The Urgent Hangman E-Book

Peter Cheyney

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

Beschreibung

CALLAGHAN turned the corner into Chancery Lane. A gust of cold wind met him, blowing back the flaps of his not-so-clean raincoat, sending the rain through his threadbare trouser legs.
He was five feet ten and thin. He had sevenpence halfpenny and a heavy smoker's cough. His arms were a little too long for his height and his face was surprising.
It was the sort of face that you looked at twice in case you'd been mistaken the first time. The eyes were set wide apart over a long, rather thin nose. They were a light turquoise in colour and seldom blinked. His face was long and his chin pointed. He was clean shaven and women liked the shape of his mouth for reasons best known to themselves.

Leseprobe

THE URGENT HANGMAN

Peter Cheyney

1938

See how she twists and turns in parlous straits.

Finger your neck, sweet, the urgent hangman waits.

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834052

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: Presenting Mr Callaghan

CALLAGHAN turned the corner into Chancery Lane. A gust of cold wind met him, blowing back the flaps of his not-so-clean raincoat, sending the rain through his threadbare trouser legs.

He was five feet ten and thin. He had sevenpence halfpenny and a heavy smoker's cough. His arms were a little too long for his height and his face was surprising.

It was the sort of face that you looked at twice in case you'd been mistaken the first time. The eyes were set wide apart over a long, rather thin nose. They were a light turquoise in colour and seldom blinked. His face was long and his chin pointed. He was clean shaven and women liked the shape of his mouth for reasons best known to themselves.

Except for the face he looked like anybody else looks in London. His clothes were ordinary and decently kept. His shoes were bad and one of them needed mending. Callaghan was not inclined to consider such trifles. At the moment he was concerned with the matter of the office rent.

The rain had already soaked the brim of his soft black hat and made a damp ridge round his forehead. His thick black tousled hair under the hat was wet.

As he turned the corner a bus, rounding from Holborn, shot a stream of watery mud over his shoes.

He walked along quickly under the lee of the Safe Deposit on the left-hand side of Chancery Lane. He felt in his raincoat pocket for the packet of Player's, produced it, found it empty, threw it away. He began to curse, quietly, fluently and methodically. He cursed as if he meant it, getting the full value from each word, finding some satisfaction in thinking of a word that he had not used before.

Half-way down Chancery Lane he turned into Cursitor Street, walked down it for twenty yards, turned into a passage, then into a doorway. He kicked the street door open and began to climb the stairs past the second and third floors up to the fourth.

There he halted outside a rather dirty door with a frosted glass top, on which was painted 'Callaghan. Private Investigations.' He stopped cursing when he saw that there was a light in the office.

He put the key back into his left-hand raincoat pocket and kicked the door open. He stepped into a medium-sized outer office.

Standing in front of the typist's table against the window on the left-hand side was Effie Perkins. She had her back to him and she was patting her red hair into place with long, white, well-kept fingers. As she turned round Callaghan gave her one of those top-to-bottom looks which took in everything from the four-inch heels to the trim, tight-fitting skirt, then upwards to her green eyes as they met his.

He looked at his wrist-watch.

'Why the hell haven't you gone home?' he said. 'I told you not to wait. You'll get your money on Saturday. Get out. I want to do some thinking.'

She smiled. She managed to convey a certain definite animosity in that smile. It seemed as if Miss Perkins didn't like Callaghan rather because she liked him a little bit too much.

'I thought you'd like me to stay on, Slim,' she said, 'at any rate until you got back. I got on to Mellins this evening. He says that if the rent isn't paid by Saturday you get out. He says that if you try any fast stuff about moving out the furniture he'll get damned nasty with you. Mellins means business.'

He hung his raincoat on the rack in the outer office and walked over to the door leading to his own room. His shoes squelched.

'To hell with Mellins,' he said. His voice was hard and had a peculiar brittle quality, not unpleasant. 'An' did you have to stay around to tell me that— or are you gettin' a kick out of it? You're like every other damn skirt. You get an idea into your head, an' if it looks as if it's comin' off you get pleased with yourself, even if it isn't goin' to do you any good. Get out of here, will you, an' if you want a reference I'll say that you're a first-class typist when you've got anything to type, that you've got one hundred per cent sex appeal an' nothin' to use it on, which is rather gettin' you down, an' that you're tickled silly because you think that Callaghan Private Investigations is goin' up the spout. Well, you're damn wrong. Now go home.'

