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Title: Ladies Won't Wait
Author: Cheyney, Peter [Reginald Evelyn Peter Southouse]
   (1896-1951)
Date of first publication: 1951
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Collins, 1972
Date first posted: 2 March 2018
Date last updated: 2 March 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1510

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Cindy Beyer, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






LADIES WON'T WAIT

by Peter Cheyney




  To my favourite American
  Helen Barron Ascher






TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One
  Janey

  Chapter Two
  The Old Man

  Chapter Three
  Carla

  Chapter Four
  Sonia

  Chapter Five
  Volanski

  Chapter Six
  Marcini

  Chapter Seven
  Musette

  Chapter Eight
  The Zeus Brothers

  Chapter Nine
  Salvatini

  Chapter Ten
  Rockie

  Chapter Eleven
  Valerie




Chapter One. Janey


Even to-day I don't know very much about her. Which is a pity. I suppose
if I knew her story I shouldn't spend so much time wondering about it.
Somebody or other said that unsatisfied curiosity fed upon itself, and
there's nothing that can supply food for thought like a mysterious woman
who appears from nowhere, mixes herself up in one's life for a little
while and then goes out of it. Especially if she happens to be
beautiful.

In my own rather odd profession one is inclined to speculate a great
deal about women. In terms of their peculiar effect upon people, and I
say peculiar because no two men are affected in exactly the same way by
women. If they were, life would be a great deal easier.

I suppose, really, Theodora St. Philippe must have been some sort of
desperate idealist. She must have been--even if her ideals were a bit
cock-eyed. Besides beauty, and that indefinable attraction which all
women want to possess and so few do, she must have had brains and
intelligence and a helluva lot of guts. I _ought_ to have known from the
first time I saw her that she was a rather special sort of person. I
ought to have known. If I didn't it was because I was much too busy
looking at her and wondering just who and what she was; when and how
she'd acquired that strange quality of allure, that extraordinary
grace....

Anyhow... she's had it and that's that. And in my profession it
doesn't do too much good to spend your off-times in wondering about
women who've had it. Especially those who've won it in the same way as
you might easily win it yourself. One of these days!

I came away from the Pr-Catalan about five o'clock. I drove into the
Champs Elyses, turned off and parked the car in the Rue Royale not far
from Maxims. I had a drink in Maxims. I didn't want it, but I had it. It
was so hot you could hardly breathe. July, if it _is_ hot, is not the
sort of month you'd pick to be in Paris.

When I came out I began to walk down the Rue Royale, and she was about
ten paces in front of me. I tell you she was _something_! And because I
was undecided in my mind and wasn't quite certain at that particular
moment--I had just a few minutes to spare before my appointment with
Olly--as to where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do, I just trailed
along behind her, admiring the way she put her feet on the ground and
that just too elegant sway with which she walked.

I thought she was marvellous. She turned into the Rue du Faubourg St.
Honor, and when I went round the corner after her I jerked my mind back
to realities and thought it was about time I went home. I suppose I
forgot Olly for the time being, which was strange, because I'd had Olly
in the back of my head for the last two hours. If it hadn't been for my
goddam sex curiosity maybe I'd have been back minutes before. Anyway, I
started to walk, thinking about the woman. I crossed the Faubourg;
turned into a side street. Then, a few minutes afterwards, I saw it. A
beret of a peculiar shade of blue lying in the gutter, looking just as
if it had been run over, which funnily enough it had been, and with the
oil stain on the side.

I thought: That's Olly's beret. I didn't like it. I went round the
corner and there was the _flic_ with his note-book out, and two or three
people talking to him all at once--talking rapidly and rather
vehemently, which was quite unnecessary since nobody seemed to know
anything at all about it.

It was Olly all right. I spoke to the _flic_. As far as he could
ascertain, Olly, who by the way was a very tough Frenchman of nearly
sixty, had been leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette and
doing nothing in particular. The next time the _flic_ passed, which was
some five minutes later, Olly was lying in the gutter in the quiet
street. He was dead... a hit and run driver, apparently. They had
taken the body away.

I thought it was a bit hard that Olly, with his experiences in the war,
his toughness, his astuteness and the courage he brought to life, should
finish like that. I talked to the _flic_ for a few minutes and I went
off.

I started to walk round the streets, thinking about Olly, wondering.
Then I went back to Maxims and had a drink. I drank a brandy cocktail
and leaned up against the bar with my mind running around the blue beret
with the oil stain on it lying in the gutter, and looking in some
strange way almost animate, rather as if it wanted to get up and talk to
me. I ordered another brandy cocktail, paid for it and didn't drink it.

I went back and found the beret was still there. I picked it up. I don't
know why I wanted to do that, but I did it. Then I started to meander
round the streets. I was walking more or less in a circle, which was
what I wanted to do. After a while I thought I had as much chance of
seeing what I wanted to as finding a needle in a haystack, and just as I
came to this conclusion I saw the needle!

It was parked in front of me. It was a 6/15 Citroen car which, if you
know anything about Paris, is not at all unusual. They grow on
gooseberry bushes there. The streets are full of them.

But I knew this one. I could see the small cut in the near-side wing
that had broken open after the wing had been newly planished. I walked
over to the car and slipped my hand under the driver's door-handle. And
there was the groove on the underneath side of the handle. So I knew who
the car belonged to. And I wondered what the hell it was doing there.

And then I saw the other thing, which was the front number plate. And
there was the number on it as large as life, and the egg who had painted
the number on it had been too lazy to get a new plate. He'd painted over
the old number. You could see the vague outlines of the original number
underneath. So it was Rockie's car originally, which I thought, having
regard to this and that, was very funny.

I started walking again; finished up looking in the window of Lanvin's
men's shop in the Faubourg. But I wasn't looking at anything. I was
smoking a cigarette without tasting it and thinking about the car and
Olly. When I turned away from the window, having come to the conclusion
that looking in shirt shop windows wasn't a paying proposition, I saw
the woman coming down the Faubourg towards me. I had another look at
her.

I didn't think she was French. In spite of what she'd got she was
English. And she looked a very nice woman when you looked at her. And as
she swayed past me she gave me the eye. I thought: Well... well...!
I watched her as she floated down the street a little way and then
stopped and looked into a perfumery shop, to give me a chance to
make my approach, I supposed.

But I wasn't sure and you have to be sure about a thing like that. I'd
spent so long running the garage, and trying to kid everybody that that
was my job, that I didn't even think, at the moment, that she might have
some sort ulterior motive. Of course, I should have thought of it, and
probably would have, except that three-quarters of my mind was concerned
with Olly and the business of his getting himself rubbed out in such an
annoying manner.

So I thought to hell with it! I crossed the street; went back to where I
had parked the car and drove slowly home. I went up the two flights of
stairs and pushed the door open; went into the bedroom; lay down on the
bed; looked at the ceiling and thought where do we go from here?

But not for long! I heard somebody at the front door and bawled: "Come
in...."

A moment later somebody pushed the bedroom door open and Janey came in.

Janey leaned against the wall and looked at me with mischievous blue
eyes. He was tall, slim, rangey, with a particular charm which isn't
easy to describe.

He wasn't good-looking, but he was very attractive. Women went for him
in a big way. His face was odd. It missed being good-looking by a near
margin. And his eyes were very good. They were strange eyes--deep,
sometimes mischievous, sometimes smiling in a cold sort of way. He
walked with a peculiar, casual grace and his clothes--no matter how old
they were--hung on him perfectly. He would have looked well-dressed in
an old sack.

His name was Everard Mailey Jane. Someone told me he came of an antique
family, but some woman had christened him "Janey," and it stuck. It
suited him. He seemed to have money of his own, and did what he thought
interesting jobs about the world. He was an Englishman, but had fought
with the Americans in World War II and collected a couple of gongs. He
had also done a little airplane testing for them, and had a share in a
business somewhere or other.

I met him in Frankfurt two years ago.

He said with a grin: "You old bastard. Lying on the bed and looking at
the ceiling and smoking. What are you plotting... some woman I'll
bet?"

I said: "You don't know how right you are. I wish to God I hadn't seen
her!"

He raised his eyebrows. "So... it's like that. What did she do? Did
she bite you?"

"No... not exactly. She was what the Americans call a looker and I
went on looking too long...."

"And you missed an appointment?" he said.

I nodded. I told him about the woman.

He pushed himself away from the wall; lighted a cigarette; began to walk
about the room looking at the weird pictures that I'd acquired with the
apartment.

He asked: "What was she like?"

I said: "She was tall and slim, and she had one hell of a figure, and
the sort of legs that you dream about. She had a way of walking, too...
you know, Janey. And her clothes were something. She was wearing a
chartreuse shangtung tailored coat and skirt, with black gloves and a
black shiny sailor hat and patent leather sandals with the right sort of
heel, and sheer nylons. I think that woman was very intriguing, Janey."

He yawned. "Yes? Most women are intriguing for some reason or other,
aren't they?"

I said: "I suppose so. But according to the kind of quality that makes
them intriguing. A woman might be intriguing because she had no ears.
That wouldn't make her attractive, would it, Janey?"

He said: "No. Well, what's so marvellous about this woman you saw?"

"I don't know. She was perfectly dressed. She looked as if she was
English. She looked as if she might have been well-bred. But there was
something rather odd about her. She gave me the impression that she was
trying to pick me up."

He yawned again. "That wouldn't make her intriguing, would it? Except to
you, perhaps. So she tried to pick you up?"

I said: "Maybe. Well..." I got off the bed. "That's a point which
will remain unsettled. I don't propose to ask her."

"This description rather reminds me of a woman I met in Frankfurt," said
Janey. "I'll have to tell you about her." He looked at his strap-watch.
"D'you know what the time is? It's six o'clock. I think we should go
somewhere and have a drink, don't you?"

I looked at him. I thought to myself: I wonder what's on your mind; what
you're trying to do. I stood there smiling, looking at Janey and
wondering just how deep those mischievous smiling eyes of his were; how
far the pools behind them extended into the brain and what was going on
inside that brain. I thought to myself: I think you're a son-of-a-bitch
and if you are I'm going to have you, Janey.

I grinned at him. I said: "I think it's a hell of an idea. Let's go and
have a drink."

We went downstairs and walked for a bit. We went into Charles' Bar.
Janey said he liked the atmosphere. We drank two large whiskies and
sodas. I'd just ordered another round when a man came in. He came
across.

He said: "Hallo, Janey. How's it going with you?"

He was short and thin. He had high cheek bones and a pronounced pallor.
He looked as if he might have been slightly tubercular or something like
that. He had a mean sort of face with long, narrow eyes, but the effect
was lightened by an almost permanent smile about his mouth.

Janey said: "Not too bad. How does it go with you?" He turned to me.
"This is a friend of mine. His name's Marcini. A most peculiar
specimen." He grinned pleasantly. "I don't know who he is or what he
does or why, but wherever I go I meet him. He always has enough money in
his pocket to buy me an expensive drink. He never talks about himself.
When he asks questions you never know he's doing it." He said to
Marcini: "This is Michael Kells."

Marcini looked at me. He said, with the slightest touch of a foreign
accent: "I think you're a very fine specimen, Kells." He stepped back
and looked me over. "I should say your weight's nearly two hundred
pounds. In spite of that you look thin. So I should think most of it was
muscle. You've nice eyes, a tough jaw, very good teeth and women would
like your hair. Do you know, Kells, I think women might like a lot of
you. Yes, I should think you're very attractive to women. Wouldn't you
think so, Janey?"

The waiter brought our drinks. I told him to bring another.

Janey said to Marcini: "You're telling me. This egg has been ruined by
women so many times that the process doesn't even affect him any more.
Why they fall for him I don't know. Perhaps it's because he doesn't talk
a lot. He's always finding beautiful women or rather he _thinks_ he's
finding them. Usually they find him."

Marcini said: "That's how it goes. For me... I'm always very unlucky
with them. I don't like women except very occasionally. When I meet one,
if I do like her, she doesn't like me. I suppose I'm unfortunate."

"Not necessarily," I said.

He nodded. "You might be right," he conceded. "I remember once in Mexico
City I had a little trouble with a woman--she was charming and
good-looking, also intelligent, which I thought was unique. She came to
the conclusion that I had two-timed her with a hat-check girl at a night
club. So she made an appointment with me and brought a small automatic
pistol with her. When she saw me approaching she produced the pistol and
fired at me. She missed me and killed her husband who was following me.
A most distressing business."

I asked: "Why? Think of the money and trouble you saved yourself. Who
was the Chinese philosopher who said that the only woman a man really
desired was the one he couldn't get?"

Janey said: "Yes, that boy knew his stuff whoever he was." He drank some
whisky. He went on: "How's the garage going, Mike?"

"It's all right," I told him. "In point of fact it was a very good idea
of mine. It's become a sheet anchor to me, that garage."

"So you're making money?" asked Janey.

I nodded. "A little. And it keeps me out of mischief."

There was a little silence; then Janey said: "How's that old boy who
used to get around with you? I saw him once or twice in Frankfurt. I
believe you mentioned the garage idea to him. Then you told him that if
you went through with it you'd put him in charge."

I said: "You mean Olly--the Frenchman."

"Yes. How's Olly?"

I lighted a cigarette. I said: "He's dead. A hit and run driver got him
this evening--about an hour ago--in a quiet street. Just knocked him
down and killed him. I arrived a few minutes after it had happened."

Janey said: "Good God...! What a weird egg you are. You never said a
word about it to me."

"Why should I, Janey? What's the good of talking about a thing like
that? If a man's dead, he's dead."

He said: "Well, goddam it, he _was_ running the garage for you, wasn't
he?"

"Maybe... There'll be another Olly. There must be lots of people in
France looking for garage managers' jobs."

He looked at Marcini and grinned. "You see, he's tough. That's why he
gets on. He just doesn't take any notice of a little thing like
somebody's death." He went on: "I wonder if they'll get the motorist who
did it. It's a pretty lousy thing to hit a man and not stop."

I said: "I think so, too."

"I think this conversation should be changed," said Marcini. "I find
talking about death is not very happy. There are other things to talk
about."

"All right," said Janey. "There's his latest woman. Let's talk about
her."

Marcini raised his eyebrows. "What woman?"

Janey said: "He tells me when he came out of Maxims--mark you, I don't
know how many brandy cocktails he'd had--floating down the Rue Royale in
front of him is a most devastating piece. She was so good that the boy
friend had to go after her half-way down the Faubourg St. Honor. He
just had to go on looking."

Marcini said languidly: "Was that all?"

"Yes, that's what _he_ says. That was all. She disappeared into thin
air. The only pleasure he got out of this brief encounter was that he
missed an appointment."

Marcini laughed. "Too bad. I'll make a guess that the appointment he
missed was with an even more beautiful woman and, because he didn't keep
it, when he did arrive she was gone. Isn't that true, Kells? Isn't that
the story?"

I said: "No. I hadn't an appointment with a beautiful woman. I had an
appointment with Olly. If it hadn't been for the baby with the lovely
figure I'd have kept it, and the probability is that Olly would still
have been alive."

Marcini shrugged his shoulders. "That is how it goes. That is life.
Walking about Paris at this moment, or probably drinking a cocktail, is
this lovely woman who is indirectly responsible for the death of Kells'
garage manager. And she doesn't even know it. I wonder what would happen
if somebody went up to her and told her about it. I wonder if she'd even
be sorry."

I said: "How do I know? I don't know and I don't care very much."

Marcini said: "This conversation is still on a rather sombre note. I'm
going to buy another drink."

I said: "I don't like drinking too much spirits in hot weather, so I'll
have a large whisky and soda with some ice in it."

Marcini gave the order.

Janey said: "Mike, did you ever come across Rockie when you were in
Frankfurt?"

I looked at him. "Rockie...? Who's Rockie?"

He said: "You've answered my question. I see you couldn't have met him.
He's one of the most amusing types--almost a relic of the past."

I asked: "Why is he a relic?"

He said: "I think he's the world's best play-boy. Rockie is about
thirty--certainly not thirty-five. He has a lot of money, which is
unusual, and it's good money because it comes from America. I've never
known a man drink so much, spend so much money and get so much fun out
of it as Rockie."

I asked: "Did he get a lot of fun in Germany? I shouldn't have thought
that Frankfurt was the place for a lot of fun--not that sort of fun--at
the moment."

He said: "He had fun, anyway. The reason I mentioned his name, Mike, was
because if you'd known him you might have known his sister. Talking
about beautiful women you brought to my mind the name. I should think
Rockie's sister is the loveliest thing I've ever seen."

I yawned. "That's O.K. by me. And what does she do. Is _she_ a
play-girl?"

He shook his head. "She's delightful... as sensible as he's stupid.
She lives in Sussex in England. She has an old manor house and a farm.
She's the sort of person who'd drive you crazy, Mike."

I grinned at him. "Oh, yes... why?"

He said: "Well, she knows her own mind. She's poised. I should say she's
quite clever in a quiet sort of way. And she wouldn't stand for any
damned nonsense from you."

"Why should she? I don't even know her, and I don't want to."

Marcini said: "We talk about dead garage foremen and we talk about
beautiful women who have been pursued by Kells and beautiful women who
live in Sussex, and I don't think it's at all interesting."

I asked: "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't like talking," said Marcini. "I like listening."

I said: "Well, what would you like to listen to?"

"That's the joke... I don't know."

We finished the drinks.

Marcini asked: "Well, what... if anything... are we going to do?"

Janey said: "I'm game for anything. I'm only here for two or three days;
then I'm going off on my travels."

I asked: "Where are you going to, Janey?"

"I don't know," he said. "I thought I might go back to Germany. There's
a very interesting little Frulein I know in Frankfurt, in spite of what
you think about it, Mike. What are you going to do?"

I said: "I'm going back to England in a day or two I think."

Janey began to laugh. "What did I tell you? All I have to do is to tell
him about a lovely lady in Sussex and he makes up his mind to go back to
England."

I said: "Nuts!"

Marcini shook his head. "You're quite wrong, Janey. I don't think his
technique would be so hurried."

I picked up my hat. "Well, I'll be seeing you two some time or other
some place. You know where to find me, Janey. You found me a little
earlier." I stubbed out my cigarette. "By the way, how did you know my
address?"

He said: "I got it at The Travellers' Club."

"Did you? Who gave it to you--the hall porter?"

"Of course. Who else?"

I didn't say anything for a moment, then: "Well... until next
time...."

I went out of the bar.

I stood for a moment on the pavement outside, undecided. Then I began to
walk slowly towards Maxims. I walked into the Faubourg St. Honor, round
the corner into the Rue Royale. I began to meander down the right hand
side of the street. When I got within sight of Maxims I saw her. She was
standing under the awning and she wasn't the sort of person who stood
under awnings outside Maxims. It was my girl friend of the early
evening. She looked just as cool; just as collected.

As I approached her she turned; moved round in the direction of the
Place de la Concorde. The way she walked was still very attractive. When
I got round the corner she was buying a newspaper from the newsvendor.
There was the usual crowd milling about; the usual traffic; the usual
bunch of people trying to get across the street. I bought a newspaper. I
opened it; said out of the corner of my mouth:

"You wouldn't be interested in me or anything, would you, Madame? Or
would it be Mademoiselle?"

She said: "Why not, M'sieu? The world is a very small place. And it
isn't often one sees a man quite as attractive as you are."

"Thank you for nothing. A very good line of talk."

She said: "Perhaps it isn't even talk."

I asked: "If it isn't, what is it?"

She said quietly: "M'sieu... ladies won't wait. They believe more in
action."

"And the address?" I queried.

She said: "2 _bis_ Place des Roses--not too far from the Etoile. On the
second floor. Be unostentatious."

"You'd be surprised. I'll be there. About eleven, when it's dark. Expect
me. _Au revoir._"

She walked a few yards; signalled a cab. I thought: Well, that's that.
But I wasn't surprised.

I'm not often surprised.

I looked at my strap-watch. It was eight o'clock. I began to walk up the
Champs Elyses towards The Travellers' Club. Most of the time I was
thinking about the woman. The Old Man seemed to be finding 'em these
days. I wondered what her particular assignment was, or whether it was
merely to contact me. In the last year or so the Old Man had become very
careful. During the years I had worked for him I'd never known him to be
so careful. Personally, I think he was right. These days you never know
where you are. Most of Europe is a battle-ground of espionage agents,
intelligence people, double agents and double-double agents; everybody
trying to double-cross each other like hell and sometimes getting away
with it. The Old Man had done his best to try and keep the book straight
by handing out a few code words for every few months, so that when
agents who were unknown to each other met, there was no question about
identities; there was no need to carry those minute identifications
which we'd used during the war. The code was much better and the one for
July-August was 'Ladies won't wait.' Directly she'd spoken the words I
realised from the very look of her that she was the sort of girl the Old
Man would choose--a woman who looked like anything _but_ an agent.

I began to think about Janey; Marcini. Some of the things I thought were
extremely improbable, if not impossible. But life's like that. I should
think during the last ten years everything had happened which was
considered impossible, and people who don't believe in impossibilities
these days ought to go and bury themselves somewhere quietly. They'd
find life easier that way.

I went into The Travellers' Club and talked to Jacques, the head porter.
I said: "Jacques, has Mr. Jane been in to-day asking for me? I expected
a message from him."

He said: "No, M'sieu. 'E 'as not been in. I 'ave been on duty all day."

I thought: "So that's that!" In other words Janey hadn't been into The
Travellers' Club. He hadn't got my address from Jacques, and he had some
reason for concealing where he had got the information from. I didn't
think that was quite so good, and began to believe a little more in
impossibilities.

I came out of the Club; took a cab; drove back to my apartment. I took
off my coat; went into the bathroom and dipped my head and hands in cold
water. Then I mixed a long whisky and soda with a lump of ice; opened
the window in my sitting-room; sat in an easy-chair with my feet up on
the window ledge, breathing the somewhat cooler air, and chewing over
things.

What did I know about Janey? Nothing very much. I knew less about
Marcini, whom I had met for the first time that evening. But I was
concentrating on Janey. He was one of those people who expected to be
valued on his looks, and most people valued him that way. He was
popular; had money or was considered to have money; was seen all over
the place; was an athlete and a good sportsman. People took him at his
face value. I'd done that myself, not because I'm careless--because I'm
far from that--but because there was no reason why I should bother about
him. I'd run into him in Frankfurt a half a dozen times.

I went over the sequence of events in my mind--the events of the early
evening. Janey arrived at my apartment. He said he was only in Paris for
two or three days. He was driving Rockie's old car. Someone had painted
out the original number and the number of Janey's car, which I
remembered because I've a trained memory for that sort of thing and he
was driving the car in Frankfurt, had been painted over the old
one--pretty carelessly, too.

From some source Janey had got the address of my apartment, which very
few people knew, and which wasn't in the telephone directory. He told me
he had got it from Jacques at The Travellers' Club, which was a lie,
which meant he didn't want me to know where he'd got it from. Then he
brought up Rockie's name in the course of conversation. I didn't fall
for that one. I professed to know nothing about Rockie. But he felt he
ought to have a reason for bringing it up, so he told me about Rockie's
sister. He put the idea into my head that I was the sort of man who
might go over to England to see her. Maybe he wanted me to do that. I
shrugged my shoulders. At the moment it was a little difficult to know
what anybody wanted.

He wanted a drink and specifically he wanted to go to Charles' Bar. And
a couple of minutes afterwards his friend Marcini arrived. This could
have been accidental of course. It might have been just one of those
coincidences and it might not have been. It might be that he'd insisted
on going to Charles' Bar because he wanted Marcini to identify me. Maybe
he knew what my job was. Maybe he knew that I'd been working for the Old
Man for years. If he did, where had he got the information from?

Then, on top of all this, there was my mysterious lady friend, who was
also working for the Old Man; who'd been doing her best to get me to
pick her up at the time when I came out of Maxims. She must have done a
lot of walking that afternoon. And why would she use such a process?
Only because she didn't want to use my telephone number to make an
appointment, and because she didn't want to come round to my apartment.
Because the Old Man knew where I was. He knew the address of my
apartment and the address of the garage I used for a front in Paris. And
the only reason that she wouldn't phone or come round to the apartment
was because such a process would be dangerous, which meant that
something was breaking.

Of course it could be all one peculiar set of coincidences. But I'd
found that car--Rockie's Citroen--near the place where Olly was killed
in the side street. Janey was driving that car. He'd told me a lie about
how he'd found out where I was, and he wanted to go to Charles' Bar
because he liked Charles' Bar, and Marcini had come in purely by chance.
It could have been like that, but I didn't believe it was like that. I
had a hunch.

I drank my drink slowly; asked myself what I was worrying about.
Probably the solution of the whole business lay in the hands of Madame,
whom I intended to see later in the evening. I'd probably get the whole
story from her, or at least a bearing on it. I'd find out what the Old
Man wanted.

I put on my coat and went out. I stopped a taxicab and told him to drive
to the garage at the end of the Rue de la Chappelle. When I got there,
Le Fevre--the mechanic on late duty--was just closing up. I told him to
wait a minute before he pulled down the shutter; walked across the floor
of the garage into Olly's little glass-fronted office in the corner.
Lying on the oil-stained table was Olly's day-book--the book in which he
kept a record of daily transactions. I opened it.

There it was. '_3.30 R.F. 6347. Oil, Gas, Tyres._'

I thought: That ties it up. I began to believe that my guess was right.
That was the number of Janey's car--the new number that had been painted
over Rockie's old one. So at 3.30 that afternoon Janey had driven into
the garage, bought petrol, checked his oil and had the tyres filled. I
could imagine the scene. Maybe the other two mechanics had been busy.
Olly had put the air into the tyres himself. I visualised him kneeling
down fitting the air tube on to the near-side front wheel. From that
position, if he looked up, he could see that peculiar groove under the
driver's door-handle.

Oily would be on that like a knife. He knew that was Rockie's car. He
had probably spoken to Janey about it; asked him where he'd got the car.
And Janey had realised that he'd got to do something about it. Janey had
realised that somehow Olly was to be prevented from seeing me and
talking to me about that car. He'd gone off and hung about somewhere in
the neighbourhood; waited until he'd seen Olly leave the garage;
followed him. When Olly had gone into the side street, stretching his
legs while he was waiting for me to turn up, Janey had taken his chance,
run him down and made a certainty of him. Maybe he'd finished him off
with a spanner or something. Nobody was going to worry very much. There
are lots of street accidents in France. Then, quite calmly, he'd driven
his car round the corner; left it there and slid off quickly before
anybody came across Olly. After which he'd thought he'd better get a
move on and see me, and bring up Rockie's name.

Maybe he thought I'd tell him I'd known Rockie for years; that he was a
supreme actor, a play-boy, drinking and slinging money about all over
Europe. Whilst all the time, underneath, he was one of the finest agents
the Old Man had ever had and a particularly good friend of mine.

I said good night to Le Fevre; took a cab back to my apartment. I had
another drink. I thought to myself: Well, if I'm right about you, Janey,
I'll fix you one day. By God, I will...! Because--not that it
mattered--I was rather fond of Olly. We'd been through the war together.
He was a good egg. I thought it wasn't so hot that he should die in such
a very uninteresting manner.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I passed the time until eleven o'clock by having a cold bath and
changing my clothes. At eleven o'clock it was dark. I walked round to
the Place des Roses, because I didn't think I'd chance taking a taxicab.
It was a nice place. The Place des Roses was a long, narrow cul-de-sac
formed by the backs of delightful old-fashioned buildings. The end of
the cul-de-sac was 2 _bis_--a charming house with creeper, which looked
as if somebody had omitted to fill in the end of the cul-de-sac and had
thought suddenly of putting a house there.

I lighted a cigarette. I began to walk slowly round the cul-de-sac. I
was wondering, I suppose, about the woman, wondering what she had to
tell me. I thought it must be important. Yet I didn't know why. I
shrugged my shoulders. This woman intrigued me. Quite apart from
whatever business she had with me I thought she was a superb-looking
person--one of the sort of women that most men spend their time thinking
about--in imagination, if not in reality. When I'd finished the
cigarette I threw the stub away and went back to the house.

The front door was open. Inside was an indicator which showed that the
ground floor was the consulting room of a Doctor Simon, the first floor
an agency office and the second floor the apartment of Madame St.
Philippe. I thought I'd try that. I went up the stairs slowly. They were
wooden and uncarpeted but very well cleaned, and my footsteps echoed
strangely in the house, which had an atmosphere of strange emptiness.

When I arrived at the second floor the entrance door was in front of me.
There was a nicely engraved card, with "_Madame Theodora St. Philippe_"
on it, pinned to the door with a drawing-pin. I knocked, and the process
opened the door, which was off the latch. I went in.

A small square hall, quite well-furnished, was lit by a shaded electric
lamp. There was a door in front of me, a door to the left and a door to
the right. I knocked at the door in front of me and went in. The room
was large with indications of good taste--a woman's taste. There was a
great bowl of roses on a walnut table in the centre of the room. At the
end of the room on the right was a door. It was just ajar.

A woman's voice called softly in English: "Is that you, Mr. Kells?"

I said: "Yes."

The voice said: "Just a minute and I will be with you."

I put my hat on the table; smelled the roses; sat down in one of the big
chairs by the fireplace. I lighted a cigarette. I imagined that my new
colleague Madame St. Philippe had become tired of waiting and had
decided to bath and change. I wondered what she would be wearing. I
thought, having regard to her appearance of the earlier evening, that
whatever she wore she'd look pretty good. I went on thinking about this
for quite a bit. Then I called: "Madame...."

There was no answer. I got up; walked across to the door, tapped on it
and went in. The room was in darkness. I fumbled about and found the
switch by the door; flicked it on.

It wasn't at all nice... not a bit. She was lying on the bed. One
handsome silk-clad leg was hanging over the side; the other foot
touching the floor. The top of her well-shaped head was smashed in. It
looked to me as if she had been getting off the bed when she'd been hit.

I went over to the bed and looked at her. She wasn't at all pretty--not
now. The bed, which had a pink coverlet, and the frilled pillows, were
in a hell of a mess. I picked up her hand. It was quite warm. I thought
there might be a dog's chance that she was still alive--just a chance. I
opened the _crpe-de-Chine_ peignoir she was wearing; put my ear down
and listened. There was no result. To make sure I went over to the
dressing-table; picked up the hand-mirror, brought it back and tried
that. She was dead all right. And she hadn't been dead for long--a
matter of minutes, and not too many of them. She had been killed by the
woman who'd spoken to me through the door when I'd entered the flat, and
that baby had gone out of the door that led to the hallway--the one on
the right; quietly slipped down the stairs and disappeared.

I felt very disappointed, and I didn't like the way things were going. I
began to think about Janey. I was disliking Janey more and more every
moment.

I went out of the bedroom; started a systematic search of the flat.
There was a bathroom and kitchen and a bedroom off the left of the hall
door, the sitting-room and the bedroom where I had found the girl. There
was nothing. Not that I expected to find anything. The Old Man's agents
were too carefully trained not to advertise themselves. There was not
even a distinguishing laundry mark on her underthings, and I tell you
they were very nice underthings, too. She definitely had taste.

I went into the bathroom, found a soft linen towel and came back and
spread the towel over the white face and battered head. I sat down on
the stool before the dressing-table and looked at what remained of
"Madame St. Philippe."

I wondered who she was, what was her real name, and why she was working
for the Old Man. I wondered why in hell a woman with looks, a figure and
personality like this one, should be an agent. I thought life ought to
have found a safer job for her.

Everything about her indicated class. The cut of her feet and ankles,
the well-manicured, long, once-supple fingers that lay so uselessly
beside her.

I thought it was a hell of a waste of woman.

I got up. I said: "O.K., baby. I'll even this up one day. So long."

I went home.




Chapter Two. The Old Man


I sat back in the driving seat of the Jaguar and relaxed. I was as happy
as I ever am. I opened both windows; let the air come into the car.

There isn't any place as comfortable as a car to think in. You can drive
mechanically, and just as mechanically you can watch the panorama of the
green fields, the trees, villages and the rest of it flash past. If I
_have_ to think--and I don't profess to be very fond of the process--I'd
rather think in my bath or in the Jaguar than anywhere else.

I put my foot on the accelerator. It was a long, straight road in a fine
piece of Berkshire country. I watched the needle go up to seventy; then
I checked down to forty; began to think in earnest.

I thought about myself, the Old Man, agents in general and life in
particular, which seemed to me to be quite enough to go on with for the
moment. First of all I was wondering about what the Old Man's reaction
would be to the episode of two days ago in Paris; just what he'd have to
say about Madame St. Philippe. Maybe he wouldn't be so pleased about
that one. I thought the Old Man might even be quite acid on the whole
subject. He was often acid, but out of his acidity and his peculiar
frames of mind he produced some extraordinary results. Everybody
admitted that--that is if they were still alive to tell the tale after
they'd carried out some of his more difficult assignments with the
knowledge that if the job wasn't done they would have to undergo the
appalling tongue-lashing which the Old Man could produce with
extraordinary little effort.

"People put too much value on human life," was one of his favourite
remarks. "Everyone has to die sometime--why not now? After all, the
world's in a peculiar state and a few days or months or years don't
matter all that much. Also there is quite a possibility that the next
world might be a darned sight more interesting than this one!"

And no one could accuse him of not having practised what he preached. In
his younger days, during the earlier part of World War II, the Old Man
had taken every sort of chance in every possible set of circumstances.
He was in and out of Germany--very successfully too--five times. He'd
been taken by the Gestapo twice and got out of it each time.

He was unique and thought that all his agents ought to be unique, too.
If they weren't, they disappeared to lesser organisations or helped run
one of his myriad filing systems, with a chip on their shoulder for the
rest of their lives.

I thought, quite dispassionately, that agents were odd fish. The fact
that I was one myself didn't seem to affect the matter very much. I was
taking what I considered to be an objective point of view. Agents--the
Old Man's agents--were strange people. Each one of them--man or
woman--had different reasons for getting into the oddest of all weird
professions. Some of them had drifted into it; some of them had been
pushed into it. One of them--a very good one who died in Hungary last
year--had been blackmailed into it. I grinned. That was certainly
between the devil and the deep sea. But I wondered why a woman like
Madame St. Philippe had to be in the business.

Once on a time, one of the cleverest free lance agents that I'd ever met
in my life--a man who worked for himself, discovered his own secrets and
sold them where he could get most money--told me that the reasons for a
man or a woman becoming a secret service agent of any sort, shape or
description were exactly the same as the reasons which motivated murder.
He said they were greed, jealousy, a desire for revenge or thwarted
passion. I remember thinking at the time that he was just nuts. But
afterwards experience taught me that there might be a certain amount of
sense in what he said.

I looked at my strap-watch. It was ten-past four. Five minutes after
that I was driving through Wantage, and then I came on to the straight
country road. I slowed down as I approached the first turning to the
right; swung the car; found myself in the lane that led up to the wide,
white-painted gate. It was a nice spot. I remembered when I had visited
it last, a long time ago; it was summer then, and the country smells and
flowers were all as ripe as they were now. I stopped the car in front of
the gate, got out, pushed the gate open and stood on the lawn that ran
round both sides of the house.

It was an attractive house. Really, it was a large cottage with a lawn
in front, narrowing as it stretched round the house, broadening at the
back. It had a thatched roof. There was a kitchen garden and a flower
garden, and a mass of rhododendron bushes towards one side of the house.
It looked the sort of place that a retired business man might own. Then
the idea of the Old Man as a "retired business man" occurred to me. It
made me laugh....

I walked round the right-hand path and rang the front door-bell. The
door was opened by a neat maid.

She said: "Mr. Kells? You're expected, Sir. Will you come in?"

I followed her across the hall into the library. She went away and shut
the door behind her. I stood just inside the doorway looking at the Old
Man. He was sitting in a big chair set beside one of the leaded-paned
windows at the end of the room. The window was open, and the sunlight
and a little breeze from the flower garden came into the room. I thought
the scene looked almost pastoral.

The Old Man sat upright in the chair. God knows how old he is, I don't.
But he's been over a lot of grass in his time. His thin face is lined.
His deep-set eyes are still of a peculiarly vital blue and he has the
largest and bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen. His eyebrows are
definitely forbidding. Someone once told me he'd been suffering from a
liver disease for the past ten years; that that might be an explanation
of his bad temper. But the Old Man has never been particularly
bad-tempered with me--only slightly acid.

I said: "Good afternoon. Did you get my message?"

"Of course I did, you damned fool. If I hadn't, you wouldn't have been
here now, would you?"

I smiled at him. "Agreed. Let me put it another way. Did you read my
message?"

He said: "Yes, I read it. What's it all about?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm looking for information. Not giving it.
You know as much about it as I do."

He brought out a cigarette case and lighted a cigarette. Then he threw
the case towards me. I caught it; drew up a chair and sat down opposite
him.

I said: "I didn't know there was anything afoot. I was just running the
garage and minding my own business. Then the thing happened to Olly. I
didn't know whether the man Janey was responsible for it or not. I still
don't know. I should think he might be. Then there was the woman. I
didn't like that very much."

"No, I don't suppose you would." He went on: "Tell me something, why did
you think this woman was working for me?"

That surprised me. "Of course she was working for you. She had the code
word _Ladies Won't Wait_!"

He said: "Does that mean that I gave it to her? There are half a dozen
people could have given her it."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows. "Why?" I asked.

He said: "For God's sake be your age. You know what it's like these
days. Our sort of secret service has almost gone to the dogs. In the old
days it was a gentleman's profession. Somebody caught an agent on the
wrong side of the fence and he disappeared. They just shot him, cut his
throat or threw him into a nearby river--something decent like that. Now
they don't. They use all sorts of persuasive methods, as you ought to
know. The result is that all I can do is to appoint agents for areas
just as you're one working in France and Germany. But I don't tell _you_
who you get to work for you. I don't know if you pick a bad one."

I said: "What you're trying to tell me is that this woman wasn't working
for you, and that somehow or other she got the code word?"

He said: "That's what I'm telling you. At least that's what I'm telling
you at the moment. I might have something different to say later on. I
have a dozen women agents working in Europe, and they don't telephone
through every morning to say that they're still alive. Maybe something
will turn up eventually, but at the moment I don't know anything about
your Madame St. Philippe."

I said: "That's damned funny. She was English, and she was a remarkably
beautiful woman."

"Many female agents are beautiful," said the Old Man. "In some cases
that's their only qualification for the job."

I said: "This makes it very interesting--very interesting indeed. I
wonder what it was she was trying to tell me."

The Old Man said: "How the devil would I know? And who said she was
going to _tell_ you something? Maybe she wanted to get something out of
you. Having got that code word maybe she thought you'd trust her." He
grinned cynically.

"Like hell...!" I said. "You've known me too long to think I belong
to the trusting type."

He grunted. "I must say you've been pretty hard-boiled."

There was silence for a moment. I thought the Old Man was being very
argumentative.

