Dark Bahama E-Book

Peter Cheyney

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

FOURTEEN miles off the tail end of Andros Island in the Bahamas lies the island called Dark Bahama—which, says the guide book, is a natural paradise.
Day and night the golden sand beaches, the calm inlets, the palms, the cats-tail trees, are bathed in sunlight and moonshine—especially moonshine. It is always summer except when a half-hurricane strikes in the season and the drunks have another excuse for nerve troubles.

Leseprobe

DARK BAHAMA

PETER CHEYNEY

1950

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835851

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Nut-brown baby, you got rovin' eyes.

You don' say nothin' but yo' sure is wise.

You don' say nothin' with dem honey lips

But yo' sure say plenty when you swing dem hips.

Ah feel de knife in ma breeches when yo' swing dem hips

At dem high-yaller bastards off de sailin' ships.

1

FOURTEEN miles off the tail end of Andros Island in the Bahamas lies the island called Dark Bahama—which, says the guide book, is a natural paradise.

Day and night the golden sand beaches, the calm inlets, the palms, the cats-tail trees, are bathed in sunlight and moonshine—especially moonshine. It is always summer except when a half-hurricane strikes in the season and the drunks have another excuse for nerve troubles.

Many people—people not looking for trouble—have discovered that they can find plenty of it in a place where the atmosphere is filled with sunlight and happiness, moonlight and love, calypso melodies, hard liquor and what-will-you.

Love, light and laughter live on Dark Bahama, and if these lovely attributes are gently interrupted by the soft sea-winds sighing in the palm trees and between the jacaranda groves, it may well be that the same sweet sounds are no louder than the cries of those ladies and gentlemen who have discovered that some minds are impervious to the beauties of nature and that it sometimes pays to watch your step even in a natural paradise like Dark Bahama.

Of course things are not like they were in the good old prohibition days when anybody with a sixty-foot motor-boat and enough money to take aboard a cargo of hooch at Jamaica could make a fortune if they were smart enough to run past the U.S. Coast Guard cutters that lay, like sharks waiting for a bite, off the Miami coast.

Dark Bahama is a small island. Thirty-six miles by eleven, it is a slice of heaven in a summer sea. A place of sweet rest and what-have-you-got-baby.

And you can always buy what you want if you want it, and if nobody else is a trifle more interested in having it too.

If you see what I mean.

A SMALL WIND was blowing when Mervyn Jacques—a coloured gentleman with plenty of what-it-takes where dark lady lovers were concerned—came out of the Green Cat saloon, walked down to the quay, boarded his fishing motor-boat, sat in the stern and lighted a cigarette.

Jacques was of middle height. As negroes go, he was good looking. He wore a pair of rope-soled shoes, dark blue, gaberdine pants and a thin silk shirt. He moved like a cat and you could see the muscles ripple under his thin shirt. On his black, curly hair he wore a red skull cap with a long peak. He sat there, smoking his cigarette, drawing deep breaths of tobacco smoke into his lungs. After a while he threw the cigarette stub over the side. He began to sing "Nut-brown Baby." He had a quiet, rather soothing, tenor voice. He liked singing. It made him feel happy.

"Nut-brown baby, you got rovin' eyes.

You don' say nothin' but yo' sure is wise...."

Jacques turned his head when he heard Mellin's footsteps on the quay; Mellin was tall; thin. He was a white man with a sun-browned skin.

He said: "Hi, Skip...." He jumped into the stern; stepped up on to the narrow passage-way that ran past the pole-supported awning; went forrard. He called out: "Where's the customer, Skipper?"

Jacques lighted another cigarette. He said: "You tell me! When ah think of all the goddam time ah stick around here waiting for that no-good bastard...."

Mellin said: "He'll be along."

Jacques heard the click as the ship's lights went on. He said: "Hey, Mellin, you get some whisky out, see? Ah reckon when he comes aboard he's gonna have a skinful and he'll want more. Ah reckon he'll start bawlin' for whisky."

Mellin said: "You seen the straps on that fishing seat?"

"Ah seen 'em," said Jacques. "What's the matter with dem straps?"

"They're sorta frayed. Another thing, those straps was all right two days ago. Maybe somebody's been messing around with this boat."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. "Ah'm not gettin' excited."

