The Stars are Dark E-Book

Peter Cheyney

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

Beschreibung

A FILM director, seeking a ghostly scene for some macabre film, would have acclaimed the location of the Box of Compasses.
It stood, set back fifty yards from the deserted cross-roads, one arm of which dwindled away past the wooded crest of the hill; turned itself into a footpath and disappeared amongst the scrub on the cliff top. One arm ran into the moorland; the other wound past the inn and broadened on its way to the town. There was no shelter from the wind. The ramshackle building stood on a bare plateau surrounded by scrubland. On the other side of the woods the cliffs descended steeply, disappearing into sand-dunes running down to the long shelving beach of the bay.

Leseprobe

THE STARS ARE DARK

Peter Cheyney

1943

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835868

Pale ghosts tread softly

When the stars are dark.

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

1: Assignation With Shadows

A FILM director, seeking a ghostly scene for some macabre film, would have acclaimed the location of the Box of Compasses.

It stood, set back fifty yards from the deserted cross-roads, one arm of which dwindled away past the wooded crest of the hill; turned itself into a footpath and disappeared amongst the scrub on the cliff top. One arm ran into the moorland; the other wound past the inn and broadened on its way to the town. There was no shelter from the wind. The ramshackle building stood on a bare plateau surrounded by scrubland. On the other side of the woods the cliffs descended steeply, disappearing into sand-dunes running down to the long shelving beach of the bay.

Either there was fog or rain or wind— sometimes all of them. This night was stormy. The wind howled in from the sea, through the woodland, swept down to the cross-roads to vent its fury on the Box of Compasses. It rattled the old-time shutters, banged unsecured doors, set window frames and hinges creaking, and swung the inn sign backwards and forwards, creating in the process a rusty dirge as a set-off to its own shrill voice.

The lorry came from the direction of the town at a good thirty miles an hour. The canvas flap at the back was open, whipped against the side, making a noise like a cracking whip.

When the inn came in sight, Greeley, who was sitting in the cab beside the driver, said: "Look, run up the road till you come to the side of the wood. There's an open space there you can turn in and park."

The driver said: "All right." He spoke in a cultured voice and the hands that gripped the steering-wheel were white― unused to manual work.

Greeley looked at them. He thought: 'Jesus, they're givin' us some fine proper boys these days. I wonder where this one came from.' He put his hand into the side pocket of his leathern wind-jammer; brought out a crumpled cigarette. He lit it; drew the smoke down into his lungs, opened his mouth and let it come out again. The cigarette was stuck artistically to his lower lip. Greeley was one of those men to whose lower lips cigarettes always stuck. He undid two of the buttons of his leathern jacket; put his hand inside. Under his left arm, in a soft holster, was a .45 Webley Scott automatic. He pulled the holster a little forward, so that his right hand could close easily on the butt. He buttoned up his jacket, put his hands on his knees, sat looking through the windshield.

He began to think about the girl at Kingstown. Jeez... there was a girl. When they were serving out nerve— and when he said nerve he meant nerve— she'd got herself a basinful. And she had one of those pale, wistful sort of faces and fine blonde hair, and a figure that made your fingers tingle....

She looked sort of weak and helpless, and she would look at you with big blue eyes, and you would think that somebody had taken her for a very rough ride and you would feel sorry for her.

Weak and helpless.... Greeley, his sharp eyes looking at the windshield in front of him and not seeing anything except that wistful face, began to grin. Weak and helpless.... Like hell she was! He remembered the do in the cellar of the Six Sisters on the Meath Road when she'd shot Vietzlin when he was nearly through the window... a lovely drop shot... with a forty-five that she'd grabbed out of Villier's coat pocket and a pull on it that weighed all of two pounds.

Greeley wondered who she was; if he would ever see her again. He wondered where the devil Quayle had found that one. Quayle certainly knew how to pick them. He certainly had some method. He never made a nonsense of picking people....

Greeley conceded that Quayle knew what he was doing. Nearly all the time he knew what he was doing. A cool, hard-headed one, Quayle... one who knew when to be tough and when to play it nice and soft and easy; who knew how to look like a big kind-hearted one and who could talk you into or out of anything, but who could do other things besides talk.

