Sorry Youve Been Troubled E-Book

Peter Cheyney

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

EFFIE THOMPSON was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast.
She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan.
 

Leseprobe

SORRY YOU'VE

BEEN TROUBLED

(Farewell To The Admiral)

Peter Cheyney

1942

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834533

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

1: So Long, Admiral

EFFIE THOMPSON was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast.

She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan.

She was right. He said:

'Hallo, is that you, Effie? I suppose you weren't asleep by any chance?'

'Yes, Mr. Callaghan, I was asleep, strangely enough. But please don't worry about that. You wouldn't think I was annoyed, would you?' Her tone was slightly acid.

Callaghan said: 'That's big of you, Effie....'

Under her breath she called him a rude name. Always, she thought, she left herself open for a wisecrack from Callaghan. Always, half an hour afterwards, she thought of some terrific come-back that would have slain him. She sighed.

He said briskly: 'You remember that Starata case— the people who put in a big claim for fire damage on the Sphere & International? Well, I've just run into Jack Starata. He doesn't know I'm me. He and one or two friends of his are going to play poker. They're all pretty high. I think they might talk.'

She said quickly: 'You know, Mr. Callaghan, Starata is supposed to be dangerous.' She heard him laugh.

'You don't say?' he said. 'Listen... get on to Nikolls. Tell him that if I don't call through to him by four o'clock this morning and say I'm back in Berkeley Square, he's to come along to 22 Chapel Street— that's off Knightsbridge— and find where I am.'

Effie said: 'You're expecting trouble?' She felt scared.

Callaghan said: 'I've been expecting trouble all my life, Effie, and I usually get it. Sleep well... Oh, by the way, what colour nightgown are you wearing?'

She gasped a little. She said:

'Well, if you must know, Mr. Callaghan, its eau-de-nil satin.'

He said: 'Charming! That must look pretty well with those green eyes and that red hair of yours. I always like to feel that my staff look well turned out. Good-night.'

She hung up. She called Callaghan another rude name. Then she picked up the receiver, dialled Nikolls's number. She hoped that nothing would happen to Callaghan— in the same breath asking herself why she bothered.

When the telephone rang Nikolls wakened quickly. He looked like nothing on earth. His tongue tasted like a yellow plush sofa. He sat, his hands folded across his plump stomach, regarding the instrument malevolently. He wished he had not drunk that half-bottle of Bacardi on top of the whisky. He took off the receiver.

Effie Thompson said: 'Listen, Mr. Nikolls... Mr. Callaghan's just been through. Apparently he's still working on that Starata case. He's met Starata and some friends of his. He's going to play poker with them. As far as I can understand Starata and his friends are drunk, and Mr. Callaghan thinks they might talk.'

Nikolls said: 'Like hell they will! That bunch are too clever, and if they do talk, and find out who he is, that he's a sleuth for the Sphere & International, they'll pull him into little pieces. There's over a quarter of a million in that claim.'

'Quite,' said Effie. 'That's the point. Mr. Callaghan says if he doesn't ring you by four o'clock this morning, you're to go to 22 Chapel Street, Knightsbridge, and find out what's happening. Do you understand that? He sounded as if he thought there might be some trouble.'

'Yeah,' said Nikolls. 'Ain't life just too sweet? I have to stick around here till four o'clock waiting for the telephone bell to ring. If it don't ring, I have to go and find if somebody's killed Slim. Me... I wonder why I ever left Canada...'

'That's easy,' she said. 'A woman, I expect.'

'Look,' said Nikolls. 'You got a wrong impression, Effie. Any dames I knew in Canada was all shot to pieces when I left...'

'I can believe that too,' she said. 'But don't worry, Canada's a long way away, and they can't get at you while the war's on.'

The apartment telephone on the other side of Nikolls's bedroom began to ring. He said: 'Hang on, Effie, my other phone's goin'. It might be something.'

'All right,' said Effie.

Nikolls got out of bed. He was wearing pale-blue pyjamas with white spots on them. He looked like an apparition. The cord of his pyjamas was tied very tightly round his middle; he bulged both above and below it.

On his way to the telephone he picked up the water carafe and took a copious draught.

It was Wilkie, the night porter at Berkeley Square, calling. He said: 'That you, Mr. Nikolls? Look, I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's too much going on around here for my liking.'