Mellin said in a surly voice: "If it's O.K. by you, it's O.K. by me. What do I care?"

"That's right, boy. Don't you care about anythin'. Ah don' care about anythin', an' ah'm the skipper. So what do you have to care?"

Mellin, who was right forrard, leaned on the canopy, looking over the top towards the quay.

He said: "Boy, here he comes. Jeez... an' is he high...!"

Jacques got up. He walked between the two steel-girdered fishing seats in the stern of the boat. He jumped up on to the stern.

He called out: "Hi, Mister Sandford... ah'm glad to see you... thought maybe you wasn't comin' with us."

Sandford lurched on to the boat. He was big, burly, over six feet tall. He jumped at the stern slope; fell into the cockpit. Jacques, moving like a cat, caught him before he hit the floor.

He said: "You take it easy, boss. You take it easy.... Look, let me give you a little straightener...."

"Goddam you, nobody has to tell me to take it easy." Sandford's voice was thick. "And what the hell are we waiting for? Let's get the hell out of here."

Jacques said softly: "Yo're the boss, Mister Sandford." He hollared: "Hey, Mellin. You got that blood aboard?"

Mellin said: "Yeah.... I got it forrard here... four buckets."

Sandford said: "What the hell's all the talk about? Do we have to stay here all night?"

He sat down on the board seat that ran round the cockpit. He took a flask from his pocket; unscrewed the stopper; took a long swig.

Jacques said: "Here we go, boss." He moved forward in the cockpit; switched on. He let the engine run, came back to the stern and cast off. The boat began to move, slowly at first, then gathering speed. A mile off the island Jacques took her in a half-circle, round the bottom of Andros Island. He headed in the direction of Cat Island.

Sandford was trying to light a cigarette. Over his shoulder Jacques watched him trying to get his lighter somewhere near the end of the cigarette. After several attempts he succeeded. He leaned back, drawing on the cigarette, trying to pull himself together.

Jacques began to whistle softly to himself.

Sandford said: "For crissake!... Why don't you get yourself another tune. Every goddam time I come near you you're whistling or singing 'Nut-brown baby.'"

Jacques said: "Sorry, boss... sorta like that old song. It's got somethin', you know, Mister Sandford."

The moon came out from behind a cloud. The sea was quiet, but the air was hot and there was a restlessness about. Mellin, making some coffee forrard, thought it was one of those uncomfortable things. The heat was occasionally relieved by a sharp breath of cool wind. Mellin thought when the wind came it felt like an icebox, and when it wasn't there the night was like an oven. You sweated or chilled, but most of the time you sweated.

He brought the coffee. Sandford drank it in great gulps.

Jacques said: "Mister Sandford don't want no coffee. He just had some whisky. What the hell he want with coffee?"

Sandford seemed a little better. He asked: "Where're we going? I want a big one to-night—a real one, see?"

Jacques said softly: "Ah know exactly how you're feelin', Mister Sandford. Ah know.... We'll get one. They been around here to-day—amber heads an' all sorts." He busied himself preparing the line. When it was ready Sandford lurched into the fishing seat. He heaved himself into the chair and sat back.

Jacques said: "You play it quietly, Mister Sandford, an' you'll sure get a big one, ah promise you." He went back to the wheel; cut the engine. Now the boat was moving slowly in a wide circle. Mellin was still standing forrard leaning on the canopy.

Jacques said: "You put the blood overboard, boy. We'll play around it."

"O.K.," said Mellin.

Sandford, sitting in the stern, watched the scene drunkenly; heard the splash as the buckets of blood went overboard.

Jacques kept the boat moving slowly in a wide circle. Mellin put his head under the canopy. He said: "He's sitting in the port seat—the one I told you about."

Jacques said in a low, quiet voice: "Go fry an egg, you goddam punk. What you worryin' about... hey? Why the hell don' you keep that goddam trap shut? You make me tired.... Yes, sir... an' how!"

Now the moon came out of a cloud. For a few minutes it was bright. The moon lay across the calm waters like a silver dagger. Jacques began to narrow the circle the boat was making, in the centre of which Mellin had thrown the blood. The boat circled easily. There was little sound. Then the moon went behind a cloud. The sea was dark again.

