Читать книгу The Stars are Dark - Peter Cheyney - Страница 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said: “This is Mr. Quayle.”

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

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

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

He said: “Hello.”

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

Fells said: “I thought you’d like to know everything’s all right.”

Quayle said: “Then you met your friends?”

“Yes,” said Fells. “We met them.”

Quayle asked: “Were they glad to see you?”

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

Quayle grinned. He said: “They weren’t too glad when they found it was you?”

Fells said: “No, they weren’t glad—not afterwards.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Quayle asked: “Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Fells. “Massanay ... not very good....”

Quayle asked: “How bad?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid,” said Fells.

Quayle said: “I see ... I’m sorry about that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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