Complete works of peter.., p.244
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 244
He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and brought out a note case. He took out five one pound notes. They were new notes. They rustled. Callaghan could see Kittel eyeing them greedily. He said:
"Have you got any use for a fiver, Jimmy?"
Kittel said: "There are times when I think I'd murder someone for five pounds."
Callaghan said: "It's not as bad as that." He looked at his watch. It was half-past eleven. He said:
"I want you to start something around here at half-past twelve. Just hit the waiter or start throwing glasses at the doorman, enough to create a little sensation without the police being called in. Understand, Jimmy?"
Kittel asked wearily: "Is that all I've got to do for five pounds?"
"That's all," said Callaghan.
Kittel said: "Give me the fiver."
Callaghan handed over a pound note.
"Where are you living now, Jimmy?" he asked.
Kittel looked at the pound note.
"I'm living at the same place," he answered.
"All right," said Callaghan. "I'll send you round the other four pounds to-morrow when the job's done."
Kittel looked at him. Callaghan noticed that the pupils of his eyes were mere pin-points. Kittel said:
"You're a disbelieving swine, aren't you?"
"You bet," said Callaghan. "Don't forget... at half-past twelve."
"All right," said Kittel. "You needn't worry. I need the other four pounds."
Callaghan finished his drink and went out.
It was nearly twelve when Callaghan took his feet off his office desk, stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray and rang the Ventura Club. He asked for Gabby Ventura.
"He's not down here, Mr. Callaghan," said the voice at the other end of the telephone. "He's upstairs in his own rooms. Perhaps you'd like to get through to him direct. I'll give you the number."
Callaghan said: "Thanks."
He wrote down the number and hung up. After a moment he dialled the number he had been given. Ventura's voice answered.
"Hallo, Gabby," said Callaghan cheerfully. "I want to talk to you. It might be important."
"All right, Slim," said Gabby. "Would you like to come round and have a drink?"
Callaghan said: "I'll be with you at twelve o'clock. I'd like to talk to you upstairs. Just you and me."
There was a pause. Then Ventura said:
"You'd better come to the back door. Ring the bell and I'll come down and let you in. Then we shan't be disturbed."
"That'll be fine," said Callaghan. "I'll be with you in a quarter of an hour."
He lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings for a minute or two. Then he dialled Effie Thompson's number. When she answered he said:
"Hallo, Effie. Are you in bed?"
"Yes, Mr. Callaghan, I am," she said. "Can I do something?"
"You can," Callaghan answered, "and you needn't even get up to do it. Just stay awake for a bit. At half-past twelve exactly ring through to Mayfair 995469—that's Gabby Ventura's private number in his flat over the club. He'll answer the telephone. Put on a false voice—a rather common voice—tell him you're Lilly Dells, that you're speaking from the call box near the Backstairs Club. Tell him that Jimmy Kittel's been hitting the dope again and that he's creating murder at the Backstairs. Lay it on thick. Say Kittel's slugged the waiter and knocked out the doorman. And you needn't be particular about your language. Let yourself go a bit. Directly you've said your piece, hang up. Have you got that, Effie?"
"I've got it," said Effie caustically. "You're sure that's all you want done? You don't want me to give an imitation of Greta Garbo as well?"
"No thanks," said Callaghan. "Not to-night."
He hung up.
He waited a moment, then rang the Berkeley Square cab rank. He said:
"Is Fairley on the rank? He is. Tell him to come round to the office and pick me up."
He hung up the telephone, went over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the office, opened it and took out a small bunch of "spider" keys. He put them in his pocket. Then he went downstairs and waited for the cab. When it arrived he handed the driver a pound note.
"Listen, Fairley," he said. "Take me round to the back door of the Ventura Club in Shepherd Market. Then go back to the rank. Wait there until twelve twenty-five and then drive back to the Ventura back entrance. I want you to be waiting for me outside the door at twelve thirty-five. See?"
Fairley said he saw.
