Complete works of peter.., p.264
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 264
"You were asking about Audrey Vendayne," he went on, "the woman who gave me this cigarette case. She wouldn't mind my telling you that when I started to work for her she tried to lead me up the garden path too. It was only when someone pretty close to her was as near as damn it to swinging on the end of a six foot rope that she decided to talk sense." He lit the cigarette. "But I don't suppose the example will be of use to you."
She did not reply. Callaghan started the car.
"The trouble with women who are as pretty as you are," he said amiably, "is that you think you can get away with anything. You even think you can take me for a walk up the garden path any time you want to. And that's a dangerous process. Because I might take you for a walk up the garden, and if ever I do you'll walk and like it." He blew a smoke ring and watched it dissolve against the windscreen. "Let's go to the party," he said. "I need a drink."
She said coldly: "I'm sorry you've been so bored."
He grinned at her.
"I accept the apology," he said. "But I probably shan't do it again."
She made a little hissing noise like a snake. She was furious. She said:
"Very well. Let's go to the party, Mr. Callaghan, and be damned to you!"
II.
Callaghan eased the Jaguar to a standstill at the end of a long row of cars that were parked outside The Dene. He looked round him appreciatively. The Dene was a big country house surrounded by lawns and shrubberies, adequately concealed by a ring of thick forest. He thought it was a good place for doing anything not intended to be seen by those not concerned.
He followed her across the gravel courtyard, through the big doorway guarded by two stone pillars, into the hall. The place was expensively furnished, the lighting and decorations perfect.
A butler, who was on duty in the hall with two men-servants, came forward to meet them. Callaghan said:
"This is funny. Do any of these people know there's a war on?"
She said: "Why ask me? There's a room over there where you can leave your things. I'm going upstairs. Come up when you're ready. I'll introduce you to the people I told you of." She smiled cynically. "And then," she added, "my responsibility so far as you're concerned ends."
Callaghan smiled.
"I wonder...?" he said.
She looked at him for a moment, started to say something, checked herself, went up the wide thickly carpeted staircase.
He crossed the hall, went into the room she had indicated. It was a cloakroom. On the other side was a door leading to a similar room which Callaghan could see was being used as a cocktail bar. Half a dozen men, most of them in lounge suits, were there drinking.
Callaghan went in, asked for a brandy and soda. He drank it slowly. He was looking at the men about him. He thought they were an odd-looking crowd. You could not put them into any particular class or type except that they were all well dressed.
He finished his drink, went out into the hall, up the curving staircase, through the double doors of the room at the top. There were a lot of people there. A heavy buzz of conversation, an airy badinage, created an almost pre-war atmosphere.
Leonore Wilbery was deep in conversation with a woman on the other side of the room. She saw Callaghan and smiled. He went over.
As he crossed the room he took a long look at Leonore. He thought she was definitely breath-taking. She had taken off her fur coat and the clothes she was wearing enhanced the beauty of an almost perfect figure and carriage.
She wore a black watered silk coat and skirt of exquisite cut. The coat was tailored rather on the severe lines of a man's lounge jacket with a single diamond link button at the waist. Beneath, Callaghan caught a glimpse of a soft pale pink angora wool blouse, high in the neck, caught with a diamond link to match the coat button. She wore the sheerest black silk stockings so cobwebby that it seemed at first glance that she wore none. The plain black glacé court shoes set off a foot that would have made clogs appear graceful.
A hell of a woman, thought Callaghan. A woman who could start a packet of trouble any time she felt like it—and finish it too.
As he approached she said: "This is my friend Mr. Callaghan, Sabine. You will like him. Mr. Callaghan is a very famous private detective. His methods—and you will agree, my dear, if you ever get close enough to them—are unique if not interesting. Mother is proposing that Mr. Callaghan should look for Lionel because somebody or other thinks he's disappeared. Mr. Callaghan, this is Miss Sabine Haragos...."
Callaghan said how do you do. Miss Haragos put out a very small hand, the fingers of which were almost entirely covered with jewels. When she spoke the words came out of her mouth so softly that you were surprised that you heard so distinctly. Her accent was delightful. All the vowels were long and spoken with an odd drawl. It was like listening to someone reciting the words of a song.
