Complete works of peter.., p.212
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 212
Callaghan grinned broadly.
'That was another damn lie, Willie,' he said. 'I'll tell you what you did. You drew the five hundred pounds and put it in an envelope, and you kept it in your office. Possibly Cynthis asked you about making the appointment with me and you stalled her by tellin' her that you hadn't got the money, that you were gettin' it. You know as well as I do that you only sent her that money on the day—late in the day—on which you had to kill old August, and you made the appointment for her on the telephone that evenin' so that she should come around to this office immediately she'd been round to Lincoln's Inn Fields and found that the old boy wasn't waiting for her as he should have been.'
Callaghan tilted his chair forward.
'You knew as well as I did that the fact that she came around here immediately after she'd left the Square would damn her in the eyes of the police.'
Willie laughed easily.
'How very interesting,' he said. 'And perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me just how I knew that Cynthis would be going to Lincoln's Inn Fields to meet my esteemed uncle on that particular night?'
Callaghan's eyes narrowed. Then he recovered his temper and relaxed.
'Yes, I'll tell you,' he said. 'An' I'll tell you a damn sight more, too. If you like to sit back an' keep quiet for a minute I'll tell you the whole damn thing from start to finish. You know it already, but it might be a good thing for you to know that somebody else knows it, an' that very soon the whole damn country will know it.'
He leaned forward over the desk. He looked straight at Willie. He was smiling, but there was something terribly hard in his eyes. For a moment Willie Meraulton, looking at him, realized the strength of this tousled-haired private detective, this cheap-jack who had been pushed into a murder case to play an unimportant part, who had stolen all the limelight and who was now proceeding to cast himself for the leading role.
'I once read a bit of poetry,' said Callaghan. 'It was called The Urgent Hangman. I always remembered a bit of it. It went like this:
See how she twists and turns in parlous straits. Finger your neck, sweet, the urgent hangman waits."
'You remind me of that bit of poetry,' Callaghan went on grimly. 'You thought you were goin' to be the urgent hangman, didn't you? You thought you were goin' to put the noose round somebody's neck—you didn't care whether it was her neck or Bellamy's, so long as it wasn't yours. But you weren't goin' to put an actual rope around their neck. You were just goin' to put a rope of suspicion, one that would be good enough to make people—including the police—think that they might have done it—either of 'em—but not be able to prove it. So long as you were kept out of it, everything was goin' to be fine.
'But I've managed to alter that. There's only one urgent hangman in the Meraulton case, an' that's me, an' I'm damned urgent, I'm tellin' you!'
Willie began to laugh softly. He sat there quite coolly and laughed. Callaghan stole another glance at his watch. It was three-twenty. His ears straining to catch the slightest sound heard nothing at all. He cursed quietly to himself, wished that he had a cigarette.
'All right, Willie,' said Callaghan. 'You want to hear, an' so I'll tell you. I'll tell you the true story of the murder of August Meraulton, an' although I may be slightly wrong on one or two little points, that don't matter, because in the main I'm dead right.'
Willie yawned.
'Fearfully interesting, Callaghan,' he said. 'But there's one question I must ask you before you begin this dramatic tale: Can you by any chance prove what you think? Can you do that, or are you by any chance doing what the police seem to have been doing—that is merely theorizing and hoping that something would come along that looked like some real evidence?'
Callaghan shrugged.
'I can't answer that now,' he said. 'Maybe you'll be able to answer your own question for yourself. In the meantime perhaps you'll admit that this is a good theory:
'The Meraulton boys—Jeremy, Paul, Percival and Bellamy—are broke. They can't get any money. Old August hates 'em like the devil and won't give 'em any. But he likes you an' he trusts you. He must have, otherwise he wouldn't have allowed you to run the Meraulton Estates and Trust Company, the business that looked after his property and money.
'You made out that you were the good boy of the family, but you weren't. You were as bad as the rest of 'em, and they knew it. They told you that they had to have some money, an' that if they didn't get it they'd talk to the old boy about you. So you had to do some quick thinkin'.