Greeley wondered what Quayle was getting out of it. Pretty much the same as the rest of them, he thought. Sweet nothing... sweet Fanny Adams... sweet goddam all... except maybe the kick. Perhaps Quayle was getting a kick out of it.

Massanay, who was driving, said: "I feel damn' funny. I feel as if my stomach's cold inside. I wonder what's going to happen?"

Greeley grinned. He said: "You should bleedin' worry! You take a tip from me— don't you ever think of what's goin' to happen before it happens in this game, see? It don't do, you know, and it don't get you any place. Just take things as they come. The other thing you can remember is that nothing is ever as bad as you think it's going to be."

Massanay said: "You ought to know."

"You bet your life I ought to know," said Greeley. "When you've been kickin' around in this racket as long as I have nothing's going to make you feel funny; nothing's going to surprise you. If a couple of burnin' fiends dropped out of hell in a flash of blue flame, you wouldn't even blink."

There was a pause. Then Greeley asked: "You know what you've got to do?"

Massanay said: "Yes." He went on, talking like a child who's learned a lesson: "I'm going to park the lorry round in the clearing of the woods. I'm going to wait ten minutes; then I'm going down to the saloon bar of the Box of Compasses. I'll have a drink. There are going to be three other men there—yourself and two more. I know what the other two will look like. All right. By the time I've had my drink it ought to be time for people to start moving. First the tall man will go; then the man of medium height with very wide shoulders. About two minutes after he's gone I shall leave."

Greeley said: "That's all right. Where do you go to?"

"I follow the path along the top of the cliff," said Massanay. "Down the other side, about a hundred yards down, there's a cut in the cliff. The cleft runs down to the beach. I'm to turn down into that cleft. Somewhere there I'll find you three."

"That's all right," said Greeley. "All right. Well, you do it." He grinned. "All you got to do is to pull your belt in one hole, if you've got a belt on. That'll stop your guts from turnin' over. And the second thing is try and keep your teeth from chatterin'. Every time there's a lull in the wind you sound like a bleedin' typewriter workin'."

He grinned suddenly in a friendly manner. He dug Massanay in the ribs. He said:

"Don't worry, kid. You'll be all right. I was like you the first time. You can drop me off here."

Massanay slowed down. Greeley opened the door and stood on the step of the slow-moving lorry. He said:

"When you park this lorry, tie up that flap at the back. There might be some nosy fellow hangin' around— a cyclist policeman or a Home Guard. Maybe they'd want to know what you're doin' with four six-foot boxes in this outfit."

Massanay said: "Why should they worry?"

Greeley said: "Why? Because they look like coffins, don't they?" He grinned again. "Because they look like coffins nobody would believe they were fruit boxes. And the joke is they are fruit boxes but they ought to be coffins. So long, chum."

He dropped off into the road. He stood watching the lorry as it went up the hill towards the wood.

2

FELLS FINISHED his whisky and soda as Greeley came into the Box of Compasses. Greeley looked casually around the bar, showing not the slightest sign of recognition when he saw Fells and Villiers.

Villiers was sitting at the little table on the left of the fire, drinking Guinness. He was wearing a bowler hat perched rather incongruously on the top of a round head. Villiers looked like the sort of man who would be a coal agent or an insurance agent or anything like that—the sort of man you wouldn't notice.

Fells, leaning against the bar, lit a cigarette. He was thinking about Greeley. He was thinking Greeley was pretty good—a funny, odd fellow Greeley—a regular Cockney—but with a peculiar sense of something that you couldn't put your finger on—utterly reliable. He drew the cigarette smoke down into his lungs.

Fells had a long thin face, and when you looked at it the first time you thought that it was a very sad face. The deep ironic lines about the mouth, the bony structure of the jaw and the peculiar thinness at the side of the eyes gave you an odd impression of asceticism. When you looked again you noticed the groups of finely cut humour lines at the edge of the eyes. When he smiled—a rare occurrence—his eyes lighted up. Then it seemed as if, for a moment, he had forgotten something—something that he wanted badly to forget—as if he had obtained a few seconds respite from a ghost that haunted him. He was tall and thin. He had long legs, slim hips. His shoulders were good, and underneath the superficial appearance of laziness you could sense a great energy—an energy born of frustration or impatience or something. Fells might have been anything, but first of all he might have been an actor. He had the ability to blend into a background, and here in the tap-room of the Box of Compasses he seemed to be completely a part of the scene.

