Читать книгу The Stars are Dark - Peter Cheyney - Страница 11

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That Mrs. Angelica Ferry was a “card” was a fact that was generally admitted by one and all. There were other facts about this lady which were not so generally admitted, mainly because it might have been dangerous to admit them. No one knew whence she had come, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would go to the trouble to find out, because Mrs. Ferry was one of those people you did not investigate. It was said that one or two of the more curious spirits had essayed slight attempts in this direction but had decided to give up for health reasons.

Once on a time the lady may have been attractive. Walking behind her in the street, you might have thought that her figure still had possibilities, but her back view was definitely more attractive than the front. Possessed of an amazing bosom out of proportion to the rest of her body, Mrs. Ferry had a certain appearance of top-heaviness which, whilst being attractive to the oriental mind, was quite alarming to those who approved normal types of occidental beauty.

Her face was large and heavily made up. It would seem that Mrs. Ferry still believed that she was beautiful, and she endeavoured to enhance this idea of beauty with the aid of every cosmetic that could possibly be used. Her rather dull complexion covered with a powder that was too light in shade; her lips made up with a lipstick of too dark a tint; her eyes edged with mascara which invariably ran: all these things combined to give her a most extraordinary appearance.

She was not, however, a laughable figure. There was something vaguely grim about Mrs. Ferry, although on occasions when she relaxed—and these were many—she still possessed an ability to dance neatly and lightly, supported by a pair of well-shaped legs on small feet invariably shod with the most expensive shoes.

Mrs. Ferry was the Persimmon Club, and the Persimmon Club was Mrs. Ferry. This resort of refreshment and joy, situated at the end of a narrow alley running off the street of the Two Fish, formed a natural cul-de-sac. You turned into it and there was no escape. You went into the Persimmon Club, and if you came out with your braces you were lucky. The attributes of the Persimmon Club were a certain light-heartedness evidenced by music—invariably played out of tune—which never ceased, and a smell on the ground floor which was quite indescribable. This odour improved as you mounted the stairs, and when you came to Mrs. Ferry’s private office at the rear of the first floor, you were assailed by a languorous odour resulting from the spraying twice a day, by a Greek with one leg, of some peculiar perfumed liquid manufactured on the premises, which was held by some experts to be even worse than the smell on the ground floor.

There was also a basement reached by a flight of winding wooden stairs concealed by a bottle-rack behind the bar.

The alley in which the club was situate, known as the Place of the Seraphim, was distinguished by some picturesque Moorish architecture and two bordellos, both of which were controlled by Mrs. Ferry. Occasionally the inmates, resenting their lot, would give vent to unhappy shrieks and yells, of which no one in the neighbourhood took the slightest notice, and it is rumoured that on one occasion when a squad of native police under a French sous-officier had penetrated one night into the Place of the Seraphim, they retreated very quickly and in bad order, pursued by Mrs. Ferry with a shot-gun.

Few things happened in Suera—few things of importance. I mean—in which Angelica was not concerned. She was, as has been indicated, a woman of great organizing powers. Her perception was acute. She was, to say the least of it, formidable in many senses, and she had an amazing ability to be aware of events almost before the time of their happening. Seated in her office, with a Turkish fan in one hand and a half-filled brandy bottle within reach, she served her world with a quiet assurance which no rumours of wars, victories or defeats could shake.

Mrs. Ferry had seen many people come and go in Suera. She had seen successive chiefs of police appointed, endeavour to exercise their authority, and go. They had all learned to know Mrs. Ferry and to respect her. Even a chief of police realizes on which side his bread is buttered, and it must be admitted that when Mrs. Ferry buttered somebody’s bread she laid it on thick. Meanness was not one of her characteristics.

Visitors to the Persimmon Club—hardy travellers who had heard of the place and wished to investigate—sometimes wondered about Mrs. Ferry, whose roving eye was inclined to look appraisingly at each male entrant. They wondered, but no one answered their questions. The thin dark individual with the black moustache and piercing eyes who operated the bar and answered to the name of Balbo, was not inclined to satisfy curiosity, and if the visitor asked questions, Balbo had a stock answer. He would say: “Mrs. Ferry ees a wonderful womans. I’m telling you! I know!” Balbo probably did know. He slept somewhere on the premises; worked all day in the club and seldom went out except for an occasional visit across the road to the nearest bordello to see his sister who worked there.

