Sinister Errand

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Agent Michael Kells is in pursuit of Nazi spies in London, who have been tasked with the job of pinpointing the actual landing places of V1 bombs to improve their accuracy. Through the strange byways of Kells's sinister errand flit the mysterious 'Auntie', the alluring Janine, the beautiful Mrs Vaile and the delightful and unfortunate Alison Fredericks. 'Nobody eats or sleeps in the course of this tale. And you probably won't either' New Yorker

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 288

Sample

I JUMPED into the first railway compartment which seemed empty, without noticing the little companion that was pre-destined to keep me awake all night.
The train moved slowly out of the station. I gazed at the lights of Stockholm gently receding into the darkness, wrapped my rug around me and prepared to go to sleep. My eyes fell on a book left on
the seat opposite by a previous passenger.

I took it up absent-mindedly and ran through the first few lines. Five minutes later, I was reading it as eagerly as a clue to a hidden treasure.

I learned that everyone’s memory is capable of fantastic feats, that the least gifted of people can memorise once and for all, information as complicated as a list of the hundred largest
towns in the world and their populations, all this after reading it through once only.

It seemed unlikely then that I should succeed in filing away the interminable lists of figures, dates, towns, their populations and reigning families, which had driven me to despair during my
school days, when my memory was fresh. I thought I would test the truth of the statement.

I took a time-table out of my suitcase and began reading quietly in the manner prescribed, the names of the hundred railway stations between Stockholm and Trehorningsjo.

I observed that after reading it over only once, I really could recite that list in the order I had read it, and in its reverse order. I could even point out immediately the relative position of
any town, for instance, which was the 27th, the 84th and the 36th, so deeply were these names imprinted in my mind.

I was astonished at the memory I had acquired and spent the rest of the night making new and more difficult experiments without reaching the limits of what I was so quickly capable.

I did not, of course, confine myself to experiments and on the next day I put to practical use my knowledge of the laws of the mind. I was then able to memorise with surprising ease whatever I
read, the music I heard, the names and faces of people who called on me, their addresses, my business appointments, and even to learn Spanish in four months.

If I have obtained from life a measure of wealth and happiness, it is to that book I owe it, for it revealed to me the workings of my brain.

Three years ago, I had the good fortune to meet its author and I promised him to propagate his method, and today I am glad of this opportunity of expressing my gratitude to him.

I can only suppose that others wish to acquire, what is, after all, the most valuable asset towards success in life. Borg’s address is L. A. Borg, c/o Aubanel Publishers, 14 Lower Baggott
Street, Dublin.

Apply to him for his little book, The Eternal Laws of Success. It is free to all who wish to develop their memory.

F. ROBERTS.

KALEIDOSCOPIC pictures of last night’s party presented themselves between myself and the ceiling. One or two faces—one of them was certainly
Sammy’s face, the other that of an attractive woman—flashed across my memory. I felt a little sick and did not want particularly to think about them. In fact I did not want to think
about anything.

You wouldn’t get any funny ideas about me, would you? You wouldn’t come to the conclusion that I was just another of those people who’ve become bored with the war and try to
“sublimate” their annoyance by getting cockeyed all the time? I’m not a bit like that. But—and I think I should point this out now—when one has been in the
sort of racket that I’ve been playing around in for the last few years, it’s a very good thing for a man to relax occasionally—if you get me—just to stop himself
going entirely nuts.

I lay looking at the ceiling. The back of my neck felt as if I had been wearing an iron clamp. There were spots in front of my eyes and my tongue felt as if somebody had gone over it with a
piece of sandpaper. I felt like nothing on earth. I lay there making up my mind that I’d get up somehow.

Eventually I did. I sat on the edge of the bed looking at the disordered bedroom. My clothes were strewn all over the place. My black soft hat was perched precariously on the head of a small
bust of Napoleon that stood on the mantelpiece. There was only one thing to do about it. I got to my feet; found my trousers and felt in the hip pocket. It’s a funny thing but no matter how
cockeyed I am, I usually manage to collect a pint of whisky. Sure enough the flask was there—and full! I unscrewed it and took a long stiff drink. It made me shudder but it pulled me
together.

