Читать книгу The Stars are Dark - Peter Cheyney - Страница 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

He went back nine years—to 1933.

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

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

“In God’s name why ... ?”

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

“I don’t know, sir. It isn’t any good asking me. It was just what they call ‘one of those things.’ ”

The other man had said: “Was it?”

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

The Commanding Officer said: “I don’t understand. There have been other binges without this.”

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

The older man said: “Understanding isn’t going to do us any good. You realize what you’re up against, don’t you?”

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

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

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

Fells said: “Quite!”

“That’s pretty bad of course,” said the other man, “but it’s not all there is to it.”

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

“Well, sir, I asked for it and I’ve got it. I might as well know the rest of it.”

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

Fells said: “No, I shouldn’t think he would, sir.”

The older man said: “He’s going to have his pound of flesh. You’ll be court martialled on the military charges, but he’s insisting that you’re dealt with in the Courts on the other charge—the Criminal Courts. They tell me you’ll probably get two years.”

Fells said: “I see.”

There was another silence; then the Commanding Officer said, rather quickly as if he were saying this in order not to say something else that he wanted to say—that he thought was better left unsaid:

“That’s the worst of your type. You’re not normal. You don’t drink and smoke and womanize when you’re young like every other soldier does. You’re idealistic. You go about carrying the picture of some woman in your mind—somebody who’s going to turn up one day—someone who’s going to make life the most wonderful, beautiful thing. You suffer from delusions. You believe that this paragon is actually going to appear—so you wait for her. And then what do you do? After years of this you get drunk. You go off and you raise hell in a city like this with a woman who’s tied hand-in-glove with a group of people who’d pay anything, do anything, to kick us out of India. That isn’t enough, by God; you have to turn yourself into a forger too—such a silly stupid thing. The devil of it is that only we people who know you, realize that you ought merely to be smacked for it all. Instead of which ...” He shrugged his shoulders again.

Fells said: “There isn’t very much to do or say about it, is there, sir? You’ve been very kind. Everybody’s been kind.” He smiled wryly. “So now there isn’t anything else to do.”

The other man said: “No.” He got up from his seat; walked over and looked through the lattice. Fells leaned forward, stubbed out his cigarette end in the ashtray on the desk. Then he got up. He said:

“Is that all, sir?”

“That’s all,” said the Commanding Officer.

Fells went over to the doorway. He had his hand on the door-knob. He was about to open the door when the other man said:

“There’s some fellow wants to see you. Probably it’s irregular, but I’ve said it’s all right. He’ll see you some time to-morrow. I don’t know anything about it; I don’t know what he wants to see you about.”

Fells said: “Do I want to see this person, sir?”

The other man said: “Why not? You’re in so bad that nothing that could happen could make it any worse.”

Fells went out. On the other side of the door his officer escort, wearing the prescribed sword and revolver, awaited him. He looked apologetically at Fells.

They walked out of the long white building, across the hot square towards the officers’ quarters.

On the way Fells thought about the woman. And himself. He supposed the Commanding Officer was right. He supposed he’d been a fool about women. Idealized them and all that sort of thing. He supposed he’d idealized her.

Fells began to grin. It was an odd grin. His escort looked at him sideways—uncomfortably. Fells began to think of “The Green Eye of the Yellow God.” ... “There’s a broken-hearted woman to the north of ...”

Really it was all rather funny and stupid. At least it would be if it were not quite so grim. And when you came to think of it it was definitely rather grim ... at least it was going to be....

She had seemed such a nice woman. But then all women had seemed nice to him. He started off with the idea that all women were nice. And she had a pale face—very pale, and she spoke delightfully with just the suggestion of a catch or something in her English, and he had felt very much at home and safe with her.

Well ... it seemed that he had been wrong. Life was like that. You made a mistake and you paid. His mistake—his original mistake—had been to drink too much; to get very drunk. If he had got drunk. Perhaps the pale lady had put something in the liquor. You never knew with women ... apparently ... especially if you were like him and idealized them....

