Complete works of peter.., p.278
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 278
And that was that.
Callaghan put his handkerchief on the ground by the side of Lionel and knelt on it. He put on his gloves. He began to search through the pockets. There was nothing.
He got up and stood, the light from the torch shining through his fingers.
The pistol was still gripped in Lionel's right hand. He had shot himself through the right side of the head. Just behind the temple. Callaghan put his gloved hand underneath the head and moved it a little. There was no exit hole for the bullet. So the bullet was still in the head.
Very gently Callaghan moved the head back to its original position. Then he started on the grisly business of getting the pistol out of Lionel's right hand. The spasm of death had loosed the grip on the butt a little, but the hand and fingers were stiff in rigor mortis. It took ten minutes work to get the pistol free.
He looked at it. It was a .28 Spanish automatic. Callaghan slipped out the ammunition clip and examined it. There were nine cartridges left in the clip, which took ten. Lionel had used one on himself. The rest of the ammunition was intact. Callaghan smiled a little.
He sat down on the tree stump with his back to the body. He picked up his damp and muddy handkerchief, and with a fairly clean corner of it began to clean the butt of the pistol, to remove Lionel's fingerprints. When he had finished he sat, looking into the darkness in front of him. He was grinning. He was beginning to get an idea... a whole lot of ideas... excellent ideas.
He got up. Walking carefully he moved away from the body along the gully. He put his feet carefully on the ground, making his footmarks as light as possible. He worked his way out of the gully and into the wood at the top. He switched on the torch, shading it carefully with his fingers. He began to search.
After five minutes he found what he was looking for. A short, broken branch of a tree, an excellent natural club. The very thing that a man about to be attacked, might pick up for his defence.
The moon had gone in. The wind had dropped. It began to rain. A storm was coming. The thought pleased Callaghan. Sufficient rain would turn the bottom of the gully into a morass of mud, would obliterate every mark of his descent and footsteps.
He returned to the body. He crouched by the side of it, forced the end of the broken branch into and between the stiff fingers of the right hand, the hand that had held the pistol.
He straightened up, put his torch into his pocket, walked out of the gully. The rain was beginning to descend in torrents. Callaghan, his overcoat soaked, walked quickly past the summer-house, through the coppice, through the flower garden, climbed over the wall, crossed the lawn, slipped into the house by the side entrance.
He went quickly and quietly to his room. He hung up his wet overcoat in the wardrobe, changed his lounge suit for another, put on fresh shoes. He put the damp clothes, the muddy shoes into a drawer and locked it. He took out a dark blue raincoat, put on his wet hat and went quietly down to the hall.
He stood there listening. There was not a sound. Deeplands was as quiet as a grave... as Lionel's grave—which was a gully. Callaghan went out quietly by the side door.
He walked round to the garage, pulled open the door, started up the Jaguar. He backed out on to the drive, swung the car round, drove down the drive on to the road.
IV.
Callaghan brought the Jaguar to a standstill at the telephone box on the main Taunton road. He went into the box, fumbled for sixpences and pennies, dialled "Operator," asked for the telephone number of Rufus Court, St. John's Wood.
He smoked nearly a whole cigarette while he was waiting for the number, hoping that there would be no Blitz in London at that moment to hold up telephone communication.
The operator said: "Here's your number."
Callaghan dropped the cigarette stub from his mouth.
He said: "Is that the night porter at Rufus Court?"
A hearty voice replied: "Yeah... it is... sort of.... What can I do for you?"
Callaghan grinned. It was Nikolls!
He said: "So you went back with the woman porter?"
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "What do you think? Anyway, you'd be wrong. I been hangin' round here because Milta is back. He rang down here an' told the porter he was expecting a telephone call. I stuck around to plug in on it. The calls have gotta go through the switchboard down here, see? A swell set-up. So I told the girl friend to take an hour off an' I'd look after things. She's a honey," said Nikolls. "She'd do anything for me... well... practically anything."
