Complete works of peter.., p.280
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 280
"That's O.K.," said Nikolls. "I got a good excuse for goin' back there..." He grinned at Callaghan. "An' don't worry about that gun," he said. "I'll plant it in the main ash-can—the big one that the Borough Council people clean out—the one that goes straight to the incinerator. The cops are sure to search that...."
V.
Callaghan stood in front of the door of Milta's flat waiting. When he heard the sound of it being opened he felt, for the first time in the Wilbery case, a slight feeling of excitement.
Miita stood in the hallway. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. He looked surprised. He said in his hearty voice:
"So... it is my friend Mr. Callaghan. So Mr. Callaghan is still looking for Lionel. I hope you find him. Come in."
Callaghan went in. He went into the sitting-room—a large well-furnished room. Milta closed the front door, came after him. He got a box of cigarettes, produced a bottle of vodka and two glasses from the sideboard. Callaghan was standing in front of the fireplace. He said:
"I don't want a drink. I don't want a cigarette. I just want to talk to you."
"Why not?" said Milta. "I like hearing people talk."
Callaghan said: "You think I've come here to do a deal with you about Lionel. I expect Sabine told you that all I wanted to do was to find Lionel. I expect she told you I thought I'd make a lot of money if I could find Lionel, because the family would probably want me to find evidence of some sort that might save Lionel from being tried for killing Doria Varette." He smiled at Milta. "The joke is," he said, "I don't have to worry. Lionel didn't kill Varette. We know who killed Varette."
Milta poured himself a glass of vodka. He drank it at one gulp. He smacked his lips. He looked at Callaghan happily, lit a cigarette.
"What do I care?" he said. "What does it matter to me who killed thees Varette woman?"
Callaghan said: "It's no good bluffing, Milta. We know D'Ianazzi killed Varette. We know D'Ianazzi did it on your orders. We know you paid D'Ianazzi two thousand pounds for killing Varette."
"Beautiful," said Milta heartily. "What imagination. So you know all thees things. Pah! You make me laugh."
Callaghan said: "We'll make you laugh before we're done with you. Maybe you've heard of two birds called Salkey—a reputed American—and his friend Wulfie—the pansy boy. They're under arrest. They've talked to save their own skins. They've said that D'Ianazzi killed Varette."
Milta shrugged his shoulders.
"What do I care what they say?" he said. "They may know that D'Ianazzi killed Varette, but I don't know what D'Ianazzi did. I gave D'Ianazzi money. Well..." he spread his hands. "I've been giving D'Ianazzi money for the last two years. D'Ianazzi was employed by me. He ran games for me. Maybe that is a crime in England but it is not a very beeg crime like murder. If D'Ianazzi killed Varette I suppose you will hang him. So——" he shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands again.
"You're pretty certain of yourself, aren't you, Haragos?" said Callaghan. "That means you know D'Ianazzi won't talk. I can understand that. Maybe D'Ianazzi's not so black as we think he is. Maybe D'Ianazzi's not a Cuban. Maybe he's an Italian who came to this country to do espionage work; who came to this country with a passport faked by his Government, with a Cuban visa on it. But he's been working for you. He's been working for you on the other business."
Milta poured another glass of vodka.
"So there is another business," he said. "How interestin'. You get better every moment, my friend Callaghan. Tell me about the other business."
"You wouldn't know, would you?" said Callaghan. "You wouldn't know about the Zayol Press, in which Sabine—your delightful sister—took such an interest. Marvellous idea that," said Callaghan, "publishing books of poetry for export, books in which the authors were assisted by Sabine. Sabine reconstructed the poems, and in her reconstruction the information you and she wanted to get out of this country was shown in code. You could even have a code message running through three different books, and there probably isn't an expert in the world who could decipher it.
"Most of the authors, I imagine," Callaghan went on, "didn't even know what was going on. But one did. Lionel Wilbery did."
Milta drew a deep breath of cigarette smoke. He began to smile.
