Complete works of peter.., p.443
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 443
He looked at his watch. It was twenty nine minutes past two. Then he looked at O'Farrel. Irma and Peabody had joined them. They had listened attentively to what Kenkins had been saying, and they all stood looking out to sea. Somewhere in the distance was Galtzakoff's motor-boat. They had not long to wait. From out at sea came a rumble, then far out for one second a blinding flash of light illuminated the dark ocean, then all was quiet.
O'Farrel lit another cigarette.
"Exit Messrs. Galtzakoff and Rothenstarmer!" he said. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, what about some breakfast?"
They set off across the moor towards Stranover. O'Farrel and Kenkins engaged in a long and wordy argument as to who had done most towards solving the mystery of Sepach Farm. With a grin Peabody realised that the pair would have food for quarrels for the rest of their lives, but he also realised that the enmity between Kenkins and O'Farrel was over, buried beneath the weight of those terrible moments before two o'clock at Sepach Farm.
Grant, his chubby little pipe still hanging out of the corner of his mouth, walked, deep in thought, with them. His part of the business was done, and done successfully. With the death of Steitlin, Galtzakoff and Rothenstarmer, the Q-ray was no longer a menace to the peace of the world. Philipson had not died in vain.
A little way behind walked Peabody and Irma. They said nothing, but as their steps took them across the moors, which they had walked so many years before in those happy honeymoon days, their minds were centred on the same thing. Sepach Farm, lying behind them, still ghostly and desolate in the moonlight, had stolen from them their happiness, and yet, in the strange manner of fate, it had brought it back to them once again. The voices of O'Farrel and Kenkins came dimly to them, although they were so near, as, hand in hand, they passed out of the turmoil and trouble of the past years, into the newly-found happiness which lay before them.
The Sign On The Roof
CHAPTER I Thursday, November 9, 7 p.m.
HAD it not been that Bitterly met Vaughan outside Lonsford Road tube station; had it not been for the fact that Vaughan was fresh from one of his bi-weekly quarrels with his wife, and Bitterly, half-amused, half-sympathetic, had given him the theatre tickets so that Mrs. Vaughan might be lured to a better frame of mind, the journalist would, in all probability, have gone to see the play himself. In this case he would not have met Diane Vallery that evening at the Blue Light, and, therefore, would not have been unduly concerned with the fact that an enterprising police constable, flashing his bull's eye in the early hours of a winter's morning through a gap of the hoarding at the bottom of Derham Crescent, discovered, lying across the apex of a pile of bricks, the body of the man with the broken back.
Upon such slender chances does life depend.
Vaughan went off pleased with the theatre tickets, and Bitterly crossed the street and made his way homewards.
It was seven o'clock. A mist was blowing up from the direction of Kensington Gardens. A thin, throat-catching mist heralding, he thought, the promise of a pea-soup fog. There was a slight drizzle of rain and the suggestion of an easterly wind. It was one of those entirely depressing evenings that London can produce so successfully at an unexpected moment.
Bitterly, his hands in his raincoat pockets, his black soft hat (almost a trade mark of a journalist in these days) set at its habitual angle on his head, his usual half-smile about his mouth, looked an almost jaunty figure. But his looks belied him. He was bored—unutterably bored.
And this increasing boredom with life and everything connected with life, which was enveloping his mentality almost like a blanket, perturbed him. He realised that for the last six months there had been no "kick" in life for him. It was a matter of getting up in the morning, going to Fleet Street to his desk in the offices of the Sunday Argus, doing the hundred-and-one jobs throughout the day that fall to the lot of a news editor, and going home at night. Then the business of eating his dinner, making up his mind that he would start to write a novel—that realistic novel that every journalist is going to write and never does—and eventually, somewhere in the region of eleven, putting on his hat and going round to the Vallery's because there was nothing else to do.
Just now his steps had brought him to the top of Derham Crescent, in which the Vallery flat was situated. It was not so misty here, and standing hesitant for a moment, Bitterly could see the light in the top hall of the flat at the far end of the crescent. He continued on his way, his mouth twisted a little as he thought of the domestic scene which was probably taking place in the interior of that flat.
Up in the kitchen—an overheated and tiny room—Diane would be preparing dinner; almost struggling in her efforts to achieve a punctuality which was dependent on the sporadic arrivals of the family—not forgetting Bardella, the lodger, whose inevitable lateness was almost a proverb.
Downstairs, on the floor below, in the sitting-room, would be congregated the rest of the Vallery ménage.
There would be Charles Vallery, her husband, the man who had always had hard luck; with his shabby, would-be smart clothes, a coat cut in at the waist too much, and dirty fingernails, poring over the sports columns of an evening newspaper. Charles would be "picking them out" for tomorrow; working out one of his amazing "doubles" or "trebles" that never managed to quite come off, or, if he were suffering from one of his fits of depression, gazing into the fire, thinking about something—no one ever knew what. There would be his mother, with her hawk nose and her restless, shifting eyes sitting straight up in her armchair, brooding about something—no one ever knew what—and sending one of her rare smiles of approbation at Charles, or one of her looks of ill-concealed dislike at Herbert.
