Complete works of peter.., p.404
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 404
"That depends on how expert you are at blackmail, Mr. Isles."
"I can always learn, Mrs. Lyon," said Isles. He went on: "I don't think you or Mrs. Steyning need worry about this. I'll bring her back."
She said shortly: "Good!"
Isles got up; stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table. He said: "I don't suppose I shall have any difficulty in finding her. I take it Dark Bahama isn't a very big place?"
"You're quite right. It's a comparatively small island. However, you may be assisted in that. Some time ago Mrs. Steyning, in an attempt to persuade her daughter to return, sent out her maid—an elderly and very intelligent woman—to try and bring the girl back. She failed, but she's still on the island. I think when you get there she might telephone you. She'll probably tell you where Miss Steyning is."
He said: "That might be a help."
She got up; came towards him; took his empty glass.
She asked: "Would you like a drink?"
Isles nodded. He thought to himself: What comes now?
She mixed the drink; brought it to him. "Yours must be an interesting profession, Mr. Isles. Have you always been a private detective... I suppose that's what you call yourself?"
Isles drank a little whisky. "I suppose so. I've been all sorts of things. In the war I was in the S.A.S., and I was also what is usually described as an agent."
She said: "I see.... You must have had a very tough time."
He shook his head. "Not more than anyone else in my peculiar profession. And I found it amusing."
She helped herself to another cigarette. She said: "I suppose you knew John Vallon in those days? I don't know if he told you, but I asked him to do this for Mrs. Steyning. He didn't like the idea." She smiled suddenly. "I should have thought it would have appealed to him."
Isles said: "It would have done. Johnny used to be a great man for getting around, but you know he's married now—very happily married. And Chennault Investigations has turned itself into a considerable business. I suppose he has too much on his hands—too much business, I mean—besides Mrs. Vallon. Do you know her?"
She shook her head. "I never met her. Tell me—what is she like?"
Isles said casually: "Well, she's what they call a very beautiful woman—a very attractive one." He smiled suddenly. "I might go so far as to say that she's almost as beautiful as you are, except maybe——" He shrugged his shoulders.
"Except maybe what?" she asked quickly.
Isles said: "Women vary like everyone else. She's beautiful and attractive, but she hasn't quite so much of that thing the Americans call 'oomph '... or allure... or whatever you like to call it, as you have."
She said almost demurely: "I'm glad you find me alluring."
"Not at all," said Isles politely.
She drew on the cigarette; looked at him through the smoke. "I suppose you and John Vallon are great friends?"
He hesitated. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that. Good business friends possibly. I've done work for him before—quite a lot of work. It doesn't mean to say that I have to be all that fond of him."
She raised her eyebrows. She said: "Really!"
He went on: "Men are funny cattle, Mrs. Lyon. They can work together and not necessarily like each other."
She looked at him sideways. She said softly: "Don't tell me that you wanted to marry Mrs. Vallon? Don't tell me that your lack of friendship is due to cherchez la femme—shall we say?"
Isles said glibly: "You might be right."
There was a pause; then she said: "Women would find you quite a person, Mr. Isles. I should think, with your romantic background they might find you a very attractive man."
Isles said: "Thank you very much. Tell me, Mrs. Lyon—how do you find me?"
"You're certainly forthright." She smiled at him. "Shall we say that I find you amusing?"
"I'm glad to hear it. I hope Miss Steyning will find me as amusing."
She said quickly: "Supposing you have some trouble with this girl, what are you going to do?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "How do I know? I've got to get there and absorb the atmosphere of this place; find out if I can what's worrying Miss Steyning; find out if it's a man or men, and if it is, discover something about them. If they're not good types one can usually get something on them. I also have to find out something about Miss Steyning from my point of view. Afterwards I shall formulate some plan of campaign."
She asked: "I suppose you'll report from time to time to Mr. Vallon?"
He finished the whisky. "I don't know that that's necessary. Johnny's pushed this job on to me and I don't think he expects me to report to anybody. After all, there aren't any reports to be made—not unless Miss Steyning gets very desperate."
