Delphi collected works o.., p.191
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 191
Callaghan picked them up and put them in his pocket. Then he sat down.
‘Now listen, Mr. Meraulton,’ he said very softly. ‘Let you an’ me get this thing straightened out between us. I know how you’re feelin’, and I’m one hundred per cent for you. I’ve been in love myself’ — he smiled inwardly at that one— ‘I know how it feels.
‘Now quite a lot depends on that hat, that slate-grey hat that August used to wear — that one an’ only hat of his. Now I reckon that they’re goin’ to find that hat at his place. He hadn’t got one on last night. But we’ve got fate workin’ for us here, because no less a person than Mr. Willie Meraulton can prove that some time last week the old boy said that he was goin’ to buy himself a new hat an’ that he wasn’t goin’ to Greene’s in Dover Street for it, because they were too expensive. All right, then, if that’s so he might have bought one anywhere else in London — nobody knows where, just casually at any shop where he’d seen one.
‘Now that,’ Callaghan went on, ’is what I call a very pretty situation. It’s a situation that we might be able to do a lot with.’
He picked up his hat.
‘You sit tight, Mr. Meraulton,’ he said, ‘an’ don’t worry. I’ll be seein’ you in a day or so an’ maybe I’ll have somethin’ to report to you. In the meantime maybe you’d like to tell me two things: First of all, just where does Bellamy live?’
‘He has a flat in Pointers Mews, Chelsea, on the Embankment side,’ said Meraulton. ‘Number twelve.’
‘I think I’ll go an’ have a word with him this afternoon,’ said Callaghan. ‘Just a friendly sort of talk. In the meantime this conversation between you and me is just goin’ to be forgotten.
‘The other thing I wanted to know was, when did you an’ Miss Meraulton think of gettin’ married?’
Meraulton looked up.
‘Does that come into it?’ he said. ‘If you must know, we were keeping our ideas on the subject fairly quiet. August Meraulton objected very strongly to the idea of Cynthis marrying anybody. That was what half the trouble was about. He expected her to stay on and run the house, act as an unpaid housekeeper and listen to his fatuous conversation all day.’
He got up.
‘I feel I want to marry her right away,’ he said. ‘I want her to feel that she has at least one friend. God knows she’s going to need friends.’
Callaghan looked sorrowful.
‘You’re right there, Mr. Meraulton,’ he said. ‘But just at the moment I don’t think that any sort of marriage is indicated at all. Let’s clear this job up an’ then you can get married in a church with flowers an’ organs an’ all the rest of it. It’s a damn shame to marry a woman like Cynthis in a registry office. It would be doin’ the illustrated papers out of some very good pictures. No, when she gets married it’ll have to be in white satin an’ orange blossoms. Well, I’ll be gettin’ along.’
Meraulton put out his hand.
‘There’s just one thing, Callaghan,’ he said. ‘I’m not a poor man, and I’ll give every penny I’ve got to help Cynthis. But this business has cost me eight hundred pounds inside twenty-four hours. I should hate to think that the three hundred I’ve just given you was a payment to you merely to keep quiet about what you know about Cynthis.’
Callaghan looked unutterably shocked.
‘Mr. Meraulton,’ he said stiffly, ‘Callaghan Investigations never blackmails its clients.’
He walked to the door. When he turned and faced Meraulton he was grinning.
‘Maybe I’ll want to get at you almost any time,’ he said. ‘Where can I get you?’
Meraulton gave him the address and the telephone number. Callaghan repeated them, memorizing both. He put his hand on the doorknob.
‘There’s one other thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea you’d better not try to get into touch with Miss Meraulton. If she comes through to you, don’t take the call. Tell somebody to tell her you’re out of town.
‘I’ve got a good reason for that. Before long, if not now, the police will be listenin’ in to every telephone conversation they can muscle in on. I’m even keepin’ out of my own office for the same reason. Gringall is a very consistent feller. Good-day, Mr. Meraulton.’
He closed the door behind him softly.
At three o’clock Callaghan went into Lyons in Shaftesbury Avenue. Darkie was sitting drinking tea at a table in the corner of the first-floor room. He wore an air of practised detachment.
