Complete works of peter.., p.220
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 220
Darkie said he had.
'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Well that doesn't make any difference to you. What you've got to find out is this. I'm interested in this killin' aboard the San Pedro—never mind why. I believe young Riverton went down there some time yesterday afternoon or evening. Well, you've got to find out when, an' you've got to find out where he left from, an' you've got to find out how he got down there. If he went by car, somebody else was drivin' him. You got that, Darkie? All right. Now I tell you how you set about it.
'You remember that feller Mazely—the feller that came out on that drugs charge, three months ago? Well, get hold of him, show him a five pound note, and get him to drop in at the Privateer Bar in Soho. Let him stick around there for a bit and make out that he's done some sort of house-breakin' job out in the suburbs, that he's waitin' for it to blow over. Tell him to try to get next to Henny The Boyo or any of the other people round there who knew The Mug. Tell him to find out where he was yesterday—what he was doin'. All right, Darkie, go to it.'
He hung up the receiver.
Effie Thompson, who had gone to her own office during the conversation, came to the doorway. She looked a little worried.
'Do you want me any more?' she said. 'Is there anything I can do?'
Callaghan rubbed his chin.
'No,' he said. 'Did you send that £100 to Lonney?'
'Yes,' she said, 'that went off yesterday.'
'All right,' said Callaghan. 'You go home.'
She nodded.
'I shall be in all day,' she said. 'If you want me just give me a ring. I'll come round.'
Callaghan raised his eyebrows.
'Why should I want you?' he said. 'Listen, what's the matter with you? You're not tryin' to be a detective or anything, are you, Effie?'
She smiled.
'I'll leave that to you,' she said. 'I'm no good at problems. The only things I can ever solve are the "Are you a good detective?" things in the Sunday newspapers. But I thought it funny your going down there last night—being around that district—and that telephone call to the police. I wondered...'
Callaghan dropped his voice.
'Look, honey,' he said, 'you don't get paid to wonder. You stick to the "Are you a good detective?" series in the newspapers. Go home. Go and see a movie and forget the Riverton case. If I want you, I'll phone through.'
He grinned at her.
Callaghan lit a cigarette, went back to the leather armchair, lay back in it, looked up at the ceiling, thinking. The buzzer sounded in the outer office. He went through into the other office. It was Wilkie from downstairs.
'There's a gentleman to see you down here, Mr Callaghan,' he said. 'Detective Inspector Gringall from Scotland Yard.'
The telephone bell began to jangle in Callaghan's office. He let it ring.
'Did you tell him I was in, Wilkie?' he asked.
'I said I thought you were asleep, Mr Callaghan,' Wilkie answered.
'That's all right,' said Callaghan. 'You tell him you'll go up to my apartment and wake me up. Ask him to wait. Hang about upstairs for a couple of minutes, then go down and say I'm in the office. Give me four or five minutes before you bring him up.'
The telephone bell was still jangling.
Callaghan went back to his own office, took the phone call. It was long distance. After a minute Kells came through.
'Hallo, Slim,' he said. 'Findin' that house was easy. There's a place half a mile back of Falleton—about three-quarters of a mile from where the San Pedro was lying. There's grounds, an' shrubberies, kitchen gardens, flower gardens and what-have-you-got. But is this a screwy dump! There's nobody there. I've been in the place this morning. I got in through a back window. It's pretty swell inside—there's a big bar stocked with all sorts of liquor, food all over the place, and it looks as if somebody's got out of it in a hurry.'
'How did you find out about it?' asked Callaghan. 'And be quick, Gringall's comin' up in a minute.'
Callaghan heard Kells whistle.
'Does he know you were down here last night, Slim?' he asked. 'That's a sweet story they're runnin' in the papers. They got it pretty quick too. I've never known Sunday newspapers get a story that broke at half-past twelve at night as quick as that in this country.'
'Don't be a fool,' said Callaghan. 'They got that story because Gringall wanted them to have it. He probably dished it out himself.
'Now where did you find out about that place?'
'It was easy,' said Kells. 'The barmaid at The Goat wised me up.'
'Have you been over the place?' asked Callaghan.
'I haven't had a chance,' Kells replied. 'Do I go back there?'
