The Dark Street E-Book

Peter Cheyney

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

Beschreibung

THE yellow mist seeped into the Place des Roses; bringing an almost evil quality to the cul-de-sac; rising only a few feet from the ground; creating the impression that there were no foundations to the small, dirty dilapidated houses.
At the end of the cul-de-sac a thin knife-edge of light showed under the door of the wine shop. Inside the shop, which was dimly lit by an oil lamp, Fours leant over the counter at the end; regarded the board floor. About the place was the acrid smell of wine intermingled with the indescribable odour that came from his Mexican cigar—one of those things consisting of some indifferent leaves of tobacco rolled round a straw spinal column. From time to time he spat over the counter with precision into a tin can set in the middle of the floor.
Fours was big, fat, greasy, vaguely evil. His baggy brown velveteen trousers were tied up with a piece of string. His shirt, once of middle blue colour, was now dark blue with dirt. Through the open neck one could see his swarthy hair-covered chest.

Leseprobe

29

THE DARK STREET

Peter Cheyney

1944

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835929

Contents

1: The Things I Do for England

2: Quayle—Cordover—O'Mara

3: Be Nice to Ladies

4: A Farewell for Lovers

1: The Things I Do For England

THE yellow mist seeped into the Place des Roses; bringing an almost evil quality to the cul-de-sac; rising only a few feet from the ground; creating the impression that there were no foundations to the small, dirty dilapidated houses.

At the end of the cul-de-sac a thin knife-edge of light showed under the door of the wine shop. Inside the shop, which was dimly lit by an oil lamp, Fours leant over the counter at the end; regarded the board floor. About the place was the acrid smell of wine intermingled with the indescribable odour that came from his Mexican cigar—one of those things consisting of some indifferent leaves of tobacco rolled round a straw spinal column. From time to time he spat over the counter with precision into a tin can set in the middle of the floor.

Fours was big, fat, greasy, vaguely evil. His baggy brown velveteen trousers were tied up with a piece of string. His shirt, once of middle blue colour, was now dark blue with dirt. Through the open neck one could see his swarthy hair-covered chest.

His face was big and jowled. His skin glistened. His black moustache, the fierce eyebrows, set above little penetrating black eyes, the angle at which he wore a greasy black beret, conspired to give him the appearance of some decadent pirate who by some means had become transplanted into this wine shop in Paris in December, 1943.

Fours came round the counter. He took a tin jug from a hook on the wall opposite, held it under the spigot of a cask of wine, turned the spigot. When the jug was half filled, he put it to his mouth and drank. The wine tasted acid and bitter.

He hung up the jug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He began to swear softly to himself, using indescribable oaths, an amazing conglomeration of words, seeking relief in the depths of obscenity.

One could swear. By God—that was all one could do! Whatever one did one was watched. Always there were people watching. Nobody could be trusted. And why not? Curse it, what else could you expect, when you could buy a man for a dozen square meals, or a pretty woman for a frock and a packet of sweets.

A hell of a place. Fours thought that Paris was a hell of a place. You couldn't get out, unless you got on the right side of those swine. And if you stayed, you starved on your feet or you were carted off by those black S.S. bastards to some other hell.

All you could do was to try and get your own back when you had a chance... when you had a chance...

Fours re-lit the Mexican cigar. It was damp through much chewing; tasted like brown paper.

He leaned up against the counter and waited. Outside he could smell the fog, creeping about the place like an infection, creeping about the place like every one crept in these days.

He spat. Under his breath he began to sing softly. He remembered the marching columns of other years. Under his breath he began to sing Madelon.

Duborg and Michaelson came up the Boulevard Clichy. They walked slowly, their hands in their pockets. Duborg was broad-shouldered, fat. He was a Gascon of good family. In his own particular way he was handsome. Women liked him.

Michaelson, the Englishman, was tall, thin, inclined to be weedy. Looking at Michaelson you would think he was without courage, either moral or physical. You would think he was a weakling. You would be wrong.

