Complete works of peter.., p.455
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 455
"All right. Do that, and see what they think of you. They'll know you for the dirty, sneaking rat that you are, a man who tried to betray his wife so that he might marry another woman just because she had some money. They'll think a lot of you and a lot of Bardella, and a lot of your mother, won't they? You'll get the sack from your job and there won't be a decent man who will ever speak to you again in your life.
"And I'll see that the real story gets over, Charles. I'll plaster your lousy face on the front page of every newspaper in this country. There'll be no place for you to hide your head.
"And Bardella will stand by you, won't she? You bet she will. When this story breaks she'll run like the little coward she is; like she ran when I went round to see her last time. Rats always leave a sinking ship, and, believe me, Charles, you're sunk!"
Charles had sunk down into his chair, a huddled heap.
Bitterly walked across and, dragging him up out of the chair, looked into his face.
"Now, get out of here," he said, "and keep on walking. Don't think that you're going to go home, Charles, because you're not. You're never going there any more. If you go round to Derham Crescent I won't be responsible for what Herbert does to you. In any event, I think I'll have the key."
He put his hand into the right-hand pocket of Charles' overcoat. It encountered the key—and something else.
Bitterly pulled it out. It was a small automatic pistol. He smiled.
"So you brought a gun with you, Charles, did you?" he said. "I suppose you were going to threaten me or something. You're a brave fellow, aren't you? Well, you can keep your gun. You haven't got enough guts to kill anybody.
"Now, remember what I've told you and remember this—later on I'm going round to the police. Formally, I'm going to accuse you on the information in my possession of the murder of Vincent Lariat. Of course, you could run off and hide, but they'd find you, Charles. They'll always do. Then it's going to be amusing. Now get out."
Charles Vallery looked once at Bitterly—his face piteously malevolent. Then he half walked, half staggered to the door. Bitterly heard his slow steps going down the stairs. The street door slammed.
Bitterly went back to the fireplace and stood, his elbows resting on the mantelpiece, looking into the flames. He wondered just how far or how near Diane was at this moment, whether in this chaos of plot and counterplot there lay a gleam of hope for their happiness some day.
He felt utterly exhausted. His brain desired only sleep.
At the back of his mind was a half-formed idea to go round to Derham Crescent to speak to Diane, to tell her the truth. But in a moment he realised that the idea was foolish. She would know soon enough.
He closed his eyes and immediately was asleep.
CHAPTER XX Monday, November 13, 8.30 a.m.
BITTERLY was awakened suddenly by the noise of a passing cart. He opened his eyes and bestirred himself.
In that moment came to him the realisation of what had happened in that room a few hours before. As he stretched his stiff limbs he realised that this was to be a day of activities! The first thing to do was to go to the police; to create the situation which would force Charles to divulge his own low beastliness; to bring on Charles' head the retribution he so richly deserved.
The telephone jangled.
Bitterly walked to the desk and took off the receiver. He had an idea that it might be Charles—a suppliant for mercy!
It was not. It was Jacquot.
"Hullo, is that you, Michael?" said the crime reporter. "Listen, what's the matter with that neighbourhood of yours? Have you heard the latest?"
"I've been asleep," said Bitterly. "What is it?"
"Nothing much," said Jacquot. "A suicide, that's all, and where do you think it was?
"Apparently, at 7.30 this morning, Mullens, the police officer who found the body of that guy on the bricks, has found another one—Charles Vallery. Used to live in a house up the Crescent, shot himself through the head—obvious suicide. Mullens found the body in practically the same place as Lariat's. You might look in at the police station, Mike, on your way down, and see if there's anything else to it. I don't expect there is. It looks like a plain, ordinary suicide."
"All right, Bill," said Bitterly. "See you later. So long."
He walked to the window and looked out. So Charles, for once in his life, had done something sensible. He had taken the easiest way out.
Bitterly walked to the telephone. In a few minutes he heard Diane's voice on the wire.