She looked at him quickly. "And supposing she does?"
Isles said: "I shall have to use desperate measures, shan't I? And even then I don't suppose I should have to talk about them to anybody. If I bring the girl back everyone's going to be satisfied, aren't they, Mrs. Lyon?"
She said: "I suppose so. And that is the answer to the question."
Isles asked: "Is there anything else?"
"No.... I think we understand each other very well." She went on: "I think it's rather funny that you and Johnny Vallon should not be such great friends. He has the ability to irritate one sometimes if you know what I mean."
He nodded. "I know."
She said: "Well, that's that. I wish you the best of luck. If you come here in the morning you'll find the envelope downstairs as I've said. I hope you succeed. I feel certain you will."
She led the way towards the door out into the hall. She put her hand on the latch of the front door. She said: "Good night. If you succeed, you'll find I shall not be ungrateful."
Isles said quizzically: "Does that mean that you'll find me a little more attractive than I am?"
She smiled suddenly. "Why not? And even at this moment you're not doing so badly, Mr. Isles." She put out her right hand; took his chin in it; kissed him on the mouth.
Isles said: "I think you're the most extraordinary woman."
She stood there smiling at him. "Quite a lot of people have discovered that, Mr. Isles. Incidentally, I think you're a rather extraordinary man."
He said: "That's fine. Let's be extraordinary again, shall we?"
V
It was half-past one when Isles arrived at Vallon's apartment in Sloane Street. He rang the bell twice; waited patiently. After a minute Vallon, in a dressing-gown, opened the door.
He said: "Come in, Julian. How did you get on?" He led the way down the corridor; opened a door on the right. Isles followed him into a comfortable library. He threw his hat on to a chair.
"I got on all right," he said.
Vallon asked: "Do you want a drink?"
Isles shook his head. "I've had two." He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the mantelpiece. "I wonder what the hell she's playing at, Johnny."
Vallon said: "So you think she's playing at something?"
Isles nodded. "Look, this Mrs. Nicola Steyning—the girl's mother—who's so worried about her, is in a nursing home. Did Mrs. Lyon tell you where?"
Vallon shook his head.
Isles went on: "She must know that no ordinary private detective or investigator is going to take on a job like this without receiving some definite instruction from the girl's mother. The only person who can really give them any authority to go after the girl is the mother, isn't she? Maybe that's why she came to you. Maybe she thought that you being you wouldn't ask to see the mother."
Vallon said: "Why should you think that, Julian?"
"I wouldn't know," said Isles. "But I expect she's been your mistress at some time or other, hasn't she, Johnny?"
Vallon said: "That's an odd question, but I see what you mean."
Isles said: "She ought to have told you where the mother lived, anyway, so that you could have checked, or gone to see her. She didn't do that because she had an idea when she arrived at your office you wouldn't handle the job. She knew you'd put it on to someone else—someone you could trust. And she took it that that person, whoever he was, wouldn't check on anything because the job came from you, and the fact that the job came from you would be good enough for anyone, see?"
Vallon said: "What's in your mind?"
Isles began to walk up and down the room. He took long, easy strides. There was certainty in his walk.
He said: "I'll tell you what's in my mind, Johnny. Our Mrs. Thelma Lyon thinks she's got away with it. She's got away with the most difficult part of the job so far as she's concerned. She thinks that nobody is going to check on Mrs. Steyning; that I won't check because I've been employed by you, and that you certainly are not going to check because you feel under some sort of obligation to her. She asked me what I thought of you. When she asked me a question like that I knew she didn't expect me to tell her that you were a first-class fellow, so I obliged her. I told her that I didn't like you very much; that we worked very well together, but as man to man we didn't hit it off. She jumped to the wrong conclusion, but a very logical one for her to jump to. She concluded that there had been some sort of trouble between us over a woman."
Vallon said: "You were quite right, Julian. There aren't any flies on you."
"She told me," went on Isles, "that if I pulled this job off, when I came back I shouldn't find her ungrateful. We had quite a little love scene in the hall, and I'm not going to say I disliked it. See what I mean?"
Vallon said: "Not quite. What are you getting at, Julian?"
Isles said: "Look, there isn't any Mrs. Steyning. Don't you see? Whatever tie-up there is between Thelma Lyon and this girl Steyning is something that concerns Mrs. Lyon. I'll bet you any money you like she's financing this job and that she's the person concerned."
Vallon said: "Well, I can check on that for you."
"Where will that get you?" asked Isles. "Supposing we discover that there isn't a Mrs. Nicola Steyning, it doesn't help. It wouldn't stop the job, would it? I'd still have to go to Dark Bahama?"
Vallon nodded. "When are you going?" he asked.
"As quickly as possible," said Isles. "I'll fly. I am to go to her hotel to-morrow morning and draw a thousand. I think I'll be off now."
Vallon said: "Well, have fun, Julian, won't you?"
They stood grinning at each other. Isles picked up his hat.
"So long, Johnny. Remember me to Madeleine. Don't stick your neck out while I'm away."
Vallon laughed. "Don't you stick yours out whilst you're away, Julian. But I'm not worrying. Even if you did stick it out you'd pull it back in time. So long."
Isles went out of the room. Vallon heard the front door close behind him. He lighted a cigarette; stood in front of the fire, smoking it slowly. He was thinking of the old days—and of Thelma Lyon.
CHAPTER III.
I
THE time has arrived when it is necessary that you meet Mr. Ernest Guelvada, who began his rather peculiar and extremely arduous service with Mr. Quayle at the beginning of World War II. At this time he was what was called a Free Belgian but, as a result of war services—in addition to a superior decoration, which he promptly presented to a lady who had pleased him more than somewhat—he had acquired the status of an English national.
Guelvada was the result of his experiences which, since his early days, had been very interesting if not colourful. He had been born some years before World War I at a baconry near Ellezelles, in Belgium, and his mother—poor soul—had intended him for the priesthood. Events, however, interfered with his vocation.
Guelvada's mother had been stabbed by a German corporal who was annoyed because she put out one of his eyes whilst he was endeavouring to rape her. His father, who had arrived at this inopportune moment, had been shot by the Germans for strangling the corporal.
It is not surprising, therefore, that Ernest Guelvada developed an extreme, but very quiet, hatred of everything German and everything connected with that people. During World War II, as a member of Mr. Quayle's peculiar organisation, he had spent his time settling old scores with the enemy, being assisted in that process with a four-inch Swedish sailor's knife which he could throw up to twenty yards with complete accuracy.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that he found the post-war years a little tedious, even boring.
Guelvada was on the short side, and gave the impression of being slightly plump. He was hard and supple, nimble on his feet when he wanted to be and, physically, in superb condition. His main hobby was the quiet observation of the feminine sex and all the implications of that observation. His face was round, pleasant and inclined to good nature and, having regard to the half-smile that usually played about his mouth, it is surprising that most people felt a vague sense of discomfort when they were with him.
The only explanation for this peculiar attribute is, it seems to me, that most of the time Guelvada was thinking of his Swedish sailor's knife and wondering when he was going to use it again, and that somehow the hatred within him escaped, in spite of his smile, and permeated the atmosphere with discomfort and ruthlessness.
II
Not far from East Grinstead is a long and rather attractive road leading to the village of Balcombe. At the entrance to the village is an old-fashioned inn—small but with much atmosphere. At the back is a comfortable bar. And on this particular evening the only occupant of the bar was Mr. Ernest Guelvada, who sat on one side of the fire, smoking and thinking. His methods of thought, like some other things about him, were peculiar. He thought in several languages, five of which he spoke almost perfectly, and it amused him to switch from thinking in Portuguese to French, to Italian, with an occasional mental descent to his own language. He seldom thought in English, which he spoke extremely well except for a pedantic use of words and occasionally, thrown in for good measure, some of the more outrageous American expressions.
The barmaid, who had been watching him for some moments—because there was something very attractive about Ernest Guelvada—said: "Do you want a drink, sir?"
Guelvada got up. He walked to the bar. He leaned on it and stood smiling at the barmaid. He said: "I think so." He indicated the row of shelves behind the bar; pointed to the top shelf.
He asked: "What is that bottle on the right of the shelf? I feel I might be very interested in that bottle."
She looked behind her. "It's a very old liqueur, sir. It was left here by a gentleman during the war. I believe it's Turkish. It's called 'Apple of Eden.'"
Guelvada said: "I would like some of that, please."
She reached for the bottle; poured a measure into a liqueur glass; gave it to him. He put a pound note on the bar.
She said: "Do you like the liqueur, sir? I expect you've drunk it before."
He shook his head. "I've never drunk it." He sipped at his glass. "And I don't like it. I think I will have a large whisky and soda."
She raised her eyebrows. She smiled. Then she said: "I wonder why you wanted to try it."
"I didn't want to," said Guelvada, with a little smile. "I wanted to see you reach for the bottle. You have a very good figure, Mademoiselle. The Greeks, I have no doubt, would have thought highly of it. For me, I believe women's figures are much better observed when they are reaching upwards for something."
She said nothing. She brought the whisky and soda.
He asked: "Do you take my meaning?"
She said in a cool voice: "Yes, I think I see what you mean."
Ernest went on: "You will realise that I am what is called an ascetic type of man. I love beauty. I think I shall come here very often, Gorgeous!"
She put up her hand to push a tendril of hair into place. She thought this customer had a nerve, but you couldn't help liking him. She wondered why.
The telephone rang. She went round the back of the circular bar; answered it; put down the receiver.
She said over her shoulder: "You wouldn't be a Mr. Guelvada, would you?"
"Yes.... Mr. Ernest Guelvada... very much at your service, I assure you, Mademoiselle."
She said: "Well, there's a call for you." She held the flap of the bar open.
Guelvada picked up the receiver. He said: "Yes.... Very well.... Thank you very much...."
He replaced the receiver; drank a little of the whisky and soda; went back to his chair; picked up his hat.
He said: "I wish you a very good afternoon. I can't tell you what pleasure our meeting has given me.
When he had reached the door she said: "You've forgotten your change, Mr. Guelvada." Her voice was almost arch.
He said: "No.... I assure you I never forget my change. Au revoir, Mademoiselle."
He went out.
Outside, he got into the shiny Jaguar car; turned it; drove out of Balcombe village. The long road, leading into the heart of Surrey, stretched before him. Here and there, set back from the road, were large, comfortable houses, standing in their own grounds. One of them had white entrance gates.
Guelvada got out of the car; opened the gates; drove in. He left the car in the courtyard; walked to the entrance of the house; pulled on the iron bell. He heard it jangling inside.
After a few moments the door opened. Standing in the entrance was a young woman. She was blonde, and lovely. She was wearing a heavy, ivory silk wrap; high-heeled, black shoes.
Guelvada said: "M'selle Germaine... I am enchanted to see you again. My quick instinct tells me that you have either just got up from bed or propose to go back to it."
She laughed. Her teeth were white and even. She said: "I was working until five o'clock this morning, Ernest. Your second guess is right. I was just going to bed. But not now. Mr. Quayle's in his office. Will you go in?"
He said: "Yes. I think it is a great pity that I have to indulge in affairs of business whilst you are around. However, I'll be seeing you, baby."
He threw his hat on to a chair; walked down the passage-way which led to the back of the house. Over his shoulder he watched her going up the stairs. Just before she disappeared from his sight he blew her a kiss.
At the end of the long corridor was a velvet curtain and a door. Guelvada pushed aside the curtain; opened the door; went in. The room was a library, furnished in antique oak. A fire was burning in the grate. On the far side of the room was a large desk, on which there was no less than six telephones. And on the other side of the desk was Mr. Peter Everard Quayle.