Duborg said: "My friend, I do not like it—not one little bit. I think it must have been that woman. The more I think of it the more certain I am that it was that woman. I hope her soul will be condemned to everlasting Hell!" Quietly, almost ruminatively, Duborg began to express a long series of blasphemous wishes about the woman.

Michaelson said quietly: "Does it matter? There is a chance that it may still be all right, you know."

Duborg said: "Yes. But something tells me that it will not be all right. I have the feeling," he went on, "that I have for a long time walked along a very straight and uninteresting road. I have hoped that the end of the road might be amusing. Now I think that the end of the road will not be so good."

Michaelson grinned. He said: "You've got indigestion, Henri. There's a fog coming up. That might be useful."

Duborg shrugged his shoulders. They turned into the Place des Roses. They walked quickly along the pavement into Fours' wine shop.

Duborg said: "'Soir! This place stinks."

Fours said: "Everything stinks. Paris stinks. I stink..." and, as an afterthought... "you also stink."

He took the metal jug off the hook, held it under the spigot of the wine cask until it was full; handed it to Duborg. Duborg drank half the wine. He drank it slowly.

He put the jug down on the counter. He said: "Well, Fours, has she been here?"

The other shook his head. "No," he said. "I regret, mes amis, she has not."

Duborg looked at Michaelson. He said: "It doesn't look so good!"

Michaelson said nothing. He turned his head a little as the door behind him opened. A small, rat-faced, boy, whose filthy and tattered clothes had barely enough strength to hang together, came into the shop.

Duborg's eyes brightened. He said: "Hey, Carlos, perhaps you know something?"

The boy said: "I know a lot. This afternoon they arrested Cerisette."

Duborg said quickly: "Who did?"

"The Vichy police," said Carlos. He spat graphically on to the floor. "Later they handed her over to those —— So now you know."

Michaelson looked at Duborg—from Duborg to Fours. He smiled sadly. He said: "This is it."

Duborg said: "We get out of here. We must be quick. Otherwise they'll be on to Fours. If they've got her we're next on the list."

Michaelson said quietly: "You're perfectly right. So long, Fours. So long, Carlos."

The boy said in a quick, excited voice: "I'm in on this."

Duborg looked at him and grinned. He called him a rude name. He said: "Listen, infant, we go now to—you know where. Follow quietly behind—twenty-five to thirty paces. It is foggy and very dark. Keep in the shadows. If we're wrong it doesn't matter. If we're right so much the better for you."

The boy opened his mouth to say something.

Duborg said in an affectionate tone: "Shut up, canaille. Do what you're told. Au 'voir, Fours." He went out of the shop.

Michaelson raised his hand to Fours; turned and followed him. He closed the door very quietly behind him.

The boy stood near the counter looking at Fours. His face was drawn—pathetic. The expression on Fours' face did not change. He endeavoured to spit, but found that his mouth was a little too dry for the process.

Duborg and Michaelson came out of the Place des Roses. They began to walk up the hill. The street was quiet and deserted. There was no sound. The fog, becoming thicker, blanketed everything that could be seen, turning concrete objects into nebulous shapes. A hundred yards up the hill they turned into a narrow alleyway. Now the boy Carlos was behind them—about thirty yards behind them—walking against the side of the houses, his eyes staring out of a white face straight in front of him. When he got to the corner of the turning, he waited.

On the other side, fifteen yards down the little street, Duborg was opening the door of a ramshackle house. Inside, he switched on a small electric torch; began to walk up the wooden stairs. Michaelson was close behind him.

The flight of stairs was narrow and curving. As they came round the curve Duborg stopped. He put one hand behind him; found Michaelson's shoulder. He squeezed it. Facing them, on the first landing, was a door. Beneath the door a gleam of light showed. Duborg sighed. They ascended the few remaining stairs, crossed the landing. Duborg threw open the door.

There were three men in the room. One of them was holding in his hand a Mauser automatic pistol. He was a short man, dressed in a cheap ready-made French suit. The hand holding the pistol hung limply by his side. His eyes were restless.

Duborg and Michaelson came into the room. Michaelson closed the door quietly; stood with his back to it.

