The Dark Street by Peter Cheyney

Author:Peter Cheyney [Cheyney, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2021-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

Sandra Kerr stood looking down into the fire. One hand held a cigarette; the other was stretched out towards the flames. The warmth from the fire came up toward her, encompassed her, gave her a feeling of pleasure. Or did it? Was it something else that was responsible for her strange sense of elation? She thought: This is going to hurt Ricky . . . all this. But he had it coming to him. I hope it’s going to be good for him—some day. When he grows up. Poor Ricky. . . .

She wore a sapphire-blue tailored corded velvet frock. At her throat was a lace scarf of dusty pink caught with a sapphire brooch.

She threw the cigarette into the fire, walked slowly up and down the room, her hands clasped behind her. She was thinking of Ricky; of Miguales; of people. She was thinking all sorts of interesting things. She was thinking that half the fun in life consisted in trying to work out what was going to happen; then watching it happen; seeing where you were wrong.

At one end of Miguales’ sitting-room was a long mirror. She looked at herself in the mirror. She thought that the way her hair was dressed and tied back with a blue ribbon was attractive. She wondered if Miguales would think it was attractive. She hoped he would.

A strange man, she thought. She smiled a little. She stopped walking about the room, went to a corner where a telephone stood on a table. The telephone cord ran from the instrument down to the wainscoting. She went away; came back in a minute with a sharp penknife. Very carefully, cautiously, she unravelled the wires inside the telephone cord, taking them apart with the tiny blade of the knife. When she had finished she tested the telephone. It was dead. There was no connection.

She heard a key in the lock; closed the penknife; slipped it into the pocket of her frock; went back to the fire. When Miguales came in she was standing there, relaxed, reposeful, one arm stretched casually along the mantelpiece.

He stood just inside the doorway looking at her. There was a dejected stoop to his shoulders and his long virile hands hung by his side almost in an attitude of despair. He stood looking at her for a long time as if he were trying to analyse his own thoughts of her.

She said: “Good-evening, Enrico. Why are you so unhappy?” Her voice was very soft, very low.

Miguales shrugged his shoulders. He went to the sideboard, mixed and poured out two cocktails. He came across to where she stood, the cocktail glasses in his hands. He gave her one.

He said: “Never was there a more extraordinary affair than ours, my beloved. Never was there anything quite so incomprehensible—so almost stupid. Never was there anything that began so wonderfully and that will end—as I feel it must end—so tragically.”

Sandra said with a smile: “You’re depressed, Enrico. You’ve been unhappy for days. You’re worrying about my husband—what he thinks—what he’s going to do.

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