Villiers, with his bowler hat, drinking Guinness at the far side; and Greeley, his drink ordered, leaning against the bar counter, casting an appreciative eye on the buxom barmaid—all of them somehow, and in some strange fashion, blended into the atmosphere of the Box of Compasses. An odd process, but one which is possible to men whose nervous systems are attuned to atmospherics.

Massanay came in. The barmaid, who was wiping the zinc counter, looked at him for a moment. She wondered at the influx of business. She thought Massanay looked nice. Then she looked at Fells in the quick, appraising manner of her kind. She thought Fells looked a little odd and sad—the sort of man who has been pushed around by life and doesn't know what to do about it.

Fells thought. He thought that he would like to go to the Palladium; that he would like to see Tommy Trinder. He had seen a poster earlier in the day. Mr. Trinder's face gazed at him invitingly from the poster. Mr. Trinder was saying: 'You lucky people!' The suggestion conveyed itself into the mind of Fells that by going to the Palladium, by seeing Tommy Trinder, he could be lucky! He might secure for a little while happiness. He might be amused. Definitely, he must go and see Tommy Trinder. Then he thought that when he had the chance he would speak to Greeley about it. First of all Greeley was certain to have been there. Greeley went everywhere. He had an extreme ability for enjoyment. Only Greeley could enjoy things such as —— Fells sighed. Then he smiled a little whimsically. After all there was only one Greeley.

He ordered another whisky and soda. He began to think about Tangier. The process was pleasurable. Not always did he allow himself to think about Tangier—just occasionally. When things were a little bad, or getting to be a little exciting, or there was a chance of any particular unhappiness in the near future, then Fells would think about Tangier.

A picture of her would come to him. He would visualise the soft chestnut hair framing her beautiful oval face. He would think about her face, of the carved lines of her mouth. Thinking about Tangier brought a sense of peace or exhilaration, whichever was required at that moment.

The barmaid brought his drink. Fells drank it slowly. Then he turned his wrist over and looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He wore his wrist-watch on the inside of his wrist because it had a luminous dial and if it were worn on the outside of the wrist it might be seen in the darkness. Fells and Greeley and Villiers and the rest of them always thought of little things like that. They realised they weren't little things; they realised they were very big things. Important things like life—if it was important—sometimes depended on such little things.

He put his cigarette stub in the ashtray on the bar. He said good-night to the barmaid, put his hands into the pockets of his old navy-blue raincoat. He went out of the bar.

Greeley ordered another half-pint of bitter. When it was brought to him he looked into the tankard rather as if he were expecting to read something in the brown surface of the beer. He was thinking that it would only be necessary for him to allow Fells a couple of minutes—that would be enough. He turned his head slightly as Villiers—his empty glass in his hand—came to the bar. Villiers put his glass down on the bar. He said:

"Ten Players, please, miss!"

The girl brought the cigarettes. Villiers put the shilling on the bar and turned away. As he did so his foot touched Greeley's accidentally.

Greeley was inclined to be artistic. He said: "Go easy, that's my blinkin' foot."

Villiers said: "Sorry!"

Greeley said: "That's all bleedin' well, but I got a corn on that foot. I've tried everything for that corn that a man can think of—plasters and Gawd knows what. But it's still there. Funny thing is, on a night like this, when it's a bit cold, and there's maybe a spot of rain hangin' about, that corn starts sproutin' like hell. The slightest thing and the pain goes right through me. It's useful in a way though—it always tells me what the weather's going to be like."

Villiers said: "Does it? That must be very nice for you."

Greeley said: "You're not being sarcastic, are you?"

Villiers shook his head. "I wouldn't be sarcastic about a man who's got a corn," he said. "Have a look at me—do I look the sort of person who'd be sarcastic about a thing like that?"

Greeley said: "Well, I can't say you do and I can't say you don't."

Villiers said: "Well, that's all right."

Greeley drained his tankard. He said: "If it's O.K. with you it's O.K. with me."