One of the three men—a big man in an overcoat—got up from the rickety chair on which he was sitting.

He said: "Gestapo!"

Duborg said: "Do you have to tell us? From my earliest days I was trained to smell rats."

The big man smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile. His face and head were almost square; his hair close-cropped. His eyes were of a peculiar pale blue colour. He said, almost casually:

"You are Henri Francois Duborg, and you"—jerking his thumb towards Michaelson—"are George Ernest Michaelson. You are agents in the pay of the British Government. You are civilians and therefore entitled to be shot. It is possible that a more lenient view may be taken of your case if you decide to talk."

Michaelson said quietly: "Nuts to you!"

The big man shrugged his shoulders. He said: "It really doesn't matter if you don't. Because Cerisette Mavrique decided to talk this afternoon."

Duborg said: "I bet you had to make her."

The big man nodded. "Believe me, my friend," he said, "she was very difficult, but she talked eventually. You know, we have ways."

Duborg said: "You're telling me! But I would like to tell you this——" He stepped forward. He kicked the German in the pit of the stomach.

The big man shrieked. He fell to the floor; lay there writhing. After a minute he began to whimper.

The man in the corner with the Mauser pistol raised the lower part of his arm. He fired three shots. Each shot hit Duborg in the stomach.

The second man, who was still seated, got up slowly. He put his hand in his pocket. As he moved, Michaelson shot across the room in something that looked like a rugby tackle. They went on to the floor in a heap. Michaelson had one thumb in the Gestapo man's eye. The man with the pistol in the corner of the room was unable to do anything about it. He stood there, the pistol ready, looking vaguely annoyed; a little uncomfortable. The big man had stopped whimpering. He was huddled in the corner of the room, holding his stomach. Duborg was dead.

Michaelson took his thumb out of his opponent's eye; slipped his hand down to his throat. The movement allowed the man in the corner to get a shot. He took careful aim. He shot Michaelson through the head. The man underneath Michaelson put up his arm and pushed the body away from him. He got up. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

The man with the pistol said in German: "This will be considered to be very unsatisfactory. We were supposed to bring these two in."

The man leaning against the wall said: "These cursed spies—they always do this sort of thing!" He began to brush his clothes. "And why not?"

The man with the pistol nodded. He said: "This is the easiest way for them." He went over to the big man; looked down at him. He said: "They have hurt Karl very badly. I should think he will always remember them."

On the corner of the street, the white-faced boy, Carlos, stood. His face made a white blot in the miasma of the fog. When he heard the shots he turned. He began to walk quickly down the hill towards the Place des Roses, towards Fours' wine shop.

PRESENTING Mr. Quayle. If the introduction is mainly pictorial it is because few people were privileged to know the ramifications of the mind of Mr. Quayle. Sometimes he was not quite certain about them himself. He lived, from a mental angle, as far ahead as was possible, mainly because the people who were dependent upon his peculiar mentality lived, usually, from moment to moment, sometimes dying even more suddenly than that.

If these processes had brought a certain acid outlook, a certain jaundiced viewpoint of the world—and the men and women in it—to him, he might be easily forgiven. There are things worse than bad temper.

He was tall, limber, well-made. He dressed quietly. He had a flair for not being too noticeable in crowds, for remaining a part of the scenery and, as such, not attracting too much attention. This was only one of his many attributes, which was as well, for the peculiar profession to which he belonged demanded many qualities and a great deal of extremely stark determination.

He paid off the cab, went through the swing doors into the Hyde Park Hotel, through the outer foyer, paused at the cloakroom, left his overcoat and his black Homburg hat and went into the Buttery. The place was crowded. It was filled with British and American officers, members of the Women's Services; all sorts and conditions of people.

Quayle sat on a high stool at the end of the bar. He ordered a double gin and soda, thinking as he did so that it was a depressing drink, but that in any event life could scarcely be more depressing than it was at the moment.

The top of his head was bald. A fringe of hair gave him the appearance of a tonsured monk. His face was round and might be called either very intelligent or vaguely stupid, according to the way he desired it to look. He sat there, sipping the gin and soda, looking straight in front of him.

