Complete works of peter.., p.261
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 261
Callaghan said: "Has she? How?"
"What about the two hundred she was goin' to send you to-day?"
Callaghan wondered whether he would be too drunk if he had another double rye. He thought the matter over for some seconds—then ordered it. He said:
"True, Windy. I'd forgotten about that. But we're still a hundred ahead of the market."
Nikolls asked how. Callaghan told him about the Cuban, about the two fifty-pound notes. Nikolls grunted.
"Ain't life a scream?" he said. "Guys walkin' about London givin' away fifty-pound notes an' all they get for it is a bust on the nose."
Nikolls finished his drink and rapped on the counter for another.
"Maybe he thought you were somebody else," he concluded.
Callaghan shook his head.
"I don't think so now," he said. "I think that hundred pounds was the pay-off."
"What for?" Nikolls asked. "Have you got a theory?"
Callaghan nodded.
"There's only one theory that fits," he said. "This fellow was following Varette and myself after we left Ferdie's Place. He saw her come into the flat with me. He could have looked at the indicator on the ground floor and discovered who I was."
Nikolls grunted.
"I get it," he said. "So he concludes that the Varette is comin' to see you about somethin', an' he thinks he'll talk to her about it. Maybe he don't like it. So he gets into his car an' drives round to her place an' waits for her. How's that?"
"Right," said Callaghan.
"When you get there," Nikolls continued, "he sees the cab arrive an' he knows it's her cab because it stops outside the alleyway that leads to her place, but he don't know you're with her. He can't see—it's too dark, hey?"
Callaghan said: "You're doing very well, Windy."
"Swell," said Nikolls. "He can't see because he's got his car parked on the other side of the road, but he can see when the cab goes. So he waits for a bit an' he goes over to see the Varette. He wants to ask her what the hell she's been doin' talkin' to Callaghan Investigations; an' Varette knows him. Not only does she know him, but she don't like him. So she smacks the door in his face. So he gives up."
Callaghan wondered whether he could stand another double rye. After debating the matter for some moments he ordered two more. He said:
"When he's about to leave the alleyway he finds me there, so he's in a spot. He knows I'm Callaghan. He thinks Varette's been talking to me about something and he's got to make up his mind quickly. He tells me to mind my own business and gives me one hundred pounds to clinch the bargain."
Nikolls said: "What a mug that guy is."
Callaghan said: "I wouldn't be too sure of that."
Nikolls swallowed his drink ponderously.
"All right," he said. "So we've got a sweet set-up. We got the Varette who is a swell baby with a swell voice and what it takes. We got her—she owes you two hundred anyway. Then we got this Cuban or Chilean or Brazilian guy—he's just sorta floatin' around. He don't owe you anythin' except a bust in the puss. We're doin' swell."
Callaghan said: "We've got more than that. We've got Mrs. Wilbery."
Nikolls said: "I forgot her. All right. We'll count her in. We've got her too, and another thing, we might even have the Leonore dame. We'll have a baseball team in a minute."
Callaghan said: "Which reminds me, what time did they say she'd be in?"
Nikolls looked at his watch.
"They said she'd be in at half-past seven an' it's eight o'clock now. As detectives I don't think we're so hot. We're lettin' somebody slip through our fingers."
Nikolls hiccupped gravely.
"You never know," he said. "She might give us a hundred pounds too."
Callaghan said: "Windy, I believe you're drunk. Go and telephone Leonore."
Nikolls got off the stool and wandered downstairs. Callaghan came to the conclusion that he was drinking too much whisky. He ordered a large Bacardi. He wondered whether drink helped a private detective to think—then came to the conclusion that private detectives didn't think anyway. This thought comforted him.
Five minutes afterwards Nikolls appeared. He said:
"Miss Wilbery's gone out. She's gone to a party. She says if the business is very urgent you might like to go along."
Callaghan said: "Do I like going to parties?"
