Callaghan exhaled smoke slowly.

  "What's worrying you?" he asked.

  "You're practically suggesting that some member of the Vendayne family is concerned in that burglary, Mr. Callaghan," said Layne. "And the fact that you've told me that it was Miss Vendayne who told you that she had talked to the Major about withdrawing the claim seems to indicate that she was the person. I find it very difficult to believe."

  "I expect you do," said Callaghan. "And as for suggesting that some member of the Vendayne family had something to do with this steal, you're entitled to think what you like."

  He got up, picked up his hat.

  "I'll take it you'll get that letter off to-day," he said. "If I were you I'd write it now and send it round by hand."

  Layne said: "I think I will do that, Mr. Callaghan."

  Callaghan smiled.

  "Nice work, Mr. Layne," he said.

  He went out.

  Callaghan sat in the waiting-room at Scotland Yard thinking about Detective-Inspector Walperton. It was obvious, he thought, that Walperton was going to be a little difficult, and the business of putting him in the waiting-room for a quarter of an hour or so, to cool his heels, was merely part of the process.

  He lit a cigarette and began to consider the letter he had found in Gabby's roll-top desk. A very interesting document, thought Callaghan. And not only interesting but practical—about the only practical thing, the only fact that had showed up in the Vendayne case up to the moment.

  And Callaghan liked a fact. A fact was a good thing to start working from, and the Ropey Felliner letter was, as he saw it, an extremely illuminating document.

  He took the copy of the letter out of his pocket and studied it. He put it back as the door opened and a detective-constable put his head in to say that Mr. Walperton was ready now and would Mr. Callaghan come along.

  Callaghan followed the policeman. His face was composed into a picture of beatific innocence. The detective-constable held the door open and Callaghan went in.

  Walperton was sitting behind his desk, with the window behind him. The desk was a large one. At the left hand end of it, with his note-book already open and his pencil almost poised, was Detective-Sergeant Gridley, whose reputation for writing shorthand almost more quickly than the English language could be spoken had preceded him so far as Callaghan was concerned.

  Walperton was thirty-eight years of age, keen-eyed, round-faced, a thruster. He had heard quite a lot about Callaghan and Callaghan Investigations. He had wondered why it was that Gringall and one or two other of the senior men at the Yard talked about Callaghan with a certain respect. Walperton had no respect for Callaghan. He did not like private detectives. He thought that there was no place in the English legal system for private investigation and he was prepared heartily to dislike any private detective from the word go.

  He said: "Good-morning, Callaghan. I understand you've got something to say to me. Before you say it I'd like to make my own position quite clear. In doing so I shall make yours clear too."

  Callaghan said nothing. He went over to the wall, picked up a chair that stood there, brought it back, placed it squarely in front of the Detective-Inspector's desk. He sat down, crossed his legs and drew cigarette smoke down into his lungs with obvious pleasure.

  He said: "That's what I like to hear. I think there's nothing like having a position made clear. So you get ahead and make it clear, Walperton, and don't waste any time in doing it because I'm very busy." Walperton raised his eyebrows just a little. Gridley, his eyes on his note-book, began to grin.

  "All right," said Walperton. "Well, the position is briefly this so far as I'm concerned: I understood from Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall that the Vendayne solicitors had retained you in this case. Well, that's all right. It means you're working for the family..."

  Callaghan interrupted.

  "I'm retained by the Insurance Company too," he said. "So I'm working for them as well. It also looks as if I'm working for you."

  "I see," said Walperton. "So you're working for the Sphere & International as well. That surprises me a little. Hasn't it struck you that the interests of the two parties might clash?"

  "I don't know," said Callaghan. "But I'd like to. Just how could they clash? The Vendayne family want to know where their jewellery is. The Insurance Company want to know too—otherwise they've got to fork out one hundred thousand pounds. So do you. You want to know as well—because that's what you get paid for."

  Walperton flushed a little. He said:

  "I presume you didn't come here to tell me what I get paid for. I imagine you came here to give me some information."