I said: "Well, the general idea is that I want to know whether I go back
and go on running the garage until I hear from you, or whether I try to
do something about this."

He shrugged his shoulders. "There's no harm in you trying, Kells." He
stubbed out his cigarette. "You know all this thing stems from Rockie."

I said: "I gathered that."

The Old Man got up. He began to walk about the room. I noticed with
admiration the straightness of his back, the set of his shoulders. I
thought some time--a long time ago--the Old Man had been a soldier, and
I bet he was a good one, too.

He said: "The whole thing stems from Rockie. I sent Rockie into Germany
a year ago on both sides of the line. He did very well. Anybody who says
you can't bribe the Russians ought to have seen Rockie at work. He was
just as welcome in their zone as he was in ours. He was pretty good. He
had a lot of money of his own and he regarded his job with us as a sort
of sport. He was the mouse who liked to put his head in the lion's mouth
just to see if one day the lion would get angry and bite it off. Well,
it looks to me as if the lion got angry."

I asked: "Did they get him?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so. He disappeared. He disappeared
about four months ago, since when nobody has heard anything of him at
all. I put out the usual feelers and tipped off such agents as I could
get at who were working in the area to try and get a line on what had
happened to him. But up to now nothing has come to light."

I said: "Well, that's just another agent who's disappeared, that's all."

He grunted again. "I don't mind agents disappearing. I don't like it,
especially if they're good ones, but I don't mind it if it's been worth
while. After all----" he looked at me sideways--"you've got to regard
agents as being expendable people. You've got to be prepared for them to
disappear or be found in a gutter somewhere with their necks broken or
something like that. You know that."

I nodded.

"The devil of it was," the Old Man went on, "that Rockie was on to
something. I told you he disappeared about four months ago. Two or three
weeks before that he got a message back to me. He was on to something
pretty big. He didn't indicate what it was, but he did indicate that it
was necessary that he talked to me about it. It was too big to commit to
any messenger or telephone or post. He wanted to see _me_."

I asked: "Have you any ideas as to what was in his mind?"

"No, I haven't the remotest idea. It may have been a lot of things. It
might have been Korea. That broke soon after I heard from him. It might
have been something even more important than that."

"What was he doing, and where was he when he disappeared?" I asked.

He said: "You ought to know. You were up there. You saw him several
times. He was in Frankfurt. He was supposed to be playing around there
having a good time. He had his sister with him."

I said: "She was the woman whom Janey told me about--the beautiful
sister. Is she beautiful?"

The Old Man said: "I think she's a knock-out from what I've heard."

I asked: "Did she know anything about Rockie? Did she know that he
worked for you?"

"I don't know. If she did the only person who'd have told her would have
been Rockie. I can't see him telling anybody except under duress."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

He said: "Well, if Rockie was in a hell of a spot; if he'd thought that
they were going to knock him off or grab him, or do whatever they've
done, he might have talked to his sister. He'd trust her. He'd know, or
he'd hope, that she wouldn't let him down."

I asked: "Have you seen her?"

He shook his head. "Why should I? She came back to England via France
about two weeks after Rockie disappeared. When he didn't turn up at the
hotel she raised a terrific commotion. All the hospitals were
searched--the usual thing. Military Intelligence came into it and tried
to discover if Rockie had been playing around in the Russian zone or
somewhere. They got damned little help from the Russians. Maybe he's in
a concentration camp." He grinned. "I can't see Rockie in a
concentration camp, any more than I could see you in one. I should think
he'd make himself so damned objectionable that the least they could do
would be to kill him."

I said: "The sister made no attempt to get into touch with you or see
you?"

He shook his head.

"Then," I said, "it's a stone certainty Rockie said nothing to her. If
he'd told her what he was doing, or made any sort of suggestion about
being in danger, he'd have told her your name and she'd have tried to
get in touch with you."

He nodded. "That's what I thought. She hasn't tried to get in touch with
me, so I imagine she knows nothing."

I said: "I want to come back to Madame St. Philippe. She rather upsets
things a little, doesn't she?"

"How does she upset things?" he asked.

"Work it out for yourself," I said. "If Madame St. Philippe were working
for you, or for one of your people, even if you knew nothing about her,
it would be obvious for her to try and get in touch with me. If somebody
on the other side, somebody who knew about the Rockie affair, connected
her with that, it would be quite on the cards that they would want to
kill her before she got a chance to talk to me, and it would be all very
reasonable and logical if she were working for you. But she's not
working for you, so why was she killed?"

The Old Man said: "I don't know. I could make a couple of guesses." He
grinned at me rather unpleasantly.

"All right," I said. "Make a couple of guesses for my benefit."

He said: "Look, this woman, who is beautiful and well-dressed and
glamorous, picks you up in the street in Paris. She gives you the code
word of the month. She wants to talk to you. The business is so urgent
and so very important that she wouldn't write to you or talk to you on
the telephone, or go round to your apartment. Damn it, she could have
gone to see you at the garage. But no, it's all much too important for
that. You have to see her at this address. And you walk round there
because you're too clever even to take a taxicab, and when you get there
someone's just about to kill her, or has killed her. And this somebody
disappears very quietly--so quickly and quietly that you don't even get
a look at her. And you're left holding the baby."

I said: "I see...."

"Precisely," said the Old Man. "Maybe it was intended that you should be
discovered with the dead woman. Perhaps the idea was to have you run in
on a murder charge. Maybe the plan went wrong and whoever it was was
intended to turn up and catch you with this unfortunate, battered female
didn't do it, which was very lucky for you. By the way, did you find
anything that was used on the dead woman--a spanner or a club or
anything?"

I said: "No, there was nothing. It had been taken away."

"Exactly," said the Old Man. "If somebody was trying to frame you,
obviously they'd take the murder weapon away. It would have had
fingerprints on it. That would be all right. If you were caught with the
body you might have got rid of the weapon, concealed it or something.
But," he went on, "all this is guessing, isn't it?"

I said: "Yes. It all seems very unsatisfactory to me, except that I'm
rather pleased at not having been discovered with the once beautiful
corpse."

"Maybe," he said. "But somebody may know about it. They may still try to
do a little blackmail." He grinned again. He went on: "I said '_try_' I
should hate to blackmail you, Kells."

I said: "It's been tried before like everything else. Well, what am I
supposed to do about all this?"

He said: "I don't mind. Rockie was rather a friend of yours, wasn't he?
It might be interesting to discover what it was he'd found out; what it
was he wanted to see me about. It might be interesting to discover what
happened to him if such a process is possible." He looked at me wryly.
"Perhaps you might like to find those things out in your odd moments."

I grinned at him. "All right. Is there anything else?"

He said: "No. You do what you like. You can go back to Paris or you can
go to Frankfurt, or you can stay here. If you don't find somebody out, I
think you'll find somebody will find you out."

"Meaning what?" I asked.

He said: "My dear feller, whoever it was put that woman on to you is not
going to rest content with the situation. They're going to do something
else, aren't they?"

I said: "I suppose so."

The Old Man looked at his watch. "I have an appointment in twenty
minutes, and I don't want you here. You'll find a bottle of whisky next
door in the dining-room. Have a drink and get away from here, will you?
And good luck to you, Kells."

I said: "Thanks a lot. I've an idea I'm going to need it."

He said, airily: "You never know. You're all right about drawing money
and things like that, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, that part's all right."

"Well, be careful," said the Old Man. "I should hate to have to try to
replace you. I think that once or twice since you've been working for me
you've been very good."

I said: "I'd like to tell you exactly what I think about you, except I
can't think of enough really strong language. So long!"

I went out, had the whisky and soda in the dining-room. Then I drove
back to London. I went back on a different road from the one I'd come
on.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When I woke up next morning the sun was shining. I yawned; got out of
bed; began to walk about my bedroom and drawing-room in my bare feet,
rather enjoying the sensation. I had an apartment in Knightsbridge--one
of a dozen which were kept specially for the use of people like me who
were working for the Old Man. I rang down for coffee, lighted a
cigarette and tried to do a little straight thinking.

One of the disadvantages of my sort of job is that you never really know
what you're doing, and if the Old Man is ever good enough to give an
indication it is usually so vague it doesn't mean anything at all.
Which, when you come to think of it, is rather clever on his part.
Running a job like his must be hell. Especially when you realise exactly
what he was up against. He just couldn't trust an agent all the way, not
because he didn't _want_ to trust him but because the more definite the
information in the possession of the agent the more the other side could
get out of him, by some means or other. The Old Man knew just as well as
you or I know that everyone has a breaking point and there are all sorts
of clever processes by which the toughest egg can be _made_ to
talk--even if he really doesn't want to and is trying hard not to. Now
they've got a new one--the "sleep treatment" under which a man can be
persuaded to open up and talk whilst he's asleep and, when he wakes up,
knows nothing about it.

Then there was another angle. The Old Man might, for all I knew, know
plenty more about the Rockie business, but it just didn't suit his book
at the moment to tell me. Firstly, because they might get me and try to
make me talk... I said _try_... and, secondly, because it was on
the cards that he had three or four other people on this job, each
working in a different sector, and the Old Man would, from time to time,
pass on to the agents concerned scraps of information that might assist
them in their part of the job.

But the Old Man's general technique is very simple. The idea is that if
sufficient agents get themselves into sufficient trouble in sufficient
places something quite tangible is going to emerge, and when it does
emerge he can do something about it. In the meantime one feels about in
the dark, probing for tender places in the enemy's line, supposing you
know who the enemy is and if he's got a line.

I thought about my conversation with him. I could develop an active or a
passive frame of mind about this Rockie business. If I wanted to be
active I could go back to Frankfurt, try and dig up some of Rockie's old
connections there, do a little travelling, call a great deal of
attention to myself and probably get knocked off by some enterprising
Russian in the Soviet Sector for sticking my neck out, and once those
boys do get you it's a toss up whether you ever come back or not. You
might even find yourself working in a salt mine or something.

That was one active angle. The second one was I could go and see
Rockie's sister--this beautiful and alluring lady I'd heard so much
about. Just at the moment it seemed commonsense _not_ to do that. If
she'd known what Rockie was doing; if she'd had any idea what had
happened to him, she'd have talked to somebody about it. If Rockie had
told her about the sort of work he was really doing she'd have had
enough sense to have got into touch with one of the M.I.
Departments--M.I.5 or some of those boys.

But my guess was that Rockie talked to nobody; that he hadn't talked to
her. And I was basing my guess on my knowledge of Rockie. That boy was
as tough as hell and as hard as nails, and he trusted nobody outside the
very small group with which he was working. He certainly wasn't the sort
of person who'd trust his own sister with a hell of a big story merely
because she _was_ his sister.

But of course you never knew. When a man's an extremist he'd do all
sorts of things--even Rockie. Just for the moment I played with the idea
that she _might_ know something about it, and for reasons best known to
herself she had kept her information to herself. I didn't see why she
should have done that, but supposing she had. Why would she behave like
that? I shrugged my shoulders. There certainly wasn't any answer to that
one at the moment. Also, in any event, it didn't matter all that just at
this time. Maybe, sometime or other, I'd get around to taking a long
look at Rockie's sister even if only to satisfy my curiosity about the
woman that Janey thought was such a marvellous person.

I came back to the passive angles. I could just sit quietly where I was
and do nothing about it (except possibly take a week-end now and again
in Paris to see how the garage was going), and wait for something to
happen. The Old Man's theory was that whoever it was had tried to
contact me through the charming Madame St. Philippe would want to do it
again. I was intrigued of course because the Old Man said he didn't know
anything about her. I knew perfectly well that no responsible agent was
going to give a woman about whom he knew little the code word, and get
her to contact me, unless he was in a pretty bad way or unless the
situation was fairly desperate. That might have happened, but I was
disinclined to believe it.

On the other hand somebody might have put her in just to make a mess of
things for me by telling me some odd story that had been concocted, or
getting me off to some place. But I wondered why they should be
particularly interested in me at the moment. I hadn't even been doing
anything relatively important. I wasn't actually working on any
particular angle for the Old Man. I was simply in the position of being
his chief field agent in Paris, waiting there, ostensibly running my
garage, until something broke and he needed me.

You never knew with women. For two very good reasons. One, women always
manage to start something if they're good-looking and attractive--even
if they are on your side. The second thing is that immediately women
arrive on the scene everyone begins to use their imagination like hell
and very often creates the most alarming situations out of nothing.

I remember one time I was working in Poland with a man who was doing an
important job for the Old Man. This man--his name was Clissel; he's dead
now--was to await the arrival of an Englishwoman who was to give him
certain carefully concealed information. Eventually, she arrived and it
was only five days afterwards that Clissel realised that, so far as he
was concerned, she was the wrong woman! She was just a distant relative
he hadn't seen for years. She'd recognised him and started a
conversation with him to satisfy herself that he _was_ her relative.

And she was damned difficult to get rid of. Clissel passed her on to me,
and it took four hard days' work to persuade her to get out of Danzig
before fur began to fly.

But at the back of my mind was the definite idea that the appearance of
the alluring Madame St. Philippe, my rather peculiar meeting with Janey
who said he'd got my address at The Travellers' Club and hadn't, my just
as sudden meeting with Marcini, all on the same day, finishing up with
the murder of the woman, for some reason which I could not determine,
tied the whole thing in with Rockie. I was certain it all had something
to do with Rockie. I remembered what Janey had said about Rockie's
sister, about her living in Sussex; about my going down there to see
her. It looked as if he was rather wanting me to do that. I shrugged my
shoulders. Maybe, when the time came, we'd try it on.

At eleven o'clock I stopped pondering on these weighty matters; bathed,
shaved, dressed myself carefully and went down to the watchmaker's shop
near St. John's Gate. It was open. In the little compartment at the end
of the long counter, with the watchmaker's glass screwed into his eye,
was Silenski. Silenski is interesting enough for me to tell you a little
about him.

He'd been working for the Old Man since the Germans went into Poland,
and he had had some of the most extraordinary things happen to him. Some
Poles are very tough, but I've never known anybody as tough as Silenski.
He'd only one eye--somebody had put the other one out. He was burned all
over. But he was a fellow who'd never had enough. He was always prepared
to have another go when it was desired of him. Actually, the Old Man,
who I suppose had some sort of sympathy deep down in the bottom of his
acid stomach, had kept him in London for quite a time. Silenski ran the
watchmaker's shop near St. John's Gate and acted as a sort of general
liaison for anyone who was operating in London. I thought he might be
useful to me.

I went into the shop, walked along the counter, put my head in his
cubby-hole, and said in Polish: "Well, how's it going, Silenski?"

He looked up at me. He said: "For crying out loud... Mike...! So
you're still alive?"

I said: "It looks like it."

"Everything is very quiet," said Silenski. "I sit here and I repair
watches. I've seen one or two of the boys--Grigor, who is a Pole and
whom I think you know. He was here three weeks ago. Then he went away
and has disappeared. Rosanski, the White Russian, whom you also know, is
dead." He grinned. "Everybody seems to be dying before their time." He
shrugged his shoulders. "If they wait a little while, in a minute there
will be a nice fat war. Then everybody can die. The things that are
going on..." Silenski continued, "I promise you, Michael, that nobody
would believe them."

I nodded. What he said was, of course, quite true. Nobody does believe
them. And people are not curious any more. I suppose they're too busy
minding their own business and trying to solve their own problems to
worry too much about satisfying their curiosity. Or maybe they read too
many detective stories to believe in anything at all.

To-day the strangest things happen everywhere--including England. But
nobody worries. Events pose the most amazing questions but nobody takes
any notice.

I remember when I was crossing from France on the _Invicta_ someone lent
me a copy of an English newspaper. I read an extraordinary story (maybe
you read it too) of an old man who kept a sweet shop in some little
village in England, who had been murdered, quite obviously not for gain,
because there was quite a little money in the till which the murderer
had not touched. The police wished to question two men about it. They
got one man who didn't want to talk, so they went after the second man.
This boyo, through the services of a foreign embassy in London, had
managed to get himself smuggled aboard a ship. When the ship was stopped
at sea by the British authorities, the Captain--who was a
foreigner--refused to give the man up although he didn't refuse to give
him up when the ship was stopped a day or two later by a Russian tug.
The Russians took the man away and that was that. A nice story with
interesting implications. Except that nobody seemed to bother
sufficiently to find out what they were.

I said to Silenski: "How's the girl friend?"

He smiled. "Carla is very well. Don't you want to talk to her? She's
upstairs."

I said: "I'll go and talk to her."

I went through the little room at the back of the shop and up the
stairs. At the top of the stairs was a sitting-room. A cosy, comfortably
furnished room with flowers tastefully arranged. Carla was sitting in an
arm-chair reading _The Tatler_.

I tell you she was _something_. She was one of those women at whom you
take a quick glance and then look again just to make certain that you
aren't dreaming. She was a Pole, and when Polish women are beautiful
they really _are_, if you know what I mean. She was Polish and
passionate and _lush_. When she looked at you there was that indefinable
question in her eyes.

Carla exuded passion like a bottle of Chanel No. 5 exudes perfume. She
was as cool as cucumber, as wicked (if need be) as a snake and filled
with the most extraordinary conglomeration of complexes where men were
concerned. With control she was the ideal woman agent. I said _with_
control. Without it she was just another lovely sick headache.

I can only explain what I mean by trying to give an example. Thus,
supposing Silenski wanted to obtain some information about another Pole
in the old days he used to put Carla on to the man's best friend. Carla
would start by falling in love with this man or at least giving a very
good impression of it, and she would put everything she knew into the
business of adoring this individual until she had found out what she
wanted; then she'd press another button and become entirely
disinterested in him. A very good type of woman agent to have working
with you, but not very good to have against you.

She was tall, curved in all the right places, looked very well in her
clothes. She had jet black hair, and peculiarly luminous eyes of an odd
amethyst colour. Actually, I was never quite certain what colour her
eyes were. She spoke four languages perfectly, and reserved her Polish
accent when speaking English only for somebody whom she wished to
impress.

She got up from the chair quickly and gracefully. She threw her arms
round my neck and kissed me on the mouth and when I say kissed I mean
_kissed_.

She said: "Michael, this is like all my old dreams coming true. Life has
been for me a desert until to-day. Now I see you and I am happy."

I said: "Look, how do you think this would go with Silenski--the one
downstairs who is playing with the innards of a watch?"

She stood away from me. She looked at me hard. She said: "Michael, you
should know that Silenski understands me. He knows my strange nature. He
knows that quite a lot of the time I think about him and all the rest of
the time I only think about you."

I grinned. "Of course. And who else?"

"Nobody else," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing particularly. Just hanging around. But I thought I'd come down
in case I needed a little assistance during the next week or so. From
you or Silenski or anyone else you've got on the books in London and not
working. Anybody I know?"

She nodded. "There's Mrs. Vayne. She's not doing anything, and she's
living in Kensington. And there's that nice man from Devonshire--the one
with the accent--Glyder. You know, the one with the finger missing from
his left hand. And there's the young man who was in the Brigade of
Guards--Terence Maydew."

I said: "A nice selection--Mrs. Vayne--fair, fat and forty, Maydew,
who's not awfully experienced, and Glyder, who certainly is. Besides
which there's Silenski, myself and"--I laughed at her--"if things become
very serious--you."

She said: "Of course, Michael. You know perfectly well that for you I'd
lay myself down under a tram."

"That's nice of you, but I don't see it'd do me any good." I picked up
my hat. "Well, it's been nice seeing you, Carla. Write down your
telephone number for me."

She wrote it down. She said: "There's always somebody here--someone you
can trust--either Mrs. Vayne or Silenski or myself. There's always
someone to answer the telephone."

I asked: "When did Silenski see the Old Man last?"

"He hasn't seen him. He heard from him yesterday on the telephone. He
said he thought you might be calling in. Did you know he'd telephoned?"

I shook my head. "No. He must be a mind-reader. So long, Carla."

I picked up the piece of paper with the telephone number on it; went
downstairs.

I said so long to Silenski. He took the jeweller's glass out of his eye.
He said: "You saw Carla?"

I said: "Yes, she's looking very well."

"That's what I thought," said Silenski. "I don't like the new lipstick
she's wearing, and there's a lot of it on your face. So long, Mike."

I wiped the lipstick off my mouth and went out.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I spent most of the day hanging around. I had lunch and tea, went into
the club for a drink, read the newspapers. I was quite happy. I've
always found it's a good thing not to be in too much of a hurry about
anything, never to be afraid of marking time for a bit. Also at the back
of my head I had an idea something would happen fairly soon. I've always
found if you wait for something to happen it always does. It happened
all right.

I went home about half-past seven. My idea was to change my clothes,
drink another cocktail, have dinner somewhere and go to bed and sleep
the sleep of the just. This seemed a fairly good idea.

When I got to the flat I opened the door and saw the invitation card. It
had been pushed under the crack of the door and lay there looking up at
me. I picked it up. It was a nice card with a gilt edge and of an exotic
pinkish colour with violet lettering on it, and it said that Madame Olga
Volanski--_Haute Couture_, Furs and Model Gowns--would be honoured by my
presence at her cocktail party at 23 Crestwick Court, St. John's Wood.
The card was perfumed. The perfume was very nice. I wondered who Madame
Volanski was. I thought I bet she's a good one. I was very glad she
hoped to be honoured with my presence. Anyway, she was pretty well
covered. The card was one of those things giving people invitations to
dress shows or parties connected with dress. It was perfectly simple for
one of them to have got under the wrong door. I knew that delivery
agencies were often employed to deliver such invitations almost
promiscuously.

But I didn't think it was a mistake. I thought that Madame Volanski
might be very interested in me.

I thought we might have a lot to say to each other.




Chapter Three. Carla


I arrived at Crestwick Court in St. John's Wood soon after nine. I
stopped the cab fifty or sixty yards from the apartment block, paid off
the driver and walked slowly towards the tube station. Half way there,
was the car. Inside was Carla.

I helped her out. I said: "Carla, you look wonderful!"

And she did. She was wearing a close-fitting, superbly cut, gold lam
dinner frock, and over it a long, black velvet cloak, caught at the neck
with a gold chain. Her sandals were gold and with the highest heels I've
ever seen, but they suited her. She looked good enough to eat.

She said: "When you telephoned I spent some time asking myself what I
was to wear. I wished to look my best for you. After I saw you earlier
to-day I began to think about you. I thought about you passionately...
but quite vehemently. I realised that never in my life... no matter
how sincere I may have _thought_ myself to have been at the time...
never have I loved any man as I love you. Embrace me!"

"Like hell," I said. "This is no time for embraces. There's a little
work to be done."

She said: "Mike, what's going on? Tell me, does something exciting
happen?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. We're going to a cocktail party
given by a Madame Volanski. When I arrived back this evening I found the
invitation card pushed under my door."

She nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

I said: "I don't know. This cocktail party might be one of those things,
but on the other hand it might be something else. But, in any event, I
thought I'd like to have you with me."

Madame Volanski's flat was on the second floor at Crestwick Court--a
large and, I should imagine, expensive block of apartments, and her
party was, I think, the most alarming one I've ever seen. I'd hardly got
my finger on the bell-push before the door was opened by an individual
who, I found later, was the butler. He was dressed in black evening
dress trousers; a white serge tuxedo. He had a bloated, evil face. He
smelled strongly of gin.

The hallway was large, and on the other side of it the double doors
leading to the drawing-room were wide open. The room was crammed with
some of the most extraordinary people. It was just impossible to place
them. They were tall and short, and fat and thin--Englishmen and
foreigners. Some of the women wore expensive evening frocks; some coats
and skirts; some a strange collection of clothes which looked as if they
had been hired from a dress agency.

Whilst the butler was taking our things, a woman came out of the
drawing-room; crossed the hall. I had to look at her twice before I
could make myself believe it was true.

She was a large strawberry blonde, and she was wearing a black and white
striped evening frock that seemed much too tight for her in all the
wrong places. Her face was large, and her complexion might have been
good, but her features were so caked with impossible make-up that the
colour of the skin underneath was not distinguishable. Her mouth was
painted in a bright scarlet cupid's bow. I thought she looked awful.

She came over to us, one plump hand, loaded with rings, outstretched.

She said with a Russian accent: "I am so glad to see you, I am Madame
Volanski. Welcome to my party."

I said: "It was very nice of you to ask me, Madame. I wonder why you
did. My name's Kells. This is Madame Carla, my cousin. I brought her
because she is thinking of opening a dress shop. I thought you might
have a wrinkle or two for her."

"But of course..." She shrugged her shoulders. "But, you see, you
'ave come too late. There was a dress show at 'alf past six. Now it ees
all over. People are just talking, 'aving a dreenk and being 'appy."

I looked at the people who were being happy. A man disengaged himself
from the crowd; moved rapidly through the door; ran down the corridor in
the direction of the bathroom. Either Madame's liquor or his stomach had
gone back on him.

She said: "You will forgive me if I say that your cousin is ver'
beautiful. I appreciate beauty in all its forms."

I said: "I am very glad to hear it."

She led the way into the drawing-room.

She said: "Meester Kells, I theenk you are going to like my brother so I
am going to find 'eem for you, and you two can 'ave some dreenks
together and I will talk to your cousin, Madame Carla."

I said: "It's very kind of you."

"Not at all. You wait for me 'ere." She went away.

Carla said: "I think this is going to be rather amusing. I think that
woman is a goddam phoney."

I agreed with her.

Madame Volanski returned. Behind her, over-shadowing her with his bulk,
was an immense man. He was about six feet three in height, of huge
proportions. His face was large and round. His hair was black and curly.
He had an immense cavalry moustache. He was wearing evening tails, with
a ribbon in his button-hole.

He put out his hand. He said in a gruff voice: "I am delighted to meet
you." He bent low over Carla's hand. "Madame Carla, it gives me the
greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance. I think you are a mos'
lovely woman." He turned to me. "But I must tear myself away from the
beautiful Madame Carla so that I may talk to you, M'sieu Kells. Per'aps
we have met somewhere before? Per'aps you have been to Russia in the old
days?"

I said: "No, I haven't been to Russia in the old days. Was it nice?"

"You don' know anything about life if you don' know those days in
Russia. Come with me."

We moved across the drawing-room, Madame Volanski's brother pushing
ahead of me, moving people out of the way with immense,
spatulate-fingered hands. On the other side of the drawing-room was a
passage; at the end of this was a small room. It was filled with bottles
and glasses, evidently used as a reserve store-room for the festivities
outside.

He asked: "What would you like to drink? If you like, I will give you
some vodka--real vodka. I tell you there is nothing like it."

I said: "All right, I'll drink vodka."

He opened a bottle: poured out two glasses. I should think there was
nearly a quarter of a pint of liquor in each glass. He put the glass to
his mouth, threw back his head and the vodka was gone.

He said: "That is the only way to drink vodka."

"It's nice to watch you," I said, "but if you don't mind, I'll just sip
mine." I sat down.

He put his great bulk on to the table; refilled his glass; sat there
looking at me. He said: "You interest me ver' much, M'sieu Kells. You
must understand that my name is Alexis Alexandrov. I was Hetman of
Cossacks in Korniloff's army in 1918."

I raised my eyebrows. "No? You must have been awfully young to have been
Hetman of Cossacks in 1918."

He smiled. "I was awfully young, but still I was Hetman of Cossacks at
seventeen years of age. I had killed men when I was sixteen."

I nodded. "I'd rather be on your side."

There was a pause. He produced a gold cigarette case; selected a
cigarette; handed the case to me. The cigarettes were Russian--rather
sweet and a little sickly in taste.

He said: "I am interested in you, M'sieu Kells, because you look to me
like a man of the world. I am interested to know what you think of this
peculiar world of ours. Do you think it is a nice place to live in?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "That rather depends on point of view, doesn't
it. I see nothing the matter with the world as a world. It's simply that
the people in it don't seem to be getting along very well together."

He said: "What you have to understand, M'sieu Kells, is that there is
not going to be any peace in the world until somebody decides what is
going to be done with Russia. Don' you understand this?"

"Yes... possibly... But who is going to decide what is to be done
with Russia?"

He said: "Somebody's got to. And per'aps it will be the Russians who
will decide."

I said: "Maybe. What do you think they'll decide to do? I don't think
Russia wants to fight anybody any more than any other nation in the
world."

"Per'aps you are right," said Alexandrov. "Per'aps in a minute she will
decide to fight herself. That is what I hope."

"You don't mean to say you consider there's a possibility of a
revolution in Russia?"

He looked at me with wide eyes. Beneath his black moustaches his teeth
glistened. "And why not? Everybody is so very funny about that. Why
should not there be a revolution? The Russians are always revolting
against something. They are born revolutionists. It is a sort of habit
with them, you know."

I nodded. "I suppose if there were a revolution you'd go back,
Alexandrov?"

He said: "Of course..." He got up from the table; expanded his chest.
"I shall go back and fight. I love fighting. It is a marvellous sport."

I finished my drink.

He said: "M'sieu Kells, if you wish to be alone, you stay here and have
some drinks. If you wish to be with other people go back to the
drawing-room. Most of them are friends of Madame Volanski, my sister.
Most of them are what you call bloody fools. But for me I must leave
you. I must leave you because I must go and find your lovely cousin. I
want to talk to her. You know, directly she came into this apartment I
looked at her and said: 'This woman is lovely and she is a Pole.'"

I said: "You're perfectly right on both counts. She is a Pole."

"She looks to me very intelligent," said Alexandrov. "When I meet beauty
in a woman I am delighted. And when also she is intelligent then I am
enchanted. For the moment, _au revoir_...."

He went out of the room.

I walked round the room searching amongst the large collection of
bottles until I found some whisky. I found a siphon and a clean glass;
poured myself a drink; sat down again. I began to think about Madame
Volanski and her effusive brother, the late Hetman of Cossacks. I
thought they were an interesting pair. And perhaps not so interesting as
odd. I thought Carla had been right about Madame Volanski. She was a
phoney. Everything about her exuded spuriousness in a big way. Quite
obviously the invitation I had received was a plant. For some reason or
other these people wanted me to come to their party, and I supposed the
reason would emerge a little later on.

And I didn't go for Alexandrov. Not at all. His Russian accent--and I
speak the language--was rather peculiar, and I thought the Hetman of
Cossacks stuff was just bunk. It occurred to me that there was something
almost amateurish about the pair of them, rather as if they'd taken on
something that was a little too big for them and realised it before
they'd started on the job.

After a few minutes I walked back into the drawing-room. The party had
thinned out. There were still little groups of people talking quietly or
arguing in corners. There were one or two glassy-eyed ladies of
uncertain ages who walked from group to group with the peculiar
expression of the unsatisfied and slighted virgin in search of prey.

But the sting had gone out of the party. I walked across the
drawing-room, through the door on the other side--the doorway that led
away from the hallway--into a corridor. At the end of the corridor a
door leading into a lighted room was half open. I put my head round it.

Madame Volanski was sitting in a high-backed chair in front of an old
refectory table. She had a bottle and a large glass of vodka in her
hand. She was sipping the vodka and crying into the glass.

I looked round the room. It had the appearance of a library. There were
bookshelves filled with volumes. It also had the appearance of being
used more than the other rooms in the apartment. I went in. I stood on
the other side of the table looking at her.

I asked: "Is anything wrong? Can I help?"

"No, Meester Kells. You cannot do anything. You see, I live in a sort of
vicious circle. When I am sober I am so un'appy I cry. When I cry Alexis
says to me 'For God's sake stop crying, you drive me mad,' so to stop
crying I dreenk some vodka. And when I dreenk vodka I cry, because vodka
makes me cry. So you see, Meester Kells, there ees not a great deal of
'ope for me to stop crying."

I asked: "Have you ever tried eating, as apart from drinking I mean?"

She shook her head. "Who wants to eat? I don' want to eat. I am too
miserable. I wish only to die."

I walked back to the door and shut it. I returned; drew up a chair; sat
down facing her across the table.

She said: "Would you like a dreenk?" She pushed the bottle across to me.

I said: "Not for the moment. I feel very sorry for you. I suppose all
White Russians are inclined to be unhappy?"

She nodded. "I think all Russians are un'appy, but especially the White
Russians. For them there ees no 'ope at all... not for people like
Alexis."

I asked: "Why is it worse for Alexis? He seems to me to be a very
cheerful sort of fellow. A large, experienced man of the world who loves
fighting, drinking and loving, and who probably is feeling slightly
frustrated at the moment because he isn't getting enough of these
things--except possibly, drinking."

"Per'aps," she said. "But Alexis ees a fool. Always 'e picks the wrong
people. Especially the women. Always they are winding 'eem round their
fingers..."

I thought she was pulling a line and doing it rather badly. She was
using the oldest trick in the world. Trying to belittle Alexandrov; to
make him out a fool. I thought that he might be a fool, but not that
sort of fool.

I said: "I would never have thought that Alexis would have trouble with
women. Maybe he's too attractive."

She shrugged her shoulders. She made a deprecatory gesture with her
hands. She said: "Alexis...! All my life I have spent trying to get
Alexis out of trouble. You understand? 'E ees always getting 'eemself
into trouble."

I asked: "Why?"

She shrugged again. "It ees the wrong sort of people 'e mixes with.
Wherever you find Alexis you find a lot of no-goods about 'eem.
Sometimes it does not matter because it ees children's stuff... you
know, like playing the Robin 'ood or Dick Turpin. These people do not
matter. But sometimes it ees not peoples like that. Sometimes it ees
people like those 'e ees mixed up with now. They are not good."

I said: "Who are they? I think it is very interesting. I think something
should be done to save Alexis from himself. Who are these people?"

She looked at me sideways. I thought that at some time or other she had
been quite attractive. I wondered what the hell she was playing at.

She said: "I don' know. But I would like to know. That ees what I would
like to do. You see, Alexis 'as been in troubles all 'is life. I want
that to stop. I don' want 'eem to be mixed up with strange peoples any
more. First of all a long time ago we got out of Russia; then we got out
of Poland; then we got out of a lot of other countries. Then we go to
France."

I asked: "Did Alexis get into trouble in France?"

She nodded. She spread her hands. "But, of course...! So we are
asked to leave France if we don' mind. It was not anything ver' much,
you understand. Alexis got mixed up in some ver' big card game. Some
American lost a great deal of money. That would not have mattered
per'aps, but 'e was attached to the American Embassy. So the Prfecture
of Police thought it might be a good idea if Alexis went away.

"So we came 'ere. I start this dress business, and I am doing ver' well.
Always I can make some monies. But I cannot make myself any 'appiness."

I said: "And do you think Alexis is up to something?"

She nodded. "I don' theenk anything about it, Meester Kells. I _know_ 'e
ees." She sighed. She refilled her glass; drank some more vodka. The
tears were running down each side of her nose. She looked like a
pathetic comedienne.

She went on: "I don' know why I am talking to you like thees, except
that I theenk you are a nice man. You look as if you are 'uman and 'ave
understanding."

I said: "That's very nice of you, Madame Volanski."

She put her hand across the table; it rested on mine. It was a plump,
white hand. There was a diamond ring on the second finger which must
have cost a lot of money.

She said: "Don' call me Madame Volanski. Call me Olga."

"I think Olga is a lovely name," I said. "Tell me something, Olga, why
did you invite me to this party? Was my name on a list of yours, or did
you just get an idea?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don' know. You see, I 'ave these parties.
I ask so many of my friends. And then I go to an agency to ask other
important peoples in London who are interested in frocks to come. So
quite often there are lots of peoples at my parties whom I do not know.
It does not matter. It ees good for business. I have met people with
whom I 'ave done a lot of business like that. It was probably the agency
who ask you."

I said: "Well, I'm glad they did because I'm having a very enjoyable
time."

There was a silence; then she said: "You know, Meester Kells, one
morning I would like to 'ave a talk with you. One morning I would like
to meet you somewhere where there ees not any vodka. Per'aps we could
'ave lunch together. Per'aps we could 'ave a talk. Per'aps I could tell
you some things that would interest you a lot." She looked at me. Her
eyes were filled with tears. But they still looked very interesting,
very intriguing. I thought that Olga Volanski was definitely a
character.

I said: "That's an idea. Give me your telephone number. I'll ring you."

She said: "I will give you a card. When you think you would like to talk
to me; when you think the time 'as come when you would like to invite me
to lunch, ring me up."

"I will, Olga," I said. "And sooner than you think." I got up; put the
card in my pocket. "Well, I'll be seeing you!"

She said: "Yes... I 'ave no doubt... Fate 'as said our paths shall
cross." She drank some more vodka.

I went back to the drawing-room. There were only about ten people there.
I remembered the whisky. I walked across the room to the little store
where I'd talked with Alexandrov. The room was dark. I switched on the
electric light by the doorway; stood looking into the room.

On the other side of the room behind the table, Carla was enveloped in
the arms of the ex-Hetman of Cossacks. They were in the middle of a
passionate embrace.

I said: "Don't let me interrupt anything."

Alexandrov released Carla. She stood, gasping a little, re-adjusting her
hair.

She said: "You know, Michael, this man Alexis is like a bear--a Russian
bear. But I find him very interesting."

Alexandrov said: "I am a very interesting man. Always I do everything
better than any other man. I am bigger. I am more handsome. I fight
better and I make love in the most amazing way." He indicated Carla.
"This woman has fallen for me in a big way, M'sieu Kells. I think I
shall probably marry her sometime." He moved to the table; poured
himself a drink.

Carla gave me a very quick wink. I nodded my head.

I said: "I've been trying to find you, Alexandrov. I wanted to say good
night to you. I'm on my way." I turned to Carla. "Would you like to come
back, my dear, or shall Alexandrov bring you back?"

She said: "I'll stay for a little while--just a little while. Must you
go?"

"Yes, I've an appointment. But I shall be free in about half an hour's
time. Shall I come back for you?"

She shook her head. "No, Michael... to-night I can look after
myself." She threw a love-lorn glance at Alexandrov.

He said: "Kells... you will not worry about Carla. I wish to talk to
her. When she wishes to go away I shall look after her. Good night to
you."

"All right," I said. "Good night to you." I winked surreptitiously at
Carla. "Don't do anything I wouldn't like to read about in the papers."

I went back into the drawing-room; crossed it; walked along the
passageway and took a final peep at Olga. She was sitting where I had
left her, looking at the half-filled glass of vodka, her eyes pouring
with tears. She didn't see me. I went back into the drawing-room,
crossed the hallway, took my hat, opened the door and went out. I
thought it had been a very interesting party.

Outside, it was a fine night with a moon and a gentle breeze. I began to
walk back to my apartment.

I thought that there hadn't been any "mistake" in the invitation to the
Volanski party being left at my flat. Somebody, either Olga Volanski or
her brother, or someone else who knew of their technique for giving
parties, had thought it necessary that I should attend. And my money was
on Olga. Her sudden desire to open her heart to me was a little too
sudden, and as for her tears--I shrugged my shoulders at the memory--I
had known plenty of tough ladies who had been able to open their tear
ducts at will. In fact, I thought Russian women were a damn sight more
dangerous when they were crying than otherwise.

