The Dark Street

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The sinister business of counter-espionage is played out by an array of magnificent characters. Quayle, compounded of wisdom, administrative genius and the ability to live without sleep, wine or women; Shaun O'Mara, who loves all those things, looks like an actor and is an aristocrat, and works with subtlety, artistry and distinction; and Ricky Kerr, a cleverly drawn portrait of a man who is not quite able to stand the pace.The women, of course, dress superbly, move like angels, are as beautiful as diamonds and, with one notable exception, behave abominably.'If there are better thrillers it is hardly possible to think of them while under the spell of this one' Times Literary Supplement

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

1

THE YELLOW MIST seeped into the Place des Roses; bringing an almost evil quality to the cul-de-sac; rising only a few feet from the ground;
creating the impression that there were no foundations to the small, dirty dilapidated houses.

At the end of the cul-de-sac a thin knife-edge of light showed under the door of the wine shop. Inside the shop, which was dimly lit by an oil lamp, Fours leant over the counter at the
end; regarded the board floor. About the place was the acrid smell of wine intermingled with the indescribable odour that came from his Mexican cigar—one of those things consisting of some
indifferent leaves of tobacco rolled round a straw spinal column. From time to time he spat over the counter with precision into a tin can set in the middle of the floor.

Fours was big, fat, greasy, vaguely evil. His baggy brown velveteen trousers were tied up with a piece of string. His shirt, once of middle blue colour, was now dark blue with dirt. Through the
open neck one could see his swarthy hair-covered chest.

His face was big and jowled. His skin glistened. His black moustache, the fierce eyebrows, set above little penetrating black eyes, the angle at which he wore a greasy black beret, conspired to
give him the appearance of some decadent pirate who by some means had become transplanted into this wine shop in Paris in December, 1943.

Fours came round the counter. He took a tin jug from a hook on the wall opposite, held it under the spigot of a cask of wine, turned the spigot. When the jug was half filled, he put it to his
mouth and drank. The wine tasted acid and bitter.

He hung up the jug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He began to swear softly to himself, using indescribable oaths, an amazing conglomeration of words, seeking relief in the depths of
obscenity.

One could swear. By God—that was all one could do! Whatever one did one was watched. Always there were people watching. Nobody could be trusted. And why not? Curse it, what else could you
expect, when you could buy a man for a dozen square meals, or a pretty woman for a frock and a packet of sweets.

A hell of a place. Fours thought that Paris was a hell of a place. You couldn’t get out, unless you got on the right side of those swine. And if you stayed, you starved on your feet or you
were carted off by those black S.S. bastards to some other hell.

All you could do was to try and get your own back when you had a chance . . . when you had a chance . . .

Fours re-lit the Mexican cigar. It was damp through much chewing; tasted like brown paper.

He leaned up against the counter and waited. Outside he could smell the fog, creeping about the place like an infection, creeping about the place like every one crept in these days.

He spat. Under his breath he began to sing softly. He remembered the marching columns of other years. Under his breath he began to sing Madelon.

Duborg and Michaelson came up the Boulevard Clichy. They walked slowly, their hands in their pockets. Duborg was broad-shouldered, fat. He was a Gascon of good family. In his
own particular way he was handsome. Women liked him.

Michaelson, the Englishman, was tall, thin, inclined to be weedy. Looking at Michaelson you would think he was without courage, either moral or physical. You would think he was a weakling. You
would be wrong.

Duborg said: “My friend, I do not like it—not one little bit. I think it must have been that woman. The more I think of it the more certain I am that it was that woman. I hope her
soul will be condemned to everlasting Hell!” Quietly, almost ruminatively, Duborg began to express a long series of blasphemous wishes about the woman.

Michaelson said quietly: “Does it matter? There is a chance that it may still be all right, you know.”

Duborg said: “Yes. But something tells me that it will not be all right. I have the feeling,” he went on, “that I have for a long time walked along a very straight and
uninteresting road. I have hoped that the end of the road might be amusing. Now I think that the end of the road will not be so good.”

Michaelson grinned. He said: “You’ve got indigestion, Henri. There’s a fog coming up. That might be useful.”

Duborg shrugged his shoulders. They turned into the Place des Roses. They walked quickly along the pavement into Fours’ wine shop.

Duborg said: “’Soir! This place stinks.”

Fours said: “Everything stinks. Paris stinks. I stink . . .” and, as an afterthought . . . “you also stink.”

He took the metal jug off the hook, held it under the spigot of the wine cask until it was full; handed it to Duborg. Duborg drank half the wine. He drank it slowly.

He put the jug down on the counter. He said: “Well, Fours, has she been here?”

The other shook his head. “No,” he said. “I regret, mes amis, she has not.”

Duborg looked at Michaelson. He said: “It doesn’t look so good!”

Michaelson said nothing. He turned his head a little as the door behind him opened. A small, rat-faced, boy, whose filthy and tattered clothes had barely enough strength to hang together, came
into the shop.

Duborg’s eyes brightened. He said: “Hey, Carlos, perhaps you know something?”

The boy said: “I know a lot. This afternoon they arrested Cerisette.”

Duborg said quickly: “Who did?”

“The Vichy police,” said Carlos. He spat graphically on to the floor. “Later they handed her over to those —— So now you know.”

Michaelson looked at Duborg—from Duborg to Fours. He smiled sadly. He said: “This is it.”

