Dark Interlude
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Synopsis
Shaun Aloysius O'Mara, intelligence agent for the British 'second bureau', has been ordered by his superiors to go to Paris to obtain information that will lead to the capture of the lone survivor of the Nazi espionage system. So when Shaun arrives in Paris he becomes a crude and shiftless drunkard and entangles himself with a clever and ruthless spy, Tanga de Sarieux, who is as brave as the men that surround her ...
Release date: January 21, 2014
Publisher: Orion
Print pages: 288
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Dark Interlude
Peter Cheyney
O’MARA
SHAUN ALOYSIUS O’MARA came round the shadow of the low wall that bounded the end of the little
church. He stepped unsteadily over the wall; began to walk through the small graveyard towards the yew-tree grove.
It was hot. The sun beat down pitilessly; there was no air. O’Mara stumbled over a low headstone, cursed horribly; saw over his shoulder the short figure of the curé; the dingy
worn and shiny soutane; the thin white face.
He began to laugh. He laughed at the priest. He began to sing a ribald song in the Breton tongue. The curé shrugged his shoulders; disappeared into the cool darkness of the porch.
O’Mara heard his footsteps die away. He thought that the sound of worn shoes on the stone flags was a strange sound.
He was half drunk. He was always at least half drunk. Pints and gallons of spirits, of cheap beer, of cachasa of veritable cognac that was veritable methylated spirit
and colouring, had deadened his metabolic processes. Gallons of cheap-cut, laced and doctored wine, had filled his veins with acid, yellowed his eyes, sagged his facial and stomach muscles.
O’Mara was tall and big. Once he had looked like a handsome bull. A well-kept, superior, fierce and handsome bull. Now the skin under his blue eyes was faded and pouchy; the fresh
complexion had turned to the greyish hue of the near third-stage drunkard. The fair shining hair that had curled back from an intelligent forehead in waves that made most women envious was long,
dank, dirty, bedraggled.
He stepped over the low boundary wall on the far side of the graveyard. There was no shadow here. The sun descended on his bare head without mercy. He could feel it burning through the thick
hair on the top of his head, heating the brown and dirty skin of his neck.
He was dressed in a pair of blue velveteen trousers that were baggy at the top and narrow over the broken shoes. He had no socks. As he walked, the trouser legs rode up and you could see his
unwashed ankles. He wore a shirt that had been a middle-blue and was now dark blue with dirt and sweat. The shirt was open at the neck; his broad, tanned chest had burst the buttons.
He walked into the yew-tree grove. The damp shadows of the grove; the cool dark box-like square made by the thick arching yew trees, was like an icebox. Outside, it was as hot as hell, he
thought. Here, inside the grove, it was as cold as death.
He stumbled over a root, fell; was too tired to get up. He lay there . . . muttering.
He was sorry for himself. The last good eighth of his brain said: This is the third stage—self-pity, weakness; sickness; tremors in the left arm and leg; a feeling of approaching
paralysis at night; an inability to remember.
O’Mara thought that maybe you could play this game too well. Maybe you could overplay your hand. This drink business was an overrated pastime.
But if the last eighth was still working you were all right; that was what Quayle had said. Quayle had said it would be all right for him because he was O’Mara who could do anything; get
away with anything.
He thought: Goddam Quayle. Quayle knew everything. Every goddam thing. Quayle was the boyo for telling you what you could do or what you couldn’t do.
O’Mara lay on the damp earth cursing Quayle; mouthing appalling epithets; unspeakable comparisons.
Sometimes you forgot things. That was marvellous. It was going to be marvellous for him if he forgot where he’d hidden the coramine and the heroin and the syringe case. That was
going to be very good.
He began to recite poetry. If you could remember poetry, you were all right. That meant that your brain was still working—more or less. Then he made up his mind to think about himself
logically. He was O’Mara—although that was a fact that he divulged only to himself. He was Shaun Aloysius O’Mara who had been born and reared in County Clare. And he could play
the piano and ride a horse. He was a good shot; could sail a boat. He spoke four languages. That was who he was and that was what he had been like.
