Complete works of peter.., p.316
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 316
Callaghan said: "Not too bad, Gringall. Thanks for coming in."
"Yeah," said Nikolls. "Come in again sometime."
As the door closed behind Gringall, Dencourt turned again to Callaghan. "Damn you, Callaghan," he said furiously. "What are you going to do?"
Callaghan said: "What can I do, Dencourt? One of these fine days with a bit of luck Mrs. Dencourt might even find that stiletto. Something might happen to refresh her memory. Then she might remember where she 'mislaid' it."
Dencourt said bitterly: "What would it take to refresh her memory?"
"Twenty thousand five hundred pounds, Dencourt," Callaghan said cheerfully. "A cheque for twenty thousand for your wife, which she richly deserves for having spent so much of her life with a blackguard like you. And five hundred pounds for Callaghan Investigations 'for services rendered.' If you don't like it," he concluded coldly, "get out!"
"If I pay this money," said Dencourt, "when shall I have the stiletto?"
Callaghan said: "I can't answer that question now, but I'm certain that when your cheque is cleared Mrs. Dencourt's memory will start working. And I have no doubt that she will continue with her divorce action."
Dencourt turned to his wife. "Do you agree to all this, Marian?"
She nodded. "Why... yes, Herbert," she said sweetly, "anything that Mr. Callaghan says..."
"Very well," said Dencourt angrily, "the cheque shall be here this afternoon. I'd like to tell you what I think of you, Callaghan." He got up.
"Don't worry, sourpuss," said Nikolls. "He's been told before, plenty!"
Callaghan said: "I shall expect your cheque this afternoon, Dencourt. Make it an open one." He called: "Effie!"
Effie Thompson appeared in the doorway. "Show Mr. Dencourt out, please."
Dencourt, with a last furious look at his wife, followed Effie from the room. As the door closed, Nikolls said with a sigh of relief: "Boy! Am I glad he's gone!"
"Why, Windy?" asked Callaghan.
Nikolls said: "The Dencourt stiletto..."
Callaghan grinned. He said: "What about the stiletto?"
"What about it!" said Nikolls. "I've been sittin' on the damned thing!"
12. — VENGEANCE WITH A TWIST
NIKOLLS took a chubby cigar from his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end, spat it out artistically, lit the cigar and looked at Callaghan through a cloud of blue smoke. "The guy's screwy," he said. "He's just about ripe for the nut-house. I told him that you wouldn't be inclined to take a case that was already sewn up an' closed by the police, but he wouldn't listen. He says he wants vengeance, an' all he's likely to get will be a kick in the pants."
Callaghan nodded. He said: "It wouldn't be the first time we'd taken a toss with the police, Windy..."
"Maybe not," Nikolls answered. "But this was a suicide case all right. Dulac killed himself. Got worried or fretted about somethin' an' cut his throat. He was that sort of guy. Anyhow, the Coroner was satisfied." He inhaled a lungful of smoke with satisfaction.
Effie Thompson put her head round the office door.
"Mr. Dulac to see you," she said to Callaghan. "Mr. George Dulac..."
Callaghan grinned at her. "O.K., Effie. Show him in. And you can get out, Windy."
Nikolls got up. "That suits me," he said. "I got a date anyway. I'll be seein' you." He went out, whistling softly to himself.
Callaghan sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. When Effie Thompson showed George Dulac into the office, he was busily engaged in blowing smoke rings. Effie Thompson placed a chair for the visitor and went out, closing the door quietly behind her. Callaghan watched a smoke ring as it sailed across the office. Then he tilted back his chair and looked at Dulac.
He said: "There's one thing this organization doesn't like doing, Mr. Dulac. It doesn't like bucking up against the police, and I gather from what you told my assistant yesterday that you're not very pleased with the conclusions Scotland Yard have come to. You want a case reopened."
Dulac nodded. Callaghan, who seldom felt sympathy for anyone, felt a tinge of pity for the man who sat in the big chair opposite his desk. Dulac was about fifty years of age. He looked worried and ill. His face was lined. He said: "I don't think you'll mind getting up against the police. Somehow I don't think they'll mind when they know the facts, but my lawyer says the trouble is that having come to a conclusion they won't be inclined to reopen the case. After all, that would be an admission that they were wrong."
Callaghan grinned. "If the police are wrong, they're wrong," he said. "But they aren't particularly keen on being told so by a private detective. When it's like that they take a lot of persuading." He lit a fresh cigarette. "Let me have the story from the start," he said.
Dulac gulped. Callaghan could see that his hands were trembling. There were little beads of perspiration on his forehead. After a minute he said: "As you know, Mr. Callaghan, my twin brother—Charles—committed suicide ten days ago."
Callaghan nodded. "Go on," he said.
"Charles lived by himself in a small cottage at a place called Belling—forty miles outside London." Dulac went on. "I arrived in this country two days before it happened. I was in London when I heard the news."
"Were you surprised at the idea of your brother committing suicide?" Callaghan asked.
Dulac hesitated for a moment. Then he said: "Yes and no! Let me explain what I mean. Two years ago my brother came out to South Africa to see me. He stayed at my farm in Southern Rhodesia for two or three weeks and then returned to England.
"During the time he stayed with me it was obvious that something was worrying him. Although I asked him to confide in me he would say nothing except that he had been worried by some threatening letters he had received from a man with whom he had quarreled. Immediately I heard the news of his suicide I remembered this."
"You thought that the writer of the letters might have murdered your brother?" said Callaghan. "That instead of cutting his own throat his unknown correspondent did it for him."
Dulac nodded. He went on: "The evidence at the inquest showed that people in the neighbourhood who met him on odd occasions during the two months before his death had noticed that he seemed very worried about something. Andy the coroner's jury brought in a verdict of suicide whilst of unsound mind.'
"It was only three days ago," Dulac continued, "that I went to my club. Imagine my surprise when, in the letter rack, I found a letter addressed to me in my brother's handwriting. It had apparently been written three or four weeks before. Read it for yourself."
He passed the sheet of notepaper across the desk to Callaghan, who read:
The Cottage,Belling.
Dear George,
I am terribly worried and I hope you will arrive home in time to, be able to help me. I have had more threatening letters from a man in this neighbourhood. I believe that an attempt will be made on my life. I would be grateful if you would come down here immediately you arrive in England. Phone me on your arrival.
Yours ever,
Charles.
Callaghan re-folded the letter, put it on the desk in front of him. He said: "He talks about more threatening letters. So he'd probably received some after his visit to you in South Africa two years ago. But by now he was really frightened, was expecting something really unpleasant to happen." He stubbed out his cigarette, lit a fresh one. "Tell me, Mr. Dulac," he went on, "what sort of man was your brother?"
Dulac shrugged his shoulders. "He was very like me in appearance," he said. "I told you we were twins. But he did not scare easily. I know of nothing in his life that could come back on him. Yet there must have been something."
Callaghan said: "So it seems. And you feel certain in your mind that he was murdered?"
Dulac nodded. "I feel quite certain about that," he said. "Something tells me that Charles was killed. I want you to find his murderer, Mr. Callaghan."
Callaghan said: "I'll do my best, but it'll be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. If the police couldn't find any evidence, I don't see how we can." He blew another smoke ring. "Tell me something," he went on, "is there anybody who would benefit by your brother's death? Had he any estate to leave?"
"Not very much," said Dulac. "But everything he had is left to me."
Callaghan nodded. "That rules that angle out," he said. He thought for a while. "All right, Mr. Dulac," he said. "I'll send somebody down to Belling. We'll make a few enquiries. Who has the keys of the cottage?"
Dulac got up. He felt in his overcoat pocket, produced a bunch of keys. "I have them here," he said. "The police handed them over to me when they were through with their investigation."
"All right," said Callaghan. "I'll get in touch with you, Mr. Dulac, when we have some news." He got up.
Dulac said: "Thank you very much, Mr. Callaghan. I shall never be happy till my brother's murderer is found. I know he was murdered."
Callaghan said: "Well, if there's a murderer, we'll try and find him. In the meantime take it easy, Mr. Dulac. You're worrying too much. You need a bromide."
Dulac smiled wryly. "Possibly," he said. "This business has affected me terribly."
He put out his hand to pick up his hat from the corner of the desk, then dropped it on the floor. Callaghan retrieved it, handed it back to him. "You go home and have a rest," he said. "These days aren't particularly good for nervous people. And don't worry. We'll get in touch with you."
After Dulac had gone Callaghan went back to his chair, put his feet up on the desk and smoked silently. He seemed particularly interested in his finger-tips.
After a while he rang the bell. When Effie Thompson came in he said: "When Nikolls comes in give him these keys. Tell him to go down to Belling. Tell him it's about that suicide case that happened there ten days ago—Charles Dulac.
"And he's got to get around the neighbourhood and find out what he can about the dead man. Tell him to go over that cottage with a tooth-comb. He might find something."
She nodded and went out. Callaghan lit another cigarette and resumed his examination of his fingertips. Then he went to the telephone and asked "enquiry" for the number of the Belling Police Station.
CALLAGHAN was drinking his afternoon cup of tea when Nikolls came in the office.
"Well, Windy," said Callaghan, "what do you know?"
"Charles Dulac went to 'The 'Cottage' at Belling two years ago. Nobody there knows very much about him. He never spoke to anybody. He seemed a secretive sort of cuss. Such people as did talk to him say that he seemed good an' frightened about something. I don't know what but I can make a guess."
Callaghan said: "Did you find anything in the cottage?"
"No," said Nikolls, "not a thing." He grinned. "You didn't expect me to find anything, did you?" he said. "After the police had been there. Anyhow, I reckon that Charles was scared because not so long ago he sent a cable to George. The cable was sent over the telephone from 'The Cottage' and I got a duplicate from the cable company."
"Ah!" said Callaghan. "What did it say?"
"The cable said: 'You can come back now, Charles.' It was sent to George in South Africa."
Callaghan nodded. "So George came over," he said. "He went to his club and got a delayed letter from Charles, who was by this time dead."
"That's right," said Nikolls. He went on: "I've found something else out though. Before Charles went to live at Belling—two years ago he was living in a place thirty miles away. I went over there. Charles had an enemy all right—a guy called Prosser. He had it in for Charles."
"I see," said Callaghan. "Prosser is probably the fellow who wrote the threatening letters."
"Right," said Nikolls. "Prosser admits it. He said he wrote unsigned threatening letters to Charles just to annoy him and because he knew that somebody else was after Charles, too. Prosser says Charles pinched a girl off some feller years ago, an' this feller swore he'd get back on him some time."
Callaghan said: "That's as maybe, but Prosser might be trying to alibi himself."
"He's not," said Nikolls. "Prosser didn't kill Charles. He's got a cast-iron alibi. He was in Edinburgh the week that Charles died."
Callaghan grinned. "I see," he said. "Well, that lets Prosser out."
He lit a cigarette. Nikolls got up and stretched. "Well, I hope it makes sense to you," he said. "I think this guy, George Dulac, is nutty. I think Charles was just frightened of somebody or other and decided to cut his throat."
"Yes?" said Callaghan. "That's what you think." He went over to the bookshelf, brought down a directory of insurance companies. "You take that outside, Windy," he said, handing the book to Nikolls, "and find out if any member of the Dulac family had an insurance policy."
Effie Thompson put her head round the door. She said to Callaghan: "I've got Mr. George Dulac. He's on his way round now."
"All right," said Callaghan.
He got up, walked across the corridor to Nikolls's room. He said: "Dulac'll be here in a few minutes. You'd better come in."
Nikolls grinned. He said: "So you've decided that Charles did commit suicide! I hope George won't be disappointed."
Callaghan said: "I hope he won't."
He went back into the outer office, gave some instructions to Effie Thompson. He was seated at his desk smoking when George Dulac came in. Dulac stood just inside the doorway. Callaghan thought he looked very tired.
