Complete works of peter.., p.400
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 400
Clovis pushed open the bedroom door and stood, looking at the recumbent figure of Shakkey. He presented a disgusting picture. He lay across the bed, his shirt collar undone, his mouth open. He was breathing stertorously, muttering, twisting about.
She went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, found a bottle of concentrated coffee, prepared to boil water. After a while she went back into the bedroom. She carried in one hand a cup of black coffee, in the other a towel.
She put down the coffee; dipped the towel in the cold water jug on the wash-stand. She poured some of the cold water over Shakkey's face and head; began gently to flick him across the face with the wet towel. After some five minutes Shakkey opened his eyes. He looked up at her stupidly.
Clovis said: "Drink this, Cyram. It will put you right." She raised his head on one arm; sat on the bed beside him, began to feed the coffee to him spoonful by spoonful. After a while Shakkey got to his feet. He stood looking at her; then, with a grunt, staggered out of the room. She heard him stagger to the bathroom. When he returned she had more hot coffee ready for him.
Shakkey sat on the bed. He began to drink the coffee. He said: "Well...so you got around here. God-dam it, I didn't think you woulda come. I didn't think you meant it."
Clovis said: "I always do what I promise...well...most of the time." She smiled at him. It was an odd smile.
Shakkey walked over to the wash-stand; began to bathe his face in cold water. When he was through he said: "That was some hooch you sent around. For Crissake! I ain't never drunk stuff like that. It was like somebody had made it in the bath-tub. I'm tellin' you that a Mickey Finn was a clover-leaf cocktail compared with that stuff."
She said: "It wasn't very tough. I knew he'd never talk unless he was half-cut. And that guy could always drink liquor and remember to keep his mouth shut."
Shakkey said: "You don't like the guy. You don't like Rene...hey?"
She said: "No...I don't like him. I don't have to like him." There was a pause. Then: "Well...what did he say? What's he going to do? Where's he going next?"
Shakkey looked at her. He ran his tongue over his lips. He drank some more of the coffee. After a while he asked:
"What's the big idea? Whaddya wanta know about him for? Do you care where he goes an' what he does? What's it to you, Clovis?"
She shrugged her shoulders. She said: "I always like to know what he's doing. I can't sort of get away from him. Sometimes I think I'm still stuck on him, and sometimes I hate his guts. That's the way I feel right now. But I'm curious about that guy. I'm like a child that's got to keep on pokin' its finger in the fire just to see if it's still going to hurt. Can you understand that?"
Shakkey nodded. He thought he could. He said: "Yeah...I reckon dames are like that. Didn't some mug say that Hell ain't got any fury like a baby that's been given the air." He grinned at her. He went on: "It was pretty swell of you to come around here. I didn't think you'd come. I reckon you're the tops, Clovis, Jeez...are you a baby or are you?" He looked at her ankles.
She said in a flat voice: "When you called through to me that you'd met him; that you were going to meet again tonight, I sent that hooch round because I wanted him to talk. It was doctored all right...you bet it was. I couldn't tell you about that, because if I had you'd have laid off it yourself and he'd have suspected something. He's very smart...that one." There was another silence; then she said: "Well...what did he say? I reckon he'd talk to you. You're the only one he trusts. I reckon he thinks you're his one pal."
Shakkey wetted his lips again. He said, in a voice that was a little hoarse: "You remember what you said...you remember what you promised?"
Clovis said: "I remember. Tell me what he said, and I'll keep my promise...maybe..."
She got off the bed; began to walk about the room. Shakkey watched her. She moved gracefully. She knew his eyes were on her.
Shakkey said: "Well...when he'd had three or four, he started to go funny. I'd only had one...like you told me. I was listenin'. He was nearly right out. Then he started mutterin' an' moanin'. He was sittin' in that chair over there. He said somethin' about some dump called Skaalund or somethin' like that. He was talkin' about some dame Ingrid-an' Norway an' somethin' about takin' a jump. Afterwards...when we'd laid off, an' he was gettin' straighter an' I talked about seein' him again next week, he said he couldn't do it. He said he was goin' away."
Clovis said: "I see...I see..." Her eyes were gleaming. She said: "I'm going out now. I'll be back."