He went through the door and over to his desk which stood in the centre of the room facing the doorway. He threw his wet hat into the corner, sat down and put his feet up on the desk. He examined the sole of his left shoe, which was in danger of parting from the upper, with a close attention.

She followed him into the room, stood watching him.

'Why don't you get some sense, Slim?' she asked softly. 'You're finished here and you know it. You're a fool. You've got brains and drive and you get around. Why don't you take that job with the Grindell Agency? You'd get a pay envelope every week, anyway.'

'Like hell I would,' he said. 'An' what's the big idea of you tryin' to get me workin' for that lousy Grindell, eh? Shall I tell you what the idea is? You're goin' to work there, aren't you? You knew the balloon was goin' up here weeks ago, an' you think it 'ud be clever to have me workin' around there. An' what's the big idea, Perkins? You tell me that. What's the big idea?'

He sat there with his feet on the desk looking at her waiting. He looked her over carefully. She flushed.

Callaghan grinned.

'I thought so,' he said. 'Still lookin' for a soul-mate, eh, Effie, with the accent on the soul?'

'I'd like to hit you,' she said, 'you cheap runt. I hate the sight of you. I always have.'

'Rot,' said Callaghan. 'The trouble with you is that you need a little fun an' games, an' the boss has always been too busy.'

He took his feet off the desk.

'Now do some talkin',' he said. 'You didn't wait here to tell me about Mellins. I knew all that yesterday. Something's been happenin' around here. What is it? Stop thinkin' about yourself an' what you'd like to do to me if you had me tied up, an' say what's on your mind. After which you can get out an' stay out. Do I make myself clear?'

She smiled. She had a nice set of teeth and knew it. Her mouth would have been good, too, except that there was a discontented droop at the corners. But her eyes weren't smiling. They were resting on Callaghan, and they were as cold as ice.

She looked at her wrist.

'It's eleven-thirty,' she said primly, 'and at eleven-fifteen we were supposed to have some business. We were supposed to have a client round here, a woman. Somebody's been ringing up for you the whole evening, and by the sound of 'em anybody would think you were really important for once.'

Callaghan put his feet back on the desk and looked at her carefully.

'So that's why you've been hangin' around,' he said. 'I suppose you wanted to have a look at her. Curiosity's a shockin' thing, isn't it?'

His voice changed.

'Well,' he said, 'who was it and what did they want?'

She went into the outer office and came back with a telephone pad in her hand.

'A Mr Willie Meraulton came through at seven-thirty,' she said. 'He came through at eight, eight-thirty, eight-fifty and again at eight fifty-nine. He rang again at ten o'clock and again at ten forty-five. I said that I thought you'd be back before eleven. I said that he could sort of leave a message with me.

'He seemed very angry and sort of upset. He said that a lady was coming round here to see you. He seemed sort of careful to say that it was a lady.' She paused for a split second and looked at him with a smile that was definitely nasty. 'Her name's Miss Meraulton. He said she'd tell you all about it when she got here.'

He took his feet off the desk.

'Who put him on to me?' he asked.

She tore up the telephone message. The nasty smile was still evident.

'Fingal put him on to you,' she said. 'He said Mr Fingal had mentioned your name to him. So it looks like one of those sort of cases, doesn't it?'

Callaghan's nose twitched.

'An' supposin' it is one of those sort of cases, you fool,' he mimicked. 'Supposin' it is? Well, what the hell's it got to do with you? All right, well, you've said your piece, now go home. I'm gettin' tired of lookin' at you.'

She turned on her heel, went to the door and opened it. As she did so the outer office door, immediately opposite, opened. A woman stood in the doorway.

Callaghan, standing upright, looking over Effie Perkins' shoulder, pursed his lips into a silent whistle.

'Good-night, Miss Perkins,' he said. 'I'll write you on Saturday.'

He walked past her and out into the outer office, stood looking at the client.

'You're Miss Meraulton, aren't you?' he said. 'Come in an' sit down.'

He went back into his own office and put a chair in front of his desk. Then he went behind it and sat down. As the woman came into the office Effie Perkins closed the communicating door.

The girl stood in front of the desk. Callaghan looked at her almost as if she was too good to be believed.

