Complete works of peter.., p.560
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 560
"I'm seeing daylight," I tell him. "The idea is to get Fremer sprung out of the pen so that they can take a run-out powder to Switzerland together."
He don't say nothin'. He just looks at me.
"Now listen, Brilliance," he says after a bit. "We're goin' to have another go to spring this guy, but this time we ain't goin' to work the same way. I see that Red Schultz is in that pen, too, an' I have been talkin' to some pals of his an' they want him sprung, an' I have told 'em that I will look over the job.
"You gotta fix a watertight scheme to get this Fremer out within a coupla weeks, an' Red Schultz has got to be sprung, too. Then everybody is goin' to think that Schultz's pals have pulled it. But nobody is to say a word to Fremer. Schultz can know, an' when the time comes for the break he can bring Fremer out with him. Now go an' get busy."
Well, this time we fix it.
SIX nights later, Jimmy an' me are sittin' in a roadhouse like we have planned an' I get a tinkle there from one of the prison guards' wives who is on the job that Schultz an' Fremer are out an' that it will be about half an hour before the escape is known.
McGonnigle—another one of Jimmy's boys—is pickin' up Fremer in a car at an arranged spot, an' Schultz's pals are meetin' him with a car at another place.
Jimmy is drinkin' a highball at the bar, an' I go over an' tell him that everything is O.K.
We go outside an' we get in the car an' we drive off.
IT is two o'clock in the mornin' when we pull up at Schrelt's house. Jimmy rings the bell an' after a bit Schreit opens up the door. Jimmy steps inside an' Schreit asks him what he wants.
"Twenty grand," says Jimmy.
Schreit looks at Jimmy like he was goofy, but he takes us into some room an' asks what all this hooey is about.
Jimmy lights a cigar.
"Listen, Schreit," he says. "You're in bad an' you're goin' to pay plenty to get out.
"You knew that this dame Fernand was all set to pass out with tubercular, an' you also knew that there was only one thing she wanted to do before she died, an' that was to kill Fremer because he was the guy who was responsible for all that had happened to her.
"So you get her along an' give her ten grand for me to spring Fremer, so that she would bump him off, an' then you would have the dough he turned over to you before he was sent up. An' you also knew that she won't worry you any more because she would get herself pinched for the killin'.
"But you oughta have got her shoes mended before she came around to see me, because that made me start thinkin'.
"Now Fremer is out, an' if I tell him about your little game what do you think he's goin' to do to you? He's goin' to bump you off, ain't he?
"Now, if I get twenty grand I'll look after him. If I don't, then I'm going to bring you boys together.
"Well, do we trade?"
Schreit is scared stiff. He makes a lot of talk, but he pays up. Jimmy puts the dough in his pocket an' we say good-night an' scram.
WE drive around to the Madison Arms, where this Cynthia Fernand is staying', an' we go up to her apartment an' knock her up. Is she surprised?
Jimmy puts the dough on the table and hands her a packet.
"Listen, lady," he says. "There's your steamer tickets and reservations for Switzerland, an' there's twenty grand for expenses. You're leaving' tomorrow."
He says goodnight an' we go off, leaving' her with her mouth open.
We drive round to the office an' Jimmy pours two stiff ones out of a flask, an' then he hands me five hundred-dollar bills.
"That's for you, Face-ache," he says, "an' I don't think you was worth it."
"Say, listen, Jimmy," I say. "What is this? What's the setup? Where's Fremer, an' what do you get outa this?"
He grins.
"I knew that Fremer would fix it so that he wouldn't escape the first time because he knew the dame was all set to get him," he said. "But that suited me.
"When that broke I went to the Commissioner an' told him that I'd got information that there would be more attempts to break out; that the guards was all fixed, but that I could handle the job for five grand.
"It worked. McGonnigle and me was sworn in as special deputies to bust the plot—an' we bust it. The Schultz mob was pinched by some other guys, an' when McGonnigle met Fremer he shot him for resisting' arrest—like I told him to."
