Delphi collected works o.., p.475
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 475
“One thing, however, is obvious,” went on O’Farrel, growing more cheerful every moment. “It isn’t the slightest bit of good hanging about this farm, it’s much too depressing. It’s also fairly obvious that Peabody and that ass, Kenkins, will be returning here at any moment. You don’t feel like meeting the enterprising Josiah just at this moment, do you? Therefore, I suggest that you let me take you back to this mysterious Turkish Café of yours, and let you give me your word to stay there until I return for you. Probably Peabody and Kenkins will have arrived by that time, and then we can try and straighten things out. By the way, what exactly were you doing here?”
She looked up. “I was waiting for somebody,” she said.
“Were you?” said O’Farrel. “May I ask who?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you,” she said.
“All right,” said O’Farrel, “we will talk about that later. In the meantime let’s go along to your café. I suggest that a cup of tea would do you a great deal of good. If you are expecting anyone to come here I will tell them to join you at the café. Come along.”
So saying, O’Farrel took the woman’s arm and led her out of the farm down the road, and into the Turkish Café.
Arrived there, he busied himself making her some tea. She sat gazing straight before her, thoroughly numbed with fear. O’Farrel considered that there was not the slightest possibility of her trying to escape. She was beyond that.
Having himself prepared the tea, he made her drink a cup, and, with a cheerful farewell, left the café, and quickly made his way back to the farm. Here he wasted no time. He took off his mackintosh, put on a pair of gloves, turned the body of the Russian over onto its back, and commenced a systematic search. There was nothing on the body, not even a coin in the pocket. O’Farrel, disappointed, rose to his feet, stepped back, and scratched his head in perplexity. He shrugged, and was about to leave the room, when he noticed something which made him stop. One of the heels on the dead man’s boots looked higher than its fellow. O’Farrel took his pocket-knife from his pocket, inserted it at the top of the heel where it joined the boot, and twisted it. A little chuckle of delight broke from him as the entire heel came off the boot. The inside was hollowed out, and in the cavity was a tiny oilskin packet. O’Farrel undid it with fingers which trembled a little with excitement. Inside the oilskin was a small piece of parchment. On the parchment in one corner was a printed red star and a number, and pencilled beneath it was “Rothenstarmer, 736 Tottenham Court Road, London, England.”
O’Farrel put the piece of parchment in his pocket. Then he stuck the heel back on the boot and turned the body over again on to its face, leaving it exactly as he had found it. Then he walked into the other room and searched the body of the man in the fawn raincoat. There was nothing to be found there, and he returned to the other room and put on his mackintosh.
O’Farrel believed in acting quickly. He believed that the address on the piece of parchment was one which the dead Russian had intended to visit, and he believed that the star and the number constituted an identification mark. It was obvious, thought O’Farrel, that if the Russian had already visited the address in Tottenham Court Road, the piece of parchment would not have been so carefully concealed in the heel of his boot. It had been concealed there in order that it might evade any search. It seemed to O’Farrel that the next thing for him to do was to return to London immediately, visit the address in Tottenham Court Road, and, if necessary, produce the piece of parchment as evidence of his bona fides. He felt certain that at this address lay some important clue.
He walked over to the window which looked out to the front of the farm where he had left his motor-cycle. As he did so the moon appeared from the clouds, and cast a silvery beam of light on the strip of moorland which ran by the side of the farm. Standing under a tree, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, was an individual whom O’Farrel had no difficulty in recognising from Peabody’s description as the man in plus-fours.
For a moment the idea came to him to go and speak to this strange individual but, on second thoughts, he dismissed the idea from his head, and, running quickly down the stairs, he left the farm, started up his motor-bike, and set off for London. Behind him lay the Turkish Café, and in it a woman who was waiting for something or somebody. O’Farrel felt a great pang of pity for her. Why, he hardly knew.
He realised that she would be expecting him to return, but in O’Farrel’s heart was a deep-seated desire to solve the mystery of Sepach Farm before Kenkins arrived, and he was going to consider nothing but this end.
