Complete works of peter.., p.268
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 268
"I'm glad," said Mrs. Wilbery. "And why doesn't it matter now?" She sounded mildly amused.
Callaghan said: "Miss Varette's dead. Somebody murdered her."
There was a long pause. Then she said:
"How terrible.... I suppose the police have an idea who did it?"
"Why should the police have an idea who did it?" asked Callaghan quickly.
"I don't know..." said Mrs. Wilbery. "Except that Miss Varette seems to have been a rather extraordinary sort of young woman. She used to sing at a night club, didn't she? And she did odd things too, I believe...."
"Such as taking drugs?" asked Callaghan.
"Well... yes..." said Mrs. Wilbery slowly.
"Quite," said Callaghan.
He lit a fresh cigarette with his free hand There was another pause.
"Of course," said Mrs. Wilbery," I know that this business of trying to find someone like Lionel is rather like looking for a needle in a haystack. He's inclined to be a little irresponsible and foolish sometimes. I realise that you would probably be put to a great deal of expense. I've talked to my lawyer about it and he thinks that it would be proper—at this stage—for me to pay you say five hundred pounds as a retainer and to cover expenses for the time being. Would that be all right?"
Callaghan said: "Mrs. Wilbery, about this business of Lionel being a little irresponsible and foolish sometimes. I'm rather interested in that angle. You mean by that, that he's inclined to be headstrong and do silly things; that he's one of those weak people who sometimes like to give a bad imitation of being strong. Is that it?"
"Well... yes... I suppose so," said Mrs. Wilbery.
Callaghan said: "Lionel was in love or thought he was in love with Miss Varette. For some reason or other he disappeared without telling her where he was going. We know she didn't know where he was because she'd employed us to find out. It occurred to me—and I regret I haven't been able to ask Miss Varette this question—that he may have disappeared in a fit of temper because he had some sort of disagreement with her."
"Quite," said Mrs. Wilbery. "That's quite possible."
Callaghan grinned at the telephone transmitter. Mrs. Wilbery was walking straight into the trap. He went on:
"Very well then. If Lionel went off without a word to Doria Varette because he'd quarrelled with her, do you think it possible that he might suddenly decide to see her and have another quarrel... that he might suddenly decide to come to London—that is if he was somewhere else—and that they might have quarrelled again?"
There was an exclamation at the other end of the line. Then Mrs. Wilbery said quickly:
"I don't see why, having gone off, Lionel should suddenly decide that he would see her. Why should he? The very fact that he'd gone off shows that he didn't want to see her."
Callaghan interrupted.
"He might have wanted to see her in spite of himself," he said. "There's quite a good reason, you know."
"Is there?' asked Mrs. Wilbery. "What is it?"
"You suggested it to me yourself," said Callaghan. "You suggested that Miss Varette was not quite all that she should be, that possibly she took drugs. You have also suggested that Lionel was irresponsible and foolish. As he and Miss Varette were in love it occurred to me that she might have got him to do a little drug-taking too. The process isn't unusual between two people who are supposed to be in love and of whom one takes drugs. That being so, it would be obvious that Lionel would get any drugs he used from Miss Varette; that being so, when he went off, his supply would be cut off, and that being so he might suddenly decide in spite of himself that he would come back and see Miss Varette. She, however, might not have been too amenable to reason. She might have refused. All sorts of things might have happened."
There was a little pause. Then she said, very coolly:
"I don't think we ought to talk about this on the telephone, Mr. Callaghan. Are you coming down here? I'd like to see you. We could talk freely then."
"Quite," said Callaghan. "Candidly, I'm rather intrigued with the idea of finding Lionel. I'd like a retainer of a thousand pounds. As you said, it might be an expensive business."
"So it seems," said Mrs. Wilbery wryly. "My daughter suggested..." she stopped suddenly.
Callaghan completed the sentence for her.
"Your daughter suggested that I'd told her that private detectives sometimes do a little blackmail on the side," he said amiably. "You probably think I'm trying the process. I'm not. I charge more than a thousand when I blackmail clients."