Callaghan went over to him and sat down. Darkie fumbled in the inside pocket of a voluminous overcoat and produced two or three folded sheets of paper. He pushed them over the table.
‘There’s plenty there to be goin’ on with, Slim,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked fast. Maybe there’ll be some more tonight.’
Callaghan grinned.
‘I hope I’ll be around tonight to get ’em,’ he said.
There was a certain grimness in his tone.
He ordered a cup of coffee and sat looking at the table mechanically. He was thinking hard.
‘It’s damned funny, Darkie,’ he said. ‘You go out to find somethin’ and you know you’re goin’ to find a certain thing an’ you don’t. You find somethin’ else. Somethin’ quite different.
‘Darkie,’ he said. ‘There’s two things for you to do, an’ don’t make any mistake about either of ’em. I’m goin’ off in a minute. Directly I’ve gone you do some telephonin’ an’ try an’ get that feller we used in the Garse case — you remember that fake Marquis chap — on the telephone. Find out if he wants to earn a little money. Tell him to stay put at wherever he’s to be found, an’ maybe I’ll get in touch with him. His name was Ribbinholt, or Rivenholt or somethin’, wasn’t it?’
Darkie nodded.
‘The second thing is this,’ Callaghan went on. ‘I’m goin’ to see a feller this afternoon at four o’clock out Chelsea way. A feller named Bellamy Meraulton. I reckon I’ll get there at four. Well, at four-fifteen I want you to telephone through to his place — get the number out of the book in the meantime. When he comes to the telephone you keep him there talkin’ about somethin’ or other. Say you’re the Telephone Company testin’ or the Sanitary Inspector askin’ about the drains — say anythin’ you like, but keep him at the telephone for four or five minutes. You got that?’
‘I got it,’ said Darkie.
He looked down at the table.
‘Slim,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘you wouldn’t get yourself into something you couldn’t get out of, would you? I know you. If there’s a woman in a case you can be as bleedin’ barmy as a blinkin’ schoolboy.’
Callaghan looked at him.
‘Gettin’ sentimental?’ he asked. ‘You’ll be makin’ me cry in a minute. Well, so long, don’t forget Ribbenhall — or whatever his name is — an’ don’t forget that telephone call at four-fifteen sharp. I’ll be seein’ you.’
He drank the coffee, got up and walked out. He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue to Long Acre, then cut down into the Strand.
In the Strand he found a hat shop. He tried several hats of different colours. Eventually he bought a seven and one-eighth size slate-grey homburg with a bound edge to match.
He began to walk towards Charing Cross. On the way he entered a chemist shop and bought one safety razor blade and a piece of adhesive plaster.
He continued on his way. At Charing Cross he went into a tea-shop and drank two cups of tea. He was thinking hard, concentrating on small points, on essential facts.
On his way out he went down into the Men’s room. There was no one there. He took the new grey homburg out of its wrapping and threw the bag into the refuse box. Then he wet his hand and rubbed the sweatband of the hat until it looked as if it had been worn. Then he unwrapped the razor blade and cut the top of the index finger of his left hand deeply. When the blood was running freely he allowed it to run over the under side of the front of the hat brim, to stain the front of the leather sweatband.
This done to his satisfaction, he washed his cut finger, bound it up with the adhesive tape, pushed the new hat into the inside pocket of his overcoat and went out.
Outside he took a cab and told the driver to take him to the Embankment end of the street leading to Pointers Mews, Chelsea.
He leaned back in the seat and relaxed. Then he began to grin.
Callaghan was beginning to enjoy himself.
IV. PORTRAIT OF AN EXPERT LIAR
CALLAGHAN STOOD BEFORE the front door of No 12 Pointers Mews (‘luxurious and artistic self-contained flats for gentlefolk’) with his fìnger on the doorbell and the grey homburg hat securely held under his overcoat between his left arm and his body.
When the door opened its space disclosed the figure of a manservant who regarded the caller with open hostility.
‘Mr. Meraulton is not at home,’ he said shortly. ‘In any event he would not wish to see any one!’
