The Stars are Dark

1: Assignation With Shadows A FILM director, seeking a ghostly scene for some macabre film, would have acclaimed the location of the Box of Compasses. It stood, set back fifty yards from the deserted cross-roads, one arm of which dwindled away past the wooded crest of the hill; turned itself into a footpath and disappeared amongst the scrub on the cliff top. One arm ran into the moorland; the other wound past the inn and broadened on its way to the town. There was no shelter from the wind. The ramshackle building stood on a bare plateau surrounded by scrubland. On the other side of the woods the cliffs descended steeply, disappearing into sand-dunes running down to the long shelving beach of the bay. Either there was fog or rain or wind— sometimes all of them. This night was stormy. The wind howled in from the sea, through the woodland, swept down to the cross-roads to vent its fury on the Box of Compasses. It rattled the old-time shutters, banged unsecured doors, set window frames and hinges creaking, and swung the inn sign backwards and forwards, creating in the process a rusty dirge as a set-off to its own shrill voice. The lorry came from the direction of the town at a good thirty miles an hour. The canvas flap at the back was open, whipped against the side, making a noise like a cracking whip. When the inn came in sight, Greeley, who was sitting in the cab beside the driver, said: "Look, run up the road till you come to the side of the wood. There's an open space there you can turn in and park." The driver said: "All right." He spoke in a cultured voice and the hands that gripped the steering-wheel were white― unused to manual work. Greeley looked at them. He thought: 'Jesus, they're givin' us some fine proper boys these days. I wonder where this one came from.' He put his hand into the side pocket of his leathern wind-jammer; brought out a crumpled cigarette. He lit it; drew the smoke down into his lungs, opened his mouth and let it come out again. The cigarette was stuck artistically to his lower lip. Greeley was one of those men to whose lower lips cigarettes always stuck. He undid two of the buttons of his leathern jacket; put his hand inside. Under his left arm, in a soft holster, was a .45 Webley Scott automatic. He pulled the holster a little forward, so that his right hand could close easily on the butt. He buttoned up his jacket, put his hands on his knees, sat looking through the windshield. He began to think about the girl at Kingstown. Jeez... there was a girl. When they were serving out nerve— and when he said nerve he meant nerve— she'd got herself a basinful. And she had one of those pale, wistful sort of faces and fine blonde hair, and a figure that made your fingers tingle.... She looked sort of weak and helpless, and she would look at you with big blue eyes, and you would think that somebody had taken her for a very rough ride and you would feel sorry for her. Weak and helpless.... Greeley, his sharp eyes looking at the windshield in front of him and not seeing anything except that wistful face, began to grin. Weak and helpless.... Like hell she was! He remembered the do in the cellar of the Six Sisters on the Meath Road when she'd shot Vietzlin when he was nearly through the window... a lovely drop shot... with a forty-five that she'd grabbed out of Villier's coat pocket and a pull on it that weighed all of two pounds. Greeley wondered who she was; if he would ever see her again. He wondered where the devil Quayle had found that one. Quayle certainly knew how to pick them. He certainly had some method. He never made a nonsense of picking people.... Greeley conceded that Quayle knew what he was doing. Nearly all the time he knew what he was doing. A cool, hard-headed one, Quayle... one who knew when to be tough and when to play it nice and soft and easy; who knew how to look like a big kind-hearted one and who could talk you into or out of anything, but who could do other things besides talk. Greeley wondered what Quayle was getting out of it. Pretty much the same as the rest of them, he thought. Sweet nothing... sweet Fanny Adams... sweet goddam all... except maybe the kick. Perhaps Quayle was getting a kick out of it. Massanay, who was driving, said: "I feel damn' funny. I feel as if my stomach's cold inside. I wonder what's going to happen?" Greeley grinned. He said: "You should bleedin' worry! You take a tip from me— don't you ever think of what's goin' to happen before it happens in this game, see? It don't do, you know, and it don't get you any place. Just take things as they come. The other thing you can remember is that nothing is ever as bad as you think it's going to be." Massanay said: "You ought to know." "You bet your life I ought to know," said Greeley. "When you've been kickin' around in this racket as long as I have nothing's going to make you feel funny; nothing's going to surprise you. If a couple of burnin' fiends dropped out of hell in a flash of blue flame, you wouldn't even blink." There was a pause. Then Greeley asked: "You know what you've got to do?" Massanay said: "Yes." He went on, talking like a child who's learned a lesson: "I'm going to park the lorry round in the clearing of the woods. I'm going to wait ten minutes; then I'm going down to the saloon bar of the Box of Compasses. I'll have a drink. There are going to be three other men there—yourself and two more. I know what the other two will look like. All right. By the time I've had my drink it ought to be time for people to start moving. First the tall man will go; then the man of medium height with very wide shoulders. About two minutes after he's gone I shall leave." Greeley said: "That's all right. Where do you go to?" "I follow the path along the top of the cliff," said Massanay. "Down the other side, about a hundred yards down, there's a cut in the cliff. The cleft runs down to the beach. I'm to turn