If you didn’t idealize them, what the hell were you to do about them? He supposed you had to think about them differently. It seemed that if you thought they were nice they were nasty. Perhaps if you started off by thinking them nasty they might be nice.

He sighed to himself.

The officer escort thought Fells was an odd one. He thought he’d be damned glad when Fells was safely in his quarters and he, the escort, could go and get a drink.

He was damned sorry for Fells.

But then old Felsy-Welsy had always been such a mug about women. And you could slip up—damned easily in India, you could.

The officer escort registered a mental vow to be careful about women.

He remembered it for quite five minutes.

The man came in the afternoon. Fells, who was standing by the window of his room, saw the figure crossing the compound. The man was dressed in a white linen suit and wore a topee a little on one side of his head. He was tall and big, but moved easily.

Fells, glancing down towards the door that led to his quarters, saw that the sentry was gone. He wondered why. He walked away from the window; sat down in the chair by the table, looking rather dully at the ashtray that was almost filled with half-smoked cigarette stubs.

Quayle came into the room without knocking. He had his topee in his hand. Fells saw that he was very bald but with a well-shaped head that made his baldness look almost suitable. For a moment Fells forgot his own misery because he was interested in the man. The tall figure, with the composed, almost smiling, face, radiated something that might have been confidence or cheerfulness. Fells wondered if this was some clever lawyer that the old man had got hold of—somebody who might make things a bit easier. He said:

“Good afternoon....” He stopped then, because there didn’t seem anything else to say. In any event, Fells thought, he wasn’t going to be interested.

Quayle said: “I won’t waste a lot of your time—not that time means anything to you at the moment. The point is I haven’t a great deal of time myself and I want to make myself particularly clear to you. In other words, I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. Do you see?”

Fells looked at him in surprise. There was something very matter-of-fact about his visitor. He said, in the rather cold manner of his kind:

“Well, that’s very interesting, I’m sure. Who are you?”

“My name’s Quayle,” said the other. He produced a cigarette case from his jacket pocket, lit a cigarette. Fells was on his feet by this time, looking at Quayle, wondering what it was all about. Quayle held out his cigarette case. He said:

“You have a cigarette and sit down in that chair and listen.”

Fells took the cigarette, lit it and sat down in the chair. Quayle went over to the window. He draw aside the lattice and looked out; then he let it fall back into place; stood leaning up against the wall, looking at Fells. He said:

“I know all about you. It’s my business to know things. You’re in a bad spot. You’re faced with a court martial, to be followed by a civil trial. It’s pretty certain that you’ll get a couple of years at least. Well, that doesn’t matter. Lots of other men have done two years. So we won’t worry about that part of the job. And we won’t worry about your being cashiered from the Army because you won’t be the first officer who’s been cashiered. So we’ll get down to essentials.”

Fells began to be bitterly amused. This, he thought, is definitely good. It didn’t matter about being cashiered because other people had been cashiered, and it didn’t matter about doing two years’ imprisonment because other people had done that. These things didn’t matter, but Mr. Quayle, the large gentleman with the bald head and the round pleasant face, which at this moment was suffused with a certain energy and attractiveness, was going to get down to essentials.

He said, with a touch of sarcasm: “Do let’s get down to essentials. I’m very curious to hear what the essentials are.”

Quayle went on: “You’ll find it very difficult to argue with me. I’m essentially logical. I have the ability to put facts in their right perspective. Don’t think I was being rude or funny when I said that the things I mentioned aren’t essentials. They are not. They pass with time. But some things don’t pass. They’re the ones I want to talk about.”

Fells said: “All right. Talk about them.”

He had smoked three-quarters of his cigarette. Nervously, he stubbed out the end of it. Quayle watched him; took another cigarette from his case and threw it across the room to Fells, who caught it and lit it.

Quayle continued: “These are the essentials. People like you—professional soldiers who haven’t very much money of their own—live most of their lives in watertight compartments. They live in their own little worlds. They have their own rules and standards. Mostly they’re good rules—good standards. Well, a man like you is all right so long as he doesn’t blot his copybook. If he blots his copybook as you’ve blotted yours, there isn’t a chance in hell for him. His background’s gone.

