It Couldn't Matter Less E-Book

Peter Cheyney

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

CALLAGHAN— sole occupant of the downstairs bar at the Green Paroquet Club— tilted his chair back against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, gazed solemnly, with eyes that were a trifle glazed, at the chromium fittings of the bar-counter at the other end of the room. The bartender, warily polishing glasses, wondered when he would go.
Callaghan was wearing a well-cut double-breasted dinner-jacket, a white silk shirt with a soft collar, a black watered-silk bow. His face was inclined to thinness and his jaw-bones stood out. His hair was black and unruly. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a thin waist and slim hips.

Leseprobe

IT COULDN'T MATTER

LESS

(Setup For Murder)

Peter Cheyney

1941

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383839538

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

1: Birthday Night

CALLAGHAN— sole occupant of the downstairs bar at the Green Paroquet Club— tilted his chair back against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, gazed solemnly, with eyes that were a trifle glazed, at the chromium fittings of the bar-counter at the other end of the room. The bartender, warily polishing glasses, wondered when he would go.

Callaghan was wearing a well-cut double-breasted dinner-jacket, a white silk shirt with a soft collar, a black watered-silk bow. His face was inclined to thinness and his jaw-bones stood out. His hair was black and unruly. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a thin waist and slim hips.

He tilted the chair forward, felt in the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a thin red and white gold cigarette case. He flipped it open, took out a cigarette, lit it and sat, his shoulders hunched up, looking at the inside of the open case. Inset on the red gold in silver were the words: "To Slim Callaghan from Audrey Vendayne."

Callaghan began to think about the Vendayne case and Audrey Vendayne. After a bit he tilted his chair back against the wall again and began to whistle softly. He was whistling a tune called: It Was Good While It Lasted.

The bartender rested his elbow on the bar, his head on his hand, and yawned. Callaghan put the case back in his pocket, got up. He put on a black soft hat and walked slowly towards the exit.

The bartender said lugubriously: "There's another bleedin' air raid on, it's rainin' an' it's no good lookin' on the rank outside for a cab becos there ain't none."

Callaghan looked at him. For some unknown reason the gloom of the bartender made him feel better. He said, almost cheerfully:

"That's too bad. But why be depressed?"

"Why not?" asked the man. "What 'ave I got to be pleased about. Look at this bleedin' war..."

"All right," said Callaghan. "Look at it."

The bartender took down a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured a small brandy. He drank it slowly. He hiccupped. He said:

"My missus 'as joined the A.T.S. Every time I see 'er she's always beefin' off about the sergeant. My missus don't like the sergeant becos the sergeant is a blonde— a natural one I mean, an' my missus can't get the same effec' with peroxide. Las' week I find out that the sergeant is a girl I 'ad a bit of trouble with a year ago. It's a lousy situation...."

Callaghan nodded. He said:

"It's pretty bad. Practically anything can happen.... I know what I'd do if I were you."

The bartender asked: "What would you do?"

"I'd cut my throat," said Callaghan. "Do that. You'll feel happier...."

He pushed the door open and went out.

CHIEF Detective-Inspector Gringall, his overcoat collar turned up, his hands in his pockets, his bowler hat tilted slightly forward, turned off Bond Street and began to walk towards "Ferdie's Place." When he arrived he went down the area steps, knocked on the door and waited. After a minute the door opened. Framed in the dim light from within was a short figure in a dinner-jacket.

Gringall said: "Hallo, how are you, Ferdie?"

Ferdie grinned.

"All right, thanks, Mr. Gringall," he said. He grinned again. "We've got a new turn to-night," he said. "I think you'll like her. She'll be on in five minutes."

Gringall said: "I think I'll come in out of the rain."

He followed Ferdie along the passage, left his coat and hat in the cloakroom, went up the stairs to the Club Room Floor. There were a lot of people sitting round at the tables, making the most of their one-course meals. Gringall sat down, ordered a sandwich and a bottle of Worthington.

Five minutes later the band wandered on to their platform and began to play a haunting tune. People got up and danced. Half-way through the refrain the lights went out. The curtains at the far end of the room parted and a spotlight fell on the figure of a woman who had begun to sing. The dancers went back to their tables.