It was nearly midnight when Foden pushed aside the heavy, soiled curtain that hung across the inner entrance of the Persimmon Club, and stood leaning against the door-post absorbing the atmosphere. Opposite him, on the other side of the floor, Balbo presided at the bar, and on the left on a raised platform three half-caste so-called musicians produced a strange melody which they considered to be hot music. There were thirty or forty people in the place, drinking, talking, or sitting smoking and waiting. Most of the habitués of the Persimmon Club were waiting for something or somebody.

Foden stood looking at the girl who, a glass in her hand, stood leaning against the bar talking to Balbo. She had on a linen frock which was nearly clean; very high-heeled shoes. Her hair was dark and she had once been very attractive. Foden noticed that her figure was still good.

After a minute she turned her head. She saw Foden. She pushed herself away from the bar and walked slowly round the edge of the crowded floor. Foden watched her. There was something very graceful in her walk. She leaned against the side of the entrance opposite him. She said:

“Welcome to the Persimmon, m’sieu. I don’ think we ’ave seen you before. We are at your service.”

Foden grinned. He said: “I bet you are.”

She smiled. “Would you like to buy me a dreenk?”

“Why not?” said Foden.

The girl walked back to the bar, and he went after her. She ordered some drinks; then she turned and stood leaning against the stained mahogany counter, looking at Foden. He put his hand inside his shirt and produced a fifty-dollar bill. He put it on the bar. He said to Balbo:

“I’ll take the change in American money.”

Balbo said: “Why not?” He served the drinks.

Foden drank his quickly; ordered another. He said to the girl:

“Where do I find Mrs. Ferry?”

She said, with an impertinent look in her eye: “Perhaps you don’. Perhaps she won’ want to see you. She don’ see anybody, you know.”

Foden said: “No? Well, she’ll see me. You go and tell her that I’m here. The name’s Foden.”

The girl looked at him sideways. She said: “All right.”

She went away.

Foden picked up his glass and stood, his back against the door, looking at the inmates of the Persimmon Club. He thought they were a lousy crowd. His eyes wandered from table to table looking at the faces that were bent close together in quiet conversation over the dirty table-cloths.

A hell of a place, he thought.

From downstairs came the sound of the thin girl singing a French love song. Her voice was high-pitched and inclined to crack on the top notes. This made the song sound rather more pathetic—although the pathos was probably lost on the customers.

Mrs. Ferry got up from her chair behind the desk; crossed the room; closed the door. She went back to her seat. As she passed Foden she gave him a quick sideways look.

Foden sat back in his chair. He was relaxed—poised. He wore a passably clean suit of white drill, a clean white shirt, the collar of which would not meet round his neck, and a pair of white tennis shoes. He was freshly washed and the natural waves of his fair hair glistened where the light from the lamp caught them.

Mrs. Ferry thought he looked pretty good. She picked up the bottle and poured out two drinks. She filled half the glasses with the brandy. She pushed one glass to Foden. She said:

“And you think you’re going to get away with this?”

Foden said: “You tell me what’s going to stop me.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know anything that can stop you,” she said. Her voice was low—almost caressing. “You look to me like what they call a go-getter. I should think if you made up your mind that you wanted something, you’d get it.”

She smiled. Foden thought the colour of her lipstick was damned awful but that her teeth were very white and even.

He said: “For a man who’s supposed to have the ability to get what he wants I haven’t been doing so well, have I—not for the last nine months anyway?”

She said: “That wasn’t your fault, was it? You just had a bad break. But I expect you did pretty well before the last nine months.”

Foden said: “No. That was my own fault though. I had lots of chances but I didn’t take ’em. In an odd sort of way I was happy.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Ferry. “Doing what?”

Foden said: “Doing my own trade. I was second officer on one of the coasting boats. A hell of a good life if you know how to play it—interesting.”

She nodded. “One of the coasting boats, hey?” she said. “Whose boat would that be?”

“The Two Star North Moroccan Line,” said Foden. He picked a cigarette out of the box and lit it.

Mrs. Ferry began to laugh. Her immense bosom, perched on the edge of the desk, trembled heartily. “My God!” she said. “That set-up. Do you call that a Line—those two wheezy tubs?”