She was tall, slim and supple, but curved in all the right places. She had an air. Her face was dead white and there was a suggestion of blue about the eyes, of tiredness or strain. She wore an expensive, supremely cut black frock of heavy silk marocain— an evening frock, caught over the shoulders with crossed straps of the same material, each of which bore a diamond fleur de lys.

Her hair was dead black and her eyes, which regarded Callaghan with a certain steady disinterest, were violet. Her high-heeled black shoes peeped attractively from beneath the edge of her frock.

Callaghan continued to look. He looked her over from top to toe as if he were entering for a memory test. He went on looking, even although her finely-cut nostrils twitched disdainfully and she moved slightly as if to show disapproval of being looked at like a prize cow.

He grinned up at her.

'Well...' he said.

She moved an arm out from the shelter of the short cloak of fox furs that was draped across her left shoulder. There was a handbag in her hand. She opened it, took out an envelope and put it on the desk. Callaghan looked at it, but remained quite still.

Then she sat down and crossed her knees. Every movement was slow, graceful, yet somehow quite definite. The idea flashed through Callaghan's mind that here was a skirt who wasn't going to stand any damn nonsense from any one. She was in some jam or other, but she wasn't frightened, or if she were she wasn't showing it. She had to be in a jam, a certain sort of jam, a not-so-good jam, or else she wouldn't be sitting in front of his desk looking at him like he was two-penn'orth of dirt.

His grin, which suited his peculiar face, deepened.

He wondered when she was going to begin to talk and just what her voice would be like. It always took them some time to get started, because the cases that Fingal sent women to see Slim Callaghan about were usually peculiar cases concerned with young gentlemen who couldn't be got rid of, who were making themselves a nuisance after they'd served their purpose and who wanted to try a little blackmailing.

There flashed through his mind swift pictures of half a dozen women who had stood or sat in front of that desk and told the old, old tale:

'I thought I was fond of him. I trusted him, and now he says he wants two thousand pounds to go to South America and another five hundred to stop the man who saw us at the wherever-it-was hotel from writing an anonymous letter to my husband.'

Callaghan had heard that tale so often that he thought it ought to be set to music.

But this wasn't one of those things. It couldn't be. She wasn't old enough. They had to be between forty-five and fifty for that sort of thing. This one was about twenty-six, maybe twenty-eight, possibly younger.

What the hell! Maybe he shouldn't have sacked Perkins. Effie was good. She'd been with him for five years. She knew his technique. Supposing here was a good case, one in the bag, and he needed an assistant who was at least as sharp as Effie Perkins.

He smiled at her. The smile— which was as much a part of the business as the telephone— illuminated his face. It said: 'Madame, Callaghan Investigations are an honest firm. We may be a bit smart occasionally, but we are a very good firm, and our clients are always safe with us. We never talk. So let go and get it off your chest.'

She said:

'Do you mind if I smoke?'

He nodded. He knew she would have a voice like that— low and the words very clearly enunciated. She took a thin case out of her handbag and his mouth watered when he saw that they were Player's. He wondered if she would offer him one. When he lit a match for her and walked round the desk to light the cigarette she laid the opened case on the desk, indicated that it was at his disposal. Callaghan took one and was glad of it. He hadn't smoked for seven hours.

'Mr Callaghan,' she said. 'I will be as brief as possible, because it is more than likely that I am wasting both your time and mine. I have come here only because Willie Meraulton, to whom I am engaged, insists on it. He believes that I am in some sort of danger. It seems that a Mr Fingal has recommended you as a person who might be of assistance under certain circumstances.'

Callaghan nodded. This was going to be good!

'I should tell you,' she went on, 'that August Meraulton is my stepfather. Possibly you have heard of him. Most people who know him think that he ought to be in a madhouse. I feel that way occasionally myself. He is an extremely rich man and can afford to indulge in certain idiosyncrasies such as making the life of everyone around him a misery and generally creating hell upon earth for such people as are unable to see eye to eye with him.

'His brother was Charles Meraulton, who died five years ago. He, too, was rich, and he left his money to his five sons— I suppose you would call them my half-cousins. They are Willie Meraulton— a grand person, whom I am going to marry— Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy. If you read the papers you will probably know about them. They've spent their money, and they have little interest beyond chasing odd women and drinking too much.

'Briefly the position is this: My stepfather— who has become even more peculiar since the death of my mother three years ago— does not expect to live very much longer. He has angina pectoris, an illness which does not go well with his sort of temper. He knows that Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy are just waiting for him to die, and die quickly, so that they may have some more money to waste. He knows, too, that they are aware that under his will his estate is to be equally divided between his five nephews and myself.