Callaghan smiled. There was a world of pity in that smile.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said quietly. ‘An’ don’t try and look insolent, or else I might put my fist on the end of that silly-lookin’ beak of yours. Just you run inside an’ tell Mr. Bellamy Meraulton that Mr. Slim Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations would like to see him for a few minutes, and you can tell him as well that if he doesn’t like the idea the loss will be his an’ not mine. Now get goin’!’
The man hesitated for a second, then turned away. Uninvited, Callaghan followed him into the hallway.
He waited for a moment while the man went across the hall into a room on the other side. When the servant returned he indicated that the visitor was to follow.
Callaghan stepped across the hall and into the room. Facing him, sitting almost in the shadow, ensconced in an arm-chair in front of the fire, sat a corpulent figure.
Bellamy looked about forty-seven years of age. He was entirely bald. His eyes were light blue in colour and moved restlessly about. The end of his nose — the underneath part around the nostrils — was tinged with a bluish tint.
Callaghan noticed it. So Bellamy was a dope-taker as well as the rest of it. That bluish tinge spelt cocaine!
When Bellamy spoke it was in a hard, cynical and abrupt voice. His words, carefully spoken, exploded like pistol shots.
‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Who, may I ask, is Slim Callaghan, and by the same token what do I want with Callaghan Investigations, whatever and wherever that organization may be?’
He shifted in his seat and the folds of his blue-and-oyster shot-silk lounging gown caught the reflection from the fire.
Callaghan was unperturbed. He put his hat down on an occasional table, and sat down in the arm-chair facing Bellamy. He put his right hand into his coat pocket and brought out the packet of Player’s. He lit the cigarette nonchalantly, and all the while his eyes, hard and unmoving, looked straight at Bellamy.
‘Listen, Mr. Bellamy,’ he said. ‘I know that you won’t mind my calling you Mr. Bellamy. I’m doin’ it in order to distinguish you from the rest of the quartet. I don’t want to get mixed up in my own mind... see?’
He inhaled deeply. On the other side of the fireplace Bellamy was breathing quickly.
‘The fact of the matter is,’ Callaghan went on, the smoke trickling from his nostrils, ‘that I find myself in a little bit of a mess. And whenever I find myself in a mess I always try to do the right thing — the straight thing.’
Callaghan paused. There was a certain cooing note in his voice, a sibilance that suggested a complete honesty of purpose, a supreme straightness of moral character. When he lied, his whole being was concentrated on getting the particular lie of the moment over. Both the stage and the world of films had lost a great actor in Mr. Callaghan.
In spite of himself Bellamy was interested. He wriggled forward in the chair, pushing his fat stomach in front of him with an effort.
‘Maybe what I’m goin’ to tell you won’t interest you very much,’ continued Callaghan, ‘an’ maybe it will. I’m goin’ to take the chance. But if you think that I’ve come here to do you a good turn just for the sake of standin’ for a lot of damn rudeness from you or anybody else, you think again.’
Bellamy’s face broke into an unwilling smile. For some reason Callaghan found himself thinking of that type of American watersnake called the moccasin, that fearful thing with the wide mouth that brings a horrible death slowly.
‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude, Mr. Callaghan,’ said Bellamy. ‘I’m upset, worried. It’s understandable, you know.’
He got up, walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He looked towards Callaghan and nodded towards the whisky decanter. Callaghan shook his head.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I just want to keep my mind on what I’m doin’.
‘The fact is, Mr. Bellamy,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got the idea in my head that you’re in some sort of trouble or some sort of danger. I don’t quite know which. I’ve been worryin’ all day about what my duty is, an’ I’ve come to the conclusion that the right thing for me to do was to come to you an’ put all my cards on the table.’
Bellamy went back to his chair. He said nothing. Callaghan continued:
‘Last night, as you know, August Meraulton was murdered. Somebody shot him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Well I happen to know a thing or two about that business, an’ I happen to have some ideas of my own on the subject. When I’m consulted in a case, whatever my client says to me is under the seal — Callaghan Investigations never lets its clients down — but at the same time I’m not the sort of man to stand by an’ see an innocent man get mixed up with a murder that he never committed.’