  "You're quite wrong," said Callaghan. His smile was angelic. "I don't intend to do your job for you, Walperton, because I don't get paid for doing your job and I didn't come here to help you do it, which is what you hoped I was going to do."

  He blew a large smoke ring.

  Gridley said: "Do I make a note of this?"

  He looked at Walperton.

  Callaghan said: "You ought to know better than that, Gridley. Of course, you don't make a note of it. You can't make a note of part of what I say, unless you make a note of the whole lot. That's sense, isn't it? It's not only sense, it's police regulations—even Mr. Walperton knows that."

  Walperton got up. He went over to the window and turned facing Callaghan. He said angrily:

  "I know all about you, Callaghan. You've got medals for teaching police officers their business. Well, I'd like to tell you something, and I've already mentioned it to Mr. Gringall. I'd better tell you here and now. It's this: If I have any reason to believe that you are deliberately obstructing me or any other officer in the execution of his duty, I'll..."

  "... Apply for a warrant," said Callaghan. "Also under the old Act, you can apply for one if you have reason to believe that I am 'mischievously giving wrongful or false information to an officer.' But you can't use either of those things unless I'm making a statement. So let's fix just what I am doing, shall we?"

  He sent a thin stream of tobacco smoke out of one nostril. He went on:

  "I'm either just talkin' to you, Walperton—just a little heart-to-heart talk—without any notes being taken of what I say—or else I'm definitely making a statement, in which case we'll get busy on it and we'll take note of everything I say and when they're made I want 'em transcribed right away so that I can see they are what I said, and I'll sign the statement. Well... what are we going to do?"

  Walperton turned and looked out of the window. He was cursing himself for a fool. He realised that, up to the moment, he had played into Callaghan's hands by losing his temper. After a moment he turned away from the window, went back to his desk. He said:

  "All right, Callaghan, have it your way. This is a heart-to-heart talk."

  He produced an icy smile.

  Callaghan grinned amiably. That expression of supreme frankness and candour which came over his face when he intended to lie brazenly, appeared in all its glory. He looked almost winsome.

  "That's fine, Walperton," he said. "Now... you can believe it or not, but I came here to give you a hand. I know you've had very tough luck with this case. I know you've had nothing at all to work on. Well, I think I've got something for you. It's not much, but it's something..."

  Walperton, in spite of himself, began to look interested. He said:

  "Well, I'll be glad of any information, Callaghan." He paused for a moment, then: "You're going to tell me that this was an inside job?" he queried.

  "No," said Callaghan, "I'm not. In spite of the fact that the Insurance Company probably thinks that there's been some funny business I don't think that it was an inside job."

  He stubbed out his cigarette. He was thinking that he would have to have a really good story for Walperton. He began to think it out while he was lighting a fresh cigarette.

  When that process was finished he said:

  "I thought at first that the case was a bit fishy. I thought—just as you and any other sensible person would think—that everything pointed to someone inside Margraud Manor being concerned in that steal. I thought so until I ran into Ropey Felliner."

  Walperton said: "Who the hell's Ropey Felliner?"

  "He used to work for Gabby Ventura. You ought to send down for his record. It's a sweeet one. He was doorman at the Backstairs Club for a long time," said Callaghan. "Well, Felliner took a job at a cottage not twenty miles from Margraud. He's working for a fellow called Blaize. I've got my own ideas about Blaize. I think that this Blaize is a very smart piece of work and I think that he could have told you quite a bit about the Vendayne steal."

  "Could have?" queried the police officer. "Why 'could have'?"

  "Because I don't think you'll pick him up now," said Callaghan. "If you get after that bird—which I think you ought to do—you'll find he's flown."

  Walperton made a note on his blotter. "Where do I find this Blaize, Callaghan?" he asked.

  He sounded much more friendly.

  "You find him at a place called the Yard Arm—a road house between Totnes and Plymouth," Callaghan answered. "He lives in a cottage at the back of the Yard Arm—rather a nice place—with Ropey Felliner as a servant. I should think that if you got a man down there the day after to-morrow—I think he'll be there then—you might get Ropey. I don't think you'll get Blaize. I've had the place watched and it looked as if he was packing up."

