Dark Hero

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONELAUREN

London—August, 1945

Berg lay in the bath looking at the ceiling watching the steam from the bath condensing on the walls, forming minute rivulets running down the walls—sometimes disappearing, sometimes joining up with other tiny streams, creating blobs of water on the dingy walls of the bathroom. There was no curtain on the small, not too clean window at the back of the room. Berg could both see and hear the raindrops pattering on it. He lay extended and relaxed in the bath—an adequate, tough specimen of humanity.

His hair was dark, curly, unruly, his cheekbones were high, his face, though filled out and recovered from the privations of the prison camp, was still long and oval shaped. His chin was firm and the line of the jawbone from ear to the apex of the chin showed clearly. His teeth were even and white. The two lower ones which had been kicked out by Kramen in one of his more playful moments had been replaced by two well-made false teeth. His eyes were wide apart, intelligent and of a peculiar blue. The humour lines about them were developed. His mouth was well-shaped with a short upper lip.

An intelligent, strong and clever face, hardened by experience but owning little softness or philosophy. Berg was a man who saw one thing at a time, who concentrated on that thing. He did not know the phrase, but he believed essentially in seeing any specific thing that interested him through to its logical conclusion. His limbs were well-shaped; his feet were small. On his left calf was a scar where he had been branded with a hot iron in another of Kramen’s more playful moments. Berg, allowing his mind to go back for a minute, to remember some of the things which had happened to him in the Camp, realized with a certain gratitude that it was perhaps lucky for him that most of the tortures which had been inflicted on him were mental ones. Berg had a resilient, flexible mind which had recovered quickly; perhaps more quickly than his body would have recovered from great physical hurt.

He got out of the bath, dried himself, put on a bath-gown, went into the bedroom. It was not an uncomfortable room but Berg realized that the time had come when he must make a move. He liked comfort when he could get it. He had learned in the old days in Chicago that comfort was a good thing, if only for the fact that periods of ease were often followed by times that were difficult and uneasy. When you could lie soft it was a good thing to do it. He began to dress.

His clothes were well-cut and of good cloth, bought with the special coupons which Ransome had managed to get for him. Berg began to think about Ransome. Definitely a man—that one. But where was Ransome?

Berg thought there was little chance of answering that question. Ransome had always been as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. He saw you when he wanted to see you. You did not see him unless he wanted that too. Berg wondered vaguely if he would ever see Ransome again. For a moment he thought of Ingrid. He thought of her because he had been thinking of Ransome; because always he associated the woman with the man. But he dismissed the thought of her quickly from his mind. He concluded he had no right to think about her. If you had no right to do a thing you must not do it. He possessed his own peculiar code of morals—mental and physical.

Now he was dressed. He put on a black soft hat, put the wallet stuffed with five pound and one pound notes and a cheque book—also from Ransome—into his pocket. He took a clean handkerchief from a drawer; then slowly, as if a thought had come to him, diffidently, he opened a small drawer and looked into it. Inside the drawer was a .22 Colt automatic—a toy—a plaything—one of those weapons with which you must hit a man in a vital spot to kill him, otherwise the minute bullet is merely an annoyance. Berg grinned wryly at the pistol. He thought that he had no need for it.

He closed the drawer. He stood looking at the closed drawer, thinking about pistols—things which had been to him for a long time tools—the tools of his trade. He wondered where the pair of .45 automatics were—those two lovely weapons with the ivory butts and the ejector sleeves specially made and greased so that there was no chance of a jam. He wondered where they would be.

Berg turned slowly round and began to look at the wall before him. Now his mind was concentrated on the two .45 automatics. Supposing, for the sake of argument, that somebody had found them where he had parked them—supposing somebody had had intelligence enough to look in the parachute jacket which he had left and found the automatics inside them—who would have them? Only one person—Shakkey. Shakkey—whose name he had mentioned to Ransome—who was a Chief Machinist’s Mate in a U. S. destroyer.

Berg grinned again, lifting his upper lip from his teeth, looking a little like a good-natured wolf. The idea of Shakkey being a Chief Machinist’s Mate in the United States Navy was funny—definitely funny—very funny. He wondered what story Shakkey had told the U. S. Naval Authorities when he joined the Navy. Berg’s grin became wider—if they had known what Shakkey’s job was in the old days…!

Berg concluded that Shakkey in any event would have been equal to the U. S. Naval people. He would have had a story for them all cut and dried—the sort of story that could be checked. Because he was clever and tough they would be glad of him. Now he was a Chief Machinist’s Mate—a responsible person—a good citizen of the United States—a sailor deserving well of his country. Berg’s grin developed into a smile. He said softly to the wall beside him: “Jesus…is that funny! Is it funny!”

He turned and looked at himself in the small mirror. He adjusted his hat to a more suitable angle, pulled up the white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his double-breasted jacket. Berg had always been a neat dresser. He liked tidiness.

