Delphi collected works o.., p.712
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 712
“Don’t know! Something wrong, somewhere. I’ll just have a look.”
Nielson got out and peered round the car with a flashlight. Then he gave an exclamation:
“Good heavens! I say, Karcovski, just have a look at this...!”
The pianist emerged from the car and bent down to look at the spot Nielson pointed out by the back wheel. And as he did so the surgeon suddenly flung all his weight on to the stooping man’s back, forcing him to the ground and grinding his face relentlessly into the mud. And a moment later, with a neat blow behind the ear, robbed him of consciousness.
When the pianist came to he was lying on the floor of the car, neatly strapped up. So neatly that he couldn’t move hand or foot. Above him the exceedingly bright light in the roof of the car glared down at him.
“You see,” Nielson explained, in a quiet conversational tone. “It’s like this. You have been making love to my wife, and that’s a thing I don’t stand for. I know her and I know that she is in love, not with you, but with your fame as a musician. If I take steps to put an end to your fame she will automatically discard you. And that is what I propose to do, you see!”
Karcovski glared up at him with distended eyes, set in a blood-drained face. Then, with an effort he twisted his head round and got a view of shining instruments — wicked, horrible-looking instruments — laid out beside him, and of an iron cylinder, with tubing attached, which Nielson was methodically handling as he spoke.
“You — you’re not going to kill me?”
“Good Lord, no! I might have to swing for you, and you’re not worth it, you know! No, I am not going to kill you — I am merely going to neatly amputate your right hand. So that you will not be able to play again — nor, for that matter, even to embrace your lady-loves with quite so much dexterity as in the past...!”
“But, you fool, you’ll get ten years for that...!”
“I think not. I shall say there has been an accident, and luckily having my instruments with me, I thought it best to amputate on the spot. The only person who can contradict that is yourself, and you will hardly do so — because, you see, that would entail all the details coming out, and I think your own wife would not like them. Besides, you will be very dependent on her in the future, since she has money, and you have always lived up right to your income, philandering being, sometimes, an expensive business!”
“You devil...!” Karcovski opened his mouth to scream, and Nielson neatly planted the mask over his face and turned on the anaesthetic....
Nielson worked quickly, neatly and methodically. His hand did not shake at all now. Only as he made the first incision a little squirt of blood shot up to the roof of the car. Nielson cursed quietly and adjusted the tourniquet.
But when he looked up at the roof he saw that the splash of blood had made a scarlet mark in the shape of a heart, and then Nielson laughed, quietly.
It was almost precisely ten years later and in the summer time, that Nielson, his nerves all to pieces through overwork, asked his old school friend, Thompson, whether he might stay a week-end with him at his country bungalow. And Thompson, of course, agreed.
Nielson went down by car, but in these days he did not drive himself. His nerves were not sufficiently reliable. Some twenty miles out of London he suddenly called to the chauffeur to stop. Then he got out of the car and walked a little way down the road staring about him. He appeared to be looking for something and presently found it, although it seemed to be nothing more exciting than a five-barred gate.
He opened it and went through into the field, still gazing about him like one trying to revive an old memory.
Yes, he thought, this is the place. What a coincidence. There’s where I put the car, against the hedge, out of sight of the road,... And there — just about there — is the very spot where I buried the hand....
He smiled grimly, and went back to the car: “Whereabouts exactly are we, Jones?” he asked the chauffeur.
“Just outside the village of Blakeley, sir!”
“Why, great Scot, that’s where we’re going isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir — just the other side of the village.”
Even more of a coincidence than I thought, was Nielson’s mental comment as he got back into the car.
Thompson’s bungalow was one of those expanding ones sometimes encountered in various picturesque parts of the country. It had started as a single railway coach. Then another one had been added and two linked up by a disused tramcar. Now there was an ‘annexe’ formed by the body of an ancient motor bus, which provided a useful roof garden for looking at the sunsets. There were also various sheds and outhouses.