'Yeah?' said Nikolls. 'There's too much going on around here too. Any time I wanta sleep somethin' happens. What's the matter, Wilkie? What's cookin' around there?'

The night porter said: 'About an hour after you left the offices to-night an Admiral Gardell came through. He wanted to speak to Mr. Callaghan. He said it was important. He asked where Mr. Callaghan was. I told him there was nobody in the offices, and I told him that I'd been through to Mr. Callaghan's flat on the floor above and couldn't get a reply. I said I didn't know where Mr. Callaghan was and he had better get through to-morrow morning. He said all right. Half an hour later he came through again. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan. It was a matter of life and death. He said he was certain Mr. Callaghan would see him. I told him what I said before— if I knew where Callaghan was I'd get in touch with him, but I didn't.'

Nikolls sighed.

'Ain't this guy persistent?' he said. 'What's the matter with him? Has somebody run off with his wife?'

Wilkie said: 'I don't know, Mr. Nikolls. But half an hour ago he came round here. He looks awfully bad. I don't like the look of him at all. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan somehow. He said he was going to stay here until he turned up.'

Nikolls yawned.

'So what?' he said. 'Is he there now?'

'No,' said Wilkie. 'He's gone off to get a cup of coffee at a coffee stall. He's coming back in twenty minutes' time.' His voice changed. 'He looks in a bad way, Mr. Nikolls,' he said. 'I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd better tell you.'

Nikolls said: 'Thanks, Wilkie. But what do I do? We can't start talking to people in the middle of the night. Besides, how do we know it's urgent? Everybody thinks their business is urgent. Doesn't this guy know that even private detectives have to go to sleep sometimes? Or maybe he thinks we're the "Eye That Never Sleeps"...?'

Wilkie said: 'What shall I tell him when he comes back?'

Nikolls said: 'You tell him to come around or call through to the office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. You tell him that Mr. Windemere Nikolls, Mr. Callaghan's principal assistant, will be at his desk punctually with a first-class hangover at that time. You got that, Wilkie?'

'I've got it,' said Wilkie.

Nikolls hung up. He went back to the other telephone.

He said: 'Hey, Effie... there's more excitement poppin'. Some guy called Admiral Gardell is rushin' around town tryin' to find Slim— one of those urgent cases.'

She said: 'I see. Well, it can wait till to-morrow morning. Perhaps it's as well that we can't get in touch with Mr. Callaghan— otherwise he might want to start something now. I'd love to go and open up the office at three o'clock in the morning.'

'We don't do that for Admirals, do we, Effie?' he said. 'We only do that for beautiful dames like Miss Vendayne... you remember that case?'

Effie said: 'I remember. It's a funny thing, but the only time we do any night work is when our clients are women.'

Nikolls said: 'Listen, baby, if I had a client like Audrey Vendayne, I'd do a bit of night work myself.'

She said nothing.

Nikolls went on: 'Too bad you being woke up like this. I bet you're lookin' swell. I bet you got that red hair of yours tied up with a ribbon. You know,' he went on, 'I don't know whether I ever told you, Effie, you got something...'

She said acidly: 'You've been telling me that ever since you've been with the firm, Mr. Nikolls. Anything I've got I'm going to keep.'

'O.K.,' said Nikolls. 'But there's no need to get tough. Just because you know I go for that hip-line of yours, you get snorty. Did I ever tell you about that dame in Chatanooga...?'

'Not once but sixty times,' interrupted Effie. 'Do you mind if I go to sleep?'

'No,' said Nikolls. 'If you feel that way, O.K. Me— I'm goin' to stay awake. I'm sorta reminiscent to-night.'

Effie said: 'I hope it keeps fine for you.'

She hung up the receiver with a jerk.

Callaghan stood in front of the fireplace. He was slightly glass-eyed, but was wearing well otherwise. He wondered vaguely how much whisky he had drank since seven o'clock. He thought it must be a lot. He concluded that it didn't matter anyhow.

Starata was mixing drinks at the sideboard. The short fat man, Lingley, was putting up the card-table, and the other one— Preem— was sitting on the settee looking at the electric light and blinking. Preem was almost in the last stages. He needed about four more drinks to go right out.

Lingley was having a lot of trouble with the collapsible table. His language was ornate.

