Complete works of peter.., p.274
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 274
He said: "Really, Carlo... I think we ought to be honest with Mr. Callaghan." He carried the open cigarette box over to Callaghan. He said in his mincing, high-pitched falsetto: "A cigarette, Mr. Callaghan?"
He began to draw his left hand out of his pocket. Callaghan, one hand in the cigarette box, saw, out of the corner of his eye, the shape of the knuckle-duster on Wulfie's knuckles, showing against the soft cloth of the trousers. He lifted up his knee and kicked Wulfie in the stomach.
Wulfie uttered a horrible little shriek. He slithered down on to the carpet. Callaghan stooped, picked up the cigarette box, threw it at Salkey who was going for his hip pocket. The box hit Salkey on the shoulder, knocked him off balance for a second. Just long enough for Callaghan to shoot out of the chair.
CaUagban landed on Salkey just as the pistol showed in his right hand. Callaghan got a grip on the arm, but Salkey brought his knee up. Callaghan gasped, fell sideways, but managed to trip Salkey as he fell. They went down on to the carpet together.
Callaghan was underneath. He had a grip on Salkey's, right arm but it wasn't good enough. Salkey had both thumbs on Callaghan's throat. Wulfie, over by the fireplace, began to make a nasty moaning noise. He was drooling saliva from the corners of his mouth. He got up on his hands and knees and began to crawl towards Salkey and Callaghan. He took a long time. Vaguely Callaghan could hear him mouthing obscenities.
Salkey tightened his grip on Callaghan's throat. The room began to go dark. Suddenly the telephone in the hallway began to ring.
The sound was so sudden, so startling, that for a split second Salkey's grip eased a little. Callaghan threw up his knees and twisted sideways. Salkey was thrown clear. Callaghan rolled over on him, smashed his bent elbow joint into Salkey's face. He heard the jaw crack. He rolled away, began to got up on to his knees.
Just behind him was Wulfie. Callaghan looked over his shoulder and saw the skin-tight, white face, with the white saliva drooling about the mouth.
Wulfie was in a bad way. One hand was pressed to his stomach where Callaghan had kicked him. But he was not "out." Callaghan thought that Wulfie had all the twisted courage of his type.
He put his weight on his right arm, drew back his left leg, kicked Wulfie in the face. Wulfie squealed like a dog that has been run over, subsided on the carpet.
Callaghan picked up the pistol, put it in his jacket pocket. Salkey was lying on the uninjured side of his face, one hand underneath his broken jaw. He looked vaguely surprised. Callaghan was almost surprised that he was not still smiling.
He got up, went into the hallway, took the receiver off the wall telephone, leaned against the wall. The hallway was going round and round. After a minute his head began to clear.
He said: "Hallo!"
"Hallo," Effie said. "Is that Mr. Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "Yes."
"I thought your voice sounded a little funny," she said.
Callaghan said: "Your voice would sound funny if you'd been doing what I've been doing. Did you get through to Grant?"
"Yes," said Effie. "He said he'd go and do that job at once."
"All right," said Callaghan. "That's fine. Thank you very much. Good-night, Effie. I hope you sleep well."
"I hope so too," said Effie . "There isn't much time left, is there?"
Callaghan hung up the receiver. He went back into the room and stood in the doorway. Wulfie had managed to crawl to the fireplace. He was lying with his head over the fender. He was vomiting.
Salkey had pulled himself over to the opposite wall. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, still supporting his injured jaw with a hand that was bloody.
Callaghan said: "The trouble with you bastards is you always start something you can't finish."
Salkey raised his head and looked at Callaghan. Callaghan had an instantaneous bet with himself that he would smile. He won it. Salkey smiled. The smile was not a very nice smile, but nevertheless it was a smile. He said out of the corner of his mouth:
"One of these days I'm going to get you, Mr. Callaghan."
Callaghan said cheerfully: "I'll take you six to four you don't. Perhaps you'd like to hear why. Listen..."