Then there was Alexandrov. But I wasn't worrying too much about him. The
ex-Hetman of Cossacks hadn't yet realised what he was up against. He was
up against Carla. If I knew anything of Carla and her ability to adapt
herself to men like Alexandrov he hadn't got a dog's chance.

It took me the best part of three-quarters of an hour to walk home. When
I arrived, I made some coffee, drank a small glass of brandy, got into
pyjamas and lay down on my bed, smoking and trying to sort out my
impressions.

But whatever ideas came into my head I found my mind returning to the
delightful and charming Madame St. Philippe, whose entrance into my life
and exit from it had been so rapid and without effect. The manner of her
death, and her death itself, told me nothing. It was difficult to
visualise her as a friend, and a little more difficult to think of her
as an enemy.

Unless... and the thought struck me suddenly and I found myself
pleased with it... _unless_ Madame St. Philippe was an innocent party
in this business who did not know what she was doing. Someone who had
been sucked into the little whirlpool caused by the disappearance of
Rockie, and who was doing what she was told because she _had_ to. This
could easily be. She would not be the first charming and cultured woman
who had been blackmailed into working for people she feared and
despised.

Whatever I surmised, whatever queer thoughts came into my head, one
thing was definite. Both Olly and St. Philippe had been killed to
prevent them talking to me. They had to be killed _quickly_ before they
had a chance to talk.

I yawned; got off the bed; went to the window and looked out. It was a
still night--or morning. I wondered what Carla was at, and whether she
had begun to pump Alexandrov.

I went to sleep.

I was awakened by the telephone jangling in my sitting-room. I got out
of bed, reached for a dressing-gown and cursed. I am one of those people
who do not like being disturbed--especially by a telephone call--in the
small hours of the morning. First of all because I hate the discomfort
of waking up, and secondly because nocturnal telephone calls, in my
profession, usually mean trouble.

I went into the sitting-room; reached for the telephone.

It was Carla.

She said: "Hallo, Michael... good morning. I'm sorry to disturb you,
but you must understand, my dear, that I am in a little trouble; that it
was quite necessary for me to disturb you."

I said: "Think nothing of it, my girl." I looked at my watch. It was
three-fifteen. I picked up an odd cigarette from the table, and a
lighter. I lighted the cigarette and inhaled a mouthful of smoke.

I said: "What is it, Carla? And where are you?"

She answered: "I'm at a place called Forest Hills. At least I'm
somewhere on the road between Forest Hills and East Grinstead--but
nearer to Forest Hills. There's a cross-roads outside the town and on
the right-hand fork there is a telephone box. That's where I am."

"What about Alexandrov?" I asked. "Is he there?"

She said, rather flatly: "He's not here. Not with me. Also, if you
please, Michael, I don't want to answer a lot of questions. I am
desolate and need sympathy."

I thought that if she was, as she put it, desolate and needing sympathy,
something must be very odd and peculiar.

I said: "I'll drive down to you. But it's an hour's journey. What are
you going to do in the meantime? You'd better go to an hotel and wait
for me."

She said: "No, Michael... that's no good. It is important that no one
sees me about here. But I'll go somewhere and I'll come back here and
wait for you at the telephone box in an hour's time."

I said: "All right," and hung up.

I dressed quickly, went round to the garage, fuelled the Jaguar and got
on to the road. In five minutes' time I was haring down the Fulham Road,
indulging in a guesswork competition as to what had happened to Carla.

I kept the speedometer at fifty until I was through Sutton. Then I put
my foot down. It was a clear night, the road was clear and I watched the
speedometer needle mount up to sixty, seventy, eighty. I relaxed in the
driving seat, slowed down to light a cigarette, then accelerated to
seventy-five, which is a nice speed for driving and thinking.

I thought that life wasn't so bad if you didn't take it too seriously.
That it wasn't too bad even if you did. That you couldn't stop what was
going to happen and all you could do was to do your best to see that
what happened was as near to what you wanted as you could make it.

This is what I considered to be a good philosophy--provided, I thought
with a grin, that Carla hadn't done something to jigger up the whole bag
of tricks. Because she was, as you will probably guess, both astute and
impulsive, and the two qualities--if you can call them
qualities--sometimes do not go very well together.

The moon was shining as I drove through Reigate and swung on to the
Eastbourne road. Twenty minutes later I slowed down at the cross-roads
outside Forest Hills.

Carla came out of the shadow of an oak tree on the roadside. She held
her black velvet cloak and skirts closely about her. I held the car door
open for her.

She settled into the passenger seat. She sighed heavily. She said:
"Michael, turn the car round and go back towards Forest Hills. Take the
last turning to the right down the hill, and keep on driving. Drive
until you come to a little white house, set back fifty or sixty yards
from the road. Then stop there and put the car somewhere where everyone
won't see it."

I said: "All right. What's been going on? And where's Alexandrov?"

She looked at me. I had turned the car and we were back on the main
road. Her face was a trifle strained but she was smiling. I thought,
quite suddenly and for no reason at all, that she was a damned
attractive woman.

She said: "Plenty has been going on, Michael. Alexandrov is dead. I am a
little worried and I should like to be kissed."

I put my arm round her and kissed her.

She sighed again. She said: "That was very nice... I feel better. You
know, Michael, I have very great faith in you. Always I consider you to
be most reliable."

I said: "Good. Where's Alexandrov... in the little white house?"

She nodded.

"Very well," I said. "We'll go there... fast."

She settled back into her seat. She said: "I suppose he will have to be
disposed of somehow. This Alexandrov was a nuisance and a fool... and
worse."

I didn't say anything. I lighted a cigarette and asked her if she would
like one. She refused. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that she
was angry about something.

We ran into Forest Hills and I turned off to the right and continued
along the quiet country road. After a few minutes I could see the white
house--little more than a cottage--surrounded by a well-kept, fenced-in
lawn.

I said: "I'm not going to stop in front. I'll stop here... in this
clump of trees. You can approach the house from this side. I'll go down
the road, make a circuit and get to the back from the other side. We
don't want to be seen together."

"Very well," said Carla. "That method is convenient because the back
door is unlocked. I came out that way."

I drove the car off the road into the shadow of the trees; got out and
walked down the road keeping in the shadow of the hedge. After I'd
passed the house I cut across the fields and made for the back of the
white house. Carla was standing by the open back door.

She led the way into the kitchen. I closed the door behind me and
followed her through a passageway into a room off the hallway in the
front of the house.

The room looked out on the side of the house. She switched on the
electric light and I saw that the curtains were drawn. The room was
comfortably--almost elegantly--furnished. Book-cases filled with
well-bound books covered three sides of the wall. Between the windows
was an electric fire.

Alexandrov lay between the windows in front of the unlit fire. The cord
with the electric fire plug attached was wound round one shoe. A .32
automatic lay a foot or so from him on the carpet.

He was shot through the stomach and he had bled considerably.

Just behind him was a table on which were set out glasses and bottles
and an ice bucket filled with water, from which the neck of an unopened
bottle of champagne protruded.

I sat down in one of the big saddle-bag chairs. I lighted a cigarette
and looked at what remained of Alexandrov. I thought he looked slightly
more unpleasant dead than alive.

Carla asked: "D'you want a drink?"

I said: "Why not? I've had a busy evening. And so have you by the look
of it. Did you kill him?"

She poured two drinks from a brandy bottle, added some water. She gave
me a glass, sat down in the other arm-chair, just behind Alexandrov's
head.

"No," she said. "I didn't. But I would have, Michael, with pleasure."

"What happened?" I asked her.

"After you left the party," she said, "he became very romantic. And he
was drinking like a pig. He drank whisky and vodka and God knows what.
Also he became bad-tempered and maudlin. In between these things he
tried to make love to me--a process which, I am glad to say, consisted
mainly of telling me what a hell of a man he was."

"Then he suggested that he take me for a drive. By now the party was
over. Everyone was gone and Madame Volanski was drunk and asleep in the
little room. I thought it would be good to see where he was going. I
thought if he became sufficiently drunk I might get a chance to discover
something, because, Michael, all the time I had an odd idea in my head
that I have met this Alexandrov somewhere, sometime."

"We got into his car and he drove here, very quickly; the car is parked
at the back of the house. We came in here and had drinks. He told me
that he owns this house. He told me that he was delighted to have met me
because I was just the sort of person he was looking for. First of all
because he was fascinated by me, and also because I might be of service
to him and make a lot of money for myself in the process."

"He didn't explain how?" I asked.

"He didn't get the chance," she said. "He stopped talking to mix himself
another drink. He was standing by the table there and I got a good view
of his face from the side. I recognised him in spite of the Cossack
moustache. He was no other than Riffenbach, the S.S. Colonel in charge
of the concentration camp at Ostrec in Poland. You know I was there. You
know how they treated me?"

I nodded.

"He turned and saw the expression on my face," said Carla. "I suppose I
looked horrified. And I think that at the same moment he remembered me.
He put the glass back on the table; put his hand in the breast pocket of
his coat and pulled out the pistol. He turned, took a step towards me
and, thank God, tripped over the electric fire cord. He fell heavily and
the gun went off. He tried to get up and then fell back and died. I was
very pleased when he was dead."

I grinned. "I bet you were." I finished the drink.

"Then I thought I had better get in touch with you," said Carla.

I helped myself to another drink. Then I had a look at Alexandrov.

I opened his coat gingerly and went through his pockets. There was
nothing at all but a letter in an opened envelope in one of his side
pockets. I put it in my note-case.

I said to Carla. "You get out of here. Take our stiff friend's car and
beat it back to town. Go and knock up Glyder. You know where he is?"

She nodded. "Not far from us."

"Give Glyder these instructions from me," I said. "He won't be able to
do anything very much until to-night, because it's going to be dawn
pretty soon and he can't play about here in the daylight. So we'll have
to leave our S.S. friend here for a bit. Tell Glyder that he's to get
down here as soon as it's really dark to-night and clean up this mess.
He's got to get rid of Riffenbach somehow and in such a manner that he
won't be found. He'll have to destroy the body. And he's got to get rid
of that carpet and get another one down and generally clean up the place
as if you two had never been here."

"When he's done all that he'd better ring me up and let me know. You'd
better leave Riffenbach's car with him too, and tell him to get rid of
that when he's finished with it. You understand?"

She nodded. "I will do what you say, Michael. I will leave immediately.
You are very kind to me. Always I feel that you are very near to
me--like a brother."

She came over and put her arms round my neck. She kissed me--not at all
like a brother. Then she went off. A moment or two later I heard the car
start up from somewhere at the back of the house.

I went over the house. I pulled all the curtains in all the rooms. Then
I began a systematic search. I might have saved myself the trouble.
There was nothing that was of any use.

I went back to the sitting-room and took another look at Riffenbach. I
thought it rather funny that he should have got through the war, escaped
a trial at Nremberg with a rope at the end of it; got away and talked
the Russians into giving him a job, and then, just when everything
seemed to be coming his way, he had to shoot himself accidentally in a
small white house near Forest Hills.

I helped myself to another drink on him. Then I went home.




Chapter Four. Sonia


It was a lovely day when I awakened two mornings later. The sun was
shining through my bedroom window, making interesting shadows on the
carpet. I felt life was pretty good--or was it? On second thoughts I
concluded that I wasn't quite certain about that.

I bathed, shaved and dressed, and went out. I began to walk towards
Belgrave Square. There was, I thought, an unusual air of cheerfulness
about London. Maybe it was the sunshine. All the women I met seemed
good-looking, well-dressed and happy. I wondered if they were. I thought
it was very interesting to consider what went on in everyone's mind
because, whatever you thought about people--especially women--you were
usually wrong.

I crossed Belgrave Square; turned off Pont Street into a narrow
passageway. Facing me, making the passage a cul-de-sac, was an
interesting-looking pub called The Horse With No Legs. I went in;
crossed the saloon bar into the bar parlour at the end. It was empty
except for the Old Man, who was sitting in the corner wearing a
disgruntled expression and a cigar. On the table in front of him was a
large glass of port. I ordered a double whisky and soda in the saloon
bar, went back to the Old Man and sat down at the other side of the
table.

He grunted at me. He said in the peculiarly surly tone of voice which he
invariably adopts when someone has asked him to do something: "You're
getting to be a bloody nuisance, Kells. Can't you do anything on your
own?"

I said: "In this case, no..." I grinned cheerfully at him. "And what
are you getting so surly about? You hand me the most impossible jobs
with no middle, beginning or ending and expect me to go cavorting
through them in forty-eight hours. I'm not Zaza, the mind-reader, you
know!"

"I doubt if you have any mind at all," said the Old Man acidly. "Well,
what's all the trouble about?"

"There isn't any trouble. All I want is an indication of where we go
from here. This thing's beginning to spread a little." I told him what
had happened about the cocktail party, about Madame Volanski and the
ex-Cossack who wasn't one--Alexandrov.

He said: "So it was Riffenbach? Very interesting. That was the fellow
whom the Russians got. So he was working for them?" He looked at me.
"What's happened to the body?" he asked.

I drank some of my whisky. "That's taken care of. I sent Glyder down
there last night with a drum of vitriol. He used the Haigh process. All
that's left of Riffenbach is sludge--out in the back garden well,
covered over."

He grunted again. "Well, that's a good thing. Do you know what you are
going to do now?"

I nodded. "I found a letter in Riffenbach's pocket. It was from a girl,
or woman. Her name is Sabina. Riffenbach was evidently having an
_affaire_ with Sabina. If you read the letter you'll see she is a little
angry with him." I took the letter from my pocket; handed it to him.

He read it. "Well?" he queried.

"Just this," I told him. "This Madame Volanski might be anything at all.
She was supposed to be Riffenbach's sister. Quite obviously she wasn't.
But she's Russian right enough. And if she's Russian she can't very well
be Riffenbach's sister. I think she has money. Therefore the question is
whether she's some old lady that Riffenbach's picked up somewhere as a
cover for himself and a means of financial support, or whether she's
something else."

The Old Man said: "Possibly she was put in to keep an eye on Riffenbach.
Just so he didn't rat on them. That's not an unusual process of theirs,
you know." He took a long pull at his cigar; expelled the smoke slowly
and with a great deal of satisfaction. He went on: "You know the
Russians never trust anybody. They very often slip up on that fact. They
certainly don't trust any of the Nazi German officers who went over to
them to escape Nremberg and a rope. Lots of these Germans have made a
getaway. You find 'em all over the world pretending to be Danes and
Swedes and all sorts of nationalities. This Madame Volanski might be a
Soviet watchdog."

I nodded: "That's what I thought. And she put on a very good act to me
of being the rather unfortunate and deluded sister who was worried about
her dear brother. She drank a lot of vodka at the party and cried a hell
of a lot. She told me that she wanted to ask my advice sometime about
her stupid brother who was always getting into trouble. She gave me her
telephone number. The idea was that I was to ring her. We were going to
lunch together and she was going to talk."

The Old Man said: "Yes, she was probably going to lead you up the garden
path, or try to."

"That's what I thought. There is just a possibility, of course, that she
wasn't put in by the Russians. Maybe she's just a stupid fool. Maybe he
sold her a pup and she was doing her best to play along with him.
There's a chance of that."

The Old Man said: "Not much of a chance."

"I agree with you. Anyway, I'm going to see her and I'm going to hear
what she's going to say."

He drank some port.

I asked: "Would you think it unreasonable if I asked you to find me a
woman--a Russian--from one of your operatives? The idea is this:
Riffenbach was having an _affaire_ with this girl. Now we know Volanski
wasn't his sister, if our theory is right that the Russians put her in
to keep an eye on Riffenbach--and it's my guess that she knew nothing
about the _affaire_ he was having with Sabina--what I propose to do is
to take a chance on this Sabina--the real Sabina I mean--not turning up.
I'm going to put one in, see?"

He nodded. "What you mean is you're going to find some Russian girl and
she's going to contact Volanski as the heart-broken young woman who has
been seduced by her brother. Is that it?"

"That's it exactly," I said. "But remember, I haven't been in this
country very long, and I haven't a long address book of women. You're
going to find the Sabina if you don't mind."

"I see..." He finished the port; pushed the glass over to me. "Ask
them to fill that again, will you, Kells?"

I took our two glasses into the saloon bar; came back and sat down.

He said: "I've been thinking. There was a young woman did some work for
me. She's a White Russian--a Ukrainian. A little bit excitable, but very
loyal. Her name's Sonia Karakoff."

"That's all right. Where do I find Sonia, and will she play ball?"

He said: "Yes... She worked for us during the war. She's quite a
dependable person. She's part proprietor of a night club on the other
side of Maidenhead. It's called the Yellow Penguin. I think it's a
little bit near the knuckle, but they seem to keep on the right side of
the police."

I said: "I'll go and see her. Supposing she won't play?"

He took a long drag on his cigar. "I thought of that. You'd better take
the car. Go down to my place and see Miss Fains. She has a dossier on
Sonia. This Sonia is very much in love with a man called Mellish--a
funny type but apparently attractive to women. Anyway, he's attracted
Sonia. You'd better pull the black on her somehow; then she'll have to
work for you. That should be easy enough, shouldn't it? But leave me out
of it if you can. I may need her again sometime and she can be _very_
bad-tempered if she wants to."

I said: "And I'll try and find Mellish. Maybe Miss Fains will know where
he is. I'll sell him a story that I'm a Home Office official; that
somebody has discovered something not so good about Sonia, and she's up
for deportation. I take it she wouldn't like to go back to Russia, would
she?"

The Old Man shook his head. "She'd do anything _not_ to go back there."

"All right. It's a pretty lousy way to work, isn't it?"

The Old Man yawned. "It's a pretty lousy world. Incidentally, have you
begun to get squeamish in your old age?"

I grinned at him. "The end is always worthy of the means. I'd better get
down to your place."

He said: "Do... and get it over. I don't want you hanging around
there. Some of your past exploits have given you a little too much
publicity."

"I won't be there long," I assured him. "I'll drive down there now, see
Fains, ask her for Mellish's address and get to work."

He asked: "What's the idea of putting the supposed Sonia in on
Volanski?"

"This: I see Volanski and find out what it is she wants my advice about.
I'm not going to tell her Riffenbach has disappeared. I'll tell her a
story about his having taken a powder and got out of it; that he's got
in trouble over some woman, and see what her reaction is to this. And if
it sounds all right; then Sabina alias Sonia Karakoff appears, weeps on
Volanski's shoulder; tells her she has been seduced by her brother
Alexandrov, alias Riffenbach. And then we'll see what happens. Maybe
Volanski is going to do a little talking. Maybe she'll try to use Sonia.
We'll just sit around and watch."

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. "You've got some goddam funny ways
of working."

"Maybe. But most of my goddam funny ways have come off, as you know. If
you don't like it what else do I do?"

He grunted. "How do I know? All right. You'd better go down and see
Fains."

"Thanks," I said. I got up. "I'll be seeing you."

He looked up at me. "But as little as possible, if you don't mind,
Kells. And another thing, don't try to lay Fains. She's never been the
same woman since the night she kept that date with you."

I said: "You've got the wrong idea. I made the date, but I didn't keep
it. I was busy working for you, so I had to cancel it. She's never had
any sort of explanation, so I suppose she's got the needle."

"Whatever your alibi may be--and I've never known you not to have an
excuse--lay off Fains. She's too valuable to me to have her mentality
upset by your amorous approaches. One day some woman is going to be the
death of you."

I said: "What a death! So long, sir..."

I went away.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I arrived at the Old Man's place just after two. I rang the bell and
told the maid I wanted to see Miss Fains. She led the way to the back of
the house where Fains' den was. The maid opened the door and
disappeared. I went inside.

Fains' room was a sight. A mixture of feminine taste and almost
appalling efficiency. It was a long, "L" shaped room, and one end of the
"L" was filled from floor to ceiling with green filing cases. These were
the Old Man's for private records. There were flowers, freshly gathered,
all over the place, and copies of _Vogue_ and a few extra-romantic
novels.

The room looked like Fains--an attractive mixture of romance, efficiency
and femininity.

She was sitting at a long refectory table covered with papers, typing a
report.

I said: "Hallo, Fainits...."

She said: "I wish you wouldn't call me 'Fainits.' I'm Miss Fains to
you."

I said: "I know, Fainits. And you have a lovely name. I've always adored
Aurora and I think the name Aurora Fains is _something_, and so are
you!"

And she was. She had a round face and rather a lovely shade of blonde
hair--the same colour as a cornfield. She wore pince-nez, which made her
blue eyes look a trifle severe but gave a peculiarly attractive angle to
a face that would normally have been very simple. Also she had a nice
mouth and teeth. Beyond that, she ran pretty true to form except that
her legs were definitely handsome. She knew this and always wore the
right kind of sheer nylon stockings and attractive American shoes with
very high heels.

She said: "Mr. Kells, what is it you want. Does the Old Man know you're
down here?"

"Of course. I saw him this morning. I told him that life was just one
big desert without you. If you'd heard what I said about you, you'd have
blushed to the roots of that lovely hair."

She said: "Kells, you're just about the biggest damn' liar I've ever met
and I've met a few."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why?"

She said: "You know I never go out with men... anyway, not often. You
work on me for weeks. Do you remember when the Old Man sent me over to
France to do some work for you? And you make a big date and you never
turned up. I'm not used to being stood up by people like you. I don't
think I like you very much."

I spread my hands. "I know... Do you know why I couldn't turn up to
meet you? I was on my way to keep the appointment when I was set on by
five men."

She said: "Good heavens... What did they do?"

"Didn't you know?" I asked. "I don't believe you take the slightest
interest in me, my sweet. You just don't care what happens to me and
whether I'm dead or alive."

She asked in a rather more concerned voice: "Well, what did happen?"

"They killed me and I was found dead the next morning with my throat
cut. And you wonder why I didn't keep my appointment."

She said: "You're impossible. What is it you really want?"

"I'll tell you." I walked round the table and kissed her. She struggled
but not too much. She stood looking at me reproachfully.

I said: "Well, Fainits, having got the main business of the afternoon
over, get cracking on some of those funny green boxes of yours. I want
to know all you've got on a Russian lady named Sonia Karakoff, and if
your file is properly cross-indexed this will lead you on to some man
called Mellish, who is enamoured of Sonia. Let me have a note on both
dossiers, so that I can go away and study it, and I'll be very much
obliged to you. And get a move on because, as you know, the Old Man
doesn't like me being seen around here."

She said: "Neither do I."

"You may not, my sweet," I told her. "But one day you'll feel different.
On some misty morning when you all stand round my graveside and the
bugles play the Last Post and there is an air of indefinable sadness
over everything, you will think of me and weep."

She said: "Like hell I will...!"

She went over to the files. I sat down on a chair and smoked a
cigarette.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was just after six. I was sitting in a big chair with a cigarette and
a long drink, looking out at the Knightsbridge traffic, when Glyder
arrived. He helped himself to a whisky and soda, put a piece of ice in
the glass, looked at it intently and, finding it to his satisfaction,
drank some.

He said: "Good evening, Mike."

I said: "Good evening. Have a drink?"

"Thanks, I will..." He finished the glass and poured himself another
one.

I said: "That's a very good system of drinking."

"It's not too bad," he said. "It always puts me one drink ahead of
anyone else." He helped himself to a cigarette; pulled up a chair; sat
down.

"Well, what about it?" I asked.

He said: "I went to the Foreign Office this afternoon. I saw Woldingham.
He was very helpful. This Sonia Karakoff is quite a piece."

I asked: "How?"

He said: "Sonia Karakoff is thirty-two. She was born in the early part
of the Russian Revolution. Her father was a Czarist general. Her mother
came of a very good family. The Bolsheviks didn't like them, and sent
the General and his wife to Siberia. Sonia was born there. She doesn't
like Bolsheviks. She's done all sorts of good work over here. She once
did a job for M.I.5 and I understand she's been a help on one or two
occasions to the Special Branch. She did quite a bit of work for the Old
Man in the latter part of the war. She's temperamental, but she can be
trusted."

"I see..." I looked at him. Glyder was a strange sort of egg. He was
a Devonshire man. He had a small farm somewhere near Bolt Head in South
Devon. He was in the Devonshire regiment in the 1914-18 war. When he
volunteered for the last war there was something physically wrong with
him, so they wouldn't have him. In the middle of the war he went for a
holiday somewhere on the coast. He spent his time wandering about the
beaches at night, in spite of the fact that they were wired off and
there were sentries all over the place. I rather think that Glyder, who
was inclined to be slightly romantic and mysterious, liked dodging these
sentries and tried to see just how far he could go into places where he
ought not to go. So one night he won something. Two or three German
naval details landed in a small boat from a submarine. They knocked
Glyder over the head and took him back with them--what for I don't know.

Apparently the Germans, who can be pretty stupid on occasion, got the
idea in their heads that Glyder was quite a big shot, mainly, I suppose,
because they'd found him in a forbidden area on the east coast. They
didn't do anything to him except that he was kicked about from prison to
prison, and eventually he managed to escape. But whilst he'd been in
Germany he'd kept his eyes open. He'd learned an awful lot. He'd also
learnt German and when he got back to England via Switzerland he had
secured a mine of valuable information, so much so that he was
eventually sent to see the Old Man.

Glyder had never left the Old Man. He'd gone on working for him from
that time--pretty good work, too. He had the nerve of the devil, and a
peculiar mental quirk that was more than astuteness. He still had his
farm near Bolt Head, but someone else was running it. He used to go back
there for a fortnight each year on holiday. During the rest of the year
he took the devil's own chances. Candidly, my opinion of him was that he
was much more clever than he allowed us to believe.

He was about five-feet ten, thin but wiry. And as strong as a horse. The
one rather extraordinary thing about him was that he never looked at a
woman, although women fell for him. I rather fancy that Glyder thought
that if he fell for some attractive member of the other sex he might
talk too much when he'd had a drink. He liked drinking.

I asked: "Did you get anything on Mellish?"

He said: "There's nothing on the files in the Foreign Office. He might
have a police record."

I said: "Tell me about the Karakoff. What's her nationality?"

"She's still a White Russian," said Glyder. "There's an application
in--and I understand it's going through--for her British naturalisation.
The Old Man recommended it."

I grinned. "That's damned funny."

Glyder looked at me sideways. "What are you doing--putting the black on
her to work for you? You're a ruthless bastard, aren't you, Mike?"

I said: "You tell me what else I do. Somebody's got to do the work,
haven't they?"

"I suppose so." He helped himself to another drink. He asked: "Would you
like a drink?"

I said: "Thanks. I'd better have one before the bottle's empty. Tell me
about Riffenbach."

He said: "Believe it or not that Riffenbach was a brute to dispose of.
That fellow took two drums of vitriol and before I was through with it I
was very glad I had a gas mask on. I worked right past the dawn with my
knees knocking together all the time in case the milkman came in and saw
Riffenbach's legs sticking over the top of the iron tub. That would have
been a nice situation, wouldn't it--nice for the milkman?"

I said: "But it's all right."

"Yes, nobody's going to find anything of him. The last bit had gone when
I phoned you--even his teeth."

I asked: "Was he wearing any dentures?"

He said: "He hadn't got dentures. Really, he wasn't a bad-looking man."
He held out my drink.

I took the glass from him. I asked: "Where's this Mellish?"

"Search me," said Glyder. "I know where his office is, but he's not
there. Apparently he's in the fruit business--at least he has an office
near Covent Garden as an agent for dried fruits or something. There was
nobody working in the office. I think he goes there for about an hour a
day. I saw the caretaker. She didn't know a thing. She said he was
usually gone by the afternoon; that he was a nice man considering he was
a foreigner, and very generous."

I said: "That's interesting. I bet his name isn't Mellish. He's probably
using the name. That's tough. He might have a record."

He said: "Well, give me a day or so and I'll find him. Is there anything
else you want?"

I said: "Not particularly. Are you doing anything?"

He grinned. "I'm supposed to be working on a beautiful woman spy. She's
one of those silly dames that the Reds put the screw on. You know, they
get sent out in dozens to every country in the world. They're usually
good-looking but stupid. The idea is, as you know, that they might
discover something and if they don't, after a certain time, they cut
their money off. What happens to them after that I don't know."

I said: "Well, stick around. I'll phone through when I want you. And
don't be too hard on the beautiful spy."

He said: "So long, Mike..." and went away.

I went out and had some dinner at the Hyde Park Hotel. Then I walked
round and got the Jaguar out of the garage. I drove down to Maidenhead.
On the way down I amused myself by thinking about Miss Sonia Karakoff. I
thought it was very true that half the world doesn't know how the other
half lives, and I wondered just how many women of all sorts, shapes and
descriptions--White Russians, displaced persons, women who'd been
leading normal decent lives in Roumania, Poland, Hungary--all with the
usual ideals of home, husband and children--were being kicked around the
world, spying, looking through key-holes and generally raising hell at
the behest of the beneficent Soviet. I thought it was rather
extraordinary, having regard to all things, that they were so
trustworthy. For quite a lot of them were. This brought me to the
thought that when you get down to bed-rock women have a surplus of
ideals. Maybe it is because they are more romantic. Maybe it is because
they are a little more determined... I don't know. But they certainly
put up with a lot.

I found the Yellow Penguin. It was just outside Maidenhead, at the end
of a long country road which contained only a few large houses, not big
enough to be a nuisance to their owners and not small enough to be
unnoticeable. At the end of this road on the right hand side were two
imposing iron gates. There was a carriage drive which led to the front
of the club. I left the car half-way down the drive in the shadow of
some trees; finished the journey on foot.

The club was attractive; the grounds well-kept. The double front doors
were open and I walked into an attractive, square hall furnished with
good solid mahogany and a few fake antiques.

A weedy-looking individual, dressed as a butler, came out of a side
door. He said: "Good evening, sir. Can I do anything for you? I don't
think you're a member, are you?"

I said: "No, I'm not a member, and I'm not a policeman, so don't be
uneasy. I'd like very much to have a few words with Miss Sonia Karakoff.
The name's Michael Kells."

"Very well, sir. I'll go and find the Countess."

I lighted a cigarette and waited.

After a few minutes my weedy friend returned. He said: "Will you come
this way, sir?"

I threw my cigarette stub into a brass ash-tray and went after him. We
seemed to walk a long way down one passage and up another. From here and
there about the house I could hear the sound of music and voices.
Eventually, he pulled aside a heavy plush curtain and opened a door. I
went into the room.

She was standing in front of the fireplace. A small fire was burning,
either for effect or because there was a little breeze in the air. The
room was well-furnished in dark oak. The pile carpet was a soft blue.
Two or three vases were filled with well-arranged flowers. It was a nice
room.

She said: "Good evening to you. I am the Countess Sonia Karakoff." She
smiled.

I am going to tell you that the Countess--as she called herself--Sonia
Karakoff was definitely easy on the eyes. She was tall--about five feet
nine--and she had one of those faces that one is never quite certain
about. She had a camelia complexion and a raspberry mouth. The shape of
her face was fascinating. You looked at her and wondered whether she was
lovely or pretty or merely handsome. She had a straight, long nose:
full, attractive lips; large dark eyes. Her hair was dead black and
dressed closely to her head. She wore a close-fitting, long, lace dinner
frock and high heeled crpe-de-Chine sandals. Round her neck was a
necklace of cabochon emeralds, and there was a bracelet to match for
each slim wrist. Her fingers were long and white. She must have worn at
least ten rings on her hands, and one of them in diamonds was a replica
of the Cross of St. George of Russia. She was definitely an eyeful.

I said: "Good evening to you, Countess. My name's Michael Kells, and I
thought it was time you and I had a little talk."

She said, without moving: "About what, Mr. Kells?"

I came a little closer. "You know, I think it's time that you went back
to work. So does the Old Man."

She smiled. Her teeth were white and even. She smiled only with her
mouth. Her eyes were steady and watchful.

She said: "So...! But I thought it was understood that that part of
my life was finished. You see, I now own this club. I am very interested
in it. It is successful. Here I exist in the peace of the countryside.
Sometimes I look at the birds, and there are other things..."

I said: "I'd still like to talk to you."

She sighed. "I am a weak woman. And you look to me like a very
determined man. Also I have heard about you, Mr. Kells." She smiled
again. She went on: "Would you like to drink with me? Tell me what you
would like. Will you drink champagne or brandy or whisky or rum or
vodka?"

I asked: "Are you going to drink vodka?"

"No, I shall drink brandy."

I said: "Well, I'll drink brandy, too."

"Please help yourself to cigarettes, which you will find on the table."
She rang a bell by the fireplace. When the weedy-looking butler arrived
she ordered brandy, soda and ice.

I walked about the room, smoking a cigarette and looking at the
pictures. They were pretty good and there were some excellent, carefully
chosen prints. We didn't say anything. She stood relaxed, almost
inanimate, in front of the fire, her hands clasped loosely behind her
back, her head up, her eyes following me as I walked round the room. I
took a quick look at her over my shoulder. In that position a very good
figure showed itself to the best advantage, and the plunging neckline of
her frock told the world that the "Countess" Sonia Karakoff had no need
of uplift.

The butler put the drinks on the table and went away.

She said: "Let us sit down and talk."

I placed a chair for her, poured out the drinks; added soda and ice and
put them on the table. We sat down.

I said: "I expect you know what I am here for. In our peculiar
profession, Countess--and I have an idea that you know more about me
than you care to tell--wars go on for ever, even when the shooting
stops."

She said languidly: "Has that stopped? It seems to me that somewhere in
the world there is always shooting." She drank a little brandy
fastidiously. Then she said: "I wish I had a machine-gun so that I could
go out into the world and shoot everybody except myself and those I
love."

I said: "I can't see what good that would do."

"Perhaps not...! What is it that you wish me to do? And why should I
do it?"

I said: "Sonia, I'm going to be very frank with you. You have an
application in at the Home Office for British nationality, and on your
record you certainly deserve it. Incidentally, that application was
recommended by the Old Man. It would be rather a pity if he should be
forced to withdraw his recommendation. If he did I don't think there
would be any naturalisation for you."

She said: "I see... blackmail...! Do you know, Kells, what I think
you are--a complete and utter swine?"

"Maybe... Why don't you call me Michael? But that is the position. I
think that the Old Man rather feels that you ought to do one more job.
After that, I give you my word that that application is going through
right away. Before you know where you are you'll find yourself a British
citizen."

She asked: "What is this business? Do I have to go away. Do I have to be
at the mercy of some Bolshevik or some German Nazi?"

I said: "That's the charm of the whole thing, Sonia. I don't think
you'll have to go anywhere. I don't think you'll have to go outside
London, and probably you'll be able to run your club at the same time."

Her eyes widened. "This is amazing. This is what you call too good to be
true." Her voice was soft, a little hoarse, very attractive. "This
sounds almost likeable. Before, I have been asked to do much more
difficult things."

I said: "This may be difficult, even if you don't have to travel, and
there's just as much danger in England as there is in some other parts
of the world. You know what our friends on the other side are like."

She said softly: "I know." She went on: "Very much I wish to have my
British nationality; also I would always like to oblige the Old One.
Incidentally, I would like also to be friends with you. But there is the
question of love to be considered. I am in love."

I said: "That's too bad."

She went on: "You see I am always in love. One must always be in love to
get any sort of inspiration from life. Whatever one does is always done
better if one is in love--even working for the Old One. Love is inclined
to improve one's technique."

I asked: "Exactly what is this leading to?"

She said: "I have a person in this club. His name is Rico Mellish--or
that is what he calls himself. He is very excitable. He is not likely to
approve of any scheme that you wish to put up to me."

"No one's asking him to approve of anything. My advice to him is to
watch his step if he's going to butt into my business. Where is this
Mellish?"

She said: "He is here. Perhaps you would like to meet him before you
go." She stopped talking as the door was burst open.

A man came into the room. I guessed this was Mellish. He was tall and
thin. He had a thin face--a face with a grudge against the world. He was
inclined to be sallow. Under his nose was a pencil-line moustache, a not
particularly nice mouth and large white teeth. He had lots of black hair
that was plastered down in the fashion that gigolos adopt. His
double-breasted tuxedo fitted him too well and his shirt and collar were
of the finest silk. His patent leather evening shoes were too pointed.
There were rings on his fingers. He looked to me rather a dangerous
type.

He slammed the door. Without looking at me he came across to the table
and addressed Sonia. He talked to her in Russian, spitting the words out
of his mouth.

She said languidly: "My Rico, you might just as well talk English. I am
sure that Mr. Kells speaks Russian."

He gesticulated violently with his hands. He said in an Italian accent:
"Very well, I will speak English. They tell me that this man come to the
house to-night and demanded to see you. This is behind my back. So you
don't trust me. You have no faith in me." He pointed a long,
well-manicured forefinger at me. "So this man is your lover?"

Sonia rose slowly to her feet. She said: "My darling, you are becoming
excited. Come here, my sweet one." She picked up the brandy bottle and
hit him across the face.

Mellish subsided on the carpet unconscious.

She put the bottle back on the tray. She said, apologetically: "You
understand, Michael, that Rico is a little passionate and violent. On
these occasions the only thing to do is to arrange for him to go to
sleep. When he comes to I will reason with him. In the meantime let us
walk in the garden. It is pleasant there."

I got up. I felt that I was going to like the Countess Karakoff.

We went into the garden.




Chapter Five. Volanski


At eleven o'clock I looked up the telephone number Madame Volanski had
given me and called her. A few moments later Volanski came on the line.

I reminded her that she had asked me to get into touch with her; would
she like to lunch with me?

She said no; she'd like me to lunch with her. She suggested that we met
at a restaurant in Soho. She said the food was very good there; that she
was glad I'd called her. She sounded rather down, I thought... I
imagined she was either in the throes of a deep depression or suffering
from a first-class hangover.

I found her a rather difficult person to think about, more especially
because you never know about women. And, believe me, you don't! They are
the greatest dissemblers in creation and the soft, shy little woman who
can't say boo to a goose can be as dangerous and pack as mean a wallop
as the most veritable Amazon. Right from the start I'd found Madame
Volanski rather more than an enigma. Outwardly, she was a fat,
peculiarly shapeless, miserable Russian type. She was in fact an old
bag, but then you never knew even when they were old bags, when they
were Russians. The question that was uppermost in my mind was whether
Volanski knew that her pretended brother, Alexandrov, the ex-Hetman of
Cossacks, was Riffenbach, late of the S.S., now working for the
Russians. Of course she _might_ know that. She might have picked
Riffenbach up somewhere and joined forces with him in order to keep an
eye on him, or she might not. Riffenbach, with his big, burly frame,
immense moustaches and complete self-confidence, would not be
unattractive to a certain type of woman. And apparently Volanski had
money. It might be that. I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn't any good
asking myself questions. I had to try and find out.

