PERRUQUI, seated behind a walnut desk in the corner of his beige and black office, smiled expansively at Callaghan.

  'At your serveece,' he said.

  Callaghan looked at the tiny pin-point of fire made by the diamond stud in Perruqui's shirt-front.

  He said: 'I wanted to say I was sorry about that little upset I caused on the floor tonight. I hope it didn't do any harm.'

  Perruqui shrugged.

  'I don't like any troubles round here you know, Meester Callaghan,' he said. 'But you are a good client—' he shrugged expressively—'it doesn't matter one leetle bit. It is all right,' he concluded.

  'That's fine,' said Callaghan. 'And it wasn't any trouble really, Perruqui. It was an act I put on. The man was an operative of mine—Monty Kells. The woman's name was Azelda Dixon. Do you know Azelda?'

  Perruqui looked blank.

  'I don't know nozzin' at all,' he said. 'I don't know nozzing.'

  Callaghan grinned.

  'Don't tell dam' lies, Perruqui,' he said.

  He got up, walked across to the desk, stood looking down at the Italian.

  'The fact is,' he said, 'I met young Riverton tonight. You know I've been chasin' round after him tryin' to find out what he's at. You know it because half the crowd here know it, and what you don't know about what goes on in this district could be stuck under a postage stamp and lost.'

  Perruqui shrugged again. His smile had vanished.

  'When I was talkin' to The Mug tonight,' said Callaghan, 'I got my first good look at him. Somebody's feedin' that boy dope. Tonight, when I had a look at Azelda I thought that she looked as if she knew what cocaine smelt like too. I wondered if Azelda was the woman who put young Riverton on the stuff. Maybe you know?'

  'I've tol' you, Meester Callaghan, I don't know nozzin'.'

  Callaghan did not move. He stood quite still, his lips smiling pleasantly. But his eyes were not smiling. They rested steadily on Perruqui's face.

  'That's all right, Perruqui,' he said. 'Maybe you don't know anythin', and maybe you can start findin' out some thin', because I do know somethin'.'

  He reached for his cigarette-case.

  'Last year,' he said evenly, 'some people gave me a job to try to find out where that Lallen girl got to. You remember her, Perruqui? That good-lookin' blonde girl, the one who used to come here with the saxophonist from the Hop Club band an' pay the bills? Well, we found out where she went to, but the information wasn't very much good to her people by the time we handed it over. The Lallen girl was too far gone. Maybe she's got as far as Buenos Aires by now.'

  He stopped talking. Two little beads of sweat had appeared on Perruqui's forehead.

  'The one interestin' point in the job,' Callaghan went on, 'was the number of the car that took that girl down to the coast the night she disappeared.' He grinned. 'Monty Kells got that number,' he said, 'and he traced the car. It was that big green one of yours, Perruqui.'

  He put the cigarette which he had been holding in his fingers into his mouth, lit it.

  'Now you tell me about Azelda,' he said.

  Perruqui kept his heavy lidded eyes on the desk before him. It was a full minute before he spoke. Then:

  'I don't know much about her, Meester Callaghan,' he said. 'Not much. I think she uses a leetle dope. I think she gets around with some of Mr Raffano's friends. I don' know any more.'

  'Just think a bit, Perruqui,' said Callaghan. 'See if you can't think up a little more. Where does she get the dope?'

  Perruqui still looked at the desk.

  'There is a leetle night bar in Soho,' he said. His voice was low and truculent. 'The Privateer.'

  'I know!' said Callaghan. 'Who's runnin' that place now?'

  'They call him Henny The Boyo,' Perruqui answered.

  Callaghan picked up his hat. 'What time does Henny The Boyo close up?' he asked.

  Perruqui got up. 'He's open till about four, Meester Callaghan,' he said.

  Callaghan walked to the door. Perruqui began to talk.

  'Meester Callaghan...'

  Callaghan grinned.

  'It's all right, Perruqui,' he said. 'I'll forget about the number of that car of yours. Good night.'

  Callaghan walked through the pass-door on to the club floor. The Yellow Lamp was nearly empty and only two or three tired couples sat at the gilt tables. In the hall he met Charleston on his way to the cloakroom. Charleston smiled.