He went back into the hall, picked up the telephone. He dialled the Scotland Yard number, asked for the Information Room. Then he said:
"Is that the Information Room, Scotland Yard? Never mind who I am. If you like to send a Squad car round to the Salem Club in Fitzroy Square you'll find a couple of nice cases there. One of 'em's a fellow called Wulfie, the other a Carlo Salkey. There's been a little trouble round here. I think you ought to pick 'em up."
The voice at the other end asked why.
"I think Mr. Gringall would like to have a word with them to-morrow morning," said Callaghan. "You might tell him that Carlo Salkey has been running the Salem Club for Santos D'Ianazzi, the man he's holding as a suspect in the Varette murder. I think he'd like to hold these two as well."
The voice said: "Would Mr. Gringall know who you are, by any chance?"
Callaghan grinned.
"When you give him that message," he said, "he'll know."
X. — OF RHYME AND REASON
I.
CALLAGHAN stood leaning against the pillar box that stands in one corner of Fitzroy Square, looking uncertainly into the darkness. His head ached. The glands of his neck were still throbbing from the impact of Salkey's fingers.
He remained leaning against the pillar box for two or three minutes. The "All Clear" sounded. For some unknown reason the cheerful note had a tonic effect on Callaghan. He pushed himself away from the pillar box, began to walk towards Berkeley Square. By the time he arrived he felt almost human.
He went into the building, walked along the corridor to the night porter's office. Wilkie, his peaked cap over one eye, was busy studying a handbook of racing form. Callaghan said:
"Good-morning, Wilkie."
"Good-morning, Mr. Callaghan," said Wilkie. "Nasty raid to-night, wasn't it? And you look as if you've had a bit of trouble yourself."
"I have," said Callaghan. "Have you a note for me?"
Wilkie said he had. He produced a sealed envelope, handed it to Callaghan.
"A gentleman by the name of Grant left it," he said. "He asked me to give you his kind regards."
Callaghan took the envelope, walked along to the lift. He got out at his apartment floor, opened the door, went in. He threw his hat and overcoat on the settee, walked across to the sideboard, opened a fresh bottle of rye. He put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and drank nearly a quarter of a pint. He stood leaning against the sideboard, holding the bottle by the neck, shuddering. He felt a lot better.
He opened the envelope and read the note from Grant. It said:
The Zayol Press isn't really in Curzon Street. It's on the corner of Winter Place and the back end of Shepherd Market. If you go through the courtway out of Curzon Street and turn right, then through Lime Alley, right at the end is a wall. Over that wall is a back yard. This door leads to a kitchen which is behind the Zayol Press store-room.
The door was so easy I did it with a cold chisel while I was there. You only have to turn the handle. On the other side of the kitchen is the door leading to the store-room. I left this alone. There are no burglar alarms and the air-raid wardens aren't interested because there's no one in the place at night.
I wore gloves while I was doing the outside door. I left no prints."
Callaghan took out his lighter and burned the note. He threw the charred remains into the wastepaper basket, took off his collar and tie, went into the bathroom, washed. He put on a fresh collar and tie, went back into the sitting-room. He put on his overcoat and hat, went downstairs to the office floor. He selected a bunch of spider keys from a drawer in his desk and went out.
II.
Shepherd Market was quiet and very restful to the nerves, thought Callaghan. He took a quick look up and down Curzon Street, moved quickly through the passageway into Shepherd Market, turned into the alley, walked to the end. He put on his gloves, caught the top of the wall, pulled himself up. He dropped down on the other side. A few paces ahead was the blue door.
He pushed it open, went in, closed it quietly behind him. He was in complete darkness. He switched on his electric torch, walked across the kitchen, took the small bunch of spider keys from his pocket. The seventh one opened the door.
He was in the store-room of the Zayol Press. There were no windows. He closed the door, switched on the electric light. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and in one corner were one or two large packing cases. Most of the shelves were filled with books, paper jacketed, all of them new. Callaghan took one or two down, looked at them casually. Mostly they were books of poetry, slim volumes filled with the sort of stuff that young men and women are inclined to write before they reach the age of common sense; the sort of books that get published if one is prepared to pay three-quarters of the cost of publication.