Callaghan thought for a minute.
'No, lay off it,' he said. 'I bet the police are goin' to be pretty busy around Falleton. Besides I want to have a look at that place. I'll meet you down there in a quiet spot near to the entrance of that house some time tomorrow. You hang about, find out what you can. Find out what the police are doin', but keep quiet an' keep out of the way. If I can't get down by ten o'clock tomorrow night I'll phone through to The Goat and let you know. You got that?'
'Yeah,' said Kells. 'I got it. Just a minute, I've got a nice little tit-bit for you.'
'Well, be quick about it,' said Callaghan. 'What's the tit-bit?'
'There was a dame on that boat last night,' said Kells. 'Just at the Falleton end of that fork—we went down the right hand side of it—by the landing place, is a cottage. Some old guy lives there called Jimmy Wilpins. This bozo can't sleep—he's about sixty and he's got insomnia. I was talkin' to him in the bar this morning at The Goat. He says that last night about a quarter to twelve he got out of bed because he couldn't go to sleep. He went and looked out of the window of his cottage. There was a swell moon last night—remember, Slim? Well, from the upstairs room in his cottage he can see the landin' stage—he's got good sight. He says a boat pulled up to the landin' stage and a woman got out. She was wearing a tiger-skin cloak.'
Callaghan stiffened.
'What did he say she was wearin'—an ocelot cloak?' he asked.
'What the hell's an ocelot cloak? He said a tiger-skin,' said Kells.
'It's the same thing,' said Callaghan. 'All right. So long, Monty. Ten o'clock tomorrow night.'
He hung up.
He got up and picked his still smouldering cigarette out of the ashtray. He began to grin. He was remembering the ocelot cloak—Jimmy Wilpins would call it tiger-skin—that he'd seen thrown over the settee in Thorla Riverton's room at the Chartres Hotel the first night he'd seen her. Here was a nice one! He threw his cigarette end into the fire.
He began to laugh.
Callaghan was lying back in the leather armchair smoking a cigarette, with all the newspapers draped around him, when Detective Inspector Gringall arrived.
George Henry Gringall was forty-three years of age. He had a small bristling moustache, a quiet, direct and spontaneous manner. He was the youngest Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, and, like most detective inspectors who serve in that institution, he had a great deal more brains than people credited.
Callaghan said:
'It's good seein' you, Gringall. It must be nearly two years since I've seen you. Sit down—the cigarettes are on the table.'
Gringall put his hat on the table and took the other armchair. He began to fill a pipe.
'Pretty good offices, Callaghan,' he said. 'You've been getting on in the world.'
Callaghan shrugged.
'This is a bit better than that fourth floor office off Chancery Lane,' he said.
'I saw Cynthis Meraulton[*] the other day,' Gringall said. 'I thought you handled that case pretty well.'
[* Cynthis Meraulton was Callaghan's client in "The Urgent Hangman."]
Callaghan grinned.
'I thought you handled it pretty well, Gringall,' he said. 'I thought I was goin' to finish up inside over that job.'
Gringall nodded.
'I thought so too,' he said, 'but the main thing is you didn't. You just took a chance and it came off. Funny thing,' he went on, 'I always had a vague sort of idea in my head that you'd marry Miss Meraulton.'
'You don't say,' said Callaghan.
He looked at the ceiling. There was a silence. Callaghan was still grinning. He knew what Gringall had come to see him about and he knew that Gringall knew.
Gringall looked at the newspaper littered floor.
'It's interesting, isn't it?' he said.
Callaghan took the cue.
'Dam' interestin' for me, Gringall, but I don't like it. When I looked at the papers this mornin' I saw £100 a week floatin' away into the distance.'
Gringall shook his head. He made a clucking noise with his tongue.
'Too bad,' he said. 'So that's what they were paying you.'
Callaghan nodded.
'It was a nice job,' he said. 'Anything I can do for you?'
Gringall leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in front of him.
'You might be able to help me, Callaghan,' he said. 'I had a talk with Mrs Riverton—young Riverton's stepmother—early this morning. She said you'd been doing an investigation for them. I thought you might be able to give me one or two points.'
Callaghan raised his eyebrows.
'You don't want any points, Gringall,' he said. 'And you know it. The case is in the bag.'
