Complete works of peter.., p.386
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 386
Berg leaned over the bar. He said to the girl behind it: "Say, miss, I wonder if you ever met up with a guy here called Cyram Shakkey—a guy with a thin face. I reckon he'd come here. I reckon this is the nearest place to the ship; he was never a guy for having too big a distance between himself and a drink any time."
The girl thought for a moment, then she said: "I remember the name, sort of. It touches something in my brain but I can't quite place it... Shakkey... Shakkey?" She repeated it, looking inquiringly around the bar in case the sound might strike a chord in someone's memory. There was a silence. Nobody spoke.
A great sense of disappointment, of unhappiness, came to Berg. He thought to himself: That's goddam tough luck. Everything breaking like that—finding the guns, getting Shakkey's address, coming all this way, and then no Shakkey. He finished his drink, began to walk towards the bar door. He had almost arrived there when a woman, a glass in her hand, sitting in a big chair by the wall, said:
"Just a minute. Were you looking for Cyram Shakkey?"
Berg stopped. He looked down at her. He smiled. His brain thought: By God, this is the Shakkey type. Shakkey had always gone for women like that—plump, dark women with well-rounded figures and good ankles—a woman who was a foil to his own blond leanness. His smile widened. He thought: Maybe Shakkey has ditched this broad like he used to ditch 'em all in the old days.
He said softly and very politely: "Yes, ma'am, I'm looking for Cyram Shakkey. I wanta find him pretty bad."
She said: "So do I. And so do half a dozen other women I should think."
He said: "You wouldn't have any idea where he is?"
She said: "Yes, I've got an idea. Perhaps I can tell you where he is. But if you find him you might give him a message from me. Just tell him when you see him—my name's Mrs. Hynes—Carlotta Hynes—you tell him if I ever get within arm's reach of him I'll screw his neck for him—the dirty little Yankee tyke!"
Berg said even more politely, hoping by the softness of his voice to stem the tide of rising anger that Mrs. Hynes was experiencing: "I sure will tell him that if I see him, with pleasure. I reckon I know what you mean. He's a bad type—that Shakkey." Inside he was laughing, thinking to himself that Shakkey was still running true to form.
She said: "Look, maybe you know about twenty miles from Sharpham right on the Dart is a swell sort of hotel place called the Château de la Tours—one of those French names. Well, whenever that so-an'-so can get leave he goes over there. He's hanging around looking for something—that's what I've been told and if you know anything about Shakkey there's only one thing he hangs around and looks for and that's a woman. There's some woman over there. I'd like to get my fingers on her too," added Mrs. Hynes darkly.
Berg said: "Thanks a lot, ma'am. Maybe I'll get over there sometime. If I do and I see him I'll tell him what you said."
He went out of the Raleigh. Now it was almost dark. It had begun to rain. A few large drops pattered uncertainly onto the pavement. Berg walked quickly along the quay, back to the little square where he had parked his car. He got in, drove round the quay along the road that leads past the naval college. He stopped to ask a policeman the way; then he went on. He was wondering who the woman was that Shakkey was so keen on. Berg thought she must be pretty good. Mrs. Hynes looked all right, and if Shakkey had ditched her it was because he must have found something better. He had probably taken her for some dough too. He always did.
With Dartmouth behind and the deserted winding road in front of him, he put his foot down. The car sped towards Totnes.
It was a quarter to eleven when Berg stopped the car, parked it on a grass verge under the shadow of the hedge, walked to the white wooden gate that led on to the wide lawn behind the Château de la Tours. The rain had stopped now. The moon had come from behind the clouds, and it seemed to Berg that the Old-fashioned country house, now converted into a luxurious hotel and country club, took on a peculiar air of mystery. The rambling "L" shaped house was painted white. It showed up in its green surroundings like a ghost.
Now Berg experienced a peculiar feeling of anticlimax. He was here, but he could not visualize Shakkey in these surroundings. He could not visualize Shakkey even with the encouragement of his naval uniform calling at the Château de la Tours asking for the lady in whom he was so interested. Berg grinned.