He puts his hat over one eye.
"Listen, Unconscious," he says. "You gotta look after the office for a bit. I'm takin a vacation."
"Where you goin', Jimmy?" I say. "The coast?"
"No," he says. "Switzerland."
The Gypsy Warned Me
I JUST can't begin to tell you how bored I was. I went up to her and said: "Clairette, it's been the most lovely party. I'm terribly sorry I've got to go... but I've the worst sort of headache and I must lie down. I've had a lovely time...."
"But not at this party?" she asked, with a smile that was definitely acid. "Of course, Mignon, darling, I'm awfully sorry you've got to go. I must say you look a little tired... but then you've been to see that fortune-telling woman this afternoon, haven't you? Did she depress you?"
"Not particularly," I said. I was frenzied to get to my own apartment—which is next to Clairette Glynn's—because we had a cocktail party due to start in a few minutes and I wanted to see Robert—Robert is my husband—first.
"On the contrary, she was really rather hopeful," I added. I began to move towards the door.
She said over her shoulder: "Was she? I'm so glad for you. I thought she might have said something depressing about Robert! Good-bye, darling."
I wriggled through the crowd and made my way into the hall. I wondered exactly what she had meant by that last snooty remark. I began to think about the fortune-teller.
Why women ever go to fortune-tellers, I don't know. To pass the time, I suppose. But this one had seemed very definite. She'd said that I was to meet a slim, good-looking, dark-haired man; that he was to cause trouble in my life; that I should beware of a disagreement with someone very close to me—that would be Robert.
Sebastian Glynn—Clairette's husband-was standing by the entrance door. He is head over heels in love with his wife and lets her know it too often. He is short, plump, vague, slightly short-sighted, and depressing.
He hissed in my ear: "Mignon, I've got to talk to you for a moment before you go. Please... just one moment!"
He took me by the hand and dragged me into the dining room. He said: "I'm fearfully worried about Clairette—terribly worried."
I said: "Yes, Sebastian? Is she worried, too?"
He shook his head. "A woman only worries about the future before marriage," he said grimly. "A man does the worrying afterwards. Mignon... believe it or not, there is another man!"
"Not another! The trouble with Clairette is that she has a head like a door-knob. Anyone can turn it." I felt slightly better after that one!
He hissed: "This time it's serious. Mignon, I've got to go back now, otherwise Clairette will miss me. For pity's sake, ring me up later when she's gone out and tell me what to do. She says she's going off with this man. He's a poet or a writer or something equally repulsive."
He pressed a folded sheet of notepaper into my hand. "This is a letter she had from him this morning. Take it away, Mignon, read it, and think about the whole thing and telephone me. Clairette says she can't bear me any longer; that she wants a divorce. I'm going mad—but mad!"
"You're not going mad," I said. "You are mad. She probably wants a new hat or something."
"I must go," he said, "or she'll suspect. Promise you'll telephone me at ten o'clock to-night."
"Oh, very well," I said, "I'll do that." I walked out of the dining-room and sneaked through the front door.
I felt rather more depressed. I didn't see why I should get mixed up with the affairs of Clairette and Sebastian and "the other man." I regretted going to her cocktail party.
I walked down the corridor and let myself into the flat. I looked across the hall and saw, through the half-open door of the drawing-room, that some guests had already arrived.
Then I heard Robert's voice talking to somebody. I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped quickly into my bedroom. I switched on the light, closed the door, and read the letter which Sebastian had thrust into my hand.
It was written on a sheet of violet notepaper, with a monogram in one corner, and the handwriting was, I thought, weak and spidery. There was no address or date, and the note read:
My darling,
After our last talk I know that you belong to me: that I must take you away from him.... 'To where the nodding flowers bend, we'll wend our way until the end.' Charming, don't you think?