Now he was Philippe Garenne. Not-so-good Philippe. A dirty, drunken sot who worked for Volanon at the Garage Volanon on the other side of the estuary. In a minute he would get up and go
out of the yew-tree grove and walk to the hill and look over the sunlit estuary. And there on the other side would be the fisherman’s cottages and the pseudo hotel that was empty, and the
cinema that the Germans had gutted. And on the right, near the quay, where the boats were moored, would be the Garage Volanon and the Café Volanon just beside it. And the
louse Volanon would be standing at the door of the café smoking his curved pipe filled with rank Caporal, wondering where the no-good drunken Philippe was. . . . Goddam Volanon . .
. to hell with the Café Volanon . . . to eternal damnation with the Garage Volanon!
He got up. Slowly he got up. He stood there in the cool grove, thinking about the nervous pain in his left arm.
The pain would go in a little while. Of course it would come back. It would be back to-morrow . . . it always came back to-morrow.
He began to think about Eulalia. Now his face changed a little. It became softer. The Senhorita Eulalia Guimaraes . . .some Senhorita. The delightful and lovely and alluring Senhorita
Eulalia Guimaraes who lived in a delightful and lovely apartment in the Edificio Ultramar, at Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro. His mind swam into a picture that had passed . . . that seemed to have
existed such a long time ago.
He saw himself. He was coming out of the bathroom and the sun poured through the open windows of the drawing-room and shone on the off-white carpet; on the primrose-painted walls. He was dressed
in a striped dressing-gown—broad stripes of cigar-ash grey and black crêpe-de-chine. Definitely a dressing-gown. He wore nothing beneath the robe and he walked across the
off-white carpet on his bare feet. Good well-shaped feet that gripped at the carpet like a cat’s paws. He walked across the carpet to the radiogram and put on a record. The soft music of the
tango seemed heated with the sunshine.
He stood in front of the radiogram nodding his head to the music; smoking a small black cigar whose perfume he could still smell. . . .
And when he turned round, Eulalia stood in the doorway of the little hall that led from her room. She was dressed in a lacy wrap and he could see the tiny velvet mules beneath. Her hair was dark
and her face pale and long, and her lips were cherry colour and her eyes were long and lovely and brown. When she smiled the sun became brighter and the smile curved her mouth and you felt that you
wanted to do something about it at once. That you must.
She put her hand against the wall and smiled at him. She said: “It has been said that one can be too happy. This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost . . .”
She went away. He laughed because she was talking nonsense. Sweet nonsense.
He stood there in front of the radiogram listening to the strains of the hot sweet tango, moving his shoulders and his feet in time with the music.
And the bell rang.
And the sound of the door-bell ringing was like coming into the yew-tree grove of which he was then unaware. It was as if someone had laid a dead cold hand on your bare chest. That was how the
sound of the door-bell seemed to him.
He went quickly to the door and opened it. Outside, Willis—the Engish messenger from the Embassy—stood smiling, with the note in his hand.
O’Mara could hear Eulalia saying . . . “This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost . . .”
He took the note, and Willis went away. He opened the note. It was the transcript of a coded message, probably sent in the diplomatic bag by Quayle. It said laconically: ‘Come back
stop Immediately stop Playtime is over stop Quayle.’
And that was that.
And he had dressed and written the note to Eulalia whilst she was still in her bathroom. He had written: “I’m sorry, Eulalia . . . but there is someone else. There has been for
some time. I’ve got to go. Shaun.” And he had sneaked out and left his clothes; everything. Because that was the easiest way to do it. Easiest for her; for him; and it stopped a
lot of questions. Even questions that do not get further than the mind.
That was Mr. Quayle that was. . . . Come back . . . playtime is over. . . . Goddam Mr. Quayle.
And now he was standing in the yew-tree grove where it was cold on a hot day. He was standing and wondering and trying to think with a mind that was three parts numb with bad liquor and the
other part not-so-interested.