He thought it would be much more likely to be the lady's maid. Shakkey had always had a weakness for lady's maids. He remembered the girl in the old days—the girl who had looked after Mrs. Scansci.
Berg began to walk across the lawn. Even in these days of short labour it was well-kept, smooth and velvety. The rain had made it heavy. His feet brushing over the clipped grass had the sensation of walking on a thick carpet. Berg walked quickly and quietly. He did not know why he considered he should be silent. He moved easily from the hips. There was something catlike in his walk. Now he was fifty yards from the back entrance of the Château. He could see a glass-roofed conservatory on one side of the house. The blinds were drawn and inside someone was moving. He was on a gravel path, with the shrubbery at his right. At the end of the path fifteen yards from the back entrance to the house was a magnolia tree—a huge fully grown tree whose leaves still dripped with the recent rain.
Berg moved under the tree in the shadows that surrounded it. He leaned against the tree, took out his flat enamelled cigarette case, selected a cigarette. He thought some plan of campaign was necessary. Some method of finding Shakkey, of making certain of finding Shakkey, must be discovered. He put the cigarette in his mouth, took out his lighter, snapped it on. He lit the cigarette.
A voice said: "Jeez...for Crissake...Rene!" Berg turned. Leaning against the other side of the tree was Shakkey.
They stood looking at each other, their eyes searching each other's face in the dim light.
Berg said: "Life's a damn' funny thing...hey, Shakkey? I bet you didn't think you were gonna see me. How d'you feel about it?"
Berg heard Shakkey chuckle—the weird metallic half laugh which he had heard so often. He imagined the thin lips twisted in the dark, the long narrow face with the screwed-up humorous eyes made alive for a moment.
Shakkey said: "What the hell! Look, Rene, you wouldn't think that anything was gonna surprise me, would you—especially anything about you? I can't see you good but you ain't altered any. No, sir! Still the same tough bastard, hey? Look, what is this? What are you doin' around here?"
Berg said: "I've been looking for you, Shakkey. Yesterday, I was in London. I went to the American Club. I found the guns you left for me." He went on: "It was pretty clever of you to wrap those guns up in those polishing cloths you pinched from the Double Clover Leaf Club. So I went round there afterwards. You can guess who I found there?"
Shakkey said: "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about."
Berg seemed not to hear him. He went on: "I met Travis and Lauren. They haven't changed much either. I got your address from Travis. He told me you were aboard the Dayton at Dartmouth. I went over there."
Shakkey said: "I was due back on that goddam ship three days ago. I reckon they're gonna give me a right royal welcome when I do get back. I got an idea the captain of that ship's got it in for me."
Berg said: "He's not the only one. I met some dame in the Raleigh Hotel—a Mrs. Hynes. She wants to meet up with you too."
Shakkey said: "Ah...the hell with that dame! Look, she's had it. Well, maybe she don't like it." His tone became more nasal. "Aw...hell... that's what they all say."
Berg said: "She said she reckoned you was over in this part of the world—at this place. She got the idea you was chasing after some baby. I think she was a little jealous or something."
Shakkey said: "Yeah. That's the funny thing."
Berg asked: "What's funny? What's so funny about it?"
Shakkey said: "The funny thing is you turnin' up right now. But, just a minute...what's this stuff about the guns I left for you at the American Club? I never left no guns there. And what's this stuff about polishing cloths from the Double Clover Leaf Club? I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about. I ain't been to that place. I don't reckon I've seen Travis or Lauren in years. What is all this? Are you stringing me along, Rene?"
Berg said: "Look, Shakkey..." His voice was still casual. "What are you givin' me? Are you tellin' me you never left those guns? Are you tellin' me you weren't givin' me a tip-off to the Double Clover Leaf Club? Are you giving it to me on the up-an'-up that you haven't seen Travis or Lauren in years?"
Shakkey's voice was almost bored: "Jeez...what do I havta tell you lies for?"
Berg said: "Yeah?" So someone else had left the guns. He stood looking across the lawn silvered by the moonlight, at the dark shadows caused by the trees on the other side.