"I wouldn't know," said Nikolls. "When I go to a party I like to have some sort of guarantee as to what it's goin' to be like. I don't think parties are so hot—there's too much talkin' an' not enough liquor. I can only remember one good party I went to—that was in Chicago. I met some dame there..."
"I know," said Callaghan. "This is that strawberry blonde story again."
Nikolls said: "For cry in' out loud. Nobody ever lets me finish a story."
Callaghan drank the Bacardi. He said:
"Where's the party?"
Nikolls said: "It's at an aparment block called the Collier Arms at Hampstead—No. 76."
Callaghan got off the stool. He said:
"I think I'm going to the party."
Nikolls said: "What about me? Can't I go somewhere an' get a hundred pounds, an' then bust somebody on the nose?
"Callaghan said: "You go home, Windy. If I need you to-night, I'll give you a ring."
"Please do," said Nikolls gushingly. "It would be so nice if we discovered some more guys in this case. I'll be seein' you."
He went away.
III. — PRELUDE TO A PARTY
I.
CALLAGHAN walked down Dover Street, turned down Hay Hill, across Berkeley Square. An "alert" was sounding. When the sirens had ceased there was an eerie stillness.
Arrived at his flat, he threw his hat and coat on the settee in the sitting-room, went into the bedroom, undressed, ran a bath full of fairly hot water, tried it with his toe, hiccupped a little, got in the bath. Safely there, he turned on the cold water tap, lay back and relaxed.
He was thinking. Mainly he was thinking about Gringall. He was rather uncertain about Gringall. During the years that Callaghan had known the police officer he had learned that Gringall was no fool. Police officers seldom are. But he knew also that, during the same period, the Chief Detective-Inspector had had ample opportunity to realise that he—Callaghan—was no fool either. That being so, the present situation did not add up.
Callaghan wondered whether it would be better to have a showdown with Gringall. After a moment's consideration he thought not. If Gringall had wanted to talk straight, he would have talked straight at the beginning. It seemed to Callaghan, groping rather vaguely for the bits and pieces of the kaleidoscope that was beginning to shape in his mind, that whichever way you looked at the job Gringall expected some specific line of conduct from him. Callaghan grinned at the ceiling, remembering than on previous occasions the specific line of conduct had been somewhat different from that which Gringall had anticipated. It was possible that history might repeat itself.
After a while he got out of the bath and dried himself. He sat for a few minutes in front of the mirror rubbing eau-de-cologne into his hair. He went into the bedroom and began to dress. He was feeling better. His mind was working and the birthday hangover was rapidly becoming a memory.
As he tied his black tie and got into his double-breasted dinner-jacket, he put in a little time thinking about Mrs. Wilbery and her daughter Leonore. He liked Mrs. Wilbery's voice. It was decided, incisive. It possessed a peculiar quality of directness. Mrs. Wilbery was no fool.
Callaghan walked into the sitting-room. He went to the sideboard and poured himself one for the road. While he drank the bourbon he was trying to conjure up a mental picture of Mrs. Wilbery—a process to which he was addicted—but which, on this occasion, was quite unsuccessful.
He lit a cigarette, began to walk up and down the sitting-room. Now he was thinking about the Cuban—because Callaghan had decided that he was a Cuban and in any event that was an easy description. Callaghan, whose experience of men was nearly as varied as his ideas about women, came to the conclusion that the Cuban might easily be very bad medicine. He was that type—effeminate, dandified, soft-voiced and cruel—a nasty type. He wondered what the Cuban was doing wandering about at large at a time like this in England; stopped wondering when he realised that all sorts of odd people were wandering about at large in England.
At ten o'clock he put on his overcoat and hat, went downstairs, walked into Piccadilly, got a taxi and drove to No. 76 Collier Arms at Hampstead. He relaxed easily in the corner of the cab, his black hat tilted over his eyes, his head still aching slightly.
II.
The butler who opened the door looked as if he had stepped off the conventional St. James's stage of fifty years ago. He had grey side-whiskers and an urbanity quite unique. He was benign. Callaghan thought he liked benign butlers. He said:
"My name's Callaghan. Miss Wilbery said she'd be here."