I went out at one o'clock and found the restaurant. It was a small
place--not far from the Tottenham Court Road. It was long, narrow,
airless, and smelt vaguely of garlic. The tablecloths weren't very clean
and the waiters might have been anything but waiters.

I went in. She was sitting at a table in the corner at the end of the
room. She looked terrible. She was wearing a tight, black coat and skirt
which would have looked fashionable on anyone else's figure, but not on
hers. Her ample bosom was endeavouring to escape from the tightness of
the coat. Her fat, shapeless face was covered with about an eighth of an
inch of enamel, and her eyes--small and beady through crying or a
hangover, I didn't know which--looked miserably around the over-heated
room. She wore a funny hat under which some wisps of hair had escaped,
and on one lapel of her coat was a large diamond clip that must have
been worth five thousand pounds.

I said: "Good morning, Madame Volanski. How is it? You don't look very
well. Are you still worrying about your brother?"

She said, in a low, cracked voice: "Call me Olga. Of course I'm terribly
worried. Always I worry. All the time I look around for 'appiness and
what do I always get? What you call a poke in the eye."

I said: "You'd better have a hair of the dog that bit you. You were
crying last night, weren't you? What was it--vodka?"

She said: "My friend, you are right. You are a man of discernment. I
wish I knew some more about you. You are mysterious, but I theenk you
have a peculiar sort of wisdom. It was not only vodka. It was misery and
tears. Always they go together."

I signalled to one of the waiters--a rather decrepit specimen--who
shuffled over; ordered two large brandies and sodas and handed the menu
to her.

She said: "I do not want to eat. I am miserable."

"A little food won't hurt." I ordered for us both.

She said: "I don' know why I wanted to talk to you, but a woman gets to
a state when she feels she 'as to do something. She is 'arassed and
miserable. She is excited and lonely and impatient."

"I know..." I grinned at her. "Ladies won't wait," I said, rather
liking the implication of those words. "They think there's nothing worth
waiting for, so they feel they have to do something about it."

She said: "Yes. They 'ave to do something about it. But what are they to
do? What does a woman do when she is lonely and sick for love and she
does not trust anybody? What is she to do, Mister Kells?"

I gave her a cigarette; lighted it; took one myself.

I said: "You can take it from me that the best thing she can do is to
trust somebody even if she is wrong."

"I would like to trust you," she said. "But I am rather afraid of you."

"Yes? What are you afraid of me for?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "There could be a lot of reasons. You might
be a policeman. You might be a spy. You might be anything."

I said: "All right. Let's examine that. If I'm a policeman why should
you be afraid of the fact, and why should you expect me to be a spy?"

She shrugged her shoulders again. "I am not thinking for myself. I am
thinking for Alexandrov." Tears welled into her eyes. It struck me that
her affection for the supposed Alexandrov was almost too strong for a
sister.

I asked: "I suppose he _is_ your brother?"

She shook her head. "No... 'e is not my brother. If 'e was my brother
I would not cry. I don' know why I am telling you of this, but I 'ave
'ad enough of everything. I 'ave to talk to somebody. 'E is not my
brother. 'E is my lover. I adored 'eem. Not only is 'e my lover; 'e is
also a sadist. You see, this son of a beech knew my temperament. You
know, Russian women are always the same, wherever they come from. They
like being 'urt and Alexandrov is an expert at doing that. 'E telephones
to girls in front of me and makes appointments. Once I threw a bronze
statue at 'eem. I missed 'eem and 'e threw it back at me and knocked two
front teeth out. I was in agony for weeks. 'E laughed at me when I came
back from the dentist's and said it was necessary to suffer in order to
be beautiful, and that the new teeth looked better than the old ones.

"Always 'e is going off to some place 'e 'as somewhere--a place about
which I knew nothing--and taking women. This pleases 'eem. 'E knows it
drives me mad. Eventually, I came to realise that all 'e wants from me
is my money."

"What is he doing here?" I asked. "According to what you told me the
other night you two have been wandering about the world, and being
kicked out of country after country. Was that true? According to you,
you exist merely to supply money to this man much younger than yourself
whom you love."

She looked at me. Tears were trembling in her eyes. Her mascara'd
eyelids were fluttering. Across the table came a suggestion of stale
breath.

I thought Volanski was a terrible woman. I thought that Riffenbach was
more than a trifle heroic to stand for her. He must have wanted the
money badly.

She said: "I theenk you are a police officer or something like that. Why
should I talk any more to you?"

I replied: "I don't know. I'll make one or two guesses. Have you got
your passport with you, Olga?"

She looked at me quickly. I saw a suggestion of fear in her eyes. She
answered: "I 'ave not my passport with me. Alexandrov 'as my passport."

I thought that was pretty good. I said: "Well, it looks as if you're in
a spot, Olga, because Alexandrov has gone and your passport with him. I
wouldn't like to be you."

She said: "My God... 'ere is some more misery...! Always I am
followed by a relentless fate." She cried some more; then took a large
gulp of brandy and soda. There was a silence. I looked at her. I thought
that even if Olga Volanski liked being miserable the news about
Riffenbach had definitely shaken her badly.

She said: "Tell me about 'eem. Where 'as 'e gone?"

I decided to take a chance. I said: "I'm going to trust you, Olga,
because you told me the truth about Alexandrov not being your brother.
Well, I'm an Aliens Officer at the Passport Office. When I received your
invitation to the cocktail party I didn't know that I was going to meet
Alexandrov there. I was very lucky, because we've been very interested
in him and his movements. Are you sure you don't know what he was doing?
What he really came to England for?"

"No..." She took out a lace handkerchief delicately perfumed; dabbed
at her eyes, being careful not to disturb the mascara. "I met Alexandrov
in Egypt. We met at a gaming 'ouse. I love gambling. I am a rich woman,
but I am always losing my money. I took a liking to 'eem, and 'e
professed to be ver' fond of me. I expect it was my money. So we joined
forces and became brother and sister. Then we went to Paris. Something
'appened and 'e said we must get out; we must go to England."

I asked: "How did you get into England?"

"I do not know. We came over on the boat, and 'e produced the necessary
papers and passports. Where 'e got them from I do not know. I was so
crazy about 'eem that I did not ask any questions. Then there was a
woman who owned a dress shop. Alexandrov seemed to know 'er. He told me
to say that was my business; that I was in the dressmaking business, if
anybody asked me. The invitations to that party were arranged for by the
dress shop. I do not know who did it. Alexandrov 'ad the apartment in
St. John's Wood. Where 'e got it from I do not know. 'E told me 'e also
'ad a 'ouse somewhere in the country."

I looked at her again. I wondered if she was telling the truth.
Actually, I believed she was.

She went on: "Now you see 'ow impossible is my situation. I 'ave
no passport. I 'ave no friends. I am living in this apartment at
St. John's Wood, about which I know nothing, and now you tell me
that 'e 'as gone... that damned 'andsome beast...!"

I said: "Well, if it's any consolation to you, Olga, you won't be the
only woman who is upset. There was somebody else."

"Yes...?" she queried. "Tell me... who else? Is she beautiful? I
would like to keel 'er. I would like to get my fingers round 'er throat
and tear 'er eyes out."

I said: "Very understandable. I'm afraid she is rather good-looking, and
I think that Alexandrov was a little afraid of her. You see, he'd
seduced her and then I think tried to give her the air. I've an idea
that she threatened him, and he decided that the easiest thing to do
would be to get out."

She said in a low voice: "Who is this woman?"

"I don't know. That's what I want to find out. All I know about her is
that her name is Sabina. Does that mean anything to you?"

She shook her head. "It means nothing." She shrugged her shoulders
again. "Probably there were other women."

I said: "I expect there were, but I think this one was rather
important."

She said: "I want some brandy. And tell them to take this food away. It
makes me ill."

I called the waiter; ordered more brandy and soda. I told him to take my
plate away, but I didn't tell him that it also made me feel ill. She
relapsed into silence; sank back in her chair, looking like a bundle.

She said: "I would like to know about you. You told me that you are of
the Aliens Office. You come to me and you tell me these things. Why?"

The waiter brought the brandies and sodas. I picked up my glass and
drank; gave myself time for a little thinking.

I said: "My business is to check up on aliens who get into this country
who don't register with the police; who have illegal passports, or no
passports at all."

"And you could make things very unpleasant for me?" she asked. "I
suppose you could send me to prison. You could do anything you like?"

"Practically... But I don't want to do that. I want to do something
else."

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes...? What is it you want to do?"

I did some quick thinking. I've already said you never know where you
are with women. I've already said I'd an idea she was telling the truth,
but I didn't _know_ that. I decided to take a chance, because if you're
handling a situation which you know very little about, as I knew very
little about the situation confronting me, the best thing you can do is
to risk it.

I said: "I'll tell you what the situation is exactly, Olga. Let's talk
about your supposed brother, who was your lover--the ex-Hetman of
Cossacks, Alexandrov. Would you be surprised if I were to tell you that
his name was Riffenbach; that he was an ex-Colonel of the S.S.; that at
one time he was in charge of a concentration camp in Poland?"

She said: "My God! But 'e speaks Russian perfectly. 'E 'as the
background."

"I know all that," I replied. "He probably spoke Russian and has been
there for some time--since before the ending of the war when he was
captured by the Russians. This man was working for the Soviets."

She hissed through her teeth: "So...! Those Bolshevists... If I
'ad known this... if I were to tell you what these people did to my
family. 'Ow I 'ate them..." She was practically foaming at the mouth
with rage.

I said: "That's not so good, is it? Now let me tell you what I think
about this girl Sabina."

She leaned forward. Her eyes brightened. She was interested. I think she
was definitely telling the truth when she said she'd like to get her
hands on Sabina.

I went on: "I'm telling you about this Sabina whom I know you don't like
very much, because you might like to help me. This is what I believe.
When Riffenbach came here with you Sabina was already here. He'd known
her before--probably in Russia. I believe that she's working for the
Russian Government; that she was over here to keep an eye on Riffenbach;
to see that he carried out whatever assignment it was he'd been given.
You know that's their system, especially with a man like Riffenbach who
wasn't Russian and who once he was out of that country might try some
funny business. You know they always have someone else to keep an eye on
people like that. It's my considered opinion that the person was Sabina.
Maybe she had pretended to fall for Riffenbach. But there's no doubt
about it that your late lover has taken his chance and got out."

She asked: "Do you think 'e 'as got out of this country?"

I nodded. "He's certainly not here."

She said: "Of course, you know, 'e is clever. Underneath all those
moustaches and that air 'e puts on to impress women there is a good
brain. 'E as taken 'is chance and got out. 'E 'as left me 'ere like a
rat."

I asked: "Where did you get your money from, Olga?"

"I got it from America. I am an American citizen. I 'ad an American
passport, but I 'ave not got it now. Of course 'e 'as stolen it.
Sometime or other it is going to be useful to 'eem."

I said: "I see... Well, it's all very simple, isn't it. What are you
going to do, Olga?"

"It is what you want me to do, is it not?" she asked. "What chance 'ave
I 'ere--a lonely woman. What is it you want?"

I said: "Isn't it conceivable that as you came over here with Riffenbach
you were also working for the Soviets. Anyway, that's going to be your
story, because if you can get this woman Sabina to believe that is the
truth she is going to talk to you, isn't she? She's not going to talk to
you if she knows you're a White Russian with an American passport; that
you loathe the Bolshevists. Another thing is this, it is on the cards
that Riffenbach never mentioned your name to her. Probably he was
supposed to come over here by himself. It is more probable that he
picked you up merely because you were a rich woman and he needed money
to make his getaway. Has he any money of yours?"

She said: "'E 'as plenty. Not only 'as 'e money; 'e 'as jewellery which
I gave 'eem--evening sets and cuff links, a platinum watch and a lovely
cigarette case. 'E 'as 'ad thousands of dollars from me."

I nodded. "You can take it that that's the truth, Olga. He's got your
money. He's made his getaway and Sabina is in a very nasty frame of
mind. If my guess is right and she's working for the Bolshevists, she's
going to find herself in a spot when she reports that the man she was
supposed to keep an eye on and look after has got away."

She said: "Tell me what to do."

I lighted a cigarette; leaned over the table. I said: "Listen, Sabina is
going to try and find out about things, isn't she? She must have known
where Riffenbach was living. She's going to make inquiries. It's ten to
one she has other associates here. Eventually, in order to try and find
out where he's gone, she's coming to see you, isn't she?"

She nodded her head.

I went on: "Your story to her is that Riffenbach suddenly disappeared.
You don't know where he has gone to. But you're very angry about the
whole thing."

She said: "Yes... yes... I follow you..."

I continued: "She's going to try and pump you. She's going to try and
find out everything you know about Riffenbach, but in doing so she'll
probably have to give something away herself. Listen carefully to
everything she tells you. I'll make an appointment to see you again. You
can give me your news. Directly she gets in touch with you--because I am
certain she will get in touch with you--make an appointment to see her,
and ring me up. You understand?"

She said slowly: "Yes, I understand. If I succeed, what will you do for
me?"

"I'll do two things, Olga. I'll get you a passport and I'll arrange that
you can stay here or, if you like, go back to France. And I'll do
something that you'll like even more. I'll have Sabina arrested."

She smiled at me. "That ees the greatest inducement. I'd like that. Very
well, M'sieu Kells. I will wait till she comes to me. I will be clever
with 'er like a snake. You understand? Then I will ring you. Nothing
would please me more than that this woman Sabina should be arrested. I
would like 'er to rot in prison."

I said: "Finish your drink, and I'll drop you at home. Where do you want
to go?"

"I want to go to the apartment at St. John's Wood. When I get there I am
going to dreenk a whole bottle of vodka. I am going to forget my
worries."

I said: "You wouldn't be cock-eyed when Sabina appears--if she does
appear?"

"No... I will be cool and calm and calculating. I will be like a
snake...."

I paid the bill and drove Olga to her apartment in St. John's Wood. Then
I went home.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was drinking tea when Glyder rang the door-bell of my apartment. I let
him in; pointed to the sideboard. He helped himself.

He said: "I've been down to see the Old Man. He seems very interested in
you and what you're doing.

"That's very nice of him," I said. "He didn't send you up here to tell
me that, did he?"

He shook his head. "I was to tell you that he remembered you talked to
him about a woman called Theodora St. Philippe. You'd met her in Paris.
He said that he had a roving agent working in the Russian Sector in
Germany. Her name was Hermione Martin and he said he has the idea that
she'd managed to get in rather closely with the other side."

I said: "Oh, yes--a double agent. A nasty job for a woman."

"He says she's a very beautiful woman," said Glyder, "who was used to
taking a lot of chances, because she was very fond of her husband. The
Jerries got him and he died in a concentration camp. I suppose she was
trying to get her own back."

I nodded.

"The Old Man says he's heard nothing of her," Glyder went on, "and he's
had a tip from Germany. She's disappeared or is dead or something like
that. He thought maybe you'd like to tie this thing up with Theodora St.
Philippe."

I said: "All right. I've got that." My mind went back to Theodora St.
Philippe lying on the bed in her apartment with her head smashed in. I
thought it was all the tea in China to a bad egg that this was Hermione
Martin--the Old Man's double agent who had disappeared. I thought that
would explain a lot.

I asked: "Was that all he had to tell me? And what was all the hurry
about?"

Glyder said: "I think that the hurry is tied up somehow with the arrival
yesterday at Dover of a man called Everard Mailey Jane. The Old Man said
that after his conversation with you he'd had the ports watched. This
Jane came over yesterday from Calais on the _Invicta_. He stayed last
night at the White Cliffs Hotel. This morning he came up to London. He's
at the Savoy."

I liked that. I liked that a lot. I said: "Thanks. Anything else?"

Glyder said: "Yes. You had a drink, according to what you told the Old
Man, at Charles' Bar in Paris. That was soon after Jane called at your
apartment there. He said you'd told him there was another man present--a
man called Marcini. He said also that according to your description of
this man it might be a certain Czech called Salosis, and if it was,
Salosis was somebody you might keep an eye on if you come across him
again."

"O.K. It looks as if the Old Man's been working overtime."

Glyder said: "He's certainly showing interest. Can I have another
drink?"

I nodded. He went to the sideboard and refilled his glass.

I said: "Now you're here, perhaps you'd like to do something for me. The
situation is briefly this: Sonia Karakoff--the woman we were talking
about yesterday--is going to turn herself into a person called Sabina.
She's going to front for her. We don't know who Sabina is or where she
is. We're taking a chance, see?"

He said: "I see..."

I went on: "Sonia Karakoff is going to call at the flat of a Madame Olga
Volanski, who's over here and says she's a White Russian. She might be.
She might not be. I'm going to arrange with Karakoff and she's going
round to Volanski's flat to-morrow night. The flat is in St. John's
Wood. I'll give you the address. I want a tail put on Karakoff--not
because I distrust her, because we know all about her and she's all
right, but I wouldn't like anything to happen to her, see?"

"You mean she ought to come away again. How long will the interview
last?" asked Glyder.

"I don't know," I said. "But I suggest when she does come out you might
call me on the telephone."

Glyder said: "All right. Anything else?"

I shook my head. "There's nothing else. But the next time you see the
Old Man, if you see him before I do, you might tell him I think I've got
the explanation about Madame St. Philippe. That's the lot."

Glyder said: "No. There's just one other little thing. The Old Man asked
me to give you this. He said nothing more. Just to give you this."

He handed me a piece of paper. Written on it, in the Old Man's
straggling handwriting was:

    _Miss Valerie Rockhurst,_
        _Valley House,_
            _Near Balcombe,_
                _Sussex._

I thought the Old Man wasn't so bad. From time to time he threw
something into the kitty--like this address. Usually, when you asked him
a direct question or for a definite instruction he would evade the
subject or change it. He could be maddening. But, and I'd always had to
admit it, there was method in his madness.

I thought it was time I went to see Miss Rockhurst. After which she'd
either do something or she wouldn't. Actually, I didn't quite see what
she could do.

I said: "Have you got a stooge working for you, Glyder? Someone
intelligent."

He thought for a moment. "There's Greeley," he said. "Horace Greeley. Do
you remember him?"

I told him I did. I went on: "There's a dress shop in Mayfair...
Bruton Street. It's called '_Yvette Cambeau_.' Tell Greeley to be around
there from eight o'clock onwards to-night. I want to know who goes in
and out, and anything else that he can pick up. Let him stay on there
until midnight and then telephone me and I'll give him some further
instructions."

He finished his drink. He said: "All right. Well, so long. Good hunting
and happy landings, if you want a nice mixed metaphor."

He went away.

I drank another cup of tea and smoked a cigarette. Then I put on my hat;
went out; picked up a cab and drove to the Savoy.

Janey, I discovered, had a suite on the first floor. They telephoned
through to him. Going up in the lift I wondered what our interview would
bring forth. But I'd made up my mind that unless he had something very
good to say I was going to make things hot for him.

He looked the same as usual--cool, calm, collected and very
well-dressed. He showed little surprise at seeing me.

He said: "It's funny that you should turn up. But the world's a small
place, isn't it?"

I said: "It's either too large or too small. Never the right size! I
want to talk to you."

"All right. Talk..." He grinned at me. "Is there anything to stop
you?"

"No..." I went on: "I don't know you very well, Janey. I've just come
across you half a dozen times in Frankfurt and in Paris. You remember
the afternoon that Olly was killed?"

"Yes, I remember. You told me about him."

I said: "You didn't kill him by any chance, did you?"

He looked at me for a long time. "What the hell do you mean?"

I said: "Work it out. That afternoon I had an appointment with Olly in
one of the side streets off the Faubourg St. Honor. All I found was his
beret. So I had a look round, and parked quite close to this spot was
the car you were driving--a 6/15 Citroen. I looked at the number plate.
It was rather peculiar. Somebody had painted the number of the car you
were driving in Frankfurt over Rockie's number. They'd done it very
badly, too. It struck me as being rather odd that you should be driving
Rockie's car, because you may or may not know that he's disappeared, and
I think the Russians have got him. Because--and I'm not even going to
ask you to keep quiet about this; it will go very badly with you if you
talk--Rockie wasn't what he seemed to be. He wasn't just the stupid, too
rich play-boy. He was a very astute agent of the secret service of this
country. So you can imagine I was rather surprised when I realised that
you were driving his car, and it's my bet that that was the car that
killed Olly. It was too much of a coincidence that that car should have
been almost at the spot of his death."

He began to speak, but I stopped him.

"Just a minute. It was also a coincidence," I went on, "that sometime
before Olly was killed in the afternoon, that car was driven into my
garage in Paris. It was refuelled and the tyres were checked. There was
a note about this in Olly's day-book. I went back to the garage and
checked this myself after I left you. The presumption is that you know a
great deal more than you've told me. Incidentally, why did you come
round that afternoon to see me? And why when I asked you in Charles' Bar
how you got my address did you say that you'd got it from the hall
porter at The Travellers' Club in Paris? I checked on that, too. You
didn't. Now do some talking."

He spread his hands. He said: "I suppose you've some sort of right to
ask these questions?"

I nodded. "You'll find that out. You'll find that out if I'm not
satisfied with what you have to say. We still have the War Emergency Act
operating here and that's as good as anything else to pinch you under,
Janey."

He grinned: "I'm not worrying. But all this is very amusing, and a
little bit frightening, although I think it's much more innocent than
you think. The day before I left Frankfurt for Paris I smashed my car
up. I was in the bar there at the Grand Hotel. I was grousing about the
car, and a rather extraordinary thing happened--except it wasn't perhaps
so extraordinary. There was a woman in the bar--a tall, very attractive
woman, dressed in black. She said if I wanted a car she'd lend me one.
She wanted the car driven to Paris and left there. She asked me if I'd
like to have it and garage it in Paris.

"That was how I got the Citroen. I didn't know it was Rockie's car. Why
should I? She said it might be a good idea to put _my_ car number on the
plate because the car wasn't licensed under the number that was on it,
and my own car was a Citroen so nobody would think anything of it." He
shrugged his shoulders. "I'd have done anything to get a car, so it
seemed reasonable.

"The car was parked in a garage nearby. I had my own number put on it in
case of accidents; drove down to Paris. It's quite right that when I
arrived I went into a garage and filled up in the afternoon. I didn't
know it was your garage. How should I? If Olly was there I wouldn't
recognise him. All I knew was that you'd told me that you were running a
garage and you'd told me you had an amusing old Frenchman as your
foreman or manager."

He went on: "There was another thing. This woman who loaned me the car
apparently knew about you. She asked me if I knew you and I told her I
did. She said if I saw you in Paris to remember her to you. She was
rather odd. She asked me to give you a message, and she asked me to give
it to you just like this: She said: 'This is rather confidential but
tell Kells that he ought to have written to me before. It's such a long
time since I've heard from him; that he ought to know that I'm very
impatient; that ladies won't wait.'"

I got it. I said: "All right. You wouldn't know this lady's name, would
you?"

"Of course. She gave it to me, so that you should know who the message
came from. Her name was Hermione Martin."

I asked: "After you'd been to the garage, where did you leave the car?"

He said: "I left it in the Rue Royale. When I saw you in your apartment
I didn't give you the message. I intended to tell you all about it
whilst we were having a drink. We went to Charles' Bar. We hadn't been
there a minute before Marcini came in. You remember the man? Naturally I
said nothing. She'd told me that this business was confidential, and
knowing you and your lady friends I thought I'd tell you about it when
we were alone."

I asked: "What then?"

"When I went back to the Rue Royale to pick up the car it was gone. I
didn't know what the hell to do. If I reported it to the police there
was going to be trouble about the registration number. I decided to see
you about it before I did anything."

"And then?" I asked.

He said: "I went back to your place the next day. You'd gone. You'd left
no address, and I couldn't get in touch with you. Well, I'm telling you
now."

He lighted a cigarette. "So Rockie was in the cloak and dagger brigade?"

"Yes," I said. "The operative word is '_was_.'"

He looked at me. "And I suppose you are, too."

I said: "Right first time."

He rang the bell. He said: "It's a pity we didn't have this discussion
before. Maybe it was my fault, but I didn't think it was all that
important, you know."

"Why should you? If you're what you seem to be."

He said: "That's easily proved if you liked to have my passport and
identification checked."

"Don't worry, Janey. We'll find out if what you say is true all right.
If it isn't we'll have you."

He said smilingly: "I'll take the chance."

The manservant answered the bell. Janey said: "Bring some whisky and
soda and ice...."

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was back at my flat at six o'clock. Things were beginning to take
shape in my head. There was no doubt in my mind that the woman who'd
lent Rockie's car to Janey in Frankfurt was the Old Man's missing agent
Hermione Martin. There couldn't be any question about it. I thought it
was tough luck on Hermione, and it was easy to see what she was trying
to do. By some means or other she'd come across Rockie. For all I know
she might have been working with him, and she knew how, when, and why
he'd disappeared. Not only that; she'd got his car. Maybe Rockie had
lent it to her. After which somebody got at him. He was killed or
kidnapped--both processes being pretty normal in that part of the world.
Also it was obvious that Hermione, whom I did not know, had heard about
me. The Old Man had probably told her that I was at a fixed point in
Paris; that if she got into any difficulties she was to get in touch
with me. And this was a good way for her to do it. First of all she
wanted to get rid of Rockie's car. This car was hot. The German police
would be looking for it and the boyos who'd kidnapped or killed Rockie
would be after it too. So she wished it on to Janey, but she got him to
change the number first, cleverly. She didn't want the car to be
recognised.

Then in case she failed to communicate with me in Paris, which she
intended to do immediately, she told Janey to come and see me. She gave
him that fake message with the Old Man's code word. She thought that
that and the sight of a car which I would probably recognise as being
Rockie's--because I'd driven it a dozen times--would at least put me on
the alert. Having got rid of Janey she took the first plane she could
and flew to Paris. Probably she was being chased at the time. _Someone_
was after her.

When she arrived she waited around near Maxims so that she could
indicate to me that she wanted to talk to me. She was afraid of doing
this except in circumstances that I wanted. Then she made the
appointment to meet me. And I bet she had plenty to say, too.

I thought it was tough luck on Hermione. There was no doubt about what
had happened. Janey, who didn't know how wise he was being, cleverly did
not give me the message in front of Marcini who was, as the Old Man had
suggested, working on the other side, and who had listened in on my
conversation with Janey at Charles' Bar, because he probably thought
that Janey was in the game, too.

Martini tipped off the situation to some woman outside, who picked me up
that night when I left my apartment, followed me round to the Place des
Roses, and the rest is obvious. My guess was that I'd been followed from
my apartment by the woman who'd killed Hermione Martin, alias Theodora
St. Philippe. It was obvious too what she'd done. Hermione must have
known plenty. She had to be stopped talking to me at all costs. I
realised a little bitterly that if I'd gone straight into the house at
the Place des Roses instead of wandering about and smoking a cigarette
before I went in, she might still be alive. The woman who'd killed her
had slipped into the house while I was walking about the cul-de-sac.
She'd gone straight up to the apartment, knocked and entered on some
excuse. She'd gone into the bedroom with Hermione and killed her. She'd
slipped out of the side door. And that was that.

So there were two other people to look out for. One was Marcini, who was
probably Salosis, the Czech the Old Man had talked about, and the other
was the woman who had spoken to me from Hermione's bedroom--just after
she'd killed her.

These two were still in action. They were probably in England. They'd
stopped Hermione from talking and their next job would probably be to
get me.

I thought it was time somebody did something about those two.

And I hoped it would be me.




Chapter Six. Marcini


It was a hot, sunshiny day. I left the flat at half-past twelve; got out
the Jaguar; drove to the Ritz. I parked the car, went into the hotel,
lighted a cigarette and amused myself by walking up and down the long
passage that led to the restaurant.

Five minutes afterwards, Sonia arrived. She looked superb. She was
dressed in a tailored, coral-coloured linen coat and skirt; a plain
black picture hat; black suede shoes and handbag.

She said: "I was thrilled when I got your telephone message this
morning. So I am going to start doing something? I am excited."

"Maybe the excitement will wear off, _Sabina_. The thing is not to get
too excited."

She said: "And I must not forget that I am Sabina."

"Don't... it might be a little tough for you..."

We went into the restaurant. When we were seated I said: "Tell me
exactly who you are and what you have to do, because you are going to
St. John's Wood to-night to see Madame Olga Volanski."

She said: "Tell me something, Michael. This woman Volanski--is she
clever or is she a fool? Is she for us or is she against us? I would
like to know something about her."

I said: "All I can tell you about her is that she is an old bag. She
looks like hell. She is fat and unwieldy. Her face sags. She is over
made-up. At one moment I think she is a very stupid woman; at another I
think she may be a very good actress. It's your business to find out
what she's like. Now tell me your story."

She rattled it off: "My name is Sabina. If there is any question about
my second name I say that I have been using all sorts of names whilst I
have been in England. I say that I take it that Madame Volanski may be
considered as a friend and that I may talk quite openly to her because I
know that she has been living with the man with whom I have been
working--Colonel Riffenbach, late of the S.S. but known in this country
as a White Russian--an ex-Hetman of Cossacks called Alexandrov.
Therefore, because I know he was working for the Soviets, I know that
Madame Volanski must also be sympathetic to their cause.

"I am terribly worried because Colonel Riffenbach has disappeared, but I
am not very surprised at this because for some time it has been
considered that he was not faithful to the U.S.S.R. He was captured by
the Russians at the end of the war and he was given the choice of
working for them or being sent to the Salt Mines. He elected to work for
the Russians and whilst he had been entirely loyal for some years, he
was--because that was the rule--never entirely trusted by his Chiefs.
Therefore when he came to England on the secret business on which he was
engaged, I--Sabina--was sent over here to make contact with him when he
arrived, generally to give him his instructions and to see that they
were carried out."

I said: "Very good. Go on..."

"It is obvious," Sonia continued, "that he has taken the opportunity of
being in this foreign country and of the money with which he has been
supplied by me from time to time, to make his escape. Therefore,
believing that Madame Volanski is sympathetic to our sacred Russian
cause to bring about world-wide revolution, I have come to her to ask
her to give me every bit of information available about him, and to find
out if she can give me some clue as to his whereabouts. That is all I
have to say."

"Very good, Sonia. That is excellent. All you can do is to try that and
see how the old girl reacts. She may take your information in one of two
ways. Either she is sympathetic with the Russians; she knew all about
the so-called Alexandrov, in which case she is going to tell you the
truth about everything and you may find out something more about this
mysterious Sabina whom you are impersonating, and any other contacts
which Riffenbach may have had in London or England. If, on the other
hand, the old girl Volanski is, as she pretends to be, a White Russian,
she is going to try to cause a hell of a lot of trouble for you with me.
You'll have to look out for that. But in any case we shall know exactly
where we are. Now, you arrive there to-night at eight o'clock."

I gave her a slip of paper with the address typewritten on it. "Arrive
by taxicab, but stop it about fifty yards from the apartment house so
that an operative of mine who will be watching can identify you and note
the time that you go in and the entrance you use. That's all, and good
luck to you."

She smiled at me. "I like very much to work with you, Michael... very
much indeed." She looked tenderly across the table.

I asked: "Why, Sonia?"

She looked at me for a long time. Then she said: "You know, Michael, I
am strangely attracted to you. Always there must be some man in my life.
I am sick of Rico. He is effeminate, and he also always lets me have my
own way. He flies into rages and I hit him. It seems that I am always
hitting him with bottles and throwing vases and things like that at him.
He seems to like it and this does not appeal to me. I would prefer him
to strike me or put me across his knee and give me a good beating. All
Russian women like to be beaten by the men they love. Do you
understand?"

I nodded. "I suppose so," I said. "What do you mean is that you believe
that any man who really loved you wouldn't stand any nonsense from you?"

"Yes... yes." She gazed at me longingly. "That is why I like you,
Michael. You have never tried to make love to me--which annoys me--and I
think you are my type. I shall like very much working with you and then,
when it is finished, I shall make you love me. Is that understood?"

I thought I wouldn't start anything at the moment with Sonia. Not until
the job was finished.

I said: "Yes... I suppose so. But we'll do the job first."

She smiled, radiantly. "But lovely," she said. "So lovely. Now, please
give me some champagne."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was about six-thirty when I drove the Jaguar through the entrance
gates of Valley House. The Georgian house, shaded by a fringe of trees
and surrounded by parkland, stood some quarter of a mile from the
entrance gates, and I reflected rather sadly that it was only possible
for wealthy Americans and the Coal Board to own such houses in England
these days.

I braked the car to a standstill in the gravel courtyard before the main
doors; rang the bell. After a minute or two the double doors were opened
by a staid and aged butler. I gave him my card.

I said: "I'd like to see Miss Valerie Rockhurst for a few minutes if
that's possible."

He asked: "Have you an appointment, sir?"

I shook my head.

He said: "Miss Rockhurst has a cocktail party at the present moment. I
don't think she will like to be disturbed."

I said: "Give me my card."

He handed it back to me. I took the card; wrote underneath my name: "_I
would like to see you about your brother_." I gave it to him. I said:
"Take that in to Miss Rockhurst."

"Very well, sir. Will you wait in the hall."

I waited in the hall. It was a large, square hallway. The furniture was
distinguished and one or two big oil paintings gazed mournfully at me
from the walls. It was a lovely evening and the sun came through the
large, stained-glass windows at the end of a wide passage running into
the hallway. A few minutes passed; then a door at the end of the passage
opened and a girl came towards me into the hallway.

I've seen some pretty, beautiful and lovely women in my life, but this
one was the best of them all. She was about five feet seven inches in
height. Her face was oval, with a complexion like milk. Her mouth and
teeth were almost perfect and as she approached me I could see that her
eyes were blue and sparkling. Perhaps the most striking thing about her
was her hair. She was an ash-blonde--a real one--and her hair, caught
back on one side under a tortoiseshell slide, formed a perfect frame for
her face.

She said: "Mr. Kells, I am Valerie Rockhurst. This card says that you
would like to see me about my brother. I am busy, but I could spare you
a few minutes."

This struck me as being a little casual. I thought that it might have
been possible for her to spare even more than a few minutes.

I nodded.

She said: "Will you come this way?" She took me into a room off the
hallway--a long, book-lined room with french windows leading on to the
lawn. The room was bathed in sunshine and there were bowls of flowers
everywhere.

She motioned me to a chair; sat down herself. She said: "Well, Mr.
Kells?"

I was a little bit surprised. I thought that I should get more of a
reaction from the Valerie Rockhurst who was so passionately fond of her
brother; so devoted to him.

I said: "Miss Rockhurst, I want to ask you a few questions, but first of
all I should like to talk to you about your brother. Had you any idea
what he was doing in Germany; what his real job was?"

She raised her eyebrows. It struck me that she was the most cool and
collected person I had ever met.

"His real job, Mr. Kells? I never knew that he did any work. I always
thought Rockie spent most of his life amusing himself..." she
smiled--"sometimes in rather dangerous ways I am afraid--driving racing
cars, flying aeroplanes, doing all sorts of things. I never regarded
those things as work."

I said: "I didn't mean that, but in any event you've answered my
question. So I think I'd better be quite candid with you, Miss
Rockhurst. Your brother was, under that camouflage of a sporting
play-boy, one of the most astute, courageous and determined agents in
the employ of a branch of British Secret Service."

She said: "Really, Mr. Kells. You amaze me. I should never have
suspected anything like that. And I wonder why Rockie should have
elected to work for the British. One would have thought that if he'd
wanted to do work of that sort he would have done it in one of our own
American services."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I can't tell you anything about that. He made
his own choice. And that was what he was doing when he disappeared not
so long ago. I believe you were very concerned about that."

She said: "Naturally. I was very, very fond of my brother. I worried
greatly about this business. Do you know what happened to him?"

I shook my head. "No. Tell me... what steps did you take about your
brother's disappearance when it became known to you? I believe you were
in Frankfurt at the time."

She nodded. "I went to the police. I went to the British authorities.
Eventually, I saw an officer--I think he was a member of an Army
Intelligence Service. There was nothing else I could do. I stayed on for
a week or two expecting to get some news. There was none. Then I came
back here. At first, for a little while, I thought that Rockie had gone
off on some jaunt. He used to do things like that, you know; disappear
suddenly; then turn up a few weeks afterwards. I thought perhaps this
was just another of those things."

I said: "I'm sorry to tell you I think it was a little more serious. I
think Rockie, in the course of his business as an agent, fell into the
hands of the Russians."

She said: "I see..." She paused; then: "Do I take it you are doing
the same sort of work, Mr. Kells?"

I nodded. "If you want any verification of what I say, Miss Rockhurst,
it can be in your hands in a few hours. In the meantime I'll be glad if
you'll believe me. I think that your brother isn't dead."

"Do you?" she asked. "I wonder why you think that. I've often heard that
people who disappear in the circumstances you have mentioned never come
back."

"That's true," I said. "If the Russians know they are working for Allied
Intelligence Services they usually have a very short way with them. They
are either shot or what is even worse go to the Salt Mines."

She said: "I see... And you don't believe that Rockie is dead?"

I said: "No."

She asked: "Why?"

I said: "For one thing, a British agent working in Germany, who had many
times been inside the Russian Sector somehow became possessed of
Rockie's car--the Citroen. She met a man I knew, whose car had been
damaged, in Frankfurt. She lent Rockie's Citroen to him and made a
special point of asking him to let me see the car. I was then in Paris.
She knew, of course, that I would recognise it as Rockie's car which I
had driven many times. She also sent a message which indicated that she
herself was an agent. There was only one reason why she wanted me to see
the car and that was to remind me of Rockie; to give me an indication
that something was still afoot. You realise she wouldn't have bothered
to send that car down to Paris if Rockie had been dead. Therefore, I
took it that she had some knowledge of what had happened to him; that he
was still alive."

She asked: "Did you see this woman?"

"I saw her," I said. "Unfortunately I hadn't the chance to speak to her.
I managed to make an appointment with her. When I arrived at her
apartment she was dead. She had been murdered."

She said slowly: "How awful. Why?"

"For one obvious reason," I told her. "It's my belief that she had
important information about the whereabouts of Rockie. She had something
very important to tell me, and our friends on the other side had made up
their minds that she wasn't going to talk--that's all. I wonder if there
is anything you could tell me--any remote thing that you remember about
Rockie that would help me. Obviously, he never told you about what he
was doing."

She said: "No. And I don't see that I can help you very much, Mr. Kells,
much as I would like to."

I said: "Miss Rockhurst, forgive me for saying this, but it struck me
that you seemed almost disinterested in what has happened to Rockie."

There was another pause; then she said: "You know, Mr. Kells, I suppose
in my heart I'm a fatalist. I was very fond of Rockie. I think he was a
marvellous man and a wonderful brother. But what is there I can do? I am
amazed at hearing your story to-day. But I don't think there is anything
I can say or do that would help. Except one thing..."

"Yes?" I was interested.

