Complete works of peter.., p.272
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 272
She said: "Isn't that the chauffeur who drove me home from the Dene a few nights ago... the one who told me the story about the woman in Iceland?"
Nikolls grinned.
"That's right," he said. "It's Nikolls. How did you know?"
Leonore said: "I remember the voice. Would it be rude to ask what you're doing down here?"
"No," said Nikolls, "it wouldn't. I'm playin' patience an' cheatin' like hell. I get that way every time I play the goddam game."
"So you work for Mr. Callaghan?" asked Leonore.
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "I'm the power behind the scenes. I'm practically the life and soul of Callaghan Investigations."
She laughed softly.
"I'm sure you are," she said. "Tell me, Mr. Nikolls, do you think that Mr. Callaghan really believes he can find Lionel? Has he discovered anything? Or shouldn't I be asking?"
Nikolls said: "If I know anything of Slim he's gonna start something. He's gettin' sorta restless. When he gets that way he's liable to do somethin' definite. My own idea is that he's goin' to start somethin' good an' quick... somethin' a little tough maybe."
She said: "Please tell me where he's gone?"
Nikolls said: "I wouldn't know. Say, Miss Wilbery, did you ever hear the story about the fish that got caught?"
She said she had not.
Nikolls grinned
"It woulda been O.K. if it had kept its mouth shut," he said cheerfully. "Well, so long... I'll be seein' you."
He hung up quickly.
III.
It was half-past five when the house telephone on Effie Thompson's desk rang. She raised her eyebrows, took off the receiver. She said:
"I didn't know you were back, Mr. Callaghan. There isn't anything special to report."
Callaghan asked: "Who's in the office?"
"Blake's here," said Effie. "D'you want him?"
"Telephone down to 'Service' and ask them to send me some strong tea," said Callaghan. "Tell Blake to get through to Maninway. If Maninway's there I want him to come round here and see me—as soon as he can get here. Let me know what he says."
She heard the staccato click as Callaghan banged down the receiver. She smiled a little. She called through the open door to Blake, who was sitting at Callaghan's desk smoking a cigarette.
"Mr. Callaghan's upstairs. He's back. You're to get through to Mr. Maninway—Mayfair 55674. If Mr. Maninway's there you're to tell him that Mr. Callaghan wants him to come round here at once. Tell him it's urgent."
"I got it," said Blake.
She heard him dialling. She called through on the house telephone to "Service." She ordered the tea.
"It must be very strong," she said. "And I'd advise you to be quick about it. Mr. Callaghan's in a bad temper."
IV.
Callaghan was in his sitting-room, slumped in a leather arm-chair, in front of the fire, when Maninway arrived. A half-empty bottle of Canadian rye and a glass stood on the floor. The fireplace was littered with cigarette ends.
Maninway stood in the doorway smiling. Effie Thompson closed the door gently and disappeared. Callaghan got up, stood in front of the fireplace, looking at Maninway.
Eustace Maninway was very slim, very graceful, very tired-looking. He wore a suit that was just old enough, that bore the hallmarks of Savile Row. His shirt was silk and of a very quiet pattern. Callaghan thought it probably came from Sulka. His silk collar was caught, under a soft crêpe-de-chine tie, with a thin platinum pin. Everything about Maninway reflected a certain ton, a certain background.
His eyes were rather large and dark and very pathetic. Quite a lot of old ladies had looked into those eyes and sympathised—before reaching for their cheque-books. His hands were very white and the fingers were slim. His cheek-bones stood out from a face that was pale except just under the cheekbones where there was a slight flush.
Eustace Maninway's mouth was what is usually described as mobile. That means it could smile and look pleasant, or frown and look sulky. It could also straighten itself out and look angry, or strong, or merely unpleasant. Mr. Maninway could make it do all those things very easily.
Callaghan said: "Sit down, and have a cigarette." He indicated the silver box on the table.
Maninway said in a very soft voice: "Thanks... but I'll smoke my own if you don't mind."