"Listen, my dear," he said. "I suppose you know about Charles. Well, don't worry. There's an awful lot in life, you know, and I want to talk to you about investigating its possibilities together.
"I'm coming round now; we'll talk it over. And listen... stop crying..."
"I'll try, Michael." she answered. "And please come quickly."
He was about to leave when the telephone rang again. It was Jacquot once more.
"Say, listen, Mike," said the reporter. "I think that we were wrong about that guy Lariat. I've been talking to some of the fellows round at Stevens' doss-house—the first place he stayed at. One of these men says that Lariat was talking about cat burglars, and said he wouldn't mind having a go himself some time. Maybe he'd done somebody down for that money he had on him.
"Anyway, the D.D.I. in your district says that the inquest is all fixed. The police say accidental death and I've had the tipoff that they don't want any big theories from us. They've got enough to do. What do we do?"
Bitterly smiled to himself. He realised now that it would never be necessary for the police to hear any of his big theories.
"Just let it go, Bill," he said. "There'll be other stories. Let 'em have it their own way. He was a cat burglar and it was accidental death."
"O.K.," said Jacquot. "I've got another case waiting for you, Mike—a real story this time; so that suits me."
"Fine," said Bitterly. "It suits me, too. I'll be seeing you, Bill."
HE hung up the receiver and went out. At the end of the street, over the roofs, a weak winter sun was beginning to push out from behind the clouds.
Bitterly smiled at the omen and hastened his steps.
The Vengeance Of Hop Fi
CHAPTER I
WHEN I got to the top of Frimley Hill I knew I couldn't stick it much longer. The blister on my heel was sending a red-hot pain up my leg with every step. I sat down in the hedge and took off my broken boot. The relief was wonderful, but tinged with the thought that I must move on in a little while. I felt terribly weak, for I had eaten nothing since the morning before. I had a shilling in my pocket—my last. Should I wire Conway from the next post office and ask him for help? Dare I risk my last shilling when I was not absolutely certain of his address?
I leaned back against the bank with my hands in my pockets. I was tired out and my head was beginning to fall forward. With a last effort I pulled myself together, and at the same moment my fingers clenched something hard in my pocket. I pulled it out—a blue leather case. I opened it and looked at the Military Cross which lay within. My last possession.
Tucked away inside the case was a cutting from the London Gazette. I opened and read it:—"Lieutenant John Relph—awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty."
Dimly, I realised that I was John Relph, sitting by the roadside, broke. The Cross in its case seemed to me like a remote connection with some other existence. With an effort I got to my feet and stumbled along the road. In the distance I could see an inn.
They were kind folk. The woman gave me some cold water and boracic and a piece of lint. I had a drink, and a crust of bread and cheese, for which they refused to take any payment. I thanked them, and sat down on the bench outside the inn.
Presently a big car appeared and pulled up outside. The face of the man who descended from the car and was about to enter the inn seemed familiar to me. He stared hard at me for a moment and then walked to where I sat. His voice was brusque, and I realised that he was a foreigner.
"I know you," he said, "I meet you in Cologne. I am Zweitt—Henri Zweitt. Don't you remember. In the riot—you help me!"
"Good God! Zweitt!" I exclaimed, astonished. "What are you doing here?"
I remembered the man well. He had got mixed up in one of the never-ending riots in Cologne which followed the British occupation. I had managed, with a party of our Military Police, to rescue him from the infuriated crowd.
"I am working for a firm 'ere," he said. "In London. Wines an' spirits. What are you doing, hein?"
I told him. He listened in silence. Then he said:
"Listen to me. I 'ave lunch 'ere. You join me. I will 'ave no refusal. Then I go to London. You come with me in the car. There is a vacancy for a clerk—a junior in my firm. I am 'ead manager. I will get you the job."
I could hardly believe my ears. Such good luck seemed impossible. I stammered my thanks.
Zweitt pulled a fat wallet from his pocket.
"'Ere is money," he said, pushing three five-pound notes into my hand. "When we get to London you will buy clothes and a lodging. Then I will send for you. I am Henri Zweitt. I do not forget."