Callaghan replaced the books carefully, crossed the room, tried the door on the other side. It was open. He walked through the little passage and up the circular flight of iron stairs that led to the floor above. At the top of the iron stairway was another door. Callaghan opened it, went in. It was the first-floor office of the Zayol Press.
The room was small, contained more bookshelves, two desks, a typewriter, a collection of papers. Callaghan began a systematic search. He found nothing that interested him until he started work on the desk. In the lower right-hand drawer he found the rough lay-out of a jacket intended for a book of poetry. The title was "Sea Songs," by Lionel Wilbery.
The inside flap of the jacket bore a rough typewritten blurb containing the usual information that such blurbs give—"Lionel Wilbery—a coming poet... unique rhythm... will appeal to all modern minds." Inside the jacket were two or three typewritten pages. They were poems. Most of them dealt with some angle of the sea. They were the sort of poems that young men who want to write about the sea, write about the sea.
Callaghan read them very carefully. He thought that as a poet Lionel Wilbery was not so bad. He replaced the papers in the drawer, closed it.
He examined the other desk. None of the drawers were locked, and the books inside, which dealt with the business of the Zayol Press, gave the usual information that one expected to find in the books of a publishing firm. There was one incongruity. Most of the business seemed to be export.
Callaghan put the books back carefully in their places. His eye was caught by a cupboard in the corner of the room. It was locked. It took him two minutes to open it. Inside were a series of letter files marked alphabetically. Callaghan took out the one labelled "W." He looked through it.
There was a letter to Lionel Wilbery dated two months back. It said:
Dear Mr. Wilbery,
I have had a word with Miss Haragos and she says there is no doubt that we shall be pleased, with your consent, to publish your book of poems within the next two months.
There is only one outstanding point, which is that Miss Haragos has suggested some alterations in several of the poems. I am sending you a note of these alterations and hope you will approve.
Miss Haragos tells me she handed the original MS. back to you. She suggests you return it as soon as possible."
The letter was signed by a Bettina Clarke—"For Zayol Press Ltd."
Callaghan put the file back into the cupboard, locked it. He went back to the desk, sat down and lit a cigarette. He remained there until the cigarette was almost finished. He stubbed out the end in the ash-tray on the desk, was about to put the stub in his overcoat pocket. Then he grinned and put it in the ash-tray. He went out of the office, down the iron steps, through the store-room and the kitchen, out of the blue door. He did not even bother to close the door behind him.
III.
The Chinese clock on the mantelpiece of Callaghan's sitting-room struck six. He heard the chimes vaguely, as if they came from a long way away.
His head ached with a dull steady throbbing, punctuated by the sharper pain of neuralgia. He walked slowly up and down the length of his bedroom, the floor of which was strewn with clothes he had shed. He was dressed only in his undervest and shorts. He held one sock in his hand. He wore the other, and the unfastened suspender dragged behind him as he walked.
His tongue was rough. Callaghan thought about the condition of his mouth. He thought it felt like a rather nasty brown carpet. He sighed, went into the sitting-room.
Daylight, he considered, was a nice change. Looking out of the window, towards Berkeley Square, he could see the sun making a brave effort to appear. He considered it might easily be a nice day, qualified the idea with the thought that it did not matter a damn anyway.
People were fools. When they were not fools they were either entirely idiotic, unintelligent, quite senseless or merely stupid. Some people were.
Salkey was definitely senseless, so was Wulfie. If Salkey had not been stupid at the right moment, if Wulfie had not gone utterly crazy they might have got away with it. And Salkey accused him, Callaghan, of bluffing!
He began to grin. The thought pleased him. He went over to the sideboard, took out the rye bottle, put the neck in his mouth and took a long swig. The raw liquor made him shudder but the process of shuddering was tangible. He liked it.
And Salkey had accused him of bluffing....
Life was mostly a matter of bluff—so far as a private detective was concerned. Bluff was one of the main items in the stock-in-trade of a private detective. Bluff and an ability to discount the intelligence of other people at the right valuation. Life was a matter of discounting the intelligence of other people, of valuing it, almost as precisely as a bill broker considered the discount value of a bill. A nice simile, thought Callaghan.
