You Can Always Duck

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Cara, Gayda, Pearl: sizzling dames. Travis, Clemensky, Clansing: desperate men. A set of secret papers. Bring in FBI man Lemmy Caution to recover the papers, and we have all the ingredients for a fast-moving story of espionage, deception and double dealing. Lemmy Caution once again steers his way round the bodies of dead men and beautiful, very much alive, women to a successful conclusion.

Release date: September 6, 2012

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 198

Sample

THE GRANDFATHER’S CLOCK half-way up the windin’ staircase outside the bar-parlour strikes twelve. Grandpop is plenty
wheezy. They tell me this clock is three hundred years old. It sounds like it has got the bellyache. An’ why not? If you was three hundred years old I reckon you would have the bellyache
too.

I lean my head against the back of the armchair an’ relax. I am thinkin’ about Adolf Hitler. I am thinkin’ that if it was not for this guy I would probably be kickin’
around some swell place in the U.S. takin’ things nice an’ easy.

A funny guy this Adolf. Personally I think he is nuts. All over the world guys are thinkin’ what they would like to do to that baby. Different people have got a lot of different ideas
about just what they would do. Some of the ideas are very interestin’.

This is what they call wishful thinkin’!

Anyhow, I reckon Adolf is redundant right now. So I start thinkin’ about women. This is a good habit because any time you have not got anything else to think about you can always start
thinkin’ about some dame, an’ even if it don’t get you any place it can be restful.

Outa the corner of my eye I can see Benzey. Benzey looks to me like he’s taken too much liquor. His head is lollin’ over to one side an’ he’s breathin’ like
somebody hit him in the stomach with a baseball bat.

I say: “Listen, you Canadian bloodhound, are you awake or are you?”

He says: “Yeah . . . so what!”

“I was thinkin’ about women just now, Benzey,” I tell him. “Did it ever strike you that the dames over in England are pretty good? They got somethin’!”

“I know,” says Benzey. “One of ’em told me.”

“Yeah?” I tell him. “What else did she tell you?”

He says: “You’d be surprised.” He yawns. “I been thinkin’ about dames too,” he says. “I been sorta runnin’ through the list of all the mommas
I tried to make an’ threw out over. There was more than I thought. It’s funny how a fella can miss sometimes.”

“Not you,” I tell him. “You couldn’t miss with a frill. You’re no ordinary guy, Benzey.”

I grin at him.

“Goddam funny, ain’t you?” he says. “Seriously though, there was one or two of them babies I ought to have worked harder over. There was that one in Hollywood. She
was cute she was. She had scarlet hair an’ she usta do her toenails to match. I ought to have married that one.”

“An’ she wouldn’t play, hey?” I ask him.

“She was all tied up,” he says. He yawns. “Half the guys in Hollywood was tryin’ to marry this frill.” He gives a big sigh. “The other half already
had,” he goes on. “She was sorta popular.”

“But she didn’t wanta marry you, hey, Benzey?”

“I told you she was all tied up,” he says. “She was married to some sound-effects guy. I wanted her to get rid of him. I told her I knew a lawyer who’d fix a divorce
for her for five hundred dollars, but she didn’t like it.”

“Maybe she thought it was too much dough,” I tell him.

He shakes his head.

“She figured she wasn’t goin’ to pay any five hundred bucks for a divorce. She said she could have him shot for fifty dollars. She said she even knew a guy who would do it for
nothin’ . . . you know—just for the ride. . . .”

“But she still wouldn’t play?” I say.

“No,” says Benzey. “She hated that guy too much. She told me that she disliked his innards so much that it sorta fascinated her. She said that every time she usta look at him
an’ realise that he was her legal husband her stomach usta turn over. I reckon she got a sort of kick outa loathin’ this guy.”

“Women are goddam funny,” I tell him. “They’re like whisky. You always want some when you haven’t any around.”

“Women certainly are not like whisky,” says Benzey. “You can always get whisky.”

“You hope,” I tell him.