She reminded Bitterly of an eagle—a rather vicious eagle, waiting to swoop down on anything unable to defend itself. In spite of the smiles she gave Bitterly, her presumed interest in his work, her inevitable seeking after knowledge, she appeared to him always to contain something remotely evil, some threat against anything or anyone. He crossed her path adversely.
There would be Herbert, Diane's brother, the young man who had always had a scheme for getting out of debt, but who only succeeded in getting deeper in. Herbert, who "adored" his sister, but who never bothered to give her a hand with anything, who spent his life in dubious night clubs making the acquaintance of still more dubious women, and who regarded every new caller at the flat as a new fount for borrowed "half-dollars."
Bitterly had met them a year before. He had floated across their lives, and, for some reason, had continued to see them until the chance acquaintanceship had ripened into a peculiar sort of friendship—a friendship which even he could not quite understand. Three, four, five nights a week would find him wandering round to the Vallery flat at ten or eleven at night, playing bridge, drinking tea, talking; never really understanding why he went there, but only realising that the day seemed incomplete if he did not go there.
Not that it was always pleasant to be there. There would be evenings when Mrs. Vallery, Charles' mother, would give vent to one of her fits of rage, when Charles would be forced to take his mother away and soothe her ruffled feelings. There would be evenings when Bitterly, playing bridge with them, would use his quiet, quick observation and would realise, with a cynical smile, that Charles was cheating. Charles was quite a good cheat. There were evenings when Charles and Herbert would indulge in a quarrel, and other more interesting times, when Charles would talk about their old life in Ceylon on the plantation when he was wealthy, before he lost his money—before, as he would say, with his self-pitying smile, they were "reduced to this."
It was on these occasions that Bitterly wondered why, even if they were "reduced to this," Charles might not at least wash behind his cars and keep his finger-nails clean.
He opened the street door and mounted the stairs to his flat on the first floor. Half way up he heard the telephone ringing.
Bitterly hurried up the remaining stairs and cursed as he inserted his flat key and opened the door.
He walked across the hall and sitting room, without bothering to switch on the light. Grabbing the telephone, he asked curtly who it was.
It was Diane. And it was apparent to Bitterly that she was somewhat diffident and rather nervous. Her voice, invariably cheerful, was quieter than usual. He sensed that she was speaking from the telephone in the sitting room of the Vallery flat, speaking softly so that no one else should hear.
Her questions came quickly
"How are you, Michael? Forgive me, please, for bothering you. Did you intend to come round here tonight? You might? Please don't. If you could possibly manage it could you meet me somewhere? I want to talk to you. Yes, it is rather urgent. I'd be very grateful. I can't say much now."
He was reassuring.
"Don't bother, Diane. Something worrying you, eh? Well—never mind. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems! Meet me at the Blue Light Club. You'll find the address in the book. I'll be waiting for you in the hall. Will ten-thirty do? All right. Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and switched on the light. Then he stood, his hands in his raincoat pockets, his hat still perched on one side of his head, wondering.
CHAPTER II Thursday, November 9, 10.25 p.m.
HE was five minutes early at the Blue Light and was surprised to find Diane waiting in the hall. As he walked toward her, Bitterly noted with approval—he had always an eye for women's clothes—how well she was turned out. He knew that everything she wore was made by herself; yet the general impression that she always managed to convey was that of a very well-bred, well-dressed woman who had not a care in the world. But it was obvious to Bitterly, observant as he was and familiar with her varying expressions, that something was wrong. She was paler than usual; there were shadows beneath her eyes; also, as he took her small, gloved hand in his, he felt her fingers tremble. He wondered what it was all about.
"How are you, Michael?" she said. "I think it very good of you to come and meet me. Were you surprised when I telephoned?"
He smiled. "I'm a journalist," he said. "Nothing could surprise me. In fact, I think it would be rather wonderful to be surprised by something."
"Are you so bored?" she said. Her eyes lit up for a moment. He nodded, gloomily whimsical.
"Definitely," he said. "What shall we do about it? Shall we ring up Charles and tell him that we're going to run away together, or shall we throw a bomb at somebody? At least we would get a good news story out of it. Anyhow, it's apparent to me that I must be serious. I realised that you were speaking very quietly on the telephone so that the family shouldn't hear. I imagine that I'm going to be let into some dark and murky secret of your past. Hey? Come upstairs and have some coffee, and tell me all about your past life."
They went upstairs. He seated her in a secluded corner and ordered coffee When it was brought he gave her a cigarette. As he lit it he spoke to her quietly.
"Listen, Diane," he said, "just for a minute I'm going to be serious. You know, during my somewhat varied career in umpteen different professions I've come across many strange things and heard many strange stories. I want to give you a little warning. I know you've got something serious to talk to me about. You're not the sort of woman who asks a man like me to meet her to advise her unless she's in a pretty bad jam. You're quite intelligent, quite determined. There aren't many situations that you couldn't handle yourself, and if you've been forced to come to me for advice then I know it must be fairly serious.