"You got that poor weak bastard where you wanted him," said Callaghan. "Sabine got him so soaked in drugs he'd have done anything. You used the gaming houses run by D'Ianazzi as centres for picking up information.
"Then the Special Branch here put Varette in. Varette gave Lionel a chance. She told him she was wise to him. She gave him the chance of working for his country instead of working against it. Maybe he tried for a couple of days. Then Sabine got those long fingers of hers on Lionel again and Varette had to be put out of the way."
Milta said: "Mos' interesting. Marvellous! All you have got to do, my friend, is to prove it."
Callaghan grinned. He looked like a devil.
"We can't prove it," he said. "We're not even going to try. D'Ianazzi won't talk because, whatever he may be, he believes he's dying for his country. That's why you know D'Ianazzi won't talk. With D'Ianazzi hanged you'd be safe, excepting for one other person. If we found Lionel Wilbery he might talk. But you're not worrying about Lionel Wilbery."
Milta said: "For once you're correct, my friend. I don't think you'll ever find our leetle Lionel. I think our Lionel is dead. I think he found things a leetle too hot for him. He tol' me he was going to kill himself."
Callaghan said: "That's what you say. That's what you told Sabine. That's what you let the servants at The Vale hear—that Lionel was going to commit suicide. So that you could kill him and get away with that."
Milta said: "My friend, you are mad."
"Not very," said Callaghan. "Lionel went to see you after he'd seen his sister at Deeplands. You were at The Vale—everyone knew you were there. Lionel went to you for money. You wouldn't give it to him. He went off. You said he was going to commit suicide. You said he'd told you that, but he hadn't. He wrote a note to his sister. In that note he said you were riding him like hell, that he was going to see you again. He did see you again. We know where that meeting took place, Milta. We know what you did. You killed Lionel."
Milta said: "So that's your story." He laughed heartily. "You prove that, my friend. You try and make that story stick."
Callaghan said: "I've made it stick. By God, I have!"
There was a ring at the door. Then a knock—a peremptory knock. Callaghan walked across the sitting-room into the hallway. He said:
"I'm glad you had that meal last night, Milta. I'm glad you sent the tray down in the service lift. I'm glad you sent yesterday's newspapers down on the tray." He laughed. "You'll never know what else you sent down wrapped up in those newspapers to go into the dustbin, Milta," he said.
Milta shrugged his shoulders. Callaghan opened the door. Gringall and two plain clothes men came in.
XIII. — YOU NEVER KNOW WITH WOMEN
LEONORE WILBERY stood in the flower garden at Deeplands. The April sun was shining brightly, the wind had dropped. It was a nice day. She breathed in the clean air deeply.
Callaghan came across the lawn. He came through the gateway in the low wall between the lawn and the flower garden. He said:
"That was Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall of the Special Branch on the telephone. They've found the gun and they've matched the bullets. The bullet that killed Lionel was fired from that gun. The case against Milta is cut and dried. He'll hang. I don't know what they'll do with Sabine."
She looked at him. She said:
"So Lionel wasn't so bad, after all. Have you told mother about it—all of it?"
Callaghan nodded.
"Yes,'' he said. "She was glad to know at last he'd done his duty by his country. She was glad to know that he died because he told Milta he was going up to London to tell the truth, to tell the truth about the lot of them, including himself; that he was going to take his medicine.
"I told her that that's what he meant by the words, 'even if it brings disgrace on the family.'"
Leonore nodded. She began to walk across the flower garden. Callaghan went with her. They walked through the coppice. They stood looking at the old summer-house twenty yards away. Leonore said:
"You're rather a marvellous person, aren't you?"
Callaghan grinned.
"No," he said, "merely unscrupulous."
"Oddly enough," said Leonore, "I meant that. But marvellously unscrupulous. I know the truth about Lionel."
Callaghan said: "What the hell?"
Leonore said: "Why do you think I told you about the summer-house? Why do you think I told you about our leaving letters there for each other in the old days? I knew you'd go there and look. I found that letter from Lionel hours before. I put it back so that you should find it."