Callaghan thought that Starata was all right. He carried his liquor well. But then he did most things well. He was good-looking too, and well dressed. Everything about Nicky Starata was rather high-class, and even if it was a little too high-class it got by. The women liked him. He had money. He had brains. He ought to have been in the Army and wasn't. He ought to have been in prison and wasn't.

Nicky was a pip. He had seventeen suits, a cottage in the country, one or two bank accounts, a safe deposit, and a very well-filled stocking. Every one— except, apparently, the proper authorities— knew all about Nicky.

He came over to Callaghan, handed a whisky and soda. He stood in front of Callaghan, smiling. He said:

'Well... here's luck, Pelham.'

Callaghan said: 'And to you. And my name's not Pelham.'

Nicky grinned. When he grinned you thought he was the most charming fellow in the world. He said:

'What does it matter. I don't give a damn what a man's name is. If I like a man, I like him.' He drank some whisky. 'I like you,' he concluded.

Callaghan smiled.

'That's fine,' he said. 'I like you, too.'

They stood smiling at each other. Starata looked at his glass and twiddled it round in his fingers.

'I don't know how you got in on this party,' he said. 'But I'm glad you're here. You're a friend of Preem's, aren't you?'

Callaghan took a quick look at Preem. He concluded it was safe. He said:

'Yes... I've known him for a hell of a long time. He'll improve in a little while. How d'you find things?'

Callaghan shrugged his shoulders.

'Not so good and not so bad,' he said. 'You know how it is?'

Starata said he knew. He smiled again.

'What d'you do, if it isn't a rude question?' he asked.

Callaghan smiled back.

'It isn't rude,' he said. 'I do more or less the same as you do. I fiddle around a little...'

Starata laughed.

'You'll do,' he said. 'You and I must get together some time and have a talk. We might be able to do something together.'

'That would be nice,' said Callaghan. 'Let's do that.'

They sat down. Starata began to shuffle the cards. Then he put the pack down, lit a cigarette and looked at them.

'Straight poker,' he said. 'Five pound rises, no limit to betting, and a pound to play. O.K.?'

Everyone said O.K. They picked cards for deal. Starata drew an ace and dealt. Callaghan was on his left.

They all played. Callaghan put in his pound-note before he even looked at his cards. When he looked he was mildly surprised. He held a full house with Queens.

He bet five pounds. Preem and Lingley checked the first time round. Starata raised it to ten. Callaghan put it up to twenty. Preem and Lingley threw in their cards. Starata raised Callaghan to thirty. Callaghan made it forty. Starata saw him at forty. He had two pairs. Callaghan picked up the money.

'Nice work— if you can get it,' he said.

Preem's head was nodding a little. He said thickly:

'That damned whisky we had to-night wasn't so good. I believe they make the stuff themselves up in the bathroom at that cursed Anchor Club. I feel like hell.'

Starata smiled amiably. He said:

'You look like hell, Preem. But then you always do. You want to get wise to yourself. You've started slipping.'

Preem looked at Starata with narrowed eyes. He said:

'Oh yes? Well, look... you better have a look at yourself too. Let me tell you something... Willie Lagos is walking around talking a bit too much. He's not very happy. You want to know why?'

Starata folded his hands on the table before him. He was still smiling.

'You tell me why,' he said.

'O.K.,' said Preem. 'I'll tell you why. He's been sore at you ever since you took that girl off him. You know— the strawberry number. And why shouldn't he? Willie's got an idea you're too goddam fond of pinching other people's women.'

Starata said, quite pleasantly: 'Yes? Go on. You interest me, Johnnie.

Preem said: 'Don't worry, I'm going on. I got a bit of news for you. The Sphere & International don't like that claim of yours on the warehouse fire. They think it stinks.'

Starata said: 'This is getting very interesting. Tell me some more, Johnnie.'

Preem hiccoughed. He said:

'Willie Lagos and Callaghan were drinking highballs in the Silver Bar in Mayfair the day before yesterday.'

He stopped speaking as the door opened.

A man came in. He was short, thin, too well dressed. His black hair was sleeked down with some shiny hair compound, a cigarette was hanging from one corner of his mouth, a black soft hat was perched precariously over one eye. He stood in the doorway looking at the quartet. Callaghan put his hands on the table and tilted his chair back a little.

