Complete works of peter.., p.420
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 420
She was mixing cocktails. She wore a camellia-pink dinner-gown with a gold lace scarf.
Isles said: "I think you look simply terrific."
She smiled at him. "I'm glad you like it. But what are you doing here? I didn't expect you to be back so soon."
He held up the document case. "Here it is. I didn't expect to be back so soon either. But Ernie Guelvada is a fast worker... I'll say...!"
She said: "So you have the Steyning documents—the cause of all the trouble?"
He nodded. "You know... it's odd, but this afternoon when I arrived here I had a peculiar sense of anti-climax."
She came towards him; handed him a Martini. She asked: "Exactly what does that mean, Julian? Does it mean that you are a little sorry now that you think the excitement might be over?"
He said: "Might be? It is over. This looks like the end of the story, and I don't know that I'm too pleased with it being the end."
She laughed. "Why?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not quite certain. I suppose, during the last few days, I've been living in a sort of strange dream world; doing the most extraordinary things without quite knowing why, but enjoying it. I suppose the excitement appealed to me. Now it's over, and what happens? Nothing... unless..."
She sat down opposite him. She asked: "Unless what, Julian?"
He said: "You know, I'm never sure whether to take you seriously or not."
She laughed again. "Very often I don't know whether I take myself seriously. But exactly what do you mean?"
He finished the Martini; put the glass down. He asked: "Do you remember that little scene in the Hyde Park Hotel on the night that you and I first met? I have a vague idea that you told me that when this job came to an end I might find you not ungrateful. I've often wondered what you meant—if you meant anything at all."
She smiled. "I always mean what I say when I say it, Julian. But haven't you forgotten something? When we met in the Hyde Park Hotel I was your client—giving you a definite commission. That commission was that you got Viola Steyning away from Dark Bahama. That was the job in those days. That was the idea. Well, she's still there, isn't she?"
Isles said: "You're hedging. You knew perfectly well at the time that that story wasn't true, any more than the second story you told me, about your blackmailing friend on the island, and your indiscreet letters, was true."
She shrugged her shoulders. "What else was I to do, Julian. I couldn't very well tell you what I was really trying to do or what my job was. But if you want me to tell you that I am very grateful for what you've done, all right... I'm telling you that now."
Isles grinned wryly. "You know, while I was on Dark Bahama I thought a great deal about you. I indulged in all sorts of day dreams."
"I hope they were pleasant ones, Julian." She moved over to the french windows; drew the curtains. She turned on an additional light—a rose-shaded standard lamp. Isles thought that the room looked delightful—a perfect setting for her.
He said: "They were pleasant enough, but of course they were day dreams. I don't suppose there's very much chance of their coming true."
"Day dreams seldom do. But what were they, since they gave you so much pleasure?"
He said: "Mainly they concerned you and me. I wondered if there might be any possible future for us."
She laughed. "Disabuse your mind quickly, Julian. However could there be any future for me with anyone?"
"Why not?" asked Isles.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Really," she said, "there isn't a great deal of future for anybody who is doing my sort of work. It is a thing one doesn't consider. But if you're thinking about marriage, Julian, get it out of your mind. I'm not that sort of a woman."
He said, with a smile: "You mean you're wedded to your job?"
"If you like," he said.
There was a long silence; then he said: "Well, that's that. I wonder what the next move in the game is going to be."
"Didn't Ernest Guelvada tell you?" she asked. "He's usually quite definite about what he wants."
Isles said: "His instructions to me were to bring these documents to you. Well, here they are. I suppose you understand what you have to do with them. Guelvada said he'd be over here soon."
She asked: "When?"
"I don't know. He said within two or three days. Until then I imagine we just wait."
She was silent.
Isles said: "You don't seem very happy about something."
She moved across to him; picked up his glass; took it to the sideboard; refilled it. She said: "I'm just wondering what Guelvada is playing at. He's an interesting type, but in the long run I think he's usually right."