Villiers opened the packet of cigarettes; took one out. He lit it and looked at the glowing end for a moment; then he said casually: "Well, good-night." He went out.

Massanay, who had ordered a gin and tonic, put the empty glass down on the mantelpiece. He held out his hands to the fire for a moment; then walked over to the door. As he pushed aside the black-out curtain he said to the barmaid:

"I take the left fork for Halliday—don't I?"

She nodded. "Over to the right of the copse," she said. "An' take care you don't fall in the sewage pit."

Massanay nodded. Greeley, lighting a cigarette, heard the door close.

After a minute he said: "I suppose you shut at ten o'clock."

The barmaid nodded. "That's right," she said. "It's a good thing too. There's very little business doing around here these days."

Greeley said: "I should think so. Funny sort of place to have a pub—sort of deserted, isn't it?"

She said: "It used not to be. There used to be a lot of traffic on this road before the war was on. Most of the lorries found it easier to come round this way. We used to do lunches." She sighed. "I wonder if those days will ever come back," she said.

Greeley said: "I wonder! Well, I'll be goin'."

She said suddenly: "You'd better be careful if you're going over the cliff path. The wind's strong to-night. Two years ago a man was blown over."

Greeley said: "Ah! But I'm not going over the cliff path."

"Well, you'll have a long walk to the town," said the girl.

He said: "I know. I like walking." He thought: 'To hell with this woman. Now I've got to walk down the road to the town just in case she's looking out of the window, and it's a clear night so I'll have to walk quite a way.' He put the box of cigarettes in his pocket. He said: "Well, good night. Sleep well." He went out.

3

THE WIND HOWLED dismally round the cliff edge. On the top of the cliff amongst the scrub where the cleft began, a little shower of stones and dry twigs descended and rolled down into the gully. Half-way down the cleft where the cliff walls were twenty feet high, where there was protection from the wind, Greeley, Villiers and Massanay sat, their backs against the cliff wall. Villiers was whistling softly to himself.

Massanay said: "It would be funny if they didn't come!" He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Greeley looked at him sideways. He said, with a not unkind grin: "Maybe the wish is father to the thought, hey? And I wouldn't light a cigarette if I were you—just in case they did come."

Villiers said: "They'll come all right. They're consistent bastards." His voice was bitter.

Greeley said: "Yes, they're consistent enough. Whatever else you can accuse 'em of you couldn't say they were inconsistent. They make up their minds to do something and they go on doin' it." He grinned in the darkness. "They haven't got the bleedin' sense to stop doin' it even when they get knocked off."

Villiers said: "Well, the boys behind 'em don't know they're knocked off, do they—anyway not for a long time?"

Greeley said: "That's as maybe. The thing is they keep on comin'."

He got up. He began to walk down the cleft towards the seashore. In spite of the darkness he walked surely. He made no noise. Almost at the bottom of the cleft, standing behind a ledge in the cliff wall, was Fells. He was looking out to sea. He had a night glass to his eyes.

Greeley said: "You won't see much. There's a mist comin' up. It's bloody bad visibility."

Fells said in a soft, almost disinterested voice: "So much the better. They'll have to come in close before they signal."

Greeley said: "They'll be goddam good if they find the place on a night like this."

Fells put the night glasses back into the case which hung round his neck. He said: "If they're coming they'll find it—that is if they've got so far."

Greeley ran his tongue over his lips. He said: "I hope they do come." There was silence for a minute; then Greeley asked: "How are you goin' to play this?"

Fells said: "I don't know whether the people coming in know the party who were supposed to meet them—the people whose place we're taking. We might have to think quickly. If they didn't know this Apfel, who's the contact man here, we shall be all right."

Greeley said: "I see. That means to say you're goin' to meet 'em and give 'em the old schmooze."

Fells nodded. "My German's good enough for that," he said.

Greeley said: "Well, that's all right. And supposin' they do know what this Apfel fellow looks like, and they take a look at you and see that you are not Apfel. So what then?"

Fells smiled. He looked at Greeley. He said:

"That's where you'll have to be very quick."

Greeley said in a matter-of-fact tone: "All right. You go down towards the beach but not too far. I'll stick around here in the shadow. Villiers can be on the other side of the cleft behind me. We've got to know where each of us is going to be, see?"