She said: "Supposing for the sake of argument, as you suggest, that my
brother is still alive, don't you think it might be a good thing to
leave things as they are? If the Russians have decided not to kill him;
if he's alive and kept there, isn't there a probability that he might
escape? Rockie is very tough and clever. I think I'd back him to get out
of any dangerous situation."

I smiled at her. "You don't know the Russians, Miss Rockhurst. If
they're keeping him it isn't because they are concerned about his
health. It means they're keeping him because they think he's got some
definite information. If you read your newspapers you may have learned
that they have rather peculiar means of separating agents from such
information as they possess. These means are never very pleasant. Do you
realise that?"

She nodded her lovely head. "I realise it only too well, Mr. Kells. But
don't you think that interference on the part of the secret service in
this country might cause him to be killed immediately?"

I said: "One's got to take a chance on that. You don't think it would be
a good idea to leave him there, do you?"

She said: "I've said that Rockie is courageous and intelligent. It's
quite on the cards that he might find his own way out of this."

"Is it?" I queried. "I wonder what gives you that point of view, Miss
Rockhurst. You seem to stress it?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I've no reason for saying that except that
I believe in my brother."

I said: "So there's no way you can help me... nothing at all? There
was nothing about his behaviour in Frankfurt and other parts of Germany
that you visited which might give you some sort of clue as to what was
in his mind? He never mentioned, I suppose, some place he was going to
in the future; some odd remark which you might remember that might give
us at least some clue as to what was in his mind?"

"No..." She stood up--a sign that the interview was at an end.

I got to my feet. Somehow I was entirely dissatisfied with my talk with
her. She gave me the impression of beautiful aloofness; of disinterest.
I thought it was amazing that a woman who was so fond of her brother
should not even want to help.

I said: "I wonder if I might ask a favour of you. Could I see Rockie's
room? He used to live here, didn't he, when he was in England? I should
tell you that I was one of his best friends. We've known each other for
years and we've done several quite dangerous jobs together. We liked and
trusted each other."

She said slowly: "Why not?" She walked to the fireplace; rang a bell.
After a few moments the butler came in. She said: "James, would you take
Mr. Kells to Mr. Rockhurst's room? He wants to see it."

She held out her hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Kells. Whatever you do, I hope you
will be lucky. Now, please excuse me. I must go back to my guests."

I stood there looking at the door. I thought that Miss Valerie Rockhurst
was definitely a problem--quite an enigmatic one. In my mind I would
have bet all the tea in China that she knew _something_ but for some
reason best known to herself she'd decided not to talk.

The butler said: "Will you come this way, sir?"

I followed him along the passage into the hallway and up the wide,
curving stairs. We arrived at the first floor. He threw open the door of
a room and said: "This was Mr. Rockhurst's room, sir."

I passed him; went into the room. It was the sort of room that Rockie
would have. There was a large, antique, canopied bed. All round the room
were trophies of his physical prowess. Two sets of golf clubs leaned
against the wall in a corner. There was a collection of spears, rifles,
pistols and automatics on a shelf over the mantelpiece. In the corner
was a solitary small set of bookshelves filled with books. There
couldn't have been more than thirty or forty books in the shelves. I
recollected with a grin that Rockie hadn't spent much of his time
reading, except the sporting news.

Somewhere in the house a bell rang. The butler said: "Would you excuse
me, sir? I am needed downstairs."

I said: "Of course. I can find my own way down. I'd like to stay here
for a few minutes if you don't mind."

"Of course, sir." He went away.

I began to nose about the room. I didn't know what I was looking for and
therefore I realised with a grin that even if I saw it I shouldn't
recognise it. I walked over to the bookshelves and began to look at the
titles of the books. I was attracted by one in the middle shelf. It was
called _This Is The Place_. I took it out. By the jacket it was
evidently some sort of tourist guide. I scanned through the pages. I was
about to put it back again when I saw that, at the back of the space
vacated by the book, the colour of the woodwork was not the same as that
of the panelling on the walls. Very quickly I removed half a dozen more
books. Then I saw a knob at the back of the bookcase. I pulled it. A
small door opened on a hinge. Behind was a dark recess about a foot
square. I took out my lighter; snapped on the flame; put it into the
recess. Packed neatly in the recess were two or three dozen passport
books. I took them out. Some of them were blank; some of them were
filled in with a dozen or so of the names that Rockie had used on
different occasions, because his photograph was on each one. Jumbled
against the wall was a collection of different coloured inking pads and
rubber stamps. I grinned to myself. With his usual forethought Rockie
had supplied himself with the means of faking any passport he wanted to.

I scanned through them quickly. Eleven of them were filled in and there
were twenty-two blank ones. In addition there were steamer entrance and
exit tickets. All the wherewithal to get in and out of most countries. I
put the things back; closed the recess; replaced the books. I was not at
all surprised at finding them. They were part of any agent's
stock-in-trade; yet for some reason these things had a peculiar
unsettling effect on my mind.

I walked back to the doorway. With those blank passports, stamps and
other documents, practically anybody in the house with a little
ingenuity had at close hand the means of getting out of England and
getting into most European countries fairly easily, supposing they knew
their way about. I wondered if anybody else in the house had knowledge
of this passport recess.

I went slowly down the stairway. James, the butler, was waiting in the
hallway. I crossed the hall. He opened the front door. I went out.

I drove the car back to London. I felt a definite surprise at the
attitude of Rockie's sister. If you know what I mean, it didn't match up
with her general appearance; what I'd heard about her. She was certainly
a peach. I thought she was the most alluring thing I'd ever seen in my
life. I thought, with more than a certain amount of self-interest, that
I would very much like to see Valerie Rockhurst again. I made up my mind
I was going to.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was nine o'clock when Glyder telephoned.

He said: "Look, Mike, how long do I have to wait outside this place? I'm
talking to you from a call-box opposite the house. What time is the girl
friend supposed to come out?"

I asked: "What time did she arrive, Glyder?"

He said: "About five minutes to eight. She stopped her cab down the
road. I recognised her from the description you'd given me. She went
into the front entrance at eight. I haven't seen her since."

I saw no reason why Sonia should have been at Madame Volanski's
apartment more than half an hour or three-quarters at the most.

I said to Glyder: "Go over there and go up to the second floor. You want
the apartment of Madame Volanski. Ring the bell and say you've called to
pick up Madame Sabina. See what you can find out."

He said: "O.K. I'll ring you back when I know--in a few minutes."

I lighted a cigarette; began to walk up and down my sitting-room. Maybe,
I thought, I was worrying a little too much about Sonia. I didn't expect
that she'd come to any harm at Madame Volanski's hands, and I didn't
know anybody else who'd be particularly interested in her at the moment.

Five or six minutes elapsed; then Glyder came through again. He said:
"She left there at a quarter to nine. She went out of the back way. The
old bag Volanski said that whilst the girl was there she received a
mysterious telephone call. The caller didn't give a name but said that
Madame Sabina was in great danger and should leave at once--by the back
way. She says she took her down; saw her out of the back entrance. This
leads into a garden belonging to the apartment block. There is a path to
the side gate which leads out on to the main road. Volanski says she saw
no one else in the garden. Where do I go from here?"

"Just a moment," I said. "Do you think that Volanski is telling the
truth?"

"You bet," said Glyder. "She's scared stiff. You could almost hear her
knees knocking together."

I thought for a moment; then I said: "You'd better jump a cab and get
back here immediately. Stop the cab at the garage and bring my car
round."

He said: "O.K., Mike..." and rang off.

I wondered what could have happened to Sonia. It would be unlike her to
go off anywhere or do anything on her own without reporting to me on her
interview with Olga Volanski. And who the hell was this mysterious
telephone caller who knew that Sonia was in the flat? Perhaps Sonia
knew. Maybe she'd seen something or somebody on her way in--someone who
had scared her--someone she thought might be waiting for her. It could
be that. On the other hand, I might have been wrong about Madame
Volanski and she might have had somebody posted out at the back entrance
to fix Sonia.

I waited impatiently until Glyder arrived. He asked: "What goes?"

I said: "You know as much as I do. But we must also remember that Sonia
was a newcomer in this game. She's been out of the business for a long
time. So it rather points to Volanski and any friends she may have."

He said: "So you think Volanski has tipped the wink to somebody that
Sonia was coming to see her and they've knocked her off."

I said: "It looks like that."

He asked: "Are you going to do anything about this Volanski?"

I said: "Why worry? It's Sonia I'm thinking about. Volanski has no
passport. We can pick her up any time. She's an old woman and can't move
very fast. Anyway, where can she go? Come on."

I put my Luger into my pocket and we went downstairs; got into the car.
I drove towards Fulham, threading my way through the evening traffic as
quickly as I could.

Glyder asked: "What's the idea, Mike?"

I said: "The idea is the house near Forest Hills where you dealt with
what was left of Riffenbach. Volanski doesn't know that I know of this
house. If they wanted to take Sonia somewhere and work on her they'd
take her there."

He said: "Which means that Riffenbach has other people who worked for
him?"

"Maybe," I said.

I drove quickly but it was nearly twenty-past ten before we got to
Forest Hills. I drove down the road towards the little white house;
parked the car some distance away under a clump of trees.

I said to Glyder: "We separate here. Work towards the back of the
house." I pointed to it in the moonlight. "Meet me somewhere round the
back. We'll go in through the kitchen door."

We separated. I made my way across the fields, keeping in the shadow of
hedges. After a few minutes I arrived behind the house. I could see no
sign of a light, but the curtains were drawn. Glyder joined me. We made
our way carefully through the white-painted fence towards the kitchen
door. I tried it. It was unlocked.

I took out the Luger; quietly opened the door. I whispered to Glyder to
keep behind me. We went into the passageway which had led to the room
where I'd found Riffenbach. On the other side of the passage, almost
opposite the sitting-room door, I saw a crack of light under a door. I
stepped back; kicked the door open. We went in.

Glyder said: "Well... well... well..."

Sonia, looking delightful in a black lace dinner frock, was seated in a
chair. Both her wrists were tied to one arm of the chair. On one side of
the room was a ladder leaning up against the wall and tied to the top of
the ladder was a wooden arm. Suspended from it was a large petrol tin.

Standing half-way up the ladder, fixing this strange apparatus, was
Marcini. His head turned round with a jerk as he heard Glyder's voice.

I said: "Well, if it isn't my old friend Marcini. Come down. Keep your
hands up or I'll give it to you." I said to Glyder: "Go over him. He's
probably got a pistol somewhere. When you've done that, cut Sonia
loose."

I said to her: "How are you feeling, babe? Have you had a nice evening?"

She said: "It is being a little better now, my dear Michael. Up to now
it has not been fearfully interesting, and I am very glad you have
arrived. You see what he is doing?"

I looked at the apparatus on the ladder. I said: "It looks like the
Chinese water torture to me. Was that intended for you, my dear?"

She nodded. "He was going to make me talk. I don't know what he wanted
me to talk about, but he said I was going to tell him what he wanted to
know. He said it would take about twenty minutes of that to loosen my
tongue."

Glyder went over Marcini. He said: "He has nothing on him."

I told Marcini to go and stand against the wall and to put his hands
flat against it beside him. He did this. He said in his peculiar, rather
high-pitched voice: "What do you think you are going to get away with?
Do you think you are going to make _me_ talk?"

I said: "I wouldn't mind betting that I'd make you talk if I wanted to,
but I don't think anything you had to say would interest me very much. I
think I can guess even where you got your instructions to pick up the
girl friend here to-night. I expect he was waiting in the back garden
for you, wasn't he, Sonia?"

She nodded. "Just before I got to the gate he was behind a tree. He came
out behind me. He put a chloroform pad on my nose." She sighed. "I can
still taste the stuff now. And as a perfume I don't like it. I prefer my
own."

I said to Marcini: "I expect you got your instructions from someone in
the Bruton Street shop, Marcini. Would you like to tell us about it?"

He shrugged his shoulders; gave me a peculiar half-smile. I thought he
certainly had his nerve.

He said: "I'm not going to say anything, Kells. What can you do? This is
England. I have been here before, you know. I don't think that you are
going to do anything very tough. This is a free democracy, isn't it?" He
was grinning.

Glyder went up to him. He said: "You know, you're not a very
nice-looking fellow, especially when you smile. Don't smile again." He
slapped Marcini across the face--hard.

Marcini shrugged his shoulders again. He said: "Whatever you do I'm not
going to talk."

Glyder looked at me and grinned. He asked: "Do you believe him? Do you
want him to talk, Mike? Why don't we use his own water torture on him?"

I said: "It doesn't matter. I don't think he knows anything. Like
Riffenbach, he was merely employed as a hewer of wood and a drawer of
water. Riffenbach was a killer. So is this fellow." I said to him: "You
followed me home after I went out of Charles' Bar in Paris. You had some
woman working with you. She came after me when I went to see Madame St.
Philippe. She killed Madame St. Philippe, didn't she?"

He said: "I don't know what you are talking about. You don't interest
me. I'm not going to say anything whatever you do."

Marcini annoyed me, but I recognised the type. He was a tough, communist
fanatic steeped in the insidious poison of that belief. He probably
would be tough but there is a time when every man breaks down.

I said to Glyder: "See if the tin can's working."

Glyder went up the ladder. At the bottom of the tin can a little wooden
stop was inserted. He pulled it out. He knocked the can with his hand.
The water began to drip.

I said: "All right, Marcini. We'll soften you up a bit. I think an hour
or so of that will make you a little more amenable to reason. Tie him to
the ladder, Glyder."

Glyder said: "Come on. Come over here--or do I hurt you first?"

"I'm not coming," said Marcini. "And damn the pair of you." He put his
hand to his mouth as Glyder jumped for him. Glyder was too late. Marcini
stood against the wall grinning wickedly. He said: "You're not going to
do anything to me and I'm not going to talk." His knees gave way and he
fell on the floor on his face.

Glyder said: "He was ready for everything, this boyo. He's killed
himself."

Sonia said in a tired voice. "It's most annoying. How I would have liked
to see him under that tin can. They tell me that a couple of hours of
that and one goes mad. That is what he was going to do to me."

I said: "Well, sweetheart, he hasn't done it, has he?" I put the pistol
away; lighted a cigarette. I asked Sonia: "How did he get you down
here?"

She said: "We came down by car. I was very dazed, but I had to walk a
little way, so I expect he's left it somewhere near this place."

I said to Glyder: "Go and find the car."

"O.K., Mike." He went away.

I said to Sonia: "If I remember rightly, there's some liquor in this
house in the room on the other side of the passage. Would you like a
drink?"

She sighed. "Better than anything in the world would I like a drink. I'm
so glad you got here when you did, Michael--otherwise that water
business would have disarranged my coiffure."

We went across the passage. Riffenbach's bottles and glasses were still
where I'd last seen them, except they were a little dustier. I cleaned
up a couple of glasses with my handkerchief. We drank some brandy.

Glyder came back after five minutes. "There is a pathway about fifty
yards away," he said, "leading off the road. There is a shed at the end
of it, and the car was in the shed."

"What car was it?" I asked.

"A foreign car," he said. "An Opel."

I said: "It looks as if he came in as an ordinary citizen and brought
his car with him. Go over him, Glyder, and see if there is anything on
him."

When he came back, he said: "There's nothing. There are no tailor's tabs
or marks on his underclothes." He grinned at me. "You didn't expect to
find anything, did you?"

I shook my head. "Let's get him into the car."

We went back and picked up Marcini. We took him out through the back
door; carried him to where the car stood in the open-doored shed. We put
him in the driving seat.

I said: "Listen, Glyder, if this fellow had a smash in the car and he's
found dead, no one's going to examine him--not for poison, are they? The
road from here into the Forest Hills inter-section is deserted."

He said: "I see."

I got into the passenger seat; switched on the ignition. I leaned across
the inanimate body of Marcini; took the steering wheel. The car moved
slowly down the path. When we came on to the secondary road leading
towards Forest Hills, I took a look each way. There was nothing in
sight. I listened. I could hear no sign of any vehicle. I put my foot
down on the accelerator and we moved forward. After three hundred yards
we were doing about sixty. I opened the door; paused for a moment on the
running-board; then jumped for the grass verge at the side of the road.
I came down with a nasty jerk; then I sat up and looked at the car. It
careered wildly along for about sixty yards; swerved; went into the
ditch and turned over. There was a moment's pause; then the car did what
I hoped it was going to do. It burst into flames.

I pushed my way through the hedge and began walking back towards the
little white house.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was a quarter to twelve when we got back to the apartment. I produced
a bottle of whisky and some glasses. We had a drink.

Sonia said: "This has been most interesting, Michael. What is the next
thing I have to do? Maybe there are some more people who want to try and
torture me and get information which I would not possibly give--because
I do not know anything." She smiled at me.

I said: "You've done your job, my sweet. A very good one, too. I have
found out all I wanted to know through your efforts and I am going to
suggest that my friend here drives you back to your Yellow Penguin,
where you can sleep in peace."

She looked surprised. "You mean I am finished?"

I said: "Yes, you are finished, Sonia, for the time being. I'll come
down and see you one day next week. If I can, maybe I'll have a little
memento--something you can wear in memory of to-night."

Her eyes brightened. She said: "I'd like that very much, Michael."

Glyder asked: "Will you want me again to-night?"

I said: "No. Look in and see me sometime to-morrow morning. I'll talk to
you then."

They went off.

I lighted a cigarette; sat down in the arm-chair; put my feet on the
mantelpiece. I sat there smoking, ruminating on the events of the day. I
thought that the pieces of the jig-saw puzzle were beginning to fit in.

At twelve o'clock the telephone rang. It was Horace Greeley.

He said: "Is that you, Mr. Kells? Glyder said I was to ring you at
midnight. I've been on this Bruton Street shop. About twenty minutes ago
a woman arrived here in a car. She got out of it under a street lamp and
is she a looker or is she!"

I said: "Tell me something, Greeley. Is she fairly tall, with a good
figure? Has she got the most marvellous ash-blonde hair?"

Greeley said: "Right first time, Mr. Kells. What do I do?"

I said: "Wait till she comes out and then go after her. I expect you
have a car, haven't you?"

He said: "Yes, I've got the Morris two-seater in a mews round here."

I said: "Go after her. Go after her car until she gets on to the
Balcombe road in Sussex. If she takes the road that leads through the
village you can come back. Telephone me at eleven o'clock in the
morning. Good night, Greeley."

He said: "Good night."

I got up, stretched and went to bed.




Chapter Seven. Musette


I got up at seven-thirty in the morning, drank some coffee and thought.
I thought for a long time but nothing in this rather extraordinary
business seemed to add up--not the way I liked things to add up anyway.
I had an idea at the back of my head that the Old Man was playing some
game of his own; issuing me with such information as he decided from
time to time; letting me do all the donkey work which up to the moment
had consisted mainly of running round in circles. But, if you understand
me, the mainspring was missing. I had to find the answer to one question
and that was what was activating the rather peculiar string of people
who were engaged in the "_affaire_ Rockie."

I went through them. First of all, in order of appearance of the
characters in this strange tragedy or farce, was Rockie. Rockie had
disappeared. My guess was that he had been taken to Eastern Germany or
Russia. He might be dead and he might be alive. Then there was Jane. I
believed Jane. His background and record were known. And I had no reason
to doubt that what he had told me was the truth. Jane had become mixed
up in the business by accident. First of all because he had known Rockie
for some time and, secondly, because Hermione Martin had asked him to
bring Rockie's car to Paris. On consideration I thought it lucky that he
had been accidentally involved. Marcini had been put on his tail and
Marcini's action in arranging for Hermione Martin to be killed had
started this business as far as I was concerned.

I was sorry Marcini was dead because he must have known quite a lot.
Quite obviously he had been on to the unfortunate Madame St. Philippe
alias Hermione Martin in Frankfurt. He had known that she had got Jane
to drive the car down. He had probably followed Jane down to Paris.
Because Jane had driven the car down, Marcini believed that he was
working for us. Therefore, when I appeared in Charles' Bar in Paris he
included me in those against him. I suppose it was purely by chance that
he tailed me back to my apartment and put in the woman who had followed
me when I went round to see St. Philippe--the woman who quite obviously
had killed her before she could talk to me. These were the Paris
characters.

Then in England, we had first of all Madame Olga Volanski and, perhaps
more importantly, Riffenbach. And Riffenbach gave me food for thought.
He was working for the Russians all right. That was obvious. It was also
obvious that he was not particularly trusted by them. Somebody--possibly
Sabina; certainly not Madame Volanski, who I thought was a little too
stupid to be really involved--was acting in a supervisory capacity,
keeping her eye on Riffenbach. And for what?

Obviously to see that he carried out his job. So that if, for the sake
of argument, Riffenbach was here to do a job but was not good enough to
be trusted to do it on his own, then I imagine he was here in a purely
bull-dog capacity. Remember his background. He had been a Commandant of
a Concentration Camp--a job usually given to people distinguished for
their cruelty. I was certain in my mind that Riffenbach had been over
here in some strong-arm capacity.

But the key to the whole thing was Sabina. Sabina was the person whom I
wanted to meet. I was certain that she was the head of the oufit working
against us. As it was, I felt that I was running round in circles. I
didn't know what these people were here for; what they wanted. If there
was some connection between the operations of this gang in England and
the disappearance of Rockie, nothing had emerged to show what it might
be.

At eight o'clock I rang through to M.I.5 and asked for the use of an
officer of that department for a couple of hours. I wanted somebody who
could show a warrant card if necessary. In twenty minutes he arrived. He
was a detective-sergeant who had done duty with the Special Branch and
M.I.5--a nice-looking and intelligent fellow named Williamson.

We walked round to the garage, got out the Jaguar and I drove to St.
John's Wood. I thought the sooner I had a little talk with Madame
Volanski the better--if she was there. I thought she would be.

She was. We went straight up to her apartment and rang the bell. We rang
it for a long time. Then she opened the door. She looked like the wreck
of the _Hesperus_. She was bad enough when she had had time to titivate
herself up, to dress carefully and to cake her face with that awful
enamel. But, looking at her as she stood in the open doorway with only
that surprised look on her face, I thought that nature in the raw was
really never mild.

I said: "Good morning, Olga. Can we come in and talk to you?"

"But of course, my friend. I was going to telephone you this morning. I
am miserable and so un'appy."

I asked: "Did you get drunk last night? Did you seek solace in vodka?"

She shook her head. "I was too frightened--much too frightened..."
She led the way into the drawing-room. She asked: "Do you want a
dreenk?"

I said: "Not at this time of the morning. But you have one. You'll
probably feel better after it."

"Yes... I will dreenk just one..." She went to a sideboard
cupboard; produced a bottle of vodka and a glass. She gave herself a
tot; drank it off. When she turned towards us I could see that her eyes
were brimming with tears.

I said: "Look, Olga, just forget to cry for once, will you? Exactly what
happened last night, and why were you so frightened--or weren't you
frightened?"

She said: "By God... I was frightened! This woman arrives just after
eight o'clock. She arrives--this Sabina... God, is she a beech? I
could tear her eyes out. I would like to keel her and spit on her
grave."

I said: "That's fine. What did she have to say?"

"She 'ad a lot to say--too much for me. First of all this woman is
Russian; this I guarantee. And she is pretty and she 'as, what you call
it... sex appeal... and she knows 'ow to dress 'erself... and
she is a lot younger than I am. Directly I saw 'er I thought to myself:
My God... so this dirty Alexandrov, who is really some German spy, is
making love to this woman all the time and probably giving 'er presents
which are bought with my money. This man 'as 'ad thousands from me. And
what do I get?"

I said: "Did you tell her what you thought about her, Olga?"

She shook her head. "The damn woman never gave me the chance. Directly
she gets inside the flat she starts to tell me an awful lot. She is
making one mistake though. Of course she never thought she was going to
'ave to see me personally. So she makes the mistake of thinking that I
am in this dirty affair with them. She does not realise that from the
start I 'ave been tricked and deluded by this filthy Riffenbach; that I
know nothing of their foul business."

"But you didn't tell her that," I asked.

"No, I did not tell her anything. She sits 'erself down and tells me all
this. She tells me Riffenbach is working for the Russians. She tells me
she is working with 'eem; that she is, in fact, 'is boss. She asks me
all sorts of questions. She says that this Riffenbach 'as disappeared;
that 'e cannot be found. She says that I must know something of 'is
whereabouts; that 'e must 'ave told me something about 'is going off;
where 'e was going to--such theengs like this. When I got the chance I
told 'er I knew nothing about 'eem; that 'e 'as lied to me from the
first; that I know nothing about 'is business; that I don' know where 'e
'as gone; that I don' care where 'e 'as gone; that I never want to see
'eem again in my life."

I nodded my head. I thought that Sonia had been pretty good and played
her part very well. I asked: "What then?"

She said: "She frightens me. She says that if I talk to anybody about
what is 'appening, if I mention the name of Riffenbach to anybody; if I
do anytheeng at all except keep my mouth shut, my life will not be worth
twopence. This woman threatens she will 'ave me murdered--'ere in
England--by Bolsheviks. Well..." She spread her hands. She looked at
me pitifully--"so what 'appens to me? Am I going to be murdered in
Piccadilly?"

I said: "You have some more vodka. Sit down. Take it from me, nobody's
going to murder you, Olga. You're not valuable enough. You've served
Riffenbach's purpose, and that's that."

She said: "Wait a meenute... somebody knew that this woman Sabina was
coming 'ere..."

I pricked up my ears at this. "Why do you say that?"

"Because," she said, "while she is 'ere the telephone bell rings. I go
away. I answer the telephone. Somebody says to me: 'You 'ave a young
woman in your apartment?' I say: 'Yes.' They say: 'You will ask 'er to
go out by the back door. You will tell 'er that she is in danger if she
goes out by the front entrance. You will take 'er out secretly.'"

I said: "Yes, Olga, and what did you do about this?"

She said: "I wanted to get 'er out of my apartment. She frightened
me--this woman. So I tell 'er somebody 'ad telephoned me and said she
should go. I took er downstairs. I led 'er out into the garden. I showed
'er the path that leads to the gateway. She goes. That is all I know."

"Thanks, Olga. You've been very useful." I walked over to the window and
looked out on to the quiet street below. Something was quite obvious.
Nobody except me had known that Sonia was going to visit Olga Volanski,
so someone had been keeping tabs on the front of the house--somebody who
had been clever enough to keep themselves away from the quick eyes of
Glyder. They had seen Sonia enter and had got in touch with Marcini, who
had planted his car in the side street at the gate at the end of the
pathway, and supplied himself with some chloroform to put Sonia out
with. Quite obviously, somebody was very interested in anyone who came
to visit Madame Volanski. They had made up their mind that this person
was going to talk. Marcini, who was a hundred per cent tough and a
hundred per cent _for_ what he was doing, had picked up Sonia and had
proposed to force the truth out of her. Well, where did we go from
there?

I turned away from the window. I said: "Well, Olga, you're in a spot,
aren't you? How much money have you got?"

She said: "I 'ave enough. I told you I 'ave money in America and I 'ave
no doubt that some arrangement could be made 'ere to get some of it to
me."

"That will have to wait for a bit," I told her. "Don't worry about this,
but I am going to put you on ice for a bit, firstly for your own safety
and secondly because Riffenbach having taken your passport with him, you
are an alien in this country without a passport. Don't worry. What
you're going to do is to stay quietly on here and I hope it won't
inconvenience you very much but you will have to report to this officer
every morning. You go and see him at the address he will let you have.
You just say good morning to him and totter off until the next morning.
Don't worry about anybody killing you. This gentleman will have somebody
keeping observation on this apartment. Nobody is going to get at you,
Olga."

She said: "I see... Well, I am very glad I am not going to be
murdered. How long does this 'ave to go on for?"

"I can't tell you," I said. "But I want to ask you one or two things.
This dress shop in Bruton Street. You said at first it belonged to you.
That isn't true, is it?"

"No. I told you that when I first talked to you because Riffenbach 'ad
told me to say that. What 'appened was this. When we were in Paris 'e
said it might be a very good thing for me to 'ave a business 'ere--a
dress business. 'E said it would be something for me to do--something to
amuse me. I gave 'eem some money--'alf a million francs. I don' know
what 'e did with it. 'E said this business was doing well."

I asked: "Have you ever been there, Olga?"

She said: "Yes... I went there one day. 'E took me there. It is just
an ordinary dress shop."

"Who was running it?" I asked.

She said: "There was a French girl there. She was a nice girl--pretty
and _chic_--obviously a seller of clothes. I don' know what 'er full
name was but 'er first name was Musette. There was a workroom there, and
there were some girls working. I stayed there a little while and I went
away. Afterwards I said to Riffenbach that I would like to 'ave some
money from the shop. I needed money to buy some frocks. 'E laughed and
said there would be an accounting at the end of a period, or quarter or
something. Until then I must wait."

I said: "Thanks, Olga. I'll be seeing you soon, I hope. And don't forget
to report to this gentleman--his name is Detective-Sergeant
Williamson--each morning."

She said: "You know, Meester Kells, you make use of me to an
extraordinary extent. What 'ave I to do--stay 'ere all day and look at
my fingernails."

"You won't do that, Olga--not while the vodka lasts. Behave yourself.
Maybe one of these fine days we'll be able to get you out of your
trouble." I grinned at her. "If you hadn't imagined yourself in love
with the ex-Cossack Riffenbach you'd have been much better off."

She said: "You theenk so? No woman is ever too old to fall in love. The
trouble with me is when I fall in love it is with scoundrels."

I said: "So long, Olga..." signalled to Williamson. We went out. As I
went through the doorway of her drawing-room I could see her making a
bee-line for the sideboard and some more vodka.

                 *        *        *        *        *

We got into the car and drove to Bruton Street. It was a quarter to nine
when we arrived. The shop Yvette Cambeau was quite an attractive-looking
affair, freshly painted. The blinds were still down and the front door
locked. There was a mews at the side of the shop. We went down this;
found a side door leading to the back of the shop. The mews was
deserted. It took Williamson about two minutes to get the door open. We
went in.

We found ourselves in a small courtyard. There was a little flight of
stairs leading up to the back door. The lock only needed a push. We went
into a room which was obviously used as a store-room. Cardboard boxes of
all sizes, shapes and description, bearing the name of the shop, were
stacked against the walls. A passageway from this room led through an
ante-room, curtained off for fittings, into the shop. There was an air
of untidiness about the place. One or two of the models on which gowns
were displayed were pushed against the walls. I had the idea that Yvette
Cambeau had flown. It looked to me as if the gown business had served
its purpose.

On one side of the passageway that led from the store-room was a flight
of stairs. We went up these. There was a large room at the top of the
stairs which had apparently been used as a manufactory for the gowns.
Two or three frocks in the throes of alteration lay about the place.
There was an open cash box, empty; the work tables.

I said to Williamson: "You can go back now. I shan't want you any more.
Keep an eye on Volanski. Let her know where she is to report to you, and
see that nobody gets her."

He said: "All right." He went away.

I went down into the shop; arranged the models to my own satisfaction;
pulled up the blinds. I took the front door off the latch.

I sat down and waited for the post to arrive.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was just after nine o'clock when I thought I heard steps moving in
the room above the shop. I went quickly and quietly up the stairs;
pushed open the door of the room I had examined not long before--the
workroom. Standing in the middle of the floor was a young woman.

She was of middle height; dark haired. She had a round, almost pretty
face. She looked at me in amazement.

I said: "Good morning. Can I do anything for you?"

She spread her hands. "But, M'sieu..." she said. "I don't understand
this. I work here. The girls should have started work half an hour ago.
Nobody is here. Look... models and things are pushed all over the
place...! What has happened?"

I asked: "What is your name, M'selle?"

"I am Musette. I am in charge of the workroom here. Also I am the
fitter. The staff should arrive here at half-past eight in the morning.
There are three girls who work here. Also about this time Madame should
arrive."

I said: "And Madame... who is she?"

"Madame Yvette," she said. "The proprietor of the shop. It is most
extraordinaire."

I said: "I wonder. Actually, Musette, I don't think you are going to see
your proprietress any more. I think she has got out while the going was
good."

She nodded her head slowly. "I see...! I thought there were some
strange things happening lately. Perhaps it is money. And also I think
the time is here when the rent is due. I don't think that Madame Yvette
has been doing good business lately. Maybe she has what they call 'shot
the moon.'"

I said: "Yes. I think you are right. I think she has. What was she--a
Frenchwoman?"

She said: "M'sieu, would you tell me something? Are you from the
police?"

I nodded. "As near as maybe. Anyway, I was very keen to have a few words
with Madame Yvette Cambeau, who I believe was the proprietor of the
business, and"--I continued--"if you didn't know she was leaving the
place or going off or doing whatever she has done, how is it that the
other girls--the work girls--haven't turned up?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don' know, M'sieu. Perhaps she got in
touch with them; told them not to come; told them that the place was
closing. But it is very strange she didn't tell me."

I asked: "Were you here yesterday?"

"Yes, of course. I was working here. I worked here until six o'clock."

I said: "Well, Musette, my guess is that she is not coming back. Do you
know where she lived?"

She shook her head. "She lived somewhere in the West End, in an
apartment block, I believe," she answered, "but I have never been
there." She shrugged her shoulders again. "Always I had the idea that
there was something rather extraordinary about this business--something
peculiar. It didn't seem to me like a dressmakers. I always suspected
that there was something wrong."

I said: "Well, now you know, don't you? Maybe she didn't tell you
anything about it because she hoped you'd clear things up here."

"What is there for me to clear up, M'sieu? I work here for a salary
and it looks as if I am not going to be paid this week." She sighed.
"Well... _c'est la vie_...! And there are lots of other jobs in London
for me." She picked up her handbag from the table.

I said: "Just a moment, Musette. Maybe we'll find Madame Cambeau. If we
do I'll let you know. Would you like to give me your full name and
address?"

She gave it to me--a number in Great Titchfield Street near Oxford
Circus. I wrote it down.

She said: "If you find out anything, M'sieu, I would be glad to hear
from you. I have not had my money for two weeks. Also I would like to
tell Madame Cambeau what I think about her."

I said: "All right, Musette. I'll get in touch with you."

"Good morning, M'sieu..." She nodded brightly; tripped out of the
room. I heard her footsteps descending the stairs.

I went back into the shop; lighted a cigarette and, through the plate
glass window, watched Musette cross the road. She turned to the left and
disappeared from my sight, a trim and not unattractive figure in spite
of her lack of height. Then, from a small turning opposite the shop, I
was very glad to see Williamson appear.

Obviously he had seen her hanging about before she came to the shop, had
waited for her to make her exit and would tail her to wherever she was
going. I was glad about this because I couldn't quite place Musette in
my mind, and a little further information about her might help.

The nine o'clock post had arrived. Some envelopes had been pushed under
the front door. I opened them. There were five altogether. Three
contained invoices for goods delivered. One was a letter of complaint
from a woman who didn't like the way her frock fitted her. The last one
was merely a sheet of folded quarto typewriting paper enclosed in an
unsealed envelope. Typed on the notepaper was an intimation that in
addition to the other attractions at the Cossaque Restaurant, which
included a balalaika orchestra and a Hungarian singer, the Brothers Zeus
had been engaged by the management and would appear at twelve o'clock
midnight each evening.

The envelope was addressed in longhand to Madame Yvette Cambeau and
written in the top corner was: "_If away please forward._"

I put the envelope in my pocket. I failed to see--unless the Cossaque
Restaurant was a club of which Madame Cambeau was a member--why anyone
should have bothered to inform her of the appearance of the Brothers
Zeus. The rest of the envelopes I put on the desk in the corner of the
shop.

I picked up my hat; took a final look round. I walked back to my
apartment.

I had a decided idea that the establishment known as "_Yvette Cambeau_"
had closed for good.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At eleven o'clock Greeley came through. He said: "I went after the
ash-blonde last night, Mr. Kells. She went through Fulham, took the
Eastbourne road, branched off towards Balcombe, ran through the village
and turned into a big house called Valley House."

"Right, Greeley," I said. "Go out to Balcombe, and take it easy when you
get there. I don't want anyone to recognise you or associate you with
me. Get around the village and check up who is staying at Valley House.
You'll get this from the tradesmen. Find out who the servants are who
are employed there and where they come from. Pick up anything else you
can. Telephone me when you've got some results."

I hung up the receiver as Glyder arrived.

I asked him: "What happened about Marcini? Is there anything in the
newspapers?"

He nodded. "It's O.K. The local police officer found him in the early
hours of the morning. They believe it to be a normal road accident.
Apparently there was a steering defect in the car which, they think,
caused it to run into the ditch and turn over. They're trying to get an
identification of Marcini. The inquest is adjourned."

"I wish them luck," I said.

He helped himself to a drink--four fingers of whisky--and took it neat.
I thought he must have a hell of a stomach to take it like that in the
morning.

He sat down. He asked: "Where do we go from here, Mike?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine," I told him.
"But we've got to get going _somewhere_ or we'll have the Old Man on our
necks."

"Maybe he knows something more than you do," said Glyder. "You know his
habit of hanging out on everything until the last moment. Why don't you
ask him?"

"And have my ears bitten off," I said. "If he wanted to talk he'd talk.
Anything he knows is dependent on something I produce. See what I mean?
If he's got something, he's holding out on it because it's dependent on
some unknown factor which he expects me to produce."

I told him about my visit to "Yvette Cambeau," and of my talk with
Musette.

He thought for a while, sipping his whisky. Then he said: "You know,
Mike, this job looks to me like a double-cross. Somebody or other is
taking somebody else for a ride."

I nodded. "I'm particularly interested in Riffenbach," I said.
"Riffenbach was damned careless. Remember he took Carla out to the house
at Forest Hills. That was stupid of him, wasn't it? This place is some
sort of headquarters. Marcini knew of it. He took Sonia there. Sabina,
who was apparently Riffenbach's boss or at least closely connected with
him on this job, wrote her original letter to him--the one I found on
his body--at that address. So the place is important to them. Yet
Riffenbach, who was a dyed-in-the-wool operative, trained by the Russian
Secret Service, was careless enough to take Carla out there. For all he
knew, there was a chance that she might turn up some time at an
inopportune moment. D'you get it?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't," he said.

"Riffenbach wasn't careless," I said. "He was a tough egg and would be
loyal if it paid him. But he wasn't loyal, and there was only one reason
why he shouldn't be. He was planning to make a getaway from the
Russians. And he was going to do it fairly quickly."

Glyder asked: "How do you work that one out?"

"Listen," I said. "It's obvious. He comes here via Paris. And my guess
is that Sabina was already waiting here in England for him. She was his
boss because the Russians wouldn't trust him--even after years in their
service--on his own. Sabina, I'll bet you any money you like, is Madame
Yvette Cambeau, late of the Bruton Street shop. And there wasn't any
_affaire_ between Sabina and Riffenbach. The letter she wrote to him
complaining that she hadn't seen him and that he was falling out of love
with her was meant to indicate to him that he wasn't getting on with the
job and that it was about time he got cracking. Riffenbach was careless
enough to take Carla to the house in Forest Hills because he was all set
to make a getaway. He'd succeeded in what he had planned. He had got out
of Russia. He had picked up Olga Volanski and taken her for all the
money she had, in addition to which he must also have received money
from Sabina or some other Russian paymaster over here."