"I'm sure you do," said Mrs. Wilbery. "Anyhow, Leonore thinks that you're rather clever, so I'll pay the thousand pounds. I'll have a cheque sent to you to-day."
Callaghan said: "Thanks. I'll come down this afternoon. I'll try to get down by nine to-night. You're about a hundred and fifty miles from town, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilbery. "So you did intend to come down. You'd looked it up."
Callaghan grinned.
"Yes," he said. "I intended to come down and I'd looked it up."
"Well..." said Mrs. Wilbery. She began to laugh. It was an extremely attractive laugh. "You're rather a unique investigator, aren't you, Mr. Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "I wouldn't know. Perhaps we can discuss that angle too. I hope to be with you about nine o'clock to-night."
She said: "Will you try to be here by nine. We shall dine at that time. Leonore's coming down about then."
"I shall be with you at nine," said Callaghan. "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilbery."
He hung up, rang the bell for Effie Thompson. When she came in he said:
"You remember that fellow who did some snooping for me in the Riverton case. I've forgotten his name."
"I remember," said Effie. "It was a Mr. Maninway."
"All right," said Callaghan. "Just get your book and make a note of this."
He waited while she got her notebook. Then he went on:
"I want Maninway to get next to two people called Sabine and Milta Haragos. I want to know who and what they are. I've got an idea they've an interest in running gambling games round town and possibly elsewhere. Ask him to find out. Ask him to get anything he can. He's to put anything he gets through here. You can let me have it over the telephone at Norton Fitzwarren. When you call through to me there be careful. If I'm on a direct line and no one can listen in I'll call you Effie. But if I call you Miss Thompson you'll know I'm speaking on an extension line and you'll have to watch your step."
"Very well," said Effie. "I suppose you don't know when you'll be back."
"No," said Callaghan. "Just keep an eye on things. If you want any help, get Wintor or Blake to come in the office and stand by."
"Very well," said Effie. "And I'll ring through to the valet downstairs to pack your things."
"Thanks," said Callaghan.
He lit another cigarette, put his feet back on the desk.
III.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimed ten. Callaghan knocked the ash off his cigarette, stood looking over the wide expanse of lawn that ran down to the woodland at the back of Deeplands.
A nice place to live in, he thought, lots of space and air and not too many people.
He walked along the wide veranda that ran the entire width of the back of the house, let himself into the smoking-room, through the french windows, crossed the room, walked down the long, oak wainscoted passage into the library.
Mrs. Wilbery was pouring out coffee. She was alone. Callaghan looked at her appreciatively. She wore a long bottle-green velvet housecoat. Under the hem a beige silk-clad ankle snowed itself over a gold sandal.
He went and stood by the fireplace, watching her as she poured and held out his cup of black coffee. A very good-looking forty-four or five, he thought. Leonore had to be about twenty-six or seven, so that Mrs. Wilbery must be at least forty-five or so. Callaghan thought she looked a good ten years younger.
Her figure was good, her movements quick and graceful. Her complexion would have been good for a girl, and the auburn hair that set off her oval-shaped face showed no trace of grey.
He took the cup. She said:
"Now we can talk. I did not like to talk to you on the telephone. I think it is so much better to see people face to face. First of all I want to know what you think about Lionel?"
Callaghan smiled at her. He said:
"I want to hear what you think. Then, when I've digested that I'll give you any ideas I've got."
"I don't think anything at all—very much," she said. "I think Lionel is stupid. But then all young men are stupid, aren't they? At some time or other they have to do silly things. If they don't, one feels they're not normal."
"So you think Lionel was normal?" asked Callaghan.
"I'm not quite sure about that," she said. "He was odd, of course, but then he was a poet. Poets are always a little eccentric, don't you think, Mr. Callaghan?"
"I think most people are eccentric in some way or another," said Callaghan. "Lionel has disappeared before, hasn't he?"