She said: "Meester Cala-aghan. I am so-o-o pliz to meet with you...."
Callaghan took a quick look at her. Her beauty was peculiar and devastating. She looked like a resuscitated mummy of an Egyptian princess. Her face was very white, peculiarly flat. Her cheek bones stood out. Her nose was wide at the base, but with nostrils sensitively cut. She had black eyes, blue-black hair with curls piled high on her head. A broad wine-coloured velvet ribbon was threaded through the curls. She reminded Callaghan of a picture of the Medusa.
She was wearing wide wine-coloured velvet trousers that looked like a skirt when she stood still, a silk shirt of a rare duck-egg blue colour under a wine-coloured velvet jacket. She wore no stockings. On her feet were flat-heeled sandals of wine-coloured kid, and her toe-nails were painted scarlet.
Callaghan said: "I'm glad to meet you, Miss Haragos."
She looked away from him. From the other side of the wide room a man was approaching. She said to Callaghan:
"My na-ame is Sa-abine. So pliz ca-all me Sa-abine...."
Callaghan grinned. He said:
"All right. I'll call you Sabine."
The man joined them. He was immense. He was six feet three or four inches in height, with a great breadth of shoulder. His hair was black and he had a large handlebar moustache. Beneath it, when he smiled, his big white teeth shone.
Leonore Wilbery said: "Mr. Callaghan, this is Milta Haragos—Sabine's brother. I think they'll amuse you. Au revoir, Mr. Callaghan." She threw him an enigmatic look and disappeared into the crowd.
Milta Haragos looked at Callaghan. He looked him over carefully, as one looks at a horse. He said to Sabine:
"Dees one is strong. Plenty muscle. Nice an' strong."
He put out a hand as big as a plate. Callaghan took it. Milta Haragos began to squeeze Callaghan's hand in his, exerting more and more pressure. Callaghan began to wonder when his ringer bones would break.
Haragos said: "Me... I am verry strrong too.... You see...?"
He smiled amiably at the detective and went on squeezing.
Callaghan put his left hand gently on Haragos's wrist. He slipped his fingers round it, pulled and, as the other tried to draw his hand away, put on a Japanese wrist lock.
Haragos's face contracted in agony. His right hand opened. Callaghan kept on with the wrist lock. He said:
"Don't be funny, Haragos. I know some better holds than this one. Judo will always beat beef, you know."
He took off the lock, dropped his hand. Haragos began to rub his wrist.
Sabine said: "Lovely.... I liked tha-at.... Beautiful.... Milta, you a-are alwa-ays so godda-am clever." She looked at Callaghan with eyes that were like glistening slits. She said: "Co-ome with me. I wa-ant to ta-alk wiz you.... Come...."
Callaghan said to Milta Haragos: "I expect I'll be seeing you later." He went after Sabine.
She led the way through the groups of laughing, drinking people, opened a french window at the right hand end of the room and stepped out. Following her, Callaghan could see that they were on a wide balcony that, at the height of the first floor, ran right round the house. She moved along the balcony with a peculiar, gliding walk that gave her the appearance of floating rather than walking. Almost at the end of the house she stopped, pushed open another french window and stepped into the room beyond.
He followed her, shutting the blacked-out window behind him. The room was a small square room, panelled in oak and sombrely furnished. It was lit by an electric standard lamp which gave a bad light. He thought it a very depressing room.
Sabine Haragos said: "Pliz to sit do-own, my friend, and give me a ciga-arette...."
Callaghan gave her a cigarette, sat down in a leather armchair. She sat down, quite suddenly, and with a single movement, on the floor, drew up her legs under her and regarded him gravely. There was something feline about her graceful and quick movements.
He lit his own cigarette and sat looking at her. Her eyes were quite amazing. She had some trick with her eyelids that almost entirely covered them. She said:
"Wha-at a-are you theenking? I kno-ow.... You are theenking that Milta is joost a beeg godda-am fool.... Me also.... Alwa-ays he moos' try to show off about hees strengt'. Because he is so-o stro-ong he does not realise that he is almo-ost entirely brainless." She laughed in her throat.