“When you come out of gaol after this job you won’t have any friends—not because they’ll avoid you, but because you’ll take damned good care to avoid them. You’ll understand perfectly well that it wouldn’t be playing the game for an officer who’s been cashiered from the Army, who’s done a couple of years in the choke, to run around looking up his old friends, or to walk into the Club and order himself a large whisky and soda.”

Quayle smiled suddenly. It wasn’t a smile of exultation, but one of complete understanding.

“In other words,” he said, “you’re finished and you know it.”

Fells said bitterly: “It’s damned nice of you to tell me that. Did you think I didn’t know it?”

Quayle regarded the end of his cigarette. After a moment he said: “I told you I was logical, and being logical to me means just that. When most people talk about being logical, in other words thinking and telling the exact truth, they take themselves for a ride. They face up to every fact except the main one. They duck the fact that really matters because it hurts. I never do that. If I did I shouldn’t be any good at this job. Being logical to me means, invariably, being tough, because in any truly logical situation somebody has to get hurt. In this case the person is you. Unfortunately—or fortunately—whichever way you care to look at it—it’s my business to make you aware of facts, and whether the process is unpleasant to you or to me doesn’t matter one damn. See?”

“I see,” said Fells.

Quayle grinned. He went on: “Well, I’ve stated the case pretty well, haven’t I? I’ve made it as bad as possible, not because I’m trying to crow over you, but because both you and I have got to realize that we’re through with feeling things—I for one set of reasons and you for another set.”

Fells said: “There’s something behind all this—something you want?”

“You bet there is,” said Quayle. “All right. Let’s get back to the essentials. We have realized that when you’ve finished with this imprisonment business you’ll have no friends. All right. What are you going to do? Some men would take to drink. Others would go and bury themselves in some odd spot as far away from civilization as possible, develop a liver and get acid in their old age. They’d call themselves something else and hate themselves for the rest of their lives. That seems to me to be non-constructive.”

Fells said: “It may be non-constructive, but it’s logical. When a man comes out of prison he’s got to do something.”

“That’s the point,” said Quayle. “I’ve got a proposition to make to you. It’s one that I think you’re going to like.”

He stopped talking suddenly; walked over to the table, stubbed out his cigarette. He moved quickly, almost noiselessly. He went back and leaned against the wall. He was still smiling. He said:

“I think you’ll agree with me that the most important thing as far as we ourselves are concerned is what we think. A man’s thoughts make his life. Well, on that basis, you’re going to have a pretty bad time when you come out of prison. You’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering why you made such a damn’ fool of yourself over that woman—a woman that a man like you wouldn’t normally touch with a barge-pole. You’re going to spend a whole lot of your time in wondering how she pushed you into forging that cheque—because she did push you into doing it; I happen to know that. She was put in to do it. Why? The reason doesn’t matter, but it’s a fact.”

Fells said: “I see. So somebody was behind that?”

“That’s right,” said Quayle. “Somebody was behind it. But don’t let that excite you. It won’t do you any good. Now listen. I can present you with an alternative to all this misery that is not very nice but it might be a little more attractive, inasmuch as it would give you something much better to think about.”

Fells said: “I’m listening. I think you’re a most refreshing person.”

Quayle grinned suddenly. He said: “You’d be surprised! Here’s the proposition: Some people have got the idea that we’re on the threshold of another war—the biggest, nastiest war that the world’s ever seen. Whether they’re right or wrong isn’t my business. I don’t care. I’m a person who prepares for eventualities—a person who sees things through to their logical conclusion. All right. I’m looking for one or two people I can trust—people like yourself—people who’ve got brains and imagination and nerve and discipline. In fact, you’re the ideal case.”

Fells said: “I’m glad to hear that I’m an ideal something. But I wish you’d get on to the alternative.”