He sat down in the chair opposite Callaghan's. He sat down very slowly, very gracefully, drawing up his immaculate trousers so that his thin knees should not spoil the creases. He produced a thin, white gold case, extracted a Cyprian cigarette, lit it with a gold and platinum lighter. He looked at Callaghan with an expression of tired inquiry.
Callaghan's hand went to his hip pocket. He produced a wallet. He took out two ten pound notes. He said:
"I don't think the information I got was worth twenty pounds."
Maninway smiled. He said: "I'm sorry." He knocked the ash from his cigarette into an ash-tray with a delicate gesture.
Callaghan rustled the two bank-notes between his fingers. After a moment he said:
"You said you wanted fifty pounds. I'd like to pay you fifty pounds. And you'd like fifty pounds, wouldn't you?"
Maninway said yes. He said he would like fifty pounds very much. He indicated that things weren't very good in these days. Callaghan thought dryly that too many of the old ladies were paying heavy income tax for Maninway's liking.
He said: "All right. I'll pay you fifty if I get what I want from you. It's obvious to me that you've met Milta and Sabine Haragos; that you've met Santos D'Ianazzi—the fellow that Milta Haragos financed over the Salem Club business; that you know most of the people who get around to such gaming parties as are going these days. It's a certainty that you must have met or heard of Lionel Wilbery. It's possible that you've met or heard of a woman called Doria Varette. I want to know everything you can tell me about Wilbery and about Doria Varette. I also want to know what you know about the Salem Club. I want to know who's running it."
Maninway said: "I'd like to help if possible. I suppose you couldn't let me know what's behind all this? I mean to say if you could it might help me to try and tell you what you want."
Callaghan said: "Lionel Wilbery's people think he's disappeared. They've asked me to find him. That's all there is to it."
"I see," said Maninway. He looked at his finger-nails. "I've met Lionel Wilbery," he said. "I used to think he wasn't too bad. He was always rather stupid, of course, rather slow in the uptake. I thought he was a person who rather went in for poses. I expect you know what I mean. At one time he was amazingly keen on the ballet, then it was something else, then it was gambling. He was rather a stupid gambler. He lost quite a bit, but I think he used to get money from his mother when he needed it."
Callaghan nodded.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you," said Maninway. "It's amazingly kind of you, but I've a little trouble with my chest. I don't drink very much....
"It was rather amusing," Maninway went on, "when Lionel took to poetry. He'd always dabbled in it of course, but after he'd met Sabine Haragos he became one hundred per cent poet. Before he'd used to dress well—if not elegantly—and be seen at the right places and all that sort of thing, but after he took to writing poetry he changed extraordinarily. He wore very old clothes and didn't go in for shaving very much. In fact he took to looking rather a wreck."
Callaghan asked: "Did you meet Doria Varette?"
Maninway nodded.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I met her. She and Lionel used to gamble around town. I've met them at several places. Mostly at the Salem Club. I don't think Miss Varette was much of a gambler. I think that she used to do it to humour Lionel. Latterly he seemed rather impossible. First of all he drank a great deal too much and then he gave that up and I'm afraid he began to dabble a little in drugs. I've heard Doria Varette and Lionel having arguments in corners about that. It seemed the cause of a certain amount of trouble between them. I had an idea that she had some sort of pull where Lionel was concerned."
Callaghan asked: "What about Milta? Where did Milta come in?"
Maninway shrugged his shoulders.
"Milta Haragos is just a bore," he said. "A lady-killer. He's the usual sort of boorish White Russian who has a certain appeal for a certain sort of woman. He's got some money. He gambles. He's a good gambler. I've heard it said that he's helped people out of bad spots once or twice, lent or given them money, when they've been broke. I must say that I've never found him particularly generous. When D'Ianazzi went broke at the Salem Club Haragos put up the money to save him. But that wasn't generosity. That was business. And very good business too. The place used to be a little gold mine. There was about two or three thousand changed hands there every night and the cagnotte took ten per cent of the stakes. You can work it out for yourself that even if expenses were high there was a certain amount of good money in it."
"Does D'Ianazzi run the Salem Club now?" asked Callaghan.