Gringall looked at the woman appreciatively. She was about five feet eight inches in height, slim but curved in the right places. As she sang she moved her hips slightly in a quiet unexaggerated way that was very effective. Her face was surprising. It was quite beautiful, very intelligent. Her big eyes, extraordinarily blue, looked at you with an expression that denoted a vague surprise. She sang very quietly, very effectively. You could have heard a pin drop.

Towards the end of the number Gringall stubbed out the cigarette he had lit, got up very quietly and went to the telephone box in the passage.

WINDEMERE Nikolls, his arms hanging over the sides of Callaghan's best arm-chair, his feet on Callaghan's desk, lit a Lucky Strike from the stub end of the last one. Nikolls was wide in the shoulder, running to a little fat. His eyes were bright and penetrating, his face round and good-humoured.

He got up, switched off the light, went across to the window, drew aside the black-out curtain and looked out. A shaft of moonlight was trying to illuminate the corner of Berkeley Square. Nikolls dropped the curtain back into place, switched on the light. He stood leaning against the wall looking through the half-open door of the outer office, appreciating the side view of Effie Thompson.

Effie, in a smart fur coat over a blue suit, a little hat on one side of her head, sat before her desk with her gloved hands clasped in an attitude of patient resignation.

Nikolls heaved himself away from the wall and walked into the doorway. He said:

"Effie, has anybody ever told you you've got one helluva figure?"

She said yes without looking at him.

"You don't say," said Nikolls. "Who?"

"You have," she said, "a thousand times. Don't you ever think about anything else except my figure?" Her voice was slightly acid.

Nikolls considered.

"Sometimes I do," he said, "but not often."

Effie said: "I'm about sick of this. He said he'd be back at five, that I was to stay till he came back. He wanted to dictate a report on that Mailing case. I suppose it's some woman." Her voice was sarcastic.

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Nikolls. He opened his mouth and exuded a large mouthful of smoke. "Another thing," he said, "I just remembered something. It's his birthday."

"My God!" said Effie. "I suppose that means he won't be back at all."

The telephone jangled. Nikolls lounged over to Callaghan's desk and took the call. After he had hung up, he said:

"That was Gringall. I wonder what the hell he wants."

Effie said: "I hope nobody's going to start something at this time of night. I'm fed up. I had a date to go to the Cinema."

"There'll be other dates, honey," said Nikolls. "I remember a dame I knew when I was in Chicago..."

"I know... I know," said Effie. "The one with the different coloured eyes...."

She cocked her head on one side as the sound of a footstep came from the corridor outside. They both listened. They heard the lift gates clang and the noise of the lift ascending.

"That's him," said Nikolls. "He's forgot all about us. He's just gone straight up to bed." He grinned. "Ain't he the heartless guy?" he concluded.

Effie said: "I'm going to ring through and tell him what I think about this. I wonder if he realises it's nearly twelve o'clock."

Nikolls said: "He probably don't realise anything. But if I was you I wouldn't use the telephone. Sometimes he's sorta acid at this time of night. Why don't you go up, honey?"

Effie said: "Why should I?"

"Go on," said Nikolls. "You know you're curious. You wanta see if he's really cock-eyed or only half stewed. I know you. Another thing, there's always the hope he might even kiss you."

Effie said: "You damned Canadian. Sometimes I hate you."

Nikolls's grin was broad and benevolent.

"Sure you do," he said. "I sympathise with you. But stick around long enough and he might— who knows!"

He went back to the arm-chair as Effie walked towards the office door. As she turned the handle he called out:

"You might tell him that Gringall was on the line just now. He wanted Slim to go over to some dump called 'Ferdie's Place,' off Bruton Street. He wanted to see him there."

"I see," said Effie. "Anything else?"

"Yes," said Nikolls. "I told him it was Slim's birthday to-day. I told him that I thought he'd been out on a jag with somebody, that he probably wouldn't be comin' over. Gringall said to tell him that there's a woman over there doing a torch act that would make a dead man sit up and blink. He said he thought she was the real Callaghan type."

Effie said bitterly: "I suppose he thought that would do the trick."

Nikolls shrugged his shoulders.

When Effie Thompson walked into the sitting-room of Callaghan's flat on the floor above the office, he was lying back in a big leather arm-chair blowing smoke rings.