Fells said: "That all sounds very nice. What do you propose to do with Massanay?" He was still smiling.

Greeley said: "I think we'll leave him out. He can stick up at the end of the cleft and watch the cliff top. I think he's feelin' a little bit cold in the stomach. Don't get me wrong—there's nothing wrong with Massanay. He's a nice boy, but we can't afford any slip-ups."

Fells said: "Definitely not." He sounded quite disinterested. He was thinking, in fact, that he really must go up and see Tommy Trinder at the Palladium. The words on the poster—'You lucky people!'—for some reason or other passed through his mind with monotonous regularity.

Greeley leaned up against the cliff wall. He was relaxed, indifferent, poised. Fells thought: 'Greeley doesn't give a damn for anything.' He liked Greeley just as much as one man can like another one.

Greeley said: "What's on your mind? You're thinkin' of something, aren't you?"

Fells's smile broadened. He said: "Yes—the oddest thing. I saw one of those Palladium posters about Tommy Trinder. For some weird reason the words—'You lucky people!'—keep going through my mind. When I've got time I must go and see that show."

Greeley said: "That's a good one." He spat artistically. "You lucky people!" He looked about him, shrugged his shoulders humorously. "Are we lucky or are we?" he said—"on a bloody picnic like this!"

Fells asked softly: "Do you mind it?"

Greeley said: "What the hell! I should worry!"

There was a silence. No one spoke. Suddenly, from out of the mist on the other side of the waves that broke gently up the shelving beach, there came the sound of a sea-gull screeching three times.

Greeley said between his teeth: "For crissake... the boy friends."

Fells said: "Well, here we go!" He moved a few steps towards the beach, took a flash lamp from his pocket and, standing up against the cliff wall, began to flash the lamp out to sea.

Greeley moved back a few paces, cuddled his shoulder against an overhanging boulder, slipped his hand into the pistol holster under his left arm, brought out the pistol. He moved back the safety catch; stood, his right arm hanging straight down by his side. He whistled very softly between his teeth.

Villiers came down. He said: "So they've made it?"

Greeley said: "That's right, chum. Look, the boss is keepin' over to the right, so he'll be on the right-hand side of the cleft where it runs down to the sand. That's where the talkin' will be. I'm goin' to be here on the left. You be a little higher up on the other side. That way we don't give it to each other, see?"

Villiers said: "I see. Look, if they're leery, you wouldn't miss, would you? If you did, it wouldn't be so good for Fells."

Greeley said: "You go and teach your bleedin' grandmother to suck eggs! Have you ever known me to miss?"

Villiers grinned. "No," he said. "But everybody's got to start some time." He moved back up the cleft.

The nose of a boat grated on the shingle that edged the sand. Two men jumped out. They came through the water up the beach. Fells made a movement towards them. He stopped, still in the shadow of the cliff. He stood there waiting, the flash-lamp in his left hand. The leading man out of the boat was by now only a few feet from Fells. He was peering forward in the darkness.

Fells said quietly: "Guten Abend. Ich hoffe Sie hatten eine gute Überfahrt."

The man from the boat said: "Ja, sie war nicht so schlecht." Then, suddenly, as he saw Fells's face, he began to shout. Three words were out of his mouth when Greeley fired.

The bullet hit the leading man in the stomach. He made a horrible noise, crumpled up in the sand. He was trying to get at his coat pocket. By this time Fells had dropped the lamp and fired through the right-hand pocket of his raincoat. He shot the second man. Three shots came from the direction of the boat. Immediately Greeley, followed by Villiers, both of them bent double, ran down the beach towards the boat. Greeley fired three times—Villiers twice.

There was silence.

Fells took his hand out of his pocket, bent down, picked up the flash-lamp. He put it into the left-hand pocket of his raincoat. The man in front of him lay quite still. He was dead. Fells began to walk down the beach. He could hear the noise of the sea lapping against the sides of the motor-boat. He heard Greeley's voice:

"It's O.K. There're three of 'em here. We've got 'em all."

Fells asked: "Wounded?"

Greeley said: "No, they're all dead all right."