I was silent, astounded by my good fortune. It was true that I had got Zweitt out of a nasty situation. We had arrived just in time to prevent the crowd from pulling him to pieces. Apparently, by the look of his wallet, he had done pretty well out of the war.
When, after lunch, we left the inn and entered the car I took a parting look at Frimley Hill, on the top of which I had that morning railed at my bad luck. The innkeeper bade me a hearty farewell.
"Good luck," he said. "Maybe this old house will be the turnin' point in your fortunes."
I thanked him and we set off. Henri Zweitt sat back in the car. Now that we had left the inn he seemed to have become more serious. Occasionally he glanced nervously over his shoulder at the road behind. The unaccustomed food and wine had made me drowsy, and the afternoon air was heavy. I closed my eyes and presently was fast asleep.
I WAS awakened by Zweitt pulling at my sleeve. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. We were in London, some way down Oxford Street, going towards the Park. In a minute we turned into Poland Street, and Zweitt stopped the car outside a fairly decent looking house, which he entered.
Presently he came out, and at his request I followed him into the house. Here he introduced me to Mrs. Game, the owner of the place, who showed me to a room on the second floor. It was clean and decently furnished, and there was a bathroom on the same floor. She told me the rent would be fifteen shillings a week. I thought this very reasonable, and paid a month's rent in advance.
Zweitt had disappeared, so I hurried out, and, before the shops closed, bought what I required. I returned about half-past nine, and sat in my room reading. About ten o'clock someone tapped at my door, and Zweitt entered. He appeared worried, but he accepted a cigarette, and sat down in the armchair. Suddenly, with a peculiar, strained look on his face, he leaned forward.
"Relph," he said, "you are a brave man. I will tell you—" He broke off suddenly with a forced laugh—"Eet is nothing. I mus' 'ave my joke," he said.
It struck me that his brand of humour was rather unusual, but I said nothing.
After a few minutes he went down to his room and reappeared with a bottle of whisky. He started talking about the old days in Cologne, helping himself, time and time again, from the whisky bottle. It was half past eleven when he rose unsteadily to his feet and bade me good-night. As he fumbled with the handle of the bedroom door he spoke to me over his shoulder.
"To-morrow I fix you that job," he said. "You are a brave man—I, Zweitt, am also brave." He laughed drunkenly. "I do not care for them—not one bit!" he cried, and lurched off along the passage.
I AWOKE early next morning and had finished dressing, when Mrs. Game entered, at eight o'clock, with my tea, and informed me that Zweitt had suggested that I breakfast with him in his room.
He was showing the effects of last night's whisky pretty badly, and there were heavy lines under his eyes.
Presently he got up and walked over to the window. He stood, looking out on to the sunlit street for a while. Then he turned and, with his hands in his pockets, addressed himself to me.
"Relph—you come to the office this afternoon, at three o'clock," he said. "I will see you there. Do not be late. 'Ere is the address."
He put on his overcoat and hat, and with a nod walked out of the room. I thought his manner was abrupt and moody, and, thinking that the whisky had upset him, dismissed him from my mind. I was amusing myself looking at some books on the mantelpiece, when Mrs. Game entered.
"There's a man downstairs—a Chinaman, Mr. Relph. 'E wants Mr. Zweitt. I've told 'im that Mr. Zweitt's gorn, but 'e don't seem to understand. I thought per'aps you'd come down an' talk to 'im."
I followed her downstairs. Standing in the hall was a Chinaman. His costume struck me as being rather extraordinary. He wore a suit of blue overalls, such as are worn by artisans, and a greasy bowler hat was perched on the back of his head. A shiny pigtail hung over his right shoulder, whilst a horrible scar, starting in the middle of his forehead, reached almost to his left ear, just missing the eye. In his hand he held a letter, sealed with a great blob of black wax. He looked me over, almost insolently, as I approached.
"Mr. Zweitt," he enquired, his head on one side.