'You got a good scheme. You got Paul to buy up four old companies and re-float them. Then you began to lend money to these companies. If August ever took a look at the books—which he did occasionally—he would merely find book transactions with these companies, and against the money that had gone out he would find credit entries of stocks, shares and mortgages bought from, or taken up with, these companies.
'You probably did damn well out of this yourself. The money that you got out of the Meraulton Estates and Trust didn't all go to the quartet. I bet you stuck to most of it.
'There was always the chance, of course, that the old boy would go snooping about and find out. But you knew he was a sick man, an' you hoped that he'd die before he did find out, after which you could have straightened things out with the share of money that came to you and the quartet from the estate.
'Then all of a sudden the old boy throws that dinner-party and tells the lot of you that he's made a new will. He tells the other four that unless he decides to alter this new will—which he's carryin' about in his watch-case— they'll all find themselves left out in the cold.
'As a matter of fact he was challenging you as well as them. I've got an idea that the old boy had just begun to get a little bit suspicious of you. Probably you thought so, too.
'Then he did something that proved it. He told Cynthis that he would not allow her to get married to you. This was a few days before his death, and so far as you were concerned it was a danger signal. You realized that something had got to be done and done pretty quickly. You knew that the fact that the old boy had made the new will would constitute a damn good motive for one of the quartet trying to put him out of the way, so you tell that story to Cynthis about her bein' in danger, an' you mention my name an' tell her that she's to come an' see me directly you can get the money to give her—the money that I'll want an' insist on havin' before I'll do a damn thing.
'Then you stick around watching like a cat, watching to see if old August does know anything, or whether it was just your nerves.'
Callaghan pushed his chair back. He was dying to smoke. His mouth felt dry and his head had begun to ache a little. He realized suddenly that he had been living on his nerves for days, that he felt all in.
Opposite him, in the shadow, sat Willie, a big huddled form. The head and neck pushed down into the overcoat collar, and two abnormally bright eyes staring straight into his own.
'Well, Willie,' he said, 'how does it sound? How am I doing?'
Willie smiled.
'I love your theories, Callaghan,' he said. 'Go on. I'm interested.'
Callaghan nodded. His ears, straining, caught an infinitesimal sound from the outer office. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and hoped he was right.
'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Now you've got everything all set, and we come to the day of the murder. You've arranged to go to the theatre with Cynthis, but suddenly the balloon goes up. August Meraulton rings you up at your office and tells you that he's wise to the whole damn bag of tricks. He tells you that you're a lousy swindler, a cheat, a thief, and that he's glad that he's prevented Cynthis from marrying you.
'You probably put up an act. You probably tell him that you've got a first-class explanation for everything, and eventually the old boy orders you to call at his office—his private office—in Lincoln's Inn Fields at eleven o'clock that night.
'Then he hangs up, and you sit back and do a little bit of thinking. The first thing you wonder is whether old August has told Cynthis anything about this. That's the first thing you've got to find out. So you telephone through to her and ask her if she's still keen on going to the theatre. When you were telling me about this you said that she telephoned you, that she had a headache. That was another damn lie, an' you told it just because I was wise enough to point out to you that I wasn't goin' to discuss this matter with her, but I did, an' she told me what had really happened.
'She said that she couldn't go to the theatre with you because she had an important appointment at eleven o'clock. She didn't say anything else, but that remark told you all you wanted to know. It told you that August had been through to her and told her to come to his office at Lincoln's Inn Fields at eleven o'clock. You guessed that he hadn't told her anything else.
'You knew what he intended to do. He intended to confront you with her in his office and to show her just what a cheap, swindling liar you were, to show her what a good turn he'd done her in refusing to allow her to marry you.
