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Peter Cheyney

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Beschreibung

CALLAGHAN awoke and looked at the ceiling. The fire sent grotesque shadows flickering across the white expanse above him. He yawned, turned over, kicked off the bedclothes, swung his legs to the floor. He sat, his tousled black head in his hands, looking at the fire.
His lips were dry and his tongue felt like a yellow plush sofa. Outside he could hear the rain pattering on the windows. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was eight o'clock.
He got up and began to walk to the bathroom, when the telephone bell jangled. It was Effie Thompson. He growled into the receiver.
'All right,' she said primly. 'Is it my fault if you've got a head? Forgive me for troubling you, but are you ever coming back to this office? Things are happening down here.'

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DANGEROUS CURVES

Peter Cheyney

1896 1951

1939

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834083

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

 

 

1: Friday: One In The Bag

 

CALLAGHAN awoke and looked at the ceiling. The fire sent grotesque shadows flickering across the white expanse above him. He yawned, turned over, kicked off the bedclothes, swung his legs to the floor. He sat, his tousled black head in his hands, looking at the fire.

His lips were dry and his tongue felt like a yellow plush sofa. Outside he could hear the rain pattering on the windows. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was eight o'clock.

He got up and began to walk to the bathroom, when the telephone bell jangled. It was Effie Thompson. He growled into the receiver.

'All right,' she said primly. 'Is it my fault if you've got a head? Forgive me for troubling you, but are you ever coming back to this office? Things are happening down here.'

Callaghan ran a furry tongue over dry lips.

'Well, why the hell didn't you phone up, Effie?' he asked. 'What's the matter with you? Why do I have my apartment two floors above my office? If you wanted to get at me, why didn't you telephone?'

'Don't make me laugh,' she said. 'I've been ringing you most of the day—you've just been unconscious.'

'I was on a jag last night,' said Callaghan. 'I feel like hell. What's happenin' down there?'

'The Riverton case is happening,' she answered. 'It's breaking out all over the place. If you want to hold on to those clients you'll have to make something happen. I think...'

'I'm not askin' for your advice,' snapped Callaghan. 'When I want you to run my dam' business I'll ask you.'

'All right, sir,' Effie's cool voice came back accenting the 'sir'. 'Let me give you the details. First of all I'd like to point out to you that you haven't been here for two days. There's a pile of correspondence on your desk that'll take you a week to answer. But that's not all. There have been eight calls from the Manor House. I think the Colonel must be getting a little bit annoyed with Callaghan Investigations. And there's a letter here from Selby, Raukes & White, the Riverton solicitors. Would you like me to read it?'

'No, thanks,' said Callaghan. 'I'm comin' down. Anything else?'

'Yes. A man who owns a cinema came in this afternoon. He employs a woman manageress who banks the takings. He says there's a shortage somewhere and wants you to investigate. What do you want done?'

'Did you ask him why he hasn't been to the police?' asked Callaghan.

'Yes,' she answered. 'I don't think he wants to. He sounded a bit nervous when he talked about the manageress.'

Callaghan grunted.

'It sounds like the old story,' he said. 'Charge him fifty pounds retainer and put Findon on the case. He likes movies.'

'I know,' said Effie. She paused for a second. 'He also likes women. I thought Nikolas was the man for that job. So I put him on to it. And I charged a hundred.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Nice goin', Effie,' he said.

He hung up. He walked across the long luxurious bedroom towards the bathroom. He was wearing the top half of a pair of red silk pyjamas. When he walked he put his well-shaped wiry legs on the floor like a cat.

He took off the pyjama jacket and stood under the shower. He started the water very hot, ran it through to hike-warm, then to cold. Then he put on a bathrobe, sat down on the stool and began to rub hair-dressing into his tousled hair. He thought about the Riverton business and began to curse quietly, systematically and comprehensively.

The telephone rang in the bedroom. It was Kells. Callaghan, who, still wet, had picked up the receiver with an oath, toned down when he heard the Canadian accent on the line.

'Hallo, Slim,' said Kells. 'How's it going?'