He looked round the room. There was something of a farewell in his glance. When you were undecided as to what you should do, he thought, you must leave the matter in the hands of fate. It was not very often that you were undecided but of course there must come times, like this time, when you were not quite certain as to which way you should deal with a problem. In those circumstances you left matters in the hands of fate.

He began to think once more about Shakkey and the pair of .45 automatics. Supposing, for the sake of argument, he thought, that somebody had got the guns. It was odds against it. It was extremely improbable that any of the people who worked for Ransome would have found them. But there was a chance someone might have found them. Ransome himself might have come across them. If this were so, Berg was certain that the guns would have found their way to Shakkey, because he had asked that in the event of anything happening to him any effects should be returned to the Chief Machinist’s Mate, and if Shakkey had them what would he do with them?

First of all he would not want them. Berg thought that Shakkey might not have a great deal of use for small arms in these days. Then again Shakkey was an extraordinary person. He had always said of Berg: “That guy’s always gonna turn up. Nobody’s ever gonna knock off that guy. Jesus…if you was to stick him in a pit down the bottom of hell and put a ton weight on top of him, the bastard would get out somehow. I’m tellin’ you and I know.”

Berg grinned again. He could hear the strident nasal tones of Shakkey saying the words as he had heard them several times before in his life. If Shakkey believed that; if he had believed that Berg would come back somehow, there would only be one place for the guns. It would be very funny, thought Berg, if the guns were there. It would be very funny. It might be considered to be an act of God! If the guns were there, then Berg would know that it was O.K. for him to get on with the business that he had in the back of his mind. It would be a sign!

Vaguely he remembered from out of the past a small hot Sunday-school room in the Ozark mountains where he and other children sang hymns on arid Sunday afternoons. He remembered their teacher giving them a talk on one occasion on a sign from Heaven. It had seemed to Berg that in Biblical days one’s life was peppered with signs from Heaven telling you what you should or should not do. Well, if the guns were there he reckoned that would be a good enough sign for him.

He went out of the house. He began to walk down the Earls Court Road towards South Kensington. The rain had stopped now; the evening was cool. It was a nice evening, thought Berg. He remembered an English saying that some woman had said to him sometime: “The better the day the better the deed.” Berg said to himself: That’s O.K. by me. You’re telling me. By God, you’re telling me…!

A cab passed him. Berg whistled sibilantly—a decided, penetrative whistle. The cab stopped. Taxicabs always stopped for Berg.

The man said: “It’s a nice evening, sir. I hope you’re not going too far. I haven’t much petrol.”

Berg said: “I’m not going far.” He told the man where to go.

He leaned back in the corner of the taxicab, took a flat cigarette case from his pocket, selected a cigarette, lit it. He looked at the case—a neat case of black enamel with his initials in gold in one corner. He thought it was lucky that the shop where he had bought the case also had some odd initials. The “R.B.”—his first name was Rene—gave a touch of quality to the case—of exclusiveness. He thought that was very nice.

He put the case back in his pocket. For some reason which he could not identify, the opening of the case and the taking out of the cigarette, reminded him of Carlazzi’s in Chicago. No one in his class called Chicago Chicago in those days. It was always Chi—the home of the leery ones—the smart guys—the mugs who could always beat the rap.

Had Berg possessed a super memory he would have known that the cigarette case reminded him of Carlazzi’s because on his first visit there, Travis, talking to him, had taken from his pocket such a cigarette case and helped himself to a cigarette. With a super memory he would have remembered that at that moment there had flashed through his mind the thought that he would like to possess such a cigarette case. As it was, his mind played vaguely with the picture of Carlazzi’s, with Travis lolling back in the satin-backed window-seat with Lauren in her exquisitely cut tailormade seated by his side—her lovely eyes moving slowly and wickedly round the small but expensive restaurant then filled with Chicago’s smart guys.

The cab stopped with a jerk. The driver put his head round and said through the open front window: “’Ere you are, guv’nor. This is it. You’re a Yank, ain’t you?”

Berg got out. He paid his fare and gave the man two shillings for himself. He asked: “Why?”

The driver said: “You haven’t got much of an accent, but you look like one. There’s somethin’ about a Yank. You look to me like an airman. Maybe you are an airman?”

Berg said: “Nope. I’m not an airman.” He smiled at the taxi-driver. He said: “Maybe one of these days I’ll learn to fly all the same.”

The driver said: “Yes. It must be nice—flying.” He let in his clutch and the cab went away.

Berg turned, walked a few yards, passed the alleyway near Down Street, looked up and saw the flag flying outside the American Club. He thought to himself that a hell of a lot had happened since the last time he had seen that flag. He went into the Club, walked down the passage through the door at the end on the right. In front of him was the cloakroom and the letter delivery service. Berg took off his hat as the trim girl in the blue-grey uniform of the American Red Cross came towards him.

She stood, her small brown hands resting on the counter in front of her. She said: “Can I help you, soldier?”