Nielson arrived in time for dinner and found the place pretty full. Thompson apologised:
“Never know who’s going to drop along this time in the year. We’re mighty popular in the summer — but not so much in the winter! By the way, I suppose you don’t mind dossing down in the sleeping car, do you? It’s very comfortable.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” Nielson answered. “But — what on earth is the sleeping car?”
Thompson chuckled:
“We call it that! It’s just a big old limousine I picked up for a song, and turned into an emergency bedroom. It’s quite surprisingly comfortable, but, of course, it’s apart from the main buildings. You won’t mind that?”
“Not a bit! I’ll probably find it soothing to my nerves, which between you and I and the gatepost, old man, are in a hell of a state!”
“Hard lines!” said Thompson, sympathetically. “But never mind, you’ll find that a day or two of this air will do you a world of good!”
“I hope so!” said Nielson, but with no great hope.
At dinner somebody remarked, “By the way, I heard from my brother — the one in Paris. He tells me that that chap Karcovski — you remember the pianist fellow who lost his hand — is dead. Committed suicide I understand!”
Nielson looked up and spoke. His voice was quite level and unconcerned, but he was crumbling his bread spasmodically as he said:
“Poor devil! He was always a bit crackers, you know. As a matter of fact I knew him well — it was I who amputated that hand. Damned hard lines on the poor devil.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed someone. “How interesting. Do tell us about it. It always struck me as being such a terrible tragedy!”
“Yes,” said Nielson, slowly, staring at the bread he was crumbling, “It was a terrible tragedy! Because, you see, it wasn’t really his fault. She was just built that way, and eventually she went off with another man...!”
“Er — I beg your pardon...?”
Nielson came to himself with a start.
“Oh, the story, of course... I’m sorry.... You see, it was like this...!”
He plunged once more into the lie he had told so many times, and the other guests, who had heard about his nerves, exchanged significant glances.
“You see,” said Thompson, later, as they stood outside the ‘sleeping car,’ “it’s quite comfortable. The bunk — it’s a fixture of course — has a really decent spring-mattress. Those hooks hold your clothes, and this rack will hold everything else you need — ashtray, glass of water, and so on. This switch is the light, and this one controls the electrical heater. The other door, of course, is permanently fastened, and the outside handle takes off this one — here you are, you’d better take it — so that no one can possibly enter without knocking.”
“It looks delightfully comfortable,” Nielson agreed. “Quite a novelty to sleep in an old car, too. I shall sleep like a top...!”
But sleep did not come at once. After Thompson had gone he lay for a while, thinking. He thought of the coincidences of the day — all concerned with Karcovski. Curious his name coming up like that, too.... So he was dead...? Well, that was, maybe, a good thing, poor devil.... He thought, less comfortably, of the hate — the terrible insatiable hate that had burned in Karcovski’s dark eyes the last time they had met his own. That was the sort of hate that might well endure after death..., But that was rubbish... of course, nothing endured after death...! How could it...?
When at last he slept, he dreamed. The face of the maimed musician floated through his dreams, grinning hate. Voices boomed in his ears: “You killed something more than myself — you killed my genius...! For that you will have to pay, Nielson...! These things that have happened to-day were not coincidence, you fool...! A warning that I am coming to exact payment...! Why, the very car you are in...!”
The terrible voice broke off in a shriek of wild eldritch laughter, and Nielson seemed to wake with that laughter ringing in his ears.
Trembling and sweating, his hand reached out for the switch, and as the light went on his eyes were on the roof of the old car. And there, just above his head, was an old brown stain... in the shape of a heart...! Even as he looked it seemed to grow scarlet, and to glow as if with life....
He told himself that such a thing was impossible... This his old car? — pah, a fairy story... And yet — it might be...!
And then the terror that was tearing at his shivering vitals was changed to a new, a more awful one. Outside, something was moving. Scrabbling about like a great insect! Climbing up the side of the car.... Now there was something on the window.... A hand... Nielson, peering over the side of the cot, with white face and staring eyes, saw one of the floor-boards pushed up, and the Thing creeping through...!
