Delphi collected works o.., p.249
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 249
“Not too bad, Mr. Callaghan,” she replied. “The book moves fast and my only objection to it is that none of the characters are alive.”
Callaghan sat down in a chair on the other side of her desk.
“So the characters aren’t alive,” he said cheerfully. “What do they do that they ought not to do or what is it they don’t do that should be done?”
She said: “The men are sticks. The hero never gets a move on. He is supposed to be a man of definite character and he’s also supposed to be madly in love with the girl Germaine; yet when they have to make a forced landing in a deserted spot in the country, he leaves her with the aeroplane at two o’clock in the morning and goes off to look for help.”
Callaghan nodded.
“Too bad,” he said. “What ought he to have done?”
She looked at him coldly.
“I should have thought you could have answered that, Mr. Callaghan,” she said, pursing her lips primly. “If I loved a woman — to that extent — and found myself in a deserted part of the countryside at two in the morning with an aeroplane I should do something about it.”
Callaghan grinned.
“I gathered that, Effie,” he said. “But what I wanted to know was what you would have done.”
Effie looked out of the window. After a moment she said:
“You take a fiendish delight in embarrassing me, Mr. Callaghan, don’t you? You know perfectly well what I meant....”
Callaghan said: “I don’t and you don’t either.”
“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Callaghan, but I do,” she retorted.
“All right,” said Callaghan cheerfully. “If you know you tell me. I want to know what you would have done.”
She said: “You know perfectly well that it’s impossible for me to answer that question, Mr. Callaghan.” She looked out of the window again. “The English language doesn’t lend itself to a description of that sort. What I mean is...”
“I know what you mean,” said Callaghan. “You mean that if you’d been the hero in your book and — for the sake of argument — I’d been Germaine, the beautiful heroine, and we made a forced landing in a deserted part of the countryside you’d have taken advantage of me. That’s what you mean, and you know it, Effie.... I’m surprised at you.”
She blushed furiously. She said:
“Mr. Callaghan, you always put words into my mouth that weren’t there. I mean to say, you always make me appear to say or think something that I didn’t intend to say or wasn’t thinking. It’s too bad.”
“I know,” said Callaghan. “But even if I do pull your leg sometimes, Effie, you can always congratulate yourself that you’ve got a nice leg.”
She said primly: “That, from you, Mr. Callaghan, is indeed a compliment. I’m sure you’re an authority on the subject. Did you want to dictate something?”
“No,” said Callaghan. “Just put your typewriter on my desk. I want to type a letter personally. Then look up the telephone number of Miss Paula Rochette — it’s somewhere in Courtfield Gardens, after which you can take a couple of hours off. Just look in in time to close the office.”
“Thank you,” said Effie. “That is rather nice. I saw some sunbronze silk stockings that I thought I’d be able to buy if I had that rise you said you’d consider three months ago.”
Callaghan grinned.
“This is no time for rises,” he said. “Take up the question of a rise with me in three months’ time, Effie. In the meantime Callaghan Investigations will stand you some silk stockings as a bonus.” He laid three one-pound notes on her table. “The only thing is,” he went on, “they should be beige — not sunbronze. Your type of leg needs a beige stocking.”
She picked up the notes.
“Thank you, Mr. Callaghan,” she said, “but I prefer sunbronze.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s all right with me, Effie,” he said. “But I knew a woman once who used to wear sunbronze stockings and all of a sudden she went bow-legged. But don’t let me put you off.”
She did not reply.
She carried her typewriter into Callaghan’s office, put it on the desk, found the Rochette telephone number, wrote it down on his desk pad, put on her hat and jacket and went out.
She walked to Bond Street and examined the sunbronze stockings. She came to the conclusion that they were just what she needed.
After which she bought half a dozen pairs in beige.
CALLAGHAN sat at his desk with the typewriter before him.
He lit a cigarette and indulged in a little quiet consideration of the qualities, virtues, and possible failings of Detective-Inspector Walperton. He began to grin sardonically.
He put a sheet of notepaper into the machine and began to type a letter:
To Detective-Inspector Walperton,
Criminal Investigation Department,
New Scotland Yard.
Personal.
My Dear Walperton,
I don’t know you very well, because, as you know, my association at the Yard, over different cases that have come up, has always been with Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall, whose opinion I have found to be of great use to me whenever I have had occasion to ask for it.
Candidly, since I saw you last, and since my return this morning from Devonshire, I have been very worried. I am in a rather unpleasant jam. I have got to choose between my duty as a private investigator, employed by the Vendayne family and the Sphere & International Insurance, and my duty as a private citizen with its responsibilities of giving information to the police which I think they should have.
So I have decided to put myself absolutely and entirely in your hands. In spite of the fact that you have a reputation for not liking private detectives a great deal, I am of opinion that you are keen — as a police officer — to see that your duty is done and that a case which you are handling is brought to its official and proper conclusion. In this connection I know that you are as keen on protecting the innocent — even from their own foolish actions — as you are in seeing that the guilty person or persons are brought to book.