Shakkey got up. He moved in front of the door. He said: "Jeez...are you gonna stand me up now! Are you gonna take a powder on me after I done what I said?"
She came over to him. She stood in front of him. She made a little grimace.
"I'm coming back," she said. "I'll keep my word. But I've got to do something. I'll be back in a few minutes. Get out of my way."
Shakkey moved away from the door. She went out. When she had gone he went back and sat on the bed. He muttered to himself: "For Crissake...for Crissake!" He sat muttering and waiting.
Clovis walked down the Mews into the main street. There was a telephone booth on the corner. She went in, dialled a number. She waited: then someone answered.
She said: "This is Clovis. All right. Am I talking to Mr. Maston? Well, listen...It's what I thought. Skaalund...in Norway. Some tie-up with some girl Ingrid...and it's probably going to be next week..."
The voice said: "Excellent. Thank you very much. Good-night!"
She came out of the call box. She stood for a moment looking up the dark street. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
She began to walk back to Shakkey's flat.
Berg sat in the seat behind the pilot. The pilot was a young man of twenty-three—a crack flyer in a Mosquito squadron. He had a permanent smile and the large handlebar moustaches at one time fashionable in the R.A.F. From time to time he looked over his shoulder at Berg and grinned.
Berg sat stiffly in his seat. He had a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster on each side of his parachute jacket, one of the German machine-pistols which he had taken from the Gendarmerie headquarters some four years ago, and of which he was fond, three clips of ammunition, and a spring parachute knife.
The pilot throttled back, began to glide. He said to Berg through the ear-phones: "Well, the boys ought to be starting in a minute. I must say you've got a nice night for it." His grin broadened. "And I hope you don't come down in a ditch."
Berg said: "Me too." He grinned back at the pilot. There was silence for a moment; then the pilot said: "There she goes. The boys are in."
He opened the taps. The sound of bombing came to Berg's ears. They were flying low and the crashes as the bombs exploded reverberated. Two miles away, on the right, an ammunition dump or something of the sort went up in flames. Now the German anti-aircraft went into action. The noise was terrific.
Berg looked down at the buckle of his safety belt. They were banking now. The pilot called:
"Where do you want to go from—eight hundred or lower? It's what you say. I always try to please the customers!"
Berg said: "You have it your way. Last time it was about eight hundred and it was good."
The pilot said: "I don't think so...not to-night and with this bus. You get out at five hundred feet. It'll be better for you."
Berg said: "All right." He undid the buckle of his safety belt.
The pilot started his approach to the D.Z. Berg could feel the sharp turn of the bank as he came into the wind. The pilot put down his flaps and landing wheels to make a greater resistance against the wind.
He said to Berg over the intercom: "Flaps and landing wheels down. Get over the hatch."
Berg knelt down over the escape hatch. He knelt behind it, slightly to one side.
The pilot said: "Here you go, fella...Good hunting!"
The escape hatch opened in front of Berg. He said: "So long! Thanks for the trip."
He went out through the hatch head first. When he was clear he pulled the cord. He dropped nearly seventy feet: then checked. He began to descend slowly. Away on the left and right of him he could see the gun-flashes of the German anti-aircraft batteries. The British bombers were still at work. Berg thought, as the keen wind hit his face, that it was a nicely organized job. He hoped that he was clear of the forest.
He hit the ground, crumpled, fell backwards, gathered in the parachute cords, took his spring knife, cut them. Now he began to haul on the cords, pulling in the parachute. When he had got it he sat on one end and began to fold it. Nearby was a shell hole. He pushed the parachute into the shell hole: threw some earth on it. They'd find it sometime, but there were lots of parachutes lying about. One more or less meant little.
Berg got up. He began to walk forward. After a minute he recognized where he was. He was about a hundred and fifty yards off the edge of the forest that bounded the air-strip from which Ransome, he and Hilde, had escaped four years ago. On the other side of the air-strip was the road that led into 'Skaalund. The contact was to meet him in the north-east corner of the fir-wood at three o'clock. If all went well, the plane which Ransome was sending for them should pick them up in another locality not too far away, where there was a good landing place, at ten minutes to five.