"All right," said Callaghan. "Well, you stay there. There's going to be a call coming through to Milta. The call will be from Sabine Haragos. She'll telephone Milta after I've seen her."
"When you gonna see her?" asked Nikolls.
"I'm going there now," said Callaghan. "I'm talking from a box on the Taunton road. Do you know where The Vale is?"
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "You can't miss it. Go back an' get on the Deeplands road. Go right past Deeplands an' take the first on the right. Half a mile along you come to The Vale. It's the only house an' it's white. A nice place."
"Thanks," said Callaghan. He looked at his wrist-watch. "It's just before twelve," he said. "I'm probably coming back to town to-night. With luck I'll get away pretty soon. I ought to be in London by about three-thirty. Stay where you are until three o'clock and then go back to the office and wait for me. Have you got that?"
"I got it," said Nikolls. "It sounds as if somethin' is happenin'. Maybe we're gonna find Lionel."
"You never know," said Callaghan.
He hung up.
V.
Callaghan turned into the driveway that led to the front door of The Vale.
The Vale, modestly described as a cottage, was a low rambling house, set in fair-sized grounds, standing back from the road. The house had atmosphere. Callaghan thought with a grin that Sabine—the artistic Sabine—had probably had the choosing of it.
He rang the bell and waited. The rain had stopped. The moon was coming up. Callaghan was glad that he would have the light of it for his drive back to London,
Two or three minutes went past. He rang the bell again. Eventually he heard the noise of a chain being taken off the door and the door unlocked. Then it opened. He found himself looking at a little old woman whose face reminded him of a wizened apple.
He said: "My name's Callaghan. It's very urgent that I should see Miss Haragos."
The old woman said: "She's in bed. I don't think she'd want to see any one."
"Maybe you don't," said Callaghan cheerfully. "All the same, I'm going to see her—one way or another. So you'd better get a ripple on."
The old woman muttered something under her breath. She turned away and disappeared into the dark recesses of the hall. Callaghan followed her, closed the door behind him.
He stood in the darkness for a minute or two, then produced his torch. He switched it on, found an electric switch, turned the hall light on. He sat down on a carved chair, lit a cigarette.
After a while the old woman reappeared. She said:
"Miss Haragos is coming down. She says, will you wait?"
Callaghan nodded. She went away.
He looked about him. The hall was large, furnished in good taste. Most of the furniture was old and the walls were decorated with trophies of one sort or another. On the wall opposite Callaghan there hung the high fur red-topped cap of a Cossack officer. He could see that the badge on the front—the old Imperial Russian Eagle—had been recently polished. Under the cap two Cossack knouts were suspended on the wall. Callaghan thought they were appropriate indications.
Sabine came down the wide stairway. Her flat, beautiful face was relaxed and smiling. She wore a long red silk Chinese coat embroidered with gold dragons. Her Medusa-like hair was tied with a red ribbon. Beneath the Chinese coat her long peach satin nightgown trailed over red satin sandals. He noted that her toe-nails were painted gold to-night instead of the red lacquer of their last meeting.
She stepped off the bottom stair. She walked across the hallway with one hand outstretched. Callaghan thought that Sabine was good... damned good.
She said: "So-o eet ees Mister Callagha-an.... The clever Callagha-an. The onscroopulous Callagha-an... steel looking for our poor Lionel...."
She held out her hand, Callaghan took it. He thought it was cold and felt rather like a damp fish. Her fingers glittered with rings. He wondered whether she had put them on for his benefit or whether she went to bed in them.
He said amiably: "I want to talk to you. I shan't keep you long. And I haven't much time, because I've a lot to do to-night."
"Co-ome thees wa-ay," said Sabine.
She led the way to a room off the hall. Callaghan followed her. The room was still warm and the embers in the fireplace were not yet dead.
She stood in front of the fireplace. She smiled at him. It was a long, slow smile. Callaghan thought she looked like a very attractive devil. He thought that under different circumstances Sabine might have been interesting, if dangerous, to know.
She said: "Alwa-ays, when you talk to me you ha-ave to go somewhere else—to do something else. I should like to talk to you—a lo-ong talk... one da-ay...."
Callaghan said: "Maybe you'll get the chance, Sabine. In the meantime I want you to tell me where Milta is. I've got to see him. I want to talk to him about Lionel."
"Milta ees in London," she said. "At the fla-at in Rufus Court. He will like to see you. He likes you. He will tell you anything you wa-ant to know."
"Excellent," said Callaghan.
They stood, looking at each other. She said:
"Well... my friend...?"
Callaghan said: "There's going to be a lot of trouble when we do find Lionel. There's going to be a lot of trouble about that book of poetry he wrote—the one you tried so hard to get."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I did not try so ha-ard, my friend," she said. "Why should I? I was interested in the book. I was gla-ad to help for eet to be published. Beyond that..." She shrugged her shoulders again.
"You're a damned liar," said Callaghan pleasantly. "And you know it, Sabine. And you know I know it. And you know I can't prove it. You wanted that book like the devil. Lionel pulled a fast one on you when he wouldn't hand it over unless Milta gave him some more money—enough money to make a getaway. But Milta wanted the book first, and he didn't know where it was. Neither of you knew until Leonore came here the other night and you got her to talk."
Sabine smiled.
"You spik so strangely, my friend," she said. "I don' understa-and when you say got her to ta-alk...."
"She was nervous and upset," said Callaghan. "You gave her marihuana cigarettes. Women always talk when they smoke reefers—especially when they're not used to them. I saw her afterwards, looking like nothing on earth and on the verge of hysterics. But let's skip that. It doesn't matter. She wouldn't give you the book and didn't tell you where it was."
Sabine said: "I thought you wa-anted to ta-alk about Lionel. What ees eet you wa-anted to know. You seem to know everything...."
"I know a lot," said Callaghan. "But there are one or two things I don't know. But they don't really matter. I've been wise to you for some time, Sabine."
"A-ah," said Sabine gently. "Wise Callagha-an... onscroopulous Callagha-an. Tell me, my friend, how a-are you wise to me?"
Callaghan grinned.
"You knew Leonore would bring me along to see you," said Callaghan. "You knew that when they thought that Lionel had really disappeared they'd fix for me to see you. Because you were his friend. And you were all ready for me, weren't you? Right through this case one thing has stuck out a mile. Every bit of information that showed that Varette was the person who started Lionel on drugs came from you. You told me. You told Leonore. Why? The answer is easy. You started Lionel on drugs."
She looked dreamy. She said:
"Did I? Pliz tell me why did I do tha-at?"
Callaghan laughed.
"You wouldn't know, would you?" he said.
He took out his cigarette case. Extracted a cigarette, lit it.
"The game is up, Sabine," he said. "You and Milta were on a good wicket. You'd never have been caught out except for one thing—just an odd chance. When I came out to The Dene, I ran into Santos D'Ianazzi. That wouldn't have meant a thing to me except that I'd met him the night before. I met him outside Doria Varette's flat. He'd gone round there in the black-out to see her. He was probably going to finish her off that night. But she was too quick for him. She slammed the door in his face, and when he came out he found me waiting for him. If I hadn't met D'Ianazzi then you might have got away with all this. In spite of the fact that you've been suspect for some time."
Sabine smiled.
"Suspect... what ees tha-at?" she said softly. "Een thees country you ha-ave to prove things, my friend."
"You're telling me," said Callaghan. "That's what the police were up against. They couldn't prove a thing, not one goddam thing. D'Ianazzi murdered Varette on your or Milta's instructions. She had to be murdered. Because Lionel had told her. So she had to be put out of the way quick before she could talk. If we could only have laid hands on D'Ianazzi, things would have been up with you. But he got away. You've been lucky, Sabine."
She said: "I do not oondersta-and you, my friend. I do-on't know wha-at you a-are talking about...."
Callaghan grinned to himself. Sabine was congratulating herself on the fact that D'Ianazzi had got away, that there was still no evidence. He said, lying glibly:
"I'm prepared to do a deal with you and Milta, Sabine. If you like to let me know where Lionel is well hang all of this on to him. We might even hang the Varette murder on to him."
She said: "Lionel keeled Varette. I am sure of tha-at. He ha-ated her. Lionel wa-as nevaire any good. He ca-ame to Deeplands and go-ot money from his sister. He ca-ame here and tried to get money from Milta. When Milta would not give him any he told Milta that he would keel himself. He said he would shoot himself. Milta to-old us afterwards. He to-old every one. All the serva-ants here—who are Engleesh—can pro-ove tha-at Milta to-old us tha-at Lionel had said he would keel himself. But of course he did not. Lionel did not ha-ave the courage to do that."
Marvellous, thought Callaghan. So Lionel had told Milta that he would kill himself. And Milta had told Sabine and others that Lionel intended to do this. Excellent, thought Callaghan.
He said: "Where do you think Lionel is now?"
Sabine shrugged her shoulders.
"He will be in hiding with so-ome wo-oman," she said. "Alwa-ays so-ome wo-oman will try and look after Lionel. He was like tha-at. I tried to look after heem.... I don't know where he ees. I don't care. Why should I?"
Callaghan said: "Quite. Well, I'll go and see Milta—some time to-morrow afternoon or evening. Perhaps he can help me."
"Perha-aps," said Sabine. "But when you ta-alk to heem, be more po-olite tha-an you ha-ave to me. He ha-as a queek temper. He would thra-ash you eef you are rude to heem."
"Quite," said Callaghan. He grinned at her. "I'll handle him with kid gloves," he said.
She yawned. She said:
"I am tired and I am bored. I do not wa-ant to ta-alk any more."
Callaghan said: "All right. Don't let's talk any more. Good-bye, Sabine."
She smiled. It was a sarcastic smile.
"Why not 'au revoir'?" she asked.
"Because it's not going to be au revoir," said Callaghan. "I shan't see you again. I shan't have the chance. The net's closing in, Sabine. And you'll look like a cold wet fish struggling at the bottom of it. A painted flat-faced fish. Your time's nearly up, Sabine."
She yawned again.
"Who says so-o?" she asked.
"I do," said Callaghan. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace, turned and walked out of the room. She heard the front door slam.
Sabine walked to the table and took a cigarette from a box. It was a thin, brown cigarette. She lit it, drew the smoke down into her lungs. She went to the telephone on the other side of the room. She asked for a Primrose-London number. She waited, smoking coolly.
When she got her number she began to talk. She talked quickly and quietly in Russian.
All the time she was smiling.
XII. — THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT
I.
THE Jaguar ate up the road. The speedometer was registering a steady sixty-five. Once or twice on taut corners the car had skidded sickeningly on the wet road surface. But Callaghan did not notice. His eyes were glued on the road ahead. Between his lips a dead cigarette tasted like dead cigarettes taste. He did not notice that either. His mind was busy with the eleventh commandment.
"Thou shalt not be found out." A nice commandment. A good commandment for all those people who specialise in breaking the other ten. A first-class commandment for people like Milta Haragos. And Milta was a specialist on the eleventh commandment. Milta, knowing what he was going to do, knowing what he was up against, had prepared the ground for action, had prepared his plan of campaign, as carefully as any wise general. Milta had known what he was up against. He had assessed the values of the M.I. Departments, of the Special Branch, of people like Gringall.
But one thing he had not prepared for—one person. He had not prepared for Doria Varette. He had not believed that the M.I. Departments, the Special Branch, the Gringalls of life, had ammunition like Doria Varette—the woman who had been "put in" to get next to Lionel Wilbery.
Callaghan imagined the scene of the "putting in" of Doria Varette. Gringall, sitting at his desk, drawing fruit on the blotting pad. On the other side of the desk, sitting in the big leather arm-chair—the best bit of furniture in Gringall's room—would be Varette. Varette, who was beautiful, and who had that indefinable something that gets over with any man, that something which makes a man who likes blondes fall for a brunette. Varette had allure and knew how to use it.