He said: "Well, is that goddam funny, or is it? I sort of thought it was the hand of fate, Shakkey, but maybe it wasn't."
Shakkey said: "Yeah...and maybe it was."
Berg drew on his cigarette. He said: "What do you mean by that one?"
Shakkey grinned. He said: "Look, this is funny. About this babe that Carlotta said I was stringin' along after. Look, Rene, I ain't goin' after any broad over here. I'm just goddam curious, see? Two three weeks ago I got some leave an' came over to this district—just kickin' around, see? I was walkin' across the lawn one evening with some jane I'd picked up in the village. I saw some baby at a window in the hotel here and I couldn't believe my eyesight. I thought it just couldn't be true so I made some inquiry an' it was true.
"O.K. When I got my last leave I was in a little bit of a jam. I'm all tuckered up with a bunch of dames—Mrs. Hynes is only one of 'em—some of the others ain't even as nice as she is. They're not so pleased with me."
Berg said dryly: "No, they wouldn't be. Go on, Shakkey."
Shakkey said: "So I got a big idea. I thought I'd come over here and see this baby and maybe work the black a little. I thought maybe she might like to slip me some dough—just for old time's sake."
Berg's heart began to beat very quickly. Almost the fingers holding the stub of his cigarette were trembling.
He said: "Look, Shakkey, you give it to me straight. Who was the dame you were going to touch for the dough—the dame staying in this hotel?"
Shakkey said softly: "Who the hell d'you think Clovis! She's there. She's there now."
Berg drew in his breath. It made a little hissing noise. Almost automatically he slipped his hand inside his jacket towards the left armpit. Shakkey saw the movement.
He said: "For Crissake...what's the idea? What is it, Rene?" There was alarm in his voice.
Berg said: "Listen, Shakkey, I wanta have a little talk with Clovis myself. I've been wantin' to have a little talk with her for a long time."
Shakkey said: "Yeah? Look, you wouldn't do anything funny to that dame, would you, Rene?"
Berg said: "No." His voice was smooth and quiet. "I wouldn't do anything funny to her. You trust me not to do anything like that, Shakkey." He took his hand from out of his coat, put it into his trouser pocket, produced a roll of notes. He peeled off a score of the notes. He said: "Look, you get out of here, Shakkey: There's a stake."
Shakkey's fingers closed over the notes. He could feel three or four five pound notes amongst them. His eyes gleamed in the darkness.
He said: "O.K., Rene. You're the boss. You know what you're doin'. Listen, you wouldn't have anythin' on her, would you? I thought..."
Berg said harshly: "Who in hell asked you to think? Why don't you keep your trap shut and get to hell out of here? Button it up, Shakkey. Scram..."
"O.K., O.K.," said Shakkey. "I'm on my way. I'll be seein' you, Rene. Where you stayin'?"
"I'm staying in Dartmouth right now," said Berg. "Maybe I'll be there to-morrow. Maybe I won't. If I am, the Raleigh'll find me. I'll be there in the bar tomorrow night at nine o'clock."
Shakkey said: "Aw, make it some place else. Ain't that Carlotta hangin' around? If I go there I reckon she'll tear me wide open."
"All right," said Berg. "Make it the Castle. I'll go there."
"O.K.," said Shakkey. "If I can get ashore I'll see you there to-morrow night at nine o'clock." He put his hand for a moment on Berg's arm. He said: "Don't do anything you sort of wouldn't like to think about sometime else, would you?"
Berg said wearily, "Why the hell don't you get out of here?"
He leaned against the tree. He heard Shakkey's footsteps retreating across the wet lawn.
It seemed to Berg that a long time had passed. Leaning against the trunk of the magnolia tree, the heavy leaves of the outer branches falling around him like an umbrella, Berg allowed his mind to wander back over the years. A series of pictures presented themselves to him. Very few were soft, happy pictures, but even these were unable to alter the peculiar hardness which lay heavy upon him.
Life, thought Berg, was one of those things—and only one of those things. What happened to you depended on the beginning of things; depended on the time when you first started to think, when you first began to feel things.