Callaghan said: "I wasn't thinking about Milta. Milta doesn't interest me. Even if he's not brainless I still don't care."
"A-all right," she went on. "Pliz leesten.... Leonore says you wa-ant to kno-ow about Lionel.... She says that you theenk that Lionel ha-as disappeared somewhere. Pliz don't worry about Lionel. He will re-a-appear almos' like a ba-ad penny."
She laughed again. It was quite a pleasant laugh, even if it did rasp a little.
Callaghan asked: "Is he in the habit of disappearing?"
She inhaled deeply. Then she began to blow the tobacco smoke out of her nostrils. She took quite a time over this process. Eventually:
"Ye-es, Lionel is ver' seely. He is a moos' seely young man. He smoke too mooch... he drink too mooch... then he take some drugs also too mooch.... He is a-alwa-ays that ver' weak young man tryeeng to mak' out that he's so-o stro-ong. He 'as disappeared befo-ore... but he alwa-ays co-omes ba-ack."
"I see," said Callaghan. "And so you think he'll come back this time?"
She nodded. Her eyes were still fixed steadily on his.
He said: "Did you ever meet a woman called Doria Varette?"
She nodded again.
"Ye-es," she said. "Mees Varette is a fren' of Lionel. They were clo-ose fren's... I theenk. Lionel spo-oke to me of her. I theenk he thought he was in lo-ove with her. I do not theenk that Mees Varette is ver' nice. I do not theenk tha-at she was ver' good for Lionel."
"Why not?" Callaghan asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Mees Varette is one of tho-ose mysterious people," she said softly. "No one kno-ows how she lives or what she does. Lionel tol' me tha-at she uses some drugs... tha-at she likes drugs. I theenk tha-at maybe she gave so-ome to Lionel." She smiled at Callaghan. "Lionel was a godda-am fool," she concluded.
Callaghan got up.
"Thanks," he said. "You've been very useful."
She did not move.
"Au revoir, Meester Callaghan," she said, smiling at him. "Maybe Milta ca-an tell you so-ome more. Milta ees ra-ather a great lo-over of women. Lionel ha-ad an inclination to be the sa-ame. I should speak wiz Milta."
"Thanks," said Callaghan. "I probably will."
He moved towards the french windows, opened one side, stepped out on to the balcony. He walked back and entered the room where he had met Sabine Haragos.
The crowd had thinned out, but there was still quite a number of people exchanging badinage. Callaghan wondered what went on at The Dene. He looked about him, but could see no sign of either Milta Haragos or Leonore. He went down the stairs into the hall and crossed into the cloakroom, walked through it into the bar. He asked for Canadian rye.
There was no one else in the bar. Callaghan took a long look at the man behind the limed oak counter. He was young, thin, dark-haired and wore long side-whiskers. He looked like any one of the commis waiters one sees in a West End restaurant.
Callaghan said: "What do I do when I get tired of drinking?"
The man said: "If that's possible you can always take a chance in the card-room. They play everything. Most of the crowd are in there. You can stake to suit yourself and the game's so straight it almost hurts." He grinned cheerfully.
Callaghan said thanks, finished his whisky, walked back into the hall. On each side of the wide staircase was a passageway, thickly carpeted, lit with dim lights. Callaghan took the right hand passage. At the end was a door. He pushed it open a little and looked in.
There were many people in the room. They were all playing something or other. The room was big, well lit, cheerfully decorated. There were about twenty tables going. Callaghan saw that Chemie, baccarat, roulette, a dice-cage, poker—practically every sort of game of chance, including a Chinese dragon game—was being played. At each table was a croupier with all the hallmarks of the professional.
Callaghan looked round to his right. He looked at the floor. He saw a very small pair of patent shoes with wide trouser ends draping over them too beautifully. The man had his back to him and was busily engaged in using his croupier's rake on a roulette table.
It was the Cuban. Callaghan gave a little sigh.