Now the noise of bombing was dying away. The anti-aircraft guns began to check down. Berg walked slowly forward towards the edge of the wood. Now there was a little moon and he could see the tops of the fir-trees silhouetted against the sky. In the right-hand pocket of his parachute jacket was a flask of whisky. He took it out, took a long swig. The spirit warmed him. He felt better.
He had walked another twenty yards when he stopped; dropped on one knee. Somewhere near him he had heard a voice. He listened. More voices came to him. Ten yards from Berg, on the right, was a patch of gorse. He crawled over to it on his hands and knees. Covered by it, he stood up.
He stood there, the palms of his hands suddenly wet, his mouth dry. Advancing in extended order from the edge of the wood, some hundred yards away was a body of German infantry; away on the left another section.
Berg thought: Well, here it is! Somehow they were wise to what had happened. They were sweeping the ground in extended order. They were going to get him sometime. High above him he could hear the noise of an engine. It was the fighter pilot who had brought him circling, waiting for the signal that everything was O.K.
Berg thought quickly. If the pilot did not get the signal he might hang about for a bit thinking that Berg had made a bad landing; was pulling himself together. He'd probably wait some little while; then he might be late getting back, or if he stayed too long—if that happened, the plane that was to pick up Berg, Ingrid and the rest of them, might leave. Whatever happened that had got to be stopped, because even if Berg was not there to give the signal to the plane to land, if Ransome were in it he'd come down. He'd want to know what had happened to Berg. He'd want to have a look.
Berg thought this mustn't happen. Quite obviously the Germans knew something. Quite obviously, they had been waiting. He looked again. The line of men, extended, about three or four paces between each man, their bayonets showing plainly in the moonlight, advanced slowly across the flat field. They were beating every bush, every bit of scrub.
Berg thought of Ingrid. Maybe the contact who was to meet him on the north-east corner of the fir-wood was already on his way there. He must be warned somehow. The Germans arrested anybody out after curfew, and with all these men about somebody was certain to spot him. There was only one thing to be done.
Berg unstrapped the machine-pistol and the two clips of ammunition. The two .45 automatics, strapped to each side of his jacket, were heavy. He took off the jacket, took the guns out of their holsters. He looked at them for a minute. They were old friends of his. He hated parting with them but they were too heavy for quick movement. He wrapped the guns in the parachute jacket, pushed it into the coppice. Maybe some other parachutist, dropping on the same sort of job, would find it; would guess what had happened to Berg.
He loaded the clip into the machine-pistol. He moved to the edge of the coppice. Now the line of men was only fifteen to twenty yards away. Berg snapped the safety catch off the pistol. He cuddled it into his shoulder. The gun made a staccato noise as he squeezed the trigger and sprayed the advancing line. Five of the German soldiers immediately in front of Berg went down. He fired another burst to his left; then, bent double, started to run for the fir-wood. Half-way there he stopped, fired another burst.
Now the shooting started. Bullets whistled past him. Berg grinned. That's what he wanted. Ingrid's contact, on his way to the appointment, would hear. He would guess what had happened. He would go back.
Berg ran swiftly. He was almost on the edge of the wood. He was thinking to himself: There is still a chance if I can get into the wood; if they don't find me before morning I might get out and hide up somewhere. One of the resistance guys might find me and hide me up. The thought was hopeful, but useless. At this moment Berg was hit. The bullet struck him in the chest, knocked him flat. He lay there. He could not get up. A blackness descended on him.
When Berg came to, he was propped against a tree just inside the wood. People stood about him. Nearby, somebody switched on the headlights of an ambulance. The lights illuminated the faces of the men who stood regarding him curiously. Berg thought: This is it!
Two men stood together, a little apart from the rest, looking down at him. One was the Oberleutnant of Gendarmerie whom he had knocked unconscious and left at headquarters years before. He spoke to the other man in German.
The other man turned to Berg. He said: "The Oberleutnant says that you were here four years ago; that you got away. He says he knows about you. So, my friend, you decided to come back again. Do you not think it was rather stupid?" He laughed. "But I admire your nerve," he said.
Berg said nothing. The German went on: "Let me present myself. I am Major Kramen of the Gestapo. We have been waiting for you, my friend. We are very glad to see you. I expect you have a lot to tell us."