He says: “Look, I wanta sleep. Will you wake me up any time that somethin’ is liable to happen?”

He turns his head away. In two minutes he is snorin’. He sounds like a tank.

I get around to thinkin’ about this Travis dame. Me—I would like to take a look at her. There was a baby had somethin’ if you like. An’ did she do somethin’ to that
husband of hers or did she! I can remember Lolly describin’ this baby to me. He says:

“Listen, Lemmy, maybe you’ve seen dames all over the place. An’ maybe you’ve been plenty places, but I’m tellin’ you, you ain’t seen nothin’!
I’m tellin’ you that I have never seen so much woman done up in one packet of my life before. If Casanova hadda seen this baby he woulda give up.”

I tell him that generalisations like that are no good to me.

He says: “All right. I’ll give you a blue-print. She’s tall, see—but she ain’t too tall. An’ she’s slim but not that thin sorta slimness. No, sir,
this baby is curved but the sorta curves that don’t throw themselves at you, see? They’re sorta discreet an’ clever curves an’ all the more attractive because they are.

“Also she is one of these supple babies. Boy, I would give two months’ pay,” says Lolly, “to watch that dame walkin’ for about an hour on end. Because she has
gotta rhythm like you have never seen before. Her feet are slender an’ she has got sweet ankles. I have been lookin’ at ankles all my life,” says Lolly sorta ruminatively. “I have seen good ones and not so good ones. Once or twice I have seen real queen ankles, but I’m tellin’ you, with my hand on my heart, that I ain’t never seen any ankles until I
saw this baby’s.”

I say: “That’s fine, Lolly. Well, I reckon this frill’s under-pinnin’s an’ foundation are pretty good. Supposin’ we get to the upper stories.”

He says: “O.K. I’m gonna start with her neck. She’s gotta nice neck—maybe she was a swan in some previous existence—an’ not only is her neck good but the
way her head is set on it. An’ she has got an oval face an’ her skin is the colour of the milk that you skim off the top of the bottle. You know, the thick part—nice an’
creamy an’ soft. An’ she has gotta little colour in her cheeks like you see on a peach that’s been hangin’ out in the sun. She has gotta nose that is perfectly straight
an’ sorta sensitive, delicate nostrils. Her eyes are grey an’ violet an’ blue——”

“Hooey!” I say. “No dame ever had eyes like that. You’ve been drinkin’.”

“No,” says Lolly. “I only took to drinkin’ after I saw that woman. I am tellin’ you that her eyes are all those colours, dependin’ on how she’s
feelin’, see?”

I say: “I see. You are hypnotisin’ me. Go on, pal.”

He says: “She has long beautiful eyelashes an’ a nice forehead, an’ her hair is brown with little lights in it.” He sighs. “I have left her mouth till the
last,” he says. “Me—I can’t properly tell you about this baby’s mouth because every time I start to tell some guy about her mouth I get the jitters. I can’t
talk properly.”

I say: “She musta had some mouth.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I reckon she’s still got it. It’s sorta small an’ beautiful an’ tender—an’ it can be tough too—an’ her teeth
are like little white seed pearls. Oh boy, every time I think of her I wanna pass right out.”

This is what Lolly has told me about the Travis dame. Well, he should know!

I light a cigarette. Benzey is snorin’ like hell. I reckon Benzey ain’t got a properly developed sense of beauty. If he had he wouldn’t snore like that. I wonder how long
I’m gonna stick around this dump just on the chance of somethin’ happenin’. I am feelin’ what the English call “browned-off.” It’s the sorta feelin’
you get when nothin’ happens, when you’re bored, when you’re standin’ on the edge of somethin’ watchin’ life go past you an’ nothin’s happenin’
to you. I have smoked half the cigarette when the door opens. The landlord sticks his neck in. He says:

“Your friend was askin’ about a sergeant who comes here. He’s just come in.”

I say: “All right. I’ll tell him.”