  'Hallo, Slim,' he said. 'Are you a fast worker! I had supper with Juanita tonight. You weren't exactly popular. She says you killed her dance!'

  Callaghan grinned. He said:

  'There was a little trouble while her dance was on. I don't think she likes me as much as she did.'

  He began to move towards the entrance. Then he said:

  'Listen, Gill, you work hard on Juanita. I believe she thinks a lot of you, an' she's fed up with the dancin' game. I think she'd like to get married an' if you find yourself a new business I think she'd do it. Good night, Gill.'

  He went out into the street. He walked until he met a crawling taxicab. He stopped it, told the driver to take him to Soho.

  THE Privateer Bar was one of those places that changed hands about every three or four months. When the police decided that they would like to interview the proprietor they had to do plenty of legwork, and when they eventually got him—as they always do—he never knew anything about 'it'. It was the manager's fault anyway, and he, the boss, had been in Paris the night 'it' happened and so on....

  There was one bar on the ground floor and one down a flight of narrow stairs in the basement. At the end of the basement-bar a tired young man used to play the piano and think about the days when he wasn't feeling quite so old.

  The place was usually crowded upstairs and not so full downstairs. Every now and then one of the CID men from Tottenham Court Road used to take a look round, and the occupants of the downstairs coffee bar would look at each other and wonder who the 'blue-inks' were after this time....

  It was always full of smoke and smelt of stale coffee and very often of that peculiar acrid stink that comes from Marihuana cigarettes that only cost sixpence and make things so much easier for half an hour.

  Callaghan bought himself a cup of coffee in the upstairs room, drank it slowly and smoked a cigarette. When he looked at his watch he saw it was half-past two. He realized suddenly that he was tired out.

  He got up and went down the stairs. At the bottom he stood still and began to grin. At the other end of the room, past the piano on its little platform, were three steps leading to a door. Azelda Dixon was just coming down the steps.

  There were only three men in the room. They were seated, with their heads very close together, at a table near the piano.

  Azelda was looking at the floor as she walked towards the stairs. She did not see Callaghan until she was almost on him.

  'Hallo—Azelda,' he said quietly.

  She looked at him. Her face was very white, very strained, and there were dark shadows about her eyes. Azelda had been good-looking once, Callaghan thought. And she still had something. She was well-shaped and in an odd way she looked like a lady.

  'What do you want?' she asked shortly.

  'Nothin' at all,' said Callaghan evenly. 'How's Henny The Boyo?'

  Her lips tightened. For a moment Callaghan thought she was going to scream with temper.

  'You go to hell!' she said. 'And stay there. And you look out, Mr Callaghan.'

  'All right, Azelda,' said Callaghan pleasantly. 'I'll look out, and who do I have to look out for?'

  'You'll see,' she said hoarsely. She pushed past him. 'I've got one or two friends—still—'

  'I'm glad,' he said. 'Well, Azelda—when you want another one you come round an' see me. The Berkeley Square cab rank'll tell you where my office is. Good night....'

  She began to walk up the stairs. He heard her high heels tapping towards the street entrance upstairs.

  He began to walk towards the door that led to Henny The Boyo's office, then he changed his mind, sat down, smoked another cigarette. After ten minutes he got up, walked upstairs and out into the quiet street.

  Twenty yards down the street he turned into the dark passage that twisted through into the Tottenham Court Road—near the cab rank. Half-way down the passage he stopped to light another cigarette. He took some time about it because, through the flame of his lighter he could see the shadow that lay across the passage at the end, where the street lamp stood just round the corner.

  Callaghan put his hands in his overcoat pockets and began to walk along, keeping close to the wall. He put his feet firmly on the ground so that his footsteps were quite audible, and he walked with a careful speed.

  He came to the end of the passage, his eyes on the shadow. Just before he reached it it moved slightly.

  Callaghan put his foot forward for the next step. But it did not reach the ground. He sidestepped, jumped back a pace, and then, as the shadow lurched forward, his right foot shot out, thigh high.