"But here's my warning. It coincides with the oath of a witness in a court of law—the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Do you know, Diane, I've sat and listened to women asking my advice, knowing perfectly well that they have kept the crux of the whole situation to themselves. They've talked round it, kept back the salient fact, the thing that matters. Don't you do that.
"On the other hand, understand this, if there's anything that I can do I will do it willingly. I like you, Diane, and I suppose I've spent, during the last year anyway, quite a little time in your house."
He smiled. "Anyway, I know what it's about, roughly," he said. "Let me make some guesses. Charles has lost his job, or alternatively, his mother's decided to leave you, or, alternatively, Herbert's decided to leave you, or Bardella's going to leave you. You're in a bad way financially, maybe."
He leaned forward dramatically.
"Don't tell me the brokers are in, are they?" he said with a grin. "You see, I think it's one of two things. I think it's money, in which case my poor purse is at your disposal, or it's love, in which case I either have to slay somebody for you or make some man realise that he's unconsciously loved by a very charming woman."
She shook her head. "It's neither of those things, I'm afraid, Michael," she said quietly. "It's worse than either of them. Lack of money means little to me. I've been learning for years how to do without it. As for people leaving the flat, Bardella's gone. She won't have to worry about money any more. She's just inherited four thousand pounds from an aunt. How I envy her! Still, I'd manage to scrape through, however short of money we were, and it's not love. I've learned to do without love, too. It's worse than either of those things.
"It's blackmail."
Bitterly looked at her quickly. He was surprised—for some quite unknown reason—that her eyes met his squarely.
She was even smiling a little. A strange and rather lovely person, he thought. She regarded the point of her neat brown shoe.
"You're surprised, aren't you, Michael?" she said. "I suppose I don't look like a person who should be able to be blackmailed... but, as you would say, 'That's just how it is.'"
He grinned. He refused to regard this business seriously in his mind. In any event, he thought it was no use looking serious. Probably the whole thing was a storm in a teacup of some sort; some local scandal or tittle-tattle.
"Supposing you tell me about it," he said. "All about it."
"It began a long time ago," Diane said quietly. "In Ceylon. There was a man there—he was manager of a fairly large concern on the island; his name was Vincent Lariat.
"Owing to a set of circumstances which don't matter a great deal at the moment, this man was able to make things fairly uncomfortable for me. He did. Needless to say, Charles thought the worst and made a great deal of trouble about it. That was one of the reasons we came over here.
"Naturally I thought it was all over years ago. I'd almost forgotten about it until a few days ago.
"About eleven o'clock last Monday morning this man Lariat appeared at the flat. I opened the door and nearly dropped with surprise when I saw it was he. He said he wanted to speak to me, that he must speak to me, and I let him in. I was rather nervous and I didn't want any bother, more especially as Bardella was packing up and generally preparing to leave, and Bardella at the best of times is a mischief-maker with an inclination to interfere in other people's business.
"I took him into the sitting room and asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted money and wanted it very badly and that unless I gave him some he would go to Charles and make trouble."
Bitterly interrupted. "Did he indicate how he would make trouble?" he asked.
She thought for a moment.
"He suggested that he would resuscitate things... things that I hoped Charles had forgotten about," she said. "I told him that I hadn't any money, that we were practically penniless. Then he got angry and began to shout and I told him that unless he got out I'd call the police. He went, livid with rage."
She smiled a little pathetically at Bitterly.
"I'm frightened, Michael," she said.
Bitterly nodded. "I expect you were," he said. "Tell me, where was your mother-in-law whilst all this was going on? Isn't she usually about?"
"She was out—luckily," said Diane. "She returned after he'd gone and she went off next day to some friends at Westover for a holiday. She's there now."
He nodded again. "Why, particularly, are you frightened of this man Lariat?" he asked. "Supposing he does go to Charles... well, what's Charles going to do about it. You say that he thought the worst before. By the way, exactly what did you mean by that?"
Bitterly filled his pipe carefully.
"You know, Diane," he said, "I told you before we began to talk about this that half-truths aren't any good. They don't get anybody anywhere. If I'm going to help you over this thing the least you can do is to tell me the whole truth about it. Otherwise one can do nothing that matters."
She smiled again. She looked quite pathetic, Bitterly thought, mainly because she was trying to look anything but pathetic. The smile, which was an attempt to be brave, failed dismally.
"I don't know what you'll think of me, Michael," she said after a moment. "I do hope that you won't be too hard in your mind, but I can't tell you any more. I've got to be as loyal as I can, even if it's only to myself. I thought you might help me, somehow—I don't know how. I suppose the very idea is unreasonable...."
Bitterly shifted uncomfortably.
"You're putting me in a devil of a position, Diane," he said. "You ask me to help you and you give me no information on which to base any plan of campaign. And why come to me? What about Herbert? He's your brother, you know."