Fells said: "All right. Get them out and get the boat round and start the motor. Let it be washed in somewhere else. We don't want it here."

Greeley said: "O.K."

Villiers stood beside Fells. He said: "Well, that's all right. This is the part I don't like. We can do with a little help from Massanay. I'll go and get him."

Fells nodded. He went towards the boat. Greeley was already throwing the bodies over the side into the shallow water. Fells dragged them up the beach in the shadow of the cliff.

Greeley, cursing and swearing in the darkness, up to his thighs in water, swung the motor-boat round. He climbed in over the stern; started the motor. He jumped back quickly, finding himself in deeper water than he had anticipated. He scrambled out up the beach, blaspheming under his breath.

Fells was standing at the opening of the cleft.

Greeley said: "Of course I had to go into that bleedin' drink up to my neck. One of these fine days I'm goin' to get pneumonia. I always did have a weak chest." He lit a cigarette. He said: "Where do we bury 'em—here?"

Fells said: "No, not in the sand here. The tide may come right up as far and uncover them. Half-way up the cleft would be a good place."

Greeley said: "All right. I'll tell Massanay to get the quicklime."

As he turned, Villiers came up to them. There was an odd expression on his face. He said: "Don't look now, but you can't think what's happened."

Greeley said: "What?"

Villiers said: "One of the shots fired by those three bastards got Massanay. He's a goner. It must have been a ricochet. He walked down the cleft, see? He was curious."

Greeley said: "For crissake! What do you know about that?" He sighed.

Fells said softly: "That isn't so good, is it?"

Greeley said: "No. Well, it's no good talkin' about it. All we have to do is to make room for another one." He said to Villiers: "Look, there's more of these so-and-so's than we thought were comin'. If we're goin' to get 'em underground we've got to work good and quick. Go get the lorry and bring it up on to the top of the cliff."

Villiers said: "Is that chancing anything? Supposing somebody came by?"

Fells said: "Nobody's going to come by this place on a night like this. That's the best thing, Villiers."

Villiers said: "All right. Isn't life wonderful! Everybody else gets the fun and I carry the spades and quicklime." He went away.

Greeley said after him: "What the hell's eatin' you? You could be worse off. You could be Massanay."

Villiers grinned. He said over his shoulder: "You might be right. I never thought of that."

4

QUAYLE was half asleep. He lay on the outside of the bed underneath the eiderdown. He was wearing crimson silk pyjamas and his hands were folded behind his head, which was almost entirely bald except for a fringe of hair, giving him the appearance of a tonsured monk.

He stirred uneasily as the clock struck three; realised vaguely that he was not asleep; realised simultaneously that he seldom slept properly; that most of the time his rest was like a cat's, with one eye half opened, one ear cocked. He stirred again; then lay looking at the ceiling.

The bedroom was large and comfortable. The electric fire was burning and the bedside lamp was shaded by a red shade, tilted so that the light fell on Quayle's face, the idea being that even if he wanted to go to sleep the irritation from the lamp would keep him awake.

Outside the bedroom was a passage, and leading off it on both sides were the five other rooms that constituted the flat. At the far end of the passage was a kitchen; leading off the kitchen was a small scullery. Against the far wall of this scullery was a cupboard which, when you opened it, gave access to the flat next door, a flat which, whilst supposed to be empty, was in fact Quayle's office.

The telephone by the bedside began to ring. It made a harsh jangling noise. Quayle swung his feet on to the floor. He got up; picked up the telephone.

He was very tall; he moved easily and quickly. His face was round, intelligent, and could look weak or strong as he willed. Quayle was a character. He had been all sorts of things; done all sorts of things. It was once said of him that like George Moore he had no enemies but his friends weren't particularly fond of him. This was possible because Quayle was too busy to spend time being charming; because he found himself continuously driven to do things which he didn't want to do; to be things which he didn't want to be. Yet if you had asked him to do something else, to turn his life into a quiet routine set in some backwater where the days flowed easily by, he would have refused. He was fascinated by the web in which he was a central point; fascinated by seeing the things he wanted to happen happen; in watching the wheels go round.

He said: "This is Mr. Quayle."

The operator said: "This is a priority call. Will you take it on that line, sir?"