Callaghan got into the cab. He lay back in the corner and relaxed. He began to smile.
He was still thinking about Audrey Vendayne.
VII. — ONE FOR THE BAG
GABBY, at the sideboard, mixed two large whiskies and sodas. He was wearing a blue-grey Glen check suit with a white silk tie. A large diamond pin twinkled in the centre of it. He looked contented, almost cheerful.
Callaghan, sitting in the big armchair on the other side of the table, watched Gabby's precise movements as he handled bottle and syphon. He moved quickly and easily in spite of his bulk and he had a good jaw even if it was concealed by a jowl. Callaghan thought that Gabby could be tough if necessity arose—very tough. He would stick at nothing to attain a desired end. It would be interesting to know, thought the detective, just what "end" Gabby wanted.
Ventura came back to the table with the glasses. He sat down and produced a cigar. He said smilingly:
"I'm getting curious about what you wanted to see me over, Slim. Something important, hey?"
Callaghan said: "Not very, Gabby. Just important to me. Besides which, I've been thinking..."
He took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. Ventura regarded the glowing end of his expensive cigar. He said nothing. He waited.
Callaghan went on: "I was thinking I was a bit short with you the other day when you came round to my office and asked me about that £300."
He grinned.
"I thought you were a bit short, too, Slim," said Gabby. "Naturally I didn't believe that stuff you told me."
Callaghan drew the cigarette smoke down into his lungs.
"You know that I'm investigating the Vendayne burglary," he said. "I'm doing the job because Lancelot Vendayne wanted it investigated. The night before you came to see me, his cousin, Audrey Vendayne, made a date to meet me at this club. She waited for me outside. She gave me £300 to keep out of the case. I concluded she'd borrowed it from you. That's why I was glad to take a hand in that poker game and let you see the banknotes she'd given me. Now I've come to the conclusion that I was wrong."
Ventura knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. He said softly:
"You don't say, Slim."
Callaghan grinned at him.
"I've got another theory now," he said. "Supposing I made a guess. Supposing I suggested that Lancelot Vendayne lent Audrey that £300 after he had borrowed it from you. Would I be very far wrong?"
Gabby said: "You wouldn't be wrong at all. You'd be dead right. I lent Vendayne that £300. I didn't know what for. He told me a hard luck story—that he was in a jam—so I let him have it."
"That was nice of you, Gabby," said Callaghan. "I didn't know you were so kind-hearted. What did you do it for?"
Ventura shrugged his massive shoulders. He smiled wryly at Callaghan. He said:
"I'm not quite certain. I get like that sometimes."
Callaghan said: "When was he going to pay you back?"
"I wasn't worrying about that," Gabby answered. "I expect him to pay it back pretty soon. He said he would."
Callaghan said: "Gabby, you told me Lancelot Vendayne was rather a clever fellow. You told me he was making money. If he was making money, what did he have to borrow £300 from you for?"
Gabby said: "That don't signify, Slim. Anybody can be making money and be short of a few hundred ready, especially when they want it in a hurry."
Callaghan nodded.
"Would you call Lancelot a pal of yours, Gabby?" he asked.
Gabby grinned.
"I wouldn't exactly call him that," he said. "He's all right and he's a good customer. Sometimes I think he's a bit of a bastard."
Callaghan said: "I see."
He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was just after twelve-thirty. The telephone on the desk in the corner jangled. Gabby went over. He took off the receiver. Callaghan could hear a high-pitched almost hysterical voice coming through the telephone—a metallic, common voice. He grinned. He thought that Effie was doing pretty well. Ventura began to talk into the transmitter. He said:
"All right... all right." He hung up suddenly. He said to Callaghan: "Sorry, Slim, but I got to get away from here. I've just had a call—some rush business. Why don't you go downstairs and have a drink? I'll be back in half an hour."
"No thanks, Gabby," said Callaghan. "I've said all I wanted to say and I've got a date myself. If you're in a hurry you'd better take my cab. I've got one waiting outside. I can get another."