Life, thought Quayle, was rather ridiculous—tragically ridiculous. Definitely, that was an adequate description of life at this particular moment. He threw a sidelong glance to his left—a glance which embraced the attractive picture of a young woman in W.R.N.S. uniform, whose neatly dressed blonde hair under an attractive tricorn uniform hat, her well-developed bosom, flat stomach and good legs, gave Quayle for one fleeting second a respite from the annoyance that thronged his mind—then brought his eyes back to the line of bottles on the mirrored shelves in front of him.

Quayle's business was nobody's business. That is the best description of his profession. It was a business necessitated by war, by the ghastly mechanics of war, by the scheming, plotting, machinations, underhand tactics, filthy murders; all those things that go to make up modern Armageddon, which is not entirely composed of battles in the air and clashes between infantry.

He finished the gin, ordered another. He took a large cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it, began to smoke. He was impatient.

A long and dangerous life had taught Quayle that there are only certain things which one is really afraid of—a certain kind of situation, a certain type of woman. One is afraid of both these things for the same reason. Both the situation and the woman are uncertain. They may repercuss in ways unforeseen. The situation, not being known, may possess potentialities for annoyance. The woman, whether she be known or not, may develop characteristics undreamed of. These were dangerous things one might sometimes be afraid of. The other and possibly more important thing was the amazing fretfulness of indecision, the inability to make up one's mind to deal with a situation because there are no facts on which one can make up one's mind; the appalling inability to realise the basis of the picture; the pressing desire to seize on small clues, to build up something in order that one might do something—anything—knowing all the time that if one did do something it would probably be wrong because the basic facts were missing.

The man who said "when in doubt don't" knew what he was talking about. He probably guessed, too, just how badly most people needed that advice.

Quayle was what might be described as a very tough egg. Yet he had a house just outside London, a wife who was devoted to him, and who believed—strange as it may seem—that he was employed in some quite normal department of a Ministry. He had all the attributes, the background, of a normal upper-middle class Englishman who was nearly fifty years of age, who was a little perturbed with the war because it interfered with his life, who was like so many people of his type that one sees about the streets. Yet he was none of these things.

A dangerous man—a fearful man—Quayle; a man at whose bidding strange things happened in many parts of the world; a man who ordered death and hated it; a man who pulled strings and made puppets dance; who whilst pulling the strings came near to weeping—if he could come near to weeping—because the puppets had to dance. This was Quayle.

A man came into the Buttery, through the foyer. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a big, good-looking face. He wore battle-dress, with a Commando flash under the shoulder title "Canada." A little inclined to stoutness, but his uniform sat well on him. His ankles and feet were trim; his hands, large, with spatulate fingers, hung at the end of long arms relaxed and limp.

Imperceptibly Quayle moved a little to the right, and the Canadian, as imperceptibly, inserted himself into the space made for him. Quayle ordered another large gin and soda. He drank half of it, stubbed out his cigarette, selected a fresh one from his case. He produced a lighter from his pocket which failed to work. He said to the Canadian:

"Could you give me a light?"

The Canadian grinned. Looking at him one could sense that he was a happy man; that in most circumstances—even the most difficult ones—he would still be happy.

He said: "Yeah, I got a light." He produced a lighter from his pocket, snapped it on, bent towards Quayle, showing the Captain's stars on his shoulders. He said, as he held the flame to Quayle's cigarette: "Do I talk?"

Quayle nodded. "It's all right," he said. "Talk."

Dombie said: "I went around to the office, but you weren't there. I saw the girl. She said she reckoned you'd be here. I reckon you've been waitin' to see me for some time, hey?"

Quayle said in a bored voice: "Have I?" The fingers of his right hand were tapping impatiently under the ledge of the bar.

Dombie went on: "I know how it's been. I guess you haven't been having a good time. O.K. Well, it's bloody awful some more. It looks like they've done it again."

Quayle said: "God damn it!" There was a world of feeling in the words.

"You're tellin' me," said Dombie. "Where do we go from here?"