He goes away. I dig Benzey in the ribs. He wakes up.

He says: “So what!”

“Come to,” I tell him. “The landlord has just been in here an’ says your pal the sergeant’s around. Go an’ do your stuff. An’ try an’ be clever
if you can.”

“O.K.,” he says. “If I can’t, I’ll get some lessons from you, Sourpuss.” He lumbers out.

I gotta flask in my hip pocket. I take a pull an’ light another cigarette. I sit there for about twenty minutes lookin’ at the ceilin’. Then Benzey comes back. Just behind him
is the sergeant. He is a nice slim, clever-lookin’ guy with a brown face.

Benzey says: “Meet a countryman of yours.” He points at me. “This guy’s Pleyell—40th Marines.”

The sergeant says: “Hi’ya!” He gives me a quick look-over—the sorta look-over that all technicians in the U.S. Army give when they see a Marine. I give him a
cigarette.

Benzey says to him: “You needn’t be afraid of havin’ a drink, see? We’re livin’ here. We’re old pals, Pleyell an’ me. We’ve gotta week’s
leave, so we’re spendin’ it together.” He puts his hand in his hip an’ brings out a flask about three times as big as mine. He gives it to the sergeant. “Have a
drink,” he says.

The sergeant takes a long pull. He says:

“This is nice of you boys.”

Benzey says: “Yeah. We’re kind-hearted. You’d be surprised.” He turns to me. He says: “You know, the world’s a funny place. Who d’ya think’s
in this guy’s outfit?” He points to the sergeant with his thumb.

“You tell me,” I tell him. “I ain’t a thought-reader.”

He says: “Nobody else but Travis. He’s a Lieutenant. The sergeant here says he’s a great guy.”

“It’s goddam funny,” I say. “You see, Mrs. Travis—who I reckon is this guy’s wife—is a friend of some friends of mine. She’s often talked about
him.”

The sergeant grins. “I’ll bet it wasn’t nice,” he says.

I pick it up that way. I take a chance on bein’ right.

I say: “You’re tellin’ me. There was nothin’ too bad to say about that boyo. She was a lovely piece too, this Travis piece.”

The sergeant says: “Yeah? Well, she may be, but I don’t think she was so hot. Travis is a good guy. He can be tough, but he’s a good soldier. I don’t see why there
should have been so much trouble between him and her. I reckon she was one of those babies who was too beautiful for an ordinary guy to string along with.”

I nod my head. “That’s how it goes,” I say. “If a woman is beautiful it spells trouble.”

Benzey says: “So what’s trouble? I never met an ugly dame yet who didn’t mean trouble if she wanted it. Whatever you do you’re gonna get trouble if you play around
with babies, so you might as well have beautiful ones.”

I say to the sergeant: “You don’t wanta take any notice of him. He took a correspondence course in philosophy.” I light another cigarette. “It’s funny what
you’ve just said about Travis,” I tell him, “because the people I know who knew his wife didn’t make him out to be that sorta guy at all. They say he was just a
bad-tempered cuss—that there was nothin’ good about him. They didn’t like him a bit.”

The sergeant says: “Well, he’s changed a lot, that’s all I can say. But I’m betting that guy is a hundred per cent. He’s got a nice nature. Any woman who
couldn’t get along with him I reckon there’s got to be something wrong with her.”

“It’s nice to hear that,” I tell him. “How long’s he been over here?”

“Not long,” says the sergeant. “He came to our mob with the last draft—about four officers and thirty men.”

I yawn. “They said he used to drink like a thirsty shark,” I go on. “I suppose that wasn’t the truth either?”

“He likes a drink,” says the sergeant, “but in a controlled sort of way, see? He’s quiet. He’s the sort of guy who never uses bars or saloons much, but that
don’t mean he’s not tough. He’s got to know nice people around here. They’re plenty glad to have him. He’s a social sort of cuss.”

I nod my head. “He’s a wise guy too,” I say. “The only place you can get good liquor these days is in private houses—in any quantity, I mean. Some guys have all
the luck,” I go on. “I suppose the women around here are a bit stuck on him?”