Crouched over the handlebars of his motor-cycle, with the wind and rain blowing in his face, taking the corners at a perilous speed, O’Farrel sped back towards London.
He was supremely happy.
CHAPTER XIII
IT WAS NEARLY five o’clock when O’Farrel, tired out and covered with mud, rode slowly down the nearly-deserted Tottenham Court Road in search of 763.
He had come up to London at an almost impossible speed, and had been so intent on keeping his motor-cycle upright on the slippery roads that he had thought very little about the interview which now lay before him.
O’Farrel had no delusions as to the danger of this interview. He realised that the man from whose body he had taken the piece of parchment was not likely to be in touch with individuals noted for their gentle outlook on life.
Eventually he found the house. It was a dirty old-fashioned place, standing back in a mean alley. On the door was a rickety knocker mended with a piece of rusty wire. O’Farrel, who believed in doing things first, and considering them afterwards, rapped loudly on the door, and waited.
After a few minutes he heard voices and a shuffling of feet, and then the door opened.
Framed in the doorway, which was dimly lit by a naked gas-jet flickering further down the passage, was an old woman. Her face was lined and dirty, and her eyes were like those of a snake. O’Farrel, thinking it best to say nothing, held out towards her the slip of parchment. She looked at it for a moment and then beckoned him in, closing the door quietly behind him. Then she went down the passage, and knocked on another door at the end of it. The door was opened slightly by someone on the inside.
“He’s come,” O’Farrel heard the old woman whisper.
After a few moments’ muttered conversation the door was pushed wide open, and a man stepped into the passage. As he stood directly under the flickering gas-jet O’Farrel was able to study him carefully. He was a short broad-shouldered individual dressed in an old double-breasted blue suit, beneath which showed the grimy collar of a dirty grey-flannel shirt. His face was almost the colour of a Chinaman’s, but the broad nose and thick lips spoke of a touch of negro ancestry. He advanced, and looked steadily at O’Farrel.
“I am Rothenstarmer,” he said. “Why have you come? Are you from Steitlin? Why is he not here himself?”
He spoke in a tone of authority.
O’Farrel handed him the piece of parchment.
“Steitlin’s held up,” he said. “This afternoon he fell, and twisted his ankle badly. He sent me.”
“Yes,” said Rothenstarmer, “and what did he send you for? We’re sick of waiting for Steitlin. For two months we’ve heard each week that Steitlin would be here next day. Always next day. Now he’s come there’s an accident — something else stopped things moving. We shan’t always be so patient. You had better come inside.”
He led the way through the door at the end of the passage. Stepping over the threshold, and down two stone steps, O’Farrel, following Rothenstarmer, found himself in a big room which looked as if it might have been a cellar. The place was furnished with a few rickety tables, chairs, and old packing-cases, and, sitting about this place, dozing, asleep, or talking in whispers, were the most villainous crew that O’Farrel had ever seen in his life. Here and there through the dim light O’Farrel saw the face of a Chinaman or a negro, malevolent, bestial faces. At the far end of the room, leaning against the dirty wall, smoking, was a young man who looked as if he might at some time have been a gentleman.
O’Farrel was experiencing a decided thrill. His plan seemed to have worked. This man Rothenstarmer evidently believed that he was the accredited messenger of the dead Russian: the man for whom they were waiting; the man whose name was apparently Steitlin. He realised that he must be very careful. He had but to make one slip and he knew that he might expect short mercy from the assembly before him.
Rothenstarmer banged on the table. Those who were asleep woke up; those who were talking abandoned their conversation and looked with interest towards Rothenstarmer.