But the drink thing was necessary. Or so it seemed. And who the hell was he to argue anyhow. . . . Nobody ever argued with Mr. Quayle. Well . . . not more than about twice. . . . Not about
anything that mattered.
The thing was not fair. Because when you wanted to be something; when the time came you would have no guts; no morale; no anything. You would be a drunken sot. And if you were
not a drunken sot, the time wouldn’t come. So anyway you were in hell. Thank you, Mr. Quayle . . . thank you very much. . . . Goddam you, Mr. Quayle, and I hope it keeps fine for you and that
you fall in front of a motor bus on a foggy day and to hell with you.
His stomach heaved; he began to feel sick. He stood leaning against a tree waiting for the tremor to pass.
Someone had said of him . . . someone . . . Ricardo Kerr, he thought it was . . . “O’Mara would charm you, would eat and drink with you, converse with you, play cards with you, win
money off you, take your girl off you, swear unfailing loyalty to you, and if necessary kill you.” That was what Ricky Kerr had said. He wondered what Ricky would say if he could have a look
now.
O’Mara realised that he must have a drink. Some sort of drink. Even if it was that lousy firewater that Volanon cooked up in the back room. You had to have a drink when you felt like he
did. There was no argument about it.
And that meant that he had to walk round the estuary and go back to the Garage Volanon and eat dirt and tell Volanon that he was sorry about last night when he had spat in the face of
Tierche, the fish factor. Volanon had been quite peeved about that. But, anyway, what the hell could he do? He had to have some sort of help in the garage and even the drunken O’Mara
was better than nothing. Three days a week he could work anyhow . . . sometimes. . . .
He would have to walk round the estuary, and he would sweat some of the liquor out of him, and he might be better. Maybe something was going to happen to-day . . . maybe. It hadn’t
happened for months and it probably wouldn’t, and anyway in about another five weeks he would be all set for the fourth stage, and that was when you started seeing things on the wall.
O’Mara moved slowly out of the yew-tree grove and began to walk along the green fringe that edged the high cliff. On the other side of the estuary he could see Volanon standing at the door
of the Café. . . .
O’Mara moved away along the cliff. It would be funny, he thought, if he fell over. And it might save a great deal of trouble. But he wouldn’t. No, sir . . . not to-day, sir. . . .
No, Mr. Quayle . . . not to-day and goddam you, Mr. Quayle.
The curé in the faded soutane came out of the church and walked to the edge of the graveyard. He watched O’Mara as he moved stupidly along the cliff path.
He said: “Poor Philippe . . . poor Philippe. . . .”
TANGA
O’MARA lay on the ground, his back resting against the white-washed wall that bounded the Garage Volanon. He seemed to regard the broken
shoe of his right foot with interest, but he did not see the shoe. When a lizard scuttled from a crevice in the sunlit wall, disappeared into another crevice, O’Mara jerked spasmodically. He
relaxed after his brain realised that he had really seen the lizard.
There had been no work that day. After last night when Volanon had given him the rough edge of his tongue, O’Mara had decided it would be a good thing to remain as sober as possible for a
few days; as sober as possible—possible being the operative word. He concluded that he did not like lizards. He thought that life would go on in exactly the same way as it was going
on at the moment. It would go on like that permanently, except that each day he would be a little more drunken—a little more stupid. And then in the winter it would rain and he would probably
die of pneumonia.
O’Mara, who had never considered the possibilities of death, found himself vaguely amused at the thought. He concluded that there was never a chance of anything happening; that he was part
of a picture that was constant; that would continue. A rather dreary picture in the beautiful setting created by the sunlight which flooded this side of the estuary; which illuminated the red roof
and white walls of the garage.
And then it happened.
The Typhoon car shot round the corner out of the narrow main street of the little fishing village. The driver was expert, for the car was long and at the speed at which it was going it was
necessary to skid the car. It came round the corner at a good thirty-five; accelerated down the dirt road that led towards the arm of the estuary; slowed down; stopped directly outside the
garage.
