Dark Duet E-Book

Peter Cheyney

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

Beschreibung

THE office was a small, square room on a third floor near Golden Square. It was sombre and unassuming. The furniture was nondescript. A suggestion of efficiency was provided by a steel filing-cabinet.
Outside, between this office and the corridor, was another even smaller room. In it MacMurray, a big, broad-shouldered, truculent-looking man, dozed over an evening paper. He wished Fenton would go home.
MacMurray— who had been "lent" by C.I.D. Central Office, and who spent most of his time wishing he was back there— divided his attention between the Greyhound Racing news and wondering about Fenton. MacMurray was curious about Fenton. Damned curious. He wondered why it should be necessary for him to stay put in the outer office for twenty-four hours at a stretch whilst Fenton sat at the desk in the other room waiting for telephone calls that seldom came, or spent an odd hour going through the filing-cabinet making pencil notes on folders. Folders which MacMurray never saw.

Leseprobe

DARK DUET

Peter Cheyney

1942

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835912

.

Contents

Chapter 1: It Doesn't Hurt Much!

Chapter 2: Sweet Conga

Chapter 3: You Can Always Duck

Chapter 4: Souvenir

Chapter 1

It Doesn't Hurt Much!

THE office was a small, square room on a third floor near Golden Square. It was sombre and unassuming. The furniture was nondescript. A suggestion of efficiency was provided by a steel filing-cabinet.

Outside, between this office and the corridor, was another even smaller room. In it MacMurray, a big, broad-shouldered, truculent-looking man, dozed over an evening paper. He wished Fenton would go home.

MacMurray— who had been "lent" by C.I.D. Central Office, and who spent most of his time wishing he was back there— divided his attention between the Greyhound Racing news and wondering about Fenton. MacMurray was curious about Fenton. Damned curious. He wondered why it should be necessary for him to stay put in the outer office for twenty-four hours at a stretch whilst Fenton sat at the desk in the other room waiting for telephone calls that seldom came, or spent an odd hour going through the filing-cabinet making pencil notes on folders. Folders which MacMurray never saw.

He did not like being curious. But there was no way of satisfying his curiosity. His orders were to take his instructions from Fenton and to keep his mouth shut. Excellent orders, thought the plain-clothes man, and none the less excellent because he could not have done anything but keep his mouth shut. He had nothing to talk about.

Fenton, sitting at the desk in the other office, seemed at first glance to be as nondescript as the furniture. He was in the late fifties. His hair was thin, but what there was of it was plastered artistically. His moustache was small, well-brushed. When you looked at him carefully, noted his good, well-cut, if old, clothes, you thought he might have been a senior Civil Servant or possibly a retired Army officer. It wouldn't matter what you thought anyhow. Fenton never answered any questions, maintained a background in which questions were not asked.

He moved the desk-lamp a little nearer so that the light fell on the papers he was examining. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock— a dark, cold, wintry night, with a sharp rain beginning to fall. He yawned. He leant back in his chair, produced a cigarette-case, lit a cigarette, wondered how much longer he was going to sit in the little office... waiting.

Fenton thought that you were always waiting for something. From the moment you were born till the time when death was imminent, you were waiting for something— something good or bad. It might be the right woman, or a divorce to get rid of the wrong one— or some money, or revenge— or a chance to make good. But you were always waiting. And it was annoying. The telephone rang. Fenton sighed. He took off the receiver. He said:

"Yes.... Yes, sir.... I've got all the information we had on her... there's nothing new on her at all, sir.... No... no real dossier and no official record.... But we know quite a lot about her.... Hold on, sir, I'll let you know in a minute..."

He put down the receiver, went to the filing-cabinet, unlocked a drawer, pulled the steel file out and began to check through the carefully-filed folders inside. He took one out, went back to the desk, opened the folder, picked up the receiver.

He said: "She's here as Mrs. Marques. She came from Norway, a reputed refugee— a rich refugee. She's supposed to have money— both in Lisbon and New York. She's very clever, sir— awfully clever. The C.E. people definitely attribute the sinking of the Maratta Star to that quarter.... You remember the Maratta Star, sir? It was one of the ships that were taking children to Canada.... Yes, sir... they got it... a submarine was waiting for it.... Not a very nice business, sir.... They found a dozen of the children in an open boat twelve days afterwards, dead from exposure.... That was Mrs. Marques all right, sir. There are a lot of other things too— some of 'em not so bad— some, if possible, worse.... Oh... she's done that too, has she, sir!" He began to smile a little. "Well, if that's so, sir, then even you might begin to get annoyed with her....