'Two days ago he gave a dinner-party. There were present the five of them, myself and my stepfather. He told them that he had made a new will, that it was typed on a thin piece of copy paper and that he was carrying it round with him in his watch case. He said that when he died and it was read most of them would hate him more than they did now, but that if, by some chance, he felt better disposed towards them he'd tear it up and they'd still get their money. Do you understand?'

Callaghan nodded.

'I suppose that most of 'em have already pawned or mortgaged their expectation under the original will?' he asked.

'Exactly,' she continued. 'He has therefore created the situation under which the four of them— I do not include Willie, who is nice and who works hard and still has his original legacy from his father— do not know whether his death will make them rich or bankrupt. If he revokes the new will— the one in his watch-case— or destroys it, then they may be able to get through. If not, each one of them will face ruin, and, if I know anything of them, possibly something worse.'

Callaghan blew a smoke ring carefully. He was looking out of the window, thinking.

'Willie is terribly worried,' she went on. 'He believes that if any of the four could get August out of the way quickly and quietly they'd do it. But more importantly he knows that they are aware of my own quarrels with my stepfather. Today he told me that all sorts of weird things are going on, that he was afraid for me.'

Callaghan looked up.

'Afraid for you?' he repeated. 'Why?'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'Willie says that they're all half crazy. He says that he has a fearful idea that one of them will do something to August to get that new will and destroy it— or employ someone else to do it for them. He says that if they do they'll somehow try to hang it on to me.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Isn't that bein' rather a bit far-fetched?' he asked. 'D'you mean that your young man Willie honestly believes that one of this precious quartet is goin' to do in the old boy an' then somehow frame you for the murder?'

She nodded.

'That is what he means,' she said.

Callaghan looked at her. He looked at her for a long time.

'What do you think?' he asked.

She shrugged again.

'I don't know what I think,' she said in the same cool tone. 'I'm rather worried and very bored with it all. Today Willie telephoned me that I was to get into touch with you. Mr Fingal said that you were the sort of man who could "keep up"— those were his words— with Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy.'

She smiled a little grimly.

'Willie said that Mr Fingal tells him that they'd have to be very smart to be smarter than Mr Callaghan.'

She looked at him with a sudden gleam of interest in her eyes.

'That was damn nice of Mr Fingal,' he said. 'Maybe he said some other things as well?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'I believe he said some other things,' she continued. 'I believe he said there were one or two police officers would give half a year's pay to get their hands on you because you've been a little bit more than clever, that you're rather expert in sailing close to the wind.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Very nice of him,' he said.

He got up, stood leaning against the wall behind the desk.

'All right,' he said. 'All right, I'm takin' this case. Maybe you'll tell me who my client is? Is it you or is it your boy friend Willie Meraulton?'

She took another cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter.

'Does it matter?' she said.

He grinned.

'So far as I can see,' he said, 'I'm supposed to be a watchdog. My business is to keep a sort of fatherly eye on your halfcousins— the Meraulton quartet. Well, that's all right with me, but jobs like that cost money.'

She indicated the square manilla envelope on the desk.

'There are four one-hundred-pound notes, eight ten-pound notes and twenty one-pound notes in the envelope,' she said. 'Willie Meraulton said you were to have that on account of your services. Mr Fingal told him that you'd want everything you could get.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Once again Fingal is right,' he said. 'I do— an' don't you?' His tone was still pleasant.

She got up. Callaghan was still leaning against the wall.

'Just one minute, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'Tell me something. Willie— the boy friend— is worried about you. All right. Well, I reckon that if I was your boy friend I'd worry about you, too. I want to ask you a lot of questions, because even a private detective with a fourth-floor office an' a reputation that makes Scotland Yard sneeze sometimes has to know somethin' about what he's doin'.'

She moved to the door.

'Not tonight, Mr Callaghan,' she said. 'It's late, and I have an appointment.'

'All right,' he said. 'You're the boss. But you might tell me why it was so urgent that you had to see me tonight. Why wouldn't tomorrow mornin' do? Or would you call that a rude question?'

'I might be busy in the morning, and I do not always explain my reasons for seeing people I employ at hours when I want to see them, Mr Callaghan. And may I ask you a question? You said that my fiancé was worried about me, and you were good enough to add that if you were my boy friend— as you call it— you would worry about me, too. Why?'

