Delphi collected works o.., p.502
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 502
‘I’ve got that for you,’ said Duplessis. ‘It’s safely stowed away in my bank at the moment. Vowles was a fool — he’s always been a fool, that one. He missed his opportunity, but I rather fancy that curiosity got the better of him. He was clever enough, to close his business down and clear his banking account, but he wasn’t clever enough to get away when he had the opportunity. Curiosity killed Vowles. Directly he had a chance he went over to The Last House to warn Ragosin. Had he been content to do that he’d have been all right, but the probability is that Vowles, having, by some means best known to himself, got an idea about the fresco, was experimenting with the plumb-line when Ragosin arrived.
‘Ragosin was shot full of dope. He probably caught Vowles in the act, and Ragosin, like the others, had been told very much, in confidence by Sardonin that he would find his money in the wall by pressing the spot indicated. Ragosin thought that Vowles was after it, so he killed Vowles — which, after all, is no great loss to the community, but very inconvenient for Mr. Vowles.’
‘So Vowles is dead?’ she murmured.
‘Exactly,’ said Duplessis. ‘The only lucky one seems to be M. Baourdat. You’ll have to arrange to send Baourdat back his money.’
‘That will not be difficult, M’sieu,’ she said. ‘I know him. He was a friend of my brother’s.’
‘Good,’ said Duplessis.
‘Also,’ she continued, ‘M. Baourdat was not the only lucky one. I think that I have been very lucky, too.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Duplessis, ‘I think you have been. You know, you’re not at all the conventional type of murderess. Incidentally, I hope you won’t be annoyed with me when I tell you that I think that if it had come to the actual point you never would have killed Sardonin. I don’t think you could have done it, but I could not take any chances. And, you know, this isn’t; a bad home, is it?’
‘I have been very happy during the short time I have been here,’ she said. ‘Now I feel happier still. A little brightness has come back Into the world — a world which seemed so very dark and empty.’
‘That sounds good to me,’ said Duplessis. ‘In three or four weeks’ time, Mademoiselle, I expect you to be looking more radiant than ever.’
He got up, and held out his hand. ‘Good-bye, Mademoiselle,’ he said.
She hesitated. ‘I do not like to shake hands with you, M’sieu Duplessis,’ she said, ‘because I do not like to hear you say “Good-bye.” Shall we not say “Au revoir”?’
‘Why not?’ said Duplessis. ‘It was only because I wanted to hear you say that that I said “good-bye.” I hope we shall meet again, Mademoiselle.’
In the half darkness he saw her smile. ‘I am sure of it. M’sieu,’ she said. ‘When I am better I will telephone you, and if you will wait in your so very high office at Shoe Lane perhaps I will come and see you. You must remember that the notes were counterfeit. You are still unrewarded.’
Duplessis paused, his hand on the door-knob.
‘Mademoiselle La Vicomtesse,’ he said, ‘I am very patient because I have learnt that all things come to him who waits.’
THE END
The Sign on the Roof (1935)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. Thursday, November 9, 7 p.m.
CHAPTER II. Thursday, November 9, 10.25 p.m.
CHAPTER III. Friday, November 10
CHAPTER IV. Saturday Morning, November 13
CHAPTER V. Saturday, November 11, Afternoon
CHAPTER VI. Saturday, November 11, Night
CHAPTER VII. Saturday, November 11, Midnight.
CHAPTER VIII. Sunday, November 12, Morning, 10.30.
CHAPTER IX. Sunday Morning, November 12, 12 o’clock
CHAPTER X. Sunday Afternoon, November 12, 3.30 p.m.
CHAPTER XI. Sunday Evening, November 12, 7.30 p.m.
CHAPTER XII. Sunday Evening, November 12, 8.30 p.m.
CHAPTER XIII. Sunday, November 12, 10.30 p.m.
CHAPTER XIV. Sunday, November 12, 11.30 p.m.
CHAPTER XV. Monday, November 13, 12.45 a.m.
CHAPTER XVI. Monday Morning, November 13, 2 a.m.
CHAPTER XVII. Monday, November 13, 2.30 a.m.
CHAPTER XVIII. Monday, November 13, 4 a.m.
CHAPTER XIX. Monday, November 13, 4.30 a.m.
CHAPTER XX. Monday, November 13, 8.30 a.m.
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.”