"Well, what are you going to do, sir? You can't move through the Department of Home Security, can you? There is nothing official on the woman.... You can't prove anything...." Fenton shrugged his shoulders. His smile became more incisive. "Well... if you think the case merits it you could always use Process 4 or 5...." He paused. "In this case, Sir, I would suggest Process 5.... You would probably save a lot of people's lives that way.... Very well, sir.... You needn't worry any more about it. I'll take the necessary steps. Just forget it... write the lady off in your mind.... Good-night!"

Fenton hung up the receiver. He was smiling. He sat for a little while looking straight in front of him at the expanse of black-out curtain that shrouded the window. After a while he pressed the bell-button on the desk. The man from outside came in. Fenton said:

"I'm going off now, MacMurray. If anything urgent turns up you can ring me at home. But I don't think it will. I think we've finished our urgent business for to-day."

He smiled. MacMurray nodded and went back to the outer office.

Fenton went to the hatstand in the corner of the office. He put on his overcoat and hat. He went back to the telephone. He dialled a Mayfair number. After a minute he said:

"Hello... Kane? How are you...? There's a little business for you.... You can get the details from your usual contact.... I'll have a chance to talk to him on my way home. He'll make the necessary arrangements if he can.... Yes, it's one of those things.... Process 5.... You understand? And remember this is England... see? Play it carefully.... Good-night, Kane...."

He hung up. He said good-night to MacMurray as he went through the outer office. He walked down the corridor towards the lift, whistling softly to himself.

When he'd gone MacMurray went into the inner office and looked round. He tried the locks on the filing-cabinet. He went into the outer office, closed and locked the door between the two offices. He set up a folding-bed in one corner and laid out some blankets on it and a pillow. He took an automatic pistol from his hip pocket and put it under the pillow. He locked the door leading to the corridor, lit a spirit stove and put on it a small kettle. Then he undressed. He lay on the camp-bed reading the last edition of The Star, waiting for the kettle to boil.

KANE was tying his tie in front of the cheval glass when the telephone rang. He answered it and afterwards resumed the process of tie-tying. He felt a little sick in the stomach. He was not quite certain whether this feeling was the result of the telephone call or too many double Martini's after whisky. He thought it did not matter anyhow.

He was tall and slim. But his shoulders were good and his hips very narrow. He appeared lithe. He moved as if he were putting very little energy into the process; as if he could produce much more vitality if necessary. His hands were peculiarly long, narrow and compact for so large a man, and his feet were small. He looked like a man who would be able to dance the tango very well... to do most things well... if he wanted to.

The sensitive mouth, the humorous and Celtic cut of the cheekbones, the set of the lips, indicated that he was not wanting in humour. Yet this attribute stayed with the lower part of his face. Above the cheekbones and nose— which was long and quivered at the end when he smiled, so that you wanted to look at it all the time, especially if you were a woman— there appeared a peculiar indefinable grimness. Not a definite grimness associated with a heavy type of face, but something fleeting; certainly not permanent. Directly you had assured yourself that it was there it disappeared and the brow opened and the eyes smiled, and you believed you were wrong. You were... but not the way you thought.

Kane opened a box of Player's cigarettes that stood on the dressing-table near the mirror, and lit one. One side of his face was almost framed in a wave of unruly dark brown hair. And the end of the eyebrow beneath it curled up in a mischievous Machiavellian manner. If you had been watching Kane you would have decided, if you were a man, that you liked him. And if you were a woman, that you liked him, but that you wouldn't take many chances about it. Not too many.

His clothes hung well on him. When he crossed the room to get an overcoat out of the wardrobe, his walk indicated that he was impatient about something. Yet the indication was belied by the almost casual way in which he put on the coat and a black soft hat.

With the hat on he looked more attractive than ever. He adjusted it at the right angle in front of the cheval glass. He liked it to be just so. He fumbled in his pockets for some gloves, and wondered if there would be a cab anywhere near Queen Anne Street.

Queen Anne Street.... He looked into the glass and wondered why the devil he should have a bedroom in Queen Anne Street— that quiet and select backwater of Cavendish Square. He decided to take the question seriously, and sat down suddenly in a high-backed chair. He smoked the cigarette and wondered why the devil he should live in Queen Anne Street. After a little while he concluded that it was because it was quiet and a backwater. Maybe, thought Kane, he was getting a little old and beginning to think in terms of quietness and backwaters.

This thought made him laugh. Then he wondered if thirty-eight was old; decided that it didn't matter anyhow. He threw the cigarette stub away, lit another one and went downstairs.

It was cold outside in the street. He crossed Cavendish Square, went through Hanover Square, Conduit Street, Bond Street and down St. James's Street.