"Well, Mr. Dulac," he said. "We've investigated the circumstances leading up to your brother's death. We've gone back a long way, too. I've found out that before he went to Belling he was living in another place thirty miles away, that he had two enemies—one, a man named Prosser, and another man Prosser suggests also disliked Charles."
Dulac said: "Then Prosser might have killed my brother?"
"Oh, no," said Callaghan. "He couldn't have. He was in Edinburgh."
Dulac said: "What about the other man?"
"He didn't do it either," Callaghan said. "Sit down, Mr. Dulac, you look tired."
"I'm not tired," said Dulac. "I'm just worried about this thing. It's obvious to me that you, like the police, believe that Charles killed himself."
Callaghan grinned. "I never said so," he said. "In fact I know that Charles did not kill himself."
"So you agree he was murdered?"
"I don't agree with that either," said Callaghan. "The man calling himself Charles Dulac, who has been living at Belling for the last two years, isn't dead. I'm talking to him now."
He stood looking down at his client. "Take it easy, George," he said. "Getting excited won't get you anywhere."
Dulac said: "I'm not getting excited. I think you're mad."
Callaghan said amiably: "No, I'm not. Let me tell you about it. Two years ago you were living in South Africa. Charles, your twin brother, was living over here. He was worried by some anonymous threatening letters that he was receiving from Prosser, and he probably wrote and told you about it.
"You got in touch with him and told him to come and see you at your farm. I imagine that when he got there he was pretty nearly a nervous wreck, and out of your brotherly love you conceived an idea to give him a rest.
"You told him that he could stay on at the farm as you—George Dulac—and that you would come over here and be Charles, that you would settle with this annoying fellow, Prosser. You came over here and you moved directly to Belling where no one would know you. You took a cottage in the name of Charles Dulac. Everybody believed you were Charles.
"You insured your life for £20,000. You waited a couple of years, and then you thought the time was ripe to strike. So you sent the real Charles in South Africa a cable saying: 'You can come back,' meaning it was safe for him to return. Then you wrote that letter to yourself and sent it to your club.
"When Charles arrived in England he went straight to Belling. That same night you killed him, came up to town and registered at an hotel as George Dulac, just arrived from South Africa. The next day you went down to Belling.
"When you got there the 'suicide' had already been discovered. Some days later you called at your club and got the letter you had written yourself which you showed to me."
Callaghan grinned. "It was too bad," he said, "that you made a mistake in the date. If you'd waited another three weeks..."
Dulac said hoarsely: "What the hell do you mean?"
"You were going to collect the twenty thousand pounds insurance," Callaghan went on, "on the policy you took out two years ago on your own life in the name of Charles Dulac. Unfortunately for you, you made a mistake in the date. The insurance company will pay on a suicide claim, but only two complete years after the policy is taken out. This policy had only been going one year and forty-eight weeks.
"When you realized this you were in a jam. There was only one thing to do, try and prove that Charles had been murdered. You thought you'd be safe. You imagined that the production of that letter would indicate to the police that it had been murder and not suicide, and that you'd draw the insurance money. But, of course, you had to slip up."
Dulac said: "I see. So I slipped up." He grinned sardonically. "I should like to know how," he said.
Callaghan said: "When you first came to see me, you knocked your hat off the edge of my desk. I picked it up for you. When you'd gone I found the tips of my fingers were stained with the dye from the sweat-band of your hat. I wondered why you'd decided to dye your hair.
"I got an idea. I rang through to the Belling police and asked them if there was anything odd about the body they found in the cottage. There was. It seems that for some reason best known to himself, Charles had dyed his hair black.
"Of course," Callaghan continued, "you didn't know about that until the night you killed him and then you decided that you'd better' dye your hair black, too, so that you could go back to the farm in Rhodesia as him."
He felt in his pocket for a cigarette.
"So long, Dulac," he said. "You'll find a couple of plain clothes men outside. You wanted us to persuade the police that Charles Dulac didn't commit suicide, that he was murdered. Well, we've done it, and I hope you're satisfied.