I lighted a cigarette. "That letter from Sabina," I went on, "was to
tell him that she knew all about his _affaire_ with Olga and to warn him
to watch his step."

Glyder nodded. "Could be," he said.

"Now we have some more trouble," I told him. "We have the rather
peculiar business of Rockie's sister. When I saw her I was particularly
struck with what seemed her lack of interest in her brother's death. She
didn't believe he was dead and she backed him to make a getaway. Which
is goddam nonsense, anyhow. She knew as well as you or I know that
people don't make getaways from the Russians. She was trying to stall me
from going on with the business of finding out where he was and if he
was dead or alive."

"Very funny," said Glyder.

"You're telling me," I said. "She insinuates that it may be a damned bad
thing for us to try and find her brother because if the Russians think
we're after him they may kill him. Her attitude, for a girl who is
supposed to be very fond of her brother, is just stupid."

"And then," I continued, "to cap it all, after my interview with her she
goes dashing off to Bruton Street, that night, to interview--I
suppose--Madame Yvette Cambeau. What the hell for?"

Glyder said: "It's a hell of a job, isn't it? And you've forgotten about
Marcini. How the devil was he able to pick up Sonia when she went to see
old Volanski? And he was prepared for the job."

I shrugged my shoulders. "There might be an explanation for that one.
Remember the cocktail party to which I was invited. Well, there may have
been other members of the organisation present at that party. I fell for
the invitation and went, and this would enable any interested party to
identify me. Maybe they told Marcini about me and he recognised me from
the description they gave him. Maybe he wasn't waiting for Sonia. He was
waiting for me and when he saw Sonia arrive he telephoned through to
Bruton Street and said that I had not arrived but some girl was there.
They might easily have told him to pick up the girl and find out who she
was and what she was doing."

Glyder grinned. "It's your headache. But this Marcini was certainly
_something_. He had the courage of his convictions all right."

"Marcini was a fanatic," I said. "He was one of those stupid people who
delude themselves that what they are doing is right. And the fact that
he poisoned himself rather than talk proves nothing. He'd been given a
job to do and he _had_ to do it. If he hadn't, he'd probably have come
to a more sticky end than he did. These people mean business and they'll
stop at nothing to get what they want."

Glyder grunted. "It's a pity we don't know what they do want. I know
what I want. I want to go to Devonshire for a couple of weeks."

"Like hell you do," I said. "Here's what you can do. There's a club
called The Cossaque--a night club--somewhere in Mayfair. You'd better
see Woldingham or one of the Special Branch boys and find out what you
can about it. If it's a respectable place arrange that you and I can go
there to-night. I want to see a turn that's appearing about midnight. It
ought to be easy for Woldingham to get hold of some members' tickets or,
if he thinks it's better, an introduction from a member. It depends on
the place."

Glyder got up. "O.K.," he said.

"Be here at a quarter to twelve," I told him. "And wear a dinner jacket.
If you get yourself in the right frame of mind you'll probably find it
will do you as much good as Devonshire."

He said: "Like hell...!" He went out.

I went into my bedroom, lay on the bed and closed my eyes. I was feeling
pretty good and tired of the Rockie business. Something which had
started as a more or less normal event--the disappearance of an
agent--was becoming like a tin can tied to my tail. Wherever I went it
followed me.

For some reason I began to think of Valerie Rockhurst--the mysterious
lady whose motives I could not understand. It struck me suddenly that
she seemed so sure that Rockie was alive that there was a possibility
that she _knew_ he was alive.

For a moment I played with the idea that the boyos who'd got Rockie had
been to work on him properly. Everybody knows that their methods aren't
exactly kid-glove. They've all sorts of methods--some of which never
even leave a mark--of making people talk or see eye to eye with them.
Maybe Rockie had broken under the strain and they were forcing Valerie
Rockhurst--through him--to do something they wanted done over here. It
could be.

But I'd lay all the tea in China against it. Rockie, I knew, would have
killed himself somehow rather than spill any beans that he knew. And
probably--under the Old Man's system--he knew damned little.

But whatever had happened the girl was playing some sort of game. Some
game which she did not desire should be interfered with by people like
myself sticking my nose into Rockie's disappearance.

I thought that one of these fine days I'd give myself the pleasure of a
little straight talk with that young lady. I thought I might even get a
little tough with her.

The telephone jangled.

It was Williamson. He said: "Mr. Kells, when I came out of the shop this
morning a girl went in through the alley entrance. I didn't know what
you'd want done, or if you'd seen her. So I waited and tailed her to an
address in Great Titchfield Street. She came out soon afterwards and
took a taxi somewhere or other. I've checked on her. Her name's Musette
Lehaye and, apparently, she was the chief hand in the workshop at
_Yvette Cambeau_. The landlady says she has a French passport and seems
a very nice sort of girl."

"Good work, Williamson," I said. "By the way, do you know the time of
the second postal delivery to-day in the Bruton Street area?"

Williamson said he thought it was four-thirty; that he would check on
this.

"When you've checked on the time, be around Bruton Street when the post
is delivered at the Yvette Cambeau shop," I told him. "I've an idea that
the French girl Musette Lehaye may show up again to-day. Don't lose her
when she leaves the shop whatever you do. Let me know what happens.
Maybe her landlady will have a little more information for you later
to-day."

He said he would take care of it.

I lay down on the bed and did a little more thinking. I was beginning to
get a vestige of an idea in my head--an idea that had arrived from just
nowhere at all, but which I found rather amusing and inspiring.

After all, you've got to work from _something_ and even if that
something is a false premise it provides a stepping-off place.

And I was fed up with the whole of this business. I couldn't break
anything open. The Old Man wasn't talking--either because he didn't want
to or because he couldn't. Nothing had come my way.

So now something was going to happen. Even if I had to _make_ it happen.

Having made up my mind I went out to lunch on the strength of it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I went down Bruton Street about ten minutes past four. I entered the
street from the Berkeley Square end; strolled slowly down towards the
shop. At the far end of the street I could see Williamson leaning up
against a lamp-post reading a newspaper. I turned into the little
passageway by the side of the shop; opened the side door with a skeleton
key which I had put in my pocket; went into the shop. The window blinds
were up and the shop door was locked as I had left it. The wax models
standing about in the window and on the shop floor gave the place a
weird air of unreality. I went out into the passage, up the stairs and
pushed open the door of the workroom.

Musette Lehaye was sitting on a chair by the worktable reading a French
paper-backed novel.

I said: "Good afternoon, Musette."

She said quite calmly: "Good afternoon, M'sieu." She got up; then sat
down again. She turned down the page of the book she was reading; closed
it.

I asked: "What are you doing here, Musette?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You understand, M'sieu, I live in a room
which is very nice to sleep in but not good to stay in all day wondering
about one's next job. So I come here. I have been reading. You see,
Madame gave me the key to the side entrance because often I arrived in
the morning before she was here."

I offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. I lighted one for myself.
I looked her over.

Musette Lehaye looked like what she said she was--a charge hand or
forewoman in a dress shop. Her clothes were good but inexpensive, her
shoes neat. She wore nylon stockings. Her hair was nicely done. Her face
fascinated me. It was an ordinary, round, plain sort of face, but
Musette's eyes were peculiar. There were deep shadows beneath them. I
thought that somehow her eyes didn't match up with the rest of her
appearance.

I sat down on the bench. I said: "So you came back to pass the time,
Musette. Are you thinking of looking for another job?"

She shrugged her shoulders again; made a little moue. "I expect so,
M'sieu. I shall have to do that in a day or two." She smiled suddenly.
The smile illuminated her face. For a moment she looked almost pretty.
She said: "Also the possibility occurred to me that Madame Cambeau might
come back. It seems so stupid to go away and leave a shop like this with
nobody in it. The shop door is locked. Customers may have been here for
all I know. I thought there was a possibility that she might return. You
will not forget, M'sieu, that I am owed two week's money."

I didn't say anything. I drew on my cigarette. She asked: "Does M'sieu
wish to know anything else? Is there anything that I can tell him?"

I said: "Yes. Are you quite sure you came back here because you thought
that Madame Cambeau might possibly be here? Is that it? How long have
you been here, Musette?"

"About five or six minutes," she answered.

"Are you certain you didn't come to collect the afternoon post when it
was delivered?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were wide. "Why should I wish to do that,
M'sieu? What has the post to do with me? First of all, there is little
post--an account or two--I have noticed that. But why should I be
interested in the post?"

I said: "I don't know. I just wondered." There was a pause; then I went
on: "Tell me about Madame Yvette Cambeau. What is she like? How does she
dress?"

She thought for a moment. She said: "It is a little difficult to give
exact details. When one looks at a person one gets an impression. But I
think I can tell you. She is tall and very slim. She has a perfect
figure--most excellent for our business. She has a pale, oval face and
lots of dark brown hair which is always very well dressed. Her clothes
are _chic_. She did not get them at this shop." She laughed and her face
became pretty again. "Always she is very smart, but at the same time,
M'sieu, I came to the conclusion that she is not what she seems to be."

I asked: "What does she seem to be, Musette?"

She said: "She is supposed to be a modiste from Paris, but I don't think
she knows anything at all about France. I don't think she has ever been
trained anywhere. She does not know where to buy things or what to do.
Actually, most of the business here was arranged by me. I took
measurements for such frocks as we made, and fitted them. I supervised
the girls who were working here. There were three of them. Madame Yvette
would come here sometimes a little late; stay for a few hours; talk to a
customer who came in. But always she would send for me."

I said: "Tell me, have you any idea at the back of your head, Musette,
as to where she has gone? Do you find any explanation for this rather
odd behaviour of being here one day and disappearing the next, leaving
you with no instructions or wages?"

She thought for a moment; then she said: "M'sieu, just now you offered
me a cigarette. Please, I would like one."

I gave her a cigarette; lighted it. She puffed at it with the air of a
practised smoker.

She said: "You know, M'sieu, from the first I suspected something
peculiar about Madame Yvette Cambeau. She speaks excellent French, and I
do not believe she is a Frenchwoman. She has been to Paris... yes...
maybe she lived there... but she is no Frenchwoman. That I know."

I asked: "What is she?"

She said: "I am certain she is a Russian. She _looks_ like a Russian,
you understand, M'sieu. You know that certain something a well-bred
Russian woman always has--something that is different. Also once or
twice I heard her humming to herself and she would sing a few lines of a
song. When she sang, she sang in Russian. One of the girls who worked
here--a girl we called Janette--was of Russian parentage. She also was
certain that Madame is a Russian."

I asked: "Do you think she was a refugee?"

She nodded her head. "That is what I think," she said.

"And was there anything else you noticed, Musette?"

She said: "Yes, once or twice I suggested to her that I should return to
the shop; that I should do some work up here in the evening. I suggested
to her that stock models could be made very easily up here; that I was
prepared to cut them out; that I could get the girls to work overtime so
that it would be unnecessary to send our orders out. She would not have
this. She told me that in no circumstances was I to return to the shop
after I left, which was usually about half-past five in the afternoon. I
think perhaps, M'sieu, that something went on here."

"What do you mean by that, Musette?" I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I do not know, but I always had a feeling
about Madame; that there was something strange--something
dramatic--about her."

"A woman's instinct, hey? But you didn't come to any conclusions about
these thoughts of yours? You hadn't any idea what was going on? How much
used she to pay you, Musette?"

She said: "I had five pounds a week and a small commission on sales."

I asked: "What were the other girls paid?"

"Between three and four pounds a week, M'sieu," she said.

"So the running expenses of the shop must have been about twenty-five
pounds a week," I told her. "Were you making anything like that in the
shop?"

She shook her head. "One week we took only ten pounds. That is why I
thought the thing was ridiculous. Also it seemed that Madame was not
particularly keen on making money."

I said: "You think she had money. Was she rich?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "She must have had money. She used to arrive
in taxicabs. She never walked anywhere. Once or twice when she went out
to lunch, and expected someone to come to the shop, she would give me
the phone number of the restaurant where she was lunching. Always
expensive places, M'sieu."

I nodded. From downstairs there came the sound of a flop--the noise that
a letter box makes when someone pushes letters through.

She got up. "There is the post, M'sieu." She began to move towards the
door.

I said: "Don't worry about the post, Musette. I'll look after it."

She said: "I thought there might be something from Madame--some
explanation."

"If there is, I'll read it."

She said: "Very well, M'sieu. I think if there is nothing else I can do
I shall go back to my room. Good afternoon."

I said: "Good afternoon, Musette."

I went down the stairs after her. She went out through the side door
into the passageway. She gave me a little smile as she went.

I went into the shop. I thought Musette was a first-class, goddam liar.
I unlocked the front door; watched her as she walked down the street
with the light, tripping step which distinguishes a Frenchwoman. I
thought she was pretty good. When she got to the corner she turned left
into Bond Street. Williamson pushed himself away from the lamp-post; put
his folded newspaper in his pocket; went after her.

I collected the post. Two or three circulars, a receipted bill. But no
explanation from Madame Yvette Cambeau.




Chapter Eight. The Zeus Brothers


Glyder arrived at half-past eleven; helped himself to a drink.

He said: "Everything's arranged at the Cossaque. A fellow called
Gleethorpe--one of their richest members--has asked us to be invited
there to-night with a view to membership. I believe it's quite a decent
sort of place. They say the food's very good. A table is reserved for us
at twelve o'clock."

I said: "Good." I gave myself a whisky and soda; lighted a cigarette.

Glyder asked: "How's the puzzle coming out, or isn't it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm beginning to see glimmerings of light,
though not very much. But I think I've got the Riffenbach angle."

"Yes," said Glyder. "Tell me about it. Is it interesting?"

"I'm still guessing," I said, "but it looks to me like this: There is
some sort of funny business going on over here and in some way or
another it's connected with Rockie. The thing started when Hermione
Martin asked Jane to bring Rockie's car to Paris. Someone knew about
that. Someone knew who Hermione Martin was; what she was doing. It's all
the tea in China to a bad egg that that person was Marcini, who seems to
have been a very hard-bitten Soviet agent. Probably Marcini had had his
eye on Janey for some time. Why? Because Janey used to get about with
Rockie. So Marcini came down to Paris after Janey; wished himself on to
us at Charles' Bar; came to the conclusion that Janey was on my side;
had me followed; had Hermione Martin killed. Then he came over here to
report to the mysterious Yvette Cambeau, who I take it, is the leading
agent for the gang in this country.

"The reason why Marcini spotted Sonia at the Volanski apartment is quite
obvious to me. He had been put on to keep general observation on the
Riffenbach apartment in St. John's Wood. Yvette Cambeau, who we shall
probably discover is the Russian woman Sabina, had already begun to
suspect Riffenbach, and anybody who went to that flat was also suspect.
So Marcini knocked off Sonia, hoping to discover the truth from her,
instead of which he put himself in a position which led to his own
death."

Glyder said: "I see. Why should Sabina have suspected Riffenbach?"

"I don't know," I said, "but it's pretty obvious that Riffenbach was
playing his own game. Remember he'd been in the German army. He was
captured by the Soviets and probably given the choice of death or
serving on their secret service. He elected to work for them. Probably
he'd never had a chance of making a getaway before, first of all because
there was no opportunity and, secondly, because he hadn't any money. So
he picked up Olga Volanski in Paris and made love to her. He thought
this would be safe enough. She isn't intelligent, anyhow, and she was
just at the age when she would be inclined to sacrifice everything for a
passionate interlude with her so-called Hetman of Cossacks. When
Riffenbach and Volanski arrived in London he was informed all about me
by the Bruton Street headquarters. These people had discovered where I
was living--they'd probably had a tail on me ever since my arrival. Then
Riffenbach had a bright idea. He caused the invitation to be sent to me
because he wanted to meet me to see if I was the sort of person with
whom he could make a deal. If Riffenbach hadn't accidentally killed
himself, it's my guess that he would have been in touch with me a few
days after the party and told me straight out what was on his mind. This
is supported by the remark he made to Carla on the night when he took
her off to the Forest Hills house--the night of the party--when he was
drunk and tried to make her.

"She told me that he informed her that if she played along with him she
could make a lot of money. He was including me in his mind. Somehow
Riffenbach had information or something--I can't guess what it was--that
could make him a lot of money in this country. Once he had that, he
thought he'd be safe from the Soviets. Riffenbach was going to try and
do a deal with me."

Glyder lighted a cigarette. "It's a pity he's dead; otherwise you might
have found out what the deal was."

I grinned at him. "I've got the glimmering of an idea about that deal,
but I'm not talking yet. Let's go."

It was a few minutes to twelve when we arrived at the Cossaque. The Club
consisted of a very long, underground dining-room with two bars, a
hallway and the usual appurtenances of a night club. It was a good-class
place, luxuriously appointed, and the customers seemed to be nice
people. The manager met us in the hall.

He said: "Good evening, sir. I'm delighted to welcome you to the
Cossaque. We hope you will like it. Mr. Gleethorpe asked me to take
particularly good care of you. Will you come this way?"

He led us to a table in the corner of the restaurant. He said: "The
cabaret starts in a few minutes. I hope you'll enjoy it." He went away.

We ordered some food and a bottle of champagne.

The cabaret wasn't bad. It was the usual sort of thing that one sees in
night clubs. A pretty young woman who sang risqu songs, a Tzigane
violinist. Then, when the Tizgane violinist had finished doing his work,
the manager came into the centre of the dance floor.

He said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to present to you to-night
one of the most amazing turns that has ever been seen in the history of
the world--the '_Brothers Zeus_.'"

The curtains on the small stage at the end of the room parted. There
were two men on the stage. Both wore evening dress, but one was sitting
in a chair. The man standing by his side was tall, well-built. Vaguely
he reminded me of somebody, but I could find no connection in my mind,
and then my attention was riveted on the seated man... a most
peculiar person. He was, as far as I could judge, of about middle
height. His body, legs and arms were thin. His head was immense. It
seemed almost too big for his shoulders. Also there was an indefinable
and strange quality of brittleness about the man. You felt if someone
were to push him off the chair he would break. He had a high forehead,
voluminous grey hair, a small beard. He wore thick-lensed glasses, and
his eyes stared straight before him as if they were unseeing. His face
wore an expression of strange disinterest in everything.

The tall, standing man said in an accent which seemed more German than
anything else: "Ladies and gentleman, I present to you my brother, Karl
Zeus. Karl has the most amazing mind in the world. It works with the
most extraordinary rapidity. We shall show you."

They showed us. Karl Zeus certainly had the most amazing mind. He added
up impossible sums in a flash of a second. His feats of memory were
amazing. One of the tricks they performed was to give a number of at
least five or six digits to every person seated in the restaurant. The
manager went round and read each one of these numbers out once. There
were thirty-five numbers read out and, almost before the manager had
replaced the last numbered paper, Karl had added the sum total and spoke
it in a peculiarly dull voice to the audience. I came to the conclusion
that Karl must have one hell of a brain.

When the turn finished the orchestra began to play. People went on the
dance floor; danced. The restaurant was exquisitely lighted. The women's
dresses, the atmosphere, the good band, made a pleasant background. The
manager came over.

He said: "I hope you have enjoyed the show, gentlemen."

I said: "I think it was the most amazing turn, that '_Zeus Brothers_.'"

He said: "It is a great pity I cannot keep them here. They were supposed
to be here until the end of next week but, apparently, they have another
contract which had been overlooked. I have to let them go."

"That's a great pity," I said. "I should have liked to see them again."

He said: "I'm not certain, but I believe they're going back to Germany.
Would you like me to find out?"

I said: "No thanks..."

We finished our bottle of champagne and left.

It was one o'clock when we arrived back at my apartment. Glyder opened a
fresh bottle of whisky.

He said: "Well, what have you learned from the Brothers Zeus?"

"Nothing... except that I'd like to be able to add up like Karl.
Don't you think he's rather a peculiar sort of person? I think he's the
strangest-looking man I've ever seen in my life."

Glyder said: "Me, too. A funny-looking cove. He looked as if he was a
little mad to me."

"I should think one would have to be mad to add up like that." I went
on: "Glyder, you'd better go home and get some sleep. What time do you
think the Old Man gets up in the morning?"

He said: "God knows. I doubt if he ever goes to bed. I was told once
that his liver is so bad that he sits up all night in that chair of his.
Maybe that's why he's so bad-tempered."

I said: "You get out there first thing in the morning--eight o'clock. If
he's not awake you'll have to wait until he does waken. Now describe
Karl Zeus to me in detail."

Glyder did this. He made a pretty good job of it.

I said: "You go out and see the Old Man to-morrow morning and give him
that description. Ask him who Karl Zeus is, if he knows. I've an idea
that he's going to know that odd and peculiar face."

"O.K.," said Glyder. "If it's like that I'll have to leave to-morrow
morning about five. I'll go to bed now. Good night, Mike." He went out.

I threw my cigarette stub away; lighted a fresh one. I began to walk up
and down my sitting-room. For some reason or other I had felt a little
better about things the last day or two, not that I knew anything much,
but I had a vague idea that something was coming.

At half-past one the phone rang. It was Williamson.

He said: "Good evening, Mr. Kells. I hope I haven't got you out of bed."

I said: "No."

He went on: "I tailed Musette back to the same place in Great Titchfield
Street. When she arrived there I wasn't quite certain what the form was
so I hung about for half an hour. She came out. She had two suitcases.
She took a cab. Luckily I was able to jump another and go after her. She
went to a ticket office--the all-night service at the Piccadilly Hotel.
She's got a reservation from Dover on the two-thirty boat to-morrow.
That's the Dover/Calais boat."

I asked: "What time will she arrive there?"

He said: "She should be in Calais in about an hour and twenty minutes."

"All right. Thank you, Williamson. You've been a great help." I hung up.

I waited a few minutes. I thought: Well, here goes. I may get my head
bitten off but I've got to do this. I phoned the Old Man.

I heard the bell ringing at the other end. Then Miss Fains came on the
line.

I said: "Fainits, where's the Old Man?"

"In his room, Mr. Kells. And I wish you wouldn't call me Fainits."

I asked: "What can you do about it, sweetheart? I've got to talk to him
on the telephone whether he likes it or not."

She said: "Very well. Hold on."

I waited five minutes for the Old Man. Then there was a grunt.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Kells. Can't you let me get any
rest?"

I said: "I'm sorry, but I have to do this. A woman called Musette
Lehaye--about twenty-eight years of age--five feet seven inches in
height, dark brown eyes, a round face; purports to be French, looks
French, speaks French, has a French passport--that might mean
anything--is leaving England to-morrow, from Dover on the two-thirty
boat. Somebody's got to pick her up at Calais. She's important."

The Old Man asked: "Is that all?"

I said: "I think it's enough to be going on with. Can you arrange that?
If so, I want to know the name of the agent who'll pick her up there.
Maybe I'll be going to France myself in a day or so. I might like to
talk to him."

He said: "You know the man who'll be tailing her. He's an old friend of
yours. I've always considered you two the most disreputable operatives
in the Service. Behave yourselves."

I asked: "Who is this paragon of virtue?"

The Old Man grunted. He said: "Mario Salvatini."

I cocked an eyebrow. "So it's like that over there, is it?"

He said: "Yes, it's like that."

I said: "Good night," and hung up.

If the Old Man was using Mario Salvatini he was expecting a lot of
trouble.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Next morning I got up at eleven-thirty, drank some coffee, lighted a
cigarette and walked about my sitting-room in my dressing-gown. I was
feeling pretty good about things, although I suspected the Old Man of
holding back quite a lot from me. The fact that Salvatini was to be put
on Musette's tail told me a lot, and the fact that the Old Man had Mario
waiting in Calais for somebody to land in France told me that he was
either guessing very correctly or maybe he was one jump ahead of me in
his reasoning.

At twelve o'clock Horace Greeley arrived. Greeley was a strange type.
He'd done some very distinguished service during the war; had taken some
big chances and carried his life in his hands on at least half a dozen
occasions. But his adventures had never disposed of his Cockney accent.
Greeley was a thin, weedy type with a heart of gold and the nerve of the
devil. He had his limitations but within these he was an extremely
intelligent operative.

I gave him a chair and a cigarette. I said: "Well, Horace, what about
it?"

He said: "It was easy, Mr. Kells. This place is one of those small
dumps; you know, the sort of place where everybody talks about everybody
else's business, and Valley House is the big house, so people are
naturally interested in what goes on there--'specially as Miss Rockhurst
is pretty popular around the place. But that wasn't all," he continued.
"I had a bit of luck. Miss Rockhurst has an account at the local bank,
and when I started nosing around there I found one of the boys working
at the bank was an old pal of mine."

I said: "So that made it easy?"

"Yes. Here's the story. Miss Rockhurst has been living up there for
years. When her brother was in England he used to stay there. The normal
servants in the house were the housekeeper, the butler, two maids and a
cook and a gardener. But during the last three weeks there's been
another servant there--a sort of general secretary and valet. He's
supposed to be an Alsatian. I don't think he's very popular in the
neighbourhood, although he seldom goes out. The funny thing is this
Alsatian fellow acts as a sort of telephone attendant in the house. If
you ring up there you speak to him. If anybody wants to phone to the
village or anywhere else they put the call through him."

I said: "I see. A sort of telephonic watchdog."

Greeley said. "Maybe. That's a good description. There have been one or
two people going to Valley House lately--more people than usually go
there. Miss Rockhurst has been at home all the time. Usually, they tell
me in the village, she goes off for week-ends and sometimes a week's
holiday. She's fond of driving her car all over the country. But not for
the last two or three weeks. Apparently she's stuck to that place like a
sick kitten to a hot brick."

I asked: "What else?"

"This is the main thing," said Greeley. "Two weeks ago a credit was
transferred from London to the local branch of the bank there in her
name--a big one, twenty-five thousand pounds. She drew twenty thousand
of this within four days of its arrival, and the funny thing was she
drew it in five pound notes. It's a hell of a lot of cash to have
kicking around, isn't it?"

I said: "You're telling me. What else?"

"Nothing else. I hoped it might help."

I said: "It helps a lot, Greeley. All right. Stick around..."

"Oh, there's one thing more," said Greeley. "I don't see that it
particularly matters, but I might as well tell you. Miss Rockhurst
intended to go away three or four days ago. Apparently she's got a villa
in the Pas de Calais."

"Why didn't she go?" I asked.

"Apparently some repairs are being done to the villa," said Greeley.
"Something went wrong with the drains or something and the local
authorities ordered the place to be put in order to their satisfaction.
So she's had to postpone her visit."

I asked: "For how long, Greeley. Do you know when she's going?"

He shook his head.

"All right," I said. "I'll let you know when I want you again."

He got up. "O.K., Mr. Kells. If there's anything exciting breaking try
and cut me in on it. I'm getting stale."

I said: "Yes. You had too good a time in the war. This peace is a little
dull for all of us."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Peace? If this is peace, I'd like to know what a
war is. So long, Mr. Kells." He went off.

I threw my cigarette stub away, bathed and dressed. Now the jig-saw
puzzle was beginning to clear up a little bit. Now I was beginning,
vaguely, to see who did what and why--except for one or two things. For
the life of me I couldn't get the Zeus Brothers and how they came into
this. But did they? Just because I'd found a typewritten note which had
been put through Yvette Cambeau's front door, I'd imagined that this was
an intentional tip-off. It might have been anything. It might have been
ordinary door-to-door advertising. But I didn't think it was.

The reason why Musette had returned to the shop twice after it was
closed was, I thought, to collect the post. Musette was waiting for that
tip-off and she hadn't got it. So, unless she'd found where the Zeus
Brothers were performing and seen the show herself, I was one jump ahead
of her; that is if she was what I thought she was.

At two o'clock I went round to the garage; got out the car; drove down
to Balcombe. It was a pleasant day, cool but with a nice afternoon sun.
I ambled quietly along, wondering but not being at all certain what I
was going to say to Miss Rockhurst if and when I saw her. I shrugged my
shoulders. When you're going to talk to a woman, anything might happen.
If she wants to talk she tells you lies if she wants to tell lies. And
if she doesn't want to talk she still tells lies. Because you can lie by
not talking just as easily as you can by talking--at least you can if
you're a woman. But my own guess was that Valerie Rockhurst was in a
rather difficult position. At least it would be interesting to see how
she was going to play it.

I arrived at the house just after three-thirty, parked the car in the
gravel courtyard before the imposing portico, went up the steps and rang
the bell. I waited a minute or two; then the door opened. I expected to
see the butler whom I'd seen the time before, but there was a new one.
This one was dressed in a short, black coat, waistcoat and striped
trousers, a very correct white collar and grey tie. He had a thin face
and iron-grey hair, and his eyebrows went up at the corners, giving him
a peculiar and not unattractive Mephistophelian look.

I said: "Good evening. I want to see Miss Rockhurst. My name's Kells."

He said with a definite foreign accent: "Excuse me, but have you some
business with Miss Rockhurst?"

I said: "Don't be such a damn fool. I wouldn't come here to talk with
her unless I had, would I?"

He said: "I don't know if Miss Rockhurst is in."

"Well, I'll help you. I think she's in and if she isn't in I'm coming
inside to wait until she is in. Do you understand?"

He said: "I'm very sorry but you're not coming in this house until I
have reported to Miss Rockhurst and know that she wishes to see you."
His tone was both uncivil and definite.

I put the palm of my right hand over his nose and pushed. He went back
into the hall; landed on his back. I stepped inside and shut the door
behind me. I watched him as he got up.

"Now go and tell Miss Rockhurst I'm here. And I'd like to tell you
something, my friend. Any obstruction from you and you're going round to
the local police station quick! Understand?"

He stood looking at me. His hands were shaking but whether that was fear
or rage I wouldn't know. Then he half shrugged his shoulders; went away.

He came back in two or three minutes and said politely: "Will you come
this way, sir?"

He took me into the drawing-room on the right hand side of the hall. I
lighted a cigarette; waited. A few minutes afterwards she came into the
room. I told you the last time I saw this woman that I thought she was
rather wonderful. During the period since then, I'd often thought about
her; told myself that it wasn't possible for any woman to be as
beautiful as she was. Now, looking at her, I knew that my first guess
had been right.

She wore a very well-tailored frock of grey Oxford wool with a simple
collar and cuffs of powder blue. Her wonderful hair was dressed as
before--caught back with the tortoiseshell clip. But her eyes were
worried. There were deep circles beneath them. I thought Valerie
Rockhurst had been having a bad time about something.

She said in a cold voice: "Good afternoon, Mr. Kells. I understand your
entrance here was rather forcible. Surely it is in order for me to
employ servants to find out who people are before I see them."

"It's quite in order, Miss Rockhurst, and if you employ the sort of
servant who opened the door to me this afternoon you must expect some
more rough entrances. Perhaps you'd like to tell me who this man is,
where he comes from and why he is here?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "My housekeeper employs servants for this
house, Mr. Kells."

I asked: "Did she employ this one? If so, maybe I could see the
housekeeper."

She said: "Mr. Kells, I don't understand your attitude. Exactly what
does all this mean?"

I took a chance. "Miss Rockhurst, my attitude towards you is the same as
my attitude towards any person I suspect of treason, which I think is a
beastly sort of crime, and in this case"--I smiled at her--"it's a
particularly low sort of treason because it's treason against two
countries, isn't it--not only this one but your own?"

She said in a low voice: "What do you mean?"

"You know damn well what I mean," I replied. "I think the time has come
when you and I might have a little talk. Let's make up our minds whether
we are going to be friends or enemies. If you want to be enemies you
have it your way and I'll have it mine and it's not going to be very
pleasant for you. You'll find it easier to be friends with me."

She sat down in a chair by the table. For a moment she looked quite
helpless--rather like a child who's been caught out doing something
wrong, and smacked. Then she squared her shoulders and faced up to it.

She asked: "What am I supposed to say, Mr. Kells?"

"Just what you like," I told her. "Perhaps you might like to answer a
question or two."

"Such as?" she queried.

I said: "Within a few hours of seeing me last you decided to take a trip
up to town and to go and see a lady called Yvette Cambeau. Don't tell me
that you went to see her about a frock. First of all she doesn't know
anything about making frocks and, secondly, you went there at rather a
late hour for business like that. What did you see her for?"

She said: "Surely I can see my dressmaker if I want to."

I laughed at her. "Shall I answer the question?"

She said defiantly: "If you like. Can you?"

"I think so. You went to see Yvette Cambeau to tell her that I'd called
on you that afternoon; to tell her that the British Secret Service was
particularly interested in one or two points concerning you and her. And
you didn't go to tell her that just because you wanted to talk to her
either. It was necessary that you went to see her to entreat her to get
a ripple on with the particular business you two have in hand, because
you thought if she didn't get a move on it was going to be too late.
Well, am I right or wrong?"

She shrugged her shoulders. The same helpless look came over her face.
For a minute or two I was almost sorry for her. I pulled up a chair; sat
down opposite her. I offered her my cigarette case. I said: "Smoke a
cigarette and relax, and listen to me."

She took a cigarette and I lighted it for her.

I went on: "There's nobody who's such a complete damn fool as a woman
when she _is_ a damn fool, because she seldom knows she's being a damned
fool. Men are inclined to run the more dangerous businesses in their
lives with their heads." I grinned at her. "Women on the contrary are
only dangerous when they're using their hearts and you couldn't be
dangerous. You're not the sort of woman who should even try to be." I
shot a quick question at her. "When, where and why, did you give that
twenty thousand pounds in cash to Riffenbach or Alexandrov as he called
himself?"

She sat bolt upright. I could see her long fingers clench. I'd hit the
nail on the head. "Well," I went on, "that's another question you don't
like to answer, isn't it? Listen to me, Miss Rockhurst, you're what is
commonly called stupid. Did you believe Riffenbach? If you did, you're a
fool. And I'm going to tell you something. Whatever Riffenbach promised
to do for that twenty thousand pounds he's not going to be able to do
it. He couldn't do it if he wanted to."

She asked in a hoarse voice: "What do you mean, Mr. Kells?"

I said: "Riffenbach's dead. This is how much good he is to you."

Her hands clenched again. She said: "Oh, my God...!"

I got up: I asked: "Do you know what I think you are? I think you're a
stupid little fool. A beautiful one but still a fool. Why ever did you
think you could stick your neck into something like this and get away
with it? Was it because you had an idea that the Service to which I
belong is rather an indifferent one? Or perhaps you thought it was fun?
In any event you might have been decent enough to remember your brother
Rockie. I hope I'm a better friend to him than you are a sister."

She got up. She said: "How dare you say that to me, Mr. Kells?"

I laughed at her. "Why not? You make a pretty picture of injured
dignity, but for two pins I'd put you across my knee and smack you. At
the present moment you make me sick."

She said: "Is that all you have to say to me?" I could see the tears in
her eyes. She was fighting to keep them back.

I said "No." I tried another fast one. "As the proprietress of this
house you're responsible for the servants in it. Have you the National
Insurance card and have you seen the passport of the alien who opened
the door to me?"

She said: "No..."

I asked: "Have his papers been seen by your housekeeper or your
butler--the English one?"

"No... I engaged the Alsatian."

"Nuts!" I said. "He engaged himself, didn't he? Just one more
question--you were leaving for your Villa in the Pas de Calais a few
days ago. Why has your visit been postponed?"

She said: "There's quite an innocent reason for that. There's been some
trouble with the foundations at the Villa. The local authorities have
made complaints about the drains. They are being put right. Directly
they are ready I shall go out there."

I said: "You'll go out there when I want you to go out there and not
before. Now let you and me understand each other, Miss Rockhurst. You're
going to stay in this house, and everyone else in the house at the
moment, including your Alsatian butler, is going to stay here, too.
Understand that I mean business. This house is being put under police
observation to-night. Any attempt on your part or anyone else here to
leave this place--to go out of the precincts of the village--will result
in your immediate arrest."

She made a last attempt to be dignified. She asked: "On what charge, Mr.
Kells?"

I smiled at her. "I don't have to give you a charge, sweetheart. If
you're arrested it will be under the Defence of the Realm Act. If your
brother Rockie ever hears of that he'll be awfully pleased with you,
won't he?"

She said nothing.

I concluded: "Well, now at last we understand each other. You're going
to see a lot of me, Miss Rockhurst--maybe to-morrow, maybe the next day,
maybe some other time--but until you do see me in person, and get your
instructions from me, be careful. You understand?"

She nodded.

I said: "Good afternoon to you."

I went out of the room. As I closed the door I looked through the crack.
She was sitting at the table, her head between her hands. I could see
her shoulders shaking. I thought: You poor little bitch! For the moment
I was tempted to go back.

Then I changed my mind. People who start something must learn to finish
it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I gave myself a good dinner at the Berkeley Grill. Really, I suppose, it
was a sort of celebration, although I wasn't quite certain that I had
anything to celebrate yet. But I was definitely on the way.

I walked from Piccadilly towards my apartment, wondering just how stupid
Valerie Rockhurst had been; what she had actually done. There was no
doubt that she had been playing some peculiar game. There was a definite
connection between Riffenbach and herself. Well, that was easy.
Riffenbach wanted to break away from the Russians and he wanted money.
He'd taken Volanski for a certain amount but that wasn't enough. So he'd
switched over to Valerie Rockhurst and she'd paid him twenty thousand
pounds in cash. For what?

Ostensibly, such a payment would be for information about Rockie, or
what was more likely a definite attempt to secure his release. But how
was this to be arranged. How did they expect to do it? Yet, I took it
that Riffenbach must have had some sort of evidence of his ability to do
something. After all, twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.

I arrived at the flat, and was just pouring myself a whisky and soda,
when the telephone bell rang. It was Miss Fains. I wondered what had
happened. If it was the Old Man, it was something urgent because he
hated using the telephone.

She said: "Is that you, Mr. Kells?"

I said: "Yes, Fains... what goes on?"

"He wants you. Hold on. I'll put you through."

The Old Man's voice came gruffly over the telephone. I thought he didn't
sound as bored as usual. He asked: "Is that you, Kells? Glyder's been
down here. He's given me a description of a friend of yours--somebody
you both saw last night. I suppose you've never heard of Professor
Adolfus Auerstein?"

I said: "Have I! That was the German scientist the Russians were looking
for--the one they couldn't find--the one who had been spirited out of
Berlin?"

He said: "Correct. They wanted Auerstein particularly, you remember. He
knew more about atomic energy than any of them did. They were fearfully
annoyed because they couldn't find him."

I said: "Yes. So what?"

He went on: "It may interest you to know that the mind and memory expert
of the Zeus Brothers is the same man--Adolfus Auerstein."