He shut the door and wandered back to the bar off the hallway. It was still empty except for the bartender. Callaghan ordered more rye whisky. He lit a cigarette, smoked silently for a few minutes. Then he asked:
"Who runs the game here—the house?"
The bartender looked at him for quite a while. Then:
"You wouldn't be a dick, would you?" he asked.
Callaghan grinned.
"Do I look like a dick?"
"No," said the bartender. "But you never know these days. Coppers get everywhere. They look the part too. But you don't look like a dick. Who'd you come with?"
"I came with Miss Wilbery," said Callaghan. "I'm an old friend of hers."
The bartender smiled.
"That's different," he said. "I like her, an' so does everybody. She's cute." He began to polish the bar counter. "Santos runs the games here," he said. "He's a nice boy... very generous. He's got a big connection. And he's very straight. He's got the dough too."
Callaghan nodded. He passed his glass over. The bartender poured more rye.
"There's no gambling in London these days," said Callaghan. "At least not what I call gambling. I used to play at Garoldi's place. Did you ever hear of Garoldi?"
The bartender grinned.
"My brother used to work for him. He was night-waiter," he said. "That was a helluva game, wasn't it?"
Callaghan nodded.
"Does this Santos run any games in town?" he asked. "You know—a quiet nice game with the money on the table, no nonsense and the house taking a straight cagnotte and no funny business?"
"You bet he does," said the bartender. "You have a word with him. He'll put you right."
Callaghan drank the rye. He said thanks and went out into the hall. He stood there leaning up against the wall, smoking. After a few minutes he walked across the hall, took the latch off the main door, went out, closed the door behind him.
The open space in front of him was still bright in the moonlight and there were still many cars drawn up. He walked past them and along a pathway that led across the lawn. On the other side of the lawn the pathway ran through a copse. At the other end of the copse, deep in the shadows formed by the thickening trees, stood a little summer-house. It was open on the side farthest from the house, and on the small veranda were a couple of garden chairs.
Callaghan went back to the hallway. He stood there, leaning against the wall, watching the main staircase. Several people came down and turned into one or other of the passages leading to the card-rooms.
After a while a fat man came down the stairs. He was holding on to the banister rails. His face was very flushed, and the dull silk lapels of his dinner-coat were white with cigar ash. Half-way down the stairs he paused, hiccupped solemnly, then continued on his careful way.
Callaghan went over to meet him. He said:
"I wonder if you'd do me a favour?"
The fat man laughed.
"Anything in reason, dear boy," he said. "Except I won't lend anybody any money. Beyond that you can have anything I've got—even my wife—that's if you want her." He laughed for a long time. "I don't," he added seriously.
Callaghan smiled at him.
"It's just a little thing," he said. "Of course you know Santos...."
"You bet," said the fat man. "I've lost a lot of money to him, and won a little from him." He became ponderous. "I s'pose I've known Santos D'Ianazzi as long as any other gambler who plays three or four times a week."
"Excellent," said Callaghan. "Well... here's the favour. Would you ask him if he could come outside and meet me for a moment in the summer-house on the other side of the lawn. I've a little gaming proposition I'd like to talk over. But I want it kept quiet... you know...." Callaghan looked mysterious.
"Surely," said the fat man. "I'll tell him. Happy landings."
He lurched down the passage.
Callaghan stubbed out his cigarette in a wall ash-tray. He crossed the hall, went out of the main door, across the lawn and round behind the summer-house. He stood, on the corner of the veranda, in the shadow, watching the path.
Two or three minutes afterwards he saw the Cuban coming down the path. He was walking quickly and easily. As the moonlight fell on his face Callaghan saw that he was half smiling.
Callaghan took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette. He put his hands in his trouser pockets. As the Cuban reached the end of the path and turned the corner on the far side of the summer-house Callaghan stepped out of the shadows.
He said: "Hallo, Santos."
The Cuban stopped. His face froze. He stiffened. Then, as suddenly, his shoulders relaxed, his thin lips opened and his white teeth showed in a smile that was intended to be amiable. He said:
"Señor Callaghan.... I did not expect the pleasure of meeting you here...."
Callaghan said: "I know. It's just one of those pleasant surprises, isn't it?"