This is where I am in a jam. I want to talk to you and to put my cards on the table. When I have done this I think you will be able to go right ahead and close this case. But — and this is a big “but” — I have got to sort out my ideas and marshal my facts so that there is no possibility of innocent people being involved in a bad case. I know that you will agree with this.
So, with your permission, I propose to call and see you tomorrow and give you every bit of information which I have collected. The fact that I have (possibly) more information than has been available to the police, both in Devonshire and at Headquarters, is, of course, merely due to my personal contacts with members of the Vendayne family and others.
In the meantime, because things may be happening which will merit your professional attention, I would like to tell you that when I returned to Devonshire after our last meeting I discovered the following facts:
1. Ropey Felliner has cleared out. I think I know the reason for this. Felliner was employed by Gabriel Ventura of the Ventura Club, near Shepherd Market, to keep an eye on Blaize. I have an idea that I can guess the motive for the necessity for this and will discuss this with you to-morrow.
2. Blaize has also disappeared. It seems that he was in the neighbourhood until some time last evening, and your own information has probably told you that he had arranged the sale of the Yard Arm Road House and the cottage behind it to a man named Wallers (who, I think, is entirely unconnected with this case) some days ago. Quite obviously Blaize has been preparing to make a quick getaway. I am not certain of his reasons for wanting to do this but I feel that they must, in some way, be connected with either (a) a member of the Vendayne family, or (b) Ventura.
3. Now I must make an admission. You will remember that when I saw you last I said that I was fairly certain that the Vendayne robbery was an “outside” job. I knew at the time that you thought I was wrong, and that the steal bore all the hall-marks of an “inside” job. You were right and I was wrong. The job was an inside one and yet the obviously guilty person is quite guiltless. Believe it or not, this is a fact!
I think that after we have had our conversation to-morrow — I will telephone you when I am coming along to see you — you will agree that, as always, I have tried to do my duty and given the fullest possible co-operation and information to the authorities.
Looking forward to seeing you,
I am, sincerely yours,
S. Callaghan,
Callaghan Investigations.
Callaghan addressed an envelope, sealed it down, rang down to the porter’s lodge for a page-boy. When the boy appeared Callaghan instructed him to take a cab and deliver the letter at Scotland Yard.
He replaced the typewriter on Effie Thompson’s desk, returned to his office, sat down, put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette.
When the cigarette was finished he looked at his watch. It was half-past four. Callaghan got up, walked into the outer office. He walked over to Effie Thompson’s desk. He took up her note-pad, wrote on it: “I bet you bought beige stockings.”
He closed and locked the office door and took the lift up to his apartment. He undressed quickly, dropping his clothes as usual on the floor, set the small alarm clock for six-thirty, lay down on the bed.
In two minutes he was asleep.
THE afternoon sunshine, gilding the Berkeley Square roofs, came in at the open window and illuminated one half of the beige and blue carpet, over which Callaghan’s clothes were strewn, with streaks of gold.
The small alarm clock on the bed-table, set for six-thirty, began to jangle. Callaghan grunted, awoke, looked at the ceiling as if he hadn’t seen it before, and then, with a sudden movement, swung his legs off the bed and sat, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair, thinking.
This time it was Audrey.
After a few moments he got up, went to the compactum, got out fresh underwear, shirt and suit. He went into the bathroom, took a cold shower, dressed. He returned to the bedroom, drank four fingers of rye whisky out of the bottle in the cupboard and called the Rochette number on the telephone.
He was lucky. He grinned as the rather metallic voice of that lady came on the line. Callaghan said softly: “Is that you, Paula? This is Slim Callaghan speaking.”
She said: “Oh, is it?” Her voice became very “county.” She went on: “I’m a little bit surprised that you should have the sauce to ring me up, Mr. Callaghan.”
Callaghan said: “I know, Paula, I know just what you’re thinking, and believe me you’re wrong. You think I ought to have set about Gabby Ventura when he was rude to you the other night.”
“Well,” said Paula, “what do you think? You tell me something, Mr. Callaghan... do you consider me to be a perfect lady or not?”
Callaghan said: “There can’t be any question about that, Paula. I’ll tell the whole world that you come out of the top drawer.”
His mouth was twisted cynically.
“All right,”said Miss Rochette. “If you think I’m a perfect lady, and if you consider you’re a gentleman, Mr. Callaghan, all I want to know is why didn’t you smack the ears off that lousy slob Gabby when he said he’d have me pinched?”
Her voice rose at least three tones.
Callaghan said very quietly: “That’s just it, Paula — that’s what you don’t understand. Look here, my dear,” he said, “you don’t like Gabby, do you?”
“Like him!” shrilled Miss Rochette. “I know just what I’d like to do with him — I’d like to...”
She told Callaghan what she would like to do to Gabby. Callaghan listened appreciatively. When she had finished, he said:
“I feel like that too, but there’s more ways than one of killing a cat. I didn’t do anything to Gabby that night, Paula, because I’ve got something worse for him up my sleeve, and how do you like that?”
“I like it all right,” she said. “I’d do anything to even up with that fat bladder of lard.”
Callaghan said: “There’s another thing, my dear, last time I saw you you did me the favour of accepting a little gift from me — that brooch — remember? Well, I’ve been thinking things over and I don’t think it was good enough for you.”
