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Velvet Johnnie," William Collins, London, 1952
CHIEF DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR GRINGALL stepped quietly into the room of his subordinate, Detective-Sergeant Hone, closed the door behind him and stood with his back to it.
He was smiling almost wistfully. He said: "You know what to-day is, don't you, Hone? It's the 2nd February, 1949...."
Hone looked up. He said wearily: "Yes, I know, Mr. Gringall. Just three years ago on the 2nd February an old boy called Cranleigh was murdered over in the South-East district. He was reputed to be a man with money. In the early hours of the 2nd February someone broke into the house and tried to blow the safe. They made a mess of it. The theory was that Cranleigh came down in the middle of it, and the burglar hit him over the head with an iron bar—probably a crow-bar. That was three years ago, sir. You gave the case to me to make the usual routine inquiries and nothing's happened up to date."
"That's right, Hone," said Gringall. "Are you still doing anything about it or have you forgotten it?"
Hone shook his head. "I haven't forgotten it, Mr. Gringall. I carry the date forward from year to year, but it's one of those cases. There was no evidence—not a thing. I tried every lead in the case... everything I could do. So what do I do? I'm not psychic."
Gringall grinned. "I never thought you were. You remember my original idea?"
Hone nodded. "I remember it. You thought that Whaley—the boy they call 'The Voice'—had had a hand in it. You wanted me to check up on where he was on that night—the night of 1st February. Well, I couldn't find him. I couldn't find him for the very good reason that he wasn't in this country. He'd gone to Australia. Nobody knew where. He came back here nine months later. So I went to see him. He was living over at Brixton at the time. He still is living there. I asked him what he was doing on the night of 1st February, 1946, and he said he didn't know. I thought that was pretty reasonable."
Gringall raised his eyebrows.
"He put it to me," said Hone, "that if you asked ninety-nine men out of a hundred they couldn't tell you what they were doing on a night nine months before. And he couldn't."
Gringall said: "You believed him."
Hone shrugged his shoulders. "What does it matter whether I believed him or not? We knew Whaley to be a crook. He still is. But we've got nothing on him. He's a clever egg, that one. We'd got nothing else to tie him in with the murder, so what could I do? Incidentally, it struck me that he was telling the truth. If I asked you suddenly out of the blue nine months after a murder what you were doing on the night, I'd think it reasonable if you couldn't tell me."
Gringall said: "Well, there's a certain amount of sense in what you say. But don't let's forget that Cranleigh case. Remember Velvet Johnnie?"
Hone nodded. "Velvet's coming out next week. There was another clever guy. But he slipped up once—the last time—that insurance office in Long Acre. A very nice job. He got away with a couple of thousand that night. He's coming out next Tuesday."
Gringall said: "You know, when I went down to look at that place of Cranleigh's, all the technique looked like Velvet Johnnie. The way the front door was opened, the back doors wedged, the windows and curtains fixed."
Hone spread his hands. "All right, sir. So it looked like Velvet Johnnie. Do you suppose I didn't think about that? But there was nothing to connect him with the murder, and he had an alibi for that night."
Gringall asked: "What was the alibi?"
"He was with his girl—Lily Malone," said Hone.
Gringall asked: "Did anybody see him there?"
"No," said Hone. "You might think she was telling a lie, but the jury wouldn't. That alibi would let Velvet out. Nobody's got anything against Lily Malone. And Velvet's a damned good cracksman, but I don't think he's a murderer."
Gringall said: "How would you know? They've all got to start some time."
Hone sighed. "Look, Mr. Gringall... are you telling me to re-open this thing? If so, where do I start and what do I do?"
Gringall said: "I'm not telling you to do anything, Hone. But don't forget this case. Old Cranleigh was murdered three years ago and because we haven't been able to do anything about it there's no reason why we should forget it."
Hone said sarcastically: "I won't forget it, Mr. Gringall, I promise you. And how do I not forget it? Do I go and see Whaley again and ask him what he was doing on that night, and listen to him telling me he can't remember?"
Gringall said: "So long as you don't forget a thing something might turn up. Don't worry about it, Hone. Just don't forget it." He smiled cheerfully; went out of the office.
Hone said angrily to himself: "Goddam it... every year the same story! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
He got up; put on his hat.
HONE went into the saloon bar at the bottom of Whitehall. He
ordered a whisky and soda. He sat there, thinking about Gringall
and the Cranleigh murder. He was fed up generally. He stopped
half-way through his drink because, over the glass partition
between the saloon and private bars, came a voice that Hone
remembered very well—Whaley's voice.
The voice said: "It was a proper evening, it was—last night. I've always been fond of my birthdays, but yesterday was the best one I've 'ad. My fortieth birthday. Well, here's to everybody..."
Hone heard some more conversation and the sound of glasses being put on the bar. He finished his drink; went out of the bar. He began to walk slowly back towards Scotland Yard.
Whaley stood just inside the open door looking at Hone. He was smiling cheerfully.
He said: "Hallo, Mr. Hone. I'm glad to see you again."
Hone said: "Are you? Well, could I come in? I want to have a little talk with you."
"Sure!" said Whaley. He stood looking at Hone amiably.
Whaley was tall, slim, well dressed in a cheap sort of way. The shoulders of his coat were too wide, the waist too narrow. He was good-looking and he knew it. He was the sort of man that women found very attractive.
Whaley stood aside; shut the door behind Hone; then led the way into a sitting-room on the right of the passage-way.
He said: "Sit down, Mr. Hone. You wouldn't like a drink, I suppose?"
Hone said: "No." He sat down in a chair on one side of the fireplace. Whaley sat in the other chair.
Hone went on: "I don't want to waste any time, Whaley. Yesterday, or rather to-day—because it Was in the early hours of the morning—is the anniversary of the Cranleigh murder—three years ago. Remember?"
Whaley raised his eyebrows whimsically. "Of course I remember. We've talked about that before, Mr. Hone, haven't we?"
Hone said: "Yes... and I'm talking about it again. You remember, Whaley, that nine months after that murder I came to see you. I came to see you because Detective-Inspector Gringall, who was in charge of the case, had an idea that the job looked like Velvet Johnnie. And he knew that you and Velvet Johnnie had done plenty of jobs together. Well, I know that to see a man nine months after a job isn't fair to him or me. I wanted to know what you were doing on the night of the murder, not because anybody thought you'd committed it, but I thought that would be the best way of getting a line on Velvet Johnnie."
Whaley said: "I wonder what you wanted a line on him for. I thought he had an alibi."
"Yes," said Hone, "he had. And you weren't able to tell me what you were doing on that night because you couldn't remember."
"Yes. I know. And I was right, wasn't I?"
Hone said: "Circumstances alter cases. I went into the Lord Nelson this morning for a drink. You were in the private bar. I heard you talking." Hone smiled at Whaley. "See what I mean?"
Whaley shook his head. "No, I don't."
Hone said: "The night that murder was committed was your birthday, wasn't it? And it might have been nine months after the job when I saw you—I couldn't see you before; you were somewhere abroad—Australia, I think. But don't tell me you didn't remember what you'd been doing on your last birthday. Understand?"
There was a long silence; then Whaley said: "Yes, I understand."
Hone went on: "Then another idea occurred to me. When I knew this morning that yesterday was your birthday I wondered if I could find a good reason why you wouldn't tell what you'd been doing on that day three years ago. Then it occurred to me that a good reason might be that you knew who did commit the murder. Well, if you'd told me where you were on that night I might have been able to get at the murderer somehow through that. Maybe you were being loyal to somebody, Whaley. So you thought the best thing you could say was that you didn't remember what you were doing. You didn't think I'd ever discover that it was your birthday."
Whaley said nothing. He brought a packet of cigarettes from his pocket; extracted one; took a long time over lighting the cigarette with a very showy lighter. He sat, looking into the fire.
Hone said: "Well, why don't you do some talking?"
Whaley drew smoke down into his lungs; threw the cigarette into the fire; expelled the smoke through his nostrils.
He said: "Look, I'm no mug, Mr. Hone. It's three years since that murder. You got on to me nine months afterwards. I told you I didn't know what I was doing on the night of the murder, and now you're back again, so I'm thinking..."
Hone asked quietly: "What are you thinking, Whaley?"
Whaley said: "Maybe it's no good being loyal to your pals. Maybe you only get yourself in bad with the police. I wouldn't like to do that."
Hone said nothing.
Whaley went on: "Look, Mr. Hone, I'd like to think this thing out a bit more—not because I had anything to do with that job, because I hadn't, but I hate to do the dirty on a pal."
"I see. Well, do all the thinking you want, Whaley. When do you think you'd like to talk to me?"
Whaley shrugged his shoulders. "You come round here to-morrow night about seven o'clock if that'll suit you. Maybe I'll have something to tell you."
Hone said: "All right. I'll be here at seven to-morrow night. Good night."
Whaley said good night. He took Hone out into the hallway; held the door open for him. Then he went back to the sitting-room. He lighted another cigarette. When he'd smoked it he got up; put on his hat and overcoat; began to walk towards Waterloo Bridge. Half-way there he stopped a taxicab. He thought he was tired of walking.
WHEN the front door bell of the flat rang Lily Malone put down
her needlework; got up; walked into the hall.
Lily Malone had something. She was tall and slender, but curved in all the right places. She had large blue eyes and very attractive, naturally blonde hair. She had something else too—something in her walk—the way she put her feet on the ground—that something—the peculiar quality of allure that most women would give anything to possess.
She opened the door; stood, smiling at Whaley.
He grinned at her. "Hallo... Lily..."
She said: "Hallo. What's cooking?"
He said: "I'd like to talk to you, baby."
She nodded.
Whaley followed her into the cosy sitting-room; sat in the arm-chair she indicated.
She asked: "Would you like a drink?"
He nodded. She brought him a whisky and soda. She asked: "Well, what is it?"
Whaley said: "Look, Lily, you sit down and listen to me."
She sat down in the chair by the table. She was quite relaxed; almost casual.
Whaley went on: "You listen to me, and ask yourself if I'm not talking sense. You remember that Cranleigh case three years ago?"
She said: "I remember."