'All right. Well, now you've got to get a move on, haven't you? You know that Cynthis is goin' to Lincoln's Inn Fields at eleven o'clock, so you say that you are very worried about her and that it's absolutely necessary that she gets along and sees this feller Slim Callaghan, even if she goes after her appointment at eleven o'clock, that you will telephone through an' make an appointment for eleven-fifteen or eleven-thirty an' that you will send round the five hundred pounds that this Callaghan will want for his services—the five hundred that you've had stuck in your desk drawer for a week or so, waitin' for this to happen.
'You then get in touch with the Meraulton quartet. You tell them that the balloon's gone up, and that they've got to come round to your club and talk things over at a quarter to ten. You take a private room at the club somewhere near the side entrance. Jeremy, Paul, Percival and Bellamy arrive, and you let them know more or less what's happened. You also tell them that you've heard that Cynthis is goin' round to see the old man in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and that you expect that there'll be some sort of trouble. You tell them that you're going off to try and find Cynthis to talk to her before she goes round to see the old boy, to try and get her to straighten things out.
'You go off. It's about ten o'clock. You're banking on the fact that the old boy will have followed his usual habit of going out of his house in Knightsbridge and taking a cab down to his office, that he will have arrived there early.
'You went out of the club by the side door an' drove your car down to somewhere near Lincoln's Inn Fields, leaving it somewhere where it wouldn't be seen. You walked along to the office and went upstairs. You were lucky; the old boy was there, and the time was about half-past ten.
'August told you just where you got off the tram. He waved the gold copy-paper will—the one he'd been carrying in his watch-case—in front of you, told you he was going to destroy it, told you why. You had your own reason for not wanting that will destroyed.
'You didn't waste a second. You shot the old man dead. You picked him up, knocking a chair over in the process, carried him downstairs, across the dark street, and pushed him over the short railings on the west side of the gardens. You got over yourself, carried him across the gardens, and after putting the copy-paper will back into his watch-case pushed him over the railings on the other side. On your way back across the gardens you threw the pistol into the shrubbery. You weren't worrying about fingerprints; you'd got gloves on.
'You drove back to the club like mad. You got there about twenty to eleven. You say that you haven't been able to find Cynthis, and you get that poor fool Bellamy, who is dying to get away to see Eulalie Gallicot, to promise to drive to Lincoln's Inn Fields to wait until five past eleven to see if she does go to see August, and telephone you if she does. As this is on Bellamy's way, he agrees.
'You wanted him to see Cynthis arrive. This, with her visit to me afterwards, is going to implicate her. She will see Bellamy down there, and that will implicate him. The other three, who will all guess next day who really killed August Meraulton, will alibi you if necessary by saying that you never left the club. They've got to say this. The whole lot of you have been conspiring to defraud August, and the Meraulton Estates Company, and if anything were to happen to you there wouldn't be a brass farthing for anybody. Bellamy going to Lincoln's Inn Fields doesn't matter a damn, because the fact that he's seen in Lincoln's Inn Fields doesn't prove that he's a murderer.
'So the quartet have got to stick by you just as you've got to stick by them.'
Callaghan tilted his chair back and smiled pleasantly at Willie.
'You made one damn silly mistake,' he said. 'You ought never to have put that copy-paper will back into his watch-case. When Cynthis came to me an' I heard of the murder afterwards I was curious to see if the will had gone. When I found it hadn't, an' when I'd read it, I wondered what motive any one of the quartet could have had for killing the old boy and not taking that will—a will that dispossessed the lot of them an' gave everything to Cynthis.'
Callaghan got up. Willie sat quite still, looking straight at Callaghan, breathing quietly.
'An' then I got it,' said Callaghan softly. 'I got it. Suddenly I saw that the man who murdered August Meraulton did so not to take the will out of his watch-case, but to put it back there.
'I saw something else, too. I realized that if Jeremy, Paul, Percival or Bellamy had killed the old boy they would have destroyed that will, an' I realized that the one person who, if he'd killed August, wouldn't have destroyed it, would have been you!