There were few people about and Kane could hear his own footsteps distinctly. For some unknown reason the usual traffic noises of London seemed stilled. He began to think about Fenton.

Fenton was a one. He took you for granted. But then Fenton took everything for granted. Fenton was the type of Englishman who appeared to be a little grey and faded and undecided and odd, and who was, in reality, underneath, as hard as seven devils in hell. Definitely hard. You could depend on Fenton for damned little. He was afraid of nothing, but if it suited the book he'd walk out on you and leave you cold and dangling... dangling was about the word for it too.... A nice word... dangling....

A sudden gust of wind almost blew him into the roadway. He thought November was a hell of a month. As if to justify this thought one or two large snowflakes began to fall. Kane moved nearer the shelter of the houses.

He came to the post office at the bottom of St. James's Street. In the shadow between the post office and the Conservative Club a man in an old raincoat was leaning up against the wall. Kane stopped and said good-evening.

The man said: "We'd better go round the corner. This isn't a good place to talk, is it?"

"Just as you like," Kane said. "It seems as good as anywhere else to me."

The man in the old raincoat led the way down the narrow street by the side of the Conservative Club. He stopped fifteen yards past the side entrance to the Club. He leaned up against the wall. Kane stood facing him, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his shoulders drooped. "I suppose Fenton's spoken to you?" said the man in the raincoat.

Kane nodded.

"Oh, yes," he said. There was a peculiar sound of finality in the two words. They indicated somehow that whatever Fenton had said it produced a definite process of thought in Kane's mind— a process that was not subject to any alteration.

"Guelvada's in Surrey," said the other man, "playing around at some place called Tyrrell's Wood. I'm going to get a call through to him just as soon as I can. He's got a car down there. He can get back pretty quickly."

Kane said: "There seems to be an awful hurry, doesn't there?" He took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette.

"Why not?" said the man in the old raincoat. "Do you want to spin it out?" His tone was mildly sarcastic.

"I don't like spinning anything out," said Kane. "But I like to take my time."

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose Fenton didn't say anything to you about the Maratta Star?" he said.

"No," said Kane. "And anyway what's the Maratta Star got to do with it?"

"It was one of the boats that was supposed to take children to Canada," said the man in the raincoat. "A submarine got it. It was waiting for it. That was Mrs. Marques— that was. That's her business. Well, maybe there'll be some more ships. Perhaps that's why Fenton's in a hurry."

Kane moved his head slightly. He looked down the narrow street towards St. James's Street. He said:

"That's all right, but I still don't approve of being too fast. I don't like all this quick movement. I don't like Ernie dashing back from Tyrrell's Wood in that car of his. One of these fine days somebody's going to ask how it is that a Belgian refugee—" Kane grinned suddenly— "I beg his pardon— a free Belgian— is able to go dashing about the country in a high-power motor car just at any odd minute. Then they're going to ask questions."

The man in the raincoat shrugged his shoulders again. It was almost an imperceptible shrug. He looked rather bored.

"Well, supposing they do...?" he said.

Kane echoed the words: "Supposing they do.... Well, hasn't it ever struck you that there might be people who are just as interested in Guelvada's movements and mine as we are in those of other people? Somebody's going to ask too many questions— somebody dangerous I mean— not bloody fools like you and Fenton who sit on your backsides in offices and think what smart fellows you are— but people like Guelvada and me. If anybody's going to take the rap then it's going to be us, isn't it? You'll just go on sitting on your backsides."

The other man yawned.

"Nonsense!" he said. "I didn't lose my left hand sitting on my backside."

Kane nodded.

"That's all right," he said. "You have it your way. I still think it's stupid. Well... you're going to phone Guelvada?"

"That's right," said the other. "I think I can give him a tip or two about a very quick contact." He grinned at Kane in the darkness. "Fenton suggested that it might be a good thing if you could finish this business off to-night."

"My God!" said Kane. "You fellows are getting impatient, aren't you?" He threw his cigarette stub away.

"I should think Guelvada would be back in town by nine o'clock," said the other man. "If everything is all right he ought to be at the 'Yellow Bottle'— that pub in Mayfair— somewhere around half-past nine. If I were you I should give him till a quarter to ten. Then you could telephone him there. If he's got on all right you ought to be able to go ahead from there— if he's seen the people I want him to see."

"All right," said Kane. "Is that all?"

"That's all," said the man in the old raincoat. "Good-night, Michael."

Kane said good-night. He walked down the narrow street into St. James's Street.