Starata said: 'Hallo, Leon, I'm glad to see you.'

The newcomer leaned up against the doorpost. He put his hands in his pockets. He looked at Starata with a peculiar smile playing about his lips. He said:

'Well, may I be sugared and iced, but I never expected to see Nick Starata playing cards with Mister Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations.'

There was a silence. It was broken by the noise of Starata gently drawing his breath through his teeth. Callaghan grinned at him.

'Too bad, isn't it, Nicky?' he said. 'Anyway, I told you my name wasn't Pelham.'

Starata said to Preem: 'Listen... did you bring him in on this party?'

Preem said: 'What the hell! I never saw him before to-night. I thought he was a pal of Lingley's.'

Callaghan said to Starata: 'The trouble with your friend Preem is he talks too much and thinks too little. That bit of information he gave me about Willie Lagos was just too sweet. I'll be able to go to work now.'

Starata smiled. He said: 'Will you...?'

Callaghan pushed back his chair, and in almost one movement kicked over the table; threw his chair at the electric standard. As the light went out, he swung round, hit Starata in the mouth with his left elbow. Leon's quiet voice came from the door. It said:

'All right, Nicky. I'm looking after the door. The bastard won't get out of here.'

Callaghan put his hand out. It found something soft. It was Preem's face. Callaghan hit it hard. Lingley's voice said:

'Where is that son of a bitch?'

Leon said casually from the doorway: 'Well, he's still here.'

Starata said coolly: 'Somebody strike a match.'

Behind Callaghan was the mantelpiece. He ran his hand along it until it met the clock. Callaghan took a careful aim at the doorway; he threw the clock. It was a lucky shot. It hit Leon in the stomach. He yelped, subsided on the floor.

Callaghan, moving round the left-hand side of the room along by the wall, got round to the doorway. He put his foot on Leon. As he did so someone charged at him. Callaghan thought that would be Lingley. Starata wouldn't be so excited. Callaghan went with the charge; he allowed himself to be forced backwards against the wall by the weight of Lingley's body. Then he brought his left knee up with a jerk into Lingley's abdomen. As Lingley went back, Callaghan hit him in the face.

He slipped quietly through the doorway. As he was closing the door Starata called out:

'Listen, Callaghan... don't get this wrong. We can square this, hey? And there'll be a nice piece of change in it for you. I...'

Callaghan closed the door. He felt for the key, turned it in the lock. He began to walk down the stairs.

At the end of Chapel Street, Callaghan turned into the telephone-box; called through to Nikolls. He told Nikolls not to worry about going to Chapel Street at four o'clock. Then he hung up. He came out of the box and began to walk in the direction of Berkeley Square.

THE CHINESE CLOCK on the bedroom mantelpiece struck four. Callaghan woke up, yawned, looked at the ceiling. His mouth was dry; his head ached. Through the window a gleam of cold March afternoon sunlight made a pattern on the carpet. He got up, sat on the edge of the bed running his hands through his thick black hair. He was thinking about Starata.

It looked as if the Starata case was in the bag. Callaghan thought that in the normal course of events Nicky Starata would clear out his safe deposit and make a getaway, but in these days of war there was no place to make a getaway to. It would be easy. A nice job, thought Callaghan. He made a mental note to ask the Sphere & International Insurance to increase his retainer.

He got up, began to walk towards the bathroom. On the way he stopped suddenly, turned off into the sitting-room, went to the corner cupboard, took out a bottle of Canadian Club, put the neck of the bottle into his mouth and took a long swig. He shuddered. He wondered if the man who invented the proverb of 'the hair of the dog that bit you' really knew what he was talking about.

The inter-communication telephone from the office downstairs rang. He took off the receiver. It was Effie Thompson. She said:

'Good-afternoon, Mr. Callaghan.'

He said: Is that all?'

'No,' said Effie, 'it isn't. I hope you didn't mind my saying "Good-afternoon." I rang through to tell you that Mr. Gringall's down there. He's just arrived. He says he'd like to see you personally.'

Callaghan said: 'I wonder why. Where is Mr. Gringall?'

'He's in the outer office,' said Effie. 'I'm talking from your office. Do you think it might have something to do with last night, Mr. Callaghan?'

Callaghan said: 'Why should he be concerned with last night?'

She said: 'I don't mean about the Starata business, Mr. Callaghan. Didn't Mr. Nikolls tell you about the other thing?'