'So I got busy. I got some more money from you the next day. You thought I was just bein' graspin'. You poor sap, you didn't realize that the numbers on the £300 notes you gave me followed on the £500 that Cynthis had given me.
'I got another £200 from Bellamy. I checked up on the numbers. They were in the same group. So I knew that Bellamy had got that £200 from you. I went to see Mayola Ferrival before I went down to see Jeremy not because I really wanted to see her, but to give Jeremy time to get some more money to pay me from you.'
'Very interesting,' said Willie. 'But even if what you say is right, it still doesn't prove who murdered August Meraulton.'
Callaghan smiled.
'Right, Willie,' he said. 'Dead right. It only proves that you were givin' these four money out of the Meraulton Estates and Trust Company banking account. That's just dishonesty—conspiracy to defraud. As you say, it isn't murder.'
Callaghan leaned over the desk.
'All right, Willie,' he said. 'I've been pretty near it, haven't I? But I agree with you that there's nothing I've said would justify a murder charge against you. If they suspect you they've got to suspect Cynthis and Bellamy and anybody else who had a grouse against August.
'But,' continued Callaghan, 'I've got one in the bag. I said I was the urgent hangman. I'm goin' to be the urgent hangman. I'm the man who can prove that you killed August Meraulton, the only man—an' by God I'm goin' to do it or...'
'Or what?' said Willie very quietly.
'Or you're goin' to pay me £10,000,' said Callaghan with a grin. 'Well, is it worth it?'
XV. — TO HIM WHO WAITS
WILLIE got up. He took his hands out of his pockets and stood in front of Callaghan's desk, his face above the beam from the desk light.
Callaghan, his chair tilted on to its back legs, could not see Willie's face distinctly. He saw the suggestion of it.
Willie was still quite relaxed. Callaghan could see that his fingers were loosely curled into the palms of his hands. He thought vaguely that Willie was pretty good, that he didn't frighten easily.
Willie stood there for a moment and then sat down again. There was almost complete silence in the office. Callaghan fancied he could hear his wrist-watch ticking and his own heart beating.
'So you're still a blackmailer,' said Willie quietly. 'But I suppose that one should sometimes take notice of blackmailers—they can be dangerous. However,' he went on casually, '£10,000 is a great deal of money—especially to a bluffer like Mr. Slim Callaghan!'
Callaghan shrugged his shoulders.
'I don't see where the bluff comes in,' he said. 'I told you that I had a theory—a good theory. I've told you what my theory is, an' after that you can do just what you like about it. I don't give a damn either way.'
'I see,' said Willie slowly. 'I see. So you weren't by any chance making an accusation of murder against me? You were merely letting your imagination wander?'
Callaghan grinned.
'I wouldn't say that, either,' he said quite pleasantly. 'Let's put it another way. If I get £10,000, then so far as I'm concerned it's a theory, an' one that I can forget directly I get my hands on the money. If I don't get the £10,000, then perhaps I can see whether it amounts to something more than a theory. Maybe Gringall would like to try his hand at a nice little jigsaw puzzle like that.'
Willie nodded.
'You've already been to Gringall,' he said. 'You've given him the numbers of certain banknotes. Possibly you've given him some other information as well.'
'Not a damn thing,' said Callaghan. 'I've given him the information about the banknotes because I know damn well that if he hadn't got it one way he would have got it another way; but under certain circumstances his knowing about the money wouldn't matter to you.'
'No?' queried Willie, his eyebrows raised. 'But supposing—merely for the sake of argument, of course—that your story about the money being lent to the four fake companies were correct? Well, wouldn't that implicate me in the conspiracy to defraud charge, leaving the matter of the murder of August Meraulton right out of the question for the moment?'
'Not necessarily,' said Callaghan, still grinning. 'August Meraulton's dead. He can't give evidence. He had placed you in sole charge of his affairs. Supposin' you were to tell the court that August had found out what you were doin' and approved of it? Well, they couldn't prove you a liar, could they? All you'd have to do would be to get someone to support your story—somebody like Cynthis.'