KANE STOOD just inside the blacked-out stage door, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He waited there two or three minutes; then the stage-door keeper appeared at the head of the stairway and beckoned him. Kane ran up the stairs quickly, followed the man along the corridor, went into the dressing-room. He closed the door behind him, stood leaning against it.

Valetta Fallon was sitting in front of her make-up glass doing her eyebrows. She was wearing a kimono which had fallen open and showed her legs. Kane looked at them appreciatively. He said:

"I don't know whether anybody's ever told you, but you've got the swellest pair of legs I've ever seen in my life, Valetta."

She turned her head towards him and smiled.

"I've an idea that quite a few men have suggested something like that," she said. She looked at him seriously, the eyebrow-brush poised in her hand, "but not during the last nine months," she concluded. "Won't you sit down, Michael? There are cigarettes in the box." She nodded towards it.

Kane hung his hat on the peg behind the door. He sat down. He threw away the unlit cigarette and took a fresh one. He said:

"And why not during the last nine months, Valetta?"

She looked at him sideways along her long eyelashes. Kane thought she was very beautiful. Her features were superbly chiselled; her mouth delicate, sensitive and almost tremulous. Kane, who liked looking at a woman's mouth, thought that he could look at hers for hours on end. It was that sort of mouth.

She said: "You sound as if you're trying to be immoral." She began to smile again. "Possibly, Michael, you've forgotten I've been your mistress for the last nine months?"

He grinned. He looked rather like a mischievous schoolboy. He said: "Why should I forget that?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"I don't know," she said, "except that I fail to understand why you should expect me to receive admiration from other people when I'm supposed to be in love with you."

Kane nodded.

"Oh, that..." he said.

He blew a smoke ring. She put down the eyebrow-brush and turned on the chair. She faced him. She said:

"I wish I knew about you. I wish I knew whether you really are a hard, cynical, extremely tough person, or whether the way you talk and behave is just a pose."

Kane said: "I don't think cynics ever pose. They don't have to. Who would want to pose as being a cynic? Nobody over the age of eighteen admires cynicism. Besides, you don't adopt it as a pose; it's one of those things that are forced on you."

"I see," said Valetta. "And how much cynicism have I forced on you, Michael?"

"None at all," he said with a smile. "Just the opposite. If it weren't for you I would be absolutely and entirely submerged in the depths of cynicism."

She said: "You're an extraordinary person, aren't you? Don't you find anything good in life?"

"Nothing that lasts," said Kane airily.

She picked up the eyebrow-brush again. She looked in the mirror. "I've lasted," she said.

"You've lasted nine months," said Kane. He stubbed out his cigarette end, put his hands in his overcoat pockets.

"I wonder what that means?" asked Valetta. "Does it mean that you don't expect me to last much longer or that you hope I won't last much longer?"

Kane grinned. She found that grin maddening.

He said: "I hope for very little and expect nothing. I'm damned glad of what I get." He went on: "Let's be constructive about you. When a woman falls in love with a man she has to get something out of it, doesn't she?"

She got up, slipped off the kimono, began to wriggle into her stage frock. She had a superb figure. She hoped he would realise that. It was some time before she said:

"Well, what does she have to get out of it? She doesn't have to get something out of it, does she, Michael?"

He nodded. He was smiling quite pleasantly.

"She must get something," he said, "otherwise it's no soap. When a woman definitely realises that a man is no soap she does something about it, especially a woman like you, Valetta."

She smiled at him. She powdered her nose, leaning forward so that the powder should not touch her frock.

"Has it never occurred to you that I may have got something out of you, Michael?" she said.

He raised one eyebrow. "Such as...?" he queried.

"Such as a lot of fun for one thing," said Valetta.

"I wouldn't describe myself as a particularly amusing type of man," he said.

She sat down on the chair suddenly, her hands clasped in her lap, looking at him. She was concentrating.

"Neither would I," said Valetta. "You're not. But there is something damned fascinating about you. You're one of those men who don't require a background. Have another cigarette, Michael."

He said: "Thanks."

She took a cigarette from the box, lit it, handed it to him. He noticed the mark of her lipstick on the end. He drew on the cigarette.

"This is interesting," he said. "So I'm the type of man who doesn't require a background. Elucidate that mysterious remark, Valetta."

She thought for a moment.

"Well," she said eventually, "one meets some men and one's only really interested because one knows all about them. For instance, you meet a man. He's rather brusque; he seems hard. You wouldn't be attracted in the normal course of events; and then you find that he's a man who's done quite big things in his life. You realise that the things he's done have made him tough. They're responsible for his character. Knowing that, you're still prepared to be interested in him. If you didn't know you'd probably dismiss him from your mind. Do you understand? I'm not very good at explaining what I think," she concluded.