I went back; sat on the bed; considered the situation. I tried to sort out details of the party. I wasn’t very successful. I’d arrived expecting something important to happen; that
Sammy was really going to start something. Instead of which I found him so cockeyed that it was just nobody’s business. Why? After which I proceeded to do a little drinking myself.

Then there was that girl. I had a vague idea about her. I remember her as a personality, but I couldn’t remember what she looked like. I’d talked to her. Was she with Sammy or
wasn’t she? I didn’t know.

And I had an odd idea about Sammy. Sammy didn’t seem to want to talk to me. Most peculiar that. Somewhere at the back of my aching head was an impression that I’d tried once
or twice to get something out of him. I also had the idea that he’d been very disinclined for anything of the sort.

All very odd and peculiar.

My watch was on the dressing-table. I walked over and looked at it. It was six o’clock—a lovely summer’s evening. Somewhere I could hear a “doodle-bug” flying. I
suppose I’d been asleep when the alert went.

I began to think about the Old Man. What the hell was he playing at? Directly I’d got off the boat yesterday I’d telephoned him. All I could get from him was that I was to see Sammy
as soon as I could and then take it easy; and keep away from the Old Man. It seemed as if he was being damned leery about something. I wondered what.

I began to feel a little better. I went into the bathroom; took a hot shower and then a cold one. Then I rang downstairs for some coffee—strong black coffee. I shaved, unpacked some fresh
clothes and dressed myself. I dressed rather carefully because I felt that after last night I’d better do something to get my morale cracking. Everybody drinks a lot in wartime, but it seemed
to me that I must have drunk enough to float a couple of battleships. I still felt a little dizzy.

I was nearly dressed when the coffee came up. I drank it, began to pick up my clothes. More out of habit than anything else I went through the pockets. Sometimes after I’ve been to parties
I’ve found something there before—a visiting card or something—you never know. In my left lower waistcoat pocket was a piece of paper and written on it was:
“S—23 Kinnoul Street, S.W.I.”

I grinned. That was a little better. It seemed that I’d had enough sense to skewer Sammy’s address out of him. I began to think about Sammy. It seemed the best thing I could do would
be to go round there right away, have a meal with him and talk.

I took my hat off Napoleon—a process which made him look a great deal more serious—and went out. As I got out into the street the “All Clear” went. It was a nice fresh
evening. As I walked along I began to feel better. My circulation speeded up a little and my head cleared.

I walked to Kinnoul Street. The street was an old-fashioned street with rather nice houses that looked like good class apartment houses on each side. No. 23 had been freshly painted. I rang the
bell and when nothing happened knocked on the door. I stood there for about five minutes; then I gave the door a push. It was open, so I went in. I closed the door behind me and stood in the
hallway and coughed and made the usual noises. Then I called: “Is anyone there?” But nothing happened.

I went to the top of the basement stairs, opened the door and called some more. The place was quite silent. I went back into the hallway, I looked into a sitting-room on the right of the front
door. Then I began to walk up the carpeted staircase. There was a landing halfway up with a room on each side. I opened a door and looked in. It was Sammy’s bedroom all right. I recognised
the tie hanging over the mirror on the dressing-table. When I saw it I remembered it from last night. I’d admired it. It was a nice heavy Spitalfields silk tie in grey and black—the
sort of dressy thing Sammy goes in for.

The room looked worse than mine had looked when I woke. It looked as if somebody had driven a Bren-gun-carrier over it. There were clothes and shoes all over the place. There was a half bottle
of brandy, a glass and a half-used siphon on the dressing-table. Obviously Sammy had been doing a little additional drinking.

I began to think about Sammy. I walked round the room, stepping over odd articles of clothing. Then I went back to the dressing-table and I saw something that seemed a little odd to me.

In the centre of the table was a black ebony bowl—the sort of thing you use to put studs in. But there weren’t any studs in it. In the middle was a little pile of white swansdown. I
wondered about that. I went over to the bed, which had been slept in, and I could see that somebody had slit one end of one of the pillows. A little more swandsown was sticking out of the hole.