Quayle said: "No. Put it through to the private line. Hold it for a minute."

He hung up. He went out of the bedroom, down the corridor, through the kitchen into the scullery, through the cupboard into the flat next door. He turned into the first room off the hallway. It was austerely furnished as an office—a big desk, a small typing table, a row of steel filing cabinets. On the desk were three telephones with special mouthpieces. Quayle picked up one.

He said: "Hello."

Fells's voice came through. It was soft and tired. Quayle thought Fells's voice always sounded the same. No matter what happened it had the same timbre, the same quality of boredom. Quayle wondered just how bored Fells was.

Fells said: "I thought you'd like to know everything's all right."

Quayle said: "Then you met your friends?"

"Yes," said Fells. "We met them."

Quayle asked: "Were they glad to see you?"

"Not particularly," said Fells. "Apparently they expected someone else to meet them."

Quayle grinned. He said: "They weren't too glad when they found it was you?"

Fells said: "No, they weren't glad—not afterwards."

There was a moment's silence; then Quayle asked: "Anything else?"

"Yes," said Fells. "Massanay... not very good...."

Quayle asked: "How bad?"

"Very bad, I'm afraid," said Fells.

Quayle said: "I see... I'm sorry about that."

Fells said: "Yes, so am I.... Is that all?"

Quayle said: "Yes, for the moment. But I think there'll be some more business in a little while—something perhaps not very exciting or important, but something that ought to be done. I'll get in touch with you. Good-night."

Fells said: "Good-night." Quayle heard the receiver at the other end click. He put down the telephone. He sat for a few seconds looking at the desk.

He got up. He went across to one of the filing cabinets and opened it by pressing a spring in the side. Inside the cabinet were half a dozen folders. They were labelled with the names of different trading concerns. Fells took one out. The jacket of the folder was labelled "Anthracite Co-operative.' He took the folder back to the desk, opened it. Clipped to the sheaf of papers inside were a dozen cards—the sort of cards one used in a card index—each one bearing the name of a man or a woman.

Quayle extracted the last card. Typed on the top line was: 'Massanay—Charles Ferdinand Eric.' Beneath the name were details of Massanay's career. Quayle noticed vaguely that he had served as a Pilot Officer, Flying Officer and Flight Lieutenant, for eighteen months in the Royal Air Force; had shot down eleven of the enemy before being invalided out. Quayle put the card in the breast pocket of his scarlet pyjama jacket. He put the folder back into the filing cabinet; shut it. He went back into the hall, through into the scullery, back to his bedroom. He went over to the fireplace and stood for a moment looking into the imitation coal fire.

He opened a box on the mantelpiece; took out a cigarette and lit it. With the same match that he used to light the cigarette he lit the corner of Massanay's card. He watched it burn slowly. He held it until the embers burned his fingers. He dropped the ashes into the fireplace. He stubbed out the cigarette; got into bed. He put out his hand and switched off the red-shaded light. He was grateful that he could go to sleep.

His last thought was that it was rather a shame about Massanay.

2: Fells

FELLS sat in the twelfth row of the orchestra stalls at the Palladium. His eyes were on the stage and were aware of the presence of Mr. Tommy Trinder, but if they realised Mr. Trinder's presence only vaguely, it was because, hovering about the scene, were shadows not included in the cast—shadows and figures and scenes which existed only for Fells.

Now he knew that the experiment of coming to the Palladium had failed. The business of being amused did not exist— not for him. Hearing the laughter that came from all around him at Mr. Trinder's cracks, Fells told himself that there must be something wrong with him; began to think that he could take an interest only in practical, exciting things— things which demanded so much of his nervous system that his brain must perforce concentrate on them to the exclusion of those insistent shadows which persisted in hovering about the Palladium stage.

And he had made up his mind to enjoy himself; had tried to concentrate on what was going on; had joined automatically in the laughter. But now, with a complete sense of failure, he sat, looking straight before him, his hands buried in the pockets of his old blue raincoat, his chin sunk a little forward, his eyes dim under the frown which persisted on his forehead; looking at the bright spot that was the stage, dimly seeing the figure of Mr. Trinder in the centre of it.