She said icily: "Can I go. You've probably forgotten that I've been waiting since five o'clock. You said I was to wait till you came back. I suppose you did forget?"

Callaghan said: "Correct— I forgot. Do you want to resign or something?"

Effie flushed. Her green eyes gleamed.

"That was uncalled for," she said.

Callaghan nodded.

"That's what I thought," he said. "Anything else?"

She said: "Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall came through six or seven minutes ago. He was speaking from a Club called 'Ferdie's Place,' off Bruton Street. He wanted to know if you would go over there and meet him. He didn't say what it was about. Nikolls told him that it was improbable, that it was your birthday and that you were out— probably with somebody. I suppose you won't go?"

Callaghan said: "Your supposition is correct. I'm not going. Anything else?"

"Yes," said Effie. "Mr. Gringall said also that there was some woman at Ferdie's Place, a singer I believe. He said she was a most wonderful person; that she was a Callaghan type. I suppose," she concluded acidly, "he thought that might get you over there."

Callaghan said: "You don't say?"

She said: "If he comes through again is Nikolls to tell him you're not going over there?"

He looked at her.

"I wouldn't know," he said. "I think not. Good-night, Effie."

"Good-night," she said.

She walked to the door of the sitting-room. When she got there, Callaghan said:

"Effie!"

She turned round.

"You've got very nice ankles, Effie," said Callaghan.

"That gets me somewhere, doesn't it?" she said caustically. "Nikolls told me a few minutes ago that I'd got a good figure. I'm doing well to-day."

Callaghan grinned at her. He said amiably:

"I'm glad you're pleased. Good-night, Effie...."

She paused with her hand on the door-knob. She said:

"I wanted to wish you many happy returns of the day. I haven't had the chance before...."

"Too bad," said Callaghan. "Are you going to?"

She asked: "Am I going to what...?"

Callaghan smiled patiently at her.

"Wish me many happy returns of the day?" he asked.

"But I've just done it," she said.

He shook his head.

"You haven't. You said you wanted to do it. Always do what you want, Effie. It's a good habit." His grin was maddening.

She opened the door. Over her shoulder she said:

"Many happy returns of the day." Her voice was like an icicle.

Callaghan said: "The same to you, Effie...."

She opened her mouth to say something. Then she shut it with a snap of her white teeth. She drew the door slowly to behind her and, when it was almost closed, slammed it viciously. She walked along the passage, entered the lift, crashed the gate and descended.

On the way to the ground floor she thought of some of the things she would like to do to Callaghan.

CALLAGHAN got up from the arm-chair and began to undress. As he took off his clothes he threw them on to the floor. When he had stripped to his underwear he went into the bathroom, filled the wash-basin with cold water and dipped his head into it. He kept it there until it began to ache.

Then he dried his face and began to rub eau-de-cologne from a quart bottle into his thick black hair.

Still rubbing, carrying the bottle in his hand, he went back into the sitting-room. He picked up the inter-communication telephone and waited. After a while Nikolls's voice came over the wire from the office.

Callaghan said: "Come up here, Windy."

He put the bottle on the floor, went into the bedroom, selected a shirt, collar, tie and lounge suit, and began to dress.

Nikolls came in. He was smoking a cigar. He said: "Happy Birthday. Are you finishin' it or startin' another one?"

Callaghan put on his trousers. Then he walked into the sitting-room, went over to the sideboard and poured himself out four fingers of Canadian Club. He drank it neat, lit a cigarette, indulged in a fit of coughing. When it was over he asked:

"What did Gringall want?"

Nikolls shrugged his shoulders.

"Search me," he said. "I think he wanted you to go over to the dump he was at— Ferdie's Place, off Bruton Street— an' see him. I told him you wasn't in. He said it didn't matter."

Callaghan said: "All right.... Look in about eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, Windy."

Nikolls exuded a large mouthful of cigar smoke.

He said: "O.K. I hope you had a nice birthday an' everything."

He went out. Callaghan heard the lift gates close.

He stood leaning up against the sideboard. He drew a mouthful of smoke down into his lungs and sent it out in a thin stream through one nostril. He finished dressing, put on a thin overcoat, a black soft hat, and went down the stairs to the office. He unlocked the outer office door, switched on the light, opened the telephone directory. He looked up the address of Ferdie's Place.