Callaghan said: "Well, I'll be damned."
She went on: "But you didn't find all the letter. There were two pages to that letter. I left you the second one. The first page told me the truth. The first page told me what Lionel had been doing, how if he'd been any sort of a man and confessed earlier he might have saved Varette's life.
"I know Lionel killed himself, although I never knew, when I was reading that letter, that the poor boy was lying so near to where I was."
Callaghan said: "That's all right. Lionel's better where he is. He's done one good thing anyway. The Haragos couple won't operate any more. Lionel helped a bit in any event."
She nodded.
"I suppose he did," she said.
They turned and began to walk back towards the flower garden. Callaghan said:
"You'll forget all this. Somebody said that time heals everything. Well, it does. Life for Lionel would have been a long string of misadventures. He's better off where he is. Youll be happier too in the long run, so will your mother. There's always something good in everything."
She smiled. She said:
"I believe you're right. But then I'm afraid I believe everything you say, even if you are..." her eyes were mischievous—"unscrupulous."
Callaghan grinned. He said:
"I like telling the truth when I can. When I tell a lie I do it like hell."
She said: "There are other things too that, when you do them, you do like hell, aren't there, Mr. Callaghan?"
He said: "Yes. You're remembering what I told you about kissing women. Well, that's the truth. Let me show you."
In the shadow of the little wood he showed her.
Sorry You've Been Troubled
(FAREWELL TO THE ADMIRAL)
I. -- SO LONG, ADMIRAL
I.
Effie Thompson was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast.
She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan.
She was right. He said:
'Hallo, is that you, Effie? I suppose you weren't asleep by any chance?'
'Yes, Mr. Callaghan, I was asleep, strangely enough. But please don't worry about that. You wouldn't think I was annoyed, would you?' Her tone was slightly acid.
Callaghan said: 'That's big of you, Effie....'
Under her breath she called him a rude name. Always, she thought, she left herself open for a wisecrack from Callaghan. Always, half an hour afterwards, she thought of some terrific come-back that would have slain him. She sighed.
He said briskly: 'You remember that Starata case—the people who put in a big claim for fire damage on the Sphere & International? Well, I've just run into Jack Starata. He doesn't know I'm me. He and one or two friends of his are going to play poker. They're all pretty high. I think they might talk.'
She said quickly: 'You know, Mr. Callaghan, Starata is supposed to be dangerous.' She heard him laugh.
'You don't say?' he said. 'Listen... get on to Nikolls. Tell him that if I don't call through to him by four o'clock this morning and say I'm back in Berkeley Square, he's to come along to 22 Chapel Street—that's off Knightsbridge—and find where I am.'
Effie said: 'You're expecting trouble?' She felt scared.
Callaghan said: 'I've been expecting trouble all my life, Effie, and I usually get it. Sleep well... Oh, by the way, what colour nightgown are you wearing?'
She gasped a little. She said:
'Well, if you must know, Mr. Callaghan, its eau-de-nil satin.'
He said: 'Charming! That must look pretty well with those green eyes and that red hair of yours. I always like to feel that my staff look well turned out. Good-night.'
She hung up. She called Callaghan another rude name. Then she picked up the receiver, dialled Nikolls's number. She hoped that nothing would happen to Callaghan—in the same breath asking herself why she bothered.
When the telephone rang Nikolls wakened quickly. He looked like nothing on earth. His tongue tasted like a yellow plush sofa. He sat, his hands folded across his plump stomach, regarding the instrument malevolently. He wished he had not drunk that half-bottle of Bacardi on top of the whisky. He took off the receiver.
Effie Thompson said: 'Listen, Mr. Nikolls... Mr. Callaghan's just been through. Apparently he's still working on that Starata case. He's met Starata and some friends of his. He's going to play poker with them. As far as I can understand Starata and his friends are drunk, and Mr. Callaghan thinks they might talk.'