It was on the bed now, like a spider crawling on four legs — no, fingers, with the thumb sticking up like a long headless neck.... It seemed to be peering about.... Now on his chest... making for his throat...!
Screaming, choking, Nielson fell into blackness...!
Thompson, of course, had to attend the inquest. When he came back, he reported:
“The verdict was death from natural causes. Heart failure — weakened by nervous strain. Been living on his nerves for years, they said. One doctor suggested he might have died from fright...!”
“How about those finger-marks on his throat?” someone asked.
“Made them himself — must have clutched at his own throat in the throes of a nightmare, so the doctor said. But, all the same, there’s one thing that still puzzles me!”
“And what’s that?”
“How the floor-board came to be shifted like that!” answered Thompson.
But no one had any theory to put forward.
A WOMAN SCORNED
THE SAPPHIRE-BLUE EYES of Miss Sonia de la Rue blazed as they looked straight into those of Detective-Inspector Fergus Latimer. On the other side of the Scotland Yard office, Sergeant Ashe, seated at his desk, grinned. He liked drama.
“Mr. Latimer,” she said, “you have probably heard of the old proverb, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ I am about to give you a practical illustration of that fact. I believe I am right in assuming that you would like to secure evidence to arrest Etienne MacGregor.”
Detective-Inspector Latimer put the tips of his fingers together and considered for a moment.
“Miss de la Rue,” he said, “nothing would give me greater pleasure. During the last three years I have spent the greater portion of my time endeavouring to bring MacGregor to book. I have failed. Anyone who can give me any assistance in this matter is, therefore, more than welcome. You don’t seem to like him very much?” the Inspector queried.
“Like him” said the woman. “I loathe him.” She leaned forward. “Once on a time, Mr. Latimer, I loved that man. I thought he was everything in the world. But I won’t bother you with the details. I simply tell you that I hate him and this is where I have a chance to get even with him. Listen:
“There is a ruby displayed at a jeweller’s shop in New Bond Street — I mean at Carson’s, the diamond merchants. The ruby is at present uncut and unpolished.
“It is called the Lavallière Ruby, and is probably the most priceless specimen in the world to-day. I know this Etienne MacGregor has made up his mind to have that stone. I know that he arrived in London from Paris this morning, and I know that he is going to leave to-morrow evening. Some time between now and to-morrow evening he is going to have that ruby.”
She paused. Latimer looked at Ashe, and that diplomatic product of the Police College consulted his wrist watch and said:
“Five o’clock, sir.”
Latimer smiled at his visitor.
“It is five o’clock,” he said, “and if your story is true it looks as if our friend MacGregor hasn’t got very much time to work. Where are you staying, Miss de la Rue? I should like to know where I can get in touch with you.”
She got up. “I am staying at the Ritz, Mr. Latimer,” she said, “and if you want me you can get me on the telephone. If I have any information for you I’ll call you.”
Latimer got up. Miss de la Rue, slim, charming and with that chic which only the very best of clothes can impart, swept from the office.
Latimer filled and lit his pipe. Then he looked across at Ashe.
“Take a car and go to Carson’s in Bond Street,” he said. “See what the position is about the Lavallière Ruby. See if anybody has enquired about it. When you’ve done that, report to me on the telephone. Oh, and by the way,” he continued as Ashe prepared to leave, “find out where MacGregor is. He’ll be staying at one of his four usual hotels, I expect.”
At a quarter-past six Sergeant Ashe telephoned his superior. “MacGregor’s technique is slipping, sir,” he said, “and it looks as if we’ve got him this time. Here’s the story:
“At twenty minutes past three this afternoon a man answering exactly to the description of Etienne MacGregor walked into Carson’s in New Bond Street and asked to see the Lavallière Ruby. They showed it to him and he enquired the price. They told him it was two thousand pounds, and pointed out that the stone would be worth very much more when it was cut and polished.