Callaghan said: 'He hadn't a chance. I didn't see him. I rang him up and told him not to worry. What happened last night?'

'An Admiral Gardell came here last night. He spoke to Wilkie. He wanted to see you urgently; said it was a matter of life or death. Wilkie stalled him, but when the Admiral bothered some more he rang up Nikolls and told him.'

Callaghan said: 'I see.'

'Also,' Effie went on, 'this morning Wilkie brought me an envelope containing a note that the Admiral had left for you. Shall I send it up?'

'No,' said Callaghan, 'don't bother. Bring Mr. Gringall up and send up some tea.'

'Very good,' said Effie.

Callaghan hung up; went into the bathroom. He came out five minutes later wearing a pastel-grey crêpe-de-chine dressing-gown with black fleurs-de-lis.

Gringall was sitting in the big chair by the fire. He said:

'Hallo, Slim. How are you? That's a pretty good dressing-gown. Must have cost a lot of money. I suppose one of your women clients gave you that.'

Callaghan said: 'How did you know? But then you know everything, don't you?'

Gringall smiled.

'Just a little bit,' he said, 'not very much.'

Callaghan stood in front of the fire looking at Gringall. His hair was black and tousled; his face thin and long. His jaw was obvious but not too obvious. His shoulders were wide, tapering down to narrow flanks. He was five feet ten inches— compact— impatient-looking.

He said: 'Tell me why I am honoured by a visit from Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall, and would it be in order for me to tell you that your waistband's down by about four inches?'

'Whose waistband isn't?' said Gringall. 'This war will take more than four inches off me by the time it's through.' He smiled suddenly. 'You haven't been doing too badly for yourself lately, have you, Slim?'

Callaghan said: 'I don't know what you mean.'

'No?' said Gringall. 'What about those three or four nice little jobs you had from the Home Security Department?'

Callaghan raised his eyebrows.

'I see, so you were behind that, were you? Well, that's all right. Look at the good turn I did you over that Haragos case. But for me you'd still be scrubbing around in the undergrowth looking for somebody you'd never find.'

Gringall sighed. He said:

'I think you private detectives are just too wonderful.'

Callaghan grinned. He said:

'For once I agree with you.'

The door opened. Effie Thompson came in carrying the tea-tray. There was a chocolate cake on the tray.

Callaghan said: 'You see how we look after you. Even with rationing in the condition it is, Miss Thompson remembers you like chocolate cake, or maybe she's trying to get on the right side of you.'

Effie went out. She closed the door quietly behind her.

Gringall said: 'That's a pretty girl. She doesn't look too pleased about something, does she?'

'Right again,' said Callaghan, 'she isn't. She's annoyed with me. She gets that way occasionally.'

Gringall said: 'I don't wonder.' He scratched his nose. 'It must be tough working for you,' he said, 'especially for a girl like that who's crazy about you...'

'Nonsense,' said Callaghan. 'Where'd you get that idea?'

Gringall smiled.

'That Canadian bloodhound of yours,' he said. 'He told me. He said she had to be crazy about you, otherwise she wouldn't work here.'

Callaghan said: 'Effie's a very efficient secretary. She just happens to dislike me some of the time.'

Gringall said: 'You mean to tell me that women don't like you all the time?'

Callaghan went to the sideboard, helped himself to a cigarette. He said:

'Have you considered how boring life would be if women liked you all the time?' He grinned. 'But maybe you haven't been troubled a lot?' he said.

Gringall poured out the tea. He poured out a cup for Callaghan. He cut himself a large piece of chocolate cake. After a minute he said:

'I suppose you wouldn't have heard of an Admiral Gardell?'

Callaghan thought for a moment. Then he said:

'No, why should I?'

Gringall shrugged.

'He was murdered last night,' he said. 'Or rather early this morning. It must have been early this morning because he was here about two o'clock.'

'You don't say?' said Callaghan.

'Yes,' said Gringall. 'He was looking for you. Apparently he saw the night porter downstairs, who got in touch with Nikolls, your assistant. Perhaps they didn't tell you about it?'

Callaghan said: 'I was on a job last night. What did the Admiral want to see me about?'

'I don't know,' said Gringall. 'I hoped you'd be able to tell me that. I thought it might give us a lead.'