Quietly, Jacques began to whistle, almost under his breath: "Nut-brown baby..." Mellin was forrard. He sat with his back to the bow, looking over the canopy watching the stern. He saw the shark's fin.

He yelled: "Here she comes!... Here she comes, Mr. Sandford...."

The shark's fin showed fifty yards astern of the boat. Jacques cut the speed to nothing. He stood, one hand on the wheel, half-turned, watching Sandford.

The shark dived; took the hook.

Sandford said: "Jeez... a big one...." He leaned forward in the seat. Then, as the line jerked, he went out of the seat; shot across the stern. He knelt in the stern sheets, his face stupid. He tried to get to his knees.

The line jerked again. Sandford went over the stern into the sea. A split second later Jacques, the cigarette stub still hanging from the corner of his mouth, saw the fin and the twist of the tail as the shark turned.

Mellin said hoarsely: "For God's sake..." He ran towards the stern; knelt, hanging over, looking into the water.

There was a fearful shriek, a flurry of foam, then quietness.

Mellin, white-faced, turned. He saw that Jacques was lighting a fresh cigarette. He moved towards the negro.

He said: "Well, it's got him. He didn't even get the belt done up. If he had it wouldn't have been any goddam good to him." He was sweating.

Jacques looked at him in the half-light. The moon came out from the clouds. Jacques looked over his shoulder at the sea. It was calm and moonlit.

He said: "What d'you always get so goddam excited about? It ain't the first time a shark got a fisherman, is it—'specially when he's high an' don' know what he's doin'? See what I mean?"

Mallin said: "Yeah, I ain't worrying. It's not my boat."

Jacques said: "You won' never have no boat. No, sir... you won' never have no boat, boy, because you get so goddam excited. An accident can happen—can't it? Ah reckon it's no good us stickin' around here. We can't do nothin'. Maybe we'll put back." He went on: "You get yourself a cup of coffee, Mellin. Ah'm mighty sorry about this... mighty sorry! Mister Sandford was a great guy... ev'body like Mister Sandford."

Mellin said: "Maybe... except when he was drunk... and he was always drunk."

Jacques said: "That's a silly thing to say. Ah reckon Mister Sandford wasn't drunk to-night. No, sir... he was sober all right. Ah never seen him so sober. See, Mellin?"

Mellin said slowly: "Yeah... yeah.... I guess he was sober."

Jacques smiled. He showed his even, white teeth. "You good boy, Mellin. You never know... maybe you keep your nose clean an' one day you'll get a boat—a boat like this. A swell boat, see?"

Mellin said: "I'm going to have some coffee."

Jacques jumped on to the narrow passage-way that ran round the boat. He took off his left canvas shoe. He put his foot under the canopy and took the wheel between his black toes. He stood there, hanging on to the side of the canopy, steering the boat towards the lights of Dark Bahama.

He began to croon. He sang softly: "Nut-brown baby, you got rovin' eyes...."

2

VALLON came out of the lift; began to walk towards the offices of Chennault Investigations. He looked at his strap-watch. It was ten o'clock—too soon for Madeleine to have left the theatre. He walked down the corridor past the telephone operators' room; the night staff room. He unlocked the door of his office; switched on the lights; took off his hat; sat at his desk. He lighted a cigarette; put his feet up on the desk.

After a while he moved the house telephone towards him with one foot; reached forward; picked up the transmitter. He said to the girl on the switchboard: "Is Mr. Marvin in?"

"No, Mr. Vallon. He went out about half an hour ago. He said he'd be back soon after eleven."

Vallon asked: "Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. I'd have called you before but I didn't know you were back. There is a lady in the waiting-room. She wants to see you."

Vallon asked: "Who is she, Mavis?"

"I don't know," said the girl. "When I told her that you weren't here but were coming back she said she'd wait. I asked her her name. She said she didn't want to give it."

"All right," said Vallon. "Send her in, Mavis."

He took his feet off the desk.

The side door leading from Vallon's office to the staff offices opened. Johns, one of the night staff, ushered a woman into the room. He went away, closing the door quietly behind him.