  Walperton said with a grudging note of admiration in his voice: "You don't waste much time, do you, Callaghan? Is there anything else?"

  Callaghan got up.

  "Nothing else," he said. "I thought that information would be better than nothing."

  "I'm very glad of any information on this damned job," said Walperton.

  "And I'm very glad to have been of use," said Callaghan.

  He grinned at Walperton, nodded to Gridley, picked up his hat and went out.

  Walperton lit a cigarette. He said to Gridley:

  "What the hell's Callaghan playing at. D'you think he came in here just to give me that information?"

  Gridley shrugged his shoulders.

  "I don't know," he answered. "But I know one thing an' that is that Callaghan's too clever to give you information that wasn't O.K. Besides," he went on, "there wouldn't be any harm in somebody going down to this Yard Arm dump and taking a look."

  "Perhaps not," said Walperton. "You'd better go down. You'd better go down to-morrow night. Maybe by the day after to-morrow this Ropey bird will be back. See what you can get out of him. You'd better be careful. If he's got a record he might try to be clever, and we've got no charge to make against him."

  Gridley said: "I remember Ropey Felliner. He's been in twice on drug charges and once for receiving. He used to be a dope runner for somebody or other."

  "Get his record," said Walperton. "Anyhow you won't do any harm by talking to him."

  Gridley grinned.

  "I don't think I'll do much good," he said. "There's only one way to talk to Ropey and that's with a length of lead piping. Still... there's no harm in trying."

  Callaghan went into the Premier Lounge in Albemarle Street, ordered a salad and a double whisky and soda.

  While he was eating he was thinking about Walperton and what Walperton would do. Probably, Callaghan thought, the Detective-Inspector would send someone down to Devonshire. But he would not do that for a day or two. Callaghan had already made up his mind that when Walperton's emissary arrived he should find the birds—both the birds—flown.

  After which the detective-officer would make inquiries in the neighbourhood. He would discover that there had been a William Blaize and a Ropey Felliner at the Yard Arm cottage. And once this fact was established Walperton would begin to believe the theory that Callaghan intended he should believe—that the Vendayne job was not an inside job but a cleverly conceived outside job pulled by somebody who had been astute enough to get the safe combination by some extraneous method and experienced enough to negotiate an entrance into Margraud without leaving trade marks all over the place.

  He ordered another double whisky, drank it, paid his bill, lit a cigarette and went out into the street. He walked down Albemarle Street, went into the telephone box on the corner of Hay Hill and rang through to the Ventura Club. He asked for Mr. Ventura:

  After a minute or two Gabby came on the line. Callaghan said:

  "Gabby? This is Callaghan. I'm going to do you a good turn. I looked in at Scotland Yard this morning. A D.I. called Walperton had telephoned my office and asked me to. He knew I'd been down to Margraud. Well, this Walperton is a bit of a mug. He talked quite a lot."

  Ventura said: "Did he? Well, what did he have to say that would interest me?"

  Callaghan grinned.

  "Just this," he said. "It seems that they've got a line on Ropey Felliner—you know the slugger who used to work for you. Apparently he's been working at some place near Margraud. Walperton has checked on Ropey's record and doesn't like it. I think they might pull him in. I thought perhaps you wouldn't like that?"

  There was a pause. Then Ventura said:

  "I don't know that I'd mind it."

  Callaghan said: "Don't bluff. I'm doing you a good turn. You get through on the telephone to Ropey and tell him to clear out quick before they get down there and start putting him through it. Well... good-bye, Gabby."

  He hung up. He stood for a moment outside the call box thinking about the next step. Then he lit a cigarette and began to walk towards the Empire Cable Office in Piccadilly. He spent a few minutes evolving the cable:

  HARVEY SOAMES

  TELEGRAPHIC ADDRESS: INVESTIGATE CAPE TOWN.