"Not personally," said Maninway. "I believe he supervises the place for Milta Haragos, but there's another fellow—he seems quite a decent sort of chap—a foreigner of some sort who came here from America—named Salkey. At least that's what he's called. He actually runs the place."
"And they still play there?" asked Callaghan.
"More than ever," said Maninway with a smile. "People have got to do something—even if there is a war on."
Callaghan said: "You say this Salkey is a decent sort of chap. That means that he's been decent to you. I imagine you've taken people there to play and that Salkey's paid you for your trouble."
"Something like that," said Maninway. "One doesn't like doing that sort of thing of course, but one has to live."
He produced the thin gold cigarette case, took a fresh cigarette.
Callaghan sat down in his arm-chair. He put out a long arm and raked in the rye bottle. He poured out a good four fingers and drank it neat. He looked sideways at Maninway. He asked:
"What times do they play at the Salem Club?"
"It depends," said Maninway. "It depends on who wants to go there and whether there's an air raid on. If there's an alert quite a lot of people go there—especially women. They'd rather do that than sit in a shelter. Gamblers are sensitive people"—he smiled a little deprecatingly—"they'd rather gamble and take their minds off things. If there's no alert people trickle in there about eleven or twelve o'clock. There's quite a small crowd there by say, one o'clock, and play goes on until about three. They finish, usually, round about four o'clock."
"I see," said Callaghan. "Thanks, Maninway. It's been very interesting."
Maninway got up. He picked up his hat. He stood, holding his hat by the brim, looking at Callaghan. He was smiling a little. He said:
"I suppose I can touch for that twenty now—or is it to be fifty?"
Callaghan said: "Fifty, I think. Yes... it's going to be worth fifty."
Maninway sighed.
Callaghan went on: "But you'll have to earn it, I'm afraid." He looked at Maninway and smiled.
Maninway said: "Earn it? I don't understand."
Callaghan helped himself to another shot of rye. He said evenly:
"To-night—or rather to-morrow morning—I want you to drop into the Salem Club. Quite casually, you know. Perhaps you'd better ring up first and say you're coming. You might tell Salkey that you're coming and that you want to talk to him. Something that you aren't keen on discussing on the telephone."
Maninway said: "I'm fearfully sorry. But I'm engaged to-night."
Callaghan went on as if he had not heard.
"You'd better arrive there about three o'clock," he said. "You'll probably find me there. I shall be playing, I expect. But you won't take any notice of me. You'll make an opportunity to take Salkey on one side. You'll tell him that Santos D'Ianazzi's been pulled in for killing Doria Varette. You'll tell him that the police are very interested in D'Ianazzi, that he hasn't a passport, and that the Cuban Legation don't like him very much and don't seem very concerned about him. They go so far as to say they don't know him.
"Remember all that. That's what you've got to tell Salkey. Have you got that?"
"Yes," said Maninway. "But as I was..."
Callaghan said: "By this time I imagine that Salkey will be interested. You will then point out to him that there's somebody playing at the Salem—myself—who has been put in to do a little snooping. You can go so far as to suggest that I'm working on the D'Ianazzi case for one of the Intelligence Sections. That sounds much more frightening these days than Scotland Yard. You can tell Salkey that so far as character is concerned I'm pure poison, that I'm out to get a pinch and that I'm going to frame somebody as an accomplice to D'Ianazzi, and that the idea is that I frame him. You can then go home and sleep in peace, and if you like to call in at the office downstairs to-morrow morning Miss Thompson will give you fifty pounds."
Maninway said easily: "I'm fearfully sorry, but I don't think I can do what you ask. It isn't really my line of country, you know. I don't do that sort of thing. Really."
"I know," said Callaghan. "I know you don't do that sort of thing. The sort of thing you do is to play tame cat to some discontented woman, and when her husband gets a little bit suspicious you put the screw on her and collect a little money; or you take young women to dubious places of entertainment after they've had a drink or two and then put the screws on them. But you're going to do this job, and if you want a good reason I'll give it to you."
Maninway said: "I'm always interested in what you say."