I lit a cigarette. I was drawing my first lungful of smoke when the door opened and a woman came in. A nice looking woman of somewhere about forty years of age with a clear complexion and very
blue eyes. She had a hat on and had obviously just come in.

She said: “Well, you’ve made yourself at home pretty quickly. Can I do something for you?” Her voice was well-bred and she clipped her words concisely.

I said: “Thanks. You can. I came here to see my friend.”

She said: “You mean Mr. Carew?”

I said: “That’s right. I mean Mr. Carew. I rang the bell and did all the normal things, found the door open, came in and yelled. Nothing happened, so I investigated. Do you know
where he is? I want him rather urgently.”

She said in a flat sort of voice: “How urgently?” She didn’t sound as if she were trying to be funny or anything.

I said: “Well, his aunt was killed this afternoon by one of those ‘doodle-bugs.’ ” It was the first thing I could think of.

She said: “Well, I didn’t know he had another aunt, but I suppose if you say so . . .”

I said: “What do you mean—another aunt?”

She said: “Well, I happen to be Sammy’s aunt, you see. That’s all.”

I grinned at her. I said: “Well, that’s very funny, isn’t it? The other one—the one he told me about—must have been not his aunt. Perhaps she was his cousin.
Anyway, do you know where he is?”

She said: “No, I don’t. All I know is that he came in at an early hour this morning so drunk that I thought he’d pass out at any moment. I came up the stairs just now expecting
to find him still asleep. Quite obviously, he’s got up and gone out. But I don’t know where he’s gone to.”

“Therefore,” I said, “you won’t know when he’ll be back?”

She nodded.

I said: “Look, is there a pub or a place somewhere round here called The Feathers?”

She said: “Yes, there is. That’s an idea. He might have gone there to have a ‘hair of the dog that bit him.’ There’s a place round in Mulbery Street—just
round the corner. It’s called The Heap of Feathers.”

I said: “Thank you very much. If I find him I’ll bring him back in good order.”

She stood aside as I moved over to the doorway. When I got there I said to her: “I think Sammy’s pretty lucky to have an aunt like you. I think you’ve got
something.”

She said: “I’ll tell you one thing, young man. You’ve got a hell of a nerve, haven’t you?”

“I’m not so young,” I said, “but I hope my nerve’s all right. Bye-bye, Auntie!”

I went down the stairs and out into the street. Actually I didn’t like it at all. Not one little bit.

Mulbery Street was “one of those” places. A place with an atmosphere that, for some inexplicable reason, did something to you. I expect you know what I mean. That
kind of street that strikes a memory chord in your mind although you’ve never seen or heard of it before.

Here it was, right in the middle of London, with the Piccadilly traffic not five minutes away. Yet it was quiet and the street might have been set in the heart of the country. It was an odd
crooked street with little houses. One of them was painted blue. There were four public houses in the street—old-fashioned little places with signs hanging outside. The second sign down the
street had the words “The Heap of Feathers” painted on it. I could read it quite easily.

I wasn’t feeling particularly happy. I was a little worried about the way things were going. The great thing was I wanted to have a talk with Sammy—to get things straightened up with
him.

There were four or five stone steps leading into the saloon bar of the Heap of Feathers, which was in a little passage just off the street. The bar was very small. There were half a dozen people
in it. Standing in the corner, working out a crossword puzzle, was a young man with black hair and a thin white face. I had the impression that he was wearing some make-up. His clothes were fancy
and much too well-cut. A pansy, I thought.

There was a man with one arm who was drinking a pint of bitter beer out of a glass mug in sips; there was a blonde woman—a rather nice looking woman—whose skirt was too tight and too
short who was sitting on a high stool showing more than the standard allowance of leg. She was quite cockeyed and seemed very happy about it. In the corner opposite to the pansy was a young man in
a rough tweed coat with a Merchant Navy badge in the lapel. There were two other nondescript men talking about racing in a corner. But no Sammy.

