Delphi collected works o.., p.223
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 223
Callaghan saw that the curtains were drawn, began to search. He started on the right-hand side of the room and worked systematically round, opening every drawer, turning out every box, even looking under the cover on the dressing-table. He found nothing. He turned out the light, went into the sitting-room. It was half-past eleven. He worked quickly through the sitting-room but with no results.
He tried the doorway on the left of the hall. Behind it was a short passage. At the end of the passage was the kitchen and on the left another door leading to a bathroom. On the right-hand side of the passage was a third door. Callaghan opened it.
It was a small windowless room ventilated by an air-shaft let into one of the walls. It looked like a spare sitting-room. It was crowded with furniture and knick-knacks. Open cardboard boxes containing dresses were thrown about the floor. In one corner was a woman’s dress stand with a half-finished costume hanging on it. In another corner of the room a pile of clothes had been thrown down higgledy-piggledy. Sticking through the top of the pile was the top frond of a rubber plant.
Callaghan began to throw all the clothes into the middle of the room. He searched through everything. Nothing missed his eyes and his fingers. Underneath the pile of dresses and odd garments which surrounded the rubber plant in the corner was a cardboard box filled with an odd miscellany of articles — electric light bulbs, old advertisements, empty cigarette boxes, letters demanding payment of accounts.
Callaghan grinned. Azelda was running true to type. He had seen flats like hers before. He took the box into the middle of the room and began to work through it. He was hoping. He knew that Azelda’s type of woman — the type whose brain is never really clear and who is either suffering from a hangover from dope or doing a little drinking after one is well over — seldom has sufficient concentration to be tidy or to burn or destroy anything. He worked quickly but carefully, opening every piece of paper in the box. Down almost at the bottom of the box he found it — a screwed-up ball of paper.
He opened it and read it. The paper laid out flat showed itself to be a quarto sheet of cheap typing paper. The words on it were typewritten. Callaghan began to grin. He read:
Somewhere around Mayfair.
To Wilfred Riverton, Esq.,
Grand Master of the Worshipful Order of Mugs.
Dear Bloody Fool,
Aren’t you the complete, the utter mug? It almost hurts to see you being separated from your dough. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that Raffano hasn’t ever played a straight game in his life? Don’t you know that every party, every game you’ve been in on has been crooked? That all the little spielers around town, where some of your lady friends have taken you, were just set-ups for a mug like you? Why don’t you get some sense, or do you like being twisted? If you don’t why don’t you go after your dough — before it goes to America with Jake?
A Friend.
Callaghan took the letter under the electric light. He read it through again carefully, noticing one or two faults due to bad mechanism in the typewriter. It had been a very old typewriter, he thought.
He looked at his wrist-watch. It was five-past twelve. He folded the letter, put it into his waistcoat pocket. Then he replaced the box in the corner of the room, threw back the mass of oddments that he’d taken out of it, began to throw the old dresses and garments around it and on top of it round the base of the rubber plant.
Then he saw something. The rubber plant was in an earthenware pot, three-quarters filled with earth. The top of one side of the earth in the pot seemed a little looser than that on the other which was hard and dry from non-watering. Callaghan knelt down and began to scrape earth out of the pot with his gloved hands. A couple of inches down he found something hard. He was almost laughing as he pulled it out. It was a .32 Spanish automatic — an Esmeralda.
Callaghan put the gun into his pocket, and continued turning over the earth in the pot. Almost at the bottom he found a cardboard box. On it, printed in Spanish, were the words ‘50 Rounds Esmeralda’.
Callaghan took the box out and opened it. Inside, closely packed, were forty rounds of .32 ammunition, and in the empty space from which the other ten rounds had been removed were ten leaden slugs. Callaghan put the box into his pocket, replaced the earth, threw back the remainder of the clothes over it, switched off the light.
He went back to the untidy bedroom, walked round the bed, pulled the cork out of the brandy bottle and smelt it. It was brandy. Callaghan wiped the neck of the bottle carefully with his handkerchief, put the bottle into his mouth and took a long swig. He replaced the bottle on the tallboy, walked to the front door of the flat, opened it a little, listened. He heard nothing. He slipped quietly out, walked quickly down the stairs, out of Court Mansions into Sloane Street.