Three minutes afterwards he was crossing Berkeley Square in the direction of Bruton Street. The moon had come out from behind the clouds— the thin sleeting rain had stopped. Somewhere above a German bomber droned.

At the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street he stopped to light a cigarette. He was thinking about Audrey Vendayne. After a while he began to think of Mrs. Riverton and some other women whose faces flashed across his mind.

He turned off Bruton Street, found the address he sought, went down the basement steps, knocked on the door. After a few minutes Ferdie opened it.

Callaghan said: "My name's Callaghan. Mr. Gringall telephoned me from here some time ago. Is he still here?"

Ferdie said: "No, Mr. Callaghan. He's gone." He was smiling amiably.

"I'm not a member," said Callaghan. "But I'd like a drink...."

"That's perfectly all right," said Ferdie. "Any friend of the Chief Inspector's..."

He led the way along the passage.

When Callaghan had left his coat and hat he went up the stairs and into the main room. There were a lot of people there dancing or eating and drinking. They were the usual sort of people that you find in a place like Ferdie's at times like this.

Ferdie said: "Order anything you want, Mr. Callaghan. It's on the house. I'll have your name put on the invitation list to-morrow. There's a turn on in a few minutes... a good one.... I hope we'll see a lot of you."

Callaghan sat down on a gold chair at a small gold table. He picked up the menu and read it. Printed on the back in silver lettering were the words, "Ferdie's Place... London's Most Famous Bottle Party... with Doria..."

A waiter came to the table. Callaghan ordered a double Canadian Club. He asked the waiter who Doria was. The man said she was Miss Doria Varette; that she sang. He went away.

Callaghan sat looking at the people around him. He thought they were not fearfully interesting. He wondered what they did— or did not do— when they weren't at Ferdie's Place.

The band stopped playing and the people on the floor went to their tables. Ferdie went on to the band platform and the house lights went out. A spot lime was put on Ferdie. He said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present with great pleasure... Doria...."

The band started an ad lib. The spot lime was switched off Ferdie on to the opening between the curtains, which parted slowly. Callaghan looked at Doria.

She was wearing a tight-fitting frock of silver lamé with a little train. Over it she wore a three-quarter length cloak of the same material, lined with scarlet crêpe-de-chine. There was a high black fox roll collar on the cloak.

She began to sing. She sang in a peculiarly effortless manner and rather as if she were bored with the process. She sang a number called "I Could Learn," but by the way she sang it she indicated that even if she could it would be too much trouble. She created an extraordinary atmosphere while she sang. Callaghan noticed the complete and utter silence in the room.

Occasionally she moved. Merely a suggestion of movement, but it was so graceful a movement, so alluring, that one waited expectantly for a repetition.

Callaghan drank his whisky and then a little water.

The woman finished singing. There was applause and the curtains came together. The house lights went up. A young man sitting at the next table leaned over and said to a subaltern in battle dress: "Christ... what a hell of a woman.... Oh, boy...!"

Callaghan signalled the waiter who was hovering.

He tore off one half of the menu and wrote on the blank part:

I want to talk to you. It might be urgent.

He signed the note, gave it to the waiter. He said:

"Put that in an envelope and see that Miss Varette gets it immediately. And bring some more whisky."

He gave the man a pound note.

The band began to play a tango. After a while the waiter came back with the whisky. He brought the bottle. Callaghan wondered whether Ferdie was always so generous to prospective customers. He watched the dancers, drinking whisky when the sight bored him.

He waited a long time. Eventually a lanky page-boy appeared and quietly asked Callaghan to follow him. They went out of the room, downstairs and along a passage that ran parallel with the room above. At the end was a door. The page-boy opened the door and went away.

Callaghan stood in the doorway looking into the dressing-room. He inhaled the scent of face powder and perfume that clings to such places.

Doria Varette was sitting in front of the large wing mirrors on her dressing-table. She was wearing a black suit and a fox fur. Beneath the fur Callaghan could see a suggestion of a lace ruffle.

He thought that the young man upstairs was right. She was a hell of a woman. Her beauty was heightened by the incongruity of her raven black hair and the almost icy blueness of her eyes. The whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her hair, and the sensitiveness of her nostrils was matched by that of her mouth.