He says: “Why not? He’s just a nice natural sort of guy. Say, I think he’s got something that women would fall for in a big way. He’s got that sort of quiet approach,
you know?” He grins. “There are three daughters in that big house on top of the hill,” he says. “I reckon they’re all a bit nutty about him. And are they jealous
of each other? He just plays ’em along. He was going up there to-night to dinner. There was some sort of dance planned for afterwards. Those three girls were callin’ the camp-orderly
office all mornin’—each of ’em in turn—trying to date him up for to-night for the dance.”

“Some guys have all the luck,” I tell him. I wink at Benzey.

He gives the sergeant another pull of his flask. He says:

“I don’t know about you. I’m gonna bed.”

“Me too,” I say.

The sergeant puts on his hat. “Well, I’ll be seein’ you,” he says. He goes out.

Benzey lights a cigarette. He says: “You got what you wanted?”

“Maybe,” I tell him. “How do I know? I got somethin’.”

“What are you gonna do?” says Benzey.

I grin. “I’m gonna take a look at this paragon,” I tell him. “I think I’ll invite myself to the dance.”

“All right,” he says. “But don’t do anything too funny, willya?” He goes upstairs.

I look at the clock. It is twenty minutes to one. I light another cigarette an’ I flop in the armchair an’ do a little more thinkin’ about Travis. Just as if thinkin’ got
you any place.

Half-way up the hill I take a breather. I sit myself down on a tree stump on the grass edge at the side of the road. I light a cigarette an’ give myself up to a little
more deep thought. Way up towards the top of the hill I can see the house. The moon has come out from behind the clouds. It is almost as light as day an’ the countryside around here is
lookin’ marvellous. Sittin’ there, smokin’, lookin’ over the green fields, I sorta get the idea of this England—just a pint-sized green island that’s been
havin’ wars fought over it for hundreds of years an’ comes up smilin’ all the time.

As I go up the hill I can see that the house is a pretty big sorta place. There are some trees behind it. Somehow it looks like a stage settin’—somethin’ not quite real if you
get me.

I go through the big gates an’ up the semicircular carriage-drive. Everythin’ is good an’ dark, but somewhere inside the house somebody is playin’ a piano-accordion,
an’ boy—can they play! Whoever is squeezin’ that music-box certainly knows his bananas.

There is a bell-pull by the side of the door. I pull it an’ wait. About three-four minutes afterwards the door opens just a crack. Inside is a tall guy with grey side-whiskers. I take one
look at him an’ see that he is the family butler. This guy mighta been playin’ the part on the stage.

He says casually: “Good-evening, sir. Can I do something for you?”

“Just a little thing,” I tell him. “Maybe there’s a party or somethin’ goin’ on around here an’ I don’t wanta butt in, see? But I believe
Lieutenant Travis of the U.S. Army is up here.”

He says: “Yes, sir, he is.”

“I’d like to have a word with him,” I say, “just sorta quietly, you know.”

He says: “And your name, sir?”

I draw on my cigarette. “Just tell him Carlos Pleyell of the U.S. Marine Corps,” I tell him. “I won’t keep him a minute.”

He says sorta dubious: “Well, I’ll try and find him, sir. . . .”

Just then some voice says over his shoulder: “What is it, Blythe?”

The butler steps back an’ opens the door a little way farther. I step inta the hallway, an’ I wish you monkeys coulda had a sight of the frill who is standin’ just behind the
butler!

She has on a black velvet frock, a string of pearls, beige silk stockin’s an’ high-heeled crêpe-de-chine shoes with little diamond buckles. She is a chestnut brunette an’
one big curl tied with a black moire ribbon is hangin’ over one shoulder. I’m tellin’ you guys that if I was in a train wreck with this baby I wouldn’t even pull the
communication cord. I would just stick around an’ sing Halleluiah until they brought the ambulance.