The butler said: "Oh, yes. Will you come in, sir?"
Callaghan stepped into the thickly carpeted hall. The butler helped him off with his coat and hat. The place was large, expensively furnished. There were three doors leading off the hallway—two of them were open. Sounds of talking, laughter and the clinking of glasses struck Callaghan's ears.
A woman came out of the centre door. Her hair was the colour of new carrots. She had on a pink gown. Callaghan thought she looked like hell. In a vague way she was beautiful. He noticed that the first and second fingers of her left hand were stained almost dark brown with nicotine from cigarettes. She said:
"Are you Mr. Callaghan—the detective?"
Callaghan said he was.
She said: "I think that's wizard! I've never had a detective at a party before. Tell me, is it interesting?"
Callaghan said he wouldn't know but that he once went to a party where there were two performing seals.
She said: "Now you're pulling my leg! Tell me, Mr. Callaghan, do you like my frock? Everybody thinks it's terrible."
Callaghan said that he disagreed; he thought it was a very good frock. He said he had never seen one like it before.
The woman said: "I'm glad. Come in."
Callaghan followed her through the open door. He expected to find a lot of people in the room, but he was wrong. It was a small and almost deserted ante-room. There were folding doors on the other side wide open. On the other side of the doors were a pack of people, most of them glass in hand.
The woman said: "My name's Mrs. Martindale, and I feel rather bilious. I'm interested in art when I get around to it. Would you get me a brandy and soda? The drinks are in the corner over there." She pointed vaguely in the direction of the folding doors.
Callaghan said he would. He went into the other room. In the corner two men in white jackets were serving drinks. In front of them was an immense array of bottles. Callaghan thought that it might be an expensive party.
He asked for a large brandy and soda and threaded his way carefully through the throng into the ante-room. Mrs. Martindale had passed out in the corner of the settee. Her mouth was half-open and Callaghan noted that her teeth were false. He drank the brandy and soda, went back into the other room. He stood just inside the doorway, the glass in his hand, looking about him.
There were about thirty people in the room—all sorts and conditions of people. A few of them were men in khaki. The rest of the men were nondescript. If anything they were inclined to run to stomach and jowl. The women he thought were of much better class. They were slim, well-dressed, effective. Callaghan found himself thinking that taken by and large any given bunch of women looked better than any given bunch of men. A plump and entirely bald man of about forty jostled past him.
Callaghan said: "Excuse me, but do you know Miss Leonore Wilbery?"
The bald man said yes. He pointed over to the far corner of the room.
Callaghan looked. Reclining on a large antique couch was a young woman. He imagined she was about twenty-seven years of age. She was quite lovely. She was a brunette and he could see that her figure was superb, that her ankles were wonderful, and that not only did she possess a peculiarly striking type of beauty, but she might even be intelligent. He used the word "might" in his mind because at the moment she was staring straight across the room towards him with eyes which appeared to be glazed. One slender hand, drooped gracefully over the head of the couch, held a cocktail glass at an angle; the liquor inside the glass was spilling over the edge, dropping on to the beige carpet, forming a dark patch.
Callaghan walked across the room. He said:
"Miss Wilbery, my name's Callaghan. I wanted to talk to you and I thought it was urgent enough to come here. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
She opened her mouth but she did not say anything. It was apparent to Callaghan that she was trying to say something. After a second attempt she succeeded. She said:
"That's marvellous. I'm fearfully glad to meet you, Mr. Callaghan. There's only one thing..."
Callaghan raised his eyebrows.
"Yes?" he queried. He was thinking that the peculiar low pitch of her voice was unique and attractive.
She said: "The fact of the matter is I'm cockeyed. I'm one of those women who've never realised that if you have one more you're going to be cockeyed. I think I've had one more."
Callaghan said: "Are you certain? It seemed.to me that the carpet was getting the last one."