"Just about that time I went out to Australia. I got back about nine months later. I hadn't been back two days before the blue inks were on to me. Detective-Sergeant Hone of Scotland Yard, with all the usual palaver. Had I any information that might be useful to them? What was I doing on the night of the murder? Well, I told Hone I couldn't tell him. I asked him if he could remember what he was doing nine months ago. To-night he was round again."
"Yes... what for?" Her voice was soft, the tone level, almost soothing.
Whaley said: "This bastard Hone has got wise to the fact that the murder was committed on my birthday, see? So he came round and wanted to know why I couldn't remember what I had been doing on my birthday—his idea being a man always remembers what he was doing on his birthday."
She smiled. "I reckon he's dead right, isn't he?" She leaned forward. Her smile was almost whimsical. "Did you tell him, Whaley?"
Whaley said: "Look, you know what these cops are when they get their hooks into you. They've started this thing again with me and they're not going to get off my neck. Hone's coming to see me again to-morrow and it looks to me as if I've got to do some talking."
She nodded. "Yes, Whaley? What are you going to say?"
He said: "I'm going to tell 'em something. They're going to get it one way or another, you know. I'm going to tell them that Velvet Johnnie croaked old Cranleigh. It must have been Velvet."
Lily Malone sat upright in her chair. She said: "For God's sake... what is this? Johnnie was alibied on that night. I alibied him. He was with me."
Whaley grinned. "I wonder if they'd believe that. Look, Lily, you were Velvet Johnnie's girl. You'd always been stuck on him. When they asked you about Johnnie you told 'em that he was with you that night, but you didn't tell 'em he was with you all night, did you?"
"Keep talking, Whaley." Now her voice was a little tighter, a little grimmer.
He said: "I'll keep talking all right, and I'll tell you something you don't know. Johnnie and I always worked together. I should think we've done twenty jobs and they've never put a finger on either of us. They knew it was us all right but they've never been able to prove anything. We had a system of working, Velvet and I. He used to case a joint first of all—go round, have a look at the outside windows, locks, everything. There was no one in the world for casing a job like Johnnie. Then do you know what he used to do? He used to sit down at that old typewriter of his and work the thing out on paper, see? All nicely typed out—the time a job was to be done; how it was to be done; just what he was going to do and just what I was going to do. He used to take care of getting in, safety while we was in, and getting out. And I used to take care of the safe. You know I'm the best goddam safe-blower in this country. There's never been a tin box I couldn't push open yet. But Johnnie was bad at that." He paused for a moment; then he said: "That's why he had to do old Cranleigh in."
Lily Malone said: "Meaning what?"
"Meaning that because I wasn't with him—because I didn't like the job—he did it on his own, see? He got in the place. He fixed everything up all right and then that mug tried to get the safe open. Lord only knows how he tried to do it because it looked like a piece of dough. I saw a picture of it in the papers. He woke Cranleigh, and the old boy came down and there was only one thing for Johnnie to do. He did it. He did Cranleigh."
Lily Malone said: "It's a nice story. So Johnnie sent you the usual typewritten note about it first?"
Whaley nodded. "He handed me the chit in the Four Feathers four nights before. A quarto sheet of typed paper with the whole job worked out on it. I took it home and I went through it, and I didn't like it. I rang up Johnnie. I told him I wasn't playing. Is that evidence or is it?"
Lily Malone said: "You know, Whaley, what I'd call you? I think the right name for you is that you're a fascinating bastard. I've always wondered why it was that I've been stuck on you. I've always wondered why it was that after they'd got him and put him inside I walked out on Johnnie for you."
Whaley said: "Look, shall we leave the soft stuff out of it. Johnnie's coming out next week. How do you think he's going to feel when he finds you've ditched him and come over to me? Maybe he's not going to feel so good about that. You know, they may call him Velvet Johnnie, but he's got a hell of a temper. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't try and do you. You know he's always been crazy about you."
"I know. Maybe he'll try to do me." She looked at him sideways. "I wouldn't like that."
Whaley said: "Maybe you won't have to worry. I reckon they'll be waiting for him when he comes out."
She said: "If you've got that typewritten note from him about the Cranleigh job, that's going to hang him. But you're not going to tell me he used to sign those things. Don't tell me he was such a mug."
He shook his head. "Of course not. He never signed them but it's easy to tell if they came from him. He always used that old portable typewriter with half the small 't' worn away, and with the 'o' key broken off so that he used to use a question mark for the 'o.' Anybody who sees that note would know that it was written on Johnnie's typewriter. Just as good as a signature, see?"
She said: "Yes, Whaley... if they had the typewriter."
He asked: "What about another little drink? And why don't you have one?"
"Maybe it's an idea." She mixed the drinks; carried his to him where he sat in the arm-chair; went back to her seat by the table. She said: "Tell me some more about this note he sent you when he cased the job. What did he say in it?"
"Oh, just the usual routine with him—the situation of the house, the address, description of the locks, window bolts, front and rear entrances. The room where old Cranleigh slept—everything marked out. Description of the safe—the make of it, quality of steel, locks—the usual stuff."
She nodded. "And that note was written on his old typewriter?"
He said: "Yes."
"If you had that note," said Lily Malone, "if you gave it to Hone to-morrow night, they'd take Johnnie in for this with no argument, more especially if I told them that I made a mistake and Johnnie wasn't with me that night."
Whaley said: "Right, baby." He smiled at her. "And Johnnie wasn't with you that night. Do you know how I know?"
"You tell me, Whaley."
Whaley said: "Because I was with you, see?"
There was a long silence; then she said slowly: "I see..."
She was about to go on. He put up his hand. "You listen to me, Lily. You know I've never been inside. I've been what you might call successful in my profession. Velvet Johnnie used to spend his money like dirt. I didn't. When I went over to Australia just after that murder I salted some very nice dough away. I'm worth seven thousands pounds in Australia, Lily. I'm thinking of settling there. It's a nice country and I fancy myself as a farmer. I thought that it might be a good idea if you and I got married before next week—before Johnnie comes out, see? And when he does come out he won't be able to get annoyed with you, baby, because he'll be put in stir. They'll pinch him directly he comes out of the can. Then you and I go to Australia where the sun's always shining."
She moved a little. "So you're going to give Hone the note, Whaley, are you—the typewritten note?"
Whaley said: "I'd like to, but I haven't got it." He sat smiling at her. "I was damned silly about that note," he went on. "When I rang Johnnie up to tell him I wasn't going to do the job with him; that I didn't like it, I tore the note into little pieces and threw them in the fire. See what I mean?"
"I see. What you mean is that if you had the typewriter that Johnnie wrote the note on—the typewriter with half the 't' missing and the 'o' missing, and the other defects, you could write the note again yourself. You could write it on an old sheet of paper—maybe one of the old sheets that you've got from the time when you and Johnnie were working together. If you had the typewriter. Is that right?"
"That's right, Lily."
She asked: "How much did you say you've got in Australia?"
He smiled. "I said I've got seven thousand out there. But that's not all. I've got two and a half thousand here."
Lily Malone picked up her glass from the table. She drank a little of the whisky. She held the glass and drank the drink fastidiously. Every movement was neat, graceful.
She said: "Listen, Whaley, you bring me two thousand pounds of that two and a half thousand here to-morrow morning. I don't care how you get it, but you get it. If you do that you know what I'll do?"
"You tell me, sweetheart."
She said: "I'll go and get Johnnie's old typewriter. I know where it is. He pawned it a week before he went inside. I found the ticket in one of his old suits of clothes. I got it out, see? So you can have your talk with Detective-Sergeant Hone to-morrow night, and when this thing's all over you and I will go to Australia. I think I'd like it there."
Whaley said: "There's just one other thing. It may be Hone's going to get around to you before Johnnie comes out next week. Maybe he's going to ask you some questions. Don't forget that you spent that night—the whole night—with me, see? You couldn't forget it because it was my birthday night. You'd got fed up with Johnnie because you'd had a row because you had an idea that Johnnie was going to do a job and you didn't like it."
She said: "I see, Whaley...."
He got up. "I'll be going, kid. I'll be round at twelve o'clock to-morrow. I'll bring the dough with me. It'll take me a little time to get it together."
She said: "That's all right. You come round here at twelve o'clock, and I'll have the typewriter."
Whaley crossed over to her. He put his arm round her waist. "You got something, kid...." He kissed her on the mouth.
When she drew herself away she said cynically: "Yes, Whaley. I've got something. I've got the typewriter!"
WHEN the train came in Hone was standing by the side of the
bookstall. He saw Velvet Johnnie get out of the third-class
compartment at the back of the train and walk, his small suitcase
in his hand, towards the barrier. Hone thought that Johnnie's
time in prison hadn't done him any harm. His walk was still quick
but with the certain suavity and grace that had earned him the
name of Velvet Johnnie. His head was up and his shoulders back.
Hone thought he looked pretty good.
As Johnnie handed over his ticket at the barrier, Hone stepped out.
He said: "Hallo, Johnnie..."
Velvet Johnnie stopped; turned. A smile broke over his face. He said: "Well.. well... Mr. Hone! How are you? How are they doing at that funny academy of yours?"
Hone said seriously: "A bit too well. I want to talk to you."
"For the love of Mike," said Johnnie. "I've just come out and a copper wants to talk to me. Don't tell me I pulled a job while I was in stir, Mr. Hone."
Hone said: "No, it's worse than that."
Velvet Johnnie grinned. "Is it? Tell me what it is."
"It's murder... the Cranleigh job."
Johnnie said: "Now look..."
Hone held up his hand. "Let's not talk about it here. Let's go and have a cup of tea in the refreshment room."
They sat at a deserted table in the refreshment room. Hone ordered two cups of tea.
He said: "Look... here's the story.... I'll give it to you straight. When I talked to you about this Cranleigh job you had an alibi. You were supposed to have spent that night with Lily Malone—the girl who was going to marry you when you came out."
"What do you mean... was going to marry me?"
Hone said: "That's how it is. She's gone back on the alibi. She says that you weren't with her that night. She said you'd had a row because you wanted to crack that Cranleigh crib and she didn't want you to. So she got in a huff. She walked out on you. She went over to see Whaley. She went to him because first of all she liked him and secondly because he refused to go out on that job with you."