Foden said: “They might have been wheezy, but they used to do some business.”

Mrs. Ferry smiled. “I bet they did,” she said. “Business! You mean funny business. The sort of business that those two tub-thumpers used to do around Sfax and Sousse—Legion towns!”

Foden said: “What the hell’s the matter with the Legion towns? I like legionnaires. They’re rough but you know where they are.”

Mrs. Ferry said: “My God, you do—especially when there’s not a war on. Some business!” She looked at him wickedly. “I bet I could make three or four guesses as to what you were carrying in those two boats of yours. Which one were you in? Was it Crystal or Evening Starlight?”

Foden said: “I was in both of ’em. And what they carried was nobody’s business except the owners.”

She nodded. “You’re telling me!” she said. “I used to know the owner pretty well—that is before somebody got rough with him one night in Sfax. You know what they did with him, don’t you?”

Foden said in a voice that was a little bored: “I know.”

Mrs. Ferry leaned back in her chair. She put her hands behind her hennaed head. She looked at Foden. She said:

“Give yourself another drink.”

He said: “Thanks.” He poured out the drink; began to sip it. He was watching her over the edge of the glass. After a moment he decided to drink the brandy. He took it in one gulp; put the glass down; poured out another drink. She leaned forward and pushed the cigarette box towards him. She said:

“My private guess is that you’re a tough egg—a very tough egg.”

“Yes?” said Foden. “So what? Just being tough doesn’t get you anywhere. You’ve got to have brains.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Ferry. “So you’ve got those too?”

Foden drew tobacco smoke down into his lungs. He expelled it through pursed lips. He said:

“I’ve developed brains during the last nine or ten months.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Ferry. “So you’re now a tough brainy guy? Well, if you want a proposition I’ve got one.”

Foden said nothing. There was a pause; then Mrs. Ferry went on:

“I think Suera is a place that would suit you. There’s room here for a man like you. There ought to be some nice pickings too.”

“Yes?” said Foden. “And who would I be working for?”

“You’d be working for me,” said Mrs. Ferry. “I’m not at all difficult to get on with providing I get my own way.”

Foden said: “I don’t like working for women.”

“I think you’re a fool,” said Mrs. Ferry. “You could have a good time here. There’s anything you want and lots of it. You can get away with anything in Suera if you know how—especially if you’re a friend of mine.”

Foden said: “That’s what you think, and maybe that’s right now. But maybe it won’t be right in a little while. Take it from me there’s going to be some cleaning-up on this coast.”

Mrs. Ferry smiled. It was an odd smile. She said:

“Well, you might be right, but I wouldn’t like to be the cleaner-upper. I don’t think he’ll have too good a time. Lots of people have tried to clean up Suera, for instance, and where have they got to—usually on one of the dumps at the back of the town or sometimes they find ’em in the river. And who cares? Life just goes on here and only a mug tries to throw a spanner in the works.”

Foden said nothing. He looked bored. She said:

“You’ve made up your mind to go through with this? You think you can hold ’em up for what you want?”

Foden said: “I’m damned certain of it. I’ve got information and they’ve got to have it. All right. They had a chance of getting it for nothing and they wouldn’t play. Now they’re going to pay and pay plenty. What I’ve got is dynamite.”

Mrs. Ferry said: “You know what you’re doing, but personally I don’t like dynamite. It’s dangerous even for the people who’ve got it.”

Foden said: “I’ll chance that. The thing is what are you going to do? Are you going to do what I want or not? That’s all I want to know.”

Mrs. Ferry asked: “Supposing I say no—what are you going to do then?” She grinned. “Are you going to walk back to Marrakesh?”

“Like hell I am,” said Foden. “If you’re not going to play I’m going to stick around here until I get some means of getting out of here. I’m going through with this anyway.”

She picked up a cigarette out of the box and lit it. Foden noticed that her finger-nails were long and tinted blood-red. He thought they looked like talons. She said:

“Well, if I decide to help, what do I get out of it?”

“You get a thousand dollars,” said Foden. “That’s all there is—just a thousand.”

Mrs. Ferry said: “That’s all right.” She got up. “It’s getting on,” she said, “and I’m tired. We’ll talk about this some more to-morrow. We’ll take a look downstairs.”