It was cold and the slanting rain stung his face. Callaghan looked almost happy. He walked quickly to Knightsbridge tube station and went into a telephone box. He rang through to the Silver Bar and asked to speak to Gallusta — the barman in the upstairs bar. He waited while they fetched the man.
‘Hallo, Gallusta,’ said Callaghan. ‘This is Mr Callaghan. Mr Maninway’s in your bar, isn’t he, with a lady?’
Gallusta said he was.
‘How’s the lady?’ asked Callaghan.
Gallusta said she was a little tight but only pleasantly so.
‘All right,’ said Callaghan. ‘You go upstairs an’ bring Mr Maninway down to the telephone. Tell him a lady wants to speak to him. Don’t mention my name.’
After a minute Maninway came on the line.
‘Listen, Maninway,’ said Callaghan. ‘This is Callaghan speakin’. I understand that Azelda’s a little tight.’
‘Just nicely,’ said Maninway. ‘She’s being quite pleasant.’
‘All right,’ said Callaghan. ‘Well, you see that she has a few more drinks an’ you can mix ’em if you like. It’s a quarter-past twelve now. You keep her up there in that bar until twelve thirty-five. Then suggest that you’re goin’ to take her home. When you get outside, look around for a taxicab parked close by with the driver readin’ a newspaper. Put her in that cab. One of my boys will be inside. Just shut the door an’ go home. He’ll look after her. You can call in for your money in the mornin’.’
‘Right,’ said Maninway. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’
‘Any time I don’t I’ll come to you for advice. Until then keep your dam’ remarks to yourself,’ said Callaghan.
‘My mistake,’ said Maninway. ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Granted as soon as asked,’ said Callaghan. ‘Good night.’
He waited a minute or two and then rang through to Darkie.
‘Listen, Darkie,’ he said. ‘Get Fred Mazely to go round quickly an’ get that cab of Horridge’s. He’d better borrow Horridge’s cap, too. He’s to drive right away to the Silver Bar. You go with him. Get Fred to park the cab just down the road an’ read a newspaper.
‘At twelve thirty-five Maninway’ll come out of the Silver Bar with a woman. He’ll put her into your cab. She’ll be pretty high. If she tries to do any shoutin’ put your hand over her mouth. When she’s quietened down a bit tell her that you’ve had instructions to take her down to your place until tomorrow night. Tell her that there’s a bit of trouble flyin’ about over the Riverton business an’ that your boss thinks she’ll be better out of the way for a bit. If she wants to know who your boss is, tell her not to be silly an’ that she ought to know that questions like that don’t get answered.
‘Take her down to Doughty Street an’ give her all the liquor she wants. She’s fond of gin. But don’t let her stir out until twelve o’clock tomorrow night. Then tell her she can go home, that everything’s all right. You got all that?’
‘I got it,’ said Darkie. ‘Is she likely to start bawlin’ for the blue-inks?’
‘Not on your life,’ said Callaghan. ‘She doesn’t like policemen at any time. At the moment she hates ’em. I don’t suppose you’ll have much trouble. Tell Fred to get a move on.’
‘OK,’ said Darkie. ‘So long, guv’nor. Pleasant dreams.’
Callaghan hung up. He went out into Knightsbridge and began to walk towards Piccadilly. The rain had stopped.
He stopped to light a cigarette, then he continued strolling in the direction of Berkeley Square.
He was quite satisfied. It had been a very nice day.
XI. THURSDAY: INTERVIEW WITH RESERVATIONS
CALLAGHAN SAT UP in bed, drank coffee and ate toast and marmalade off a tray. The fact that the Chinese clock on the mantelpiece had chimed twelve o’clock disturbed him not at all. He was thinking about Azelda Dixon.
Azelda was, he thought, an intriguing type. He imagined that she had been rather a nice sort of woman at one time. Probably life had been a little tough on her and she had hit back in the only way she knew. He thought it a pity that the Azeldas of life ‘couldn’t take it’ and must forever be trying to score off the fates that treated them — from their point of view — too harshly for endurance.