O’Mara did not move. The pain had come in his left arm. His left leg was beginning to tremble. These were the usual symptoms for this time of the day. They called it all sorts of names. A
doctor from a neighbouring town had been nice enough to describe it as a sort of false angina. Actually, it was drink, more drink, and Caporal cigarettes—lots of them. That and not
eating and nerves.
O’Mara regarded the broken shoe on his right foot with even more interest. Now he felt a little cold. Supposing this was it! Was he good enough? Had he got the guts? Out of the corner of
his eye he watched the car. The door opened and a woman’s leg emerged—a beautiful leg; superbly clad; the stocking of the sheerest silk. O’Mara knew the leg. He thought: My God .
. . it’s happened! Tanga!
So it was to be she. Tanga de Sarieux, whom he had met once and remembered often. He remembered the slow, quiet voice, the delightful French accent.
She got out of the car. She walked towards the garage. She disappeared through the open sliding doors into the cool shadows. She walked with the supreme aplomb, the grace of carriage, that was
part of her make-up. O’Mara thought: What a hell of a woman! He found himself trembling a little.
The afternoon was very quiet. There was no breeze from the sea. There was the buzzing and droning of flies—the noises that come with the hot summer; that make the silence more definite.
Inside the garage, O’Mara could hear Tanga’s cool, clear voice demanding attention from somebody. He looked at the car. The front near-side tyre was nearly flat. So that was it!
Some minutes passed. Tanga came out of the garage. She walked towards the car, followed by Volanon. Volanon was fat, greasy and sweating. His stained linen trousers were tied round his middle
with a piece of cord. His belly sagged over the top.
He said: “If that’s all it is, Madame, we’ll soon fix it for you. If I can get this drunken imbecile to work.” He looked towards O’Mara. He called: “Hi,
Philippe . . . come along, my drunken sot. Change this wheel. The spare is on the back.”
Tanga looked at O’Mara. She said coldly: “Do you think he could change a wheel? He looks drunk to me.”
Volanon shrugged his shoulders. He said: “Madame has reason. He is drunk. He has never been sober. He has everything—a variety of maladies. One looks at him and imagines that also he
has the cafard. But always he is able to work after a style.”
Tanga said: “Why don’t you change the tyre?”
Volanon said with dignity: “But, Madame, I am the proprietor.”
Tanga began to laugh. Volanon, a shadow crossing his face and with a final scowl at O’Mara, turned; went towards the garage. Inside the doors, he turned. He called back:
“Madame is requested to pay me—not to give money to the drunken Philippe.”
Tanga nodded. O’Mara could hear the rope-soled shoes of Volanon pattering away into the recesses of the garage. He planned to get up. He got up. He got up by the process of turning over on
his knees, pushing himself up into a kneeling position, putting his two hands on the top of the low wall and pulling. With difficulty he achieved a vertical position. He stood for a moment leaning
against the wall; then walked slowly towards the car. She looked at him with distaste.
She said: “The jack is in the back. There is a lock on the spare wheel. Here is the key. Also I am in a hurry. You will be quick?”
O’Mara said: “But of course. That is understood.” He continued more formally: “Madame, speed is the essence of our work in this supreme and high-class organisation. It
will not take me very long to change the wheel.”
She said: “Good.”
O’Mara went on: “But it would seem to me that you have a puncture. If you want the puncture repaired before you go on—and I would advise you to have it repaired—it will
take a little time.”
She asked: “How much time?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A half an hour,” he said.
Tanga looked across the estuary. She looked across to the other side, to the green hill with the tiny church and graveyard on the top.
She said: “There is a villa somewhere in this place called Cote d’Azur. I believe it is not far. I might go there and return in an hour to collect the car. I take it that
the puncture would be mended by then?”
O’Mara said: “Definitely.” He was leaning against the bonnet of the Typhoon, looking at Tanga. He looked at her with eyes that were hungry but inoffensive. He looked at her in
the way that the old O’Mara could look at a woman and not annoy her—with a peculiar mixture of humility and insolence, admiration and question.