Callaghan said: 'What's it all about?'

The Chief Detective-Inspector finished his chocolate cake. He said:

'They found the Admiral in a coppice near his house, nearly forty miles from London, at ten o'clock this morning. The local police surgeon thinks he was killed somewhere between four and five. He was shot at fairly close range. He must have died immediately.'

Callaghan nodded.

'Have they found the gun?' he asked.

Gringall shook his head. 'No!' He felt in his overcoat and produced a short briar pipe. He began to fill it. 'The County police came through to us this morning. The local force is depleted because of the war, and they thought we might get on to it right away. I made some inquiries on the telephone, and I found that Gardell came up here late last night by car. I discovered that he'd been here. I thought I'd come and ask you if you knew anything about it.'

Callaghan said: 'I'm sorry, Gringall, I don't know a thing. If I did I'd tell you.'

Gringall got up. He was smiling pleasantly. He said:

'You mean you'd tell me if it suited your book to tell me.'

'All right,' said Callaghan, 'you have it that way.'

Gringall picked up his bowler hat. He said:

'Well, I'll be seeing you, Slim.'

Callaghan said: 'So long!'

Gringall went out.

Callaghan looked at his untasted cup of tea on the tea-tray. It was nearly cold. The surface of the tea was discoloured with tannin. He thought it looked awful. He went over to the cupboard in the corner, extracted the bottle, took another long pull. He put the bottle back and went to the window. Outside, crossing Berkeley Square, was the sturdy figure of the Detective-Inspector. He was walking briskly along, his hands in his raincoat pockets, his bowler hat almost at a jaunty angle. Callaghan grinned. There were very few police officers like George Henry Porteous Gringall, he thought— very few.

Callaghan went to the telephone. He called through to Effie Thompson.

'Effie,' he asked, 'is Nikolls in the office?'

'Yes, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'I'll put him on.'

Nikolls came on the phone. He said:

'Hallo, Slim. How're you feelin', or aren't you?'

Callaghan said brusquely: 'I'm not. Listen— I discovered last night that it was Willie Lagos who started that warehouse fire for Starata. Lagos is frightened and is prepared to talk. Starata may try to get at him, but I don't think he will. I think he'll lay off because if anything happens to Lagos, Starata will be suspect. He'll probably try to disappear for a bit.'

Nikolls said: 'I see. What do we do?'

Callaghan said: 'We don't do anything. If the Sphere & International want Starata pulled in that's a police job.' He drew some cigarette smoke down into his lungs. 'You get on to the Sphere & International,' he said. 'Tell 'em to hold up that claim over the Starata Factory. Tell 'em it was a fire-bug case. Then get out and find Willie Lagos. Put the screw on him and make him talk. Get a signed statement from him. Try and do that to-night. You got that?'

Nikolls said: 'I got it. It's goddam funny, but every time I make a date with a dame to take her to the movies I have to start being a detective.'

Callaghan said: 'Why worry? There'll be another night, and— I should imagine— another woman.'

'I hope!' said Nikolls.

Callaghan said: 'Give me Effie.' He said to her: 'Effie, you can bring that letter up from the late Admiral— now.'

Somewhere in the vicinity a clock struck nine. Callaghan came out of the Albemarle Lounge in Dover Street and began to walk towards Hay Hill. When he arrived at the top of the street he turned down towards Berkeley Square, stopped to light a cigarette.

He went into the telephone-box on the corner of the Square. He dialled the office number. Effie Thompson came on the line. Callaghan said:

'Has Nikolls been through yet?'

'He came in the office half an hour ago,' she said. 'He's seen Lagos. Lagos has made a statement. I've locked it in the drawer in your desk.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'I'll deal with it to-morrow. And, Effie, remind me to write a line to the Managing Director of the Sphere & International, to suggest that, owing to war conditions, etc., Callaghan Investigations would like its retainer doubled.'

'Very well, Mr. Callaghan,' said Effie. 'Of course you remember they doubled your retainer four months ago.'

Callaghan said shortly: 'I remember.'

'Sorry,' she said. 'I thought you might like to be reminded.'

'So I gathered,' said Callaghan.

The sound of a long-suffering sigh came to Callaghan's ears. He grinned and said:

'I think you might go home now, Effie. Go to a movie. Get your mind off your work. Why don't you buy yourself some new stockings or something— it makes a change.'

She said tartly: 'Stockings need coupons. Anyway, you can't buy them at nine o'clock at night, and I don't want to go to a movie.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Don't go. Just go home, relax, and get some sleep.'

'I'd like to,' she said. 'And in order that I do get some sleep, I'd better tell you that a Miss Gardell has been on the telephone asking for you. She wants to see you. She was speaking from the Regency... she sounded urgent.'

'Did she?' said Callaghan. 'What did she sound like— besides sounding urgent...?'

'If you mean her voice,' said Effie, 'she had a soft, cultured voice.' There was a pause. 'I think she had the sort of voice you'd like,' she went on.

Callaghan asked: 'What sort of voice do I like?'

Effie said primly: 'I imagine it would be a composite sort of voice. A mixture of some of the clients in your more successful cases. Something like Miss Vendayne's or Mrs. Riverton's or Mrs. Thurlston's or Miss...'

'I've got it,' said Callaghan. 'Just one of those voices...'

'Quite,' said Effie. 'You see, I've had ample opportunity of studying them in the small hours when I've been trying to get to sleep and you've been wanted on a case. I was thinking...'

'What were you thinking?' said Callaghan. He stubbed his cigarette out against the telephone-box.

'I was thinking that it would be a nice change if some of our male clients telephone in the middle of the night.' He heard her yawn delicately.

Callaghan said: 'Well... have patience, Effie. It might happen...'

'Is that all?' she asked.

'That's all,' said Callaghan. 'Good-night, Effie.'

'Good-night, Mr. Callaghan,' she said.

He hung up. He went out of the telephone-box, and began to walk towards Freddy's Bar in Conduit Street.

In the Berkeley Square Office, Effie Thompson put the cover on her typewriter. She exuded rage. Her green eyes flashed.

She banged the catch on the typewriter, slipped into her fur coat, adjusted her hat. She stood with her hand on the outer office door.

'Good-night, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'And damn Miss Gardell's voice...'

FREDDY'S BAR was deserted. It was a well-furnished fourth floor, reached by a passenger lift, and most of Freddy's rather peculiar clients were elsewhere. The bartender, wearing a white jacket and a bored expression, polished the chromium top of the bar, sang wearily under his breath. In the far corner, opposite the solitary pin-table, a lady in a very well-fitting black suit, cut so as to show the lines of her well-developed figure to the best advantage, drank a glass of crème-de-menthe, and dreamily considered bygone days.

Callaghan ordered a double whisky and soda. He took it to the table farthest from the bar. He sat down. He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and read the note from Admiral Gardell:

Chipley Grange,

Chipley,

Sussex.

17th March, 1941.

Dear Mr. Callaghan,

I proposed to see you to-night to discuss with you a rather urgent matter which I feel requires your attention. I had hopes, as I have elicited the fact that your flat is above your office in Berkeley Square, that I should be able to contact you through the night porter. He informs me, however, that you are out, and that he may have difficulty in getting in touch with you. I am therefore leaving this note, which I hope he will get into your hands as quickly as possible, so that when I return in an hour's time I may be sure of seeing you.

I have heard that you are an extremely busy person and I have no doubt that you will not care to be troubled in the middle of the night, but this is the only time at my disposal.

The reason that this sudden appointment with you is the only time at my disposal is because I am afraid (and I cannot even say I regret it) that I shall have no further opportunity of seeing you, as I propose to commit suicide some time in the early hours of to-morrow morning.

I hope therefore that I may claim your indulgence, as you will note that the matter is one which you might consider sufficiently urgent to merit your immediate attention.

Yours truly,

Hubert Gardell.

Callaghan replaced the letter in the envelope, put it back into his pocket. He drank the whisky and soda, carried the glass to the bar, ordered another one. He leaned up against the bar. The bartender said:

'I've not seen you for a long time, Mr. Callaghan.'

Callaghan nodded.

'I've been busy,' he said, 'and it doesn't look as if you are.'

The bartender shrugged.

'Everybody's away,' he said. 'The sort of people who used to come here and spend a little money don't do it in London any more. All the fun's just on the outside of London— twenty or thirty miles around.'

Callaghan said: 'Yes? I wonder Freddy doesn't get some places open in these spots.'

The bartender grinned.