Once or twice the woman seated on his left hazarded a quick glance in his direction. The first glance was due to mere curiosity—the second, to interest. After that, in spite of the fact that she wanted to look again, she was careful to keep her eyes away from him. She decided to enjoy the show; to dismiss Fells from her mind. She had thought that his face was very attractive, very sad. But she concluded that war was a sad time. Perhaps he had lost a near relative, or some other unhappy thing had happened to him. She felt rather annoyed with herself for wanting to think about him.

Fells, who had given up the struggle of fighting between the desire for happiness ('You Lucky People'), and the almost permanent miasma in his mind, allowed the stage of the Palladium—the personality of Mr. Trinder—to disappear. Into its place came the scene which he had seen so often in his mind's eye that he knew every square inch of it by heart; every shadow cast by the latticed blinds, every reflection of the sun on the brass objects on the desk, every small thing.

He hunched his shoulders a little farther forward and looked and saw himself.

He went back nine years—to 1933.

It was late afternoon, but the hot sun came through the latticed blinds and threw dark shadows on the floor. In the centre of the room, just on the left of the chair before the desk, stood Fells. But he was not Fells. He was someone else. He was Major Hubert Eric somebody-or-other—it didn't matter who—wearing a uniform but no topee and no Sam Browne belt, because they had taken the Sam Browne belt away when they put him under close arrest. Major Hubert Eric somebody-or-other, of some regiment, looked across the desk and felt very sorry for the man who sat behind it. The fact that the man was his Commanding Officer made Major somebody-or-other even more sorry for him.

Fells, sitting in the twelfth row of the stalls at the Palladium, felt the long silence that had happened in that room—a silence which had only lasted for a few seconds, but which to the minds of the two men had seemed interminable. Then it was broken. Major somebody-or-other's Commanding Officer had said in a voice which he made as taut as possible:

"In God's name why....?"

The figure in the drill uniform on the other side of the desk smiled. He said:

"I don't know, sir. It isn't any good asking me. It was just what they call 'one of those things'."

The other man had said: "Was it?"

Fells went on: "Yes, sir. One doesn't explain it very easily. Candidly, I can't find any explanation, excepting of course I'd been on a binge. You remember, sir, I won a little money on the sweepstake. Possibly that was the reason. I got a little excited about winning the money. The binge followed automatically. The other thing seemed to come just as automatically after the binge—if you understand...."

The Commanding Officer said: "I don't understand. There have been other binges without this."

Fells saw himself saying: "I agree, sir. Perhaps this was a special kind of binge. You see, I'm not fearfully used to women. I thought she was rather attractive, sir. In my state of mind at the time it seemed right to do the things I did. Of course now it all seems rather odd. I don't understand myself."

The older man said: "Understanding isn't going to do us any good. You realise what you're up against, don't you?"

Fells said: "I've been thinking so much about it, sir, during the last four days whilst I've been under arrest, that I am afraid I'm a little confused. That is to say, I don't realise exactly what it means. I realise some of the things it means."

The Commanding Officer opened a drawer. He took out a box of cigarettes. He passed the box to the man on the other side of the desk; then he took one himself. Fells leaned over the desk and lit his Commanding Officer's cigarette; then his own. He sat down in the chair.

The other man said: "Of course there'll be a court martial. You'll be cashiered. It's rather terrible to think that a man with your record and your service should be cashiered, but there's no doubt about it we can't afford to have things like... like this, happening in India— not now. They'll have to make an example of you." He shrugged his shoulders. "Not that you don't deserve to be made an example of."

Fells said: "Quite!"

"That's pretty bad, of course," said the other man, "but it's not all there is to it."

He looks at Fells. His face was drawn. Fells felt sorry that his Commanding Officer should be so unhappy. He tried to help. He said:

"Well, sir, I asked for it and I've got it. I might as well know the rest of it."

"The worst thing is," said the Commanding Officer, "about the cheque. And it isn't as though you'd written a cheque out and couldn't meet it— that might be carelessness— but you had to forge a name. And, my God, did you pick a good one! You picked the name of a man who was out to make every bit of trouble he could for the British Government in India— the one man who would love to publicise this business— the one man who will. Do you think he's going to be satisfied with a court martial?"

Fells said: "No, I shouldn't think he would, sir."