He stubbed out the cigarette, although there were a dozen more puffs left in it, and coolly proceeded to extract another. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the plump white little finger of Bellamy’s right hand beating a tattoo on the arm of the chair.
Callaghan lit the cigarette. He did not speak.
Bellamy smiled again — a knowing smile. It made his plump, vicious face seem even more distorted, the light blue eyes even more bulging.
‘I presume, Mr. Callaghan, that this has to do with me?’
Callaghan grinned.
‘An’ how!’ he said knowingly. ‘Like hell it has!’
Bellamy folded his hands across his stomach.
‘I’m beginning to be almost interested,’ he said. ‘Please continue.’
Callaghan smiled. He knew he had Bellamy where he wanted him.
‘Mr. Bellamy,’ he lied. ‘When I was brought into this Meraulton business — which was some days ago — in a very confidential capacity, which had of course nothin’ to do with this murder, because the murder hadn’t happened then, I obtained certain information. At the time that information didn’t mean a great deal. Havin’ regard to the fact that August Meraulton has been killed it means a lot, and, believe it or not, it means a hell of a lot to you!’
He paused for effect. And, pausing, permitted himself a quick sensation of self-admiration for the lovely lies that were tripping so easily off his tongue. Then he went on:
‘If you’ve read your papers,’ he said, ‘an’ I don’t doubt that you have, you’ll see that the police are tryin’ to get their hands on some man who was seen in Ensell Street last night. You’ve probably wondered why or maybe you’ve guessed. That man is the man who stole the thing that the police think will show the motive for the murder of your uncle. The will that he told you all about last week, that he was carryin’ around in his watch-case.
‘Well, Mr. Bellamy, I’m not here to answer any questions. I’m here to tell you a few things, an’ then, when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say, to ask you whether you’ll care to retain my services as...’
The telephone shrilled. Its jangling broke through the soft cadences of Callaghan’s voice. He made no attempt to continue talking.
The man-servant came to the door.
‘There’s someone on the telephone,’ he said. ‘He says he’s speaking from the Silver Pirate Club. He wants you personally.’
Callaghan grinned to himself. Darkie was pulling a really good one with his Silver Pirate Club stuff.
Bellamy got up and walked out of the room. As his footsteps faded across the hallway Callaghan took a quick look round the room. In the opposite corner was an antique clock on a wooden pedestal. Moving as quickly and silently as a cat, he crossed the room, grabbed out the grey homburg hat from beneath his overcoat and stuffed it down behind the clock in the angle between the walls, pushed it down as far as it would go. Then, as quickly, he returned to his seat.
He was smoking and looking at the ceiling when Meraulton came back.
Bellamy went back to his chair, sat down.
‘You were saying, Mr. Callaghan,’ he said, ‘that I might like to retain your services. Why?’
Callaghan shrugged.
‘I said I wasn’t answerin’ any questions,’ he said, ‘an’ I’m not. If you’ve got any sense — an’ I should think you were pretty quick in the uptake — you’re goin’ to want lookin’ after.’
He leaned forward.
‘Listen, Mr. Bellamy,’ he said urgently. ‘I’ve got an idea in my head that the police theory is that August Meraulton wasn’t killed in Lincoln’s Inn Fields at all, that he was killed somewhere else an’ his body chucked there just to throw suspicion on somebody — somebody who didn’t do it, but somebody who might not have liked the late lamented August very much.’
He paused for effect once more. When he began to speak again his voice was slow and deliberate.
‘Whoever it was got into the mortuary went after that will,’ he said, pointing with his finger. ‘Whoever it was went to the mortuary knew, when he did it, all about that murder. He took that will because takin’ that will was goin’ to throw suspicion on the man who would have lost most if the will had been found an’ proved, an’ who would that have been? If I’m not very mistaken it would have been a gentleman named Bellamy Meraulton — you!’
Bellamy Meraulton gripped the arms of his chair. His face was white. A little bead of sweat stood out on his forehead.