"You don't mean to say there are going to be some more ramifications?" Isles voice was almost hopeful.
She said: "You'd like that, Julian, wouldn't you? This business is an adventure to you—a not unpleasant one. You'd like it to go on for ever."
He asked: "Why not? It's been amusing. But I don't understand why you seem to be unhappy."
She said shortly: "I tell you I'm not unhappy. I'm just wondering. Are you certain that Guelvada gave you no other message for me?"
He shook his head. "That was all. He told me I was to bring the documents to you. Here they are. He said he would be over some time—in two or three days. He seemed quite happy about everything."
She nodded. She smiled wryly. "I believe Ernest Guelvada is always happy. I'm told that he possesses an almost eternal youth—a complete faith in himself. I wonder what he'd look like if he were unhappy. However, these questions will probably answer themselves in due course. Now I suggest we eat. I was delighted to hear from Mary Ann that you'd arrived back. She's promised to prepare a special dinner for you."
She rang the bell.
Isles drank his second cocktail. There was a long pause. She stood in front of the french windows, waiting. Isles thought there was an unusual expression on her face.
After a minute she said: "It's funny she doesn't answer." She went out of the room.
Isles stood there, wondering what it was all about. He thought women were strange things. You expected them to be pleased; they weren't pleased. He wondered what was in her mind.
The door opened. She came back into the room. She looked at him. There was a peculiar smile on her face. Isles opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. A man followed her into the room.
He was thin; well dressed in a tan gaberdine suit. He wore a fawn Fedora over his left eye. He was swarthy, with a small black moustache and gleaming teeth. He was smiling. In his right hand, which was hanging down by his side, Isles saw the Mauser automatic.
The man said, with an Italian accent: "You take it easy, kids. It ees notta going to do nobody any good making a noise. It ees all over." He dug Thelma Lyon in the back with the muzzle of the gun. "You go and sit on da settee with your boy friend. And don' start nothin'."
She said: "Well, Julian, here it is. We'd better do as we're told." She walked across to the settee against the opposite wall. She sat down. Isles sat beside her.
She said to the man: "What have you done with my maid?"
He said: "Looka, baby, you don' ask no question... you don' get no lies. Jus' taka eet easy." He moved across the room; drew back the curtains before the french windows; unlatched the windows.
Two other men came into the room. One was short and stout; the other of middle height. Isles thought they both looked very unprepossessing.
He said: "Listen, what is this?"
The short man spoke. "It's easy, bud. All we want is that document case. Well, it looks as if we've got it, don't it? The second thing we want is that you behave yourself an' do as you're told. If you don't you're gonna get hurt. So's your girl friend. You gotta understand we don't stand no nonsense from nobody."
Isles shrugged his shoulders.
The short man picked up the document case. He undid the straps. He took out the taped, sealed packet; looked at it; examined the address on the envelope. He said: "It looks as if it's all right this time, boys." He walked across to the settee; stood looking down at them. He said: "I reckon it's tough bein' you. I wonder what's gonna happen to you two mugs. Maybe we'll know soon."
He went on: "Mrs. Lyon, you and your boy friend are going for a little ride. Maybe you'd like to put a coat on. It gets plenty cold sometimes at night when the wind comes up."
She said: "My coat is in my bedroom."
"O.K.," said the man. "Julio, take baby-girl along. She wantsta put her coat on."
She got up; went out of the room. The man in the tan suit followed her.
Isles stood there twiddling his thumbs. Then he took a sudden dive at the short man. The man, very agile for his weight, took a step backwards and kicked Isles in the stomach. Isles fell against a chair; knocked it over. He lay on the floor gasping.
The short man said: "I toldya to behave yourself, bud. The next time you try something like that I'm gonna hurt you but good. Get up, you bastard... an' relax!"
Thelma Lyon came back into the room. She had on a light fur coat.