'He's opened about six in the last five months,' he said.

'I see,' said Callaghan. 'But he still keeps this place going.' He grinned. 'I suppose a headquarters is necessary,' he said. 'You've got to have some place for the suckers to come into first— a sort of ante-room.'

The smile disappeared from the bartender's face. He said nothing.

Callaghan emptied his glass. He put on his hat and went out. He walked down the four flights of stairs to the street. He stopped in Bond Street to light a cigarette. It was a dark, gusty night. Callaghan thought there was some rain about. He wondered why he should spend time considering the weather. He wandered slowly down Bond Street, along Grafton Street, and down Hay Hill. He went into the telephone-box. Inside he stood leaning up against the wall, drawing the smoke from his cigarette down into his lungs, thinking of some interesting conversation he had had from this same box. He remembered the night when he telephoned Gringall about Eustace Riverton in the Riverton case. He began to grin.

He took out a small pocket torch, flipped through the pages of the telephone directory. He found and dialled the number of the Regency Hotel. He asked to be put through to Miss Gardell. After a moment a feminine voice came on the telephone. Callaghan listened carefully. He was thinking of Effie's description of the voice. He concluded after hearing one word that she was right. He said:

'Good-evening, Miss Gardell. My name's Callaghan, of Callaghan Investigations. I believe you telephoned through to my office. You wanted to talk to me about something.'

'I did want to talk to you, Mr. Callaghan,' said the voice, 'rather urgently.'

Callaghan said: 'Perhaps you'd like to indicate what you wanted to talk to me about.'

She said: 'I wouldn't like to do that now on the telephone.'

Callaghan said: 'I see. Just how urgent do you think the matter is, Miss Gardell?'

She said: 'I don't know. You might even consider that it isn't very urgent, but I think it is.'

Callaghan said: 'I gather you want me to do something for you. Is that right?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'That again is a matter for you to decide. At the moment I want to talk to you.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Where do we talk— and when?'

She said: 'I hadn't thought about that. When I telephoned your office I had a vague idea that I should be in touch with you earlier than this. I've been busy and I haven't had any dinner. I was thinking of getting supper somewhere. Perhaps you'd like to see me to-morrow morning.'

Callaghan said: 'No, I wouldn't. I'm not awfully keen on seeing people in the mornings. If you haven't dined, perhaps you'd like to have supper with me. Then we can talk.'

She said: 'That's very nice of you. It should be an experience. I've never had supper with a private detective before.'

Callaghan said: 'Well, I don't want to disappoint you, and I can't promise any special excitement because I happen to be a private detective.'

She said: 'Oh!' Then went on: 'I didn't mean that, Mr. Callaghan.'

'No?' said Callaghan. 'Exactly what did you mean?'

There was no reply. Callaghan waited a moment. Then he went on: 'Anyway, that's something we might discuss at supper. I suggest that I call for you in ten minutes' time.'

She said: 'Very well, Mr. Callaghan. I'll be ready. Oh, by the way, I suppose I ought to ask you about your fees.'

Callaghan said: 'I wouldn't worry about that at the moment. I never charge anything for having supper with clients— well, not often— but we can discuss that too. Au revoir, Miss Gardell.'

He hung up. He came out of the telephone-box and began to walk towards the taxi rank in Berkeley Square.

2: Manon

CALLAGHAN parked the Jaguar in a narrow street opposite the Regency. He got out, locked the car doors, lit a cigarette, began to walk up and down the dark pavement. He was thinking about Admiral Gardell.

Gringall hadn't wasted much time about the late Admiral, thought Callaghan, and the County Police hadn't wasted any time in asking the Yard for assistance. Every one, including Miss Gardell, seemed urgent about the business. And Gringall had, in the few hours at his disposal, discovered something of the Admiral's movements of the night before; had elicited the fact that Gardell had come to town for the purpose of seeing Callaghan— a process that he must, being ordinarily intelligent, associate with the murder. If it was murder.

Gringall would think, ruminated Callaghan, that the Admiral was in fear of something or someone; had decided to tell Callaghan about it. Whatever it was, Gringall would think, must of necessity be something too odd to see the police about. People who are in fear of their lives usually go to the police. But the Admiral had preferred Callaghan. Gringall would not know that Gardell had decided to commit suicide; was definite in his idea that he had been murdered.