“After a close examination he said he would buy the stone. He said that he was a Mr. R. J. S. T. Fielden, that his bankers were the Capital and Counties Bank, Piccadilly Branch, and if they would be good enough to telephone through to the bank and take up any reference they wanted he would return later and give them his cheque for the ruby. Then he went off.
“Immediately he’d gone, Mr. Carson personally telephoned through to the bank. He got them just before closing time. They informed him that Mr. R. J. S. T. Fielden was a very old and valued client of theirs and that his cheque was good for any amount up to fifty thousand pounds.
“All right. At five o’clock this Mr. Fielden — who, of course, is none other than our old friend Etienne MacGregor — walked into Carson’s, said he had decided to buy the stone, gave them a cheque for two thousand pounds signed R. J. S. T. Fielden, and walked out with the ruby, and what do you know about that?”
Latimer grunted. “So the woman was right,” he said. “He has pulled that old racket. First of all he managed somehow to discover that R. J. S. T. Fielden was one of the bank’s best clients. Then he walked into Carson’s and called himself Fielden. They fell for it and handed over the ruby for a worthless cheque.”
He hesitated for a moment. “Have you found out where MacGregor is staying?” he asked.
He heard Ashe chuckle over the telephone.
“He is staying at the Carlton,” said Ashe. “He would be.”
“All right,” said Latimer, “put somebody on his tail; keep him under observation. We’re going to get that bird this time. Tell me, is Mr. Carson still at the shop in Bond Street?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ashe. “I told him to stay around there. I thought you might want to telephone him.”
“O.K.,” said Latimer. “I’ll get through.”
Two minutes later Latimer spoke to Carson on the telephone.
“I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Carson,” he said, “but I think you will find you’ve been taken badly for the Lavallière Ruby. The Mr. Fielden who came into your shop this afternoon and on whom you checked at the bank was none other than Etienne MacGregor, an international crook. To-morrow morning when you present his cheque you’ll find it will be returned dishonoured. What he did was to give you the name of a gentleman holding an account at that bank who is above suspicion. I take it that you’ll prosecute?”
“Will I?” said Carson. “I should think I would! Can you get this fellow — this crook?”
Latimer grinned to himself. “We’ll get him all right this time,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Carson.”
With a self-satisfied smile he hung up the receiver.
At half-past eight that evening, as Detective-Inspector Fergus Latimer was drinking his after-dinner coffee, the Yard telephoned through to his flat and informed him that a lady by the name of Miss de la Rue wished to speak to him urgently.
“Mr. Latimer,” said Miss de la Rue, “I have some further information for you. As you probably know, Etienne MacGregor is staying at the Carlton Hotel. In order to have a closer watch kept on his movements I had a man go and stay there as a guest posing as a dealer in precious stones. Twenty minutes ago Etienne MacGregor, after a conversation in the American bar, offered this man the Lavallière Ruby for seven hundred and fifty pounds spot cash.”
Latimer grinned. “Thank you very much, Miss de la Rue,” he said. “That completes the case. In an hour’s time I think I can promise you that our friend Mr. MacGregor will be behind the bars at Cannon Row. Good-night, and thank you.”
And as he hung up he heard with a cynical grin the exclamation of pleasure that came from the charming lips of Miss de la Rue.
At eleven o’clock that night Fergus Latimer, seated at his desk, looked blandly into the smiling eyes of Mr. Etienne MacGregor.
“Well, it looks as if the game’s up this time, MacGregor,” he said. “I am very much afraid that we’ve got you.”
Etienne MacGregor shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, “Tell me something, Latimer,” he said, “where did you get your information? Was it by any chance a lady called Miss de la Rue?”
Latimer nodded. “Right first time,” he said. MacGregor shook his head sadly. “I always knew it,” he said. “I always knew that if I ever did slip it would be through a woman. May I ask exactly what you’re going to do?”