"I understand," said Kane. He blew a smoke ring, watched it sail across the dressing-room.

"But you'd be all right anyhow," she said. "Whatever you were, whatever your job was, whatever you did, you'd still be you. You are a fascinating person. You are an intriguing person. Quite independently of whatever it is you do... which reminds me—" She stopped speaking, looked at him. Her eyes were bright and a little wicked. Her mouth was smiling. Kane wanted to take her in his arms.

"Which reminds you of what?" he said.

"Do you remember the first time we met, Michael?" she said. "The night they dropped that bomb and blew that place in, with all those people underneath? Do you remember how I flung myself into your arms for protection? Was I scared!"

"And was I scared?" said Kane.

"I don't know about that," said Valetta. "You weren't too scared to take full advantage of the situation."

"I beg your pardon!" said Kane.

"There is no need to," she said. "I thought your technique was superb. But the point I was getting at was this: When we arranged to dine together and I was getting ready to meet you, I made up my mind to ask you exactly what it was you did, and somehow when the time came I didn't want to. I thought I'd like to keep you, in my mind, as a rather mysterious sort of person."

Kane nodded.

"I see," he said. "So you'd already put me down as a sort of 'steady,' had you?" He grinned at her ironically. He showed a fine set of white teeth.

"What I thought is my business," said Valetta. "But the fact remains I didn't ask you what you were, and when I'd left you and we'd arranged to meet again, and I was lying in bed looking at the ceiling and thinking about you, I made up my mind that the next time I saw you I really would ask you."

Kane said: "What was it made you forget?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know, would you?" said Valetta.

"I've got an idea... But go on..." said Kane.

"Well," she continued, "I've sort of carried it on from time to time. One of these fine days I'll satisfy my curiosity." She stopped speaking. Then quite suddenly said: "Michael, what do you do?"

He blew another smoke ring. He said:

"I suppose one could say that you were fairly well experienced, Valetta. You're no fool, are you? You're a pretty good judge of character. Now, what would you think I was?"

She shook her head.

"I'm damned if I know," she said. "You might be anything. You're one of those people that you can't put in any sort of box. You're a type and yet you're not a type."

Kane said: "I suppose what you really mean is why aren't I in the Army, or the Navy or the Air Force?"

She said: "All right. Why aren't you?"

Kane said: "I'll tell you. I was run over by an express train when I was about seven. It cut my liver entirely in half, so they won't pass me fit." He sat grinning at her.

She said: "You're a pig, Michael, aren't you? But then you once told me you didn't like being asked questions."

He said: "Oh, I don't mind from you. So you really want to know what I am and what I do. Do you know"— he leaned forward suddenly— "I think you're a marvellous woman, Valetta," he said, "to know a man, to get around with him, to sleep with him for nine months and only then to ask him what he does. I think it's too amazing."

"Never mind about that," she said. "You tell me..."

There was a knock on the door. "You're on in two minutes, Miss Fallon," said the callboy.

She got up.

Kane said: "That interruption came just at the right moment. Now I've got lots of time to think something up."

She said: "So long, Michael, I've got to go now. Am I going to see you to-night?"

He shook his head. "I've got to meet a man I know," he said. "A little business. I'm sorry, Valetta. I'd have liked to have had supper with you to-night."

"Me, too," she said. "I'll be seeing you, Michael. Take some cigarettes if you want some. Au revoir."

He heard her high heels pattering down the stone passageway. He sat in the chair looking straight in front of him at the make-up table; his long, thin hands hung straight down between his knees. He presented a picture of ironic despondency.

After a little while he got up. He put on his hat, walked slowly along the passageway, down the stairs, out of the stage entrance.

PRESENTING Mr. Guelvada— "Ernie" Guelvada— the Free Belgian. The gentleman with a mission.

Ernie was disquieting. Definitely disquieting. It was impossible to sit and talk to Ernie, or even to look at him or be in the same room with him, without experiencing a sense of vague discomfort. When you were not with him you wondered about this; concluded that you were suffering from nerves or imagination; that you were stupid. You became certain about the nerves or imagination until the next time you saw Mr. Guelvada, when you noted that the effect of discomfort became greater as you got to know him better.

Of course you did not get to know him better. No one ever did. Except Kane. Kane knew him, and about the worm that lived in Mr. Guelvada and spent its time wandering from the mind to the guts. When it was in the mind Ernie made people uncomfortable. When it descended to the stomach other— and possibly more interesting— things happened.