Ventura said: "That's nice of you, Slim."
He led the way down the dark staircase, opened the back door. Outside, Callaghan's cab driver, Fairley, was standing beside his cab. Callaghan said:
"Take this gentleman wherever he wants to go to. I think I'll walk. Good-night, Gabby."
Gabby said good-night. He got into the cab.
Callaghan walked a few yards down the dark side street, then he turned back. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the bunch of "spider" keys. In two minutes he had the back door of the Ventura Club open. He closed it behind him, went swiftly and silently up the stairs. He switched on the light in Gabby's room. On the other side of the room was another door leading down to the club. There was a bolt on the inside. Callaghan shot it home. Then he began a systematic search of the room.
He went round opening drawers, taking out the contents, going through them, replacing them in the same order. He worked rapidly, thoroughly. The roll-top desk in the corner on which the telephone stood was open. Callaghan turned his attention to that. One drawer in the bottom right-hand pedestal was locked. He opened it easily with a "spider." There were a bundle of papers in the drawer. On the top of them was an envelope addressed to Gabby Ventura in a sprawling handwriting. Callaghan picked it up. The stamp bore the Kingsbridge postmark. He opened the envelope, drew out the sheet of notepaper inside. He read:
Dear Guvner,
There's some proper bleedin trubble poppin down here. The boys been on the telephon to-day. He was shoutin his head orf, talkin a lot of stuff about some deal being phoney. And he's gettin ready to get out. He's been packin all day. Sent one trunk to Exeter orlreddy. I think he's goin' abroad. I couldn't get all he said on the telephon but I herd him say there was goin to be a showdown pretty soon and that he was goin to keep the party he was talkin to tied up properly. He said the whole bag of tricks was as phoney as hell. Whatever the showdown is goin to be its goin to be pretty soon because I don't think he'll be here for more than a couple of days. Let me know what you want done. You better let me know quick.
Well, so long,
Ropey.
P.S. That bastard Callaghan is kickin around here."
Callaghan sat in the armchair that stood before the desk. He copied the letter on the back of a tailor's bill. Then he put it back in the envelope, replaced the envelope in the drawer, shut it and relocked it. He drew the bolt on the door leading to the club, looked round the room to see that everything was as he had found it, went down the stairs. Outside he began to walk in the direction of Berkeley Square. He was whistling softly to himself.
Callaghan woke up at eleven o'clock. He reached out for the bedside telephone that connected his flat with the office below. He said:
"Good-morning, Effie. You did very well last night. I didn't know you were such a good actress. Congratulations."
Effie Thompson said primly: "Thank you, Mr. Callaghan. I like to be a help."
Callaghan went on: "Get through to Layne—the Vendayne solicitor, Effie. Tell him I'm coming round to see him. I'll be there at twelve. When you've done that, get through to Detective-Inspector Walperton at Scotland Yard. Ask him if it would be convenient to see me at a quarter to one."
He hung up, bathed and began to dress. Five minutes afterwards Effie Thompson rang through to say the two appointments were in order.
Callaghan finished dressing, took the lift down to the offices, read his mail, drank a cup of tea that Effie brought to him. Then he went around to Layne's office.
When the detective was shown in, Layne looked at him suspiciously over the top of his pince-nez. Callaghan said:
"I don't want to waste a lot of your time, Mr. Layne, but I want to have a straight talk with you. I suppose that anything that's said in this office can be considered to be 'off the record'?"
The lawyer said: "Rather a strange request, is it not, Mr. Callaghan? May I ask why?"
Callaghan said: "There ought not to be anything 'off the record' between you and me; at the same time there are one or two angles on this business that you don't know. For instance, am I right in supposing that you didn't know that your client, Major Vendayne, mortgaged the Margraud Manor for £20,000 at 6½% for one year, and that the mortgage has been paid off?"
Layne's eyebrows went up. "You amaze me," he said. "I certainly did not know."