When she moved to look at Callaghan she imbued the slight movement with the same peculiar grace that he had noticed when she was singing.

She said: "It was nice of you to want to meet me, Mr. Callaghan. I don't often meet members of this place. But you said it might be urgent. Why is it urgent?"

She did not smile. While she spoke she held the piece of menu on which Callaghan had written his note between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand. She opened her fingers and the piece of cardboard fell on to the table.

Callaghan thought that the gesture was as effortless as her singing. He said:

"I didn't say it was urgent. I said it might be urgent."

He grinned at her. He was leaning against the doorpost. She noticed the strength of his narrow jaw and his strong even teeth. Suddenly she smiled.

She picked up a cigarette case from the dressing-table and opened it. She offered it to him. Callaghan took a cigarette and produced his lighter.

She inhaled deeply. After a minute she said:

"Why might it be urgent?"

He shrugged.

"I wouldn't know," he said. "I've never been in this place before. Earlier a friend rang me up and asked me to meet him here. He also said that you were singing here and that you were my type." His grin became mischievous. "He was right...."

She got up suddenly. She stood facing him. She was still smiling. Callaghan was looking at her mouth. He thought she had a hell of a mouth. It was superbly carved, mobile, sensitive.

"Well..." she said softly. "And where do we go from there?"

Callaghan said: "I don't mind. I've a flat in Berkeley Square. There's a good fire, two bottles of Goulay, a dozen Canadian rye and bourbon, some brandy and a little gin... if that's of interest...."

She turned back towards the mirror, picked up a small tailor-made hat and began to put it on. Callaghan thought that putting on a hat was a good test for any woman's figure. A woman either looked very good or she didn't. This one did.

She said suddenly: "You're a detective, aren't you— a private detective?"

Callaghan nodded.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Ferdinand told me. He said you had quite a reputation."

"It just shows you," said Callaghan, "doesn't it...?" He inhaled and began to blow smoke rings. "Incidentally, it's my birthday."

"That makes it quite different," she said. She turned away from the mirror. She was still smiling. She said:

"Well... what about the Goulay, the Canadian rye, the bourbon, the brandy and the gin...?"

Callaghan smiled at her and pushed the door open. As she was about to pass him she turned towards him. She began to say something, stopped suddenly as if she had changed her mind.

Callaghan put his arm round her shoulder. He noticed the odd look of surprise that came into her eyes for a split second. Then they softened. Quite naturally she put up her mouth for him to kiss.

After a moment she said: "You are having a birthday, aren't you?"

He grinned at her. He said:

"We'll see...."

CALLAGHAN unlocked the outside door of his apartment, went inside, switched on the hall and sitting-room lights and waited for her to come in. As she walked across the hall into the sitting-room he swept a practised eye over her.

Her clothes were good, her shoes and stockings expensive. He hung up his overcoat and hat and followed her. She was standing in front of the fireplace looking into the fire.

Callaghan went across to the sideboard, took out a bottle of Goulay and two champagne glasses, and began to open the bottle. He said:

"If you want to powder your nose you go through the bedroom and you find the bathroom on the other side."

She said: "Thank you. I think I'll do my face. I can never do it properly in that dressing-room at Ferdie's."

She opened her handbag, took out a small leather make-up case, put down the handbag on a small table by the fireside and went into the bedroom.

Callaghan put the bottle down and crossed the room very quickly, very quietly. He snapped open her handbag and looked inside. The bag was a fair-sized crocodile bag and it held a lot. Inside were the usual things— a small flask of perfume, a lace handkerchief, a lipstick. At the bottom of the bag was a .28 Spanish automatic marked "Guernica" and three small ampoules with Japanese lettering on the outside. He recognised the markings. Two of the ampoules contained morphine and the third cocaine.

Callaghan closed the bag, put it back on the table and went back to the sideboard. He poured out two glasses of champagne and pushed the big arm-chairs into place in front of the fire.

When she came back he was standing with his back to the fire. He passed her a glass and indicated an arm-chair. He said "Happy days" and drank off the glass of champagne. He went to the sideboard, brought back the bottle, refilled his glass.

She said: "I suppose you're a very expensive detective...?"

Callaghan nodded solemnly.