Vallon got up. He said: "Well, for God's sake... Thelma...! Wonders will never cease."

She stood in the middle of the floor. He thought she made a superb picture. She was tall, slim, supple, curved in all the right places. Her blue-black hair made a vivid foil for her camellia-coloured skin and scarlet lips. She wore a close-fitting, black crêpe cocktail frock, trimmed all over with tiny jet tassels. Over it she wore a mink cloak. Her stockings were sheer, her tiny feet encased in high-heeled, black satin sandals. She wore long, pale-pink gloves, a close-fitting feather hat to match.

She said: "Well, sweet?..."

He came round the desk. He stood looking at her. He said: "Has anybody ever told you that you look good enough to eat, Thelma?"

She nodded. Her dark eyes were sparkling. "Somebody did once. You did. That was before you became quite so important as you are now—the proprietor of Chennault Investigations—the man who took a run-out powder on me."

Vallon laughed. She thought she liked the look of him when he laughed. His quiet eyes shone wickedly, and when his lips parted you could see his strong white teeth, the clear-cut line of his jaw.

He said: "Why don't you sit down and have a cigarette?" He pushed a large leather armchair in front of his desk. She sat down. He gave her a cigarette; lighted it.

"So I took a run-out powder on you, did I? That's a slander."

She smiled up at him. She said in her soft, low voice: "It's almost true, Johnny. If you hadn't been in such a hurry to go off and marry some woman I think there might have been some future for us."

Vallon shook his head. He sat down on the edge of the desk looking at her. He said: "That's what you say now, and it's a long time ago, Thelma. Maybe you've forgotten that you took a run-out powder on me and got yourself married before I did."

She smiled; shrugged her shoulders prettily. "What are a few years between friends, Johnny? By the way, how is Mrs. Vallon?" She leaned forward a little. "You're not telling me that you've been faithful to one woman for more than a few months, are you?"

Vallon said: "You bet!... When I've found a good thing I stick to it."

She raised her eyebrows. "So she's all that good, is she?"

"Better than that." Vallon got up; walked round the desk; sat down in his chair. "I never expected to see you, and certainly not at this time of night. It's only by chance I'm here. I was filling in time before I went to the theatre to meet my wife."

She said: "I see...."

There was a little silence. They sat looking at each other.

Suddenly Vallon asked abruptly: "What's this in aid of, Thelma? Is this a social call or is it business?"

She got up. She began to walk round the room. Vallon thought that she certainly knew how to move. She was as graceful as a cat. She turned and stood on the far side of the room, leaning against the wall. She looked remarkably effective like that. He thought that everything about her was very effective. She knew how to talk, how to carry herself, how to do everything.

She said: "You might call it business, Johnny... nobody's business...!"

He grinned at her. "So it's like that, is it? When you have business that's nobody's business you have to come to Chennault Investigations. It sounds like a murky story. What have you been doing, Thelma?"

"Believe it or not, Johnny, I haven't been doing anything. After Jim died—"

Vallon interrupted. "So he's dead? I'm sorry to hear that, Thelma."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I wasn't too sorry," she said. "It's only after one's married that one discovers it should have been somebody else."

Vallon said uneasily: "Meaning who?"

"Meaning you," she said. "But, as Mr. Kipling says, that's another story. However, this particular business doesn't concern me. It concerns a woman who is a close friend of mine—a very close friend."

"Yes?" He stubbed out his cigarette. He sat, his elbows resting on the desk, his long thin hands clasped, looking at her.

She went on: "This woman is a very nice person. Her name is Nicola Steyning."

Vallon said suddenly: "Would you like a drink?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks, Johnny. But you have one. I've never known you to be too far away from a whisky bottle."

He smiled at her. "You'd be surprised! I'm a reformed character." He opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk; took out the flask of Bourbon. He unscrewed the top; put the neck in his mouth; took a long swig.

She walked across the room; sat down in the chair in front of the desk. She said: "Still the same old Johnny."

He said: "Let's forget me. Let's talk about Nicola Steyning. Is it Mrs. or Miss?"

"It's Mrs.... She's forty-three and looks thirty."