She looked up at him. He saw that her eyes were the colour of amethysts. Then he thought that possibly they tinged towards violet.
She said: "I think you're quite delicious. Won't you sit down? I think I like you. I'm never quite certain whether I like men or not. I think I have a complex against men."
Callaghan sat down. He said:
"I know. I knew another woman like that once."
Her eyes were wide.
"What—only once?" she said. "Surely you must have known more women than that who didn't like men."
"This one was a very special one. She disliked them intensely," said Callaghan.
The ringers which held the glass opened involuntarily. The glass, which was a thin one, fell on to the carpet and smashed.
She said: "Wasn't that silly? Would you get me a drink?"
Callaghan said he would. He went to the serving table in the corner. He was feeling rather bored. He got a double brandy and soda for himself and a mild cocktail for her. He went back, gave her the cocktail, sat down.
She got the edge of the cocktail glass to her lips with a certain amount of difficulty. Callaghan, apparently gazing at the crowd in front of him but with the corner of his eye on her, watched as she held the glass against her lip, tilted it with an effort and swallowed the cocktail.
He noted the superb curving of her mouth, wondered why it was that women who were lovely and presumably intelligent should want to get drunk.
Her glass was empty. She held it by the stem in much the same way as she had held the first one, her hand hanging over the end of the settee. Callaghan waited for the glass to drop. It dropped.
She said, enunciating with a certain amount of difficulty: "I s'pose you think women ought not to drink, Mr. Callaghan. Isn't that what you're thinking?"
Callaghan said: "I wouldn't say that. I think women ought not to drink too much. You're drinking too much. You're cockeyed. I don't think I like women who get cockeyed."
She looked at him with an expression that was intended to be antagonistic. She pursed up her beautiful mouth and waggled her head. She said:
"Now you're merely being antagonistic. I don't like antagonistic men."
Callaghan said: "What am I supposed to do—jump off the end of the pier?"
She said: "No, I don't want you to do that. I like you." She considered this gravely for a moment. "Yes, I definitely conclude I like you."
She looked round the room dazedly, trying to remember what she was talking about. Then she went on:
"Of course you're the detective, aren't you? You wanted to see me about something. Mother telephoned me about you, although I must say she was rather vague."
A man near Callaghan, with a green satin tie on a pink shirt, leaned up against the wall. He said to a woman who was wearing a brocade bodice made like a painter's blouse: "When I love a woman I love her. I never do things by half measures...." He ended the sentence with a staccato belch.
Callaghan looked at the man. Leonore Wilbery said:
"He is awful, isn't he? But then all men are awful. Love's a terrible thing."
Callaghan said to her: "So your mother telephoned, did she? So you know all about it?"
Leonore said: "I'm not certain. I'm not certain that I know about anything now."
She leaned back against the side of the settee. Callaghan took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette. He was looking at her. He was beginning to get ideas about Leonore Wilbery.
He went on: "Do you think you're sober enough to understand what I'm talking about, because I think it's rather important?"
She said: "I wouldn't know. But if it was fearfully important it might impress itself on me, mightn't it?"
Callaghan said brusquely: "Look at me."
She looked at him. She began to smile, even if the smile was something like a drunken smile. He liked the way her lips parted over white teeth. He was still undecided whether her eyes were amethyst or violet.
"Well, I hope this will impress itself on you," he went on. "The position is this: Last night I met a young woman by the name of Varette. Have you ever heard of her?"
She asked: "What's her first name or hasn't she got one?"
He said: "Of course she has a first name. Her first name is Doria—Doria Varette. Does that mean anything to you?"
"Nothing could mean less," she said. "And incidentally, I take a very poor view of a woman with a name like that. I've never heard of her and I shouldn't like to meet her."
Callaghan said: "That doesn't matter. The point is that I met her last night and I thought she was rather nice. That, however, isn't important. The important thing is this. It seems that Miss Varette is in love with your brother Lionel. She has a definite idea in her head that Lionel is missing. She commissioned me to try and find him. Do you understand that?"