"Very," he said. He began to drink his second glass of champagne.

She went on: "I haven't a great deal of money, but I've some money. I want to find someone. Nobody seems to know where he is."

Callaghan finished his second glass of champagne.

"That's too bad," he said.

He watched her drink her own drink. He refilled her glass.

She looked up at him. He could see that her blue eyes were misty.

"I'm fearfully serious about this," she said. "That's why I came here...."

He grinned.

"I knew there was a catch somewhere," he said. "Tell me about the boy friend. Maybe he's joined the Army... or something...."

She shook her head.

"He hasn't done that," she said. "He couldn't. He couldn't pass the doctors."

Callaghan went to the sideboard and poured out some bourbon. He came back with the glass in his hand. He said:

"I'd like to hear all about it. I'm very interested."

She threw him a quick glance. She said:

"I'm not quite certain as to whether you're taking me absolutely seriously, but I'll tell you about it and then you can tell me how much you'll want to help."

She drank some champagne. She said:

"His name is Lionel Wilbery. He's a poet. He's one of those young men, very good-looking, very well-dressed. The sort of young man who pays a guinea for a tie and isn't quite certain where the money to pay for it is coming from. I should think Lionel owed rather a lot of money."

Callaghan nodded sympathetically.

"He sounds as if he might," he said. "Does he drink a lot too...?"

"No," she said. "Lionel doesn't drink much. He used to, but he gave it up. He gave up drinking when he began to take drugs...."

"Yes," said Callaghan. "They usually do...."

"He was fearfully interested in writing poetry," she went on. "He was quite keen about it and, I believe, not at all bad. He used to write verse mainly about the sea. He was very fond of the sea...."

Callaghan cocked an eyebrow.

"Perhaps he's drowned himself in it," he said.

"Oh, no," she went on. "I'm certain he hasn't done that. I'm certain that he is about somewhere, but I've got to find out where." She looked at Callaghan. "You see," she said quietly, "I'm terribly in love with Lionel. I've got to know about him."

Callaghan said: "What about the police? They're not half bad at finding people. If I wanted to find somebody I'd probably go to the police. And they don't charge anything."

She shook her head.

"That would be quite useless," she said. "I'll tell you why. Lionel got into rather an odd crowd... a not very nice set of people. I'd just got him to stop drinking and then he met these people, and I'm certain they introduced him to drugs. He's rather a weak type."

"D'you know who these people are?" Callaghan asked.

"No," she replied. "I only know about them from Lionel. He told me about them after he'd first met them. He thought they were very clever and amusing and smart. And there was an attractive woman, I believe.... They are the sort of people who don't do anything and have enough money to be comfortable on and spent quite a lot on drink and things like that."

Callaghan took the Goulay bottle from the mantelpiece and filled her glass. She sipped the wine absently.

"I don't know why," she said. "But I believe they've got Lionel somewhere. I believe they've got some scheme about him. Probably something that they would consider amusing.... Do you think you can do anything?"

Callaghan grinned.

"I can try," he said. He walked across to the writing desk in the far corner and came back with a sheet of notepaper and a fountain-pen. "Write down his name and address— the last address you know," he said. "I'll get in touch with you in a day or so and let you know what I think about it."

She rested the notepaper on the arm of the chair and wrote on it. Then she handed the pen and paper to Callaghan. He put them on the mantelpiece.

She got up. She said:

"I'll send you a cheque for a hundred pounds to-morrow. Will that do?"

"It's a good start," said Callaghan. He stood looking at her, grinning.

"I think I'll go home now," she said. "You won't forget to let me know about things, will you?"

Callaghan said he wouldn't. He finished his bourbon. She began to walk towards the hall. She looked at Callaghan when he took his hat and overcoat. He grinned at her.

"I'll drop you," he said. "Where are you going?"

"I have a tiny house off Wilton Place, in Knightsbridge," she said. "Is that too far...?"

Callaghan picked up a late cab in Berkeley Square. The moon had gone in and the black-out was very black. His head ached a little. He wondered vaguely just how much he had drunk during the day.

Doria Varette sat back in the corner of the cab and said nothing at all. Callaghan, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, saw she had regained the cold self-control which, in spite of the dressing-room episode, seemed characteristic.