"I know," said Vallon. "That type—beautiful and charming and nice! She's got to be beautiful; otherwise she wouldn't be in trouble. Because she's got to be in trouble; otherwise you wouldn't be here telling me about her. What is it—money or some man?"

"You're wrong for once, Johnny. It's her daughter—Viola Steyning."

He said, with a grin: "I bet she's good looking too."

She nodded. "She has too much everything. Her figure's too good, her legs are too good and she's got too much money. You know how that adds up, don't you?"

He said: "Yes. Usually a bad sum of addition. What's she been doing?"

She snuggled back into her chair, resting her pink gloved hands on the arms. She leaned her head against the back of the chair; looked at him through half-closed lids.

She said nonchalantly: "She's a bad lot, Johnny. Her mother, Nicola, thought it might be a good thing for her if she did a little travelling. So she travelled. Nicola hasn't heard from her for quite a time. Do you know the Bahamas?"

Vallon shook his head. "I've never been there, but I've seen a picture of it. Which part are we talking about?"

"We're talking about the island called Dark Bahama," she answered. "That's where she is now."

"And I suppose she's raising hell?" Vallon queried.

She nodded. "Every kind of hell. I don't think I've ever known a girl with such an aptitude for getting herself into trouble."

"Well, we're narrowing it down," said Vallon. "What is it? Is she being blackmailed, or is Chennault Investigations being asked to buy off some outraged wife whose husband has strayed, or been deflected by our little Viola, from the straight and narrow path?"

"You're wrong again, Johnny. It's probably all those things. But the main thing is her mother wants her got away from the island. She wants her to come home. She's been hearing all sorts of rumours—some of them not very nice—about Viola."

"I see," said Vallon. "So I'm to send an operative out to this island—Dark Bahama—to bring the young woman home under his arm?"

She shook her head. "No, Johnny, that won't do. You have to go."

He said: "I see...." There was another—a longer—pause. Then he asked: "Why?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Well... this is one of those things. The girl isn't easy to handle. It's going to need somebody like you for this business. I told Nicola you were as clever as the devil himself; that you were brainy, very tough; that no matter how much you might be tempted by, shall we say, beauty, if you were doing a job you'd see it through."

Vallon grinned. "Thank you for nothing, Thelma. Are you suggesting that one of my operatives, if he were sent, might get himself seduced or fall by the way and never come home?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, Johnny. But I told her this was a job for you, and I told her that you'd handle it for my sake."

Vallon said: "I don't think that was wise, do you, Thelma?"

She looked at him seriously. "What do you mean by that?"

Vallon said evenly: "I've never believed in trying to resuscitate old ashes, and I've a lot of business to look after here. Also"—he looked at her sideways—"I'm very happily married."

"I see. You're not turning this down, are you, Johnny—or should I have said you're not turning me down?"

Vallon got up. He began to walk about the office. After a while he said: "Look, Thelma, why didn't Mrs. Steyning come to see me herself?"

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Because she's not well. She's in a nursing home. Her nerves are shot to pieces because she's worrying so much about this girl. And I'm her best friend. Isn't it natural that she should ask me to come and see you?"

Vallon asked: "How ill is she, Thelma?"

"Ill enough. I'm not suggesting that she's lying in a stupor, but she has to take things very easily."

He stopped walking. He sat on the edge of the desk. "Well, she could have written, couldn't she?"

She said: "Look, Johnny... what is all this about? You've got a bee in your bonnet about something."

"I haven't. And if I had, the only bee in my bonnet would be you."

"Meaning what?" she asked. She was half-smiling. Vallon could see the gleam of her small teeth.

He said: "Listen, my sweet, I believe this Mrs. Steyning could have handled this business for herself if she'd wanted to. You're doing it because—well, I don't know why, but you've got some idea in your head."

She smiled. "So you still think I'm a dangerous woman?"

He said: "I don't think... I know!... Look at you. I've never seen you look so beautiful or be so attractive. Every year that goes by you become a damned sight more dangerous, more attractive than the one before."

"You're not telling me you're scared, Johnny?"

He shook his head. "I'm not scared. I'm wise. Work it out for yourself. This daughter of Mrs. Steyning's seems to me like a pretty hot proposition. She's been out on this island, and she's caused plenty of trouble—the sort of trouble that needs"—he grinned at her—"a man like me—resourceful and tactful and who can't be bought. That means real trouble, doesn't it? I wonder just what she's been doing."