He looked for what seemed to him a long time. He thought: So it’s going to be this one. He realised—as he had never realised before; even before the drink business had become
necessary—that she had everything—beauty, intelligence, and that peculiar but supremely necessary nous that was an essential part of the make-. . .
SHAUN ALOYSIUS O’MARA came round the shadow of the low wall that bounded the end of the little
church. He stepped unsteadily over the wall; began to walk through the small graveyard towards the yew-tree grove.
It was hot. The sun beat down pitilessly; there was no air. O’Mara stumbled over a low headstone, cursed horribly; saw over his shoulder the short figure of the curé; the dingy
worn and shiny soutane; the thin white face.
He began to laugh. He laughed at the priest. He began to sing a ribald song in the Breton tongue. The curé shrugged his shoulders; disappeared into the cool darkness of the porch.
O’Mara heard his footsteps die away. He thought that the sound of worn shoes on the stone flags was a strange sound.
He was half drunk. He was always at least half drunk. Pints and gallons of spirits, of cheap beer, of cachasa of veritable cognac that was veritable methylated spirit
and colouring, had deadened his metabolic processes. Gallons of cheap-cut, laced and doctored wine, had filled his veins with acid, yellowed his eyes, sagged his facial and stomach muscles.
O’Mara was tall and big. Once he had looked like a handsome bull. A well-kept, superior, fierce and handsome bull. Now the skin under his blue eyes was faded and pouchy; the fresh
complexion had turned to the greyish hue of the near third-stage drunkard. The fair shining hair that had curled back from an intelligent forehead in waves that made most women envious was long,
dank, dirty, bedraggled.
He stepped over the low boundary wall on the far side of the graveyard. There was no shadow here. The sun descended on his bare head without mercy. He could feel it burning through the thick
hair on the top of his head, heating the brown and dirty skin of his neck.
He was dressed in a pair of blue velveteen trousers that were baggy at the top and narrow over the broken shoes. He had no socks. As he walked, the trouser legs rode up and you could see his
unwashed ankles. He wore a shirt that had been a middle-blue and was now dark blue with dirt and sweat. The shirt was open at the neck; his broad, tanned chest had burst the buttons.
He walked into the yew-tree grove. The damp shadows of the grove; the cool dark box-like square made by the thick arching yew trees, was like an icebox. Outside, it was as hot as hell, he
thought. Here, inside the grove, it was as cold as death.
He stumbled over a root, fell; was too tired to get up. He lay there . . . muttering.
He was sorry for himself. The last good eighth of his brain said: This is the third stage—self-pity, weakness; sickness; tremors in the left arm and leg; a feeling of approaching
paralysis at night; an inability to remember.
O’Mara thought that maybe you could play this game too well. Maybe you could overplay your hand. This drink business was an overrated pastime.
But if the last eighth was still working you were all right; that was what Quayle had said. Quayle had said it would be all right for him because he was O’Mara who could do anything; get
away with anything.
He thought: Goddam Quayle. Quayle knew everything. Every goddam thing. Quayle was the boyo for telling you what you could do or what you couldn’t do.
O’Mara lay on the damp earth cursing Quayle; mouthing appalling epithets; unspeakable comparisons.
Sometimes you forgot things. That was marvellous. It was going to be marvellous for him if he forgot where he’d hidden the coramine and the heroin and the syringe case. That was
going to be very good.
He began to recite poetry. If you could remember poetry, you were all right. That meant that your brain was still working—more or less. Then he made up his mind to think about himself
logically. He was O’Mara—although that was a fact that he divulged only to himself. He was Shaun Aloysius O’Mara who had been born and reared in County Clare. And he could play
the piano and ride a horse. He was a good shot; could sail a boat. He spoke four languages. That was who he was and that was what he had been like.