  His foot caught the man who had been waiting round the corner in the stomach with the full force of the kick. The man gave a funny sort of half-yelp and fell flat on his face. He lay there squirming for a moment before he passed out.

  Callaghan looked to see if there were any more of them. Then he turned the man over with his foot. Then he bent down and dragged the inert body of the tough under the lamp-light and took a long look at the face. He wanted to remember it.

  Then he looked at the man's hands. The left one was bare, but on the right there was a glove. It was a thick brown kid glove and fixed across the front of it, edge upwards, were three safety razor blades.

  Callaghan felt for his cigarette-case. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Then he began to walk towards the Tottenham Court Road cab rank.

  IV. — SATURDAY: GOODBYE, JAKE!

  THE mechanical bells in the Chinese clock on the mantelpiece struck four.

  Callaghan woke up. He yawned at the ceiling, then reached out for the telephone.

  'I'll be down in fifteen minutes, Effie,' he said. 'Get some tea ready.'

  He got out of bed and stretched, went into the bathroom, took a shower and rubbed eau-de-Cologne into his hair. Then he dressed, took a short drink of neat whisky, lit a cigarette, indulged in a spell of coughing and went down to the office.

  Effie Thompson came in from the outer room with a cup of tea.

  'Findon's been round to the cab rank,' she said. 'He found the taxi-driver. The driver said that young Riverton stopped the cab at the Piccadilly end of Down Street. He walked up Down Street. The driver couldn't see where he went. Findon gave him the pound. I've charged it to the Riverton expense account.'

  Callaghan nodded. He began to drink his tea. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching Effie. She had a new coat and skirt on and a white silk shirt-blouse. Callaghan thought that Effie had a nice line to her hips.... He began to think about Mrs Riverton's figure—it was a dam' shame that a woman with a figure like that should be wasted on a sick sixty-year old husband and a stepson who was a dope....

  Effie went on:

  'Mrs Riverton rang through at three o'clock from Southing. She wants to speak to you. She says it's urgent. I said you'd get her on the phone when you came into the office—that you were out. Wilkie told me you were asleep. I wouldn't disturb you.'

  'Quite right, Effie,' said Callaghan. 'You'd better get her on the phone now.'

  She was half-way across the office when he changed his mind.

  'Don't bother,' he said. 'I'll do it another way.'

  He drank his tea, smoked a cigarette. He sat there in the darkening office thinking. After a while he picked up the telephone, dialled Gill Charleston's number. The operator at Linley House told him that Mr Charleston was out and would not be back till later. Callaghan waited a moment, then he rang through to Juanita. The maid said she wasn't in. Callaghan grinned.

  'Mr Charleston called for her, didn't he?' he asked.

  'Yes, sir,' said the maid, 'and she said that if you came through she'd go straight back to the Yellow Lamp tonight.'

  'Thanks,' said Callaghan.

  He hung up.

  When he looked at his watch it was twenty to five. He rang the bell on his desk.

  'I'm goin' down to the Manor House,' he said. 'Wait for ten minutes, then ring through. Tell Mrs Riverton I haven't been back to the office, but I came through on the phone, that I told you to tell her I was goin' down to see her, that I'd be there between six and half-past.'

  He got up, walked out of the office. Effie heard the door of the outer office slam. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Then she sat down by the telephone.

  IT was twenty past six when Callaghan stopped his car before the portals of the Manor House. It was raining hard. As he walked towards the pillared entrance he looked over his shoulder at the bare trees that lined the long carriage-drive that led from the gates to the house. A nice place in the summer, he thought.

  He rang the bell.

  Mrs Riverton was standing by the drawing-room fireplace when he was shown in. Callaghan's quick eyes swept round the room, taking in the fine furniture, the tapestries, the atmosphere generally.

  He saw that she was tired. There were blue shadows under her eyes, and there was no vestige of even a formal smile of welcome. He stood quite still in the middle of the polished floor, his hands hanging down by his sides looking at her, thinking that there was the same cold antagonism showing in her eyes. He wondered if anything would remove it; just what the formula was that would soften Mrs Riverton. Perhaps there wasn't a formula. Perhaps she was just one of those born-cold women who didn't react to anything at all.