Velvet Johnnie said: "So she's done the dirty on me. She's gone over to that son of a bitch. Now she's trying to plant this on me."
"Drink your tea," said Hone. "And don't get sentimental about this, Johnnie. It won't get you anywhere. You tell me something. Is it true that you planned to have a go at that Cranleigh safe? Is it true that you cased the job and sat down at that little old typewriter of yours and typed a scheme for doing it. That used to be your modus operandi, didn't it?" Johnnie nodded.
Hone went on: "Is it true that you met Whaley, handed him the typewritten scheme and he rang you up and told you that he wasn't going to play because he didn't like it. Is that true?"
Johnnie said: "Yes, that's true enough. But I never went near that place that night. When Whaley wouldn't play I chucked it."
"So you went round and saw your girl-friend Lily Malone instead?"
Johnnie nodded.
Hone said: "She says you didn't. She's prepared to go into the box and say just that on oath, and I understand from Whaley that he's got that typewritten note that you gave him. Well, you know something about evidence, don't you, Johnnie? If you go into court you've no evidence as to where you were that night. All the other evidence in this case—the note you gave to Whaley, the row you had with Lily—everything points to you having done that job, and there's enough there to hang you for it."
Velvet Johnnie shrugged his shoulders wearily. His face was drawn. "This is a swell home-coming. All the while I was in that train this afternoon I was thinking about seeing Lily; about making some plans for the future. And I walk into a murder rap and one that looks pretty hard to beat. Well, where do we go from here? What is it—the old story of the police car outside and Cannon Row, and would I like to make a statement?"
Hone said: "Listen, Johnnie... the police car's outside, but before I take you along to Cannon Row let's go and pay a visit, shall we? Let's go and see Lily Malone and Whaley. She's round at his place. I don't see any reason why you shouldn't hear what they've got to say before I charge you."
Velvet Johnnie finished his tea; put the cup in the saucer; got up. He said angrily: "Come on... let's go. Let's get it over with."
WHALEY followed Hone and Velvet Johnnie into the room. Lily
Malone was standing in front of the fire, her hands clasped
loosely behind her back.
She said: "Hallo, Velvet. I suppose it'd be silly of me to say I'm glad to see you. I'm sorry it had to be like this."
Johnnie said softly: "Why should I want to talk to you? You know what I think you are, don't you? Let's leave it at that."
She smiled. "Just as you like, Velvet."
Hone said: "Sit down, Johnnie. And you sit down too, Whaley. I'm dealing with this thing in a rather informal sort of way. But it seems to me it's my duty. I've got to repeat to you, Johnnie, what I've already told you. Lily Malone here says that the information she gave us originally about your having spent the night with her is not true. She's explained that she was giving you an alibi because she thought she was in love with you at the time. She wanted to save you. Whaley felt it was his duty when I came here to question him the other day about this murder to bring forward this evidence about the typewritten note he'd had from you after you'd cased Cranleigh's place."
He took the note out of his pocket. It was folded in half so that when Hone held it out to him Johnnie could only see the bottom half of the note.
Hone said: "You can save us a lot of trouble, Johnnie. Was that note written on your typewriter?"
Johnnie nodded. "Yes."
Hone said: "So you recognise this note as the one you handed to Whaley?"
Velvet Johnnie sighed. "I suppose it is."
Hone's voice changed. "It isn't. You didn't type this note. This note was typed within the last two or three days." He looked at Whaley. "I suppose you threw away the original note that Johnnie gave you, and I suppose you made a deal with Lily Malone. You must have. She knew where Johnnie's typewriter was. She loaned it to you and you typed this note."
Whaley began to speak.
Hone said: "Shut up. Don't you know, you damned fool, that you typed your own death warrant when you typed this note. You sat down at that machine and you tried to remember exactly what was in Velvet Johnnie's original note which you'd destroyed. You remembered most of it, but one thing you couldn't remember. You couldn't remember the address of old Cranleigh's house. So you did what you thought was the wisest thing. You went round there and checked on it."
He unfolded the note. "Here it is—14 Welwyn Street."
Whaley said: "So what?"
Hone said: "You poor goddamned fool... the name of that street was changed two weeks after Velvet Johnnie went into prison. At the time the murder was committed it was 14 Maberley Street. Didn't you know they changed the names of lots of these streets after the war bombing?"
There was a silence, broken only by the noise of the door opening. The sergeant from the police car outside was standing in the doorway.
Hone began his little speech. "William Ernest Whaley, I am known to you as a police officer and I am arresting you on a charge of murder. Lily Anna Malone, I am arresting you on a charge of being an accessory after the fact...."
THE Persimmon Club was just another night club—if you know what I mean. The lights were subdued. The hangings were expensive. The orchestra was resplendent in South American frilled blouses, thin black moustaches and that peculiarly foreign air, which distinguishes most dance bands recruited in the East End. The waiters, most of whom had at least seen everything once, and sometimes more than once, stood around the walls of the dining-room with that bored and anxious expression which characterizes night-club waiters.
Callaghan, sitting in the alcove at the far end of the dance floor, thought that he felt as tired as the waiters looked. He thought that life was sometimes not very amusing, especially when you wanted it to be. He thought that the life of a private detective, which everyone imagined was so full of incident, was sometimes more boring than the most routine job in the world.
He sat there, regarding the large whisky and soda on the table in front of him with a look which seemed to suggest that even that did not matter as much as it should.
Versoni, the maître d'hôtel, put his head round the corner of the alcove. He said: "Mister Callaghan, there ees a lady in the hall waiting for you. I tol' her that you were not 'ere. I thought per'aps you would like that."
Callaghan said: "I don't mind it. So what then?"
Versoni shrugged his immaculate shoulders. "Mister Callaghan... I look at her again, and when I look at her the second time I say to myself, 'Just a leetle moment, Versoni!..."
Callaghan asked: "Why?" He drank some whisky and soda.
Versoni said: "Because, Mister Callaghan, this ees no ordinary lady."
"No?" Callaghan raised his eyebrows. "You tell me why she isn't ordinary."
Versoni spread his hands. "First of all she ees lovely... you know what I mean... but lovely! She 'as lovely hair—a sort of chestnut hair... but beautiful! She 'as violet eyes—quite marvellous! She 'as an exquisite figure and she ees wearing a lovely frock."
Callaghan asked: "Anything else?"
Versoni said: "Ye-es... she 'as small, beautifully-shaped feet and ankles. I could see because she ees wearing a short evening frock. And also she 'as got something... you know what I mean... that thing!"
Callaghan said: "You mean allure, I suppose."
"Exactly, M'sieu," said Versoni, "she 'as allure."
Callaghan nodded. "So having had your second look, what did you do about it?"
"I changed my mind queeckly, and I said that possibly you were 'ere.... I was not certain. I said I would go and find out. Now I am finding out."
Callaghan said: "I see. And if you were me you'd see her?"
Versoni nodded emphatically. "But definitely...."
Callaghan smiled. "Well... anything for a change. Bring her along." He drank some more whisky.
When Versoni arrived with the girl, Callaghan saw that the maître d'hôtel had not exaggerated. Also, Callaghan saw quickly, she was well bred. And she was worried. There were dark circles under the violet eyes. Callaghan thought that maybe she had not been sleeping well lately—or had had too many late nights.
He got up; indicated the banquette. He said: "Wouldn't you like to sit down? And what will you have to drink?"
She said, in a low, musical voice: "Mr. Callaghan, I don't know that I want a drink. I'm very worried. I wondered...."
Callaghan said: "If you're worried it's all the more reason why you should have a drink. I'll order a very special cocktail for you, after which you can tell me what it's all about."
He ordered the cocktail. When it was brought he asked: "How did you know I'd be here?"
"I'll tell you, Mr. Callaghan... My name is Auriol Maynard, and I felt that I had the need of a responsible private detective. A friend of mine gave me your name and I looked up your address in the telephone book. But I was delayed to-day and arrived at your office about half an hour ago. I hoped you'd be there but I thought eight o'clock might be rather late. However, I saw Mr. Nikolls..."
Callaghan grinned. He had a picture of Windemere Nikolls—his plump Canadian assistant—receiving Miss Maynard. Callaghan thought that Nikolls would have considered her to be an eyeful!
He said: "I see. And you talked Nikolls into telling you where I was."
She smiled suddenly. "Yes, I had to work very hard on him."
Callaghan shook his head. "No, you didn't. Nikolls goes for people who look like you. If you'd only been half as pretty he'd have told you he didn't know where I was."
He offered her a cigarette; lighted it; lighted one for himself. He said: "Now, what is it—love or money?"
She smiled at him. "Does it have to be one of those two things, Mr. Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "All the trouble in the world is due to three things—health trouble, man or woman trouble or money trouble. Well, you don't look at all unhealthy to me, and even if you were you wouldn't come and see me about it. So it's love or money—both very interesting factors in life."
"I think you're right, Mr. Callaghan. I'm afraid it's both. I'll say what I have to say as simply as possible. I don't know if you've ever heard of the Maynard collection of jewels, but I assure you it is a very valuable one—valued at a hundred thousand pounds. The jewellery is entailed. Of course you understand exactly what I mean by that?"
Callaghan nodded. "You mean that it cannot be sold or disposed of by any member of the family; that the person to whom it is bequeathed has a life interest in it only. In other words, she can wear it but she has to leave it to the next-of-kin when she dies."
She said: "That's perfectly correct. The jewellery was left to me by my father. As I was under age when he died it was left to the care of my trustee and guardian—Mr. Charles Agustus Frisby." She went on diffidently: "I'm not imputing any wrongful motive to my guardian but—" She hesitated.
Callaghan said: "You're not imputing any odd or suspicious motive to him, but you don't trust him. Is that it, Miss Maynard?"
She nodded.
Callaghan said: "Why mince words? There's nothing like the truth."
"I think you're right, Mr. Callaghan. My difficulty is this: amongst that jewellery are six pieces not actually in the Maynard collection, which is, of course, catalogued. These six pieces were the personal property of my mother and she left them to me. They are antique pieces but valuable. Well, I'm engaged to be married. My fiancé and I wish to go and settle abroad. I wanted to sell those pieces, and I also wanted to have the use of the entailed jewellery to wear during my lifetime. Every time I have spoken to my guardian—Mr. Frisby—about this, he has made some excuse. Either the jewellery was being cleaned, or this or that or the other. After a while I became suspicious. I spoke to my fiancé about it. He said that I ought to do something." She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I'm doing it."
Callaghan asked: "Where is the jewellery kept, Miss Maynard?"
"At my guardian's home," she said. "It's been kept there ever since my parents died. He has a library with iron-barred windows and a steel door—a veritable strong room. There are two safes in this library and the jewellery is kept in one of them."
"Tell me," said Callaghan, "when did you last ask Mr. Frisby for the jewellery? When did you last want to wear it?"
"Three weeks ago. I was going to a ball and I wanted to wear some of the jewellery. He told me it was away being cleaned. I told him at the same time that I wanted the six pieces that belonged to my mother because I wanted to have them valued and sold eventually. He said that he'd sent them with the other jewellery to be cleaned. I asked him when they'd be back. He said in a week's time. So eight days afterwards I asked for them again. He told me that he'd mislaid the combination of the safe; that he'd forgotten it; that he would have to write to the manufacturers of the safe to get it. Next time I speak about it there'll be some other excuse."
Callaghan nodded. "It's not very easy, is it? Not unless you have a show-down. Do you think he has any other motive? Perhaps he doesn't like the young man you're proposing to marry. Perhaps he thinks that if you're unable to sell the pieces that belonged to your mother you won't be able to marry him."
She said: "Possibly you're right, but I don't think that has anything to do with it, because my fiancé makes quite a good living. He's certainly not dependent on the sale of my mother's jewels."
Callaghan drank some more whisky. Then he said: "Miss Maynard, you seem to be a very intelligent young woman. Haven't you any ideas about solving this problem for yourself?"
She shook her head.
Callaghan went on: "You seem to have some very definite idea in your head about this jewellery. You don't think your guardian may have disposed of it?"
"Yes," she answered. "I have a very definite idea like that, Mr. Callaghan. About three weeks ago I went away for the week-end. I went to a hunt ball. There I saw a lady, who I think is a foreigner—the wife of a South American. She was wearing two bracelets and a brooch that were part of the entailed Maynard jewellery."
Callaghan whistled. "You think that your guardian sold the entailed jewellery—possibly even the personal pieces belonging to your mother which she left to you, took the money, and also took a chance that you wouldn't ask for the jewellery, thinking that if you did he could stall you by telling you some story."
She said: "That's exactly what I think."
There was a pause; then she asked: "Do you think you could help me, Mr. Callaghan? It's absolutely necessary that I have those pieces belonging to my mother. I need the money. I also want to know that the entailed jewellery is safe."
Callaghan finished his whisky and soda. "Well, I'll do my best, Miss Maynard. Tell me, where does your guardian live?"
"On Park Avenue," she said. "Just outside Bournemouth. The house is called Tricot Lodge. My own house, which I inherited from my father, is close to it."
Callaghan said: "All right. Write down those addresses, and also your telephone number." He went on: "To-morrow I'm going to check up on what you've told me, Miss Maynard. You won't mind that, will you?" He smiled at her. "I just want to know that I've got this thing right."
She smiled. "I don't mind what you do, Mr. Callaghan. You're quite entitled to verify my story."
Callaghan said: "It's not only that, Miss Maynard, but I'd like to have a check-up on your guardian. He sounds a very interesting type to me. Then I might get an idea." He smiled at her sideways. "I've almost got one now."
She put her gloved fingers on his arm. "Mr. Callaghan, what are you going to do?"
He grinned at her. "That's a professional secret. There's just one other thing...."
She leant forward. "What other thing, Mr. Callaghan?"
He said: "This is a very good rumba they're playing. Don't you think we ought to have this dance together—just to seal the contract?"
FOUR days afterwards, at three o'clock on a sunny afternoon,
Callaghan arrived at Tricot Lodge. He was shown promptly into the
drawing-room; announced by an aged butler, who left quietly,
closing the door behind him. Callaghan stood just inside the
doorway looking at Mr. Frisby, who was seated at a desk on the
other side of the room.
Mr. Frisby was about sixty. He was thin; white-haired. His eyes, behind the pince-nez, over the tops of which he looked at Callaghan, were very bright, very quick.
He said: "Please sit down, Mr. Callaghan, and tell me what I can do for you. I arranged to see you as quickly as possible because I understand your business is urgent."
Callaghan sat down. He said: "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Frisby shook his head.
Callaghan lighted a cigarette. He went on: "The business isn't as urgent from my point of view as it should be from yours, Mr. Frisby. I'll say what I have to say as quickly as possible, but I have been thinking things over and I came to the conclusion that a little co-operation—one might almost say a partnership—would be very useful to us both."
Frisby said: "What the devil do you mean by that?"
"I'll tell you, and I'll make it as short as possible. Some four days ago I was consulted by your ward, Miss Maynard. It seems that you are her guardian and trustee under her father's will. It also seems that you have been looking after some entailed jewellery left to her under that will, and also a few personal pieces of jewellery which were left to Miss Maynard by her mother and which are not entailed. My client tells me that she has made repeated requests to have the entailed jewellery and the six personal pieces handed over to her, but apparently you have on each occasion made some excuse for not doing so. Your usual excuse was that the jewellery was being cleaned, and I think the last one was that you had forgotten the combination of the safe and had to get in touch with the makers to find out what it was. Do you see what I mean?"
Frisby said slowly: "Yes, I see what you mean. But I still don't understand what you are getting at."
Callaghan said cheerfully: "You will." He went on: "Some little time ago my client went to a hunt ball. She saw a woman there wearing two or three pieces of the entailed jewellery. We have made some inquiries and we've got a list of the people who attended that ball, Mr. Frisby, and we find that the lady was a South American, the wife of Juan d'Alvarez, who is a dealer in his own country in precious stones. His reputation is not very good."
There was a pause.
Frisby said nothing.
Callaghan continued: "It's my considered belief, Mr. Frisby, that you have made some arrangement with this d'Alvarez to dispose of the jewellery in which my client has a life interest. Probably he is going to take it back to his own country and have it reset. This is why you have refused Miss Maynard's requests to have the use of the jewellery, because you can't produce it. You are relying on stalling her every time she asks for it, and you have an idea in your head that she will not take any legal steps to regain her property because of the bad publicity."
He smiled almost benignly. "In fact, Mr. Frisby, you never thought that Miss Maynard would come to a person like me to help her."
Frisby said: "I see. You interest me very much, Mr. Callaghan. I'm remembering that when you arrived here you talked about a little co-operation—possibly a partnership. I wonder what you meant by that."
"I'll tell you," said Callaghan. "Actually, as you know, the life of a private detective is a rather difficult one. Business hasn't been very good lately. I might go so far as to say that I need money rather urgently ... as you seem to have done. You will realise that I can do one of two things. I can advise my client to consult her solicitors immediately, make an application through the Courts for the return of the jewellery to her own charge, and when it is discovered that you haven't got it—because it is my firm belief that you haven't—then the matter will, of course, be handed over to the police. I believe they call it fraudulent conversion. Understand, Mr. Frisby?"
"Yes.... And what is the alternative, Mr. Callaghan?"
Callaghan said: "The alternative is very friendly and almost amusing. Supposing, for the sake of argument, I was to advise Miss Maynard that she is possibly mistaken about you. Supposing I were to tell her that I was perfectly certain that you had the jewellery; that you really had lost the combination of the safe, but that you now had it and if she made an application to inspect her property I was perfectly certain she'd find it there.
"With regard to the six pieces of jewellery left to her by her mother, it might easily be that those pieces were not genuine. They might be imitations because during her lifetime her mother had sold the originals but did not wish the fact to be known. If I said that you had shown me a letter from her mother substantiating the fact that the originals were sold and the pieces which she was leaving to her daughter were merely paste; if I said that you were unable to produce that letter because it contained matters of a very confidential nature, don't you think that Miss Maynard might be satisfied?"
Frisby said: "I have no doubt she would be, Mr. Callaghan, if when the safe was opened the entailed jewellery was there."
Callaghan threw his cigarette butt in the fireplace. "You listen to me, Mr. Frisby. You know damned well that you've done a deal with this South American and handed the Maynard jewellery over to him. Well, he hasn't gone back to South America yet. Get it back from him. Borrow it for a couple of days. Put it in your safe. Do you think you could do that?"
Frisby said: "That would be quite easy."
"Very well," said Callaghan. "Do that. To-day is Monday. Next Thursday I will suggest to Miss Maynard that we pay a sudden visit here at a time when we should not be expected. We will arrive suddenly at ten o'clock on Thursday evening and demand to see the jewellery. You will open the safe. You will produce it. Miss Maynard will be satisfied—anyhow for the moment."
"Then there is the little matter of the six personal pieces of jewellery. You will produce the imitations, which I have not the slightest doubt you had made when you sold the originals. Am I right?"
Frisby said: "Well... you might be."
"All right," said Callaghan. "Then you tell her the story I have suggested about her mother having sold the real jewellery in her lifetime. Then I will leave the room with you and inspect this letter which her mother was supposed to have handed to you Then I come back and explain to Miss Maynard that what you have said is correct. Well, she's not going to feel very good about this, is she? She's going to feel that she's treated you rather badly in suspecting you. I should imagine it would be quite some time before she asked to have the jewellery again, and by that time a lot of things could have happened, couldn't they, Mr. Frisby? You might have sold out and got out of the country, which I expect you intend to do. Don't you think that my idea of a partnership is quite a good one?"
"All right." Frisby took off his pince-nez; looked keenly at Callaghan. "How much would you want?"
Callaghan said: "I'll settle for a thousand pounds."
Frisby got up. "Very well, Mr. Callaghan. I think you are a very intelligent man. As you have suggested, I was making arrangements to leave the country fairly soon." He smiled. "We will do as you suggest. Arrive here suddenly next Thursday evening at ten o'clock. The jewellery will be in its safe and we will produce it to my properly suspicious ward, and if you come and see me a few days afterwards I will hand you the thousand pounds in bank notes. Is that a deal?"
Callaghan said: "That's a deal. I look forward to seeing you again next Thursday night. Good day, Mr. Frisby."
Frisby said: "Good day."
Callaghan went away.
IT was eleven o'clock on Thursday night when Auriol Maynard
and Callaghan got into his car and drove away from Tricot
Lodge.
She sat silently in the passenger seat for five or six minutes; then she said: "You know, I feel rather mean, Mr. Callaghan, to have distrusted my guardian. Yet I had this feeling that there was something very funny going on. I can't tell you how surprised I was when he opened the safe and the jewellery was there."
Callaghan said: "I quite understand your feelings, and you must have had a fearful disappointment about the other pieces of jewellery—those which you thought were real and which you discovered your mother had sold in her lifetime."
She nodded. "That was a bitter disappointment. I needed that money."
Callaghan said: "Well, life can be disappointing, Miss Maynard, but if I were you I wouldn't worry too much about it."
She turned to him. "What do you mean by that?"
"I don't quite know," said Callaghan, "but there's a proverb which says 'All things come to him who waits.' So let's do a little waiting, shall we?"
AT nine o'clock on Saturday morning Auriol Maynard was shown
into Callaghan's private office. In her hand was held a folded
newspaper.
Callaghan got up from his desk. He said: "So you've read the news, Miss Maynard?"
"Yes... isn't it amazing? It's almost unbelievable, Mr. Callaghan. The jewellery must have been stolen a few hours after we saw it."
Callaghan said: "The police believe that the burglar or burglars got into the library, having filed through the iron bars outside the window, and opened the safe containing the jewellery, at about three o'clock on Friday morning."
She sat down in the chair Callaghan indicated. She said: "I can't believe it's true."
"It is certainly difficult to believe," said Callaghan. "These people must have known or guessed the combination of the safe. The other extraordinary thing was that apparently they never touched the other safe in the library. They seemed to know exactly what they wanted and where it was. I agree with you, it is very peculiar."
She said slowly: "Mr. Callaghan, I have a rather terrible idea. Supposing my guardian had disposed of the jewellery. Supposing he guessed that I was suspicious and he got it back again; put it in the safe in case I demanded to see it, and after I'd seen it he employed somebody to put up a fake burglary."
"I've thought of that, Miss Maynard," said Callaghan, "but that might not be a bad thing for you, might it?"
She asked: "What do you mean?"
Callaghan said: "That jewellery was insured for a hundred thousand pounds. The insurance company will pay and the person they'll pay the money to will be you."
"What am I to do, Mr. Callaghan?"
He said cheerfully: "Don't do anything. I'll go and see the insurance company. I'll get in touch with you on Monday. Don't worry."
"I won't." She smiled at him. She went on: "You said that all things come to him who waits. I hope you're right. Anyway, all I can do is to wait. Au revoir, Mr. Callaghan."
He held the door open for her.
She said: "You know, I don't know why it is, but I trust you very much."
Callaghan said, with a grin: "I hope you won't find you're wrong."
On the following Monday morning at eleven o'clock Callaghan was shown into the office of the managing director of the firm of Vayle, Harding & Hobbs, Insurance Assessors.
He said: "Good morning, Mr. Vayle. I read your advertisement in The Times this morning about the Maynard jewellery theft. And I know that you are offering a reward of ten per cent of the insured value of a hundred thousand pounds for information which will lead to the recovery of the jewellery."
Mr. Vayle said: "That is correct, Mr. Callaghan."
Callaghan said: "This robbery is, I believe, a rather peculiar one, Mr. Vayle, and I know quite a lot about it. I think that in certain circumstances I could guarantee that your company will suffer no loss at all about this burglary."
Vayle raised his eyebrows. "That's very good news."
Callaghan said: "I hope it will be. But I want you to pay me that reward now. In other words, I want that ten thousand pounds by to-morrow morning, and I want you not to ask me for any explanation. Do what I suggest and I think you will lose nothing."
Vayle said with a half smile: "Not even the ten thousand reward?"
Callaghan shook his head. "Not even that."
Vayle considered for a moment; then he said: "I probably wouldn't agree if it were anyone else but you, Mr. Callaghan, but we know you well. You are the chief investigator for the Globe & International Insurance, and that's good enough for me. So I won't ask any questions. I'll take your word that you can give this company information which will lead to the recovery of the jewellery, and if you wait ten minutes we'll give you a cheque for that reward now."
Callaghan said: "Thanks a lot. You won't regret it."
Vayle rang the bell.
Five minutes afterwards, Callaghan went out of the office. In his pocket was a cheque for ten thousand pounds.
ON the following Wednesday morning, Callaghan, Auriol Maynard
and a representative of the County & International Insurance
Company arrived at Tricot Lodge. They were shown into the
drawing-room. A few minutes later Frisby came into the room.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw his three visitors. He said to Callaghan: "What exactly does this mean, Mr. Callaghan? I understood you were coming down to see me."
"Well, I'm here, aren't I? Surely you don't mind meeting your ward. And this gentleman is Mr. Johns of the County & International Insurance Company."
Frisby put on his pince-nez. Maybe he thought that process disguised the startled expression in his eyes.
Callaghan went on: "I'm certain, Mr. Frisby, that all this business about the Maynard jewellery and the robbery can be settled very amicably. In other words, I think I can guarantee no legal process will be brought against you, providing you behave yourself."
Frisby said: "What the devil do you mean?"
"Let's go into the library, shall we, Mr. Frisby?" said Callaghan. "I'll show you what I mean."
Frisby shrugged his shoulders. "Exactly as you wish...." He led the way into the library.
As Frisby closed the door behind him, Callaghan said: "I think you've been a very foolish man, Mr. Frisby, and I think you're going to be a very lucky one. You disposed of the Maynard jewellery to your South American friend. Then I came down here and saw you, and put up a proposition to you which you were glad to accept. You had to accept it. But the reason I put it up was to make sure that you were actually implicated in an attempt to dispose of this jewellery. I suggested to you that you borrowed back the jewellery from the man to whom you'd sold it, so that it could be produced to Miss Maynard and myself. You did this. We arrived as arranged last week; saw the jewellery. But you knew perfectly well that the matter wouldn't end there. You knew that at some time in the future Miss Maynard would want that jewellery and you knew that it had to be returned to the man to whom you'd sold it. So you did something that was quite clever. You employed a professional burglar to break into this house at three o'clock in the morning after our visit. He sawed through the bars outside the window; opened the safe; removed the jewellery. The next morning you gave the information to the police. What you didn't tell them was that the jewellery had never left this house. The burglar or burglars handed it back to you."
Frisby said: "You're mad. I've never heard such a ridiculous story in my life."
Callaghan grinned. "It's not so ridiculous. You know, I've quite a large acquaintance with the underworld, Mr. Frisby, and it's marvellous what you can do with a hundred-pound note. Not only do I know the burglar who broke into the house at your request, and the sum of money which you paid him, but I also know where the jewellery is."
Frisby said: "I repeat, you're mad. You don't know what you're talking about. If you know so much, where is it?"
Callaghan pointed to the second safe on the other side of the room. "Open your other safe, Mr. Frisby."
Frisby opened the safe. Callaghan went over; rifled through the pile of documents that lay in the bottom of the safe. He took them out; threw them on the floor. Under the pile of papers were four large old-fashioned leather jewellery cases.
Callaghan opened them; laid them on the library table. "There," he said, "is the Maynard jewellery—the entailed jewellery. Quite a clever idea, Mr. Frisby, but it didn't come off."
Frisby said: "This is ridiculous. I know nothing about this."
"No?" said Callaghan. "Well, nobody expected you to say you did, Mr. Frisby. Now, Miss Maynard wants no scandal. Let me tell you exactly what the position is. This jewellery was insured for a hundred thousand pounds by the County & International Insurance Company. Their assessors offered the usual reward for any information that would lead to the recovery of this jewellery. Their reward was the usual ten per cent of the insured value, that is ten thousand pounds. I claimed that reward, Mr. Frisby, and it's been paid to me. So now it is a matter between you and Mr. Johns—the Insurance Company's representative. And I'll tell you exactly what he's going to suggest to you.
"At Miss Maynard's request, if you agree to return to the company the ten thousand pounds which they've paid me as a reward, the matter can be considered closed, except that the Maynard jewellery will be removed from your care and deposited with a bank or safe custody institution approved by the Insurance Company. If you don't, the matter will be put into the hands of the police. You have five minutes to make up your mind, Frisby, so I suggest to you you'd better start thinking."
ON Friday morning at twelve o'clock, Windemere Nikolls put his
head into Callaghan's private office. He said: "Hey, Slim? Miss
Maynard's outside. She wants to see you, and does she look
somethin'!"
Callaghan said: "Do you think I don't know that? Ask her to come in."
When she came into the office Callaghan said: "You look very pleased. Perhaps I wasn't wrong when I said that all things come to him who waits, even if it's not a 'him,' Miss Maynard."
She said: "You've been wonderful, Mr. Callaghan. My guardian has paid the ten thousand pounds to the company. I'm very glad you've got that reward. You earned every penny of it."
Callaghan said: "Just a minute. You've forgotten something. That little story I told you on Frisby's behalf about your mother's personal pieces of jewellery being imitation because she'd sold them in her lifetime wasn't true. She never sold them. Frisby did. Unfortunately, those pieces weren't insured, and they were worth six thousand pounds. Isn't that right?"
She nodded. "That's quite right."
Callaghan went on: "Before you leave this office, Miss Maynard, I'm going to give you a cheque for six thousand pounds. Remember that I got ten thousand—the reward from the Insurance Company—so if you take six thousand that leaves me with lour thousand—a very good fee for my services."
Her eyes opened wide in amazement. "But, Mr. Callaghan, why should you do that? You earned the reward."
Callaghan shook his head. "Not quite. You see, I knew exactly what Frisby would do. I knew perfectly well that after we'd inspected the jewellery he was going to return it to the man to whom he'd sold it and from whom he'd borrowed it for your benefit, so I felt I had to do something about it. I was the person who staged that burglary. When Frisby opened the safe to show us the jewellery I memorised the combination. The burglary was carried out a few hours later by a friend of mine who used to be a very clever cracksman. He simply took the jewellery out of one safe and put it under the papers in the other." He smiled at her. "The rest was just a little—shall we say—legal blackmail."
Her eyes were dancing. "Mr. Callaghan, I think you're wonderful."
Callaghan said: "I tried to be fair. Everybody's happy. Frisby has been made to disgorge ten thousand pounds. The joke is I bet anything that he paid that ten thousand pounds out of the money advanced to him by the South American, Juan d'Alvarez, as part of the purchase price of the jewellery. The Insurance Company have to pay nothing. You have the Maynard jewellery in a safe place where you can always get it when you want it, and you'll have the six thousand pounds—the value of your mother's own personal pieces. I make four thousand pounds on the deal. Can you see anything wrong with that?"
"No, I can't. I think it's marvellous. I can't tell you what I owe you, Mr. Callaghan."
Callaghan said: "Well, maybe you do owe me something..."
She raised her eyebrows. "Of course... what is it?"
Callaghan reached for his hat. He said: "We'll talk about that over lunch, shall we?"
A WORD, if you please, about Mr. Erasmus Gillyflower. Mr. Gillyflower was a poet. He was young, slim, quiet—in a passionate sort of way—and very attractive. He liked flowers, green fields, and ice-cream when he could afford it—which was practically never. So much then for this young man and, with your permission, I will now get on with the business.
It was on a certain summer's evening not so many years ago that Erasmus Gillyflower was sitting in his garret in Bloomsbury wondering how he was going to pay the rent. This was no new process of mind to him. He was seldom able to pay his rent when it was due. Needless to say, he was very, very depressed. He considered the lot of a poet to be most unfortunate and he had reasons for this thought.
Only that morning, when coming out of his publishers' office—and when I say his publishers' office I mean the office at which Erasmus Gillyflower spent a great deal of his time hoping that they might publish something of his once again—his publisher having in a moment of mental aberration some year or so before produced a slim volume of his poems entitled Should Flowers Have Windows? which had been treated with a most supreme contempt by all the critics and which had been published by the Salamander Press only because their principal poetry reader, Oswald Ogilvie Figg, was at that time abroad—only that morning, I repeat, the idea of departing from this world, its cares and tragedies, had occurred to him—to be dismissed with a shrug as being rather ungentlemanly and redundant.
But, as the evening shadows fell, he again considered suicide, and at that particular moment was thinking of ways and means of carrying out this act. He wondered if his public would be more affected if his body were dragged from the Thames, his dead, pale face wearing an expression of extreme sadness and resignation, or if he were discovered hanging from the banister rail outside his garret door suspended by a pair of green braces—a tribute to his Irish parentage.
He had just decided that if he were to jump off London Bridge it might amuse his public—all fifteen of them—even more, when he became aware that he was not alone in the room. He looked up and saw, sitting on a stool in a corner of the garret, the portly and check-suited figure of Mr. Krasinsky.
Erasmus, whose manners were very good in those days, got up.
He said: "Good evening, Mr. Krasinsky. However did you get in? I remember vaguely meeting you somewhere."
Krasinsky took off his small bowler hat and perched it on one knee. He said: "Of course. I've met you on many occasions, dear Erasmus Gillyflower. In fact, I have been with you more than you know. With regard to your query as to how I came, I always arrive at any place I wish to be. I am here because I find myself concerned for your state of mind. I gather you are having a little trouble."
Erasmus began to walk about the room. "Trouble," he exclaimed bitterly. "Trouble!... Realise, Mr. Krasinsky, that I am a poet. And nobody loves me. No beautiful woman ever dreams of me. That, you will allow, is bad enough, but, in addition, every time I send in a manuscript of poems some low boaster without soul, mentality or intellect, by the name of Figg, who reads poetry for the Salamander Press, puts in the most appalling reports on my work. Listen to this...."
Erasmus walked quickly to the wooden kitchen table on which he worked; dragged open the drawer; produced a letter. He repeated: "Listen to this. This is Figg's report on my last work." He began to read.
"'To the Salamander Press. I have read Mr. Erasmus Gillyflower's collection of poems which he suggests should be entitled Cauldron of Love. I have never read such unutterable rubbish in my life. I believe that once, in my absence, the Salamander Press was foolish enough to publish a book of poems by this young gentleman. I hope, for their reputation's sake, they will never repeat the process. Finally, if I may be allowed to use a vulgarism, I would like to suggest that as a poet Mr. Gillyflower would make a very good undertaker. Really, somebody should speak to this young man. Oswald Ogilvie Figg.'"
Mr. Krasinsky produced from the upper pocket of his check waistcoat an almost minute cigar, which he lighted, and inhaled its smoke with gusto.
He said: "I understand exactly how you feel. In fact, this understanding is responsible for my visit here to-day. Actually, my dear Erasmus, I have come here, knowing that you are suffering the torments known only to the unloved, and also those of an unpublished poet, and in order that I might recount to you a story which I think might have a bearing on your own particular case, and which might be of use to you."
Erasmus sat down on his chair; rested his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. He regarded Mr. Krasinsky with a soulful expression in his eyes.
"Indeed, that is very good of you," he said. "I am very interested. I know that anything you might say will be of the utmost use to me."
Krasinsky drew on his small cigar, which, strangely enough, never decreased in length. He said: "I wish to recount to you, my dear Erasmus, the strange, passionate and somewhat amazing story of a young poet of my acquaintance by the name of Ricardo Jelliebrand, of whom you have doubtless heard."
"Have I not?" said Erasmus. "Ricardo Jelliebrand has been hailed as one of the greatest of our younger poets. He is almost a major poet. His work is published by the Salamander Press. I should be enthralled to hear about him."
Krasinsky sighed. He said: "I know that Ricardo was even more unhappy, more miserable, than you. The Salamander Press, which, as you have just remarked, publishes his work with pride, refused to have anything to do with him for exactly the same reason, and that was that their reader—this Oswald Ogilvie Figg—had reported in even more drastic terms of abuse than those he has used towards you on the work of my young friend Ricardo.
"Visualise," said Krasinsky, "the evening of which I speak. It was a lovely summer's evening, and the sun poured through the one window of Ricardo's garret. He sat at his table in very much the same way as you are sitting at yours, his face between his hands, a picture of abject misery, whilst before him lay the report of this Oswald Ogilvie Figg on his last book of poems which, enclosed in a stout envelope, had been returned to him by the Salamander Press that afternoon.
"I will not," continued Krasinsky cheerfully, "bore you with what the man Figg said of the work of my young friend Ricardo. I will only tell you that the terms he used were so utterly objectionable that tears of rage, humiliation and self-pity—a charming mixture," said Krasinsky with a smile—"coursed down the thin and ashen cheeks of the young poet. I feel you must sympathise with him."
"I do indeed," said Erasmus. "I feel for him with every nerve in my body."
"Excellent," said Krasinsky. "You must know also that this Ricardo Jelliebrand was a person of extreme good looks. One might say," he went on, with a delightful expression flitting across his face, "that he was as good-looking as you are. He was tall and slim. He had those strange eyes common to poets—something between the soft, demulcent gaze of a gazelle and the acrid expression of the mongrel dog who spends most of his time in the fruitless investigation of dust-bins. In a word, he was extremely good-looking.
"He knew also that he was an extremely good poet. But where did that get him? In the words of our American friends," said Krasinsky archly, "so what!"
"Precisely," murmured Erasmus. "So what! What could he do about it?"
Krasinsky drew once more on the small, sweet-smelling cigar. He blew a perfect smoke-ring which floated across the room. They both watched its progress.
Then Krasinsky said: "Suddenly—and I think it was about nine o'clock—a great idea came to Ricardo, who as a poet had been impugned, who had been insulted, by this odd and peculiar Figg. He would revenge himself. He remembered that somebody—he was not quite certain who—had said that the pen was mightier than the sword and, whilst as a poet he was prepared to concede this, as a man—and I should point out to you that he was quite a man—he considered that the dog-whip might be very much more efficacious than either of the aforementioned implements.
"He felt feverishly in his pockets and found that he possessed six shillings and tenpence halfpenny. Without more ado he seized his hat and rushed madly in the direction of the Caledonian Market where, as you know, practically anything from a battleship to tripe and onions may be purchased. There, for two and sevenpence, he bought an extremely old but nevertheless efficient dog-whip, and was delighted to find that he had sufficient change to pay his fare to Chertsey—that charming and delightful habitat situated on the banks of Father Thames.
"It was ten o'clock when he arrived at the house of Figg. The place was delightful. In the Tudor style, it stood in an acre of ground well back from the select roadway. On the white-painted gate were the words Figg's End, which Ricardo thought were apt, for he considered that this beating up with the dog-whip which he proposed to administer to the acrimonious, if not decadent, Figg, would be the end of him. Why, he did not know, but that is what he thought—or hoped.
"He went through the gate; walked along the well-kept gravel path flanked by rhododendron bushes whose colours—had he been in a more beneficent mood—would doubtless have inspired him to some lyric. But firmly, if not grimly, determined," said Krasinsky, stifling a yawn, "he approached the outer door, pulled the iron bell handle and listened to the tintinnabulation which resounded in the nethermost part of the house.
"Minutes passed and nothing happened. Are you interested, my dear Erasmus?"
Erasmus said: "More than interested, Mr. Krasinsky. I am most excited. I suppose that, left outside the door with no one opening it, his anger abated and he went away."
"Not at all," said Krasinsky. "I assure you that his wait on the doorstep merely increased his rage. After some three or four minutes had passed, the door was opened by a trim and neat maid. With a supreme effort Ricardo controlled his features and said that he would very much like to see Mr. Figg with whom he had an appointment. I need not tell you that the maid did not believe him, but she liked the look of his face so much that she even overlooked the strange curve in his stomach which was produced by the dog-whip being stuffed beneath his waistcoat. She asked him to come in and left him seated in the hall.
"She returned in two or three minutes to inform him that she regretted that Mr. Figg was not at home, but would he care to see Mrs. Figg?"
"And did he?" queried Erasmus.