Callaghan said amiably: "Eighteen months ago Mrs. Harveleur asked us to try and find the young man or men who'd lifted her diamond bracelet. She'd been rolled for it. It was the old 'Mayfair' technique. A couple of charming young men took her out to supper one night, and afterwards on to some card place. They finished off at one of the young men's flats somewhere in the Clarges Street area. Somebody put some knock-out drops in her drink and she passed out. When she woke up next morning her bracelet was gone.
"We found out who'd fixed the business. She instructed us to drop it when we reported that her own nephew, young Vale-Lettersley, was behind the job. The other two lads were both friends of yours, Maninway."
Maninway said: "Possibly. But I'm not responsible for my friends." His smile was still quite charming.
"Granted," said Callaghan. "But we know who sold the bracelet. We know who fixed to have the stones cut and re-set. Blooey Stevens did the re-cutting, and you got rid of the bracelet. There isn't any need to argue about it. I don't like arguments. You're either going to do as you're told or you can have what's coming to you. Mrs. Harveleur died two months ago, and I think her executors would be interested in the story if we liked to resuscitate it. That bracelet was worth an easy fifteen thousand. But you do just as you like, Maninway."
Callaghan put his feet up on the mantelpiece. He groped for the rye bottle, found it, poured out another stiff shot. He drank it with obvious pleasure.
Maninway said: "All right. I think I'll be able to do what you want."
"Excellent," said Callaghan. "You know your piece?"
"I've a good memory," said Maninway. "I remember what you said."
"Good," said Callaghan. "And don't make a mistake, will you? I'd hate you to do that."
"No," said Maninway. "I won't make a mistake. I'll call in the morning for the money. Well... au revoir...."
He went out quietly.
V.
The Chinese clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. Callaghan got out of the arm-chair, went to the telephone. He dialled a Holborn number. When the connection was made he said:
"Is that you, Bale? This is Mr. Callaghan. Just get around to the Priory Club and find someone who plays at the Salem Club, near Fitzroy Square. Somebody who's hard up and wants to earn a fiver. It's quite simple. All they have to do is to take me there, introduce me and get out. I don't mind if I lose a tenner or so. You got that?
"Tell whoever it is to meet me at the Zouave Club in Dover Street at twelve o'clock. Tell 'em what I look like. I'll be wearing a dark overcoat and a black hat.... All right."
He hung up and began to undress. He walked about the sitting-room and bedroom, shedding clothes. He was intrigued with a new line of thought.
When he was undressed he walked into the sitting-room, rang down to Service, told them to call him at eleven o'clock. He got into bed, smoked one cigarette, went to sleep.
IX. — THEY GET TOUGH SOMETIMES
I.
THE house telephone began to jangle. Callaghan woke up, yawned, looked at the ceiling. He was annoyed at being awakened. He had been dreaming, a process which seldom occurred to him and was therefore appreciated when the dream was as good as the one he had experienced.
He thought that the business of getting out of bed, of dressing, of going out, talking to people, trying to find out things, was boring.
The house telephone continued to ring. The noise began to get on Callaghan's nerves. He put his arms behind his head and thought about Leonore. He began to smile. He wondered if he would be at all interested in the whereabouts of Lionel Wilbery if it were not for Leonore. He thought he would not. Then he remembered Mrs. Wilbery's thousand-pound cheque.
He thought he would.
He leaned out of bed, collected the water carafe from the bed table, threw it at the house telephone. The instrument ricochetted off its table, fell to the floor. But the receiver was still in place. It continued to ring. Callaghan accepted the omen. He got up.
He went into the bathroom, took a warm shower, dressed. He went into the sitting-room, sat in front of the fire, with a bottle of Canadian rye in one hand and a glass in the other. After three stiff doses of the rye he began to feel almost human. He put the bottle and the glass on the floor, his feet on the mantelpiece. He thought about Maninway and his conversation.
People were funny when they tried to tell you things, thought Callaghan. With the best will in the world they always left out the most important thing, the thing you were trying to get at. Then quite casually, two or three weeks later, when they were not even thinking about it, they would tell you accidentally. He yawned. Life was like that. Nobody ever said what they wanted to say, did what they wanted to do. There were not sufficient nuances either in life or language.