“Here it is in as few words as possible,” said Quayle. “The present situation is that you’re going to be court martialled on the usual military charges. Then you’re going to be tried by the civil courts. You’re going to be tried for forgery—not very nice. I’m going to suggest to you that you’re court martialled and tried for something worse. But you won’t be tried in the civil courts. You’ll merely be court martialled.”

Fells said: “My God! This is becoming quite interesting. I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Quayle, that you’re a most extraordinary person.”

Quayle said: “You don’t have to tell me. I know that. I can offer you this: In consideration for certain things which you may be able to do in the future, it might be arranged that you were court martialled on an entirely different charge. It might be arranged that I could somehow square all this other business. Then you could be court martialled on a rather sensational and dramatic charge.”

“Such as what?” Fells asked.

“Such as stealing secret military documents for the purpose of selling them to a foreign country,” said Quayle amiably. “You’d be found guilty. You would be sentenced to be cashiered and to five years’ imprisonment. You’d serve the sentence in England and you’d be let out of prison after three or four weeks. In other words, you’d come out by the back door. And,” said Quayle with a sardonic grin, “you’d find me waiting for you. See?”

Fells said: “I see. And what happens then?”

Quayle drew on his cigarette. “You’ll have a lot of training to do,” he said. “You’ll have to keep very quiet, but I could find some unobtrusive work for you to do. Remember, officially you’d still be in prison. Well, it’s 1933 now. Officially you’d be out in 1938. I should think that would be about right.”

“Right for what?” Fells asked.

Quayle lit another cigarette.

“There’ll be a war before 1940,” he said. “Germany’s preparing for it night and day. A hell of a war! If there isn’t, it still doesn’t matter. If there is, there’ll be all sorts of work to be done by people like you and me. Work that isn’t perhaps particularly nice, but work that would be very necessary. See?”

Fells nodded.

Quayle went on: “And that’s where you come in. Work it out for yourself. Directly the news of your court martial and sentence gets into the papers, German Intelligence will be on it like a cat on a mouse. If I’m not very much mistaken, when you come out of prison—officially, I mean—they’ll try and get in touch with you. Well, you’ll be ready for them. You’ll present to them a picture of a broken-down, dissolute, ex-officer who wants nothing but money. Got it?”

Fells said: “I’ve got it.”

“All right,” said Quayle. “That pose might be very useful to me. You realize, don’t you, that my alternative is a sound one? You’d still have no background. You’d still have no friends. But you’d know you’d done something decent instead of wandering about odd spots in the world for the rest of your life doing odd sorts of jobs—because you haven’t much money—and cursing yourself and wondering why you ever fell for that woman, why you ever forged that cheque. You’d have the satisfaction of being able to tell yourself that you’d make things even worse for yourself; that you’d allowed yourself to be court martialled for about the vilest charge that could be brought against an officer; that you’d sacrificed yourself—for your country!”

Quayle produced a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his drill coat and tapped his brow. “My God!” he said. “I get carried away with these dramatic perorations.” He put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well?” he asked.

Fells said: “Do you really mean this? How do I know that what you say is true?”

Quayle put the cigarette back into his mouth. “Don’t be a bloody fool,” he said. “How do you think I got in here? You’re under close arrest and allowed to see nobody. Why do you think the sentry’s taken off the door downstairs? Use your brains.”

Fells said: “I see ...” There was a pause; then: “Supposing I said yes to all this,” Fells went on. “And I was sent to England and put into prison and was let out a fortnight later and began to work with you—to begin this period of training for the dirty work you think is to come. Supposing all that. How do you know you could trust me?”

Quayle raised his eyebrows. He presented a picture of hurt surprise. He said casually:

“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll worry about that. If you work for me you’ll be trustworthy. Why? Well—except for this business you’ve never let anyone down in your life. Even now you’ve only let yourself down. But you wouldn’t let me down—not even if you wanted to. I’d see to that!”

Fells said: “Tell me something—my Commanding Officer told me that nothing could be done with this Indian bloke who insists on bringing the forgery charge; that in any event he was going to have his pound of flesh. He doesn’t like the British. But you told me that if I agree to your proposition he won’t press that civil charge. Why?”