  URGENT RUSH ME INFORMATION WILLIAM BLAIZE PROBABLY USING THAT NAME LAST YEAR CHECK LOCAL RECORDS CHECK MALMESBURY DISTRICT STOP. FIVE FEET ELEVEN INCHES BLUE EYES BLACK CURLY HAIR WELL DEVELOPED SLIGHT SCAR UNDER LEFT EAR MIGHT BE CON MAN CHECK FAMILY HISTORY

  REPLY MARGRAUD MANOR GARA DEVONSHIRE MAKE IT SNAPPY GOOD WISHES

  CALLAGHAN

  He marked the cable "Priority," handed it in, and went back to the office.

  VIII. — AFTER DARK

  IT was just before six o'clock when Callaghan went back to Berkeley Square.

  He found on his desk an envelope. Written on it, in Effie Thompson's handwriting, were the words: "Stevens left this."

  Callaghan opened the letter and read the report written in the almost unintelligible scrawl that Blooey affected. It said:

  Up to the beginning of this year, Lancelot Vendayne was getting around with a young woman called Paula Rochette. Paula is a blonde who lives at Flat 7, 263a Courtfield Gardens. She is a night club artiste and used to work at the Ventura Club. I believe she was introduced to Vendayne by Gabby Ventura the proprietor. Vendayne and Rochette used to get around a lot together until a few months ago. Then it finished. I don't know why. Since then she's tried to get back working at the Ventura but Gabby s not having any. That's all.

  Blooey."

  Callaghan made a note of Paula Rochette's address on his blotter, tore up the report and threw it into the waste-paper basket. Then he took from his pocket the copy of the letter from Ropey Felliner to Ventura. He read it through carefully, then he got up and went into the outer office. Effie Thompson was putting her machine away. Callaghan took his note case out of his pocket. He extracted five five-pound notes, handed them to Effie. He said:

  "Get around to Bond Street as quickly as you can. If you hurry you'll be there before the shops close. I want a piece of jewellery. You can spend all that on it. I want something that looks as if it costs more than twenty-five pounds—something flashy. See?"

  She said: "I see. You want something to give to a woman who is not of the class of women you usually give things to."

  Callaghan said with a grin: "That sounds all right to me. By the way, what sort of women do I usually give things to?"

  She looked at him. Her green eyes were jealous.

  She said: "They vary, Mr. Callaghan... don't they? There was Mrs. Thorla Riverton and that other woman in the Riverton case and there was..."

  Callaghan said: "Never mind. Just go and get that bauble before the shops close."

  After she had gone, Callaghan looked through the telephone directory and found the number of Miss Paula Rochette, who described herself as an actress. He sat down at Effie Thompson's desk and dialled the number. He asked if Miss Rochette was in. When the voice at the other end asked who it was, Callaghan said it didn't matter, that he wanted to speak to Miss Rochette. Two minutes later a rather high-pitched voice came on the telephone. Callaghan said:

  "Is that Miss Rochette? Well, my name's Callaghan. You don't know me, but I know you. I've seen you do your show at the Ventura Club in the old days a dozen times. I used to go every night to watch you. I thought you were marvellous."

  Miss Rochette said that was very good news, that she was glad when people rang her up and told her that they liked her show. Her voice was curious.

  Callaghan went on: "I often wanted to talk to you. In fact I asked Gabby Ventura if he'd introduce us, but for some reason or other he stalled. He didn't want to do it, which was a little bit tough when you come to think of it."

  Miss Rochette said that Ventura was an old devil who would queer anybody's pitch. She asked why it was tough—particularly.

  Callaghan said: "Well, to tell you the truth, last time I went round there, I think it was the last night you gave a show there—I bought a little present for you, but owing to Gabby's attitude I never had the chance to give it to you. He said he didn't like patrons meeting artistes at the club."

  Miss Rochette said that Gabby was a lousy liar, that he did not mind anything of the sort, that he was just trying to queer her pitch.

  "Well, it doesn't matter much," said Callaghan. "The point is I'm at a loose end, and I'd still like an opportunity to give you that mark of my appreciation of you as an artiste. I wonder if you'd like to have dinner somewhere to-night."

  Miss Rochette gurgled. She said she would like it immensely. She agreed to meet Callaghan at the Jewel Club off Conduit Street at eight o'clock. Callaghan hung up. He was looking quite pleased with life.

 

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