Guelvada sat at the corner table in the bar parlour at the Grain Tavern in Tyrrells Wood. He was watching the proprietress. He was thinking that she had an excellent figure, a well-proportioned figure, that her breasts were absolutely in proportion to her hips and waist. Guelvada spent a great deal of his time pondering on the figures of women. Not in any lustful or even mildly exciting manner but in a quiet and dispassionate way that was distinctly impersonal and almost remote.

While he was engaged in this process, he used, at the same time, to think about other things— things that were not disconnected from the object of his vision. Sometimes he would think in French or Walloon or Flemish or in Russian or Spanish or Portuguese or English. He spoke all these languages almost perfectly. Perfectly enough to get by. When he thought in English he would do all sorts of strange things to amuse himself. He would think in pedantic— or what he considered correct— English, or in English interlarded with slang and Americanisms that he had learned from the moving pictures. He was not the sort of man that you would "put" with languages. He was not the sort of man that you would consider to be at all erudite. Yet he was extremely erudite.

He seldom talked about himself, and preferred to believe that he behaved in a mediocre and uninteresting manner. He was on the short side, and seemed a little plump. He was not in fact plump. He merely gave the impression. He was strong and nimble on his feet when he wanted to be. His face was round, pleasant and good-humoured. His mouth was mobile and good-natured. Seeing all these things accompanied by the half-smile that usually played about Guelvada's lips made you wonder more than ever why you felt uncomfortable when you were with him.

He had been born at a baconry near Ellezelles. It was a profitable baconry and had belonged to his father. His mother, who had noticed that Guelvada was not particularly happy with pigs, decided that he should go into the priesthood. She saw him as a curé. The picture of Ernie in a cassock delighted her. It was for this reason that he was educated so that he should be a successful priest. His mother, if asked, would not have known what a successful priest was, but to her education was a step in that direction. The World War of 1914 put an end to these dreams. It also put an end to his father, who was shot out of hand by the Germans for cutting the throat of a Corporal of Engineers, and to his mother, who was killed by the Corporal of Engineers because she put one of his eyes out with her thumb whilst he was endeavouring to rape her. Ernie, considering all these things in the light of the peace that followed, concluded that they were— in their way— quite logical, and became a courier.

Being a courier was an interesting business, he thought. You seldom stayed in any place long enough to become bored with it. You met a lot of people who passed on quickly. You had no time to become tired of anything. Your life became a kaleidoscope of middle-aged English ladies with dogs and money, surreptitious trips to the Casino with younger English ladies who wanted to see what night-life was like, and arguments about hotel bills with women of other nationalities who seemed to want to spend their lives arguing about a franc or two.

He picked up his glass and walked across the room towards the little bar that connected the bar-parlour with the saloon bar. Across the counter, in the other bar, he saw one or two men he knew casually. They grinned at him and he smiled back. When he smiled his face became almost transfigured. There was something cherubic about it. His smile was, in any event, prepossessing.

He put the glass down on the counter and asked in a soft voice for a gin and lime-juice. He watched the proprietress whilst she reached for the bottle. Reaching for bottles showed off a woman's figure, he thought, and it was for this reason that he always asked for drinks that came out of bottles on the highest shelves. One night, in Lisbon, at a place where they kept an egg-flip mixed with rum, that nobody ever wanted, on a high shelf, Guelvada had spent the whole evening ordering the foul stuff merely so that he could watch the girl who was serving reach for the bottle. He was like that.

When the proprietress put the gin and lime on the counter in front of him she said: "I haven't seen you for a day or two, Mr. Guelvada. But then you've been busy, I expect?"

Guelvada smiled at her.

"Oh, no!" he said. "Not at all, Madame. On the contrary. I have been walking about your so beautiful golf course, thinking."

She laughed. He thought she was a very pleasant woman.

"What— in the rain?" she said. "Whatever were you thinking about?"

Guelvada became suddenly serious. Then his round face lit up with a smile. He said quietly:

"Believe it or not, but one of the things I was thinking about was your figure. I think it is superb. I only hope the Germans don't invade England."

"Why?" she asked. "Whatever has that got to do with my figure?" She bridled a little. She thought she had a good figure too.

"It might have a lot to do with it," said Guelvada. "The Boches like figures like yours."

She flushed.

"They could go on liking," she said. "I've got an axe in the tool-shed for Germans."

Guelvada nodded.

"I know..." he said thoughtfully. He smiled at her again. "I knew another woman like that," he said. "She had an axe in the tool-shed too. They cut her breasts off..."

He picked up the glass of gin and lime, carried it back to the table. As he was raising the glass to his lips, the barmaid from the public bar put her head round the door.

"Mr. Guelvada," she said, "there's somebody wants you on the telephone. When I asked him who it was, he said to tell you it was Peter."

Guelvada said: "Thank you, honey..."