The white-jacketed barman, passing along the bar, stood in front of them. Dombie said cheerfully:

"Hey, fella, you got whisky? I'll take a large one with just a little soda. Make it snappy, pal." He put a pound note on the counter. The barman went away.

Quayle said: "What happened and where did you get it from?"

The Canadian eased his large backside on the stool. He brought out a leather cigarette case, extracted a Lucky Strike, lit it. He was cool, unperturbed. He said:

"Through Fours' place. Believe it or not, I was over there last night. I got picked up by a plane at Frenduly in the Pas de Calais. I got over here this morning. Christ—was I glad to get out of there?"

Quayle said: "It's hot, is it?"

Dombie grinned. "Hot? It's a bloody cauldron," he said. "Jerry's worried. You know what the Germans are like when they get frightened, don't you? They get so tough it hurts. If they're doubtful they start killin'."

Quayle said: "Go on."

Dombie said: "All right. It reads like this. That musical comedy Vichy police force got wise to Michaelson and Duborg. You got that? They knocked off Mavrique. She was the contact with those two. Yet it wouldn't have been so bad if they'd handled her. But they didn't. They handed her over to the black coat brigade—one of the Gestapo inner sections. I reckon they made little Cerisette talk plenty. They got some nice methods, you know."

Quayle said: "You don't have to tell me. I know." His tone was angry.

Dombie said: "She shot the works. Duborg and Michaelson met at Fours' shop. They went home. They guessed what was waiting for 'em and got that kid Carlos—a white-faced rat but a nice guy—to come on behind to see what happened. O.K. There was a show-down. The Gestapo boys were waiting for Duborg and Michaelson. It looks like there was a rough-house. Our two boys got creased. That's all there is to it. They sent round a mortuary wagon and brought 'em out." He sighed. "Those two didn't talk anyway."

Quayle said in an angry low voice: "You bet your goddamned life they didn't talk, Dombie. Whatever they'd have done to them they'd never have talked."

The Canadian said: "Yeah, I guess you're right. I reckon that's where they started something. They weren't going to take a chance on talking. Those two boys knew what these guys do to a fella when they really want to find out something." He grinned. "You're tellin' me!" he said.

Quayle finished his gin and soda. He sucked down the clear liquid angrily. He pushed the glass back across the bar. The barman approached. Quayle ordered fresh drinks. Underneath the ledge of the bar the fingers of his right hand were still tapping.

Dombie said: "Look, Mr. Quayle, take it easy. I know how you're feelin'. You send 'em out there and you wish you were with 'em. Well, you can't be. None of these boys have taken as many chances as you have."

Quayle said: "I don't give a damn about Duborg and Michaelson. If they had to have it they had to have it. That's the way it goes." His voice sank to a low sibilant whisper. There was a world of hatred in every syllable. He said: "I want to know who gave the woman away. How did those dressed-up Vichy fools get on to Mavrique? How did they know about her?"

Dombie spread the fingers of his right hand on the top of the bar. The palm looked like a small plate. The fingers, short, spatulate, with broad nails, spread themselves out. Vaguely, they reminded Quayle of an octopus who had had his tentacles cut short.

Dombie said: "Look, whatever trouble started with Mavrique started over here. There are too many of these goddam Jerries kickin' around. You know that. Some of 'em are being let kick around. They give 'em their heads.

Other departments believe if you give 'em enough rope they'll hang themselves."

Quayle said: "I've never believed that."

Dombie shrugged his shoulders. He said: "Mr. Quayle, there's only one man could know about Mavrique; there's only one man who could have tipped those bastards off, and you know who he is."

Quayle said: "Yes, I know. That would be Lelley."

Dombie looked round the Buttery. It was almost empty. It was nearly ten o'clock. He said:

"That's right. It would be Lelley. I'd like to tear him wide open." An idea came to him. "Listen," he said, "why don't I tear him wide open?"