Callaghan smiled slowly. He said nothing. His eyes travelled over her from her hair down to her feet. His glance was as slow as his smile.

She flushed.

Callaghan pulled open a drawer and took out a pad.

'Can I have your address and the telephone number?' he asked.

She gave them.

He threw the pad back in the drawer.

'Good-night, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'I'll handle this. I s'pose you don't really give a damn if somebody kills August so long as they don't try an' show you did it. By the way, have you always been livin' at this address? Did you ever live in the same house as your stepfather?'

'I left there three days ago,' she said.

She put her hand on the doorknob.

Callaghan walked slowly over to the door and opened it. In the outer office he saw Effie Perkins tidying up her desk, clearing out the drawers. He snarled.

He walked to the outer office door and held it open.

'Good-night, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'By the way, what's your first name?'

She registered polite astonishment.

'My name is Cynthis,' she said.

She went through the door.

'I think it's a nice name,' said Callaghan. 'I like names with Cyn in 'em. Good-night, madame.'

He closed the door.

Effie Perkins picked up her handbag from her typing table and settled her coat.

'So you're goin',' said Callaghan. 'All right— as you are goin' there's no need for me to tell you that it's damned silly of you to have left your glove lyin' there by my office door where you dropped it when you were listenin' at the keyhole. I hope you enjoyed yourself. Good-night, you red-headed cat!'

He stood there until she slammed the door behind her. Then, muttering a rude word to himself, he went back into his office.

He picked up the envelope from the desk, took out the money and counted the notes. He put them in his hip pocket.

Then he stood in the middle of the office, put up his nose and sniffed like a dog. On the air there was still a vague suggestion of the perfume that Cynthis Meraulton had been wearing.

He walked over to the telephone table and called a Holborn number. He waited, listening to the ringing tone at the other end, drumming on the table with his fingers.

'Listen,' he said, 'is that you, Darkie? All right. Get some of that sleep out of your eyes an' get yourself a piece of paper. Got it? All right, here's what I want: There's an old boy— you've heard of him, he's half nuts— called August Meraulton. I want his address an' anything else you can get. Got that? All right. Well, I want the addresses and telephone numbers of his nephews Willie, Bellamy, Paul, Percival an' Jeremy. Get anything else you can on this bunch an' get it quick. Got that? Well, this August Meraulton has got a stepdaughter Cynthis. Find out why she calls herself Meraulton instead of by her father's name. Now get a move on an' try an' have all that by tomorrow. Send somebody round to the cuttin' people an' get every damned cuttin' on the Meraulton family you can get hold of. I'll call you tomorrow. An' listen, this isn't any cheap business, either. You can make some real money this time. Good-night.'

Callaghan closed the street door behind him, walked along into Chancery Lane, turned left and strolled into Holborn. At the coffee stall he remembered his hunger, bought two cheese-cakes and two cups of coffee. He ate and drank and ordered three packets of Player's cigarettes. He registered a mental note to get some new shoes.

He walked back through Chancery Lane again in the direction of Fleet Street, thinking.

Of course the woman was a damned liar. But she was good. Callaghan was definitely pleased with the memory of her appearance. She had something all right. And what was the hurry about seeing him at that time of night? Why couldn't she have waited until next morning? Still, maybe the boy friend Willie was getting all worked up about her, kidding himself that somebody was going to frame her for a murder. What damned rot! That sort of thing just didn't happen in England, it only happened in America and on the pictures— or did it?

Callaghan remembered one or two odd things that had happened in England all right. Things that never made an inch in a newspaper and that the police never even heard of. He grinned.

He turned down Fleet Street and walked to the office of the Morning Echo. He sent a slip up for Mr Jengel. Then he sat down and waited.

Five minutes afterwards Jengel came down. Jengel was the Echo crime reporter. He was very tall and thin and wore very thick glasses.

He sat down on the seat beside Callaghan.

'Hallo, Spike,' he said. 'What's eating you?'

Callaghan held out a cigarette.

'Looky, Michael,' he said. 'I s'pose you wouldn't have any little tit-bit about the Meraulton family, would you? Something that's never got into the paper, you know— one of them things?'

Jengel lit the cigarette. Then he looked oddly at Callaghan.

'Come outside,' he said.

They went out into the street.