He paid off the cab on the corner of Knightsbridge and Wilton Street. They walked a little way down the street and turned into a cul-de-sac. At the end a blue door showed dimly in the light of his electric flash. She pushed it open. Inside a little flight of four or five stairs curved up to another doorway.

She went inside. Callaghan heard her keys jangle. Standing on the doorstep of the outer door he flashed the torch so that she might find the keyhole.

She opened the door and stepped inside. She said:

"Good-night, Mr. Callaghan. Thank you very much."

He said good-night. He pulled the outer door to, walked down the alleyway into the main road. As he turned towards Knightsbridge a car crossed the road and braked by the pavement.

Callaghan stopped. He leaned up against the wall and waited. The car stopped and someone got out. Callaghan could see the tiny disc of light from an electric torch moving along towards the cul-de-sac.

He moved quietly after it. It stopped for a moment in front of the outer door of Doria Varette's house and then disappeared.

Callaghan waited for a moment. Then he moved silently towards the outer door, found it, pushed it open a little way, inserted his head and looked round the corner, up the little stairway.

Doria Varette was framed in the open doorway at the top of the stairs. The light from behind her silhouetted the man who stood to one side of the door.

The man wore no overcoat. His lounge suit was exquisitely cut. He looked as if he had been poured into it. The shoulders were squared and descended into an ultra-slim waistline. The rather wide trousers were draped beautifully over well-polished, tiny shoes. He wore a white silk shirt with diagonal blue stripes and a stiff double collar with long points to match. His tie was made of plain, white matt silk. Stuck in the middle of it was a ruby heart surrounded with splinter diamonds.

He began to speak in a low voice. Callaghan could not hear the words. Doria Varette looked at him with no expression on her face. She stood quite still. In the middle of a sentence she slammed the door in the face of her visitor.

The man began to laugh softly. It was not a very nice laugh.

Callaghan walked down the cul-de-sac and stood leaning against the wall, on the corner. After a minute the man appeared, his torch picking out a tiny circle of light on the pavement.

Callaghan said: "Just a minute."

The man stopped. Callaghan flashed his torch upwards.

The man's face was of an olive colour. It was very thin, very bitter. The thin mouth looked like a slit.

Callaghan said: "I saw your car parked across the corner, on the pavement, when we drove up. You were waiting for Miss Varette...?"

The man said: "Yes." The word sounded sibilant.

Callaghan got the idea that he was a Cuban. He went on:

"If you wanted to speak to her why didn't you take the opportunity then? When we were going in. Or did you think you might be interrupting us?"

The other smiled. There was something pitying in the smile. After a moment he said:

"Señor, please believe tha-at you cannot do yourself any advantage in thees matter. Not at all. The Señora Varette is so-och a stranger to the trut'. You know? She makes fools of peepul. Maybe she makes one of you, Señor?"

Callaghan said: "Maybe.... I hadn't thought of that."

The Cuban laughed. It was an odd laugh. It started in the throat and trailed off. It sounded as if it came from a long way away.

"Eef you are a wise man you will theenk of tha-at now," he said. "You can take some good advice, hey, Señor?"

Callaghan felt in his pocket. He brought out a cigarette. He snapped on his lighter and lit the cigarette.

He said: "Why do I have to take advice from you?"

The Cuban shrugged his shoulders. Then he put a thin hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a leather case. He opened the case and took out two banknotes. Callaghan dropped the beam of light from his torch an inch or two. He could see that they were fifty-pound notes.

The man put the case back in his pocket and folded up the notes. He held them towards Callaghan.

"The Señora Varette," he said softly, "she is a one tha-at does not always know just wha-at she ees doing. Sometimes she takes a leetle piece of drug, sabe, Señor? A peench of thees... a leetle drop of tha-at. She ees what you call not so reliable... hey, Señor?"

Callaghan said: "Maybe.... I never thought of that either...."

He took the two banknotes.

The Cuban stopped smiling. His eyes became very narrow. Callaghan could see them like pin-points. When he spoke his voice was like a rasp. He said:

"So now you theenk... hey, Señor. You theenk it better tha-at you mind your own business?"

Callaghan nodded. He undid his overcoat and put the two banknotes into his waistcoat pocket. He was looking round the Cuban's shoulders, towards the car. He could not see it. It was too dark.