"Well... yes," she replied. "That is to say he's gone off and never told any one where he was going. He's always turned up though, usually when he's broke. I shouldn't have worried this time except for this unfortunate Miss Varette."
Callaghan said: "When we talked on the telephone you seemed to know quite a bit about her. Where did you get your information?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Leonore is my only source," she said. "And I think that she has been talking to Milta and Sabine. You've met them, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Callaghan. "Just how do they come into the picture?"
"Lionel introduced them to Leonore, some time ago," said Mrs. Wilbery. "They seem to have been the one steadying influence in his life. They're nice people. Leonore likes them. They're amusing, she says. They're White Russians who managed to get out of the country just after the Revolution. They've lived in England ever since. They have money and they're interested in things, and people. They drink a little but not too much, and gamble a little but not too much. Sabine was interested in Lionel's work. She tried to get him to give up all sorts of odd people that he'd got to know, and settle down to serious writing. Milta—who knows publishers and people like that—had practically arranged to get the book on which Lionel was working published. In fact we all thought that possibly Lionel had turned over a new leaf. Then, apparently, Miss Varette turned up."
"And she wasn't very good for Lionel?" queried Callaghan.
She looked into the fire.
"That's what they tell Leonore," she said. "Milta is certain that Miss Varette took drugs—which isn't very nice. Also he says that she seemed to have some sort of hold over Lionel. Milta, apparently, is an expert on women——" She smiled at Callaghan. "Most Russians consider themselves experts on women, don't they?" she said. "But Milta definitely did not like Miss Varette. He'd met her with Lionel half a dozen times and thought that she was just another of the rather odd women that Lionel met and thought he admired from time to time."
"What made Milta think that she wasn't so good, that she drugged?" asked Callaghan.
"Lionel did," she said. "Apparently Lionel talked to Milta some time ago about her. His attitude was a little strange. He seemed afraid of her. Milta got the idea that Lionel was definitely under Miss Varettes thumb. And now this terrible thing has happened to the girl. It rather makes one think that Milta was right, doesn't it?"
She took a cigarette from the silver box on the table. Callaghan lit it for her. She smiled her thanks.
"I wonder why Miss Wilbery didn't tell me all this before?" he asked.
She laughed.
"I think she thought you were a little breath-taking... a little forceful. She's a girl with a will of her own. I don't think she likes you a lot."
Callaghan grinned.
"I don't think she does either," he said.
"Women are inclined to make up their minds very quickly on such matters," she said. "Sometimes too quickly. I like you very much. I think you're quite delightful."
Callaghan said: "I hope you won't alter your opinion."
She looked at him.
"Why should I?" she asked. She settled back in her chair. "Now tell me," she said, "what do you propose to do about finding Lionel? May one know how you are going to set about it?"
Callaghan said: "I'd tell you if I knew. I don't know yet. I've got one or two ideas, but nothing very definite."
She looked into the fire.
"I want him found quickly," she said. Her voice was undecided. "I want him found quickly because of what you suggested on the telephone. I didn't like it."
"Why not?" asked Callaghan. "If you thought it was untrue."
"Whether I thought it might be true or not doesn't come into it," she said quickly. "Milta says that he is certain that Miss Varette introduced Lionel to the nasty habit of taking drugs. That matched up with your suggestion. It matched up with the suggestion that they might have quarrelled, and that Lionel, having gone away, might return because he wanted more drugs, and then..." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's not a particularly nice thought," she said.
"Murder's not a particularly nice thing," said Callaghan. "Not that I'm suggesting for a moment that Lionel had anything to do with Miss Varette being killed. I had to bring up that angle because it's certain that the police will begin to consider him as a suspect unless they find somebody else. After all, if a girl gets killed it's rather natural for them to look for a lover who's disappeared, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," said Mrs. Wilbery. "That's where you come in, Mr. Callaghan." She smiled at him prettily. "You've got to find Lionel first. So that we can know exactly what he's been doing and exactly where he's been. So that we can refute any silly talk about his being responsible—in any way—for this unhappy woman's death."