'What's the lay?' asked Jengel with a grin. 'An' who're you working for this time?'

Callaghan grinned.

'So you do know somethin'?' he queried, his head on one side. 'Come on, Mike— give— or have you forgotten to remember last June an' the young lady of Peckham?'

Jengel flushed.

'All right,' he said. 'But this is off the ice an' it's sweet.

'I got a flash tonight,' he went on. 'One of those things that break you up. We're not allowed to do a thing about it— well, not till tomorrow, anyhow. I suppose you couldn't tell me why you're so interested in this Meraulton crowd?'

Callaghan shrugged.

'I've got a case,' he said. 'The usual sort of cheap divorce an' blackmail mixed— you know.'

Jengel nodded.

'The policeman on duty in Lincoln's Inn Fields found the old boy August Meraulton lying up against the railings in the rain at eleven-forty-five tonight. He was as dead as a piece of cold mutton.'

Callaghan nodded.

'Too bad,' he said. 'He'd got a bad heart, hadn't he? He was likely to go off like that.'

Jengel grinned.

'Bad heart my fanny,' he said. 'Somebody shot him. He was shot clean through the head. What a story, and we can't break with it? There's a bar until tomorrow. It's just breaking me up.'

Callaghan lit another cigarette from the stub of the last one.

'Look, Mike,' he said. 'This is sort of serious with me. I'm interested, see? It was raining when they found the body, wasn't it? Well, maybe they've parked it in some mortuary not too far away. Maybe it'll be some time before the C.I.D. doctor gets round there. You never know.'

He held the cigarettes out to Jengel.

'Listen, Mike,' he said, 'you're in with the right boys. You find out where they've put the body. Find out if they've had the examination an' search an' photographs all fixed. If they haven't, you find out how many policemen are keepin' an eye on it— an' if there's only the usual one. Find out what the mortuary keeper's name is an' if he's married, an' where he lives an' what his wife's first name is.'

Jengel's mouth opened.

'What the hell is all this?' he exploded. 'I'm a crime reporter, not a blasted inquiry office. How the hell can I do a thing like that?'

Callaghan grinned at him.

'Look, Mike,' he said. 'You never know what you can do till you try. I'll get around to my office an' wait for you to come through. I reckon it ought to take you about an hour to get all that stuff I want.'

He turned up his coat collar.

'An' you get it, Mike,' he said softly, 'because if you don't my memory is liable to go all funny about that young lady of Peckham, an' it wouldn't be so good for you— now would it?'

Jengel threw the cigarette stub away.

'Damn you, Slim,' he said. 'If I didn't like you I'd think you were a louse.'

Callaghan was still grinning.

'Forget about liking me, Mike,' he said. 'Just remember the young lady of Peckham. I'll expect you to call me in an hour— that'll be about one-fifteen. So long, Mike.'

Callaghan went into the call-box outside the Law Courts. He rang a number. At the other end he could hear the ringing tone jangling regularly.

He waited.

'Hallo,' he said eventually. 'Is that Miss Meraulton's flat? Who is it speakin'? Her maid? All right. Well, you get Miss Meraulton out of bed an' get her to the telephone. Tell her it's Mr Callaghan.'

Holding the receiver with one hand, he managed to extract another cigarette. He found a vesta in his waistcoat and struck it against the wall.

Her voice came through.

'Hallo,' said Callaghan softly. 'I'd hate to get you up for nothin', but it seems to me that there has been a nice little murder tonight. Maybe you'd like a minute to think that out.'

He waited. Then:

'All right. Don't argue an' don't start talkin' a lot of rot. I knew all that stuff you told me tonight was just nice honest-to-goodness bunk. See? Now you get some clothes on an' get around to my office about two-thirty. Walk round there. Don't take a cab. Walk there. Understand? An' come out quietly so that maid of yours don't hear you goin'.'

He hung up.

Outside the call-box he stood undecided for a moment. Then he examined the sole of his shoe— the bad one. Then he walked back through Chancery Lane to the Holborn coffee stall and bought a cheesecake and a cup of coffee.

It began to rain again.

2: It Comes Off Sometimes!

IT WAS one o'clock.

Callaghan sat back in his office chair, his feet on the desk, the inevitable cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. In the ash-tray on the desk were fifteen cigarette stubs.

Only the desk light was turned on. The tilt of the shade threw a beam of light across the desk diagonally, leaving him in the dark, throwing grotesque shadows of the things on the desk on the opposite wall.