“Oh, yes?” said Miss Rochette suspiciously. “What’s the idea? I suppose you want it back?”
“Nothing like that,” said Callaghan. “I told you I thought it wasn’t good enough for you. I thought perhaps you’d like to give it to a friend or get rid of it. I thought you’d like something better, but I didn’t want to make a mistake about buying anything, so I thought we might: meet to-night and have dinner, and I’d give you the fifty pounds to buy something really decent with.”
Miss Rochette began to coo. She said:
“Mr. Callaghan — or perhaps I ought to call you Slim — I always felt underneath everything that you were a gentleman, and if you’ve got anything that you want put over on Gabby Ventura, I’m with you the whole way.”
Callaghan said: “All right. Let’s meet at the Jewel Club at eight o’clock tonight. We’ll have dinner and I’ll tell you my idea. So long, Paula.”
He hung up the receiver.
His grin was more sardonic than ever.
CHAPTER XIII. NIGHT OUT
IT WAS SEVEN o’clock when Callaghan, having finished his second whisky and soda, came out of the Berkeley Buttery.
He walked slowly down to the telephone box on the corner of Hay Hill and dialled the number of Grant’s Hotel. He asked for Mr. Lancelot Vendayne.
He was told to hold the line. With his free hand he took his cigarette-case from his hip pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it. He began to blow smoke-rings.
Callaghan was thinking of the number of times he had used this particular call box in regard to different business with which Messrs. Callaghan Investigations had been concerned in the past. He remembered that most of these investigations had been brought to a conclusion that was — if only from the point of view of Callaghan Investigations — successful. He remembered also that when you spin a penny although it may come down heads twelve times in succession it is all the tea in China to a bad egg that on the thirteenth spin it will come down tails.
He hoped that the Vendayne case was not going to come down “tails.”
He drew on his cigarette appreciatively. He realised, quite definitely, that the results of the Vendayne case depended on the interviews he was hoping to arrange for the night that lay before him. In any event he had burned his boats so far as Walperton was concerned. He had done that when he had written and despatched the letter which, by now, had been read and re-read by the efficient police officer with — the detective thought — a certain relish. Callaghan had to present a cut-and-dried story to Walperton next day — a story that matched up. He had to. He had been forced to burn his boats by despatching that letter, because it was on the cards that the news of Blaize’s death might have, by now, come through to Walperton. With Callaghan’s letter in front of him Walperton could do nothing definite. He must and would wait. He must hear what Callaghan had to say before making a definite move.
Without the letter Walperton would, in all probability, be, at that moment, on his way to Devonshire, and once arrived might, by luck — or sheer ability — discover many things that Callaghan desired should not be discovered.
Lancelot Vendayne’s voice came on the line. He said:
“Who is that?”
He sounded acid and unhappy.
Callaghan said: “This is Callaghan. How are you? Are you feeling well, Lancelot? Do you feel that you can stand up to life? Or do you feel that life is too much for you and that you just can’t take it?”
“Look here...” Lancelot began.
Callaghan interrupted.
“I once said that you were a sonofabitch, Lancelot,” he said amiably. “I was wrong. It would be complimenting you to call you that. You’re something much worse. I’ll probably think up just what you are and tell you when I see you at Grant’s Hotel at eleven-thirty.”
“I shan’t be here at eleven-thirty,” said Lancelot. “So you can save yourself the trouble of coming round. If I were here I shouldn’t see you. You rather fancy yourself, don’t you, Callaghan? To hell with you.”
“All right,” said Callaghan. “To hell with me. But even that isn’t going to help you. Let me tell you something, you two-by-four love-child, and you listen to it and like it!”
Callaghan’s voice took on a quality that was metallic and tough. He spoke almost softly but the words possessed a peculiar resonance that positively impinged, through the telephone receiver, on to Lancelot’s ear-drum.
“I’m coming round at eleven-thirty,” said Callaghan grimly. “You’re going to be in your apartment, and you’ll have a bottle of whisky and a siphon of soda waiting for me. If you’re not there I’m going out to find you. When I’ve found you I’m going to knock about seventeen different kinds of hell out of you, and when you come out of hospital I’m going to have you arrested and slung into gaol like any other cheap crook who’s caught breaking the law. Understand?”
“Oh, really...” Lancelot sneered. “And may I ask what the charge would be?”
Callaghan began to lie. His voice held the honest vibrancy of truth which invariably accompanied his best-thought-out and most blatant falsehoods. He said:
“I’ve got all I want on you... you nit-wit. I’m in possession of evidence which shows clearly that you were concerned with an individual named Blaize and your cousin Esme Vendayne in a plot to steal the jewellery at Margraud. Unluckily for you, the Major was too clever for you, and secondly, Esme has decided that it is better for her to tell the truth. I’ve got enough on you to put you inside for five years, you cheap four-flushing wash-out. And how do you like that?”
“My God,” said Lancelot. “This is rubbish. This is...”
“Like hell it is,” said Callaghan. “But if I were you I wouldn’t take any chances on it being rubbish. You be at that hotel at eleven-thirty or I’ll kick your teeth down your throat.”