Nikolls said: 'Like hell they will! That bunch are too clever, and if they do talk, and find out who he is, that he's a sleuth for the Sphere & International, they'll pull him into little pieces. There's over a quarter of a million in that claim.'
'Quite,' said Effie. 'That's the point. Mr. Callaghan says if he doesn't ring you by four o'clock this morning, you're to go to 22 Chapel Street, Knightsbridge, and find out what's happening. Do you understand that? He sounded as if he thought there might be some trouble.'
'Yeah,' said Nikolls. 'Ain't life just too sweet? I have to stick around here till four o'clock waiting for the telephone bell to ring. If it don't ring, I have to go and find if somebody's killed Slim. Me... I wonder why I ever left Canada...'
'That's easy,' she said. 'A woman, I expect.'
'Look,' said Nikolls. 'You got a wrong impression, Effie. Any dames I knew in Canada was all shot to pieces when I left...'
'I can believe that too,' she said. 'But don't worry, Canada's a long way away, and they can't get at you while the war's on.'
The apartment telephone on the other side of Nikolls's bedroom began to ring. He said: 'Hang on, Effie, my other phone's goin'. It might be something.'
'All right,' said Effie.
Nikolls got out of bed. He was wearing pale-blue pyjamas with white spots on them. He looked like an apparition. The cord of his pyjamas was tied very tightly round his middle; he bulged both above and below it.
On his way to the telephone he picked up the water carafe and took a copious draught.
It was Wilkie, the night porter at Berkeley Square, calling. He said: 'That you, Mr. Nikolls? Look, I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's too much going on around here for my liking.'
'Yeah?' said Nikolls. 'There's too much going on around here too. Any time I wanta sleep somethin' happens. What's the matter, Wilkie? What's cookin' around there?'
The night porter said: 'About an hour after you left the offices to-night an Admiral Gardell came through. He wanted to speak to Mr. Callaghan. He said it was important. He asked where Mr. Callaghan was. I told him there was nobody in the offices, and I told him that I'd been through to Mr. Callaghan's flat on the floor above and couldn't get a reply. I said I didn't know where Mr. Callaghan was and he had better get through to-morrow morning. He said all right. Half an hour later he came through again. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan. It was a matter of life and death. He said he was certain Mr. Callaghan would see him. I told him what I said before—if I knew where Callaghan was I'd get in touch with him, but I didn't.'
Nikolls sighed.
'Ain't this guy persistent?' he said. 'What's the matter with him? Has somebody run off with his wife?'
Wilkie said: 'I don't know, Mr. Nikolls. But half an hour ago he came round here. He looks awfully bad. I don't like the look of him at all. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan somehow. He said he was going to stay here until he turned up.'
Nikolls yawned.
'So what?' he said. 'Is he there now?'
'No,' said Wilkie. 'He's gone off to get a cup of coffee at a coffee stall. He's coming back in twenty minutes' time.' His voice changed. 'He looks in a bad way, Mr. Nikolls,' he said. 'I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd better tell you.'
Nikolls said: 'Thanks, Wilkie. But what do I do? We can't start talking to people in the middle of the night. Besides, how do we know it's urgent? Everybody thinks their business is urgent. Doesn't this guy know that even private detectives have to go to sleep sometimes? Or maybe he thinks we're the "Eye That Never Sleeps"...?'
Wilkie said: 'What shall I tell him when he comes back?'
Nikolls said: 'You tell him to come around or call through to the office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. You tell him that Mr. Windemere Nikolls, Mr. Callaghan's principal assistant, will be at his desk punctually with a first-class hangover at that time. You got that, Wilkie?'
'I've got it,' said Wilkie.
Nikolls hung up. He went back to the other telephone.
He said: 'Hey, Effie... there's more excitement poppin'. Some guy called Admiral Gardell is rushin' around town tryin' to find Slim—one of those urgent cases.'
She said: 'I see. Well, it can wait till to-morrow morning. Perhaps it's as well that we can't get in touch with Mr. Callaghan—otherwise he might want to start something now. I'd love to go and open up the office at three o'clock in the morning.'