Krasinsky said: "Do not let us anticipate. I will merely tell you at this moment that Ricardo sat in the chair bitterly disappointed that his enemy was not at home. He had just decided to get up and go, to wait for some other day to wreak his vengeance on this impossible creature whose name was adequately associated with the covering used by Adam in the Garden of Eden, when his curiosity overcame him.
"He desired above all things to see what sort of woman this man Figg would have for a wife. He visualised her. She would be tall and angular and bony. Her shoulders would stick out. She would wear a black dress of some description, which would hang down at the back, showing probably a pair of elastic-sided boots. Her hair would be done in a bun and her complexion would be sallow, and if you approached near enough, thought Ricardo, you would become aware of the vaguest odour of garlic, and also of the fact that her teeth were entirely yellow except in the front where the largest one was missing. This, thought Ricardo, would be Mrs. Figg. But he thought he should make certain. So he got up; told the maid that he would be delighted to see Mrs. Figg; followed her into the drawing-room.
"He stopped a few feet over the threshold of the large and exquisitely furnished room. He noted instantaneously, and with approval, the evening light flooding through the large bay windows at the end of the room, illuminating the great bowls and vases of flowers which stood about the place. And then he looked at Mrs. Figg."
Krasinsky sighed. His sigh was all-embracing and it seemed to Erasmus that the very process of sighing emphasised everything that Krasinsky had said. Erasmus sighed also.
Krasinsky continued: "Some extremely clever young lady once wrote a song called 'My Heart Stood Still,' and I assure you that at this moment Ricardo must have been thinking of this song because never in his life had he seen a woman so beautiful, so alluring, so utterly attractive and full of that peculiar quality which the Americans call 'oomph.' He stood there, his hands hanging limply by his sides, his mouth slightly open, an expression of utter bewilderment in his eyes and the handle of the dog-whip sticking out from beneath his waistcoat."
Krasinsky sighed again; inhaled deeply from the small cigar; blew another, even larger, smoke-ring and continued:
"I will endeavour, however inadequate my vocabulary and the innate nuances of speech which are so very necessary on these occasions, to give you a picture of Honoria Figg.
"She was of middle height and with a figure so superbly traced that it defied comparison or description. Let it suffice that it was one of those figures which in earlier days would have caused wars. For," said Krasinsky with a little smile, "if the face of Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships I assure you that that of Honoria Figg would have been responsible for a world navy. Her face was heart-shaped—which is how a woman's face should be shaped. Her eyes a deep and lustrous hazel. Her hair, of a superb shade of chestnut, formed an even more supreme frame for her lovely complexion. Her fingers, laden with valuable rings, were long and delicate.
"After some moments Ricardo managed to say in a voice which seemed to him to emanate from some far corner of the room: 'Good evening, Mrs. Figg.' She spoke. Needless to say her voice matched the rest of her. It was low, soft and with a peculiarly tremulous note. Her words almost hovered on the air. She said: 'I am very glad to see you. Won't you sit down?' and she managed to convey by this ordinary and formal expression that she had been waiting all her life to see Ricardo and that, if he condescended to sit down, she would be very grateful. He sat down.
"He said," continued Krasinsky, "'I am very sorry to trouble you, but I came here to see your husband.' An expression of the utmost sadness came over her face. She said: 'Mr. Jelliebrand'—and never had Ricardo liked the sound of his name so much—'I find myself in a terrible and delicate position because I know why you have come here.'
"Ricardo was overcome by a strange emotion. He got up. He stood looking at her with wide eyes. He asked: 'How do you know?' 'For three reasons,' she said. 'First of all I can see the handle of the dog-whip protruding from beneath your waistcoat, and on this point I think it would be much more comfortable for you if you removed it. Or shall I do it?' She moved towards him with celerity and grace; took the handle of the whip between two fingers and removed it. She put the whip on a chair. She said: 'This whip was the first reason. The second reason is that I know who you are and I know the superior quality of your work and how this monster who calls himself my husband has derided you both in private and in print. Thirdly, I know why he has done this. I know why from the very start of your poetic career he has dogged you, ever since the publication of your first charming and brilliant work—those lovely poems: Oh Fie... Sweet Firefly...'
"Ricardo's eyes opened still wider with amazement. He said: 'So there is some ulterior motive for his criticisms. Dare I ask what it is?' She blushed," said Krasinsky. "Words fail me when I try to describe her beauty when she blushed. But she did blush. She turned her head away from Ricardo. She looked out of the window towards the well-kept sloping lawn at the back of the house, and an expression of great languor and tenderness came into her eyes. She said: 'I must do my duty, and it is my duty to tell you this, but you will forgive me if I do not look at you, Mr. Jelliebrand... or,' she added in a low voice, 'Ricardo...'
"He felt himself overcome by the most supreme emotion. He said: 'Please go on...' In a voice so soft that he could hardly hear it she continued: 'When I read your first book of poetry I knew that I loved you. I knew that you were the only man in the world for whom I have ever cared. I wondered what you would look like. I imagined you'... She turned quickly and stood facing him—a vibrant figure. 'How marvellous...' she went on. 'You look exactly as I imagined you. You are the same person.'
"'Good God...' said Ricardo, and stopped speaking, because at that moment he was unable to think of anything else to say. 'You can imagine the situation in this house,' said the beautiful Honoria. 'It was of course impossible for me to conceal from my husband that I adored the thought of you. It showed in my every movement. When he told me what he proposed to say about your book I attacked him like a tigress. What else could I do? From that moment,' she went on, 'he has lived only to inflict hurt on me through you. He has waited like a panther crouching in the forest about to spring on his unconscious prey for some writings of yours to appear.' She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. 'You know what has happened. You know what he has done?'
"Ricardo said: 'Indeed I do. But if this has brought us together, if... if...' He stopped speaking. She said: 'Let us be grateful to him for that at least. His derision of your work is responsible for your being here. How glad I am,' she went on, 'that he is away in the country; that I am here alone to talk to you—to tell you this sad story.'
"Ricardo stood in the middle of the floor, looking at her. He was overcome by a series of emotions so shattering that he felt rather like a man whose legs are in Peru, his body in China and the rest of him in a not particularly attractive village in England. He endeavoured to collect himself, but found the process extremely difficult.
"She broke the silence. 'Ricardo, I think the time has come when you and I should drink a cocktail to our love. Will you ring the bell?' She indicated the bell-push in the wall by the fireplace.
"Ricardo moved towards the bell. To reach it it was necessary that he passed close to her. She put a white hand on his arm; stopped him. They embraced ardently."
Krasinsky paused and regarded the glowing end of his cigar with interest.
"But, Mr. Krasinsky... what happened then?" asked Erasmus impatiently. "I find it very difficult not to ask you to press on with this amazing story."
Krasinsky said: "I will tell you. This love affaire between Ricardo and Honoria progressed through the lovely summer months and owing to the lucky and continued absences of Oswald Ogilvie Figg from the house near Chertsey—that lovely spot on the River Thames—Ricardo was able to spend long portions of the day planning new poetic works and being encouraged by the lovely Honoria in the way in which any alluring woman can encourage any artist.
"And then"—Krasinsky dropped his voice—"stark tragedy entered into the life of Ricardo Jelliebrand. Owing to some unforeseen incident, probably I imagine through the machinations of the beautiful Honoria, a slim volume of poems entitled Oh Spare Me a Nutmeg was published. Three days afterwards the most appalling review of this book signed by Oswald Ogilvie Figg appeared in an artistic magazine.
"I cannot make plain to you," continued Krasinsky, "the vile ingenuity, the Machiavellian use of our sweet English language which this Figg used in order to humiliate, belittle and utterly condemn my young friend Ricardo. All day he walked about the streets in despair. He could not even go for comfort and reassurance to the beautiful Honoria because she had informed him a few days before that the impossible Figg was returning home.
"In the evening he went into a tea-shop and glanced idly at a copy of the Evening News which some previous customer had left on the marble-topped table. His eyes noted with an extreme lack of interest the heading which informed him that the body of a man in a bathing costume had been dragged from the water a mile from Chertsey in a very dead condition. But the fact that Chertsey was not too far removed from Figg's End brought back to his mind vividly a picture of the beautiful house set on the river bank, and the alluring Honoria. Everything in Ricardo's soul cried out for her company, but he realised that with Figg at home he must do without it; that he must walk about the streets champing the bit of bitterness, hating Figg for more than one reason.
"It was late when he arrived home at his garret. He came in, lit the gas-ring and was preparing to make a cup of tea which, as you probably are well aware, is the mainstay of most poets, when the door opened and his landlady appeared with a telegram in her hand. She gave it to Ricardo and went away.
"He tore open the buff-coloured envelope and read the amazing telegram inside, which said:
"COME TO ME AT ONCE. I HAVE SENT A CAR TO FETCH YOU. ALL MY LOVE, HONORIA.
"What had happened? A thousand questions flashed through Ricardo's mind; a thousand answers began to formulate themselves in his brain. On the way to Figg's End—for the hired car arrived ten minutes after the telegram—he found his mind involved in a complicated tangle of theories, rejections, new theories, and it was only when the motor-car stopped before the wide, white gate of Figg's End and he could see the house, the well-ordered green lawns about it silvered in the summer moonlight, that his brain ceased to revolve like a squirrel in a cage.
"He hastened along the wide sandy path and pulled the bell with fingers which shook with excitement. Honoria opened the door.
"She was dressed in a thick cream silk robe. Her lovely chestnut hair, loose about her shoulders, was tied with a ribbon. Ricardo's heart leapt at the sight. She said quietly and in dulcet tones: 'Come in, Ricardo, I must talk to you.' She turned and, after he had closed the door, he followed her into her drawing-room. In the middle of the floor she turned and faced him. She said, still in the same quiet and soothing voice: 'Ricardo, you are avenged.'
"He looked at her in amazement. He remembered the Evening News on the marble-topped table. He said: 'My God, Honoria, you don't mean that you... that you...' She nodded her head. She said brightly: 'Yes, I do. I have killed him, Ricardo, and for you.'
"He spoke quickly, the words almost tumbling out of his mouth: 'This evening in the Evening News I saw the report of a man dragged from the river in Chertsey—a man in a bathing suit. Was this—?"