Callaghan, a piece of toast poised half-way between the tray and his mouth, wondered just how much she really knew, just how much she was merely a ‘stooge’. He thought it was probably a fifty-fifty job. He did not think that Azelda was a brave woman, but she might produce a little desperation if and when love was concerned. After all, she was getting on, and if a man is kind to a woman who is getting on it doesn’t matter how fatuous or tough or silly he is, the woman will always endow him with qualities he hasn’t got, will produce for him a remnant of courage born of desperation.
He thought that it was probably like that with Azelda. Of course she was a bad hat, but being a bad hat was, after all, a matter of comparison. No one ever thought themselves really bad. Callaghan, finishing his coffee, found it in his heart to be a trifle sorry for Azelda — especially having regard to what he thought was coming to her.
He took a shower and began to dress. Half-way through he telephoned through to Darkie.
‘Good mornin’, Darkie,’ he said cheerfully, ‘How’s your visitor?’
Darkie grunted.
‘You didn’t ‘arf give me a bleedin’ ‘andful this time, Slim,’ he said. ‘She’s a fair knockout an’ as rorty as ‘ell. Of course I’ve sort of made ’er see that it ain’t any good ’er goin’ orf the deep-end, but you ought to ‘ave ‘eard ’er last night. Blimey...! I’ve never ‘eard such a flow. She’s quietened down a bit this mornin’ an’ my ole girl’s ‘ad a talk with ’er an’ sort of smoothed ’er over a bit.’
‘I suppose she wanted to know all about it?’ asked Callaghan.
‘She did... not arf she didn’t!’ said Darkie. ‘But I was very mysterious about everythink. I said that it was for ’er own good an’ that the big feller ‘ad sent word to me that she was to be picked up an’ kept out of ‘arm’s way until tonight. I told ’er she could go ‘ome tonight. I sort of made out that the coppers were stickin’ their long noses in all round the place askin’ questions an’ that if they couldn’t get ‘old of ’er they couldn’t ask ’er anything she didn’t want to answer. That seemed to satisfy ’er an’ she piped down.’
‘All right,’ said Callaghan. ‘Let her go at twelve o’clock tonight, an’ get Horridge to drive her back to Court Mansions in his cab. Tell him to get her back there about twenty past twelve, because maybe I’ll want to see her about then. So-long, Darkie.’
He finished dressing and went down to the office. He read the papers, smoked a cigarette. Then, at a quarter to one, he telephoned through to Scotland Yard. He asked for Mr Gringall.
Gringall came on the line.
‘Hallo, Slim,’ he said. ‘How are things with you?’
Callaghan said, ‘To tell you the truth, Gringall, I’m a bit worried....’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Gringall. ‘My belief is that you’d sleep, through murder, arson and pillage with a smile on your face. If any thing’s really worrying you it must be something gigantic.’
‘It is really,’ said Callaghan. ‘It’s this dam’ Riverton case.’
‘Well,’ said Gringall. He spoke a little more slowly. ‘I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I don’t think there’s anything for anybody to do. It’s in the bag.’
Callaghan’s voice was glum.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ he said. ‘Still, I’d like to have a word with you about it, if you could spare the time. I’d like to ask your advice.’
‘Oh, yes...!’ Gringall’s voice took on a tone of slightly amused suspicion. ‘So it’s advice, eh? I’m always a bit scared when you want to ask for advice. It usually means that you’ve got something funny up your sleeve. Are you coming round here?’
‘I’d like to,’ Callaghan replied. ‘I’d like to come round about three if that’s all right with you.’
Gringall said that would be fine so far as he was concerned.
Callaghan rang the bell for Effie Thompson. When she came in he took out his note-case and extracted twenty ten-pound notes.
‘When you go out to lunch I want you to buy me a bit of jewellery, Effie,’ he said. ‘Something really nice and expensive with diamonds in it. You’d better get it in Bond Street. You can spend all this.’
He laid the twenty ten-pound notes on his desk. She picked them up.
‘I suppose it’s for a woman?’ she queried.
He noticed that her eyes were very green, and her figure especially trim.
‘Yes, Effie,’ he said. ‘It’s for a very nice woman. I thought something like a true lover’s knot in diamonds on a platinum backing would look good.’