She began to walk towards the doorway. Foden followed her. She said as they went down the stairway:

“Make yourself at home. Anything you have is on the house. When you get tired, Balbo will show you where you can sleep. There’s a room for you.”

Foden said: “You’re very generous.”

“Like hell I am,” said Mrs. Ferry.

Half-way down the stairs she stopped and turned, her hand on the banister rail. She said: “You can forget about that thousand dollars.”

Foden said: “Can I? What does that mean?”

She said: “I’m for you. You’ve got something—I don’t know what it is. Anyhow, I can fix you up all right, and we’ll forget about the money.” She gave him a smile intended to be arch.

Foden said: “That suits me.” He grinned.

Downstairs, on the ground floor, Mrs. Ferry looked round with a professional eye. Business was just beginning to look up. A native policeman stuck his head round the corner of the doorway; saw Mrs. Ferry, gave her a wide smile that showed his big glistening teeth, and disappeared.

She said to Foden: “Go over to that table in the corner. I think I’m due for a little celebration—I don’t know what for—but we’ll have one.”

Foden nodded. He walked round the edge of the crowded floor towards the table she indicated. Mrs. Ferry went over to the bar. Balbo stopped serving a customer at the far end and came over to her.

She said: “Send over a bottle of the old brandy, and some cigarettes. After we close go out and see you-know-who. Tell him I’ll have something for him—probably early to-morrow morning.”

Balbo said: “O.K., missus.” He went back to his customer.

Mrs. Ferry, with a word here and there to members of her more select clientele, made her way through the atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke to the table where Foden awaited her.

The old clock in the Place des Fleurs struck four o’clock.

Mrs. Ferry, standing in the doorway of the room, the lamp in her hand, looked at Foden. He was lying full length on the patchwork quilt that covered the bed. His right leg hung down on the floor. His left arm lay on the bed in the complete relaxation of a drunken man. Across the pillow, his right arm hung down with the fingers just touching the floor. His mouth was open, but he was not snoring.

A hell of a man, said Mrs. Ferry to herself. She closed the door. She walked quietly along the boarded floor of the passageway to her office. Inside, she put the lamp on the table, blew it out; then she switched on the desk lamp; went back to the door, locked it. She returned to the desk, sat down, lit a cigarette. She smoked silently for a few minutes; then she emptied the remains of the brandy bottle into one of the glasses on the desk; drank it.

She reached down with a grunt; opened one of the desk drawers; took out some foolscap paper. She began to write. First of all she put the date; then she printed in black capitals:

“FODEN—GEORGE HERBERT—Aged about 35. Employed originally on the Moroccan coast by the Two Star North Moroccan Line (s.s. Crystal and s.s. Evening Starlight) mainly engaged in running women to Sfax and Sousse. He says ...”

Mrs. Ferry’s pen scratched across the foolscap paper. Her handwriting was small, precise—almost beautiful. It was one of those incongruities for which Mrs. Ferry might have been noted had her minor qualities been sufficiently known. She wrote for half an hour. When she had finished she put the sheets into an envelope, licked it with a pointed tongue that was still pink in spite of the cigarettes and brandy, stuck it down carefully.

She went quietly down the stairs into the deserted club room. She walked unerringly in the pitch darkness. Behind the bar she opened the slit of the door and stood at the top of the basement steps. She called softly:

“Hey, Balbo.”

Balbo came up the steps. He stood just below her—an oil lamp in his left hand, looking up at her. The light reflecting on his black face made it glisten.

He said: “Yes, missus ... ?”

She gave him the envelope.

“Hurry,” she said. She looked at her wrist-watch—once the property of a French woman tourist who had no further use for it. “You tell him he’s just got time to get this into code and get it off. You tell him it’s priority, see—priority.” She repeated the word with emphasis. “He’ll know what you mean.”

“O.K., missus,” said Balbo.

She took the lamp from him. Balbo, his bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor, crossed the room and opened the door. For an instant a patch of moonlight illuminated the tawdry entrance of the Persimmon Club, but Mrs. Ferry noticed it only vaguely.

The door closed. She stood for a minute; then went up the stairway towards her own room. Arrived there, she threw a look towards the door at the end of the passage where Foden slept.

She smiled. She said softly: “Well, sweetheart—you might get away with it. Who knows!” She sighed. She went to bed.