Duborg said: “We get out of here. We must be quick. Otherwise they’ll be on to Fours. If they’ve got her we’re next on the list.”

Michaelson said quietly: “You’re perfectly right. So long, Fours. So long, Carlos.”

The boy said in a quick, excited voice: “I’m in on this.”

Duborg looked at him and grinned. He called him a rude name. He said: “Listen, infant, we go now to—you know where. Follow quietly behind—twenty-five to thirty paces. It is
foggy and very dark. Keep in the shadows. If we’re wrong it doesn’t matter. If we’re right so much the better for you.”

The boy opened his mouth to say something.

Duborg said in an affectionate tone: “Shut up, canaille. Do what you’re told. Au ’voir, Fours.” He went out of the shop.

Michaelson raised his hand to Fours; turned and followed him. He closed the door very quietly behind him.

The boy stood near the counter looking at Fours. His face was drawn—pathetic. The expression on Fours’ face did not change. He endeavoured to spit, but found that his mouth was a
little too dry for the process.

Duborg and Michaelson came out of the Place des Roses. They began to walk up the hill. The street was quiet and deserted. There was no sound. The fog, becoming thicker, blanketed everything that
could be seen, turning concrete objects into nebulous shapes. A hundred yards up the hill they turned into a narrow alleyway. Now the boy Carlos was behind them—about thirty yards behind
them—walking against the side of the houses, his eyes staring out of a white face straight in front of him. When he got to the corner of the turning, he waited.

On the other side, fifteen yards down the little street, Duborg was opening the door of a ramshackle house. Inside, he switched on a small electric torch; began to walk up the wooden stairs.
Michaelson was close behind him.

The flight of stairs was narrow and curving. As they came round the curve Duborg stopped. He put one hand behind him; found Michaelson’s shoulder. He squeezed it. Facing them, on the first
landing, was a door. Beneath the door a gleam of light showed. Duborg sighed. They ascended the few remaining stairs, crossed the landing. Duborg threw open the door.

There were three men in the room. One of them was holding in his hand a Mauser automatic pistol. He was a short man, dressed in a cheap ready-made French suit. The hand holding the pistol hung
limply by his side. His eyes were restless.

Duborg and Michaelson came into the room. Michaelson closed the door quietly; stood with his back to it.

One of the three men—a big man in an overcoat—got up from the rickety chair on which he was sitting.

He said: “Gestapo!”

Duborg said: “Do you have to tell us? From my earliest days I was trained to smell rats.”

The big man smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile. His face and head were almost square; his hair close-cropped. His eyes were of a peculiar pale blue colour. He said, almost casually:

“You are Henri Francois Duborg, and you”—jerking his thumb towards Michaelson—“are George Ernest Michaelson. You are agents in the pay of the British Government.
You are civilians and therefore entitled to be shot. It is possible that a more lenient view may be taken of your case if you decide to talk.”

Michaelson said quietly: “Nuts to you!”

The big man shrugged his shoulders. He said: “It really doesn’t matter if you don’t. Because Cerisette Mavrique decided to talk this afternoon.”

Duborg said: “I bet you had to make her.”

The big man nodded. “Believe me, my friend,” he said, “she was very difficult, but she talked eventually. You know, we have ways.”

Duborg said: “You’re telling me! But I would like to tell you this——” He stepped forward. He kicked the German in the pit of the stomach.

The big man shrieked. He fell to the floor; lay there writhing. After a minute he began to whimper.

The man in the corner with the Mauser pistol raised the lower part of his arm. He fired three shots. Each shot hit Duborg in the stomach.

The second man, who was still seated, got up slowly. He put his hand in his pocket. As he moved, Michaelson shot across the room in something that looked like a rugby tackle. They went on to the
floor in a heap. Michaelson had one thumb in the Gestapo man’s eye. The man with the pistol in the corner of the room was unable to do anything about it. He stood there, the pistol ready,
looking vaguely annoyed; a little uncomfortable. The big man had stopped whimpering. He was huddled in the corner of the room, holding his stomach. Duborg was dead.

Michaelson took his thumb out of his opponent’s eye; slipped his hand down to his throat. The movement allowed the man in the corner to get a shot. He took careful aim. He shot Michaelson
through the head. The man underneath Michaelson put up his arm and pushed the body away from him. He got up. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

The man with the pistol said in German: “This will be considered to be very unsatisfactory. We were supposed to bring these two in.”

The man leaning against the wall said: “These cursed spies—they always do this sort of thing!” He began to brush his clothes. “And why not?”

The man with the pistol nodded. He said: “This is the easiest way for them.” He went over to the big man; looked down at him. He said: “They have hurt Karl very badly. I should
think he will always remember them.”

On the corner of the street, the white-faced boy, Carlos, stood. His face made a white blot in the miasma of the fog. When he heard the shots he turned. He began to walk quickly down the hill
towards the Place des Roses, towards Fours’ wine shop.

2

Presenting Mr. Quayle. If the introduction is mainly pictorial it is because few people were privileged to know the ramifications of the mind of Mr. Quayle. Sometimes he was not
quite certain about them himself. He lived, from a mental angle, as far ahead as was possible, mainly because the people who were dependent upon his peculiar mentality lived, usually, from moment
to moment, sometimes dying even more suddenly than that.

If these processes had brought a certain acid outlook, a certain jaundiced viewpoint of the world—and the men and women in it—to him, he might be easily forgiven. There are things
worse than bad temper.

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 battledress, 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.

Impercept. . .