All the things that had happened to him since he had been in England—the odd strange things which had led him, by accident it seemed, to Shakkey—were not things which he had created. They were the acts of a peculiar fate which was at this time dominating his whole personality.
Had he been able to analyze his own emotions he would have known that all the things he thought were untrue; that in fact he was carrying out an ordained series of acts—things which had been in his mind for a long time—thoughts which were greater than his own personality.
But at this moment he felt himself dominated to such an extent by some superior power that he was content to lean against the bole of the tree—to allow the ultimate act to arrive at such time as this fate was to decide.
Some more minutes went by. Drawing on the fresh cigarette he had lit, Berg considered many of the similar scenes in his Chicago life—especially one—a scene which had impinged itself on his memory—a scene which like many real pictures in all men's lives stayed with them always for a reason which was never known.
A shadow came across the light curtain of the conservatory, on the right of the back entrance to the hotel.
It moved towards the door. The door opened. The shadow stepped out onto the gravel path, walked with decided clean-cut steps towards the turning of the path where Berg stood. He closed his eyes, leaning against the tree, his hands fiat against the damp trunk. Then he opened his eyes to look again.
It was Clovis.
She came towards him down the path—a trim, neat figure, lovely feet and ankles—with the same graceful, almost mechanical, movement. She was wearing a uniform of some dull colour which accentuated perfectly the lines of her still lovely body. Berg remembered. He thought that when he had first seen her she must have been twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Now she must be thirty-four or thirty-five. The moonlight fell full upon her, illuminated the glory of her tawny hair, showed him that the clean-cut contours of her face were still real, showed him the scarlet mouth, the lovely deep-set eyes.
She came past the tree.
Berg said: "Hallo, Clovis. Howya making out, kid?"
She spun round. In one quick decided movement she turned and faced him as he came out from the shadows of the tree. For one moment she was dismayed; then as he knew it would, the quick brain worked. Her face broke into that same lovely smile—the smile he knew so well.
She said: "Rene...my God...you...! How marvellous to see you again."
They stood on the gravel path a few feet apart, looking at each other.
He said: "So it's good to see me again, Clovis? You sort of like that. It gives you a kick. You like seeing me, hey?"
There was a pause. When she spoke there was a little break in her voice. She said: "Rene, of course. How can you talk like that, knowing what has been between you and me? Knowing what still is to be between you and me. How can you talk like that?"
He was silent. Berg was utterly astounded at this supreme insolence—an insolence which could only emanate from Clovis—a concealed insolence which was part of that amazing make-up.
He said: "So I reckon you sort of been waitin' for me to turn up. The one thing you wanted was to see me."
There was another pause; then she said softly: "Rene...what do you think? What do you think I am?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I know there've been misunderstandings and odd things between you and me, but you know we've been everything to each other."
Berg said: "Yeah." He looked away, across the rolling lawn behind the Château de la Tours towards the dark avenue of trees. Their shadows invited him. Underneath his left arm he felt the hard weight of the pistol.
He said: "Let's walk, Clovis, I want to talk to you."
They began to walk down the path. They came to the place where it finished and their feet trod on the wet lawn.
She said: "Rene, I knew you'd come one day. I knew that all I had to do was to wait. I knew you'd come back to me."
Berg grinned sourly in the darkness. He said: "So you knew that. D'you know where I've been?" He laughed. Not waiting for an answer he went on: "You wouldn't know where I've been, would you? You wouldn't know about what's happened to me? You wouldn't know the sorta things that have been done to me? You were waiting for me, were you? Like hell you were! Or if you were, you were just waiting for me to catch up with you, babe, hey?"
She said: "Rene, I don't know what you mean. You were always strange—a strange weird creature, but one who had some lovely things about him." She pressed her arm against his. Her voice softened. "Do you remember, Rene," she said, "when I first asked you to help me? Do you remember all you did for me?"
He said: "Yeah, I remember. My middle name was always sucker, wasn't it? Maybe I'm still going to be a sucker."