Quayle smiled. “A fair question,” he said. “But obviously you don’t know my methods.”

Fells said: “I don’t know your methods. I’d be very interested to know how you can stop our Indian friend proceeding in this business when apparently everybody, from the Commander-in-Chief downwards, has tried to stop him and failed.”

Quayle sighed. He said: “It’s not my habit to explain things to people like you, but I’m not divulging anything very much because even if you told somebody they wouldn’t believe you. If you are awfully interested in the position as regards our Indian friend, I can make it clear to you. The Commander-in-Chief, and anybody else, can only use the ordinary normal process to bring pressure to bear on him, and if he wants his pound of flesh—his legal pound of flesh—he can have it, but”—he smiled again—“with my methods, however, he won’t want his legal pound of flesh.”

Fells said: “That’s what I was interested in—your methods.”

Quayle grinned a little. He said: “Your family came from Ireland originally, and they were a very close clan. I’ve got a young Irishman who works for me. His story might be that he was distantly related to you. His story might be that the honour of the family was at stake. His story might be that if our Indian friend insisted on pressing those charges, something might happen to him one dark night—something not very nice.” Quayle smiled again. “And I don’t think one of our Indian friend’s qualities is bravery,” he said.

Fells said: “I see. You can be quite forcible, can’t you?”

Quayle said: “You’d be surprised!”

Fells thought for a moment; then he said: “Supposing I agree to all this business; supposing I believed this fairy tale and found it to be true; supposing I allowed this other charge to be brought against me? Well, you say I should only do two or three weeks in prison—when I come out what should I have to do?”

Quayle said: “That’s my business. Take it or leave it. I’m offering you quite a lot, you know.”

Fells said: “Do you think so? Do you think that not doing the two years matters to me a lot?”

Quayle said: “No, I don’t think that; that’s just it. But I know you—I know your type. You’ll take my offer because that way you’ll still be able to think something of yourself. The other way you won’t.”

Fells nodded. “The devil of it is,” he said, “I believe you’re right.” He got up. He shrugged his shoulders.

Quayle said: “What have you got to lose?”

“You’re right,” said Fells. “I’ve nothing to lose. I accept.”

Quayle smiled happily. He picked up his topee and put it on slightly over one eye. He said:

“I shan’t see you again until you come out of prison. When this court martial business is over you’ll be sent to England to serve your time there. You’ll go to Maidstone. I’ll have you out of there in two or three weeks. When you come out we’ll have to find another name for you. Then, five years afterwards—because officially you’ll have to serve all your sentence—there’ll be no remission—we’ll put you back again so that you can come out officially. And when you do come out officially we’ll see that our German friends know where to find you.”

Fells said: “You really think they’ll try and get in touch—try to pick me up and get me working for them?”

Quayle nodded. “It’s just a part of their system,” he said. “They’ll try anything once.”

He went to the door. He said: “We’re going to have a lot of fun together.”

Fells heard the door shut. He lit a cigarette, walked over to the window, and looked out.

Quayle, his topee slightly over one eye, was walking across the compound.

Fells stretched. He thought that he was beginning to feel a little better. He began to think about Quayle.

He began to admire Quayle—just a little. Quayle had something. He pushed into the background and almost wiped out something you’d done that was not so good, and pushed you into consenting to plead guilty to something that you had not done and which was infinitely worse. Knowing that of the two mental evils you’d naturally choose the lesser....

A clever one, that one, thought Fells.

Almost he could hear the voice of Quayle saying: “You’d be surprised!”

Fells realized suddenly that people were standing up; that the orchestra was playing “God Save the King,” and the Palladium Company with Mr. Tommy Trinder in the centre was standing on the gangplank built in front of and above the orchestra pit, singing with their friends the audience; that it was 1942.

He moved towards the exit in the crowd. Mr. Trinder, standing on the stage, sent some cheerful wisecracks after his departing fans. As he moved into the corridor, Fells heard the last one: “Oh, you lucky people ... !”