‘Nothing could be better,’ she said.
As she was on her way to the door, Callaghan said:
‘Congratulations on the new belt, Effie. It’s a great success.’
She turned.
‘I know you notice most things,’ she said, smiling, ‘but I didn’t think your observation took in everything. You’re quite right, though.... I bought myself a new belt yesterday at a sale. I’m glad you like it,’ she added primly.
Callaghan grinned.
‘I’m glad you’re glad, Effie,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Callaghan,’ she said. He saw the mischief in her eyes. ‘I didn’t think you were interested in my figure.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Callaghan as she closed the door.
GRINGALL was looking out of the window, smoking a short pipe with obvious pleasure, when Fields came in. He said:
‘D’you get anything else?’
‘A bit more on the same lines, sir,’ answered Fields. ‘I put two detective officers in at the Privateer Bar last night. I borrowed them from “K” Division so that they wouldn’t be recognized. There was a certain amount of talk going on about Riverton. Quite one or two of the boys there seemed to know about him.’
‘Did they?’ said Gringall, still looking out of the window. ‘That’s funny.’
The Detective Sergeant looked surprised.
‘Funny... why?’ he asked.
‘I’ll bet any money that young Riverton never used the Privateer,’ he said. ‘Why should he? It wasn’t his sort of place and the people who use it are not his sort of people.’
Fields hung up his hat and sat down at his desk.
‘I wouldn’t like to be too sure of that, Mr Gringall,’ he said. ‘If there’s a tie-up, it’s from the dope angle. Henny The Boyo has been peddling on and off for years. We’ve had him twice for it. Once in ‘24 and again in ‘35. He’s been a bit more careful during the last year or two, that’s all.’
Gringall nodded. He walked to his own desk and sat down. He began to draw fruit on the blotter for a moment or two, then gave it up for the more congenial task of cleaning out his pipe with a hairpin extracted from a packet — stolen from Mrs Gringall — that he kept in a drawer.
After a while he said:
‘Well, what did they get?’
‘The idea was that Henny knew that Riverton was fed up to the back teeth with Raffano,’ Fields answered. ‘Apparently the Dixon woman — the woman they call “Swing-it” — used to go round there sometimes and talk to Henny. She used to get excited quite often. She was the woman who was getting about with Riverton.’
‘What’s she got to say?’ asked Gringall. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘I’d got her down for today,’ said Fields. ‘She lives at a place called Court Mansions in Sloane Street — quite a nice place. It’s fairly expensive. I’d left her for a bit because you remember you said we were to be careful about her. There’s nothing known against her and she’s supposed to have an income of her own. She’s a very excitable type....’
‘All those night-club women are excitable types,’ said Gringall. ‘If they weren’t they wouldn’t go on doing it. Well, when are you going to see her?’
‘I went round there this morning,’ said Fields. ‘She wasn’t in. She went out last night and she hasn’t come back. The hall porter thinks she might be on a jag. He says she often stays away for a day or so.’
Gringall nodded.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You find out if she’s back tomorrow. Give her until tomorrow afternoon, and then telephone through and see if she’s back. If she is I’ll go round and see her myself. If she isn’t I think I’d like to know where she is. We’ll have to find out. I want to talk to that lady.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Fields. ‘Is there anything else you want done?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Gringall replied. ‘I want to know what young Riverton was doing on Saturday afternoon and evening before he went down to Falleton. Haven’t you found out where he was living? What’s all the mystery about his address?’
Fields looked puzzled.
‘It is a bit of a mystery,’ he said. ‘He’s done a certain amount of moving about. First of all he had a flat in Welbeck Street — quite a nice sort of place. He got out of that four months ago and sold the furniture. It was good furniture too. I s’pose he was hard up. Then he took some furnished rooms in Mortimer Street. He paid three guineas a week for them, but he was only there about five weeks. Then he had a room out at St John’s Wood — Acacia Road — a rooming house kept by two old ladies. He was there two weeks. He never seems to have had any correspondence and he didn’t leave any forwarding address when he left. Then he went and lived in a room in Victoria Street. He was there quite a time — eight weeks. But I can’t find where he went to after that. It does seem a bit odd....’