  Callaghan thought that it would be pretty good to get a smile out of her. She was the sort of woman who ought to smile a lot.

  His eyes moved over the folds of her black frock down to the small feet in the superbly cut shoes. She had something all right.

  They stood looking at each other. Each perfectly poised and like a pair of fencers waiting for an opening.

  Callaghan thought: She hates my guts. She'd throw me out any minute she could do it. She'd have done it before, but I'll bet old Selby told her that it wouldn't be a good thing to do.

  She broke the silence:

  'You're a surprising person, Mr Callaghan,' she said. 'The last time I tried to get you on the telephone, nothing happened for two days. Now, within a few hours you appear after a long and quite unnecessary drive into the country when the telephone would have done just as well. Won't you sit down?'

  Callaghan sat down.

  'I didn't think the telephone would have done as well, Mrs Riverton,' he said. 'I wanted to see you—' he grinned—'I get a certain amount of pleasure from lookin' at you,' he said casually, 'an' although I know that wouldn't interest you, there are one or two things I wanted to tell you—things I thought were better not said on the telephone. But maybe you'd like to talk first?'

  She gave a little shrug. Callaghan knew that she was annoyed because he had said that he got pleasure from looking at her. She considered the remark personal and unnecessary. She resented it. Well that was better than nothing. Callaghan believed that if a woman didn't like you she might just as well actively dislike you. Anyway there was some sort of kick to be got out of making her feel something.

  She moved to a little table and brought a cigarette-box over to Callaghan. She opened it, offered him one and took one herself. He got up and lit both cigarettes. He was rather pleased at the fact that she was, at any rate, feeling sufficiently good-natured to give him a cigarette. Probably she was merely being polite.

  'I'm sorry to tell you, Mr Callaghan,' she said, 'that my husband is very much worse. This morning it became necessary to move him to a Nursing Home at Swansdown. The doctors are very worried about him.

  'I'm sorry for more than the obvious reason, because before he was moved he executed a deed which places the whole of the responsibility of handling the Riverton Estates, and of deciding the issue about my stepson, on my shoulders.'

  She stopped for a moment. Then:

  'The process also makes it necessary that you should find it agreeable to take your instructions from me, Mr Callaghan, much as you seem to dislike that.'

  Callaghan smiled and sent a thin stream of cigarette smoke out of one nostril.

  'I don't know that I dislike it,' he said. 'I think you could make a nice boss, Mrs Riverton. I don't mind who I take my instructions from—providin' they're intelligent people, providin' they realize the sort of things that private detectives are up against.'

  He looked at her. He was smiling. In spite of herself she could not help noticing the evasive charm of that smile or the fact that his lips were well carved, his teeth and jaw strong and regular. She found herself thinking that he was the strangest man.

  'In fact,' said Callaghan, 'I think I rather like takin' instructions from you.'

  'I don't think it matters who gives the instructions,' she said coldly, 'providing they are properly carried out. You have something to report?'

  'Yes,' said Callaghan. 'I think we can say we've got a bit of a move on. I've found out one or two things—nothing much, but enough to show me which way the cat's jumpin'. I think in a matter of weeks I'll be able to tell you all about this business; who it was had that money, or most of it, from Wilfred Riverton, who it is he's gettin' around with, and who is responsible for gettin' him the way he is.'

  'Precisely what do you mean by that?' she asked.

  'He is takin' dope,' said Callaghan. 'I had a few words with him last night. He was waitin' for me outside my offices. He told me to mind my own dam' business and he suggested that his clever stepmother—clever was his word—might like to mind hers too. I don't think we're either of us very popular. Anyhow,' he went on, 'he is takin' dope. He was full of cocaine when I spoke to him.'

  She didn't say anything. She moved over to the fire, put her two hands on the mantelpiece and stood looking into the flames.

  'How awful,' she said.

  She raised her head and turned towards him.

  'Mr Callaghan,' she asked, 'why should it take a matter of weeks? Why is it necessary for this process to be so long drawn-out—or are you still thinking of that £100 a week?'

 

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