Gringall's eyebrows shot up.
'How do you know?' he said. 'There is nothing in the papers except the fact that Raffano is dead and Riverton badly wounded—and he'll die too, I think,' he added glumly.
Callaghan said:
'Work it out for yourself. I was instructed by old Riverton through Selby, Raukes & White, his solicitors, to find out who was takin' young Riverton for a lot of money. We called Riverton The Mug, and believe me he was one. They had pretty well everything off him that he'd got. Somebody had got him takin' dope and he was cock-eyed most of the time.'
He paused and lit another cigarette. He coughed for a little while. He was thinking hard.
'Still got that smoker's throat, Callaghan?' asked Gringall.
'Yes,' said Callaghan. 'I'll have to give 'em up one day. I smoke too many.'
'Go on,' said Gringall.
'It's not goin' to take a Sherlock Holmes to decide this case,' said Callaghan. 'I hadn't been able to make a report to my clients because I hadn't got any facts. I'd got theories and theories aren't much use when you're gettin' £100 a week to report.
'Work it out for yourself,' he went on. 'I'd just got goin'. I'd just found out that Raffano was the boy who'd been takin' Wilfred for a nice walk down the garden path. Well, this feller Raffano was pretty well organized over here. He must have had some brains because although his technique was American he used it very nicely. Did you ever hear about him?'
Gringall shrugged.
'We heard rumours,' he said, 'but we don't deal in rumours. We never had a complaint.'
'You bet you didn't,' said Callaghan. 'This was a complaint, only unfortunately for him The Mug complained to the wrong people. It looks as if he complained to Raffano.'
'Meaning just what?' said Gringall.
Callaghan blew a smoke ring. The frank and open expression which invariably accompanied a lie came over his face.
'I'll tell you how I worked it out, Gringall,' he said. 'I thought this way. If I went back to Selby, Raukes & White or old Riverton an' told 'em my theories about this business they could do one of two things. They could let me handle it my way—which I thought would be the best way—or they could make a complaint to the Yard. I advised Mrs Riverton that I thought that would be the wrong thing to do. I told her that if you got busy and started pullin' these boys in, you might have to pull The Mug in too. After all if it is a criminal offence to sell dope, it's a criminal offence to buy it.'
Gringall nodded.
'You think of everything,' he said. 'Mrs Riverton told me about that. And what was your idea, Callaghan?'
'My idea was this,' said Callaghan. 'I let Raffano know that I was wise to him. I had a little talk to him at the Parlour Club on Friday night. I gave him the tip to pack up an' get out while the goin' was good. I warned him that if he didn't he'd get it pretty soon, that the best thing that could happen to him was to be seen off back to America by a feller from the Yard, an' I happen to know that Jake isn't too popular in the States. I believe Mr Hoover's boys have got something on him.
'It seemed to be workin' all right,' Callaghan continued. 'Young Riverton waited for me the other night outside here, told me to mind my own dam' business. He was full of cocaine an' so cock-eyed that he hardly knew what he was doin'.
'After that I was happy, because it looked to me that Jake would realize that things were goin' to get too warm for him, that he'd pack up an' clear out, that there would be a chance of gettin' The Mug back to a more or less normal mode of life nicely an' quietly with no scandal.'
Gringall nodded.
'It was an intelligent idea,' he said. 'The only thing was it didn't work.'
'I know,' said Callaghan. 'Can young Riverton talk?'
Gringall shook his head.
'He's unconscious. They've got him in the Cottage Hospital at Ballington. He may recover consciousness and he may not. I'd like to know why he went down to that boat. He might have known he'd be no match for Raffano,' Gringall concluded.
'He wouldn't worry about a thing like that in the state he was in,' said Callaghan. 'I reckon he heard that Raffano was packin' up and gettin' out. Maybe he stayed sober for long enough to realize that Jake was walkin' away with £80,000 odd. He didn't like the idea so he went all wild-west, got himself a gun an' went down there to get a little of it back before Jake went. Jake didn't like the idea so they shot it out an' by some chance The Mug had his gun pointin' in the right direction when he pulled the trigger.'
'It was a nice shot,' said Gringall. 'He got Jake clean through the heart at twelve yards.'