She says: “It’s all right, Blythe.”

She throws me a little quick smile. Did I tell you that this doll has a very nice line in mouth and teeth, because if I didn’t she has. She says: “You want Mr. Travis?”

“That’s right,” I tell her. “I’d like to have a word with him.”

She says: “Well . . .” She looks sorta dubious.

I take a look around the hallway. It has all the hall-marks of the old-time feudal set-up. Sam Goldwyn might have designed this dump. There are even a coupla suits of armour stuck up against the
wall. May be they haven’t got around to meltin’ them down for tanks yet.

I say: “Of course I don’t wanta be inconvenient or anythin’ like that.”

She says: “That’s not it. I’d like you to see Mr. Travis if you want to, but . . . well, first of all he’s busily engaged at the moment in a pistol-shooting competition
down in the kitchens, and secondly, I think he’s a little tired.”

I get her. I tell her: “You mean he’s too cock-eyed to talk?”

She says: “I’m not quite certain about that. Perhaps some black coffee . . .” She looks at me sorta old-fashioned. She says: “I heard you talking to Blythe.
You’re a U.S. Marine?”

“That’s right, lady,” I tell her.

She says: “I’ve always wanted to meet a Marine. I’ve seen so many films about United States Marines that I’ve always wanted to see one.” She gives a little sigh.
“You look just like I expected you’d look,” she says.

“Now what do you know about that?” I tell her. “I think it’s marvellous me bein’ like that. I hope you’re gettin’ a kick out of it.”

She says: “To tell you the truth I am. Do you know what I think?”

I tell her no. I also think it is a darned good thing she don’t know what I am thinkin’.

She says: “I think you’re cute!” She is standin’ there with her hands clasped behind her back, a posture which believe me is very good for the figure. She looks so
good that I am thinkin’ I could eat her.

She says: “Look, Mr. Pleyell, would you do me a favour?”

“I’d do anythin’ for you,” I tell her, “even if it landed me in the brig, an’ anyway if I do you a favour maybe you’ll do me one an’ find
Travis.”

She says: “Oh yes, I’ll do that. I’ll find him and give him a lot of black coffee and try and produce him for you.”

“Fine,” I tell her. “Well, what’s the favour you want me to do, lady?”

She says: “Don’t call me ‘lady.’ My name’s Gayda.”

“Mussolini’s mouthpiece!” I tell her. An’ we both laugh. Anybody would think it was a good joke. I do a bit of quick thinkin’. “My front name’s
Carlos,” I tell her, “but my friends usually call me ‘Sourpuss’!”

She says: “I shan’t do that. I’ll think up a nicer name for you. This is what I want to know. Can you tell me what a ‘crummy bastard’ is?”

“It’s an old-fashioned expression used amongst American sailors,” I tell her. “It can mean practically anythin’. You can translate it how you like. The word
‘bastard’ is either a term of affection or it means a love-child. ‘Crummy’ is the U.S. equivalent of your English ‘lousy.’ ”

“I’ve got it,” she says. “You wait here, honeylamb, and I’ll come back for you. I’ll get somebody working on Mr. Travis for you.” She goes away.

I light myself a fresh cigarette an’ I go over an’ look at one of the suits of armour. It is real all right. Maybe some guy wore this at the Battle of Hastings or somethin’.
Personally, I would rather be in a tank. I am also thinkin’ that it looks to me like there is gonna be some redeemin’ features about this Travis business.

I have burned half the cigarette when she comes back. I watch her walkin’ along the passageway that leads inta the hall. She knows how to walk, this Gayda. She says:

“Look, Lollipop, he’s practically unconscious, but Blythe’s filling him up with black coffee. He thinks he can have him more or less right in about a quarter of an hour. Will
that suit you?”

“That’ll be fine,” I tell her. “Did the Lieutenant look affected any when you told him I was waitin’ to see him?”

She says: “He couldn’t even understand what I was saying. I told him it was important and he just made a noise like a s. . .