After a minute, a pleasant faced woman came into the bar. I ordered a glass of beer. When she brought it I said: “Perhaps you can help me. I expected to meet a friend round here—name
of Carew. He’s tall, very good looking, fair haired, rather thin, attractive, face. I wonder if you’ve seen him. I thought perhaps he might have left a message for me.”

She shook her head. She said: “I believe I’ve seen your friend some time. I seem to remember him by your description. But I haven’t seen him this evening.”

I said: “Thank you.” I felt a peculiarly heavy sense of disappointment. I finished my beer and turned towards the door. I was nearly through when the pansy said in a rather high
falsetto voice:

“Oh, excuse me, but I might be able to help you. Your friend was in here about an hour ago.”

The woman behind the bar said: “Yes, he might have been here then. I was upstairs. I wouldn’t have seen him.” She said to the white-faced young man: “Did he leave any
message?”

He said: “I don’t think so. He went off with Janine.”

I moved over towards my effeminate young friend. I gave him a charming smile. I said: “You’re being very helpful. I suppose you wouldn’t know where he and Janine were
going?”

He smiled cynically. He said: “Well, I could make a guess. I should think they were going to Janine’s place.”

I said: “I see. And would you know where Janine’s place is?”

He smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile. He said: “I should think everybody knows that. Anyway, if you go straight up to the end of Mulbery Street and turn to the right you
come to a place called Daisy Place. Go across it, and there’s a little street on the other side—Verity Street.” He simpered a little. “It’s quite a nice
street—most amusing—old houses and all that. Janine lives at No. 16, I think.”

I said: “Thank you very much. Would you care for a drink?”

He said: “That’s very kind of you. The only thing is I’m inclined to be expensive. I like brandy and soda.”

I said: “Have a brandy and soda by all means. I’ll have one myself.”

I ordered two brandies and sodas. When he put his hand up on the bar to take the glass I noticed he was wearing a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand, but the ring was turned
inwards so that one could only see the gold band. It was a flat band. There was a mark on it as if someone had tried to file it.

He said: “Well, cheerio! Thank you for the drink.”

We drank the brandy. I said good-night and I went out.

The sun seemed to have disappeared. The atmosphere was rather depressing and grey. Walking along I wondered what the hell was the matter anyway. I seemed to be behaving like an old lady with the
jitters.

I began to think about Sammy. A peculiar one that one. You were never absolutely certain where you were with Sammy. I don’t mean that he was weak or fatuous or anything like that,
but he had a way of flying off at a tangent. He used to say that there was method in his madness. Maybe there was, but in this particular case I thought he was rather giving me the
run-around—and for what? He knew damned well what the Old Man had said, yet here he was playing around with this Janine piece—whoever she might be—amusing himself, while I
didn’t even know which way I was pointing. Or was he amusing himself?

I arrived at 16 Verity Street. It was a narrow street, old-fashioned and clean, and the houses were a good sixty or seventy years old. No. 16 had some flower boxes on the ground-floor
window-sill. I went up the three stone steps and stood looking at the bell-pushes on the right hand side of the door. There were three—Ground, First and Second floors—and underneath
each one in metal frame affixed to the wall was a visiting card. The middle card said: “ ‘Janine’ 16 Verity Street.” Just that—nothing else.

I punched the bell and waited. After a minute there was a click and the front door opened a bit. It had been opened from the first floor by one of those remote control switch things. I pushed
open the door and went up the stairs. The stairs curved round to the right and on the first floor landing, leaning against the door-post of one of the two rooms was a woman.

What a piece! A hell of a piece, I’m telling you. Although she looked as if she didn’t give a damn whether you thought so or not. I’ve never seen a woman look so bored
in my life. But she’d got plenty of everything it takes and she was worth taking a long look at. Definitely a personality.

She was an ash-blonde—real, not a peroxide one—and she had violet eyes. Her hair was naturally waved and a little untidy. But it hung attractively over her shoulder tied with a
ribbon. She was wearing a sapphire-blue shantung silk housecoat that came down to the floor. . .