"Mr. Zweitt is out," I said. "What is it you want?"
"I wan' Mr. Zweitt," he said.
His perpetual grin annoyed me.
"Well, Mr. Zweitt isn't here," I said, "and I don't know when he will be here. You'd better leave any message you may have for him."
"I shall leave nothing," he said. "I want Mr. Zweitt. Where is he?"
"Look here," I said. "I've given you all the information I'm going to. Either leave your message or get out—whichever you like!"
He grinned more broadly. In another minute I should have hit him.
"Velly well," he said. He raised his grinning face and looked me straight in the eye. The malevolence in his gaze was appalling.
"Good morning, my gentleman," he said and, turning on his heel, walked out of the house.
CHAPTER II
I WENT upstairs to Zweitt's room and lit a cigarette. I was feeling remarkably bad tempered after my encounter with the Chinaman. From behind the cover of the window curtain I could see his dirty blue overalls disappearing down Poland Street.
I wondered what connection could possibly exist between Zweitt and the Chinaman who had brought the letter. I wondered what was in the letter, and why the Chinaman would not leave it.
Eventually I went out. I lunched at Lyons and at two o'clock prepared to make my way to the city. Zweitt had given me the address of his firm on a piece of paper. It was:
John Brandon, Ltd., Wine Shipper. Brennan's Buildings. Cannon Street, E.C.1.
Brennan's Buildings were situated in a narrow turning off Cannon Street, and the offices were on the ground floor. When I pushed open the door a bell sounded, and, after a moment's interval, Zweitt came out of the inner room, closing the door softly behind him.
"So. You are 'ere," he said. "I have talk with Mr. Brandon about you. You go in now and see 'im."
He seated himself at a desk and commenced writing. I took off my hat and knocked at the door of the inner room. A voice bade me enter, and I went in.
Brandon was seated behind a large desk in the centre of the room. The top of this desk was littered with papers and books of every description. Everything was untidy, and his appearance was in keeping with the rest of the office. A coat which seemed much the worse for wear hung upon his shoulders. His collar, cut with very deep points, stood away from a shrivelled neck, the skin of which seemed to have the consistency of parchment. Almost entirely bald, the fringe of white hair round his head, and the long, straggling whiskers which grew to his chin gave him the most extraordinary appearance. His blue eyes twinkled incessantly. I discovered afterwards that he had the habit of fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the face of the person to whom he was talking, and this disconcerting habit he practised upon me at this moment.
"And so this is Mr. Relph," he said pleasantly, his eyes twinkling like two little stars. "Well, Mr. Relph, Mr. Zweitt informs me that he has engaged you to be our new junior. Excellent! Your salary will be three pounds per week. Mr. Zweitt will instruct you in your duties. Supposing you start work to-morrow? Very well, Mr. Relph, you may go."
I left the office having said precisely nothing. Outside Zweitt turned his chair round.
"So. You are engaged," he said. "That is good. You start work to-morrow? You will draw a full week's salary. I will see to that. I do not forget."
"You've been very decent to me, Zweitt," I said. "If ever I get the opportunity of doing you a good turn I shall certainly take it."
His eyes lighted up. "You would do that?" he said. "Yes, I believe soon you may have the opportunity. We shall see."
"Look here, Zweitt," I said. "Is there anything wrong?"
He sat silent, occasionally stabbing the pad of blotting-paper on his desk. I could not see his face. After a moment he got up and walked over to the fire-place, and stood, his hands on the mantelpiece, gazing into the fire. Suddenly he turned round.
"I 'ave been a good friend to you, Relph," he said. "If I ask you to do me a favour, will you do eet?"
I could see the beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead.
"Why, of course," I answered. "I'd do anything in my power to return your kindness. What's wrong, Zweitt?" I asked.
"'Eet is nothing much. I do not think that eet matters much at the moment, but per'aps something will 'appen—something will arise, and then I will ask for your 'elp."
He put his hands in his pockets and returned to his desk, at which he stood staring as if unable to make up his mind.