He is not the man for you, dearest. He doesn't understand you. How could he? He is coarse, materialistic, and could never realise the subtle and innate nuances of your sweet nature... 'Oh, doubly blest, oh, dearly missed, oh, sweetly met, oh, dearly kissed....' Doesn't that describe you, my own... but actually... definitely?
I know that you are dining out to-night. While you are out I shall come to the flat and see him. I shall tell him that I am going to take you away. His blustering and bullying will not affright me.
In deepest, most solemn love,
Your Hubert.
I felt vaguely sick, except that the idea of the unfortunate Sebastian blustering or bullying anyone was rather amusing. I threw the note on my dressing-table. Now my head was really aching rather badly.
I took off my hat, sneaked across the hall, down the long passage. I went into the bathroom and bathed my temples with eau-de-Cologne.
I stood there, in front of the mirror, putting my hair to rights and wondering how I could possibly advise the unfortunate Sebastian. Of course, the honest thing to do was to tell him to let things take their course. If any woman ever deserved Hubert—whoever he was—Clairette did!
After a while I gave it up and walked into the drawing room. In a moment I was surrounded by all the people who wanted to talk to me, while out of the corner of my eye I was looking for Robert, who—at that moment—was the one person to whom I wanted to talk. I could not see him. I wondered what had happened to him.
Just then, Annette, my maid, passed me with a tray of cocktails. I stopped her. I asked her if she knew where my husband was.
"_Mais oui_, Madame," she said. "'E went away joos some leetle time ago. 'E ees in the library weeth a gentleman."
I went on talking to people, but I felt worried about Robert. It was not like him to leave his guests and disappear in the middle of a party in order to confer with a friend.
And while I was thinking that, he came into the room. I went over to him very quickly and said: "Good evening, Robert. Are you glad to see me?" I gave him my best smile.
He said coldly, "Not particularly, Kitten. Is there any reason why I should be?"
I looked at him in amazement. Then I saw that he had hurt his right hand. There was a large piece of adhesive plaster covering a dressing on the back of his hand.
I said. "But I don't understand, Robert! And what have you done to your hand?"
He said caustically, "We'll discuss these things later, when all these people have gone. In the meantime, you might try and behave like the Comtesse d'Épernay and not like a—a—" He was so angry he could hardly speak.
He turned on his heel and went away. Directly I had an opportunity I sneaked out of the drawing-room.
On my way I told one of the maids to ask Robert to apologise for me and to say good-bye to people when they decided to go. I threw myself on the bed and wondered about Robert. Then I had a good cry. Then I began to think about Sebastian Glynn and Clairette and the ridiculous poet Hubert.
I got up and went to the dressing-table to re-read Hubert's fatuously dramatic letter. When I got there I experienced a rather nasty shock.
The letter was gone!
It was half-past eight when I went into the drawing-room. Robert was standing by the sideboard mixing himself a whisky and soda.
"Robert," I asked, "whatever is the matter? Whatever did you mean by that odd remark you made to me during the party? I don't understand."
"No?" said Robert. He grinned cynically. The devil of it is that whatever Robert does and however he looks and behaves he's always really quite adorable—if you know what I mean. It's awfully difficult to be really angry with him.
"No?" he repeated. "So you don't understand. You carry on an intrigue with a disreputable cretin in corduroy trousers and a dark brown shirt that could do with a good washing. An individual who wears terrible perfumed hair-oil and has the latest thing in not-too-clean fingernails. An..."
I boiled over. "How dare you!" I hissed. "How dare you!" I stood in the middle of the room almost speechless with rage.
"A charming scene," I said eventually. "Monsieur le Comte Robert d'Épernay—a member of one of France's oldest families— talking to his wife in a manner that is reminiscent of a not very sober Apache. Behaving...."
"Nuts!" said Robert. Like most Frenchmen he loves using American slang. "Don't bother to put on an act. And don't bother to deny it. I know where you met him and what has been going on. Nothing you can say will make the slightest difference."
"That's so very fair," I said icily. "But as you know so much, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me just where I did meet this man?"