He got up and went out of the bar parlour, down the little passageway. The wall-telephone was at the end of the passage. Guelvada picked up the receiver and said hello. The voice at the other end said: "Is that you, Guelvada?"

"Correct," said Guelvada. "This is 'E' for Ernie."

"Right," said the other voice. "And this is 'P' for Peter. There's a woman called Mrs. Marques..."

Guelvada interrupted. He said very quickly:

"Yes...?" He was smiling a little— an odd sort of smile. His lips were drawn back over his teeth.

"Yes!" said "P" for Peter. "Process five. Does that please you?"

"Why not?" said Guelvada. "It's logical, isn't it?"

"In this case definitely so," said the other voice. "I understand she'll be at a party at a place near Hampstead to-night. The party will start somewhere around ten-ish. It will be a late party. You and 'M' for Michael will have to get in on it somehow. Somebody wants this job done quickly."

"I see," said Guelvada. "Do I have any contacts?"

"Unfortunately they're rather vague," said the voice. "But there's a pub in Mayfair called the Yellow Bottle. There's a woman goes there called Mrs. Mallary. She's a friend of Mrs. Jeanes who's throwing the party at Hampstead. This Mrs. Mallory knows an awful lot of people. She might have met you some time. She was at Eden Roc three years ago and fell off the wooden jetty there. She broke her leg. Two nights afterwards, with one leg in plaster of paris, she went to a card party and won twenty-five thousand francs. Will that help?"

"It might," said Guelvada, "providing she goes to the Yellow Bottle to-night."

"She'll be there," said the voice. "I can arrange that. I'll try and put a man in to make it easier. But after she gets there you'll have to play it on your own."

"All right," said Guelvada. "But if you put a man in how shall I know him?"

"He'll know about your other identity card," said Peter. "He'll know the name on it is Pierre Hellard. You be Pierre Hellard and let him remember you. If he does, he's my man. But, remember, he'll get out before the business starts. He's an inexperienced one, that one. You can't rely on him for anything and he knows nothing— nothing that matters. Understand?"

Guelvada said: "It's all right." He smiled in that peculiar way again. "I can do this on my own. If she goes to the Yellow Bottle it's easy.'

The voice said: "You're not going to do it on your own. Sometimes you're a little too decided, Ernie. You'll do it with Kane. You'll take your orders from him. When you've seen Mrs. Mallary at the Yellow Bottle you'd better hang about there. Michael will come through on the telephone. You can tell him what the position is. After that you two can carry the baby."

Guelvada began to laugh.

"You're telling me!" he said. "Carry the baby is good. Some baby! But we'll carry her.... Tell me, what does she look like— this Marques I mean?"

"Pretty good, I believe," said the voice. "That sort always look good. They have to. You understand what you've got to do. You'd better get back to London right away."

Guelvada said: "All right. I'll be there in half an hour."

"Take your time," said the voice. "There's no need to get picked up for speeding."

Guelvada hung up the receiver. He went back into the bar-parlour, finished his drink, picked up his hat. He said good-evening to the proprietress and went out. When he had gone one of the men in the saloon bar said to her:

"He's a funny little fellow, isn't he, Mrs. Soames?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry for him," she said. "I'm sorry for all those Free Belgians. They've got no homes or anything. They've got nothing to do— just sort of sitting about waiting for us to win this war so that they can go back home and start cleaning-up."

"He's a funny little devil,' said the man.

"He is strange," said Mrs. Soames. "I think he's very pleased with himself about something. But you never know with these foreigners...."

IT WAS raining when Guelvada drove through Berkeley Square. He parked the car at the end of Charles Street. When he got out the keen wintry wind cut his cheeks. He shivered a little. He did not like the cold. He began to walk towards Shepherd Market, his hands in his pockets, his head down against the wind; his round, good-humoured face concerned with some immediate problem.

The immediate problem was the weather. Guelvada was thinking that, in his part of Belgium, the wind was not so cutting nor the rain so cold. He wondered what life would have been like had he been a priest. He thought possibly it might have been more amusing; then again the lives of priests were not so amusing after all.

He traversed Shepherd Market and, on the other side, turned into the street that led to the cul-de-sac— the end of which was formed by the Yellow Bottle. He went into the saloon bar. The place was full of people, and inside, standing to the right of the black-out curtain, he was able to look quickly at the bar and to see that there were two people serving behind it— one a potman of indeterminate age and, at the other end, an attractive barmaid.

Guelvada went quickly to the nearest end of the counter, bought a double brandy, carried it to a table in the corner of the room. He lit a cigarette; sat quietly looking about him.