I whistled. I got it.

He asked: "Does that help you?"

I said: "It helps me plenty. Now I know what I'm doing."

He chuckled. "I wonder..."

I said: "Look, will you be at home to-night?"

He grunted. "I suppose so, although I've told you I don't like you
hanging about here."

"If you don't," I said, "you'd better come up here now. I think I can
see the story. We've got to get cracking."

He said: "Yes, you'll have to do something like that, won't you? All
right, come down."

I said: "Very well." I hung up.

I began to walk up and down my sitting-room. I had a peculiar feeling of
excitement--a feeling that told me that we were coming near to the end
of this business. So one of the Zeus Brothers was Adolfus Auerstein--the
scientist that the Russians would have paid any money to get their
fingers on. And here he was perambulating around London in a night club
act.

Another idea came to me. The other partner in the act--the man who had
announced him! This man had reminded me of someone. Now I knew who he
reminded me of. He reminded me of Riffenbach. I felt that I'd lay all
the tea in China that this second man was Riffenbach's brother or some
near relative. I grinned to myself. Now I knew what Riffenbach had sold
Valerie Rockhurst. The whole thing was plain.

I sat down and cooled off. Even if I could guess what was going to
happen I didn't know when it was going to happen or where. Maybe Valerie
Rockhurst could supply this information, but I doubted it.

I sat there conning over the whole of this business from the beginning,
from the time I'd attended the weird cocktail party at Madame
Volanski's--of Riffenbach's talk with Carla, of his taking her to the
house at Forest Hills, of his death, of the letter from the mysterious
Sabina that I'd found in his pocket.

I sat upright in my chair and whistled again. That letter! What a mug
I'd been. If my ideas were right, Sabina was Riffenbach's boss. She was
in charge of the operation over here. She'd suspected Riffenbach of
disloyalty. She'd sent him the letter--the affectionate letter signed
Sabina that I'd found on him--which was no doubt intended to be some
sort of warning to watch his step.

But why should she do that? She could have rung him and told him that.
No one could have understood what the conversation was about. Therefore,
that letter had meant something else, and like a damn fool I'd put it
away, thinking that I'd extracted all the information that I could from
it.

I walked across to the bureau; unlocked the drawer; took out the letter.
I read it carefully. Ostensibly, it was a rather affectionate but
somewhat chiding letter. It took Riffenbach to task for his dilatory
attitude towards her. It pointed out that it was some days since she'd
seen or heard from him. She hoped he was not too busy or that his mind
was not "moving in other directions." She hoped and expected, because of
the great love that was between them, that she would hear from him
within the next day or so.

The letter went on to say that she considered he owed her a lot and she
would hate to come to the conclusion that he had deluded her in any way,
but she felt certain that something had happened. She desired to see him
and hear his own explanation.

I went to the telephone and rang Woldingham. I was lucky to find him in
his office. When he came on the line I said: "Look, Woldingham, this is
Kells. I've a letter here. It may be in code. It looks pretty innocent
but one never knows. Have you somebody who can deal with it right away?"

"Is it in English?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "But that doesn't mean a thing. It might be coded through
another language."

He said: "Could you make a guess at the other language."

"Yes... Russian..."

He said: "Well, if you let me have the letter at once I've got a man
who'll work on it but, you know, this business sometimes takes a long
time."

I said: "I know that, but I'll have to chance it. If you let me have a
motor cycle messenger straight away I'll send the letter back to you."

"Do that," he said. "I'll put my man on to it at once."

I said: "Do your damndest. If you can, let me have it back before twelve
to-night."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven forty-five. I wondered when I
was going to hear from Woldingham. I realised immediately that it was
useless being impatient. Codes are damn funny things. An expert can
decode a message providing that the message is based on some
alphabetical twist; otherwise it may take hours or days. There is no
code that can't be traced but in some cases the code expert spends a
week merely looking at the message trying to work out the key. I hoped
that Sabina wasn't very good at this department of her business.

The door-bell rang. I opened the door and found myself looking at
Woldingham's despatch rider. I took the envelope from him, signed his
receipt, slammed the door and hurried back to my sitting-room. I tore
open the envelope, read the note from Woldingham.

    "DEAR KELLS,

    This one's easy. I hope you get what you're after.

                                                                 W."

Enclosed was the decoded letter from Sabina to Riffenbach. It read:

    "_You are a liar, a cheat, a thief, and a traitor. However
    clever you may think yourself to be you will find that your end
    will be unhappy. As it is, at this moment you appear to be
    holding a winning hand. I have reported on your knavish
    operations and it is found necessary to agree to your demands.
    The package will be available on 5th August at the time--eleven
    o'clock to midnight--and at the place indicated._"

I whistled to myself. I could have kicked myself for my stupidity over
the note. To-day was the second of August and there were three days for
Riffenbach's operation to be carried out.

I thought of the Old Man, sitting waiting at his house, probably wearing
the check dressing-gown to which he was attached, drinking gin and
cursing me in five different languages.

I shrugged my shoulders. He would have to wait.

I gulped down a whisky and soda, filled my cigarette case, seized a hat
and hurried round to the garage.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was two o'clock when I arrived at Balcombe. I parked the car on the
grass verge at the end of the village, turned off the parking lights,
locked the car and began to walk quickly up the side road towards Valley
House.

It was a lovely night. There was a good moon and the lawns and parkland
around the house were silvered by the moonbeams.

The entrance gates of the house were closed and locked. I walked fifty
yards down the road, jumped for the top of the estate wall, managed to
get a grip, and pulled myself up. I dropped over the wall and, keeping
in the shadow of convenient trees, made my way towards the main
entrance.

I rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. I tried again, keeping my
finger on the bell for a good minute. I could hear the bell ringing
somewhere in the bowels of the house, but no one answered.

I gave it up. I went round the side of the house looking for a
convenient window. I found one--a small affair that looked like a pantry
window. I thought it big enough for me. I picked up a stone, smashed the
glass, undid the catch and wriggled through.

I found myself in a small kitchen. I took out my electric torch and made
my way upstairs to the main floor. All the rooms were silent and in
darkness. I went to the first, second and third floors. There was no
sign of life. The place was deserted.

I went down to the ground floor, sat on the bottom of the main
staircase. I lighted a cigarette and did a little quick cursing.

You never knew with women. Even when you thought you'd got them down,
and reduced to tears and helpless. Like hell!

Valerie Rockhurst had been like that--tearful and scared. But it hadn't
prevented her from collecting her staff, locking the house up and
clearing out.

She'd guessed that my threat of having the place put under observation
was mere bluff. Anyhow she'd taken a chance and it had come off. I would
have bet all the tea in China to a stale egg that she had jumped the
last boat for Calais, with her favourite Alsatian under-butler with her.

I thought to hell with her. If I'd found her she might have been able to
save me a certain amount of trouble but--I shrugged my shoulders--it
would all amount to the same thing in the end, and if she found herself
caught up in a bunch of trouble she could blame herself.

I went downstairs, wriggled through my window, walked back to the car.
It was a quarter to three and if I was going to make the Old Man's place
and get away before daylight I had to do some fast driving.

As I started off I remembered that it was the second or rather the third
of August.




Chapter Nine. Salvatini


I got down to the Old Man's place at a quarter past four, and nearly
burned the tyres off the car doing it. I parked just inside the white
gate; walked round to the side door; rang the bell.

Miss Fains, looking very attractive in a black and white check
dressing-gown with the top of her frilled nightdress showing at the
neck, said: "Good morning. I'm glad you got here in time for breakfast."

I said: "Don't be sarcastic, Fainits. You're talking to a tired and
harassed man."

She closed the door behind me. She said: "Like hell! Any time you're
harassed I'll fly a flag."

I asked: "How's the Old Man?"

She smiled beatifically. "Stamping with rage. I wouldn't like to be
you."

I said in my politest tone of voice: "Nuts!" I walked down the corridor
and opened the door of the Old Man's room.

He was sitting at the end of the table between two long candles, set in
antique silver candlesticks. The flickering light from the candles
didn't add to the joy of his expression. He was wearing a shepherd's
plaid dressing-gown and there was a bottle of gin, a carafe of water and
a glass in front of him. I noticed the bottle was three-quarters empty.

He said: "For God's sake... I expected you about half-past twelve or
one o'clock this morning. If you knew you were going to be as late as
this couldn't you have telephoned me?"

I put my hat on the table; drew up a chair; sat down opposite him. I
said: "I hadn't time. I made a mistake and I had to make up for it. I
had to go to Balcombe before I came here."

He grunted. "Oh, yes...! And how did you find Miss Rockhurst?"

I said: "I didn't. I got into the house through a pantry window. The
place was deserted. The birds had flown, which I consider to be an
impertinence. I'm annoyed with that girl. She interferes. She flies off
at tangents."

He helped himself to some gin; pushed the bottle towards me. He said:
"Drink some of this if you like. You'll find a glass in the sideboard.
And why are you annoyed with the girl? She's doing her best."

"What the hell do you mean by that one?" I said. "She's doing her best!
Like hell she's doing her best. She's making a damned nuisance of
herself."

"Is she?" he asked. "Consider, my impatient friend, if it hadn't been
for this girl we shouldn't even be next to this thing. I think we owe a
devil of a lot to Miss Valerie Rockhurst and the late lamented--or
unlamented--Riffenbach."

I found a glass; gave myself a shot. I said: "It was an impertinence
because I saw Valerie Rockhurst yesterday afternoon. I told her the
place was under observation and that if she or anybody else tried to
leave they'd be arrested."

He grinned sarcastically. "Quite obviously she didn't believe you."

I nodded. "It won't make any difference," I told him. "I know where I'll
find her."

"Good," he said. He sipped some gin. "Exactly what _is_ happening? You
seem to be giving yourself an amusing time on this job, Kells."

"It hasn't been so amusing," I said. "I was rather stupid, that's all. I
could have saved myself a lot of trouble."

"How stupid?" he asked.

"That note from Sabina," I went on, "the one I found on Riffenbach. It
didn't occur to me until late yesterday evening that as quite obviously
Sabina distrusted Riffenbach, she wouldn't write him a note like that.
It also struck me that if she had been put in to keep an eye on him she
wouldn't have allowed him to seduce her."

He said: "So what?"

"I came to the conclusion," I told him, "that the letter was in code. I
sent it to Woldingham. It _was_ in code, coded through the Russian
language. The letter was a threatening letter. It accused Riffenbach of
being a liar, a thief and a traitor--pretty strong language. Then it
went on to say that in spite of his general nastiness the situation
being as it was the plan he had formulated would go through. It also
said that the date for delivery of the package was August 5th--that is
in two days' time."

He said: "I see. You don't know where the package is to be delivered?"

"I can guess," I said. "Anyway, I'll take a chance on it."

He yawned. "Kells, you always were pretty good at taking a chance.
Perhaps you'll give me the whole story."

"It's all fairly simple--now," I said. "But it's been hard putting the
pieces together. _You_ gave me the last piece when you gave me that
identification of the Zeus brother with the marvellous memory."

He smiled at that one. "You might as well know that I've been able to
check on the one who was with him--the other Zeus brother," he said.
"Would it surprise you to know that his name is also Riffenbach?"

"No," I said. "I'd guessed that. Here's the story. Riffenbach, who was a
Commandant of a Concentration Camp, was arrested by the Russians at the
end of the war and taken off to Russia. I take it that the other
Riffenbach who looks like his brother knew of this. He also knew that
the Russians were looking for a German scientist called Auerstein. So,
with the future in mind, he probably told some funny story to Auerstein
about what the Russians would do to him if they got him and took him out
of Germany, and he's probably been wandering round the world with him
ever since doing the Zeus Brothers Act. Then, I take it, somehow he
managed to get word to his brother in Russia that he had got Auerstein.
He probably thought that his brother could make a deal with them, turn
in Auerstein and get his own freedom.

"But our Riffenbach was too clever for that. He just sat down and
waited. He'd made up his mind that when he got out of Russia he was
getting out for good.

"So then they got Rockie. And Riffenbach saw his chance. He suggested to
the Russians that if they wanted Auerstein they could do a deal. He
suggested that they exchanged Rockie for Auerstein with himself as the
intermediary."

The Old Man nodded. "Very plausible, Kells... very plausible indeed."

"Of course," I went on, "the Russians aren't fools. They distrusted
Riffenbach, so they got in touch with a woman agent--I should think she
was a pretty hot one too--Sabina, with instructions to contact
Riffenbach in England and see that he did the job. Incidentally, I'd
take a shade of odds that it was this Sabina who killed Hermione Martin
in Paris. She'd left England and gone over there to have a consultation
with Marcini.

"So Riffenbach started work. He picked up an old girl called Olga
Volanski. He picked her up because the Russians were temporarily keeping
him short of money and she had plenty of it. They came over to England
and then Riffenbach set about putting the second part of his plan into
action."

The Old Man poured some gin into his glass. He asked: "What was that,
Kells?" His tone was slightly less acid.

I said: "Riffenbach had not the slightest intention of handing Auerstein
over to the Russians in exchange for Rockie. Remember, Auerstein is a
German--a very distinguished one. What Riffenbach intended to do was
this: He knew Rockie and he knew his sister, or he'd heard of her. He
knew they had lots of money. So he went down to Balcombe and saw her. He
told her that if she liked to pay him twenty thousand pounds he'd
produce Rockie. Clever, wasn't it?"

The Old Man said: "Not bad. These Germans have a lot of brains, you
know."

I went on: "He was able to convince her that what he said was the
truth."

The Old Man asked: "How did he intend to carry out this deal?"

I said: "It's fairly simple. This Sabina--his Russian boss--was running
a dress shop in Bruton Street called Yvette Cambeau. Riffenbach wanted
to link up with the Secret Service here. Well, it was easy enough. He'd
been warned about me. He knew I was sticking my nose into the Rockhurst
business. So he threw a party and caused an invitation to be sent to me.
The invitation ostensibly came from Madame Olga Volanski.

"I went. I took Carla with me. If Riffenbach hadn't been drunk that
night he might have talked business to me then. But he was cock-eyed, so
he let it go. And being cock-eyed, because he was stuck on Carla he took
her out to the house at Forest Hills and tried to make her. But she
wasn't playing; and anyway he was probably too drunk. But he told her he
could make her a lot of money. It's fairly simple, isn't it? He intended
to see me--probably the next day. He was going to tell me that an
exchange--Rockie for Auerstein--had been laid on. He was going to tell
me that that exchange would take place in a neutral country. That's
commonsense. The Russians certainly wouldn't bring Rockie over here and
Auerstein certainly wouldn't go into Russia. Besides, Valerie Rockhurst
would probably have had something to say about that. She'd probably told
Riffenbach that the exchange must take place in her Villa in the Pas de
Calais.

"Then Sabina became a little suspicious. They'd probably been watching
Riffenbach and wondered what the hell he was at. So she got tough with
him and he stalled her by simply telling her that the deal was going
through as arranged, but that he'd decided to make a little money on the
side. Because he'd got Valerie's twenty thousand pounds. Sabina didn't
like this, but what the devil could she do? That's what she meant by the
note. It was necessary that his plan should go through."

The Old Man nodded. He said grudgingly: "Not bad, Kells. It looks like
common sense to me."

I grinned at him. I finished my drink; went round the table; picked up
the bottle and emptied it into my glass. I said: "You can take it from
me that it's right enough. Riffenbach was going to see me and tell me
the whole story. He was going to suggest that we kept this appointment
for the exchange, took Rockie and refused to hand over Auerstein who
should be brought back to England. In return for this Riffenbach was
going to ask me for a haven--probably for the rest of his life--in
England, and a guarantee that no proceedings under the War Crimes Act
would be brought against him. He had quite a brain, this Riffenbach."

The Old Man grunted. "The damn fool would probably have got away with
it. You'd have certainly agreed to his terms, instead of which he has to
get drunk, talk a lot of nonsense to that Polish woman Carla and then
shoot himself accidentally." He grinned. "There's many a slip," he said.

He looked at the empty bottle; went to the sideboard; produced a fresh
one. He asked: "What are you going to do now?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "There's only one thing for me to do. That's to
go on following my nose. The Zeus Brothers were performing at the
Cossaque Club. They left suddenly. The Manager told me they'd forgotten
a contract and had to keep it. That was baloney. Riffenbach's brother is
taking old man Auerstein like a lamb to the slaughter! All I can do is
to get over to France as quickly as I can." I looked at my watch. "It's
twenty to five. If I can get off in a few minutes I'll get the first
boat from Dover. I don't want to fly; it's too dangerous... maybe
they'll have somebody at the airport in France, and one's too easily
recognised on a plane. So I'll take the boat."

The Old Man said: "All right. I'll get word telephoned through to
Salvatini. Where do you want to meet him?"

I said: "I'll meet Salvatini at three o'clock this afternoon, the third
of August, at the Caf Ligois in Boulogne. What we do then depends on
what he knows. Do you think he knows much?"

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what he knows. You'll
have to do your best. Do you want another drink?"

I said: "No thank you, sir." I picked up my hat. "Good night... I'll
be seeing you."

It was only when I got to the door that the Old Man said: "I hope so,
Kells, for your sake! By the way, if things get really tough, and you
have to have a show-down, Salvatini has a contact with the French Second
Bureau  Commissaire Velin. You can use the French police through him if
you have to. Salvatini knows where to get him. He'll have a car waiting
for you at Calais. Good night."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The _Invicta_ arrived at Calais just after two. I stood in the stern
gangway, watching the people on the quay--the usual horde of Customs
officials, tourists and the varied assembly that one finds at Calais.
Then I thought I saw somebody waving to me. Then I made certain that
somebody was waving to me.

She was standing on the other side of the railway line just outside the
Customs House. She was a neat, well-figured young woman of, I imagined,
about twenty-five years of age, and she was wearing a very well-cut
tweed coat and skirt and brown brogue shoes. She looked very attractive.

I waved back. I thought that anyway one might try anything once. Then I
went off the boat; walked over the railway line. She came towards me.

She said: "Good afternoon, Mr. Kells." She spoke very good English, but
I could just detect the undertone of a foreign accent.

I said: "Good afternoon. Should I know you?"

"That's for you to decide, Mr. Kells. But I was told that you might be
crossing on a boat to-day, so I came here on the chance of meeting you."

I said: "This is very nice. Tell me, why did you want to meet me? It
wouldn't be my manly beauty or anything, would it?"

She laughed. She shook her head. "No, Mr. Kells. Although"--she looked
at me archly--"it _might_ have been! But I have a message for you. Could
we go somewhere where I could give it to you?"

I said: "Of course. Would you like some lunch? We'll go into the
refreshment room."

She said: "No. But I'd like to drink a cup of coffee with you."

We went into the restaurant next to the Customs shed. I ordered coffee.
I wondered just exactly what the game was and how long she was going to
be telling her message. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past
two and my appointment with Mario Salvatini was at three o'clock at the
Caf Ligois, Boulogne. I could do it in half an hour, so I had ten
minutes to spare. The waiter brought the coffee.

When he had gone away I asked: "Well, Mademoiselle, or Miss or
Senorita--or whatever it is--what about this mysterious message?"

She said: "There's nothing very mysterious about it, Mr. Kells. But I
believe that you desire very much to meet a lady called Yvette Cambeau."

I looked at her. Her face was perfectly innocent. She was smiling. Only
her eyes were hard.

I said: "I should very much like to meet Madame Cambeau. Did she send
you to see me?"

She nodded. "Madame Cambeau desired me to tell you that she thinks that
you are inclined to be making a mountain out of some mole-hills. She
said I was to tell you that any little differences of opinion between
you two might easily be put right. She asked if you would like to see
her--in confidence, of course."

I said: "I should--very much."

"Well, that is excellent, Mr. Kells..." She went on: "About fifteen
miles inland behind Boulogne there is a small village called
Lozalle-le-Pont. There is only one house of any size in Lozalle. It is
at the top and to the right of the main road and you can see Madame
Cambeau there to-night at eleven o'clock."

I did some quick thinking. It was the third of August--two days to go
before the arrangements for the delivery of the "package." Was the
mysterious Yvette Cambeau being serious? Was this a ruse to gain time or
make me lose a day. I shrugged my shoulders. What difference could that
make.

The girl opposite me said: "Madame Cambeau desired me to tell you that
you need have no fear, Mr. Kells. She suggested that if you felt that
this might be some sort of plot against you, she would have no objection
to your informing the Boulogne police where you were going. She
suggested they might even like to call for you about midnight if you so
desired." She looked at me archly. Her face broke into an attractive
smile. She went on: "I assure you, Mr. Kells, there's nothing for you to
be afraid of."

"Thanks a lot. I wasn't thinking particularly about my own hide. Very
well. Tell Madame Cambeau that I shall be with her at eleven o'clock."

She finished her coffee; held out her hand. "She will be delighted to
have your message. Good afternoon, Mr. Kells." She got up; walked out of
the restaurant. She had an attractive walk and a very good figure. I
wondered who the hell she was.

I went outside; went through the Customs; looked around for the car
which the Old Man had promised would be waiting for me. There it was--a
nice-looking Jaguar. A man who looked like a garage mechanic was
standing by it.

He said: "M'sieu Kells? I am ordered to hand this car over to you. Use
it as long as you want to, and when you have finished with it, if you
will return it to a garage called Germaine Frres. It is on the corner
of the main cross-roads."

I said: "Thanks a lot." I got in the car and started off. I had
twenty-five minutes to get to Boulogne. I did it in twenty-three and a
half; parked the car on the grass verge outside the Caf Ligois; went
in.

Salvatini was sitting at a table at the end of the room. He was smoking
a long, thin cigar--one of those things which have a straw down the
middle. In front of him was a cup of coffee. There was an expression of
complete tranquility on his face.

I went over to him. I said: "Hallo, Mario. It's a long time since I've
seen you."

He got up; smiled. He said in his very correct, almost pedantic English:
"Good afternoon, my friend Kells. I delight at seeing you again. I have
ordered a steak for you. They are keeping it hot." He told the waiter to
bring it.

Mario Salvatini was one of the oddest characters I have ever met. He
specialised in trouble. He liked trouble. He had worked for the Old Man
for the last two years of World War II and ever since. He was a clever,
cool, brainy operative but inclined sometimes to be slightly impatient.
Salvatini, who liked seeing a job through to its logical conclusion,
also liked doing it in the shortest possible time. He was quite reckless
and preferred action to argument. To my knowledge in the second world
war he'd killed at least half a dozen enemy agents with his own hands.
He did not like using a pistol. He said it made too much noise. His
favourite weapon was a stiletto--a ten-inch bladed affair which he
carried in a leather sheath suspended from his left armpit rather like a
shoulder holster. He knew just where to put that stiletto. He told me
once that he had studied the human frame until he was certain of getting
the knife in the right place. He said it was disconcerting to find the
point of the knife obstructed by a bone.

He was tall and thin and, I believe, was slightly tubercular. His face
was long and his soft brown eyes looked out at you from his aquiline
features. They were strange eyes. Their expression seldom changed and I
imagine if Salvatini killed you they'd look just the same, rather as if
he were very sorry for what he had to do but it _had_ to be done.

I told him about the girl who'd met me at Calais. He shrugged his
shoulders. "It is interesting," he said. "What are you going to do?"

I said: "What can I do? Maybe I'm taking a chance but Cambeau may have
something to say. Maybe I've seen her before." I grinned at him. "Or
perhaps I'm going to meet a stranger, but it's damned funny that she
should have a girl waiting to meet me like that. Perhaps she really has
something to say to me."

He shrugged his shoulders again. He asked: "Do you think this Cambeau
would do something desperate? Do you think she wants to get you over to
this house at Lozalle and iron you out?" He smiled. "It would be a pity
to have your adventurous career cut short at a little French village. It
would seem to be an anti-climax, my dear Kells."

I said: "Well, you know where I'm going. Why don't you come out, too?"

He said: "I was going to suggest the same thing. But I'll come alone if
you don't mind. You go and keep your appointment. I'll arrive from
another direction. It'll be dark to-night with very little moon. I'll
park my car somewhere and keep a fatherly eye on everything."

I said: "All right. What happened to Musette--the woman you picked up?"

"She's living here at the moment--in Boulogne. I don't know what's going
on. She's staying in a small boarding-house--a place of great
respectability. She goes for a walk. She comes back. I've bribed one of
the servant maids in the house to listen to her telephone calls but she
hasn't made any. She talks to nobody."

I said: "She's probably waiting for instructions from somewhere."

Salvatini said: "Maybe. But, you know, she looks to me like a very
intelligent girl."

I said: "I'm sure she is."

He went on: "Would it interest you to know that Miss Rockhurst has
arrived at her house--not very far from here--about ten miles along the
road to Montreuil; then off to the left. A delightful villa. She arrived
there with a maid and a butler. The housekeeper had already been sent
there. I understand they were coming before but her arrival was delayed
until some repairs which were being done at the house were finished. But
she's there."

I asked: "What else, Salvatini?"

"Nothing else. I've an operative keeping observation on the place. If
anyone else arrives I shall know. I am staying here in the town. Here is
my address and telephone number." He gave me the slip of paper. "What
happens now?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. But something's going to happen
pretty quickly. The fifth of this month--in two days' time--is the
important date. This is the date on which some arrangement with Miss
Rockhurst is being brought to a conclusion. I suggest there's nothing we
can do but wait. Tell your man who is keeping an eye on the Rockhurst
menage to let you know if he sees anything that he considers suspicious
or important."

He asked: "Where are you going to stay? There's an excellent hotel
half-way down the main street--the Hotel Jocelyn. Why don't you stay
there? The patron is a very old friend of mine. He is to be trusted as
to when he speaks or when he keeps his mouth shut."

I said: "Good. I'll stay there, Salvatini."

He lighted a cigarette. "Eat your lunch," he said. "You must need it."

I ate my steak. He sat quietly watching me with his benign eyes; joined
me in a cup of coffee. Then I got up.

He said: "I shall stay here and drink some more coffee and think. I take
it that you will be leaving your hotel to-night at about a quarter past
ten. Anyone will tell you the road to Lozalle. It's a good-class road,
off the main Calais/Boulogne road. The place is about twelve miles away.
I shall arrange to arrive there from another direction at about a
quarter to eleven."

I said: "Thanks a lot, Mario. I'll be seeing you."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The village of Lozalle-le-Pont looked almost ghostly in the light of my
head-lamps. It consisted of fifty or sixty cottages, with here and there
a small farm building. The road had been rutted by heavy carts and I
bumped along uneasily until at the outskirts of the village the road
improved. The night was not as dark as Salvatini had prophesied.

Away to the right, standing within a wall, I could see the house. I
turned off on to a road little more than a wide pathway; drove through
the gates, along the short drive that curved round to the entrance of
the house. I parked the car by the side of some bushes; stood looking at
the house. It was not large, but it was old and compact, and it looked
as if it might have been the manor house at some time, or the house of
the local squire. There was no sign of life. The place was in pitch
darkness. There was no smoke issuing from a chimney. I thought it would
have made a good setting for a ghost story.

I crossed the gravelled clearing in front of the house; went up the
steps; rang the bell. Its echoes jangled through the house. I didn't
even like the bell, but maybe it was cracked.

I waited. Two or three minutes went by and then the large, oaken door
was opened. Behind it was a hall, dimly lighted, and in the light I
could see standing by the door a short, stupid-looking boy. He was
wearing a very old butler's waistcoat and a green baize apron.

He asked: "Are you Mr. Kells?" His voice was guttural and he spoke
slowly as if he had learned what he had to say by heart.

I said: "Yes. Is Madame Cambeau in?"

He nodded; motioned to me to follow him. He shut the door carefully
behind me and preceded me across the hall, down a short passage and into
a room on the right. The room was comfortable. It was panelled in oak
and filled with antique furniture. It was a high-ceilinged room and at
the far end, about twelve feet above the floor level, was a small
musicians' gallery. On the right hand side of the door, in the centre of
the room, was a gate-legged table and on it was a selection of bottles
and glasses. There was a small glass pot of caviar, thin biscuits and a
pot of butter.

The boy went away; closed the door behind him. I walked over to the
fireplace; stood with my back to it. I lighted a cigarette. Opposite me,
in the corner of the room, was another door.

The door opened. Musette came into the room. But how different she
looked.

I said: "Good evening, Musette, _alias_ Madame Yvette Cambeau, _alias_
Sabina."

She smiled. Now she seemed quite handsome. The peculiarly stolid and
slightly stupid expression which she had worn on her face when she was
being Musette in the Bruton Street shop had disappeared. She was wearing
a straight, black velvet skirt, a hand-embroidered French lace blouse, a
dog collar of pearls. Her hair was dressed in a fashion which suited her
well.

She came across the room; stopped a few feet from me. She was smiling.
She said: "Mr. Kells, they tell me that the majority of women are
stupid; that when they come up against something that looks like failure
they are unable to see it. I have never been like that." She shrugged
her shoulders. "In other words, I know when I am beaten."

I said: "Well, that's something. And you know that you are beaten,
Musette--or Yvette or Sabina--whichever you prefer to be called?"

"I would like you to call me Sabina. That is my name, Mr. Kells. Will
you have a drink? You must need one after your drive."

I said: "Yes, if you'll join me."

She looked at me sideways. "Are you afraid that I am going to try to
poison you?" she asked.

"I don't think so, Sabina. That would be inartistic, wouldn't it?"

"Very inartistic." She went to the table. She asked: "Will you drink
whisky and soda?"

I nodded. She poured out the drink; brought it over to me. She stood in
front of me; put the tumbler to her lips and drank. "You see," she said,
"I am drinking your drink. Have no fear."

She gave me the glass. I tasted the drink. It was very good Scotch
whisky.

She returned to the table and mixed herself one. We stood looking at
each other.

I said: "Well, Sabina, what is all this in aid of? And tell me, did you
find the Brothers Zeus?"

"How could I?" she said. "Twice I went back to the Bruton Street shop
hoping to be able to get at the post. Each time I found Mr. Kells in
occupation. You got the note. I didn't. Which is unfortunate, but which
perhaps makes no difference."

I asked: "Why did you want to see them, Sabina? Was it to change the
date?"

She nodded. "Yes. If I had seen them somehow I would have managed to
change the date. If I had managed to change the date it might be that I
could have revenged myself on Alexandrov, the ex-Hetman of Cossacks."

I said: "You mean Riffenbach?"

"So you know about that?" she said. "So you know who he was?"

I said: "I know all about him. Do you want to revenge yourself on him?
Don't you know that he is dead?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Riffenbach dead?"

I said: "Yes. He threw a party--he and his friend Madame Volanski. I
went to it with a lady called Carla who sometimes works for me.
Riffenbach was drunk. He took Carla to a house in Forest Hills. He
wanted to make love to her; anyhow, that's what he said. Actually, he
wanted to get in touch with me----"

She interrupted. "The swine...! He was going to sell us out?"

I said: "I don't think so... not exactly. But, in any event, he never
got the chance. One of those things happened--one of those things that
can upset the best laid plans. My friend Carla suddenly recognised him
in the course of the evening. She remembered him as Riffenbach--the S.S.
Commandant of the Concentration camp where she had been in Poland. She
must have given it away because he drew an automatic pistol, evidently
intending to kill her. He tripped over an electric cord. The gun went
off and he shot himself. Funny, isn't it?"

She said: "I'm very glad. Now I understand."

I asked: "Do you, Sabina? What do you understand?"

She said: "He was planning to escape. He was planning not to go back to
Russia. He was planning somehow to upset the arrangement we had made."

I said: "You mean the arrangement made by the Russian Government for the
exchange of Rockhurst for Professor Auerstein?"

She said: "Yes... the business we were sent to carry out."

"I don't think Riffenbach minded the exchange taking place," I said.
"That will go through automatically. What he wanted to do was to get
away from you, my dear. So he went to Valerie Rockhurst and she gave him
twenty thousand pounds to arrange something which had already been
arranged--the exchange of her brother for the professor. Whether he ever
got the twenty thousand I don't know."

She shook her head. Now she was smiling. "He didn't get it. I got it."

It was my turn to look surprised. "How did that happen, Sabina?" I
asked.

She said: "On the first afternoon when you went out to Valley House to
see Miss Valerie Rockhurst she was very frightened. She thought that the
interference of your Secret Service people might mean that the exchange
would not come off. Riffenbach, who had always talked too much, had met
her before at the shop in Bruton Street. She had also met me. She
believed me to be Madame Cambeau, and she believed I was working
hand-in-hand with Riffenbach. So on the night of the day you saw her she
came to the shop and said that the thing must be done quickly before you
had any chance to interfere." She smiled. "She gave me the twenty
thousand pounds. It is about that that I wished to speak to you, Mr.
Kells."

I finished my whisky. She came over; took the glass from me; refilled
it. When she'd given it to me, she stood looking at me--a short, compact
and elegant figure--entirely poised, entirely controlled. I thought
Sabina would be a hell of an operative to have working on the right
side.

I said: "All right. Tell me about the twenty thousand pounds."

She said: "I'm going to tell you something. Probably you consider that
Riffenbach was a fool and stupid, but yet he had something which
appealed to women. He had something which certainly appealed to me. I
was fond of him in a strange sort of way and I hate him only because he
did not share his secret with me. He did not tell me what he was trying
to do."

I said: "I know. I found on him the letter in which you said you were so
angry with him for leaving you."

"You may not believe it, Mr. Kells, but I loved this man," she said
softly.

I thought to myself: What a liar you are. I realised, with a certain
satisfaction, that she did not guess that we had decoded her note to
Riffenbach; that she still believed I was taking it at its face value. I
thought: I wonder what the hell you are playing at now, my girl.

I said: "We're rather straying away from the twenty thousand pounds,
Sabina, aren't we?"

"No," she said. "We've come back to it. If Riffenbach had been a little
more candid with me; if he had told me what he was playing at, things
might have been very different. But that fool thought he was the only
person who was trying to escape from Russia. If he'd had enough sense to
talk to me, I would have told him that I would give one hand to escape
from Russia." She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment she looked
piteous. She went on: "Mr. Kells, you can consider what my life is like
in Russia. I work for the secret political police. I am given missions
to perform, missions which take me out into the world where people are
happy, where they work and live comfortably and have freedom. But always
in the end I have to return to that place, and then one day, if I fail
in a mission and I go back, what happens to me?"

I said: "It's damned funny, Sabina, you and Riffenbach having the same
idea in mind. As you say, if he'd told you the truth things might have
been a lot easier. As it is, things will take their proper course and
the exchange will take place, as laid down, on the fifth of August--the
day after to-morrow. Shall we come back to the twenty thousand pounds?"

She nodded. "Mr. Kells, I spoke from the heart. The twenty thousand
pounds which Miss Rockhurst gave me is buried under the hearth in the
workroom at Bruton Street. Quite obviously I couldn't bring this money
with me out of England. I would like you to have that money, but in
return I ask you to do something for me."

I lighted another cigarette. I looked at her through the flame of my
lighter. I said: "Well, why not? What do you want me to do?"

She said: "At the moment the arrangement is for Mr. Rockhurst--Valerie
Rockhurst's brother--to be exchanged at her Villa, which is not far from
here, for Professor Auerstein. Professor Auerstein will be brought to
the Villa by Riffenbach's brother, who has been hiding him from the
Soviets for some time. Rockhurst will be brought to the Villa by one of
my associates--a man who is working under my direction. They will be
exchanged. Auerstein will return to the Russian Sector of Germany
escorted by my assistant. Rockhurst will, I assume, go back to England.
But he will not go there alive. An attempt will be made on his life
whilst he is driving to Calais to catch the boat the next day."

"I see," I said. "I thought they were letting Rockhurst go a bit
cheaply."

She said: "He's a very dangerous agent. The Soviets hate him. He's
almost as dangerous as Mr. Kells."

She laughed, showing her white teeth. "You see, they don't like you,
either. But that is the plan. They will have Auerstein, who will leave
France by plane, and they will kill Rockhurst before he gets to the
boat. They _would_ have done this if I hadn't told you, Mr. Kells. They
won't do it now. You will take the precautions. Rockhurst will be saved.
But you will please remember that it is I who warned you. I--Sabina--who
am also being a traitress to my country."

I said: "Very nice. So Rockhurst will be saved and I get the twenty
thousand pounds. And what do you get?"

She said: "I want to come back to England with you. I am taking this
chance to escape. I wish to return to England. Arrange for me to live in
England. I will get some work. I make dresses very well, you know." She
flashed a quick smile at me. "I will keep myself somehow. My God, I will
escape from this hell I've been living in for the last ten years...."

I thought for a moment. I thought: What does it matter? The easiest
thing in the world is to say yes. I said: "That's a deal, Sabina. After
the exchange has taken place on the fifth you can return to England with
us. We might find a seat for you in the car next to Rockhurst so that if
anybody tries something they might get you. And thanks for the twenty
thousand. I expect Miss Rockhurst will like to have it back again. Is
that all?"

She said: "Yes, that is all. Now I am in your hands."

"Don't worry," I said. I smiled at her. "I'll look after you, Sabina.
You might be very useful to me."

She came close to me. She put out her hand. She said: "Good night, Mr.
Kells. Remember that I trusted you."

I followed her to the front door. She opened it for me. She repeated:
"Good night, my friend. God bless you." I heard the door close behind
me.

I walked down the steps, crossed the courtyard, which was in complete
darkness: followed the winding carriage drive to where I had left my
car. I was putting my hand out for the door handle when a voice said
softly:

"Do not touch anything, my friend."

It was Salvatini. He came out of the bushes. He asked: "What did she
want to see you about--this delightful lady?"

I said: "She wanted to make a deal with me--twenty thousand pounds in
return for her safety. She wants to escape from the Russians."

He said: "Yes? You think so? Look, I have been having a very interesting
time. I arrived here about the same time as you did. I left my car away
out at the back of the house under some trees. I watched your arrival
from this coppice. You had not been in the house three minutes before a
gentleman turned up... a most peculiar gentleman. He decided to do
some work on your car. He was working on it for fifteen minutes. Then I
saw what he was doing, so I decided to deal with him. He is in the back
of your car."

I asked: "What goes on, Mario?" I opened the back door of the car; took
a pencil torch from my pocket; switched it on. A thin, short man was
lying back across the seat. His coat was open. His shirt front was
soaked in blood.

Salvatini said: "He died quickly. I stabbed him under the heart."

I shut the door. I asked: "What was he doing?"

Salvatini said: "Look at the front of the car. You see what I have done?
After I had killed him I went back to my car and got some string. I tied
a piece of string on to the accelerator, ran it under the clutch pedal,
and here is the end coming out of the window. Now give me your ignition
key."

I gave him the key. He took a small piece of wire from his pocket which
he inserted in the hole in the key. Then he tied another piece of string
round the wire. He slipped the ignition key carefully into its place.