He said: "Thanks for the information. Good-night."

He took his electric torch in his left hand and held out his right.

The Cuban looked very surprised. He smiled a little cynically and shrugged his shoulders very slightly. Then he put out his hand.

Callaghan swung his right hand over the hand that came towards him. He brought up his elbow with all the force of his body behind it. He hit the Cuban under the point of the jaw with a thud that jerked his shoulder muscle. Simultaneously he stepped forward on his left foot, put out his left arm and caught the man as he fell backwards.

Callaghan, moving quietly, dragged the limp figure a few yards down the street. He propped it up half a dozen yards from the Knightsbridge Post Office, against the wall.

He crossed the road and began to walk towards Piccadilly. He stopped in the shadow of the cabman's shelter and examined the two banknotes under the light of his torch. He was glad to observe that they were genuine.

The moon, arriving from a bank of clouds, threw a half light down Piccadilly and made shadows in St. James's Park.

Callaghan put the notes away and continued on his walk. He stopped half-way down Piccadilly and fumbled in his fob-pocket for a couple of aspirin tablets.

His head felt a little better. He began to whistle very softly. He was whistling a tune called It Was Good While It Lasted.

2: The Morning After

THE jangling of the telephone awakened Callaghan. He realised, vaguely, that it was morning, that his head was aching. He opened his eyes and switched on the electric light. He closed his eyes again quickly. After a while he opened them again and found he could keep them so without flinching.

He lay looking at the ceiling thinking about Doria Varette. He began to wonder about her. He remembered other women who had come into his existence through the medium of a case, played their part and then taken their exit. He remembered that most of his worst best cases or best worst cases had begun through a woman. Sometimes it had been amusing... sometimes not so amusing.

Pictures of Cynthis Meraulton— from the old Chancery Lane days; Thorla Riverton— who had started off by being very tough and finished by being very kind— and Audrey Vendayne— followed each other in quick succession. Callaghan smiled at the recollection of Audrey Vendayne.

The telephone continued to jangle. He muttered something under his breath, threw aside the bedclothes, slid his feet out on to the floor. He was wearing the top half of a pair of violet silk pyjamas covered with small white fleur-de-lis. When he looked at the pattern he felt sick.

He got off the bed and walked to the telephone. It was Effie Thompson. She said brightly:

"Good-morning, Mr. Callaghan. I hope you're well this morning. It's eleven o'clock and Mr. Nikolls has just come in. He asked me to see if you were awake. I thought I'd better ring through." She paused for a moment, then: "I hope you had a happy birthday." There was the sound of a decided sniff.

Callaghan said tersely: "Ring down to the service and tell them to send me up some strong tea. Then put Nikolls on to this line. I want to talk to him."

Nikolls came on.

"Hallo, Slim. How's it goin'?"

"Not so bad," said Callaghan. "Listen, Windy. I want you to do something. A young fellow by the name of Lionel Wilbery used to live at Roedean House. It's an apartment place just off Shepherd Market. Find out what you can about him."

Nikolls said: "O.K. Anything else?"

"Yes," said Callaghan. "I want to know who his people are. He's a poet or something. He doesn't pay his debts; he used to drink and gave it up when he took to drugs."

"Sounds an interestin' guy, don't he?" said Nikolls.

"Maybe," Callaghan said. "That's all I've got to give you. Try and have something for me by this afternoon."

Nikolls said: "Right, Slim."

He was hanging up when Callaghan continued: "Just a minute. Here's a hint— it might mean something. Find out if a man who looks as if he might be a Cuban, a Brazilian or a Chilean— about five feet nine inches, with an olive skin and a thin face— a man who dresses rather too well and with very small feet— used to get around to Roedean House. Find out if there is any connection between him and Wilbery."

He hung up the receiver. He stood in the middle of the sitting-room by the telephone table, looking reluctantly through the open doorway at his bed. Then he walked across to the windows, pulled the black-out curtains and looked out.

It was a cold grey February day. The corner of Berkeley Square that Callaghan could see was deserted. He yawned; then he walked across the bedroom into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He came out, went to the sideboard and poured out a stiff four fingers of bourbon. He drank it off at one gulp. He shuddered a little, lit a cigarette, began to dress.