She said: "That's for you to find out." There was another pause. She went on: "There's a lot of money in this, you know, Johnny. Mrs. Steyning is a very rich woman."

He asked: "What sort of money?"

She said: "There'll be a thousand pounds for a retainer; another thousand for your expenses, and I should think that when you came back and brought the girl with you, having cleaned up any little difficulties she might have encountered in Dark Bahama, you could name your own price for the balance. D'you understand?"

"I see what you mean." He lighted a fresh cigarette. He asked: "Where are you staying, Thelma?"

She said: "I'm at the Hyde Park Hotel. I shan't be there for long. I shall be leaving to-morrow evening. I'm going to France."

Vallon said: "I'll think this over. I'll telephone you to-morrow morning. How will that do?"

"It'll have to do, won't it, Johnny?" She made a little moue. "Do you know, I think you're being just a tiny bit brusque with me, aren't you?"

He shook his head. "If I'm being brusque with anybody, baby, I'm being brusque with myself." He looked at his strap-watch.

She got up. She said: "Well, I suppose you must go to the theatre and meet your wife? I think she's very lucky. I've never met her, but I imagine you're much too good for her."

Vallon said nothing.

She adjusted her cloak. "Well, au revoir, Johnny. I hope it is au revoir...."

He walked past her; opened the door that led into the main corridor.

He said amiably: "So long, Thelma."

She stopped abreast of him. He said: "That's a very nice perfume. It's called Visa, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Yes. You're an extraordinary man, Johnny. Still the same old memory for perfumes. One sniff and it's never forgotten!"

He stood smiling at her.

She asked: "Aren't you going to kiss me, Johnny?"

He shook his head. "Why start something, my dear? Run off home. I'll telephone you in the morning."

She moved out into the corridor. She flashed a quick smile. She said: "Good night, Johnny... and damn you!"

He watched her walk down the passage-way.

MARVIN, who was the staff manager of Chennault Investigations, went into the Blue Point Bar in Jermyn Street just after ten.

Marvin was of middle height, thin. His greying hair was brushed meticulously. His overcoat was of good cloth, well fitting. He wore tan cape gloves; carried an umbrella. Marvin, who was in charge of the operatives, on both the day and night staffs, who worked for Chennault Investigations, was a man with a quiet, orderly mind. Vallon had once told him that his job was that of a very efficient sergeant-major—a business which required tact and quite a lot of brains. Anybody who has ever had the handling of twenty-five operatives in a detective agency will know exactly what I mean.

Marvin's one vice was the Blue Point Bar. It attracted him for reasons which even to him were vague. His small villa was at Walton, where he grew tulips, and lived a quiet and orderly life with a plump, quiet and orderly wife. But every time he went into the Blue Point Bar, which was on two or three occasions each week, and usually late in the evening, he had a vague feeling that one night he might find something—something amusing. On this particular occasion he found it. He found Isles.

Isles was leaning up against the mahogany bar at the far end of the room. He was talking to a girl. Marvin thought she was a neat little trick. She was sitting on a high stool, leaning forward. She wore a coat and skirt and the skirt looked as if it had been pasted on to her. She was talking to Isles and smiling up at him. From where he was standing Marvin could see the peculiar, pale-blue eyes, which often seemed to change colour and which were Isles's most distinguishing feature, looking down at the girl almost benignly.

Isles was tall, slim. He had one of those figures that tailors love to hang clothes on. And his clothes were good—or had been. Marvin, with his eagle eye, thought he could detect the signs of a little too much brushing; that the elbows of the well-cut grey sleeves were possibly a little shiny. He saw also that one of the well-polished semi-brogue shoes—the one nearest to him—merited a little attention from the shoemaker. He wondered why Isles would be like that.

Marvin walked farther into the room; found a place at the bar; ordered a White Lady. As the barman put the drink in front of him, he heard Isles's voice behind him.

It said: "Hallo, Papa Marvin. You're just the man I wanted to see."

Marvin turned; smiled. "Hallo, Isles. I didn't think to see you here so soon."