Now he was Philippe Garenne. Not-so-good Philippe. A dirty, drunken sot who worked for Volanon at the Garage Volanon on the other side of the estuary. In a minute he would get up and go
out of the yew-tree grove and walk to the hill and look over the sunlit estuary. And there on the other side would be the fisherman’s cottages and the pseudo hotel that was empty, and the
cinema that the Germans had gutted. And on the right, near the quay, where the boats were moored, would be the Garage Volanon and the Café Volanon just beside it. And the
louse Volanon would be standing at the door of the café smoking his curved pipe filled with rank Caporal, wondering where the no-good drunken Philippe was. . . . Goddam Volanon . .
. to hell with the Café Volanon . . . to eternal damnation with the Garage Volanon!
He got up. Slowly he got up. He stood there in the cool grove, thinking about the nervous pain in his left arm.
The pain would go in a little while. Of course it would come back. It would be back to-morrow . . . it always came back to-morrow.
He began to think about Eulalia. Now his face changed a little. It became softer. The Senhorita Eulalia Guimaraes . . .some Senhorita. The delightful and lovely and alluring Senhorita
Eulalia Guimaraes who lived in a delightful and lovely apartment in the Edificio Ultramar, at Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro. His mind swam into a picture that had passed . . . that seemed to have
existed such a long time ago.
He saw himself. He was coming out of the bathroom and the sun poured through the open windows of the drawing-room and shone on the off-white carpet; on the primrose-painted walls. He was dressed
in a striped dressing-gown—broad stripes of cigar-ash grey and black crêpe-de-chine. Definitely a dressing-gown. He wore nothing beneath the robe and he walked across the
off-white carpet on his bare feet. Good well-shaped feet that gripped at the carpet like a cat’s paws. He walked across the carpet to the radiogram and put on a record. The soft music of the
tango seemed heated with the sunshine.
He stood in front of the radiogram nodding his head to the music; smoking a small black cigar whose perfume he could still smell. . . .
And when he turned round, Eulalia stood in the doorway of the little hall that led from her room. She was dressed in a lacy wrap and he could see the tiny velvet mules beneath. Her hair was dark
and her face pale and long, and her lips were cherry colour and her eyes were long and lovely and brown. When she smiled the sun became brighter and the smile curved her mouth and you felt that you
wanted to do something about it at once. That you must.
She put her hand against the wall and smiled at him. She said: “It has been said that one can be too happy. This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost . . .”
She went away. He laughed because she was talking nonsense. Sweet nonsense.
He stood there in front of the radiogram listening to the strains of the hot sweet tango, moving his shoulders and his feet in time with the music.
And the bell rang.
And the sound of the door-bell ringing was like coming into the yew-tree grove of which he was then unaware. It was as if someone had laid a dead cold hand on your bare chest. That was how the
sound of the door-bell seemed to him.
He went quickly to the door and opened it. Outside, Willis—the Engish messenger from the Embassy—stood smiling, with the note in his hand.
O’Mara could hear Eulalia saying . . . “This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost . . .”
He took the note, and Willis went away. He opened the note. It was the transcript of a coded message, probably sent in the diplomatic bag by Quayle. It said laconically: ‘Come back
stop Immediately stop Playtime is over stop Quayle.’
And that was that.
And he had dressed and written the note to Eulalia whilst she was still in her bathroom. He had written: “I’m sorry, Eulalia . . . but there is someone else. There has been for
some time. I’ve got to go. Shaun.” And he had sneaked out and left his clothes; everything. Because that was the easiest way to do it. Easiest for her; for him; and it stopped a
lot of questions. Even questions that do not get further than the mind.
That was Mr. Quayle that was. . . . Come back . . . playtime is over. . . . Goddam Mr. Quayle.
And now he was standing in the yew-tree grove where it was cold on a hot day. He was standing and wondering and trying to think with a mind that was three parts numb with bad liquor and the
other part not-so-interested.
But the drink thing was necessary. Or so it seemed. And who the hell was he to argue anyhow. . . . Nobody ever argued with Mr. Quayle. Well . . . not more than about twice. . . . Not about
anything that mattered.