“Listen, comrades,” said Rothenstarmer, “once more we are delayed. Apparently, as I told you this morning, Steitlin has arrived. In the meantime I am told that he has hurt himself — his ankle is twisted — so that, once again, we must wait; but I have told Steitlin’s messenger, who is here, as I tell you now, that we will not wait much longer. For months we have worked in order to bring about the situation which now exists, and, come what may our plan must be put through within the next twenty-four hours. This is the message, comrades, that I propose to send to Steitlin. Unless, by to-morrow afternoon, Steitlin is here with definite instructions for us, to-morrow night we will go to Sepach Farm and we will carry through the business ourselves. Do you agree?”
A low murmur of assent came from the assembly. It sounded to O’Farrel like the growl of a hungry animal. Rothenstarmer turned to him.
“You hear?” he said.
“I heard all right,” said O’Farrel, bluffing as well as he could, “but Steitlin cannot be blamed for falling down a flight of steps and twisting his ankle. Also, you know, be has been ill; besides, what is the hurry?”
Rothenstarmer laughed. “Hurry?” he said. “Are you mad? Look!”
He pushed into O’Farrel’s hand a copy of the evening paper, and pointed with a grimy finger to a paragraph on the front page.
O’Farrel took the paper from his bands, and read: —
No 6 Destroyer Flotilla, having finished the tactical exercises announced last week, will shortly return to its base. This Flotilla has now been at sea for five weeks. It is expected in the English Channel to-morrow night.”
O’Farrel nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “There isn’t very much time, is there?”
“There’s not,” said Rothenstarmer. “Six times, for some reason or other, we’ve had to put off our great stroke, the day for which we’ve planned, the day which will show the world that the Thirteenth International exists, and possesses both brains and courage. Take our message back to Steitlin and tell him that, whether we receive instructions from him or not, to-morrow night will find us at Sepach Farm. Good-night, comrade.”
He put out a grimy hand, and O’Farrel shook it heartily. Rothenstarmer then led the way back to the front door.
CHAPTER XIV
O’FARREL, STANDING ONCE more in the Tottenham Court Road, was glad to breathe the clean night air after the stifling atmosphere which he had just left. He found himself more intrigued than ever. What was the connection between the dead man at Sepach Farm and this villainous crowd who sat in cellars in the Tottenham Court Road? What was the connection between them and the fact that a torpedo flotilla would sail into the English Channel the next night? O’Farrel was tired out. He ached in every limb, but the excitement of the whole business acted on his nerves like a tonic. He knew that miles away in the Turkish Café the unhappy woman was waiting his return. O’Farrel wondered if anything exciting had happened since he had been away. He made up his mind that he would return to Stranover — and at once. He refilled his petrol tank at a night garage, and set off, for the second time that night, to Sepach Farm.
Crouched over his handle-bars, O’Farrel realised very certainly that something definite had got to be done before the next night. He smiled cynically to himself as he visualised what the atmosphere would be like when, in addition to the mysteries which had already taken place, Rothenstarmer and his gang appeared on the scene. Of one thing O’Farrel was certain — they would be going there for no good!
In the meantime he busied himself with working out some plan of campaign with regard to the woman in the gold kimono. Knowing that she was Peabody’s wife, O’Farrel felt that it was his duty to his friend to keep her out of any further trouble. In his mind a plan had already begun to take shape, which was this: That, on his arrival, after seeing her, he would hire a car, drive her to the hotel at Stranover, and go back to the farm where he was certain he would find Peabody and Kenkins. O’Farrel chuckled to himself when he imagined Kenkins’ face, and the surprise which would be registered thereon when he, O’Farrel, told them the story of his night’s adventures, and showed them what a wonderful fellow he was, and what a march he had stolen on the pair of them.
These thoughts cheered him considerably, and, as the miles sped by, he found himself exulting in the excitement which had occurred, and which would probably continue through the next day. In his heart O’Farrel knew now that, having advised Peabody and Kenkins of the state of affairs as he knew them, they must inform the police that some more mysterious business would shortly take place at the farm. Having done this, O’Farrel imagined with a touch of regret that their part in the Sepach Farm drama would be finished.