Quayle said: "That's not your business." He smiled. "You're good at your job, Dombie, but that's not your line." There was a pause. He went on: "You're right. You've got to be right. It was our friend Mr. Charles Ermyn Lelley. Otherwise little Fritzy—that superb product of Mr. Himmler's No. 1 Training School—Mr. Lelley of Upper Nelswood—the squire of the village."

Dombie said: "He could have done it. He was the only guy who could have done it. We know he knew about Mavrique. When they let her get through the first time and come over here he knew about it. I'm tellin' you!"

Quayle said: "I know that."

Dombie said: "It's not good over there. You know they've been knocking off our contacts like hell. They got eleven of them in the last five months, Mr. Quayle."

Quayle said: "I know." His voice was almost harsh.

Dombie said: "But we keep on sending 'em because—goddam it—we've got to keep on sending them. We've got to know the way things are. You said that, you know, Mr. Quayle."

Quayle smiled. He said: "I know. I've a way out of that. I'm going to draw a line across the whole organisation we've got over there. I'm bringing every contact back. That's going to fix them."

Dombie said: "That's clever. What are you doing—sending a new lot out?"

Quayle nodded. "I'm sending seventeen people they'll never know. Seventeen people they'll never know—seventeen people that Mr. Lelley will never know about."

The Canadian said: "I hope Lelley don't have a chance of knowing about 'em. He's a clever bastard and he's got some sort of contact across the Irish Channel. He gets it back to France somehow."

Quayle looked at Dombie. He smiled. Dombie began to feel happy. He knew that smile.

Quayle said: "Lelley's not going to know about the seventeen who are going over. He won't have the chance."

Dombie said: "I'm glad to hear it." He finished his drink. He said: "Will you have another?"

Quayle nodded.

Dombie ordered the drinks. When they were brought, and the barman gone, Quayle said:

"They were nice boys, those two. Duborg—he was something like you, and Michaelson was a sound fellow. I trained him. I had him working for me for five years. He'd been everywhere and done everything. It's a tough way to finish."

Dombie said: "I reckon there are worse ways. I reckon he did something to 'em before they fogged him."

They drank their drinks.

Quayle got off the stool. He said: "I'm going to do some telephoning. Take a couple of days off. Come and see me in two or three days' time. You know where."

Dombie said: "O.K., boss. I'll be seein' you." He got off the stool. He went on: "I'm glad you made up your mind about Lelley. I think it's a good thing."

Quayle said nothing.

He walked out of the Buttery, got his hat and coat at the cloakroom, went away.

The Canadian lit a fresh cigarette; ordered some more whisky. He stood there looking into the mirror in front of him. Reflected, he could see the faces of men and women seated in the bar. Dombie, who was of an amatory disposition, examined carefully the faces and figures of the women, amused himself by considering which one he would sleep with if he had the choice.

He sat down on the high stool and drank the whisky slowly. It tasted good. He reflected on life. Yesterday evening he had been in France—occupied France—waiting for the plane that would come down inside the box barrage of bombs dropped by the co-operative Squadron, the plane that would, if all were well, pick him up. Well... it had come. He had been picked up. He was here. Dombie grinned. He'd been over there, dropped and picked up, twenty-two times. One of these fine days something was going to slip up and he'd probably be for the high jump too—like Duborg and Michaelson.

He finished his drink; winked at the bar-tender, got another one.

He sat there wondering what he should do next—where he should go.

Life, thought Dombie, was O.K.

It was O.K. all right if you didn't weaken.

KERR leaned on the top of the grand piano; regarded the slender fingers of Therese Martyr as they glided over the piano keys. She played softly, with a superb technique. She imbued the hot number with a certain musical quality which had certainly not existed in the mind of its composer.

Therese was tall, slim, vital. She had long narrow feet. By moving his head a little Kerr could see her feet on the piano pedals. Therese, he thought, was very beautiful below the waist.

She had flat breasts, a long and rather mournful face. Her eyes were beautiful, and she had a definite and peculiar appeal.

Kerr looked at the reflection of his face in the polished piano-case. He thought: I wonder—are you slightly drunk or merely a little excited? He wished he knew. It was rather difficult to know where you were getting a little high. Kerr had spent a great many years of his life drinking; being unaffected by the process. But these days you didn't know. You weren't certain.