"I thought as much," said Callaghan. "I thought so because the mortgage was put through by a firm of Exeter lawyers." He went on: "I believe you've written to the Sphere & International and told them that unless this claim is settled by the end of the month, you're going to issue a writ."
The lawyer nodded.
"That is correct," he said.
Callaghan lit a cigarette.
"I want you to do something," he said. "Something that is maybe a little bit odd. You won't like it. It's going behind your client's back."
Layne said: "I don't think I could do that."
"Oh, yes, you could," said Callaghan. "If it were in your client's interests you could do it."
The lawyer pursed his lips.
"Possibly," he said, "But I should have to know that it was in my client's interests."
"All right," said Callaghan. "Well, look at the facts. When this jewellery was stolen, I believe I'm right in saying that your client wasn't in a fearful hurry for the claim to be put in to the Insurance Company. The person who was responsible for getting after the Sphere & International—tryin' to get 'em to pay—wasn't the Major, it was Lancelot Vendayne. You can understand that too; he was worrying about whether he was going to get what was coming to him when the Major dies. But the point is that he was the person who's been trying to bring pressure to bear on the Sphere & International."
Layne said: "That is correct, but I still don't see——"
"You will," said Callaghan. "Listen. When I went down to Margraud, Audrey Vendayne told me she'd had a word with her father and they had an idea of writing to the Insurance Company and postponing the claim."
Layne looked surprised.
"Really," he said.
"Well, I stopped that," said Callaghan. "Obviously, it would have been a ridiculous thing to do. First of all, it is sticking out a foot that the Insurance Company are already suspicious and any request to them merely to postpone the claim would make them more suspicious."
"Quite," said Layne. "Unless there were some good reason for the postponement."
"Exactly," said Callaghan. "We've got to find a reason. The point is," he went on, "the Insurance Company have delayed paying this claim because they smell a rat, and we don't have to do a lot of thinking to know what that rat is. The only time when an Insurance Company don't pay is when they believe that a claim is phoney. They believe this claim is phoney, and they're not the only ones—I think so, too."
The lawyer said nothing. He looked very grave.
Callaghan went on: "It would be a bit difficult for the Vendayne family—or one or more members of it—if the Insurance Company were to pay this claim and then discover afterwards that there'd been funny business. Somebody might find themselves stuck in gaol."
"I see," said Layne. He put the tips of his fingers together and looked out of the window. "And your idea is?" he queried.
Callaghan blew a smoke ring. He watched it sail across the office.
"My idea is this," he said. "You write to the Insurance Company to-day. You tell 'em that Callaghan Investigations, who were put in on this job to find out what has happened, think they have got a line on where that jewellery is; that, in the circumstances, pending a further report from Mr. Callaghan, Major Vendayne wishes to withdraw the claim, as that is the obvious thing to do."
The lawyer nodded.
"I see..." he said.
"It's not particularly clever, it's common sense," said Callaghan. "If we really thought we had an idea where that jewellery is, the obvious thing would be for us to withdraw the claim. Doing it that way doesn't look suspicious."
Layne said: "I think I ought to have a word with my client about this."
"You can't," said Callaghan. "He's had a heart attack. He's in a nursing home at Exeter. They won't let him talk to anybody. Anyway," he went on, "you'll be well advised to do what I suggest."
"Shall I?" said the lawyer. "Why?"
"Because if you don't," said Callaghan, "I'm going down to the Insurance Company to tell 'em the same story myself. I feel it is necessary that that claim is stalled for a bit anyway."
Layne said: "Mr. Callaghan, I suppose you realise what you are suggesting? Your attitude suggests that the original claim made against the Insurance Company was a fake claim and that either my client or some member or members of his family knew that fact. That is a very serious suggestion."
"You're telling me," said Callaghan. "And I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you. The only way out of the job is my way. You've got to do it whether you like it or not. If you don't, I'll do it for you."
"I don't like your attitude but I think you're right," said the solicitor. "In the circumstances, and as I can't get into touch with the Major immediately, I'll do as you suggest, but I'm very worried about this."
