. If he had received the message earlier it might have been better. Berg would have had time to act.
Probably the raid would have scared him. Ransome smiled at the word scared. It would take more than a police raid to scare Berg. But it might set his mind working. It might make him do something. Ransome hoped that they would pick him up before he had the chance to leave the Earls Court address.
He shrugged his shoulders. He sat at his desk, smoking, wondering...
Berg thought that ten horse-power cars were not so good for speed, but anyhow they got you places. It was one o'clock. There was no traffic on the road. He hoped he had enough petrol in the tank to make it. Of course the guy had not wanted to hire the car, but dough always talked, thought Berg.
He settled down behind the wheel, looked straight in front of him, looking at the road, thinking of Travis, of Lauren, of all sorts of things, but thinking especially of the raid. When coppers came round and took your name and address, it was a good time to get out, thought Berg. Maybe there was nothing to it, but you never knew.
It was good and late, he thought. Maybe it was too late to do anything in Dartmouth. It might be an idea to stay at some place on the road; or to pull off the road and sleep in the car. You had to sleep. That was one of the things you couldn't do without. Especially if you wanted to think straight. He slowed down as he passed through a village; looked for some place to stop.
Maybe, he thought, maybe to-morrow he would find Shakkey.
It was nearly dusk when Berg came down through the little street on to the quay at Dartmouth He took the slip of paper which Travis had given him out of his pocket and re-read the few words pencilled on it:
"Shakkey, U. S. Destroyer 'Dayton,' Dartmouth, South Devon."
Berg screwed the paper into a pellet, threw it over the quayside into the harbour.
He began to walk past the Castle Hotel towards the narrow street that runs between the water and the Raleigh Hotel. In midstream, and in the distance near the opposite bank, line upon line of landing craft were moored, with here and there two or three British or U.S. torpedo boats at anchor. Berg thought that most of the British ships would probably be paying off their crews. The war was over and a certain sombre and lifeless atmosphere seemed to hang over the quiet waters which had been so busy—had seen so much—in the war years.
Berg stood at the top of the steps leading down to the water almost opposite the entrance of the Raleigh Hotel. He lit a cigarette. He stood there patiently waiting for something or somebody to carry him a little further forward in the quest which fate had awarded him.
Two or three minutes later a man pulled up in a dinghy. The man wore the peaked cap and rough jersey of a fisherman. Berg called to him.
He said: "Hey fella...you wouldn't know a destroyer called Dayton, would you—a United States ship?"
The man lay on his oars. He called back to Berg: "Yes, she's across the other side. If you want to go there it'll cost you half a crown."
Berg said: "That's all right." He went down the steps. He thought that it would be very funny to meet Shakkey after all this time; that it might be even funnier to hear what Shakkey had to say about this or that. The dinghy moved across the quiet waters. Just ahead of them lay the long blue-grey shape of a British Fleet destroyer. Behind them came one short blast on a whistle as the bosun in charge of a naval pinnace signalled to his engine room to reduce speed. The pinnace passed within four or five feet of the dinghy, and the little boat was rocked in the series of small waves that came from the launch.
Berg turned his head. Seated in the stern of the pinnace, his peaked naval cap at its usual angle, his face as thin, as brown, as ever, was Ransome. Berg made a little noise with his tongue. He said quietly to himself: Jeez...what do you know about that one! He watched the pinnace come alongside the destroyer, heard the two blasts on the whistle. Then she stopped.
Berg held one hand up so that his face would not be seen, saw Ransome go up the accommodation ladder. He said to the boatman: "Hey...you know the name of that destroyer?"
The man nodded. "That's the Whelp," he said—"a nice ship—one of the big ones. That's her captain going aboard—Captain Ransome."
Berg said: "Yeah—and where's Dayton? Let's get a move on, shall we?"
The man said: "I'm getting there as fast as I can. She's over on the other side. Who you looking for—an officer? I reckon I know most of 'em by sight."
Berg said: "No, I'm looking for a Chief Machinist's Mate—a guy named Shakkey. Would you know him?" The man shook his head.
Berg threw his cigarette end into the water, sat relaxed in the stern of the dinghy, looking at the shadows on the other bank. Three or four minutes later the boatman pulled his dinghy round.
He said: "There you are."
They floated up close to the accommodation ladder of the U. S. destroyer. Berg stood up in the dinghy. As a figure came to the top of the ladder he called: "Hey, is that Dayton? If it is, is there a guy called Cyram Shakkey aboard?"
The voice said: "This is Dayton all right, but Shakkey's not aboard. He went on a pass three days ago and nobody's seen him since. Do you want him bad?"
Berg said: "Well, not that bad. I wanted to see him, that's all. He's an old buddy of mine."
The voice said: "Well, I reckon we want him bad. He's for it when he comes aboard here. I never knew such a guy for being A.W.O.L. If you come across him ashore tell him he's got a date with me sometime. He'll know who I am."
"Sure," said Berg. "If I see him I'll tell him. So long." He said to the boatman: "This is where I go back."
At the landing steps he gave the man a ten shilling note, walked slowly up the wet slippery stone steps, stood uncertainly at the top. On the other side of the road the door of the Raleigh looked inviting. Berg crossed, went into the back bar, ordered a whisky and soda. He leaned against the bar. The place was filled with a mixture of seafaring men—British and American of all ranks. At one end of the bar four or five young sub-lieutenants in the R.N.V.R. drank copiously of beer. In one corner three tall thin American sailors chewed on their cigarettes and exchanged war reminiscences.
