The Dark Street

1: The Things I Do for England-2

He was tall, limber, well-made. He dressed quietly. He had a flair for not being too noticeable in crowds, for remaining a part of the scenery and, as such, not attracting too much attention. This was only one of his many attributes, which was as well, for the peculiar profession to which he belonged demanded many qualities and a great deal of extremely stark determination.

He paid off the cab, went through the swing doors into the Hyde Park Hotel, through the outer foyer, paused at the cloakroom, left his overcoat and his black Homburg hat and went into the Buttery. The place was crowded. It was filled with British and American officers, members of the Women's Services; all sorts and conditions of people.

Quayle sat on a high stool at the end of the bar. He ordered a double gin and soda, thinking as he did so that it was a depressing drink, but that in any event life could scarcely be more depressing than it was at the moment.

The top of his head was bald. A fringe of hair gave him the appearance of a tonsured monk. His face was round and might be called either very intelligent or vaguely stupid, according to the way he desired it to look. He sat there, sipping the gin and soda, looking straight in front of him.

Life, thought Quayle, was rather ridiculous—tragically ridiculous. Definitely, that was an adequate description of life at this particular moment. He threw a sidelong glance to his left—a glance which embraced the attractive picture of a young woman in W.R.N.S. uniform, whose neatly dressed blonde hair under an attractive tricorn uniform hat, her well-developed bosom, flat stomach and good legs, gave Quayle for one fleeting second a respite from the annoyance that thronged his mind—then brought his eyes back to the line of bottles on the mirrored shelves in front of him.

Quayle's business was nobody's business. That is the best description of his profession. It was a business necessitated by war, by the ghastly mechanics of war, by the scheming, plotting, machinations, underhand tactics, filthy murders; all those things that go to make up modern Armageddon, which is not entirely composed of battles in the air and clashes between infantry.

He finished the gin, ordered another. He took a large cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it, began to smoke. He was impatient.

A long and dangerous life had taught Quayle that there are only certain things which one is really afraid of—a certain kind of situation, a certain type of woman. One is afraid of both these things for the same reason. Both the situation and the woman are uncertain. They may repercuss in ways unforeseen. The situation, not being known, may possess potentialities for annoyance. The woman, whether she be known or not, may develop characteristics undreamed of. These were dangerous things one might sometimes be afraid of. The other and possibly more important thing was the amazing fretfulness of indecision, the inability to make up one's mind to deal with a situation because there are no facts on which one can make up one's mind; the appalling inability to realise the basis of the picture; the pressing desire to seize on small clues, to build up something in order that one might do something—anything—knowing all the time that if one did do something it would probably be wrong because the basic facts were missing.

The man who said "when in doubt don't" knew what he was talking about. He probably guessed, too, just how badly most people needed that advice.

Quayle was what might be described as a very tough egg. Yet he had a house just outside London, a wife who was devoted to him, and who believed—strange as it may seem—that he was employed in some quite normal department of a Ministry. He had all the attributes, the background, of a normal upper-middle class Englishman who was nearly fifty years of age, who was a little perturbed with the war because it interfered with his life, who was like so many people of his type that one sees about the streets. Yet he was none of these things.

A dangerous man—a fearful man—Quayle; a man at whose bidding strange things happened in many parts of the world; a man who ordered death and hated it; a man who pulled strings and made puppets dance; who whilst pulling the strings came near to weeping—if he could come near to weeping—because the puppets had to dance. This was Quayle.

A man came into the Buttery, through the foyer. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a big, good-looking face. He wore battle-dress, with a Commando flash under the shoulder title "Canada." A little inclined to stoutness, but his uniform sat well on him. His ankles and feet were trim; his hands, large, with spatulate fingers, hung at the end of long arms relaxed and limp.

Imperceptibly Quayle moved a little to the right, and the Canadian, as imperceptibly, inserted himself into the space made for him. Quayle ordered another large gin and soda. He drank half of it, stubbed out his cigarette, selected a fresh one from his case. He produced a lighter from his pocket which failed to work. He said to the Canadian:

"Could you give me a light?"

The Canadian grinned. Looking at him one could sense that he was a happy man; that in most circumstances—even the most difficult ones—he would still be happy.

He said: "Yeah, I got a light." He produced a lighter from his pocket, snapped it on, bent towards Quayle, showing the Captain's stars on his shoulders. He said, as he held the flame to Quayle's cigarette: "Do I talk?"

Quayle nodded. "It's all right," he said. "Talk."

Dombie said: "I went around to the office, but you weren't there. I saw the girl. She said she reckoned you'd be here. I reckon you've been waitin' to see me for some time, hey?"

Quayle said in a bored voice: "Have I?" The fingers of his right hand were tapping impatiently under the ledge of the bar.