Callaghan was thinking about Effie Perkins. He was also thinking about himself, the five hundred pounds— and Cynthis Meraulton.

He wondered about Effie. He wondered if she would be sufficiently nasty to throw a spanner into the machinery. She could— quite easily. Callaghan thought that Effie was probably like that. Somewhere or other he had read something about 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' Well, Effie had been scorned all right.

Women, he thought, gave him a pain in the neck. You spent half your time trying to make them and the other half trying to ditch them, but life was like that. Life was a matter of women and making ends meet. The devil of it was that no sooner did you make ends meet than some skirt or other moved one of the ends.

He switched his mind over to the Meraulton woman. There was a woman for you! She had everything: looks, grace, a terrific sex-appeal and that peculiar quality which he could not describe even to himself, that quality that goes with breeding. He thought dispassionately that he would give a couple of fingers— but off the left hand, mark you— to make a woman like Cynthis Meraulton.

The idea intrigued him. He grinned when he thought of it, and for a moment looked infinitely more human.

He stubbed out the cigarette, got up, walked into the outer office. He put a piece of notepaper in the typewriter and wrote a note to Effie Perkins:

Dear Effie,

Maybe I've been a bit tough with you now and then, but you know that's just my way. I've been thinking that you're a good typist and I don't dislike you as much as you think. Anyway, I'd be fed-up if you went to work for Grindell.

Drop in and see me some time tomorrow afternoon. There's going to be plenty of work and I'm going to put your wages up to a fiver.

Yours,

S. Callaghan.

He read this effort through, grinned sardonically at the phrasing, sealed it up and addressed it. He put it into his pocket to post. Maybe Effie would fall for that line— and maybe not— but it was worth trying. It only cost the stamp.

He lit another cigarette.

The telephone rang.

It was Jengel.

'Hallo, Slim,' he said. 'One of these fine days I'm going to get back on you for all this. I've had to run my legs off to get this stuff you wanted and I've had to pull a string or two that I was hoping to keep for myself, you louse!'

Callaghan grinned.

'Don't make me cry,' he said. 'What do you know?'

'They took old Meraulton's body in an ambulance to the Ensell Street Mortuary,' said Jengel. 'There wan't any use in photographing it. It was raining like hell and apparently the body was lying up against the railings on the south side of the square— you know, where the cars are usually parked.

'Well, that's where it is. The case is going to be handled by Gringall— the latest detective-inspector— but neither Gringall nor the medical examiner have been down there yet. Gringall's on some other job, and they reckon he'll get down with the doctor about half-past three. The body hasn't been touched or searched. There's a policeman looking after it at the mortuary.'

Callaghan grunted.

'All right,' he said, 'an' what's the mortuary keeper's name? I suppose he's down there, too?'

'Yes,' said Jengel, 'he is. He's a feller named Tweest, and he's married and he lives with his wife at 16 Tremlet Street, just off King's Cross.'

He gulped.

'Look, Slim,' he said urgently. 'I don't know what you're at, but for the love of Mike go easy and don't get me mixed up in any of your lousy stuff. I can't...'

'Why don't you take it easy?' growled Callaghan. 'Who's hurtin' you? You go home and keep your head shut, an' if you get anything else on this business you come through here some time tomorrow. Good-night. I'll be seein' you.'

He hung up.

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit a fresh one. Then he opened the desk drawer and took out a pair of grey fabric gloves and a pocket-knife. He put on his raincoat, put the gloves and knife in the pocket, picked up his hat and went downstairs.

He walked up Chancery Lane along Holborn into New Oxford Street. He cut through by the post office and came out at the end of Ensell Street. There was a telephone call-box on the corner.

He went into the call-box and stood inside with the door open, checking up on being able to see the doorway in the wall of the mortuary yard, half-way down the street.

Then he stepped back into the call-box and looked in the directory. He got the number and dialled the mortuary. A gruff voice answered.

'Hallo,' said Callaghan, talking in a very deep voice. 'Who is that speakin'? Is that Tweest, the attendant?'

'Yers,' said the voice. 'It's me— Tweest. Wot is it?'

'This is Scotland Yard speaking for Detective-Inspector Gringall. Call the constable to the phone, will you?'

'O.K.,' said Tweest. 'Hold on.'

Callaghan waited. Then: