Complete works of peter.., p.279
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 279
And Varette had been "put in." Had agreed to be put in. Had agreed to take a chance. Well, she had taken the chance. And she had seen the job through. Even although she did not know that she had seen it through. Whether she knew it or not, it was because of her that what would happen to Milta, to Sabine, to D'Ianazzi, to Salkey and Wulfie, would happen. Through her and the "unscrupulous" Mr. Callaghan—with Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall hovering placidly in the background, marshalling his forces, putting in Varette and then, at the crucial moment, when something had to be done quickly, when guerilla tactics had to be used, throwing Varette at Callaghan, "putting in" Callaghan as a reinforcement for Varette.
But Milta was a specialist in the eleventh commandment. Milta knew that unless D'Ianazzi talked he was safe. Possibly D'Ianazzi was not able to talk, possibly D'Ianazzi did not know enough to talk. Maybe the pointed-toe Santos had been merely a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, a professional thug put in and paid to do a killing when it was required.
Gringall had traced the notes that Callaghan had planted on Doria Varette, the notes that Nikolls had taken from the unconscious Cuban. Those notes had come from Milta. It was obvious that this was what Gringall had meant. But even this fact constituted no proof. Milta had been financing D'Ianazzi. Milta was the man who was financing D'Ianazzi at The Dene, at the Salem Club and probably at other places. That, Milta would say, in his loud and hearty voice, was the explanation of the two thousand pounds. He would laugh at the suggestion that the money was the consideration for the killing of Varette—which in fact it was.
Callaghan began to think about Doria Varette as a woman. She was a beauty, he thought. It was not right that she should be lying under the earth with her beauty food for worms. The stiletto was not a meet end for a woman who looked like Varette.
But she had taken the chance. She had done her part of the job, and he, Callaghan, would carry it on to its logical conclusion.
Its logical conclusion.... Callaghan grinned as he swerved the Jaguar round a bend. He knew what that logical conclusion was. Milta must die.... Milta, and possibly Sabine, must die. They must die because Varette had died. And because there was no proof, they must die for something they had not done. A grim jest, thought Callaghan. One that suited his mood at the moment. A delightful idea that, the idea of Milta dying for something he had not done.
He reduced the speed of the Jaguar. He spat the dead cigarette from between his lips, fumbled for another with one hand, found it, lit it. He settled back in the driving seat and pushed the accelerator down hard.
His mind was made up.
II.
Nikolls was lying back in Callaghan's chair. His feet were on Callaghan's desk. A Lucky Strike drooped from between his lips. On the floor, by his side, was the remains of the bottle of Canadian rye, extracted from Callaghan's desk drawer.
The office clock said three-twenty when Callaghan came in. Nikolls moved his feet. He got up ponderously. He said:
"Jeez... but you musta got a ripple on. You musta done sixty most of the way!"
"I did," said Callaghan. He put his hand out for the bottle. He took a long swig, put the bottle down on the desk. He lit a cigarette. Nikolls noticed that his eyes were rimmed with the dark patches of fatigue.
"Listen," said Callaghan. "You go out and find Willie the Lace. And don't come back without him. He used to live somewhere in the New Cut. You'll find his address on Effie's card index. You go out and get him. Bring him back here quick. Keep him here until I get back. Have you got that?"
Nikolls said: "O.K." He put on his hat. He went out. He moved as quickly and as quietly as big men can—when they want to.
Callaghan went round the desk, sat down in his chair. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings. His mouth was dry and acid. He was tired as death.
He got up, went into the outer office. He opened the cabinet in the corner, took out a bottle of eau-de-cologne used by Effie Thompson. He poured it over his hands, rubbed it into his thick hair. The spirit stung his scalp, brought a feeling of freshness.
He went out of the office, down in the lift, out to the Jaguar. He got in, drove slowly round to Welbeck Street.
He stopped the car outside Leonore Wilbery's apartment block. He pushed open the main doors, walked along the passage. He rang the bell marked "Night Porter" and waited.
After nearly ten minutes the lift came up from the basement. The porter got out. Callaghan looked at him. He was a broad-shouldered man of forty-five. On his coat were four medal ribbons.
Callaghan said: "My name's Callaghan. I've been sent here by Miss Leonore Wilbery. She lives here, doesn't she?"
"Yes," said the night porter. "No. 9... on the first floor."
Callaghan went on: "She's asked me to get a book from her bookcase. She wants me to take it to her at Deeplands. I'm going there to-morrow."
The night porter shook his head. He said decisively:
"I'm sorry, sir, I couldn't let anything go out of Miss Wilbery's flat without authority from her. If you could get her to telephone me or——"
Callaghan said: "I don't want to argue about it. The matter's urgent. Are you going to let me have the book?"
The night porter began: "I'm sorry, sir..." He stopped abruptly when Callaghan hit him under the jaw. He subsided on the floor by the lift entrance.
Callaghan dragged him into the lift. He went up to the first floor. He stopped the lift, opened the gates, pulled the inert night porter into the passageway. He took off the man's key chain, walked along to No. 9, opened the door, went in. He came out three minutes later. Under his arm was Lionel Wilbery's manuscript.
The night porter was beginning to stir. His eyelids were flickering a little. Callaghan flashed his electric torch on the man's eyes. After a minute they opened. Callaghan smacked the night porter gently across the face—two or three times. He said:
"I'm sorry about this. But I had to have that book. You'll find it's quite all right. I'll get my office to send you round a couple of pounds some time to-morrow. Good-night."
He got into the lift. Went downstairs.
He drove back to the office.
III.
The office clock said it was four-fifteen. Nikolls came into the office with another man. Callaghan was asleep, with his feet on his desk. He woke up when they came in.
The man behind Nikolls was a short, slim man. He was about five feet four in height. He had a thin, clever, attractive, clean-shaven face. He was well-dressed. A small diamond tie-pin glittered in an expensive tie. His hands were encased in expensive gloves. He carried a black Homburg hat in his hand, and his sleek black hair was pomaded.
Nikolls said: "I got him. I was damn' lucky. He was goin' away to-morrow."
Willie the Lace smiled at Callaghan. He showed a nice set of teeth that were studded with platinum stoppings.
Willie the Lace was in the front rank of forgers. He was an expert penman. He had served, in all, fifteen years of his life in prison. Willie the Lace's banknotes had given more trouble to the Bank of England and the police than those of any expert. He was a supreme craftsman. He was very proud of it.
Callaghan fished out his wallet. He took from it two fifty-pound notes. They were the two fifty-pound notes that Santos D'Ianazzi had given him on the occasion of their first meeting. He said:
"There's a hundred pounds in this job, Willie. And no strings. You'll never be pulled in for what you're going to do now. I give you my word. You're as safe as houses. And it's an easy job."
Willie the Lace shrugged his shoulders. He said:
"A hundred's a hundred... hey? Dough don't come too easy these days. People ain't flashin' money like they used to. If you say it's all right, it's all right. What's the job?"
Callaghan put his hand in his pocket. He brought out the letter "To Leo"—the letter he had taken from the tin box in the summer-house at Deeplands. He opened the envelope and took out the sheet of note-paper. He laid it on the desk. Willie the Lace came behind him, looked over his shoulder.
They read Lionel Wilbery's letter to his sister together:
It's no good, Leo dear. It just isn't any good. Life can be such a mess, can't it? In spite of us or because of us—1 don't know which. I'm in a hell of a jam. Varette has been riding me like hell, putting on the screw until I can't stand it any longer. I don't know what to do. I shall see Varette. I shall do the best I can. In any event I've got to find some way to finish this fearful business off—even if it brings disgrace on you and the family. I've got to do it.
Lionel.
Callaghan said: "The name 'Varette' is mentioned twice in this letter, Willie. I want it taken out. When you've taken it out in the two places you put another word in its place. A word of the same number of letters. Another name—'Haragos.'"
"I see," said Willie the Lace. "It's got to read: 'Haragos has been riding me like hell' in the one place, and in the other place it's got to read: 'I shall see Haragos.' Is that it... hey?"
"That's it," said Callaghan.
"That's easy," said Willie. "I could fake that handwritin' with my backside. It's like a kid's handwritin'. It's a cinch... hey?"
Callaghan said: "Get busy."
Willie the Lace took off his overcoat. He drew off his expensive gloves. His hands were very white, very well-kept. His fingers were very long and supple. Callaghan got out of his chair. Willie the Lace sat down and took a neat leather case out of his pocket. He opened the case, put it on the desk before him. It contained seven pens, a little folder containing nine nibs—all manufactured by Willie—three small bottles of graded isinglass, a little bottle of acid.
He pulled Callaghan's desk lamp closer. He took a small camel-hair brush from the case, dipped it in water from one bottle, acid from another. He put the brush down on the desk and began to rub his hands. He rubbed them until they were warm. He took the acid-dipped brush and started work. Callaghan and Nikolls watched him. They watched the delicate sensitive fingers wielding the brush, using it like a pen, taking out the ink that spelt "Varette." They watched the writing disappear; they watched Willie use an isinglass brush to resurface the paper. They watched him select a nib, select one of sixteen little pills that, mixed with water, made the ink that matched that used by Lionel. They watched him take a piece of Callaghan's note-paper and write the word "Haragos." He went on writing the word until nobody—not even Lionel, thought Callaghan—could have known that Lionel had not written it.
IV.
Willie the Lace—his hundred pounds in his pocket—had gone away. Callaghan said:
"Did you listen-in on the call from Sabine? Did she come through?"
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "She called through all right, but it wasn't any good. She was speakin' some foreign language. An' he never said a thing except a word here an' there."
"It doesn't matter," said Callaghan. "Get on the line to Gringall. I'll give you his number. I want to speak to him. It's urgent."
Nikolls went into the outer office. Callaghan could hear him dialling. He lit a cigarette. Leaned his elbows on the desk, rested his head on his hands. The cigarette smoke went into his eyes, making them smart. He cursed, threw the cigarette into the fireplace.
Two or three minutes passed. Then he heard Nikolls talking. Nikolls came into the office. He said:
"He's on the line."
Callaghan picked up his telephone. He said:
"Gringall, is that you? This is Callaghan. I'm in London. Listen to this: Listen carefully. You've got the Haragos where you want 'em. It's easy."
Gringall said: "Is it? How is it easy?"
Callaghan said: "I've got the book of poems. I don't suppose it's any good to you. I don't suppose any one on earth could work out the code. But that doesn't matter. You've got 'em on something else. Milta killed Lionel."
Gringall said: "The devil he did. It sounds as if you've got something. Tell me some more."
Callaghan said: "Leonore Wilbery told me that when she and Lionel were kids they used to leave notes for each other in a summer-house at Deeplands. I took a look. Lionel left a note for her a day or so ago, probably the next day after he'd been down there to see her and try and raise money. I've got the note. In it he says that Haragos has been riding him like hell, that he's got to do something, that he's going to see Haragos again. He went to see Haragos. They had a row about something. I think that Lionel threatened that he was going to blow the works and tell the truth—for once. Haragos, after that interview told Sabine, and let the servants know, that Lionel had said he was going to commit suicide. That was a plant. Haragos had made up his mind to finish Lionel.
"After I'd found the note I slipped down a gully at Deeplands—in the aground. I fell over what's left of Lionel. He'd been shot at close range. He'd got a piece of tree in one hand. It looks to me as if Haragos, having started the rumour that Lionel was going to commit suicide, had waited for him. He knew he'd go back to Deeplands and he knew the way he'd go. Lionel had picked up the piece of tree to try and defend himself when he saw that Milta was going to get tough."
Gringall said: "Nice work, Slim... nice work... if we could hang a murder charge on Haragos.... Did you see anything that looked like evidence?"
Callaghan paused as if he were thinking.
"There's a bullet in Lionel's head," he said. "There's no exit hole. That's all, I think.... It was pretty wet in the gully."
Gringall said: "Perhaps we can find the gun. Perhaps Haragos has got the gun. But I expect he'd get rid of it."
"He'll try," said Callaghan. "I've had Nikolls planted round at Haragos' place. Sabine came through with a frenzied telephone call in Russian. Maybe Milta will get the wind up and do something silly."
"I doubt that," said Gringall. "That bird's as cool as an icehouse...."
"Why don't you pick him up?" said Callaghan. "Why don't you pick him up and tell him that Salkey and Wulfie, to save their own skins, have blown the gaff, that they've admitted that D'Ianazzi killed Varette, that they've admitted that D'Ianazzi killed Varette on Milta's instructions; that the two thousand that came off D'Ianazzi came from Milta. Why don't you try that one on him...?"
Gringall said: "I'm a police-officer. I can't do that sort of thing."
Callaghan said: "I'm not a police-officer and I can. I'm going round to see Milta. It's nearly five o'clock now. Give me a break until five-thirty and then pull him in."
Gringall said: "You've got your nerve. All right. I'm going to get a rush call through to the Somersetshire Constabulary. I'll get the Chief Constable to send out right away to Deeplands and check on the fact that Wilbery's body's there—where you say it is. I'm going to take your word that you've got that letter from Lionel to his sister saying that Haragos is riding him; that he's going to see Haragos again. That's good enough for an arrest on suspicion. Who knows... we might find the gun. Perhaps Milta hasn't got rid of it. He doesn't know that Lionel's been found anyway. You go and see Haragos and try your bluff. I'll be along at five-thirty, but for God's sake be careful."
Callaghan grinned into the telephone.
"Why?" he asked. "You don't mean to tell me that you'd give a damn if Milta finished me off too?"
Gringall said: "Believe it or not I wouldn't like it. You've been such a damned nuisance during the past two or three years I might even miss you."
"Thank you for nothing," said Callaghan. "I'll be seeing you."
He hung up.
Nikolls lit a Lucky Strike. He struck a match on the seat of his trousers. He said:
"So we finally found Lionel?"
Callaghan nodded. He said:
"You don't think that Milta would have taken a run-out? You think he'll still be there?"
"Sure," said Nikolls. "He had a meal waitin' for him at one o'clock. He sent the tray down on the service lift. Then he rang down to the night porter—my girl friend—an' said he wanted to be called at eleven o'clock to-morrow; that he was goin' down to the country for two days."
Callaghan asked: "When he sent the tray down on the service lift, what was on it?"
"Just the tray," said Nikolls, "an' the day's newspapers. Milta has a lot of newspapers. He sent them down too."
"What happened to them?" asked Callaghan.
"My girl friend chucked 'em in the ash-can," said Nikolls. "All the bits of food that come down on the service lifts at Rufus Court go inta one ash-can for pig-food an' everything else goes inta the ordinary dustbins. They're collected every day."
Callaghan grinned.
"That's excellent," he said. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the .28 Spanish automatic, the gun with which Lionel had shot himself. He said: "You come along with me to Rufus Court. I'm going to see Milta. Somehow... I don't care how, you get at that dustbin. You get hold of the newspapers that Milta sent down. Put this gun inside the roll of newspapers and put it in the ash-can. Right at the bottom somewhere. D'you think you can do that?"
"I'll do it," said Nikolls. "Don't worry. What are we doin'? Hangin' something on Milta?"
Callaghan said: "We're being the hand of Justice for once. We're being Retribution. We're being all sorts of things...."
Nikolls grinned.
"That suits me," he said. "I been everything else so I might as well be the hand of Justice for once."
He put out his hand and took the pistol gingerly. He covered it with his handkerchief.
"Oughtn't this to have Milta's fingerprints on it?" he asked.
Callaghan shook his head.
"No," he said. "Milta would have cleaned them off... but it doesn't matter. The ammunition's in the clip... They'll check up with the bullet that's in Lionels head. They'll find the bullet came from that gun."
"The gun that Milta's gettin' rid of," said Nikolls. "I get it." He put the pistol in his pocket.
"Come on," said Callaghan. "Gringall will be there at five-thirty. We've got to work fast. I'll drop you off near Rufus Court. Can you get in by the tradesmen's entrance?"