"Now, my friend," he said, "we will go away. I have plenty of string. On
the other side of this coppice about twenty feet away I will pull the
string which will pull down the ignition key and start the car. The
brakes are off. Then I will pull the other string which will pull down
the accelerator. The car will start off. Then you will see what will
happen. He has put enough explosive under that car to blow twenty cars
up. There is a fulminate of mercury detonator wired up to the
accelerator. When the accelerator is pushed down the detonator explodes.
That sets off the rest of the stuff. Now we will see."

He picked up the trailing strings; walked into the coppice. I went with
him.

Salvatini said: "Now watch..." He pulled on the string in his left
hand. I heard the engine start up. Then he pulled on the other string.
The car began to move down the drive. It had gone fifteen yards when the
explosion occurred. Salvatini and I went down on our faces. Then we got
up.

He said: "You see, she's a nice woman. She kept you there talking while
they fixed for you to exit from this life." He smiled at me in the
darkness. "And they'll know they have succeeded because they will find
one or two little pieces of our friend whom we left in the back. She
will think that is you. Do you understand, my friend?"

I said: "Very nice work, Mario. Let's find your car, go back to Boulogne
and have a drink on it."

He said: "You know, my dear Kells, I am a very intelligent man. Whilst
you are with Mario Salvatini you are safe."

We began to walk through the grounds towards the back of the house. I
was thinking about Sabina. I was thinking that she was some baby!




Chapter Ten. Rockie


Salvatini came down the back steps that led out of the lounge into the
little garden behind the Hotel Jocelyn. I was sitting in a deck-chair
smoking. He brought a chair over; set it down opposite me; sat down,
stretched. He lighted a cigarette.

He said: "Well, my friend... is it that there is nothing more that we
can do but wait until to-morrow night?"

"I don't know, Mario," I said. "I have a feeling of anti-climax, if you
know what I mean."

He nodded. "I know what you mean. Having regard to everything you have
told me about this affair there are some questions that disturb me a
little."

I said: "There are some that disturb me too, Mario. Give me some of
yours."

He asked: "Why should our sweet little girl friend Sabina wish to murder
you last night?"

I said: "I think that one's easy. If I attended the exchange in my
capacity as a British Secret Service agent it would be the obvious thing
for me to do to prevent Auerstein from being handed over. Auerstein is a
very clever scientist. We could make just as good use of him as the
Russians. She would think that I'd create a situation, or try to, under
which we got Rockie and kept Auerstein."

Salvatini smiled faintly. He said softly: "You're not going to tell me,
my friend, that that is not what you are planning to do--only you can't
find the way to do it?"

I said: "I can't very well. First of all, I'm taking it, for the sake of
argument, that this exchange at the moment is on the up and up. I am
taking the point of view that the Russians are willing to give up
Rockhurst provided they get Auerstein and, having got Auerstein, they'll
proceed to take him quietly away, leaving us to go off with Rockhurst."

He said: "You don't think that there is a possibility that they will
make some attempt on Rockhurst's life after the exchange has been
completed?"

I shook my head. "I can't see somebody taking a pot-shot at Rockhurst
before they have had time to get Auerstein back to Germany. I think that
was just a little story on Sabina's part."

He said: "My friend, I have been out to Lozalle-le-Pont this morning.
You must realise that the noise of that explosion must have penetrated
to the village. I knew there would be questions asked."

I queried: "Well?"

Salvatini said: "A story was put about that the immense gas circulator
in the basement of the house blew up last night because someone had left
the pilot light on. And it did. Sabina, or the idiot house-boy, had
arranged a simultaneous explosion. This seems to have kept everybody
quiet." He continued: "You have not had very much chance to read the
French newspapers lately. I have. There have been all sorts of
explosions all over the country during the last three weeks. Sometimes
one or two people have become hurt, but usually the explosions are in a
lonely place. A barn has been blown up. There has been an explosion in a
garage late at night when nobody was at work. There have been twenty or
thirty of these things happening during the last three months and in
each case they are said to be due to Communists. Does this mean nothing
to you?"

I said: "Not a great deal. What does it mean to you?"

"I'll ask you another question," said Salvatini. "In order to kill you
last night why was it necessary to blow up your motor car? Wouldn't it
have been just as easy for someone to stick a knife into you? Remember
that the attractive young lady who met you when you came off the boat
yesterday told you you need have no fear of going to Lozalle to meet the
supposed Yvette Cambeau; that if necessary you could even tell the
police where you were going."

I said: "Yes. There's an obvious answer to that. She knew perfectly well
I wouldn't tell anybody I was going to meet her."

"Exactly," said Salvatini. "And then you disappear. You are blown up in
a car, and this explosion, if anybody wishes to disbelieve that it was
the gas circulator in the manor house which had blown up, would have
been attributed to some Communist wishing to give vent to a grievance.
And this Sabina of yours goes to all the trouble of employing an expert
on explosives to be in attendance at the house and to erect an infernal
machine in your car whilst you are inside talking to her. Well?"

"I thought of that one, Salvatini," I told him.

He said: "You mean the repairs to the drains of the house of Miss
Rockhurst?"

I said: "Exactly. This is the way out of all their difficulties.
Supposing, for the sake of argument, that there were no repairs to the
drains; supposing, for the sake of argument, that the gentleman who
fixed my car last night has also been at work at Miss Rockhurst's Villa?
How simple it is. If they have an explosive charge with a time fuse
attached to it, they keep their appointment to-morrow night. Sabina's
boy friend arrives on time and hands over Rockhurst. He leaves with
Auerstein. Well, naturally, everyone is going to stay the
night--everyone who was concerned in this business, that is Miss
Rockhurst, Rockhurst himself, Riffenbach's brother. They wouldn't be
foolish enough to leave in the middle of the night. And the time fuse
works according to the time it has been fixed for--midnight or early
next morning. So they still get Rockhurst and they would also get
Auerstein."

Salvatini said: "My friend, I think you are perfectly right. Something
has to be done."

I said: "Precisely. But what? This business can be arranged very easily
if we are prepared to ask for the co-operation of the local police; to
tell them the whole story; to have Rockie and the man who is conducting
him--they must be arriving shortly, if they are not already here--picked
up and tailed until they keep the appointment. But if this is done the
story will leak out--the very thing that nobody wants."

Salvatini shrugged his shoulders: "I agree with you, my friend." He blew
a smoke ring; watched it sail across the garden.

"But for Sabina," he said, "I would have a peaceful mind. But I do not
believe in fairies. This woman is a dyed-in-the-wool Soviet. She is
furious with Riffenbach because he wished to play his own hand. I
believe that if he were not already dead she would have killed
him--after, of course, the negotiations for the exchange were
successfully carried through."

I nodded. "Yes," I said, "she probably would have done that. She's like
that."

Salvatini said: "I think it would be a good idea if I took a quiet look
around at Miss Rockhurst's villa to-night. I might examine the work on
the drains which the workmen are supposed to have done during the last
few days."

He got up and stretched. "It would not surprise me in the slightest to
find the drains filled with high explosive. _Au revoir_, my friend. I
will keep in close touch with you."

He departed, humming to himself.

I lighted a cigarette and allowed my mind to run over the events of the
last few days. Everything seemed quite logical to me except one
thing--Sabina. This lady's attitude was inexplicable and almost amazing.

Even if she suspected that I had some idea in my head to snatch
Auerstein at the last moment it would have been reasonable to wait and
see what I intended to do. To blow me up in a motor car and take a
chance on some passer-by seeing the incident and informing the police
seemed rather a drastic measure--or did it?

An idea struck me. Was it necessary that I should be put out of the way
for some _other_ reason?

I thought about this for some time and the answer struck me like a
well-aimed brick. With me out of the way there was only one other person
who could identify Rockie. That other person was his sister Valerie.

Supposing that she and I were both disposed of before the exchange took
place. Supposing Sabina's representative arrived with some other man who
had been coached carefully in his part, someone who looked vaguely like
Rockie. Who could tell the difference. Certainly not Riffenbach and
certainly not Auerstein!

If this plan were successfully carried out the Russians would get
Auerstein and we should be left with some stooge that they would
probably be glad to be rid of.

A waiter came out into the garden. He said: "You are wanted on the
telephone, M'sieu."

I went into the hotel. It was Salvatini.

"My friend," he said, "you will be interested to hear that I have been
in touch with Velin of the French Second Bureau. I asked him to keep an
eye on the air-ports locally. He tells me that Auerstein and his escort
arrived by plane an hour ago. They are in Calais, staying at the Hotel
Grand Duc. Their movements are being watched." He laughed softly. "So it
looks as if our 'D' day is arriving. Would you like to give me any
instructions?"

"No, Mario," I told him. "Just stay put at your place so that I can get
in touch with you when I want you."

He said: "O.K."

I went back to the garden and stretched myself out in my deck-chair. I'm
pretty hard-bitten, but I began to feel a peculiar sort of excitement
that I do not often experience.

Then I began to think about Valerie Rockhurst. I wondered just how much
help this girl could give me--supposing she wanted to help. I shrugged
my shoulders at that one. Valerie Rockhurst didn't want to help for the
simple reason that she couldn't help. She'd sold out to the enemy, high,
wide and handsome. She knew they held the trump card as far as she was
concerned--her brother--and she was not particularly interested in
anyone else.

The idea had been well and truly put into her head that if she in any
way divulged anything to anyone outside the immediate circle concerned,
Rockie would have short shrift. She wasn't wise enough to understand
that whilst he was of bargaining use to the Russians they would keep him
in cotton wool. They wanted Rockie, but they wanted Auerstein more, and
whilst they wanted Auerstein and hadn't got him, Rockie was safe.

I supposed it was natural for her to take this attitude, but very
annoying at the moment.

But women can be very annoying, and the trouble with Valerie was that
she was controlled by her heart and not her head.

Yes, there was something about her that was definitely very attractive.
I have met many women in my life, quite a lot of them beautiful, and I
suppose in a quiet way I've rather got a name for myself as a woman
chaser, but to me this girl with the ash-blonde hair had got something.
She'd certainly got guts! I wondered what would have happened if she'd
seen this thing through entirely on her own. If she'd come over to
France to the Villa to make the exchange; if Auerstein had been
exchanged for Rockie, what then? I suppose she thought that all would be
well, and all she and Rockie would have to do would be to take the first
boat home. She thought the other side would be satisfied with that. I
grinned. What a hope she had! Evidently she believed too much in the
decency of human nature, thinking about people who hadn't any decency
and weren't even human. I wondered what chance Valerie would have had
against Sabina.

I thought I'd go and see her. I went into the hotel, got my hat, walked
round to the garage and picked up the car Salvatini had left for me. I
thought, with a grin, that in any event life wasn't boring.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Villa stood two hundred yards off a side road running off from the
main Montreuil road. It was an attractive place; standing just outside a
little wood, it was surrounded by gardens. It was white, with a veranda
running round four sides of the house, the entrance facing away from the
road.

I parked the car; climbed over a low fence; began to walk towards the
house. Two gardeners were working in the gardens. The sun was shining.
There was an air of peace, almost of happiness, about the place. I
wondered what it would look like if Sabina and Company had had the
drains filled with high explosive as Salvatini had suggested.

I walked down a path leading through the garden; came up to the
entrance. I mounted the five steps that led on to the veranda; went
through the open door; found myself in a small, bright hallway.
Opposite, a door was open. I went in.

I said: "Good morning, Miss Rockhurst."

She was arranging flowers in a bowl on the other side of the room. Even
at that distance I could see that her hands were trembling. She put the
flowers down on the table; turned and faced me. Her face was drawn, her
eyes exhausted, but even so she was very beautiful. She wore a blue
linen frock with a lace collar and cuffs. I thought she looked good
enough to eat.

She said: "Mr. Kells..."

I said: "You know, I'm rather like a bad penny. I always turn up. Do you
think I might have a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, of course." She went to the fireplace, rang the bell.

In a moment a servant came. She ordered coffee.

She said: "Won't you sit down? What is it you want to tell me, Mr.
Kells?"

I said: "Ever since I met you you've been a bad girl. You seem to have
an idea in your head that you have more brains, more acumen, than all of
us put together. You've interfered. You've behaved very badly. I suppose
you haven't by any chance changed your mind since I saw you last."

She asked: "What do you mean?"

I said: "You wouldn't like me to tell the truth about everything, would
you? I might be very useful."

She said: "Mr. Kells, don't you guess the truth? Can't you understand
why I've done what I have done?"

"I can guess the truth all right," I told her. "The truth is that you're
a damned little fool. Do you know the sort of people you're dealing
with? Are you happy to accept their word for everything?"

She said: "They'll keep their word. They _must_."

The servant returned with the coffee. I lighted a cigarette. She poured
a cup; brought it over to me.

When the servant had gone I said: "So they _must_, must they? What you
mean is that you think they're bound to hand over Rockie in exchange for
Auerstein. I suppose you haven't thought about Auerstein. I suppose he
doesn't matter to you. Here is a man who is a distinguished German
scientist, who got out of his own country at the end of the war because
he knew the Russians were looking for him. He knew exactly what they
would do to him. He knew they'd take him back to Russia, and when they'd
finished with him; when he'd told them all he knew"--I shrugged my
shoulders--"you know what would have happened to him, don't you? I
suppose that wouldn't have concerned you?"

She said nothing. She stood, one hand resting on the table in the centre
of the room, looking thoroughly miserable.

I went on: "Tell me something. What do you think of Sabina? You probably
knew her as Madame Yvette Cambeau. What did you think of her?"

She said: "I don't know. She seemed very nice to me. She seemed in a
difficult position. She's a Frenchwoman. She was asked to arrange this
thing and she was doing her best for everybody."

I looked at her over the top of my coffee cup. Then I put the cup down.
I said: "Do you believe that? What a stupid little idiot you are. Your
charming Madame Cambeau is no Frenchwoman. She's a Russian. She's
employed by the Russian political police. This charming woman had high
explosive put in my car last night. She tried to blow me to little bits,
so you see, I don't think quite as much of her as, apparently, you do."

Her face went ashen white. She said: "My God...!"

"If you'd had any sense," I told her, "you'd have realised what is the
truth of this story. Riffenbach was the man who produced Auerstein,
because Auerstein has been for years in the charge of Riffenbach's
brother. Riffenbach was a German. He'd been held by the Soviets; forced
to work for them. He wanted to make his escape, so he took this means of
doing it and of getting enough money from you to enable him to regain
his freedom."

I got up. I walked over to her. I said: "Don't you think it's very funny
that you refused to trust me in this business because you thought it
might interfere with your brother's release, yet Riffenbach--the man you
were dealing with--intended to come and see me directly he'd got his
money from you, and place the whole business in my hands in order that
we could get Rockie out of this, keep Auerstein from Russian hands and
generally clear this mob up. You've been a great help, haven't you?"

She said nothing. She stood, her hands still resting on the table, her
head bowed.

I went on: "Do you think these people are going to surrender Rockie
unless they've got to. Do you think that? You must be _very_ trusting,
Miss Rockhurst, because I don't."

She said in a low voice: "What do you want me to do, Mr. Kells?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know that you can do anything. I
suppose the exchange of Auerstein for Rockie is to take place at this
Villa to-morrow night?"

She said: "No... no, it isn't. This was the original place, but I had
a telephone message this morning from Madame Cambeau, whom you call
Sabina, saying that it was to take place elsewhere; that I would be
telephoned to-morrow night and told where the exchange would take
place."

I asked: "And you're going there?"

She looked at me in amazement. "Of course..."

"Will you tell me why that should be necessary?" I asked. "If this
exchange is taking place at some place to-morrow night, wouldn't it be
quite easy for Sabina to have told your brother where to go. Why should
you be there?"

She said: "I don't know. I regarded that as being normal. I want to see
my brother."

"I bet you do," I told her. "I'd like to see him, too. I hope we'll both
be lucky, Miss Rockhurst. I hope we both _shall_ see him. If we do, it
won't be your fault."

She sat down on a chair. She put her head in her hands. Her shoulders
were shaking.

I said: "It's my considered opinion that if Riffenbach hadn't shot
himself accidentally: if Riffenbach weren't dead, Sabina would have got
him first for trying to make a deal with us. She's not a very nice
person. Killing is just nothing to her."

She was sobbing bitterly. I felt very sorry for her. I felt sorry for
Rockie, too, for myself and everybody else concerned in this job. I put
my hand on her shoulder.

I said: "I think you're an awful fool, my dear. Do you want to help?"

She said miserably: "If I can."

I said: "When you're informed by Sabina to-morrow night of the address
where the exchange is to take place, will you telephone me immediately
and tell me where it is."

She hesitated.

I asked: "Well...?"

Tears were running down her face. She said: "Mr. Kells, I can't tell
you. I can't. I wish I could. She told me that if I told anybody, if
anybody knew except myself where this exchange was to take place, they'd
kill Rockie."

I grinned. "That's not surprising, is it? Well, that's that. So long,
Miss Rockhurst. I'll be seeing you again--at least I hope so. For the
moment, _au revoir_!"

I went out of the doorway, across the hall, out into the garden. On my
way out of the room I could hear her sobbing. I thought I'd been tough,
but she deserved it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At three o'clock I telephoned Salvatini to arrange a meeting with Velin
of the Second Bureau. I saw Velin at half-past three, and at four we
descended upon the Hotel Grand Duc in Calais.

I looked at the register. There, in a bold handwriting, was the
signature "_Kurt Riffenbach_," and underneath that, of Auerstein. We
went upstairs.

Velin knocked at the door of their apartment. Somebody said: "Come in."
We went in. Riffenbach was standing in front of the fireplace smoking a
cigarette. He was a big, blond man of over six foot, going a little grey
at the temples. His face was thin, his eyes bright and intelligent. He
seemed very composed. By the looks of him, Riffenbach had been a soldier
at some time or other.

Velin said to him: "M'sieu Riffenbach, I am an officer of the Second
Bureau." He produced the leather identity case from his pocket; showed
it to Riffenbach. "I wish to introduce you to Mr. Kells. Mr. Kells is a
member of the British Secret Service. He wishes to talk to you. My
advice is that you do as he suggests. You understand that?"

Riffenbach smiled a little. "Yes, I understand that very well." He took
a cigarette case from his pocket; lighted a cigarette.

Velin said: "Very well. I shall wish you good afternoon, but I think I
ought to tell you, Mr. Riffenbach, that if Mr. Kells is not pleased with
your behaviour it will be my very unpleasant duty to impound your
passport and that of your friend Herr Auerstein."

Riffenbach smiled again. "I understand what you say."

Velin said: "Good." He went out of the room.

Riffenbach proffered his open cigarette case. He said: "I am very glad
to meet you, Mr. Kells, all the more glad because I have heard about you
from my brother."

I asked: "When did you last hear about me from your brother,
Riffenbach?"

He said: "Some days ago--about a fortnight. He intimated to me that he
was going to interview you. I hope it was a satisfactory interview."

I shook my head. "I am very sorry to tell you that your brother did not
interview me. If he had, things might have been a lot easier."

He raised his eyebrows. "So...! What happened?" he asked. "And won't
you sit down?"

I sat down. I said: "Just one of those little accidents, you know, which
occur in the best regulated of families. I'd like to confirm a few facts
with you. I take it that when the Russians took your brother out of
Germany at the end of the War, he had an opportunity to speak to you
before they removed him. Is that so?"

He nodded. "That is so."

"And," I continued, "you made your little plot about Auerstein?"

He nodded again. "We had an opportunity to speak before he was taken
away," he said. "He knew where he was going and what would happen to
him. The Russians were taking anybody who would be of use to them. What
they intended to do with him I don't know, but he thought--and obviously
he was right--that they would force him to work with their secret
police. We knew also--he and I--that they were looking for Auerstein,
who was the most distinguished scientist on atomic energy. We made our
plan. I was able to get away. I took Auerstein with me.

"A long time elapsed, and my brother was able to make some arrangements
with the Russians. This was after they took the English Secret Service
agent, Rockhurst. One of the people to apprehend Rockhurst was my
brother, and some time after this was done he suggested to them that he
could possibly arrange the exchange of Rockhurst for Auerstein."

I said: "I take it that your brother was a patriotic German?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "He was patriotic," he said. "He was
patriotic to the Hitler rgime. I also. But a German is always a German.
Now there is no Hitler, I am for Germany whatever she does, whatever she
is."

I said: "That sounds very nice, but does that match up with you handing
over a brother German--a distinguished brother German--to the Russians
in exchange for a British Secret Service agent in whom you could have no
interest whatsoever?"

There was a long silence; then he said: "Why do you ask me this
question, Mr. Kells?"

I said: "I'll tell you. You are here to make an exchange to-morrow
night. You are going to exchange Auerstein for Rockhurst. This exchange
will take place, I believe, in the house in Lozalle-le-Pont. Isn't that
right?"

He nodded. "That is perfectly right." He smiled gently. "You seem to
know what you are talking about, Mr. Kells, which is strange because you
tell me that you have not seen my brother."

I said: "That's correct. I haven't seen your brother, but he had an
opportunity of talking to an assistant of mine. I knew that he wanted to
see me and I knew what he wanted to see me about."

He drew a breath of cigarette smoke into his lungs. "Tell me, Mr. Kells,
what did he wish to see you about?"

I said: "Your brother wished to escape from the Russians. He planned
this exchange merely as an excuse to get out of Russia. They had to let
him go because he told them that Auerstein was in your charge and that
unless he handled the situation there would be no exchange. So they let
him go. But what he intended to do was to see me in England; to make
some arrangements with me, after which when this exchange had been
effected we would look after him. He wished to stay in England and he
could only stay there with our knowledge and consent."

He asked: "And what else?"

I took a chance. I said: "Your brother was a good German, as you are. I
could not conceive that he would allow a distinguished German scientist
to be exchanged for Rockhurst; to be taken back into Russia; to be put
to work for the Russians. He wished to plan with me some method by which
Auerstein could be rescued, so that we could get Rockhurst back but they
would not get Auerstein, and he would be safe. Is this right?"

He said: "Yes, that is right."

I asked: "Aren't you surprised, Riffenbach, that you have heard nothing
from your brother within the last few days?"

He said dubiously: "Yes, that is true. I thought I would have heard from
him."

I asked: "Do you know why you haven't heard from him?"

"No..." He looked at me intently.

I said: "Your brother is dead. Surely you know the Russians well enough
to realise that they weren't going to let him get away with anything. He
was working in England under the supervision of a Soviet agent named
Sabina--a woman. He's dead."

He made a little hissing sound through his teeth. "So... this Sabina
killed my brother?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Who else?"

He said: "I see... What goes on?"

I said: "It is my belief that this woman Sabina, who is a very dangerous
proposition, will make this exchange to-morrow night. She's already made
an attempt on my life. She believes I am dead, which is perhaps
fortunate. It is my belief that to-morrow night, after the exchange has
taken place, some attempt will be made on the life of Rockhurst _after_
they have Auerstein, which also means I take it, that you will be
eradicated in some way, too. They have probably got the whole thing laid
on."

"I see..." he repeated. He smiled a strange smile. "This isn't very
good, is it, Mr. Kells?"

I said: "I don't think it's too bad. I think there is still time to pull
the chestnuts out of the fire, but if we are to do this, it must be done
my way. I want to know if you are prepared to carry out my
instructions."

He said: "Mr. Kells, if I carry out your instructions what guarantee
have I?"

I said: "You have this guarantee. If we get away with this you can leave
this country and go back to Germany. You can take Auerstein with you, or
if you prefer it you can return to England and take him there; whichever
you please."

He smiled a little. He said: "At the moment I think it would be much
better if Auerstein and I went back to your country. Will you give me a
guarantee that if I do as you want we can do that?"

I said: "Yes, I give you my word."

He said: "I accept that." He shrugged his shoulders. "I _must_ accept
it. It seems to me that I am in a very difficult position. My brother
told me that he had everything arranged satisfactorily; that not only
could we arrange this business to our own way of thinking, but that
there would also be a considerable sum of money in it for us."

I said: "He was right. There was a sum of money--twenty thousand
pounds--but somehow, my friend, it has got into the wrong hands. Sabina
has it."

His face darkened. He said: "I see. Quite a clever person this Sabina. I
shall look forward to meeting her."

I asked: "When did you hear about the appointment?"

He said: "I heard about it here; immediately we arrived there was a
telephone call. I was told to go to-morrow night at eleven o'clock to
the manor house at Lozalle-le-Pont. Auerstein was to be with me. I was
to ring the front door-bell and I should be admitted; Rockhurst and my
brother would be there; the exchange would take place and we would leave
within fifteen minutes. I believed it because I did not think that these
Russians would try any funny business here in a neutral country."

I said: "You'd be surprised at what they'd try."

He asked: "Mr. Kells, what am I to do?"

I said: "This. You don't leave this hotel until to-morrow night. You
leave here in time to be at the manor house at Lozalle at a quarter to
eleven. You take Auerstein with you. Don't take any weapons because it
is quite on the cards that you will be searched when you get to the
house. Behave as if you think the whole thing was going on in a normal
way; as if you believed in it. Don't evince any surprise that your
brother is not present at the meeting. Leave the thing in my hands. Will
you do that?"

He spread his hands. "Of course. What else can I do? It seems I am
between the devil and the deep sea--the devil being the Russians and the
deep sea being you, Mr. Kells. Of the two evils"--he laughed--"I prefer
the lesser, which, I think, is Mr. Kells. Also, I do not dislike you. I
have heard of you from my brother. You have worked very successfully
against the Russians."

I said: "Well, that's how it goes."

We shook hands. I went back to my hotel. I went to bed and tried to
sleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At four o'clock in the afternoon I went out into the garden, smoked
cigarettes and walked about. During a sleepless night I'd endeavoured to
work out all the "mights"--all the things that might happen. It was a
hopeless job. Hopeless because it was impossible to get inside the mind
of Sabina. Supposing that she now considered that the best thing to do
was to play the honest game and make the exchange as arranged. That
might be the best thing for us. But I loathed the idea of parting with
Auerstein--a German who could be of the greatest use to English
science--and watching this poor old man being taken away to Russia and a
lifetime of serfdom. I thought that maybe something could be done about
that.

I sat down in a deck-chair. I came to the conclusion that there was
nothing to be done. All I could do was to wait and see what happened.
But I felt very depressed.

Then Salvatini came down the steps into the garden. He was smiling. He
looked as if he hadn't a care in the world. He lighted a cigarette;
indulged in a fit of coughing which shook him vitally.

He said: "Well, what do you think about it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm trying not to think about it. This is one
of those things in which I don't even believe myself. I can't believe
that Sabina is going to play straight; yet I don't see what else she can
do. She's not in Russia now. She's in France. She knows if we don't want
her to get out of France we can keep her here. The police will see to
that. But I have a peculiar feeling that she has some scheme on."

Salvatini nodded. He sat down on the grass. He said: "I think that
myself. I think also that this woman is very clever. She is clever
because she does the most outrageous things as a matter of course. Only
clever people do that. Also she is determined. She is cunning. I have an
idea in my head--I don't know whether it will be of any use to you; it
might be. I suggest that when it is dark to-night--at half-past nine or
ten--I will go out to the manor house at Lozalle. I will approach it
from the back way, very discreetly. I will see what I can find. Perhaps
something will turn up. But it is better than sitting around and doing
nothing."

I said: "All right, Mario. Do that. It will amuse you, anyway."

"And then?" he queried.

"Be back here to-night at twenty-past ten," I told him. "Not later.
Then"--I grinned at him--"we'll keep our appointment."

He said: "Very well, Mike. _Au revoir._ Good luck to you." He went off.

I went into the hotel. I went to the bar and drank brandy and soda. I
was disappointed--not particularly happy. I wondered what the hell the
Old Man would have to say to me if something went wrong. I thought I
knew. I'd probably be relegated to helping Miss Fains with the filing
system.

When I'd had enough brandy I went to my room, lay down on the bed and
went to sleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was waiting in the hall when Salvatini arrived. I took one look at his
face and saw that he had something to tell me.

He said: "One quick drink, my friend, before we go. I have some news for
you."

We went into the bar.

He said: "This Sabina is a strange woman. She is really unique. She does
something and you think that because she has done it once she won't do
it again. So she does it again just to delude you, see?"

"Would you mind telling me what you're talking about?" I asked. I poured
out some brandy.

He said: "She believes in blowing people up, this woman. Consider...
she plans to blow you up in your motor car, which is a sensible thing
because after the explosion there is no evidence. And she is going to
blow somebody up to-night."

I asked: "What the hell do you mean?"

He said: "I arrived there about an hour and a half ago. I got over the
wire fence at the back. I wandered about the undergrowth--you know, the
tangled bushes in the coppice that surrounds the house. I stumbled
across something. What do you think it was? It was a land line. I
followed it, and then inside the wood I found it. Hidden in some thick
bushes was a detonator set--an electric plunger set used to detonate
mines. I followed it right the way to the house. It is run underneath a
door at the back. You see, my friend, your idea was right..."

I said: "I see. What she intends to do is to make the exchange; then
something happens which keeps Rockie and his sister in the house. Then
she gets out and somebody blows the house up. Very nice."

"That is the idea," he said. "But of course it is not going to happen."

"No," I replied. "Definitely not."

He went on: "I think it might be necessary to have a little assistance.
I have asked Velin to be standing by with eight or nine selected men
from his Bureau at the cross-roads a half a mile from the house. I did
not tell him what for. I told him just to stay there until he heard from
one of us."

I said: "Good. Wait for me a moment, and then we will go."

I went quickly up to my room; put my Luger in my pocket. Then I rejoined
Salvatini in the hall.

I said: "Come on, Mario. This is going to be an interesting night."

When we arrived at the road that ran past the house at Lozalle, we left
the car in the shadow of a hedge; walked quietly along the road; got
over the wire fence; took a little pathway that skirted the wood. We
walked, Salvatini leading the way, softly through the undergrowth.
Suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder. He said: "Look..."

I strained my eyes through the darkness. Then I saw it. Behind a tree
which concealed it from the house was the plunger set that Salvatini had
told me about, and beside it was the boy who had opened the door to me
at the house when I had called to see Sabina. He was sitting on the
ground, still wearing his baize apron. He had something clasped in his
left hand. I crept a little nearer. I saw it was a watch.

Salvatini drew alongside the boy. He nudged me. In his right hand I saw
the gleam of his long stiletto. I whispered: "No. We'll do it this way."
I moved quickly forward. I hit the house-boy under the jaw. He went down
like a log. We trussed him up, gagged him with the end of his own baize
apron.

I said: "He'll be safe this way, and he might have something to tell us
afterwards."

We retraced our steps. When we got back to the wire fence Salvatini
said: "I have had an amusing time here to-night. I have been in the
house. There is a musicians' gallery over the back room. I have been in
that. I got in through a side door. There was nobody about. I went up
the stairs."

I asked: "What did you see, Mario?"

He said: "Sitting in the room by herself, with a bottle of wine and some
needlework which she was doing with great concentration, was Sabina.
She's quite nice-looking, you know, and she was supremely dressed. She
was wearing a lovely evening frock--black velvet--and a diamond
necklace." He grinned at me in the darkness. "If I were not so
frightened of her I would have wanted to make love to her."

I said: "You'd be better off with a snake, Mario."

"Come with me," he said. "But for God's sake be quiet."

I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to eleven. I followed
Salvatini as he made his way carefully through the coppice, keeping in
the shadows as we came to the lawn at the back of the house. We reached
the side door. He opened it. Inside, there was complete and utter
darkness. We stood listening. We could hear nothing.

Salvatini motioned me to follow him. We went along a short passageway,
turned to the left and began to climb a flight of circular stairs. At
the top we walked a little way in the darkness; then inch by inch
Salvatini opened a door. We could see light on the other side. Then he
slipped through the door and I followed him. We stood in the musicians'
gallery above the main room, with our backs pressed to the wall. We
waited for a few moments; then I looked.

Below, sitting round the table in the centre of the floor, were
Riffenbach, Auerstein, Rockie and his sister Valerie. Standing up,
leaning against the wall opposite them, was Sabina. In her hand she held
a glass of champagne.

Then she spoke. She said: "Ladies and gentlemen, to-night is an
auspicious occasion which we should all celebrate. Mr. Rockhurst has
joined his sister, and Mr. Kurt Riffenbach--brother of my one-time
colleague--has kept his word and produced for us Professor Auerstein.
Let us drink each other's health."

She drank some champagne. Then I saw that the four at the table also had
glasses. Rockie took a drink--he would, anyway. The others made no move
towards the glasses on the table.

Sabina went on: "This has been a very difficult and rather complicated
operation, but it was made even more complicated by the interference of
a gentleman named Kells. It was quite obvious to me that the late Mr.
Kells did not trust me." She smiled a little grimly. "He was a most
distrustful person and I suppose he had the idea in his head that it
would not be consistent with my character for me to allow Mr. Rockhurst
to go away in safety after Professor Auerstein was in my hands.

"And, ladies and gentlemen, I thought exactly the same about him. If
Rockhurst was in his hands I did not think that Mr. Kells would be
content to allow me to go quietly away with Professor Auerstein.
Therefore, what could I do? My motto has always been all or nothing, and
as on this occasion, I could not get all, then nobody will have
anything."

Her voice changed. Her tone was grim, menacing. She went on: "I drink
your health, ladies and gentlemen, because we are all about to die. I
consider this the best way to carry out my assignment. This house is
mined. Professor Auerstein might be of use to my country if he were
alive. He will still serve a useful purpose if he is dead because if he
cannot work for us he can work for nobody. Mr. Rockhurst, too, will join
us, and his stupid sister; Mr. Kurt Riffenbach must also pay the price
of his brother's perfidy--this German who tried to sell me out. And
because it is necessary, I shall go with you. I shall join you, my
friends, in this funeral pyre."

She looked at her wrist-watch. "You see I have dressed for this
occasion. The time is now fourteen minutes past eleven. Within the next
ten seconds this house and all of us will be blown to smithereens."

She leaned against the wall, completely relaxed. The four people sat
motionless round the table.

I took the Luger out of my pocket, vaulted over the edge of the balcony;
arrived in a heap on the floor.

Rockie said: "My God... Kells...!"

I got up. I showed her the gun.

I said: "Sabina, you're a little unfortunate. The gentleman who was
going to detonate your mine is trussed up like a fowl. He is not going
to do anything except talk when I make him talk."

She stood leaning against the wall, her eyes glittering. Then she said
something to me--not very pleasant.

Salvatini arrived through the main doorway.

I said: "Mario, tie this lady up--and anybody else you find in the
house. Tie her to one of those chairs. Then you'd better go out and find
Velin. You can hand her over to him for to-night. And the house-boy we
left in the coppice."

I went on: "Ladies and gentlemen, this little adventure is over. Rockie,
take your sister. Go out the back way. You'll find a car on the road.
Get in it and stay there until we join you."

He said: "O.K., Mike. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you again."

I said: "I bet. We'll talk about that later."

Salvatini moved over to Sabina. He said: "Will you come and sit down,
Madame, or would you like me to stick this knife into you?" He showed
her the knife.

She called him a foul name.

He said: "I've been called worse things than that in my life, but not by
a lady so beautifully dressed as you." He seized her by the arm, pushed
her--in spite of her struggles--into a high-backed chair. She sat there
like a deflated balloon. Salvatini tied her into the chair with bell
hangings and curtain cords.

I went over. I said to her: "You know, Sabina, you are without dignity.
I expect you are very surprised to see me, aren't you? The bits of
humanity you found outside after the car explosion were the remains of
the gentleman you employed to blow me up."

She said nothing. Her face was dead white, her eyes venomous, looking
straight in front of her.

Kurt Riffenbach, who had watched the scene calmly, saying nothing, got
up. He said: "I congratulate you, Mr. Kells. This is a fitting
denouement to this great adventure."

I said to Rockhurst: "Get out of here, and take Valerie with you. Mario
will show you where the car is. Riffenbach, bring the Professor and come
with me."

Salvatini, Rockie and his sister went out by the back door.

I said to Sabina: "_Au revoir_, Sabina, I expect we'll meet again. It is
a great pleasure knowing you."

Followed by Riffenbach and Auerstein I went through the hall. There was
no one in the rooms leading off it. Quite obviously, Sabina had arranged
her finale carefully; had cleared the house first. We went down the
steps into the night air.

I walked round the house, through the coppice. I said to Riffenbach:
"What she said was true. She was prepared to sacrifice herself to make a
certainty of Auerstein and Rockhurst. Look."

In front of us was the plunger set. Riffenbach looked at it. Then he
took out his cigarette case and lighted a cigarette.

He said: "She was a very clever woman. She had ideals. She believed in
what she was doing. She was prepared to kill herself." He shrugged his
shoulders. "That pleases me very much. But she also killed my brother.
Let her have her funeral pyre...!"

He jumped forward and, before I could move, pressed down the plunger of
the detonator set. There was a second's pause. Then the manor house at
Lozalle-le-Pont went up in the air with a reverberating crash.
Riffenbach, Auerstein and I were thrown on our faces. When I sat up
nothing remained of the place except one broken wall and a cloud of fine
dust.

I looked at Riffenbach. He was sitting up, leaning against a tree,
smiling. I shrugged my shoulders.

After all, it seemed to me the best ending.




Chapter Eleven. Valerie


I stopped the car in Bruton Street; walked up the little lane; opened
the side door and went into the shop of the late Yvette Cambeau. A thin
film of dust was over everything. The place looked strange and deserted.
I wondered if ghosts would walk there.

I went into the back room, pulled back the carpet from the fireplace;
examined it. The tile in front of the fireplace was easy to remove. I
took it out. Underneath, in a cavity actually below the grate, was an
oilskin package. I opened it. Inside, was the twenty thousand pounds in
fivers. I grinned to myself.

So Sabina had told me the truth. Because she thought I would never know
it was the truth; that I'd be dead within a few minutes of her telling
it, she hadn't bothered about lying. I replaced the tile and the carpet;
picked up the oilskin package. I went out, got into my car and drove
home, the way I had come.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At four o'clock the telephone rang. It was Rockie.

He said: "Are you coming down here, Michael?"

I asked: "Why should I?"

He said: "My sister wants to talk to you. She thinks she owes you a lot
of explanation."

"I never listen to women's explanations," I replied. "They're usually
very difficult and rather untrue."

He said: "Well, you'd better speak to her."

She came on the line. She said: "I wish you'd come down here, Mr. Kells.
I want to see you... really!"

I said: "I was coming down in any event. I have found some money that
belongs to you--the twenty thousand pounds you gave Sabina."

"I was very stupid, wasn't I?" she said. "I'd much better have saved my
money and talked to you."

I said: "Maybe. But women are strange things, you know."

"So I've heard," she said. "I particularly want you to come down, Mr.
Kells. Will you come to dinner?"

"With pleasure. But why do you want me to come, particularly?" I asked.

She said: "I'd like to show you just how strange women can be."




THE END






[End of Ladies Won't Wait, by Peter Cheyney]