The thing was not fair. Because when you wanted to be something; when the time came you would have no guts; no morale; no anything. You would be a drunken sot. And if you were
not a drunken sot, the time wouldn’t come. So anyway you were in hell. Thank you, Mr. Quayle . . . thank you very much. . . . Goddam you, Mr. Quayle, and I hope it keeps fine for you and that
you fall in front of a motor bus on a foggy day and to hell with you.
His stomach heaved; he began to feel sick. He stood leaning against a tree waiting for the tremor to pass.
Someone had said of him . . . someone . . . Ricardo Kerr, he thought it was . . . “O’Mara would charm you, would eat and drink with you, converse with you, play cards with you, win
money off you, take your girl off you, swear unfailing loyalty to you, and if necessary kill you.” That was what Ricky Kerr had said. He wondered what Ricky would say if he could have a look
now.
O’Mara realised that he must have a drink. Some sort of drink. Even if it was that lousy firewater that Volanon cooked up in the back room. You had to have a drink when you felt like he
did. There was no argument about it.
And that meant that he had to walk round the estuary and go back to the Garage Volanon and eat dirt and tell Volanon that he was sorry about last night when he had spat in the face of
Tierche, the fish factor. Volanon had been quite peeved about that. But, anyway, what the hell could he do? He had to have some sort of help in the garage and even the drunken O’Mara
was better than nothing. Three days a week he could work anyhow . . . sometimes. . . .
He would have to walk round the estuary, and he would sweat some of the liquor out of him, and he might be better. Maybe something was going to happen to-day . . . maybe. It hadn’t
happened for months and it probably wouldn’t, and anyway in about another five weeks he would be all set for the fourth stage, and that was when you started seeing things on the wall.
O’Mara moved slowly out of the yew-tree grove and began to walk along the green fringe that edged the high cliff. On the other side of the estuary he could see Volanon standing at the door
of the Café. . . .
O’Mara moved away along the cliff. It would be funny, he thought, if he fell over. And it might save a great deal of trouble. But he wouldn’t. No, sir . . . not to-day, sir. . . .
No, Mr. Quayle . . . not to-day and goddam you, Mr. Quayle.
The curé in the faded soutane came out of the church and walked to the edge of the graveyard. He watched O’Mara as he moved stupidly along the cliff path.
He said: “Poor Philippe . . . poor Philippe. . . .”
TANGA
O’MARA lay on the ground, his back resting against the white-washed wall that bounded the Garage Volanon. He seemed to regard the broken
shoe of his right foot with interest, but he did not see the shoe. When a lizard scuttled from a crevice in the sunlit wall, disappeared into another crevice, O’Mara jerked spasmodically. He
relaxed after his brain realised that he had really seen the lizard.
There had been no work that day. After last night when Volanon had given him the rough edge of his tongue, O’Mara had decided it would be a good thing to remain as sober as possible for a
few days; as sober as possible—possible being the operative word. He concluded that he did not like lizards. He thought that life would go on in exactly the same way as it was going
on at the moment. It would go on like that permanently, except that each day he would be a little more drunken—a little more stupid. And then in the winter it would rain and he would probably
die of pneumonia.
O’Mara, who had never considered the possibilities of death, found himself vaguely amused at the thought. He concluded that there was never a chance of anything happening; that he was part
of a picture that was constant; that would continue. A rather dreary picture in the beautiful setting created by the sunlight which flooded this side of the estuary; which illuminated the red roof
and white walls of the garage.
And then it happened.
The Typhoon car shot round the corner out of the narrow main street of the little fishing village. The driver was expert, for the car was long and at the speed at which it was going it was
necessary to skid the car. It came round the corner at a good thirty-five; accelerated down the dirt road that led towards the arm of the estuary; slowed down; stopped directly outside the
garage.
O’Mara did not move. The pain had come in his left arm. His left leg was beginning to tremble. These were the usual symptoms for this time of the day. They called it all sorts of names. A
doctor from a neighbouring town had been nice enough to describe it as a sort of false angina. Actually, it was drink, more drink, and Caporal cigarettes—lots of them. That and not
eating and nerves.