'All right, Monty,' said Callaghan. 'I've got a hangover, that's all. What is it?'

'I've got that skirt,' said Kells. 'The Dixon dame. Her name's Azelda Dixon and they call her "Swing-It". And by God does she! She's got something, this baby, except she looks tired to death.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Nice work, Monty,' he said. 'Will she talk?'

'Not a crack,' said Monty. 'She's as quiet as a goddam grave. I don't even know where she lives. She's a tight one, that doll.'

'They're all tight,' said Callaghan. 'Those women either talk too much or say nothin'.'

'You said it,' said Kells. 'I've fixed it this way: I'm seeing her again, so maybe she's going to fall for my sex appeal an' come across. If she don't, I'll have to think up something else. I'll be seeing you.'

'All right, Monty,' said Callaghan. 'Listen, I'm going over to Martinella's place tonight. I want to see that fight. I'll finish up at Perruqui's. Effie says the Manor House has been telephonin' all day. They're gettin' dam' excited about something. Maybe they don't think I'm doin' enough for that £100 a week. It looks as if we'll have to get a ripple on.'

'I like that,' said Kells. 'For Jeez' sake, what do they think we've been doing?'

Callaghan hung up.

He dressed himself. He put on a white silk shirt, a low, stiff double collar and a black, watered silk bow. His double-breasted dinner-jacket was well cut. His clothes looked good and expensive.

He put on a black soft hat and lit a cigarette. After the first few puffs he began to cough and went on coughing for quite a while. He walked over to the cupboard in the corner and poured himself out four fingers of rye whisky. He drank it in one gulp.

He went into the corridor and rang for the lift. On the window at the end of the long passage—the window at the Berkeley Square end—the rain was beating hard against the window pane. He stood there waiting, thinking about the Riverton business.

Callaghan was five feet ten inches high; his shoulders were broad, descending to a thin waist and narrow hips. His arms were long; his face was thin with high cheekbones, a decided jaw, ears that lay flat against his head. His eyes were of a peculiar blue, his hair black and unruly, and women liked the shape of his mouth. Looking at him, one got an impression of utter ruthlessness and a cynical humour.

The lift came up. Callaghan went down to his office two floors below.

Effie Thompson was at the filing cabinet in the inner office. She was of medium height, well rounded. Her hair was red, her eyes green. Her clothes fitted her as clothes ought to fit. She looked trim and efficient.

Callaghan sat down behind the big desk. He began to open the letter from Selby, Raukes & White. He said suddenly:

'Has Kells been in?'

She nodded.

'He was in this morning, and I wish he'd keep his hands to himself!'

She shut the cabinet with a bang.

Callaghan grinned. His eyes lit with an impish humour.

'So he's been pinchin' you again?' he said. 'It's dam' funny, but women always seem to get pinched by the wrong man... eh, Effie?'

She flushed, walked into her own office. He heard her typewriter begin to clatter.

Callaghan read the letter:

 

Selby, Raukes & White, Solicitors,

478 Lincoln's Inn Fields, W.C.

15th November, 1938.

Dear Mr Callaghan,

We are instructed by Colonel Riverton, who, we regret to say, is now seriously ill, to write you again in the matter of his son Mr Wilfred Eustace Riverton.

It is now eight weeks since you were originally asked to provide our client with comprehensive information about the whereabouts of his son, his mode of living, the names of his immediate associates and, if possible, some definite indication where the large sums of money which Mr Wilfred Riverton has been spending—or losing—have gone.

We hope that you will be able to report within a few days, and in this connection would remind you that your retainer of £100 per week is, in our opinion, a generous one, and should enable you to proceed more quickly in this matter than has been indicated up to the moment of writing.

We are,

Truly yours,

pp Selby, Raukes & White,

T.J. Selby.

 

Callaghan swore softly. He rang the bell-push on his desk. Effie Thompson, her book open, came in.

'Write to these people, acknowledge receipt of their letter, and tell 'em if they don't like the way I handle my cases they can go to somebody else. Sign it for me.'

He threw the letter across the desk. She picked it up.