"You know perfectly well you met him at the house of that charlatan to whom you go to have your fortune told."
My head was spinning. I didn't know what to say, and if I had known what to say I shouldn't have known how to begin.
"Perhaps," I managed to splutter eventually, "you'll be good enough to tell me where you managed to obtain this fearfully fatuous extract from some very cheap novelette that you've been reciting. Possibly you will tell me..."
He interrupted. "Yes, I'll tell you. I've had the information first hand. From the man himself. He has the effrontery to come to this house and to tell me in my own library that he intends to go off with my wife; that I am to be divorced; and what financial settlement do I propose to make on her! That's where I got my information. From your weird-looking conquest Hubert Pettiflow—the long and greasy-haired near-poet!"
I nearly sprang into the air. Hubert! So that was the explanation. Hubert—Clairette's new boy-friend! I took a pull at myself and refrained from laughing with great difficulty. I just stood there, and, after a moment, managed to assume the most terrible air of injured innocence ever seen.
"He told me all about it," said Robert, almost choking with anger. "And then, as if that wasn't enough, after I'd taken him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants and thrown him down the stairs; after I'd done that, I went into your bedroom to find you and discovered, on your dressing-table, that sickening epistle."
Robert began to walk up and down the room waving his arms about in a manner intended to be dramatic or poetic or both. "'To where the nodding flowers bend we'll wend our way until the end... Oh, doubly blest, oh dearly missed, oh sweetly met, oh dearly kissed...'"
He began to roar with laughter. And I did some quick thinking. It was really very funny.
The unfortunate Hubert had arrived for his interview with Sebastian—whom he had never met; had gone to the wrong flat—it's fearfully easy to mistake our apartment for the Glynns', which is at the other side of the corridor; had walked straight into Robert in the hall, mistaken him for Sebastian; said his little piece and was then thrown out on his ear for his pains.
Robert had then gone tearing about the flat and had found Hubert's letter to Clairette—which had no name on it; and was, by this time, convinced of the worst.
A lovely situation—for me! I wondered just what my delightful Robert would do when he learned, the truth. This, I thought, is where I must teach the Comte Robert d'Èpernay a lesson.
I said, in a small and very hurt voice: "Robert... would you care to listen to me for a moment?"
"No," he said, glaring at me. "No... I wouldn't... No... 'Oh sweetly met... Oh dearly kissed...' No, I don't want to listen. I've heard quite enough for one evening."
"You haven't heard half as much as you're going to hear," I retorted. "Do you think you can talk to me as you have this evening, Robert? I can't understand it."
"Oh, can't you?" said Robert. "There are a lot of things you can't understand. And there, are one or two things that you will have to understand."
"Such as?" I queried in what I intended to be an extremely dignified voice.
Robert's attitude changed. He put down the cocktail glass, which he had been holding in his right hand, on the sideboard. He shrugged his shoulders. He said in an odd sort of voice: "Listen, you might as well know that I'm not too upset about this business of yours with this Hubert Pettiflow for one reason."
I raised my eyebrows, "Really! What reason?"
Robert said: "Well, I might as well admit it... so far as I'm concerned there's someone else, too."
I felt as if some icy fingers had gripped my heart. I don't think I'd ever realised until that moment just how much I loved Robert. I said airily: "This is most interesting. Perhaps you'd like to tell me about it."
I felt terribly miserable.
He said: "Well, you'll have to know about it sooner or later, I suppose."
I asked: "Who is she... and what is she like? I expect she's terribly attractive—very nice? I expect she has all the virtues—all the charm—that I haven't."
He lit a cigarette. He said: "Actually, she is very charming—a most delightful person. And I'm very, very fond of her." There was a pause; then he went on: "I don't think I've ever thought about any woman so much in my life as I have about her."
"I see," I said tersely. This last part of Robert's speech I thought sounded very definite and final. I said to myself, Mignon, my girl... it looks as if you've had it!