He got up.
'Well, it's nice of you to have helped, Callaghan,' he said.
He walked over to the desk and picked up his hat.
'I suppose it'll be murder,' said Callaghan.
Gringall nodded.
'If he gets better we'll charge him,' he said. 'It's murder all right. What else can it be?'
Using his arms as levers, Callaghan pushed himself out of the armchair.
'It can be self-defence, Gringall,' he said. 'If The Mug went down to have a show-down with Raffano, and he believed that Raffano might make an attempt on his life, I think a jury might say that he was entitled to have a gun on him. How do you know Jake didn't fire first? Maybe The Mug fired after he was hit. If that was so it would be homicide—justifiable homicide.'
'Well, you never know,' said Gringall. 'Goodbye, Callaghan. See you again.'
He went out of the office. Callaghan stood in front of the fire looking at the pile of newspapers round his feet.
CALLAGHAN sat in the dark office, looking into the fire. Life was dam' funny, he thought. It depended on such little things. If he'd done what Thorla Riverton intended him to do on Friday night he would have telephoned her. He would not have gone to see her at the Chartres Hotel. He would not have seen the ocelot cloak. If Jimmy Wilpins hadn't had insomnia he would have been asleep on Saturday night. He wouldn't have seen the ocelot cloak. It was also dam' funny that Jimmy should have been at his window at the right time—the time he saw Thorla Riverton doing her landing act from the dinghy—and not at the wrong time—in which case he would have seen Callaghan coming off the San Pedro.
Callaghan, who never came to illogical conclusions, realized that of course there was a possibility that it hadn't been Thorla Riverton, that it had been some other woman. But this was a mere possibility.
He got up, switched on the light, got the telephone book from Effie's room, looked up the number of T. J. Selby, the Riverton solicitor, called him. Selby was in.
'It's a pretty bad business, Mr Selby,' said Callaghan. 'An' perhaps it's as well that the Colonel died before he heard of it. I suppose you've been through to the Nursing Home at Swansdown Poulteney and heard all about it?'
Selby said he hadn't. He was going down tomorrow. Callaghan talked about nothing in particular for a few minutes and then finished off the conversation.
After he had hung up he got through to trunk enquiries and got the number of the Swansdown Nursing Home. He called through, asked for the matron.
'Good afternoon, matron,' said Callaghan in a sombre voice. 'I'm Mr Selby, of Selby, Raukes & White; Colonel Riverton was my client. I'm terribly distressed to hear about his death. I can only hope that his passing was an easy one. In any event he must have been glad that Mrs Riverton was able to get there in time.'
'No, Mr Selby,' said the matron. 'It was terribly unfortunate, but she couldn't get here until twelve-thirty. When I telephoned her through at eleven o'clock to tell her that the doctor didn't think the Colonel could last the night, she had already left the Manor House. They said she was on her way here. Then she had engine trouble and was held up. She didn't arrive here until twelve-thirty. The Colonel died at eleven forty-five. So unfortunate.'
Callaghan's grin was almost satanic as he hung up the receiver. That clinched it. The woman that Jimmy Wilpins had seen was Thorla Riverton. Outside in Effie's office, with the AA map spread out on her desk and a slide rule, he worked it out. She'd left the Manor House and driven over to Falleton to keep an appointment on the San Pedro. She hadn't known then that the old man had taken a turn for the worse. She'd intended to drive straight back to the Manor House after she'd left the boat. She'd had her car parked somewhere near that landing stage.
Probably she'd called through from a wayside telephone soon afterwards, had spoken to the Manor House, had been told that the Matron had been through. She'd cut across country driving like hell, trying to make it before the old man passed out and probably she had run short of petrol. She'd lost a few more minutes getting some and by going like the devil had got to the Nursing Home at Swansdown Poulteney at twelve-thirty, just about the time that Callaghan was going aboard the San Pedro.
Callaghan flopped into the big armchair again, and began to turn over the interesting points in his mind, the unconsidered trifles which mean so much, the straws that show the way the wind is blowing. He began to find a possible explanation for the torn up IOU for £22,000 that Callaghan had found in the wastepaper basket in the small saloon on the San Pedro. He began to find possible explanations for two or three odd things.