Berg said: "Yeah? Well, I was unlucky. It can happen."
The German nodded. "It can happen," he said. "I agree with you. Also you have very little chance. It might have come off, but we knew."
Berg said: "You knew? How the hell did you know?" He coughed a little. "I don't believe you."
The German said: "We're not such fools. We have people in London. They are not fools either. We knew you were coming."
Berg sat, looking into the dark avenue on the other side of the lights between the fir trees. Now he understood. Now he understood Clovis's visit to Shakkey—the hooch that he had thought was doctored. He must have talked to Shakkey. All this time she had been waiting to get even with him. He shrugged his shoulders.
The German said: "We're going to send you to hospital. We shall look after you. You're much too valuable to be allowed to die, and you will not die. But when you are better we shall make you talk, my friend. You'll save yourself a lot of trouble now if you tell me who your contact was here. Somebody was due to meet you to-night. Who was it?"
He came forward. He knelt down opposite Berg. He said: "What is the name of the man or woman who was going to meet you to-night?"
Berg said: "I'll tell you." He pushed himself up on his left hand. He struck upwards with his right elbow. The blow struck the German on the mouth and nose.
Kramen fell sideways. One of the German soldiers pulled back the bolt of his rifle. Kramen, rising to his feet, his mouth, lips and nose bleeding, rapped out an order in German. He brushed the leaves and twigs from his breeches. He stood, looking down at Berg; then he drew back his right foot. He kicked Berg in the face.
He said: "My friend, we have heard about you. Always when a certain parachutist has been dropped in Norway, there has been trouble and killing and shooting. Perhaps you are the one. Perhaps you are the one they call 'The Dark Hero.'"
Berg put his hand to his mouth. Two of his teeth were gone. When he took his hand away it was red with blood. He looked up at Kramen.
He said: "Fella...all my life I been tryin' to be a hero. Well, by God, it looks as if I gotta be one now."
Kramen said: "My friend, I agree with you. In Germany we have a very nice Concentration Camp for people like you. It is going to take you a long time to die. The interesting part is," he went on, "I am leaving this accursed country. I shall be in charge of that camp. I shall make you my own especial pleasure—my hobby. I shall make you suffer very much, my friend."
Berg said nothing. He was thinking of the words "Dark Hero." So that's what they called him. He remembered the night when Hilde, flying back with Ransome and himself, had first used the words.
Strangely enough, he was not unhappy.
EPILOGUE — INGRID. DARTMOUTH, AUGUST, 1945
WHEN Berg saw the little car in the shadow of the hedge by the white gate, he stopped. He turned and looked back to the spot where Clovis's body was lying at the foot of the tree.
He felt very little—certainly not regret. But somewhere there was a vague feeling of disappointment. He shrugged his shoulders. He could not work out exactly what this feeling meant; but then, he thought, he had never been awfully good at working out things to do with the mind. Sometimes you felt something. Sometimes an odd thing made you feel a little happy or sad. But most of the time you went on, because it wasn't too good to feel too happy or too sad. If you felt anything very much you were disappointed.
He got into the car and started the engine. He began to drive slowly back to Dartmouth. He drove slowly because he was thinking, and because he knew that the last act of the drama which had been his life was now being played: He grinned. Anyway, it was going to be a sensational act. He wondered what Ransome would think about it.
Berg knew exactly what would happen. He'd been long enough in England to know the strictly impartial processes of the English law. The English did not play around with situations. If you murdered somebody you swung for it. They hanged you by the neck until you were dead. You had a trial and even if you wanted to plead guilty they wouldn't let you. If you hadn't got lawyers or counsel they gave you the best for nothing. They gave you a chance all right, but if you'd killed somebody, especially if you were prepared to admit it, as he was, well, you were hanged. They sentenced you to be hanged by the neck until you were dead, and the judge put a black triangular thing on his head and hoped that the Lord God would have mercy on your soul. Berg had heard all about that. And then they weren't content with that. Even if you'd been sentenced, they'd appeal just to see that you got even another chance. And the appeal would be dismissed and within three weeks of the sentence they took you out and they hanged you nicely, quietly and in an orderly manner.