Isles moved behind him. He looked down at Marvin with a good-natured smile. "Why not?"

Marvin said: "We heard you'd got into a little trouble in South America. We heard you were in gaol; that it would be a long time before you would be coming out. That's what we heard. I'd have spoken to you, but"—he looked towards the girl at the end of the bar—"I thought you were with a lady."

Isles said softly: "I very seldom have the opportunity to talk for long with ladies, and about that South American thing, you were only half-right. It's perfectly true they did sling me into gaol. Ever been in a South American gaol, Papa? Not very amusing, I promise you." His face hardened. "However, I had a good friend, so they decided to let me out."

Marvin said, with a smile: "I bet the good friend was a woman."

Isles shrugged his shoulders. "That doesn't matter now. The point is I'm here."

Marvin said: "And I'm glad to see you. By the way, you said just now you wanted to see me. What about?"

Isles said casually: "I want to see you about a double Bacardi, quickly."

"My God!" said Marvin. "Is it as bad as that?"

"It's worse than that, Papa."

Marvin ordered the drink. He asked: "Are you in London?"

"For a few days," said Isles. "I've a bed-sitting-room—I think they call it—No. 14 Planters Road, Streatham." His thin face broke into a whimsical smile. "If you ever live in a bed-sitting-room, don't take one at No. 14 Planters Road. But it's only for a few days more," he went on. "Then I think I'm going back to South America."

Marvin said in a quiet voice: "Things must be pretty bad if you have to go back there. We thought after that last thing that you wouldn't be awfully popular."

"Needs must when the devil drives," said Isles. He picked up the Bacardi; sipped it; looked at Marvin. He said: "Here's to our next meeting." He took the drink at one gulp. "Good night, Papa. I'll be seeing you... one day...!" He went out of the bar.

Marvin ordered another White Lady. When the drink was brought he thoughtfully regarded it. Then he walked into the telephone box at the end of the bar. He called Chennault Investigations. He said to the girl on the switchboard:

"This is Mr. Marvin. Is Mr. Vallon there?"

"Yes, sir. I'll put you through."

Vallon's voice came on the line. "What is it, Marvin?"

Marvin said: "I'm in the Blue Point in Jermyn Street. Who do you think was here?"

Vallon said: "You tell me...."

"Isles.... He looks almost as well dressed as he used to be but only almost as well... understand? He told me he was going back to South America, so things can't be very good. I wondered..."

Vallon interrupted. "You were quite right, Marvin. You wondered if I could use him for anything. You think it's a waste that a man like Isles should be going back to South America just because he can't find anything better to do. You didn't ask him his address of course?"

Marvin said: "He's living in a bed-sitting-room at 14 Planters Road, Streatham. He's just gone home. I think he's broke."

Vallon said: "I see. Finish your drink and get a cab. Go to No. 14 Planters Road and bring him back here. I want to talk to him. Don't come back without him."

"Very well, Mr. Vallon."

Marvin came out of the box. Although it was his habit to drink only two White Ladies, on this occasion he stood himself a third. He liked Julian Isles. Then he went outside; looked for a taxicab.

VALLON LOOKED at his watch. It was nearly eleven o'clock. He thought that in a minute he would have to go to the theatre. Then he thought maybe he would not have time to get to the theatre. He called through to the switchboard.

He said: "I'm going to be busy for a little while. Send one of the night men round to the St. Martin's theatre. Tell him to meet Mrs. Vallon and see her home. Ask him to tell her that I'm busy. I'll be back in an hour. Understand, Mavis?"

She said: "Very good, Mr. Vallon."

Vallon walked round the large office twice; then he had another swig at the whisky flask. Then he picked up the telephone.

He said: "Mavis, get through to the Hyde Park Hotel and if Mrs. Thelma Lyon has arrived put me through to her."

"Very good," said the switchboard girl. "I'll ring you back, Mr. Vallon."

Vallon walked round the office twice more. He lighted a cigarette. He was thinking about Thelma Lyon.

The telephone bell rang. Her voice came, almost soothingly, over the wire.

"Hallo, Johnny. So you've decided."