She got up.
"I'm tired," she said. "I think I shall go to bed. Ring for anything you want and please consider the house your own. Good-night."
Callaghan walked to the door, held it open for her. As she went out, she said:
"It's an odd thing to say, but I feel much more confident about Lionel now that you're looking after things."
"Do you?" said Callaghan. He grinned at her. "Maybe that's only because you like me," he said mischievously.
"Possibly," she said. "But that isn't a bad reason, is it?" She threw him a quick smile over her shoulder.
Callaghan closed the door. He went back to the fire. He thought that the Wilbery women were no fools—either of them.
He lit a cigarette, sat down and blew smoke rings. After a while he got up, went through the passage into the smoking-room, out of the french windows, down the veranda steps. He began to walk across the lawn.
It was a fine night. At the bottom of the first lawn was a terrace. Callaghan turned and looked at the big rambling house behind him. He wondered why it was that a young man with such a background had to play around with the very odd people that the half-world of London can produce.
He walked along the terrace, round the side of the house to the garage. He pulled one of the sliding doors open, went in, started up the Jaguar, put on a tweed cap which he produced from the cubby hole in the dashboard, backed the car out of the garage and turned it.
He drove slowly down the drive.
He thought that he liked Mrs. Wilbery. He thought that was what she had intended.
He stopped the car outside the big wrought-iron gates, fumbled in his dinner-coat for a cigarette, lit it, settled down behind the wheel.
He was still thinking about Mrs. Wilbery. Wondering if she had quite decided that Lionel had killed Doria Varette.
IV.
Nikolls filled a good half of the cocktail shaker with Bacardi rum. He added lemon juice, a spot of gin and some ice. He said:
"This is a helluva drink. It sorta gets the brain workin'."
He shook the cocktail shaker expertly, poured out the mixture into whisky glasses, passed one to Callaghan and sat down on the opposite side of the fire, the cocktail shaker by his side.
Callaghan drained the glass and passed it back to Nikolls, who refilled it, handed it back.
Callaghan said: "So you can get gin at the Grasscutter? This seems a good inn."
"I brought it with me," said Nikolls. "I always like to have some liquor around. I remember one time—in the old Prohibition days—when I was stuck in some dry State that was really dry. It was terrible."
"What did you do?" asked Callaghan.
"I got along," replied Nikolls. "I was workin' for the Transatlantic Detective Agency then. I was on a case tryin' to find some honeybelle who'd taken a run-out on her husband because he was broke. Two days after she left him the guy comes into a fortune—three-quarters of a million dollars—an' commissioned the Transatlantic to find her. I won the job."
Callaghan asked: "Did you find her?"
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "I found her all right. We usta make gin in the bath-tub. She hadda recipe that was swell. One day she gotta bit high an' put the wrong stuff in. She took a drink while I was shavin' and damn' near passed right out. I heard a sorta gurgle an' found her in the bath. She'd fell in. That dame was a marvel. She had a sorta iron constitution. She must have, because the stuff she made took the enamel offa the bath. She was a nice dame. Just a little vague sometimes...."
Callaghan finished his second glass of Bacardi mixture. He said:
"I suppose you haven't had time to get anything on Lionel?"
"I've got plenty," said Nikolls. "There's a helluva barmaid in the saloon bar here. A very nice line in dames. I been talkin' to her. I think she likes me a little."
Callaghan nodded.
"I know..."
"This guy Lionel was a pup for the dames," continued Nikolls. "Any time he saw a pretty jane he usta rush around with his tongue hangin' out. He fell with a bump for this baby in the bar. He usta come an' read poetry to her—his own stuff—in the evenin' before the bar filled up. She said he was a good poet an' she'da liked it a lot if she'd known what it was all about. He gave her a picture. I've seen it. He's not a bad-lookin' guy either. A bit on the weak side but sorta spiritual—you know. He looks as if he'd been smacked in the pan with a blunt instrument an' never got over it. Side-whiskers too, an' wavy hair."