The man in the tan suit stood just behind her. He said: "For crissasake!... So da boy friend tried to be tough!" He looked at Isles, who was leaning against the wall holding his stomach.
The short man said: "Yeah... baby-boy's a scrapper! He wantsta fight. He's a tough guy, see?"
Julio said: "For me I'd like to taka care of him. I'd like to maka him squeal good."
The short man said: "What's eatin' you—gettin' bloodthirsty again? Come on." He said to Thelma Lyon: "We're going out through the french windows. We gotta car outside. You're going in it. You're gonna keep nice an' quiet. If anybody tries somethin' they're gonna get a slug where it'll hurt most, see? Here we go...."
He stood to one side.
Thelma Lyon said to Isles: "It's no good trying to do anything about it." She smiled. "I hope they didn't hurt you too much."
She went out through the french windows. Isles and the three men followed.
CHAPTER XI.
AT nine thirty-five the Clipper landed at Miami airport. Guelvada took a taxicab; drove straight to the Altermeyer Hotel—a quiet residential hotel, which lay back away from the beach.
Arrived there, he paid off his cab; arranged for a hired car to be brought round; went to his room. He bathed; shaved; dressed himself; rang down for a shaker of Martinis. When it was brought he sat on the bed, drinking Martinis, smoking cigarettes, wondering.
Guelvada, who had spent quite a lot of his time thinking about people, had come to the conclusion after a great deal of experience that in the long run they always ran true to form. You met people, you watched them, you endeavoured to become acquainted with their habits, their method of thought, but once you had put your finger on that method it was not difficult to guess what their course of conduct would be in most circumstances. In this case, he thought, everybody had run true to form—even Miss Steyning.
Casually, Guelvada wondered—if there had been no documents, if her brother had not died, if none of these things had happened, whether or not Viola Steyning would have finished as a young woman who was too fond of hard liquor. He thought so. Fear, excitement, anger jealousy, hatred—all these things accentuated the weak points in the characters of people. They did not change character. They did not create new desires, new feelings, new attributes; they simply pinpointed what was already there.
The telephone rang. It was the desk downstairs, telling him that his car had arrived. Guelvada looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. It was a lovely night with a full moon. He thought that a quiet drive along the shore might intrigue him. He grinned to himself.
He finished the Martini; went downstairs; got into his car. He began to drive towards Orlando Beach. He drove unhurriedly, leaning back in his seat in the car, steering it with his finger-tips. Past him came the evening traffic towards Miami. Ornate cars flashed by filled with young men, gaily-dressed women, bound for the hundred points of gaiety and excitement in Miami. Guelvada smiled to himself. He thought that for a little excitement now and again they should have his job, which was much more exciting, and with an excitement that was much more lasting.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when he stopped the car on the palm-bordered boulevard opposite the Orchid House Apartment. Guelvada got out; walked slowly across the boulevard, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette hanging languidly from the corner of his mouth.
He began to think about the reception committee. He wondered what it would be like. Would it be Thelma, exquisitely dressed, with Isles smiling and contented in the background, with long drinks and cigarettes, and mutual congratulations?
He rang the front-door bell. He stood there waiting patiently. Nothing happened. After a while he walked out into the patio; walked the length of the block; turned through the side gate along the path across the lawn to the french windows which gave excess to the drawing-room in Thelma Lyon's flat. One half of the window was open. Beyond lay darkness.
Guelvada sighed. He threw away his cigarette stub; put his foot on the glowing butt. He stepped through the window into the room. He stood there for a moment, sniffing like a dog. There was a vague aroma of cigarette smoke. He walked across the room; found the electric light switch. He turned on the lights. In the middle of the floor was an overturned chair. Guelvada thought that the overturned chair created a strange atmosphere; it spoiled the picture. There was something grotesque—something macabre about the chair. He began to whistle softly to himself. Then he went through the apartment. It was empty. The kitchen door was open. There was no maid—nothing. Only a peculiar, brooding silence.
Guelvada went into the bedroom; switched on the lights. The bed was undisturbed. There was a faint suggestion of perfume in the room. He shrugged his shoulders. He thought to himself once more that people always ran true to form.
He went back to the drawing-room; crossed to the sideboard; mixed himself a drink. Once again he had a vague sense of annoyance at the sight of the overturned chair. He walked across the room and set it up on its feet. Then he sat down in one of the armchairs with his drink.
He was thinking about Isles. He was wondering how sensible Isles was—whether he was as cool, cynical, as detached when things came to a head, and did not look quite so good, as he was normally. Guelvada thought that this was one of those questions that only time could answer. He finished the drink. He went through the french window, closing it carefully behind him; walked across the lawn, through the patio, out at the main entrance. He got into his car. He drove back to Miami.
Ferenzy's bar is like or unlike many places in Miami. You pay your money and you take your choice! It had good liquor, lots of music and a floor show, featuring many pretty girls, which began at midnight. It was crowded. The long bar, with its six bar-tenders in their resplendent white jackets, echoed with a buzz of conversation. Opposite the bar, set against the wall, were tables, comfortable chairs. But few people sat at the tables. They preferred the bar.
Guelvada ordered a highball. He took it to a table in the corner of the room; sat down. He leaned back in his chair; lighted a cigarette. His eyes, half-concealed by their eyelids, wandered round the room. At the end of the bar nearest the door was a tall, thin man. He had a pencil-line moustache. His face was thin and the cheek-bones stood out. Just beneath them, accentuating the unhealthy pallor of his face, was a slight flush—almost the flush of a consumptive. He played with a drink, but now and again his eyes sought the table where Guelvada sat.
Guelvada finished his drink. He got up. He walked past the tall, thin man out into the street. He turned left. He began to walk slowly up the long, narrow side street leading to the interior of the town. Now and again he stopped; looked into one of the brilliantly lighted windows. Behind him, some way down the street, he could see the tall figure keeping its distance, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped.
Guelvada shrugged to himself. He thought there was nothing so stupid as a shadower who allowed himself to be shadowed by his prey.
Guelvada moved on a little; stopped again outside a man's store. He stood, looking at the ties with admiration. He waited there some time until he heard the car turn at the bottom of the intersection; drive slowly up the street. Guelvada turned away from the window; began to retrace his steps. He began to walk towards the sea front. He passed the thin man looking into a tobacconist's shop.
Guelvada said to him: "Good evening, my friend. I do not think you are very expert at your job, but maybe your boss is not rich enough to employ an expensive staff."
The man said: "Say, buddy, what the hell d'you think you're talkin' about?"
"Of course you wouldn't know," said Guelvada.
Now the car came to a halt at the edge of the pavement. Two men got out. One said: "Hallo! Mr. Guelvada?"
Guelvada said: "Good evening. This is my friend." He indicated the tall, thin man. "I don't know what his name is, but take him away. He has begun to annoy me."
One of the men said to the thin man: "Come on, buddy. You come and take a ride with us. We wanta talk to you."
The thin man said: "What the hell is this?"
The man who had got out of the car said: "F.B.I. An' we never like arguments. Get inside."
Guelvada waited until the car had driven away. Then he walked back towards Ferenzy's bar; found his car where he had parked it; drove back to the Altermeyer Hotel.
He went up to his room; opened an attaché case. He took out the Swedish sailor's knife; put it into his trouser pocket. He put a short-barrelled Luger pistol in a holster under his left arm. Then he went out.
He drove off; stopped outside the Greenacre building. He consulted the indicator in the hallway; went up in the lift. When he opened the outer door of the office the man who was sitting at the desk looked up quickly.
He said: "Yeah? What can we do for you?"
Guelvada said: "My friend, I doubt if you can do anything for me. I have some particularly urgent business with your boss, Mr. Carno."
The man said: "He ain't in."