You would not have noticed Guelvada. You would not have noticed him because at that moment he was busy making himself inconspicuous. He could do that. He belonged to that lucky class of people who, by merely thinking along certain lines, by presenting a mental attitude, could either become obviously present or inconspicuous, as they willed.

The Yellow Bottle was one of those places where the Saloon Bar has an atmosphere of its own. When you went in you wondered where the people came from, who they were and what they did. You were surprised that so many people could have nothing to do except drink at the same time.

Most of the young men appeared effeminate and slightly odd. The women, with some exceptions, of course, were those sort of women that you see in the company of young men who are effeminate and slightly odd.

Soldiers, sailors and airmen were remarkable for their absence. Real soldiers, sailors and airmen. There were a sprinkling of those young, and apparently fit, individuals who, garbed as army officers, perform mysterious and doubtless— to them— important tasks which ordinarily might be achieved by an efficient typist; a type produced by any war which, whether brainless or not, shows a remarkable aptitude for wearing a uniform and for keeping as far away as possible from any sort of lethal weapon.

In the far corner, two or three young men "of either sex" were engrossed in a conversation on the trend of fashions. One of them said he was a dress-designer. He was there every night talking about himself, wearing different-coloured sweaters.

He was talking to another young man who, judging by his conversation, was an interior-decorator. Guelvada thought that the descriptions "interior-decorator" and "dress-designer" were like charity, inasmuch as they often covered a multitude of sins. He wondered how British stock, famous for its virility, could produce specimens of manhood like these. He wondered just what these young men would have been doing in Victorian days when, no matter what other failings obtained, there was a definite prejudice against young men who behaved like women, who did jobs that could be described as effeminate, concerned themselves only with each other, and left the real dirty work of life to other people. Possibly they would have been "remittance men," and toughened a little in the process.

Guelvada sighed and turned his eyes away. In another corner of the bar he noticed a man of mature years with curled hair and carefully made-up lips. He was drinking Benedictine and smiling vaguely at anyone who cared to look in his direction. Guelvada, with a little smile, thought that he would very much like to cut the Benedictine drinker's throat; that it might be amusing; that it would be a good deed.

His eyes wandered slowly round the bar. There were little parties of women, well dressed and certain of themselves, belonging to that select circle, to be found in every town and city, that does little to justify an easy and aimless existence in days of war. Women who always have money either from divorce alimony or from some sort of allowance, and who are always going to begin doing some sort of war work next week. Sometimes they get as far as going to a Civil Defence or other National centre to make some inquiries about it; sometimes they get as far as taking away a form to fill in. They seldom get any further. Their lives usually begin in the evenings and they always know which "club" serves the best dinner, and where you can go on afterwards. For reasons best known to themselves they consider they are remote from war and its alarms, and even a thousand kilogram bomb in the next street fails to shake this conviction. Unable to interest themselves in either fearing, hating, or desiring to checkmate the enemy, they are careful to eschew conversation, films, books, or newspapers that tend to bring the war into the radius of their small vision. And if the enemy were busy in the next house they would be certain that for some good, if mysterious, reason he would miss their domicile and go on next door. They suffer inordinately from headaches, and invariably carry in their handbags little boxes containing some sort of sedative which, followed by a whisky and soda, invariably puts the trouble right for another couple of hours.

In spite of coupons and restrictions, they are always well and stylishly dressed and manage to buy new clothes when they want them. They possess an extraordinary ability to fulfil their own desires; an amazing disability to understand anything or anyone not connected with the small orbit in which they revolve.

Guelvada began to wonder about Mrs. Mallary. He wondered what type of woman she was; whether she would react easily or whether she was one of those cynical women who were not prepared to take a man on his face value. He thought about this for a little while; then finished his drink, picked up his glass, and went to the far end of the bar. He ordered a double brandy from the barmaid. His smile was so charming, so childlike, that almost in spite of herself she smiled back. Guelvada said: "Hello, honey. I haven't seen you for a long time. How have things been cooking around here?"

"All right," she said. She didn't remember having seen Guelvada before, but he was so sure of himself that she thought she must have seen him. Possibly he was an old customer who hadn't been in much lately.

Guelvada went on: "There are a lot of new faces in here. Does Mrs. Mallary still come here as much as she used to?"

The barmaid nodded. "Quite a bit," she said, and such was Guelvada's power of suggestion that she now remembered that she had seen Guelvada with Mrs. Mallary in the bar at some time.

Guelvada said: "If a telephone call comes through for Mr. Guelvada, let me know, will you? I'm expecting a friend to call me." He picked up his glass; went back to his seat. He sat there patiently smoking a cigarette.