Dombie went on: "I know how it's been. I guess you haven't been having a good time. O.K. Well, it's bloody awful some more. It looks like they've done it again."

Quayle said: "God damn it!" There was a world of feeling in the words.

"You're tellin' me," said Dombie. "Where do we go from here?"

The white-jacketed barman, passing along the bar, stood in front of them. Dombie said cheerfully:

"Hey, fella, you got whisky? I'll take a large one with just a little soda. Make it snappy, pal." He put a pound note on the counter. The barman went away.

Quayle said: "What happened and where did you get it from?"

The Canadian eased his large backside on the stool. He brought out a leather cigarette case, extracted a Lucky Strike, lit it. He was cool, unperturbed. He said:

"Through Fours' place. Believe it or not, I was over there last night. I got picked up by a plane at Frenduly in the Pas de Calais. I got over here this morning. Christ—was I glad to get out of there?"

Quayle said: "It's hot, is it?"

Dombie grinned. "Hot? It's a bloody cauldron," he said. "Jerry's worried. You know what the Germans are like when they get frightened, don't you? They get so tough it hurts. If they're doubtful they start killin'."

Quayle said: "Go on."

Dombie said: "All right. It reads like this. That musical comedy Vichy police force got wise to Michaelson and Duborg. You got that? They knocked off Mavrique. She was the contact with those two. Yet it wouldn't have been so bad if they'd handled her. But they didn't. They handed her over to the black coat brigade—one of the Gestapo inner sections. I reckon they made little Cerisette talk plenty. They got some nice methods, you know."

Quayle said: "You don't have to tell me. I know." His tone was angry.

Dombie said: "She shot the works. Duborg and Michaelson met at Fours' shop. They went home. They guessed what was waiting for 'em and got that kid Carlos—a white-faced rat but a nice guy—to come on behind to see what happened. O.K. There was a show-down. The Gestapo boys were waiting for Duborg and Michaelson. It looks like there was a rough-house. Our two boys got creased. That's all there is to it. They sent round a mortuary wagon and brought 'em out." He sighed. "Those two didn't talk anyway."

Quayle said in an angry low voice: "You bet your goddamned life they didn't talk, Dombie. Whatever they'd have done to them they'd never have talked."

The Canadian said: "Yeah, I guess you're right. I reckon that's where they started something. They weren't going to take a chance on talking. Those two boys knew what these guys do to a fella when they really want to find out something." He grinned. "You're tellin' me!" he said.

Quayle finished his gin and soda. He sucked down the clear liquid angrily. He pushed the glass back across the bar. The barman approached. Quayle ordered fresh drinks. Underneath the ledge of the bar the fingers of his right hand were still tapping.

Dombie said: "Look, Mr. Quayle, take it easy. I know how you're feelin'. You send 'em out there and you wish you were with 'em. Well, you can't be. None of these boys have taken as many chances as you have."

Quayle said: "I don't give a damn about Duborg and Michaelson. If they had to have it they had to have it. That's the way it goes." His voice sank to a low sibilant whisper. There was a world of hatred in every syllable. He said: "I want to know who gave the woman away. How did those dressed-up Vichy fools get on to Mavrique? How did they know about her?"

Dombie spread the fingers of his right hand on the top of the bar. The palm looked like a small plate. The fingers, short, spatulate, with broad nails, spread themselves out. Vaguely, they reminded Quayle of an octopus who had had his tentacles cut short.

Dombie said: "Look, whatever trouble started with Mavrique started over here. There are too many of these goddam Jerries kickin' around. You know that. Some of 'em are being let kick around. They give 'em their heads.

Other departments believe if you give 'em enough rope they'll hang themselves."

Quayle said: "I've never believed that."

Dombie shrugged his shoulders. He said: "Mr. Quayle, there's only one man could know about Mavrique; there's only one man who could have tipped those bastards off, and you know who he is."

Quayle said: "Yes, I know. That would be Lelley."

Dombie looked round the Buttery. It was almost empty. It was nearly ten o'clock. He said:

"That's right. It would be Lelley. I'd like to tear him wide open." An idea came to him. "Listen," he said, "why don't I tear him wide open?"

Quayle said: "That's not your business." He smiled. "You're good at your job, Dombie, but that's not your line." There was a pause. He went on: "You're right. You've got to be right. It was our friend Mr. Charles Ermyn Lelley. Otherwise little Fritzy—that superb product of Mr. Himmler's No. 1 Training School—Mr. Lelley of Upper Nelswood—the squire of the village."

Dombie said: "He could have done it. He was the only guy who could have done it. We know he knew about Mavrique. When they let her get through the first time and come over here he knew about it. I'm tellin' you!"