'You were supposed to be having dinner with Juanita tonight,' she said primly. 'Are you, or do I telephone as usual?'

'You write that letter an' go home,' he said. 'I'll do the telephonin'.'

She nodded.

'Mrs Riverton came through at six o'clock,' she said. 'She sounded as if she was rather fed-up with Callaghan Investigations. She seemed to think we were all asleep round here. She's in town. She's at the Chartres Hotel. She'll be back there at eleven o'clock tonight. She said I was to tell you to telephone her at eleven-fifteen.'

He nodded.

'Good night, Effie,' she said.

Five minutes later he heard the outer door close behind her. He took off the telephone receiver, dialled a Park number.

'Hallo, Juanita,' he said. 'Sorry I've got to miss that dinner we arranged. I'm busy.... Now, it's no dam' good crackin' on... that's how it is.... Yes... I'll call you tomorrow.'

He hung up the receiver. Then he leaned down and opened the bottom desk drawer and took out a quart bottle of rye whisky. He pulled the cork and took a long swig. Then he opened another drawer and took out a Mauser automatic. He looked at the gun for a moment and then threw it back into the drawer.

He got up, switched off the lights, walked through the centre and outer offices, which were still lit, closed and locked the outer door. The electric lift took him to the ground floor. He waited until a cab from the Berkeley Square rank appeared. He hailed it.

'Go to Joe Martinella's place,' he told the driver, 'and step on it.'

Callaghan stood at the end of the long white-washed passage that ran from the street entrance, and looked round Joe Martinella's place. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air above the ring. The tiered seats, rising on steps set behind the six rows of ringside seats, were packed with men of every description and a few women. One or two of the women in the ringside seats—ladies who liked occasional, pugilistic slumming—were in evening frocks.

In the ring two reputed lightweights banged each other about in a desultory fashion, punching as if they meant it only when some raucous voice accused one of them of being a sissy. A babel of sound echoed throughout the place, hitting the white-washed walls at each end of the old-time gymnasium, echoing back.

Callaghan walked through the narrow gangway. He put his soft black hat on one of the ringside seats in the second row. Then he walked round the ring, through the opposite gangway, along the passage that ran to the dressing-rooms and turned off into Joe Martinella's private bar.

The room was small. It smelt of stale tobacco smoke, horse oil embrocation and sweat. Leaning up against the bar, talking to Joe and one or two bookmakers and professional gamblers, was Gill Charleston.

Callaghan thought that Charleston looked like a fish out of water. His tall, well-built body, dressed in a well-cut dinner coat, expensive linen and quiet jewellery, added a touch of distinction to a nondescript collection of near-toughs.

Charleston looked up and saw Callaghan. He smiled and his eyes lit up. Callaghan sent him a heavy wink. Then he went outside and stood round the doorway, in the passage, lighting a cigarette. Charleston came out.

'Well, you old horse-thief,' he said pleasantly. 'Who are you after this time? How's business—or are the clients getting wise?'

Callaghan knocked the ash off his cigarette.

'Gill,' he said, 'I'm in a bit of a jam an' I'm goin' to put my cards on the table. Maybe you can help me. It's about Wilfred Riverton—The Mug.'

Charleston nodded.

'Go ahead, Slim,' he said.

'The family's gettin' on my tail,' said Callaghan. 'The old boy—the Colonel—is pretty sick, an' he's worryin'. I'm gettin' a hundred a week to find out where his little boy is throwin' the family money—who the women are, or—if it's not women—who's runnin' the roulette board or whatever is separatin' The Mug from the Riverton cash. I haven't done so well.'

Charleston nodded.

'How've you played it, Slim?' he asked.

'We've been hangin' around all the usual joints,' said Callaghan. 'I reckon we've been into every high-class, low-class and lousy Spieler in London. We're still dam' cold. Whoever's got little Wilfred on a hook is keepin' it nice an' quiet.'

Charleston lit a cigarette.

'Look, Slim,' he said quietly. 'You know me. I like to keep out of trouble. I do a little gambling and I make a little money. I'd hate to get myself up against something I couldn't handle. See...'

Callaghan grinned.

'I see...' he said.

Charleston looked about him, dropped his voice.

'Raffano's the boyo,' he said. 'He's the black in the woodpile. He's as crooked as a couple of corkscrews an' he's getting away with it. He sells 'em everything. He's got a boat somewhere in the country, and I hear there's some sweet money dropped on it. He's got other interests, too. One or two nice little dumps outside London with one or two nice little girls with charming habits to get back the money off the boys who're lucky enough to win. He's half American and half Italian, and he's as tough as they come.'

Callaghan sent a cloud of smoke out of one nostril.

'Thank you, Gill,' he said. 'I'll do somethin' for you one day.'

He was silent for a moment. Then:

'Did you know I was interested in The Mug?' he asked.

Charleston laughed.

'Everybody knows it,' he said. 'All the clever boys, anyhow. But I reckon that they've all had a cut at the Riverton Mug, so they weren't letting you in on anything.'

He paused and looked at the glowing end of his cigarette.

'Look, Slim,' he said. 'You said you'd like to do something for me....'

Callaghan looked at him and smiled.

'I'll do anythin' for you, Gill,' he said softly. 'What is it?'

'It's Juanita,' said Charleston. 'I'm crazy about that girl. I've never been so nutty about a woman in my life. I'd give something to get Juanita.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Well, why not, Gill?' he asked pleasantly.

'Why not!' echoed Charleston. 'I like that. You've got your hooks into her so hard that she don't even look at anybody. I've tried everything I know. Flowers and invitations and everything else on the menu, and she's as cold as a snowball. She'd rather be kept waiting by you than have a good time from me....'

'Don't you believe it,' said Callaghan. 'Juanita is a clever girl. She's not really stuck on me... she only thinks she is. I think you're the sort of feller she'd really go for.' He thought for a moment. 'I'll have a little talk to her, Gill.' He lit another cigarette. 'And thanks for the tip-off about Raffano.'

'There's your boy,' said Charleston. 'I've heard it said that he's taken the Riverton Mug for thousands, and that he's not through with him yet. But you go easy, Slim... Raffano's poison... and he's got some tough boys working for him around the place. He takes no chances.'

Callaghan nodded.

'So he's a tough worker?' he said.

'Very tough,' said Charleston. 'Look at this fight tonight—the big fight after this cuddling match is over. You try and get a bet on the black... just try... you can't do it. Nobody'll look at it. They all had their money on three days ago with any mug who'd take it... before Raffano put the fight in the bag....'

Callaghan looked up. There was a gleam in his eye.

'So it's in the bag, Gill?' he said.

Charleston nodded.

'Lonney—the white boy—could murder that black if he wanted to,' he said. 'But he's been told to lie down in the third round, and he'll do it. He'll do it because he'll get a hundred that way and some more easy money in the future. All the wise boys here know that, too.'

Callaghan nodded again.

'An' I suppose The Mug will be backin' Lonney,' he said. 'I suppose that Raffano's given him a sweet price an' The Mug thinks he's on a good thing.'

He leaned against the passage wall.

'Where does this Raffano feller hang out, Gill?' he asked.

Charleston shrugged his shoulders.

'He keeps out of the way most of the time,' he said. 'He's not over here tonight. If things are goin' all right he just doesn't trouble. I believe he lives somewhere in the country.'

Callaghan ran his tongue over his lips.

'I see...' he said quietly. 'He just turns up when things are goin' wrong.' He straightened up. 'Thanks for the information.' He grinned. 'I won't forget about Juanita,' he said. 'I'll see if I can get her sort of interested in you. So long, Gill.'

He walked down the passage. Charleston went back into the bar. Half-way down the passage Callaghan stopped and stood for a minute or two thinking. Then he walked on and turned down the short flight of stone steps that led towards the dressing-rooms.

There was nobody in the short passage. Callaghan walked quietly to the door at the end. He opened it far enough for him to put his head round. On the other side of the room, sitting on the rubbing-down table, was Lonney, the fighter. His hands were already bandaged. He was looking at the floor. Callaghan went in, closed the door behind him.

'Hallo, Lonney,' he said. 'You don't look very happy.'

Lonney looked up.

'I'm all right, Mr Callaghan,' he said. 'How are you?'

'Pretty well,' said Callaghan.

He smiled, showing his white teeth. He reached back to his hip pocket and took out the thin gold cigarette-case that Cynthis Meraulton had given him two years before. He took out a cigarette, lit it. He did everything slowly. He was watching the fighter.

'I have got a £10 note in my hip pocket that says you're going to kill this black,' he said softly.

There was a pause. Then:

'I dunno, Mr Callaghan. I'm not feeling so good. Maybe I've overtrained a bit.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Like hell,' he said.

He blew a smoke ring out of his mouth and watched it. Then he walked over and stood beside Lonney. He dropped his voice.

'You listen to me, Lonney. Don't make any mistakes. I know all about this fight. It's been ready-eyed. It's in the bag. You're getting £100 to lie down in the third round. You're getting it just so's that cheap skunk Raffano can clean up over this fight. I know what I'm talking about. You can't get threepence on that black outside because everybody knows he's going to win.'

Callaghan sat down on the table beside Lonney.

'Lonney,' he said, 'I'm goin' to tell you something. Jake Raffano's finished. He's been doin' pretty well over here, but he's not goin' on doin' well. I'm fed-up with that feller.

'I'm goin' to make a suggestion to you, Lonney,' he went on, speaking in the same quiet, even voice. 'You get into the ring and kill that dam' black. You know you can do it. You've forgotten more about fightin' than that boy'll ever know. All right, then. You take the winnin' end of the purse, don't you? That's £50. And tomorrow my office sends you another £100. So you get £150 instead of the £100 that Raffano was goin' to pay you, and you win another fight. You put yourself one rung up the ladder to that championship that there is somewhere in the distance. Well, what are you goin' to do?'

Lonney looked at the door. His eyes were scared.

'It ain't so easy,' he said. 'If it was as easy as that it'd be all right. But if I cross him up and win this fight—and I can do it—what's Raffano goin' to do to me? Somebody's goin' to wait for me one night with a razor; and I like my face in one piece.'

Callaghan smiled.

'I wouldn't worry about that, Lonney,' he said. 'I told you I was lookin' after Raffano, didn't I? Well, now, you have it which way you like. You can go out and lie down in the third round and get that £100 he promised you, in which case you're goin' to have me on your neck for the rest of your life. Or you can go out there and kill that black, in which case I'm tellin' you that nobody's goin' to get at you with a razor, now or at any time; and that's a promise.'

Callaghan drew a great gulp of smoke into his lungs and began to cough. He coughed for quite a while. Then he got up.

'Well?' he asked.

The fighter raised his bandaged hands and folded them behind his head. His shoulders and chest muscles stood out.

'All right, Mr Callaghan,' he said. 'I'm winnin' this fight. I can kill that black any day I want to. I'll take the winnin' end of the purse and your £100. I'm standin' on you, but I don't want no trouble.'

Callaghan smiled.

'Good goin', Lonney,' he said. 'You're goin' to be all right.'

He walked over to the door.

'Put him down for ten in the first round,' he said. 'So long, Lonney.'

Callaghan got back to the ringside in time to see the end of the light-weights' performance. Seated in front of him, three men in dinner coats were smoking cigarettes and telling each other dirty stories. Callaghan tapped one of them on the shoulder.

'Is there any bettin' on the big fight?' he said.

They looked at each other. One of them, whose wilted collar seemed to be strangling him, looked at the other two with a grin before turning round.

'Who wants to bet on this fight?' he said. 'That black boy's going to do something to Lonney. Lonney ain't in the same class.'

'You don't say,' said Callaghan. 'Well, I don't think so. I think Lonney's as good as that dam' black any day.'

The three looked at each other again. One of them, from whose hatchet face a pair of slit Asiatic eyes glowed, said:

'Do you want to back Lonney, Callaghan?'

Callaghan thought for a moment.

'Well, why not?' he said eventually. 'If the odds are right.'

He noticed the almost imperceptible flicker of an eyelid between the man with the jowl and the hatchet-faced man.

'The odds would have to be good,' said Callaghan.

'The odds are all right,' said the hatchet-faced man. 'I'll lay three to one as many times as you like.'

Callaghan grinned.

'All right,' he said. 'I'll take £300 to £100 from you, and if I win I want payin' after the fight. Have you got the money?'

The hatchet-faced man looked at Callaghan for a moment. Then he pulled out a pocket-book. It was crammed with tens and twenties.

'What about yours?' he said.

Callaghan felt in his hip pocket. He produced a note-case. He took out ten £10 notes. He handed them to the hatchet-faced man. Then he sat back in his chair.

Five minutes after Lonney had knocked out the black in the second round, Callaghan stood in the passage that led towards the dressing-rooms. He lit a cigarette and leaned up against the wall and waited. He straightened up as the hatchet-faced man came down the stairs and turned into the passage-way. He stepped into the middle of the passage, blocking it.

'I'll take £400 from you,' he said.

He was smiling. The hatchet-faced man felt in his pocket. He produced the fat note-case, handed over the money. Callaghan still stood in the centre of the passage.

The hatchet-faced man began to smile too. His eyes almost disappeared and his mouth became a very thin line.

'You had a nice win, Callaghan,' he said. 'I hope the money's going to do you some good. And you might get out of the way. I want to have a few words with Lonney. Somebody's been teaching that boy to get clever.'

Callaghan did not move.

'Listen,' he said, 'you look to me like an intelligent feller. I'm goin' to give you a tip. You go home. You don't want to say anythin' to Lonney. You only think you do.'

The hatchet-faced man didn't say anything. Down the steps behind him came the other two—the man with the jowl and the short man. Callaghan raised his voice a trifle.

'You boys ought to have a word with Jake,' he said evenly. 'Somebody ought to tell Raffano that people are gettin' on to the way he's playin' it. I think he's losin' his grip.'

He smiled amiably.

'It was too bad for him Lonney decidin' to win that fight,' he said. 'It looks as if Raffano will have to pay the Riverton Mug some money for once. It'll be a nice experience for him.'

'You think you're good, don't you, Callaghan?' said the man with the jowl. 'All right, you've had a nice win. You wait till we get through with you.'

Callaghan grinned, his teeth showed like a dog's. With a swiftness that was amazing he brought up his right hand and, using it like a sledge-hammer, smashed it into the face of the man with the jowl. He went down like a log. Callaghan was still grinning.

'Now start something,' he said to the other two, 'and in about half an hour I'll have the whole dam' lot of you where I want you. Another thing, maybe this big air-balloon Raffano would like to have a little talk to me. I believe he uses the Parlour Club. I'm goin' there now.'

Nobody said anything. Joe Martinella came down the steps into the passage two at a time. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

'Joe,' said Callaghan, 'I'm goin' over to the Parlour Club. Maybe I'm goin' to have a little talk with Jake Raffano. I want you to keep an eye on Lonney. Just see he gets home all right. I'm holdin' you responsible, see, Joe? And,' he continued evenly, 'you do it, Joe, otherwise I'll close this place for you tomorrow.'

Martinella ran a finger between his neck and his tight silk collar.

'Don't be silly, Slim,' he said. 'You've got this all wrong. Everything's fine. I'm glad Lonney won.'

Callaghan laughed. The big man with the jowl had got up. He was leaning against the wall. A thin stream of blood had trickled down his chin on to his white shirt front.

'Good night, boys!' said Callaghan.

2: Friday: Be Nice To A Lady

 

IT was ten-forty.

Callaghan paid off his cab in Regent Street and walked to the Parlour Club.

The Parlour Club was a nice spot if you liked it. It was operated by a high-yellow black called Kennaway, who had got out of America three jumps ahead of the 'G' men and landed in a motor-boat via France, on a foggy night, near Dymchurch, without any Customs formalities.

It was on a third floor and had originally been decorated in pastel shades by a young gentleman with long hair, indeterminate sex and a penchant for cocaine. The pastel shades were faded, but the cocaine was still going strong. You could get anything you liked at the Parlour Club provided you had the money. Sometimes you could get it without the money, but credit facilities were usually extended only to ladies who were prepared to listen to reason.

Raffano was sitting at a little table in an alcove at the far end, away from the bar. He was alone.

Callaghan ordered a double whisky, paid for it, picked it up, walked to the alcove. He sat down.

'How's it goin'?' he asked pleasantly.

Raffano began to laugh softly. He was a short, square-built person with coal-black hair, bushy eyebrows and a pleasant expression. His clothes were perfect and he wore too much jewellery. He was very intelligent.

'Say, Callaghan,' he said when he had finished laughing, 'I reckon I like you. I go for a guy like you. When the boys told me about you gettin' around an' crossin' me up over that fight over at Martinella's I sorta saw the funny side. I think you're smart.'

He picked up a little glass of crème de cacao, gulped the cream off the top and tossed it down.

'I'm glad to meet you, Callaghan,' he said. 'An' where do we go from here?'

Callaghan drank his whisky.

'Listen, Raffano,' he said. 'Don't make any mistake about me. I'm not out for any trouble an' I'm not goin' to have any trouble...'

Raffano raised one eyebrow.

'No?' he said pleasantly.

'No,' said Callaghan. He leaned across the table towards Jake and his face wore that peculiarly frank expression that he invariably used when lying. 'I'm givin' you a good tip, Jake,' he said, 'an' if you're the feller I take you for you're goin' to take it.'

'OK,' said Raffano. 'Well... I'm listenin'.'

He bit off the end of a cigar.

Callaghan said: 'You know as well as I do that private detectives can't afford trouble in this country. In America a private investigator means something, but over here he is just nothin' at all. That's why I'm puttin' my cards on the table.'

Raffano said nothing.

'Maybe you know I've been workin' for this Riverton business,' Callaghan went on. 'The old boy, Colonel Riverton, has been payin' me £100 a week to get a line on little Wilfred. Well, they want a report, and up to now we haven't had anythin' to report. The way that feller's covered himself up is nobody's business. I've tried everythin' I know. Two or three weeks ago I got the idea in my head that whoever it was who was takin' the boy for all this money was pretty clever—somebody with a very nice technique and enough money an' pull to keep the boys' and girls' mouths shut.

'Well, tonight I found out. I got a tip that it was you.'

Raffano drew on his cigar.

'Too bad,' he said. 'An' where did you get that, Callaghan?'

'Oh, just around the place,' said Callaghan. 'Now you know why I fixed with Lonney to win that fight. I worked it out that if somebody crossed you up over that fight you'd want to talk to 'em. I knew that if you wanted to talk to 'em you were takin' this thing dam' seriously. Well, you got here pretty quickly, and you got here because you wanted to talk to me, so you are takin' it seriously, and I know the reason why.'

Raffano chewed on his cigar.

'Ain't you the clever guy?' he said, 'An' what's the reason?'

'You're scared,' said Callaghan. 'And why not? This isn't America. I bet you're thinkin' it's about time you pulled out of here. You know we've got a dam' efficient police force in this country an' you can't bribe 'em, Jake.'

Jake smiled reminiscently.

'You're tellin' me,' he said.

'Well, now, look at it my way,' said Callaghan. 'I don't know much, but I know enough to report something to my clients, I know enough to tell 'em that I've heard that your gamblin' syndicate is responsible for takin' The Mug for all that money he's been gettin' rid of.

'That's all I can say. Mind you, I could make a few guesses. I could guess that before you got at that boy you had to get him pickled in alcohol first—not that that would be difficult—an' you had to use one or two pretty ladies just to get him thinkin' the right way for you to get to work on him. But they're only guesses.

'Well, supposin' I put this report into the Riverton lawyers—what's the next move? You know what the next move would be.'

Raffano nodded.

'The cops,' he said.