down into that cleft. Somewhere there I'll find you three." "That's all right," said Greeley. "All right. Well, you do it." He grinned. "All you got to do is to pull your belt in one hole, if you've got a belt on. That'll stop your guts from turnin' over. And the second thing is try and keep your teeth from chatterin'. Every time there's a lull in the wind you sound like a bleedin' typewriter workin'." He grinned suddenly in a friendly manner. He dug Massanay in the ribs. He said: "Don't worry, kid. You'll be all right. I was like you the first time. You can drop me off here." Massanay slowed down. Greeley opened the door and stood on the step of the slow-moving lorry. He said: "When you park this lorry, tie up that flap at the back. There might be some nosy fellow hangin' around— a cyclist policeman or a Home Guard. Maybe they'd want to know what you're doin' with four six-foot boxes in this outfit." Massanay said: "Why should they worry?" Greeley said: "Why? Because they look like coffins, don't they?" He grinned again. "Because they look like coffins nobody would believe they were fruit boxes. And the joke is they are fruit boxes but they ought to be coffins. So long, chum." He dropped off into the road. He stood watching the lorry as it went up the hill towards the wood. 2 FELLS FINISHED his whisky and soda as Greeley came into the Box of Compasses. Greeley looked casually around the bar, showing not the slightest sign of recognition when he saw Fells and Villiers. Villiers was sitting at the little table on the left of the fire, drinking Guinness. He was wearing a bowler hat perched rather incongruously on the top of a round head. Villiers looked like the sort of man who would be a coal agent or an insurance agent or anything like that—the sort of man you wouldn't notice. Fells, leaning against the bar, lit a cigarette. He was thinking about Greeley. He was thinking Greeley was pretty good—a funny, odd fellow Greeley—a regular Cockney—but with a peculiar sense of something that you couldn't put your finger on—utterly reliable. He drew the cigarette smoke down into his lungs. Fells had a long thin face, and when you looked at it the first time you thought that it was a very sad face. The deep ironic lines about the mouth, the bony structure of the jaw and the peculiar thinness at the side of the eyes gave you an odd impression of asceticism. When you looked again you noticed the groups of finely cut humour lines at the edge of the eyes. When he smiled—a rare occurrence—his eyes lighted up. Then it seemed as if, for a moment, he had forgotten something—something that he wanted badly to forget—as if he had obtained a few seconds respite from a ghost that haunted him. He was tall and thin. He had long legs, slim hips. His shoulders were good, and underneath the superficial appearance of laziness you could sense a great energy—an energy born of frustration or impatience or something. Fells might have been anything, but first of all he might have been an actor. He had the ability to blend into a background, and here in the tap-room of the Box of Compasses he seemed to be completely a part of the scene. Villiers, with his bowler hat, drinking Guinness at the far side; and Greeley, his drink ordered, leaning against the bar counter, casting an appreciative eye on the buxom barmaid—all of them somehow, and in some strange fashion, blended into the atmosphere of the Box of Compasses. An odd process, but one which is possible to men whose nervous systems are attuned to atmospherics. Massanay came in. The barmaid, who was wiping the zinc counter, looked at him for a moment. She wondered at the influx of business. She thought Massanay looked nice. Then she looked at Fells in the quick, appraising manner of her kind. She thought Fells looked a little odd and sad—the sort of man who has been pushed around by life and doesn't know what to do about it. Fells thought. He thought that he would like to go to the Palladium; that he would like to see Tommy Trinder. He had seen a poster earlier in the day. Mr. Trinder's face gazed at him invitingly from the poster. Mr. Trinder was saying: 'You lucky people!' The suggestion conveyed itself into the mind of Fells that by going to the Palladium, by seeing Tommy Trinder, he could be lucky! He might secure for a little while happiness. He might be amused. Definitely, he must go and see Tommy Trinder. Then he thought that when he had the chance he would speak to Greeley about it. First of all Greeley was certain to have been there. Greeley went everywhere. He had an extreme ability for enjoyment. Only Greeley could enjoy things such as —— Fells sighed. Then he smiled a little whimsically. After all there was only one Greeley. He ordered another whisky and soda. He began to think about Tangier. The process was pleasurable. Not always did he allow himself to think about Tangier—just occasionally. When things were a little bad, or getting to be a little exciting, or there was a chance of any particular unhappiness in the near future, then Fells would think about Tangier. A picture of her would come to him. He would visualise the soft chestnut hair framing her beautiful oval face. He would think about her face, of the carved lines of her mouth. Thinking about Tangier brought a sense of peace or exhilaration, whichever was required at that moment. The barmaid brought his drink. Fells drank it slowly. Then he turned his wrist over and looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He wore his wrist-watch on the inside of his wrist because it had a luminous dial and if it were worn on the outside of the wrist it might be seen in the darkness. Fells and Greeley and Villiers and the rest of them always thought of little things like that. They realised they weren't little things; they realised they were very big things. Important things like life—if it was important—sometimes depended on such little things.