Vallon said: "But not what you think. Listen, honey... don't go to bed. Stay up for a little while. I'm sending a man to see you. You can have the most complete trust in him. You'll find he'll handle the business you spoke of very well. His name's Julian Isles. He ought to be with you at a quarter to twelve."

"Well, I'm damned, Johnny." Her voice was cool. "How do you know that this man is going to be right?"

Vallon said: "I've never made a mistake about a man yet, and I know this one very well. You'll find if anything he'll be better than I should be. If you've got any brains you'll use him. See what I mean?"

"I understand, Johnny. All right... I'll see him. But, anyhow, I think you're a heel."

Vallon grinned. He said: "I know that. Treat him right, and you'll find he'll be very good."

She said: "Have you ever known me not treat anyone right?"

"Like hell I have," said Vallon. "So long, honey!"

He hung up.

THE LIFT MAN, who had shown Isles to Suite 126 on the first floor at the Hyde Park Hotel, rang the bell once again; waited; shrugged his shoulders.

Then he said: "Well, it's very funny. The lady's in, sir, but she doesn't answer."

Isles said casually: "That's all right. Don't you bother."

The lift man went away.

Isles put his finger on the bell-push and kept it there. He could hear the bell ringing inside the apartment. Then, suddenly the door opened.

Isles said: "Good evening. I'm Julian Isles. Mrs. Lyon?"

She stood in the hallway of the suite, holding the door wide open. She wore a garnet-coloured, silk velvet house-gown with gold mules. The sleeves of the house-gown were long, edged with chinchilla fur.

She said coldly: "You seem to be in a hurry, Mr. Isles."

He smiled. When he smiled his face became very attractive. She noted the good-humour lines at the corners of his eyes, his good teeth.

"I'm not if you're not," he said. "Mr. Vallon asked me to come round and see you. He said he thought it might be urgent."

She said: "I was changing. Will you come in?"

He followed her across the hallway into the well-furnished sitting-room. A fire was burning. She walked over to the fireplace; turned; stood with her back to the fire looking at him.

She said: "Perhaps you'd like to leave your hat in the hallway. And would you like a drink?"

"I'd like that very much, thank you." Isles went back into the hallway; hung up his hat; came back into the room.

She was busy at the sideboard. She said: "Tell me something about yourself."

Isles thought she had a charming voice.

"Is that going to get us anywhere?" he asked evenly.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He was still smiling.

She thought he would be a rather difficult man to lose one's temper with. She brought the whisky and soda to him.

She said: "Isn't it rather natural, Mr. Isles, that when a woman entrusts a commission of some importance to a man she might like to know something about him?"

Isles nodded.

She went to a table; came back with a cigarette box; offered it to Isles; took one herself. He lighted the cigarettes.

"That's very reasonable," he said. "But supposing, for the sake of argument, my past history wasn't very good. I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I? On the other hand, as I have been sent to you by John Vallon, it might be in order for you to take that side of the question for granted."

She went over to the settee; sat down. Isles sat in the armchair by the fire.

She said: "That depends on how well I know Mr. Vallon."

"Nonsense," said Isles cheerfully. "You know Vallon pretty well. No woman goes to a man and asks him to look after the safety of a—shall we say—'reluctant' daughter of a friend unless she knows something about him."

"I see.... Tell me, Mr. Isles, exactly what did Mr. Vallon say to you?"

Isles said: "I imagine he told me what you told him. He gave me an outline of the job you wanted me to do. He said you'd be waiting to talk to me about it."

She got up. She began to walk slowly up and down the long room. He thought she was very effective when she walked, or sat down, or did anything else. He thought she was good.

She said: "I'm perfectly certain if John Vallon thinks you're all right for this business then you must be. I went to see him to-night because I'm concerned about the daughter of my friend Mrs. Steyning. She's really a very nice—very beautiful—girl. Actually, basically, she has a charming nature, but I think she's been worried and has become a little out of hand. You understand?"

Isles said flatly: "No, I don't. I'd like to know exactly what you mean"—he was still smiling—"by a young lady who is basically charming but has become a little out of hand. How has she got out of hand? Is it money, drink or love? Has she got around with too many men? Is she being blackmailed? Is she drinking too many cocktails? What sort of trouble has this young woman been creating?"