O’Mara regarded the broken shoe on his right foot with even more interest. Now he felt a little cold. Supposing this was it! Was he good enough? Had he got the guts? Out of the corner of
his eye he watched the car. The door opened and a woman’s leg emerged—a beautiful leg; superbly clad; the stocking of the sheerest silk. O’Mara knew the leg. He thought: My God .
. . it’s happened! Tanga!
So it was to be she. Tanga de Sarieux, whom he had met once and remembered often. He remembered the slow, quiet voice, the delightful French accent.
She got out of the car. She walked towards the garage. She disappeared through the open sliding doors into the cool shadows. She walked with the supreme aplomb, the grace of carriage, that was
part of her make-up. O’Mara thought: What a hell of a woman! He found himself trembling a little.
The afternoon was very quiet. There was no breeze from the sea. There was the buzzing and droning of flies—the noises that come with the hot summer; that make the silence more definite.
Inside the garage, O’Mara could hear Tanga’s cool, clear voice demanding attention from somebody. He looked at the car. The front near-side tyre was nearly flat. So that was it!
Some minutes passed. Tanga came out of the garage. She walked towards the car, followed by Volanon. Volanon was fat, greasy and sweating. His stained linen trousers were tied round his middle
with a piece of cord. His belly sagged over the top.
He said: “If that’s all it is, Madame, we’ll soon fix it for you. If I can get this drunken imbecile to work.” He looked towards O’Mara. He called: “Hi,
Philippe . . . come along, my drunken sot. Change this wheel. The spare is on the back.”
Tanga looked at O’Mara. She said coldly: “Do you think he could change a wheel? He looks drunk to me.”
Volanon shrugged his shoulders. He said: “Madame has reason. He is drunk. He has never been sober. He has everything—a variety of maladies. One looks at him and imagines that also he
has the cafard. But always he is able to work after a style.”
Tanga said: “Why don’t you change the tyre?”
Volanon said with dignity: “But, Madame, I am the proprietor.”
Tanga began to laugh. Volanon, a shadow crossing his face and with a final scowl at O’Mara, turned; went towards the garage. Inside the doors, he turned. He called back:
“Madame is requested to pay me—not to give money to the drunken Philippe.”
Tanga nodded. O’Mara could hear the rope-soled shoes of Volanon pattering away into the recesses of the garage. He planned to get up. He got up. He got up by the process of turning over on
his knees, pushing himself up into a kneeling position, putting his two hands on the top of the low wall and pulling. With difficulty he achieved a vertical position. He stood for a moment leaning
against the wall; then walked slowly towards the car. She looked at him with distaste.
She said: “The jack is in the back. There is a lock on the spare wheel. Here is the key. Also I am in a hurry. You will be quick?”
O’Mara said: “But of course. That is understood.” He continued more formally: “Madame, speed is the essence of our work in this supreme and high-class organisation. It
will not take me very long to change the wheel.”
She said: “Good.”
O’Mara went on: “But it would seem to me that you have a puncture. If you want the puncture repaired before you go on—and I would advise you to have it repaired—it will
take a little time.”
She asked: “How much time?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A half an hour,” he said.
Tanga looked across the estuary. She looked across to the other side, to the green hill with the tiny church and graveyard on the top.
She said: “There is a villa somewhere in this place called Cote d’Azur. I believe it is not far. I might go there and return in an hour to collect the car. I take it that
the puncture would be mended by then?”
O’Mara said: “Definitely.” He was leaning against the bonnet of the Typhoon, looking at Tanga. He looked at her with eyes that were hungry but inoffensive. He looked at her in
the way that the old O’Mara could look at a woman and not annoy her—with a peculiar mixture of humility and insolence, admiration and question.
He looked for what seemed to him a long time. He thought: So it’s going to be this one. He realised—as he had never realised before; even before the drink business had become
necessary—that she had everything—beauty, intelligence, and that peculiar but supremely necessary nous that was an essential part of the make-. . .
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