The room was "L" shaped. The walls and ceiling were painted off-white. They glistened. The lighting was cleverly concealed in old Spanish iron sconces. The parquet floor was black and polished. It had black and white rugs on it. The two long windows, one on each side of the "L," were covered with off-white brocade curtains, with their borders illuminated by a raised black and gold motif. Kerr thought it was a hell of a flat. It was one of those places. It had everything—comfort, taste; and the women were always good too. Any woman who came to Mrs. Milton's parties seemed to be beautiful in some way or another. Or was she? Kerr wondered whether it was he who made them beautiful; whether it was because he was usually happy at Glynda's parties; whether he was really happy or whether he was just a little drunk?

Kerr raised his head, looked across the room. Sandra was leaning against the wall directly opposite him. She was dressed in a long, superbly cut, dinner frock in some soft, clinging material the colour of bluebells. Round her neck and right wrist she wore handsome antique gilt jewellery set with semi-precious stones.

She had honey-coloured hair, luminous violet eyes. She was high-breasted, slim-hipped. She was quite lovely.

Kerr grinned at her. He said to himself: "You've got a lovely wife. You've got a hell of a wife. She's quite wonderful!"

She smiled at him without moving. She stood absolutely still, smiling at him, looking unutterably beautiful. Quietly and unutterably beautiful.

Kerr thought that Sandra was always relaxed. No matter what happened, she always appeared to be relaxed, quiet. Yet really, underneath, she was not. Definitely not.

He picked up the glass that was near him, gulped down some whisky; leaned again on the piano top. He began to think about Sandra. He told himself that it was a very good thing for a man to think objectively about his wife on occasion. When he looked up she was still leaning against the wall, still smiling, still watching him.

In the corner, holding a long straight glass and talking to the Spaniard—Miguales, was Glynda Milton—a brunette, slim, with tiny feet and hands; wearing a short red dress—gesticulating a little wildly with her free hand. Kerr thought: Glynda's a little high. But I think everybody at this party is high. Except Sandra. Sandra never gets high.

Kerr was tall, slim, good-looking: tough-looking. He had a peculiar attraction—something that was indefinable; something that made women like him. He knew this. He had good shoulders, slim hips. He was long-legged. His hands were strong, artistic hands. His hair was dark brown and waved a little. He was one of those men whose clothes are always right.

He began to watch Therese's fingers again. She was playing something else now. He didn't know what the tune was called but it had allure—definitely it had allure. Kerr thought that allure was an extremely attractive word. He liked it. He liked it so much he repeated it to himself two or three times.

He looked round the room. Glynda was by now even more involved in her argument with the Spaniard. Sitting on the long white brocade settee, Magdalen Francis talked in her soft and attractive voice to a Fighting French officer. Kerr listened to her. One could always listen to the cadences of Magdalen's voice. It was soothing. She wore a pale green frock—a very expensive affair—and her blonde hair was supremely dressed. Magdalen always looked as if she had just stepped out of a band-box. She had style.

Kerr came to the conclusion that he wouldn't drink any more. He thought it would be a hell of a good idea not to drink any more. One or two more and he was likely to begin thinking in terms of just what he could try out with some of the women. And that wouldn't do at all.

Therese got up from the piano. She went to the upper part of the room and began to talk to Elvira Fayle. Kerr thought they made a great picture, those two; talking together, smiling at each other. Therese made a picture. In spite of her flat breasts she made a hell of a picture. She knew how to dress, that one. She wore a long black skirt with a most lovely cream lace blouse. Her dark hair was swept back high from her face. Elvira, who was almost plain, but with good feet and legs and a peculiar grace, swayed a little as she talked. Elvira had been hitting the gin again, Kerr thought. She liked gin. She liked gin and poker and watching other people get drunk. The trouble was that she invariably got drunk first. She obtained the most beautiful lingérie from somebody in the Black Market because, as she put it, other people were always putting her to bed. Kerr thought she was a nice dish.