He continued that process of thought with a certain satisfaction. He began to think about the people in the Wilbery case, to discount their intelligences or their intelligence—if any.
He took them in order; in the order of their appearance...! Characters in the order of their appearance.... What a programme! First, Miss Doria Varette—played by Miss Doria Varette alias somebody or other. One would probably never know what lay on the other side of that alias. Miss Varette was intelligent enough. Intelligent enough to play her part right up to the time when the ghostly prompter had suggested that it was time that she made her exit. Callaghan thought that she had probably made her exit rather gracefully. Doria Varette had been intelligent enough....
He thought rather sadly that he had possibly let her down. Callaghan Investigations did not like letting their clients down—not unless they wanted to. And he had not wanted to let her down. He apologised mentally....
Enter Mr. Gringall. George Henry Porteous Gringall. Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall. Product of the Metropolitan Police Force, of the flat heavy boot on the pavement, of the four years as a constable, of the five years as a station Sergeant, the three years as an Inspector—with all the probing into the raw side of life that only a police Inspector knows; of the three years as a Detective-Inspector; of the two years as a Chief Detective-Inspector. And the last step had come over the Riverton case. Callaghan smiled at the thought of the Riverton case. He had helped in that promotion and Gringall had a long memory. Callaghan remembered the Riverton case and Gringall and Thorla Riverton.... A hell of a woman Thorla—even if she had not given him a cigarette case! Maybe what she had given him was a trifle more valuable even if slightly less tangible....
And Salkey had said he was bluffing! Callaghan took another swig at the rye bottle and drank a silent toast to the god Bluff. It was because of the god Bluff that Gringall had thrown Doria Varette at Callaghan Investigations, knowing that Callaghan Investigations would catch her as Gringall had meant, because of that ability to bluff that is the main part of the stock-in-trade of a private detective and is no part—because it may not be—of the stock-in-trade of a policeman.
Here's to the art of bluff. The heavy bluff, or the sinister bluff, or the threatening bluff, or the merely suggestive bluff, or the bluff with the crooked elbow behind it.
Enter Mr. Santos D'Ianazzi. Clever Mr. D'Ianazzi. Cute Santos. Intelligent. Certain that what was behind him was adequate. So certain that he could afford to bluff with a hundred pounds. Walking easily and prettily on his way in his pointed patent shoes, in his beautifully cut suits and his horizontally striped silk shirts that came from a Paris that could, in those days, specialise in such things. Poor Mr. D'Ianazzi. Poor Santos. Who had been sold out by the god of chance in spite of his intelligence. Callaghan had wondered about his exit....
Enter Leonore Wilbery. A clear stage for the lady please. She deserves it. Intelligent? As intelligent as is good for a woman who looked like Leonore. Trying hard to use that intelligence, finding it not so good against the "stings and arrows of outrageous fortune," throwing it overboard, sacrificing it at the bidding of a couple of marihuana cigarettes and the subconscious groping of a woman for something stronger to lean on. Which was Mr. Callaghan, whose speciality was bluff, and on whose ability to use that standard commodity she was now relying.
Up stage please, Leonore... make room for the big double turn—Miss Sabine Haragos, Mr. Milta Haragos. Hetman of Cossacks Haragos. Big, burly, handsome Milta Haragos. Intelligent? Yes. Clever? Yes... damned clever... yes. Oh yes... damnably clever... bloody clever, thought Callaghan. Who dies if the Haragos live? A green, a sinister lime on the double turn please. Thank you, Mr. Electrician! And now a steel-blue lime on Sabine to bring out the lights of that flat beauty, those slitted eyes, that sinuous grace.
Callaghan put the rye bottle down on the sideboard. He went into the bedroom and put on a dressing-gown. He threw away the dragging suspender, inserted his feet into slippers. He went out of the flat and into the lift.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. If you have bluff, prepare to use it now, thought Callaghan.