'Correct,' said Callaghan. 'Directly the lawyers get that report they're goin' to get in touch with Scotland Yard, and you've got to remember that this Riverton family are important. Before you knew where you were, Jake, you'd be cleaned up, and the best thing that would happen to you would be that you'd get your marchin' orders. You'd be back in the States in no time, with a feller from Scotland Yard to wave you goodbye.'

He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

'Maybe you don't want to go back to America just now. They tell me those Federal Agents are pretty good these days.'

Raffano pushed out a mouthful of cigar smoke with his tongue.

'You're a nice accommodatin' bastard,' he said. 'You cross me up on a prize-fight that I'd got in the bag—a business that is goin' to cost me a few thousands—an' then you come around here an' start givin' me advice. If this had been in Chicago in the old days...'

Callaghan grinned.

'I know,' he said. 'I'd have been taken for a nice little car ride and found in the local ash-can. But this isn't Chicago, Jake.

'All right. You want to know why I'm bein' so nice to you, takin' such an interest in you and advisin' you. Well, I'll tell you. Supposin' I put that report in to the lawyers. Well, I'm through. My £100 a week stops; and I can use £100 a week. My puttin' that report in will mean that I step out and the police step in.'

Raffano nodded.

'So what?' he asked.

'Well,' said Callaghan—he smiled expansively—'I thought we could play it this way. Supposin' you lay off The Mug. Let the boy alone for a few weeks. Let me get at him and try and do a little dry-cleanin'. That way I can spin the job out for another couple of months. I can get another £1,000 out of it—and you don't get pinched.'

Raffano stubbed out his cigar. He signalled to the waiter on the other side of the room. He ordered two double whiskies and sodas. When they were brought he pushed one over to Callaghan.

He said: 'I'll think about it.'

Callaghan drank his whisky and soda. He got up.

'You'll think about it all right, Jake,' he said, 'and you'll do it. There's just another little thing—that boy Lonney. He's a nice boy. I think he's goin' to be a good fighter one of these fine days, and I'd just hate to think that any of the boys who were disappointed tonight at losin' their money would try to get at him—you know—rough stuff. If they did I might get the idea that you were behind it. If I got that idea I'd find a way to fix you, Jake.'

Raffano looked up at him and smiled.

'I wouldn't do a thing like that, Callaghan,' he said.

He took another cigar from his waistcoat pocket, offered it to Callaghan.

'No, thanks,' said Callaghan. 'Good night, Jake.'

Callaghan walked to the call-box in Cork Street. He looked at his wrist-watch and rang through to the Chartres Hotel. He told the reception office to tell Mrs Riverton that Mr Callaghan would be coming round at eleven-fifteen. Then he began to walk round to the hotel.

Women were a nuisance, thought Callaghan. They just had to stick their noses into things, and in the process they messed things up. He wondered about Mrs Riverton and concluded eventually that it was normal that the mother of Wilfred Eustace Riverton should be worried about her offspring. He hoped she wouldn't entreat him to get a move on and do something quickly. First of all, he did not like being entreated by old ladies, and secondly, he had his own ideas about the speed with which he worked.

The rest of the time, until he walked through the dignified portals of the Chartres Hotel, was spent in wondering about one or two other things that interested him.

The lift took him up to a room on the first floor. The page-boy opened the door and Callaghan stepped inside. He stood just inside the doorway looking at the woman who was standing by the fireplace. He looked at her for a long time.

'I'm Callaghan,' he said. 'I came here to see Mrs Riverton.'

'I am Mrs Riverton, Mr Callaghan,' she said.

She noticed his raised eyebrow.

'The fact seems to surprise you,' she said coldly.

Callaghan was still looking at her. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. He was thinking to himself that wonders would never cease, wondering how old man Riverton—grey, grizzled and sixty—could have got himself a wife like this.

She was about thirty years of age. Her hair was black as night and her eyes sombre. Her face was oval, with features perfectly carved, and Callaghan, who liked to find words to match a situation, found himself at a loss for an adequate description of the tremulous beauty of her mouth.

Callaghan liked women. He liked women who walked beautifully, who knew how to move, how to dress—women who were beautiful. He believed that being a woman was a business, and that if you were in a business you ought to try and be damned good at it.