His return journey was rapid, and he altered his route, enabling him to stop at Salthaven Station and inquire of the solitary sleepy porter at what time the first rain from London arrived. The train left London at 6.30 he learned, and it was a slow train, arriving at Salthaven at 8.45. O’Farrel imagined that Peabody and Kenkins would come down on this train, and would cut across country from Salthaven to the farm. Having obtained this information, he re-mounted his motor-cycle and continued his journey down the Salthaven road.
Dawn was just breaking as O’Farrel approached the farm, the top of which showed ghost-like out of the slight sea-mist which lay over the countryside. As he passed the farm and the top of the Turkish Café came into view above the cliff edge, he saw a light twinkling in the window. O’Farrel, swayed by some unknown motive, pulled up at the farm, entered it, and went upstairs. His idea was to see if the place was as he had left it, or if any other intruders had been there since his previous visit.
But the place was unchanged. He examined the hall and stairs for muddy footmarks but there were none and upstairs the bodies lay as he had left them. He descended the stairs and returned to his motor-cycle, which after a moment’s thought, he pushed into a clump of bushes on the other side of the road. Then he walked quickly towards the Turkish Café. As he was about to descend the stairs which led to the café door, the door opened, and a figure appeared. O’Farrel saw that it was the young man whom Peabody had described to him, the man in the tweed suit, the man who had not heard the shots at Sepach Farm. O’Farrel descended the stairs quickly, and stood face to face with the other.
“Good morning,” he said brightly, “how do you do?”
For reply the young man aimed a sudden blow at O’Farrel, who ducked, and in a moment the pair were struggling fiercely. O’Farrel, who was in good condition, felt that he was more than a match for his adversary, but it was obvious to him that the other knew little of the science of boxing. As the young man aimed a wild blow at O’Farrel, the latter sprang aside, and closing suddenly, he upper-cut his adversary fiercely. The young man crumpled up and dropped to the ground, almost senseless. O’Farrel, leaning up against the cliff-side to recover his breath, gazed with some amazement at the recumbent figure before him.
“Well, my friend,” he said eventually, as the man struggled to his knees. “I think you are much too precious to be allowed to escape. I think I am going to tie you up, and deposit you at Sepach Farm for a bit. That seems to be the headquarters for everybody in this neighbourhood.”
O’Farrel took off the leather belt which he wore round his mackintosh, and with which he intended to bind the young Russian’s hands, and advanced for the purpose of carrying his scheme into execution. As he did so, the café door opened, and the woman appeared; but she was not the sobbing, piteous woman of the night before. She held her head proudly, and in her right hand was a small automatic pistol.
“I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “You will let him go, and if you try to stop him I shall shoot you.”
O’Farrel grinned and shrugged. By this time the young man had regained his feet and stood, rubbing his jaw. Then, at a signal from the woman, and with a malevolent glance at O’Farrel, the young Russian ran swiftly up the steps leading to the cliff road, and disappeared from view.
With the departure of the mysterious young man the attitude of the woman changed. The hand holding the pistol dropped to her side, and O’Farrel thought, as he stood looking at her, that there was a look of entreaty in her eyes.
After a moment he spoke:
“Well, my lady of the gold kimono,” he said, “I think I know your secret.”
He lit a cigarette casually, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. “That young man is the man who did the killing at Sepach Farm,” said O’Farrel. “Why are you trying to shield him? I’m afraid it won’t be much use. We don’t allow double murderers at large in England you know.”
She started.
“He did not kill both...” she murmured... “not both... only Steitlin.”
She stopped suddenly; and then as suddenly seemed to come to a conclusion. She turned to O’Farrel.
“You are a friend of Captain Peabody — my husband,” she said brokenly. “I will tell you the truth.”
She turned and led the way into the café, and O’Farrel followed.
CHAPTER XV
WHEN THE 8.45 train arrived at Salthaven Junction and Peabody and Kenkins stepped out on to the platform, the slight mist, which seemed to hang over the moorland perpetually, and the continual drizzle of rain, made Peabody more depressed than ever.