"Once more she nodded. 'That was Figg,' she said. 'And I am his murderess.' 'What a situation for a poet,' said Ricardo. 'Could anything be more wonderful? How I will write now....'"
"But, Mr. Krasinsky..." said Erasmus.
Krasinsky interrupted. "They say that patience is a virtue—even for a poet. I will continue....
"It was three minutes before she disengaged herself from his arms. He sat down in an arm-chair. He said: 'Tell me, my Sweet, what happened?'
"She replied: 'Every morning he swims. There is a small landing-stage at the bottom of the garden here, and on it he had erected a diving-board. The landing-stage and diving-board are in a cut in the grass banks. He came into my room this morning—the morning of the publication of that fearful review of your last supreme volume. He showed me the manuscript copy. He told me that this would appear to-day. He asked me how I liked that. Then he turned on his heel and left me.'
"She shrugged her shoulders. 'Ricardo,' she went on in tremulous tones, 'I did not know what to do. It was early—six o'clock this morning—and after a few minutes I decided to endeavour to appeal to this man's better nature; to entreat him to telephone the periodical and somehow stop this fearful thing, which I knew would kill your soul, appearing. I flung on a robe and hastened down across the lawn through the garden, just as he was preparing to dive into the river. I stood on the bank above him, there not being room for the two of us on the diving-board. I entreated him almost on my bended knees to have mercy on you and on me; not to allow this slanderous critique to appear. He laughed at me. Not only did he laugh but he came out with one of those trite remarks for which he is so famous—a remark which could only emanate from such a low specimen of humanity as the late Figg.'
"She paused. She sighed. Ricardo asked: 'What then?' She raised her head proudly. He thought she looked like a queen. She went on: 'At this moment this man prepared to dive. He is a good swimmer. He runs along the springboard, bounces into the air, dives in the river. He is proud of this peculiar aerobatic. Then, at that moment, as if it had been placed there by a kindly fate, I saw at my feet the thick branch of an oak tree which had been removed by the gardener two days ago. I seized it and, as my husband ran past and below me, I struck out at him with all my might, and succeeded,' she continued with a whimsical smile, 'in hitting him on the back of the head at the very moment when he was about to dive. It was one of those blows,' she said in her soft and charming voice, 'which are usually described by common people as a tuppenny one. He disappeared in the water. A minute later I saw the tide carry his body downstream.'
"Ricardo said: 'My Sweet, how brave, how wonderful.... How did you feel?' She replied: 'I felt like Nemesis. I realised that this man Figg was no more; that just as your work had been perfect in the past our love would be perfect in the future, that is,' she went on archly, 'if you don't mind marrying a murderess.' Ricardo smiled a brave and winning smile. He reached out for her. He said: 'My Sweet what is a murder between friends...'"
THERE was a long pause. A series of sighs, dramatic and
otherwise, emanated from the open mouth of Erasmus while he
considered the strange and, he thought, alluring history which
Krasinsky had recounted to him. Eventually he said:
"And then... were they married? Were they happy? Did any suspicion ever fall on her?"
Krasinsky nodded. "The answer to the first two questions is yes," he said. "They married. They were supremely happy. But as for the suspicion, I regret very much to tell you it lurked not in the mind of our extremely efficient police force, but in the mind of the unfortunate Ricardo."
Krasinsky regarded his small cigar, which had now gone out and, by some occult process, replaced its own end so that it was entirely unsmoked. He put this back into his waistcoat pocket; produced from the opposite one a lady's delicate suede glove, with which he touched his lips.
"It has been said," Krasinsky murmured, "that love cannot live upon itself if some suspicion lurks in the mind and, after the first few months of halcyon happiness, Ricardo found himself strangely unhappy. He adored his lovely and alluring wife. In fact, I would go so far as to say that no words of mine could explain this adoration, but at the back of his mind lurked the awful thought that one day the footsteps of the officers of the law would crunch upon the gravel path and his delightful wife would be taken away in one of those plain vans so tactfully used by the police force on these occasions, probably to be tried and suspended by her beautiful neck until she was dead.
"The thought appalled him. Day after day his mind fed on these awful thoughts. His face became thin and haggard. No longer was his brain able to formulate those lovely couplets such as that world-famous 'I met a rose-leaf wet with dew. I adore roses... don't you?' He thought of nothing but the hangman's noose. An unpleasant picture came to his mind of his dear wife, dressed in the extremely unfashionable garb in which I believe our female offenders are decked. To such a pass did he come that eventually he was confined to bed, unable to eat or sleep, and a famous brain specialist who was called in by Honoria's doctor was forced to tell her that Ricardo's illness was due to a brain fever, probably caused by some terrible worry.
"Later," continued Krasinsky, "in the stillness of the night, Honoria, looking charming in a black lace robe, came to his bedside. He gazed at her with lustreless eyes into which a gleam of adoration crept as he saw her lovely face.
"She said: 'Ricardo, I cannot bear this illness. I cannot bear to watch your suffering. I must remove from your mind the terrible cause of your illness.' She hung her head. 'I must confess to you.' 'What?' asked Ricardo weakly. 'What have you to confess, my dear Honoria?' She said: 'you believe I killed my husband. I did not. There never was a man called Oswald Ogilvie Figg.'
"Ricardo's eyes opened in amazement. He was so surprised he sat up in bed. He said: 'What do you mean?' Her head drooped a little lower. 'I was Oswald Ogilvie Figg,' she said. 'I am the critic of that name. The unfortunate man who was drowned in the River Thames was some other person. I merely used the news to remove from myself a husband who had never existed. It was I, Ricardo '—she beat her hands upon her breasts—'who wrote those fearful criticisms of your work.'
"He asked weakly: 'Why?' She murmured: 'Because I loved you, and because it has always been understood that a woman cannot write to an entire stranger whom she has never met and inform him of the fact. I wrote those reviews because I knew that one day you would endeavour to find Figg, and then I could tell you that it was through me he had written the reviews. Then,' she murmured, 'I knew that you would love me, and that after I had removed Figg you would marry me.'
"A beautiful smile broke over Ricardo's face," said Krasinsky. "His weakness vanished almost instantaneously. He stretched out his arms into which she sank thankfully. He said: 'Ye Gods... what a woman!'"
THERE was a silence. Then Erasmus said: "What a lovely... what
a supreme story. How utterly charming... and what a lovely
ending."
A thought struck him. He rose from the table. He gazed at Krasinsky with eyes that almost burst in amazement. He said:
"But, Mr. Krasinsky... then it is she who is writing the reviews of my poems which are so terrible. She is Oswald Ogilvie Figg. She is attacking me."
"Precisely," said Krasinsky with a winning smile. "I believe I forgot to tell you that after Ricardo recovered from his illness he bought the Salamander Press—the publishers who are so reluctant to publish your work—mainly because of the reports of their reader, Oswald Ogilvie Figg."
Krasinsky looked at Erasmus sideways. There was a world of meaning in his glance. The hands of Erasmus began to tremble. He said: "You don't mean to say... you surely cannot mean to say..."
Krasinsky nodded. "Just as she wrote those fearful reviews about my friend Ricardo, who is now a little fat and somewhat pompous, so she is writing the same appalling sort of critique on your work." There was a pause; then Krasinsky added in a Machiavellian tone: "Probably for the same reason."
A beautiful smile shone on Erasmus' face. Krasinsky sat calmly on the stool and crossed his legs. A dove flew through the open casement and settled on his right shoulder. Krasinsky stroked its head with a plump forefinger.
He said: "I think I should tell you, my dear Erasmus, that this morning, flying through the air unobserved over the Caledonian Market, I saw an extremely effective-looking dog-whip at one and sevenpence. If by some chance you had one and sevenpence, plus the fare to Figg's End, only three-quarters of an hour's journey from London, it might be worth your while."
There was no reply and, looking out of the garret window a moment later, Krasinsky observed Erasmus dashing like a madman down the street in the direction of the Caledonian Market.
The dove flew away. Mr. Krasinsky yawned and disappeared into thin air.
O'DAY came out of the cinema; walked slowly in the direction of his office. He looked at his strap-watch. It was ten-thirty and a fine night.
O'Day was tall, slim and looked easy-going. He had good shoulders. His casual style and lazy, almost lounging walk concealed a hard, sinewy physique.
His hair was dark and wavy, cut close at the sides. He looked anything but a private detective, which, when you come to think of it, is the way a private detective ought to look.
He began to think about the film. He grinned to himself. He wondered what film producers would do without the "eternal triangle." The man, the woman and the other man; or, alternatively, the woman, the man and the other woman. He wondered what private investigators would do without the eternal triangle! He concluded that they might as well go out of business.
Private investigators lived on other people's troubles... money trouble... woman or man trouble... jealousy, hatred, envy and love. The things that were the background of the scene in which the private detective lived.
It was a quarter to eleven when he went into the office building; walked up the stairs to the first floor, along the corridor. On his way to his own office he turned into the telephone room. The night operator—Donoghue—was reading a magazine.
O'Day said: "It's a nice night, isn't it, Donoghue? Has anything happened?"
"Yes, Mr. O'Day... the man Grant has happened. Remember—they told you about him this afternoon? He came through again at six o'clock. I took his message from the day girl. He phoned again at ten to-night. He said his business was terribly urgent. I told him you would be in about now; that you were at the theatre, but that you were looking in on your way back to your flat. He's in the waiting-room."
O'Day asked: "What's it all about? Do you know?"
Donoghue shook his head. "I don't know what it's about, but he's certainly got the jitters. His hands were shaking and he was in such a state of nerves he could hardly stand still."
O'Day said: "They get that way. You're becoming quite observant, aren't you, Donoghue?"
He walked along the corridor; opened the door of the waiting-room; put his head inside. The man Grant was sitting in a leather arm-chair on the opposite side of the room. He was tall, slim, well dressed. There was a peculiar, harassed expression on his face; deep circles under his eyes. O'Day thought he looked like an insomnia case.
He said: "Good evening, Mr. Grant. Is there something I can do for you?"
"I hope so..." Grant's voice was well modulated, his accent incisive. "You're Terence O'Day—the head of this Agency—aren't you?"
O'Day nodded.
Grant said: "It's about my wife...."
O'Day stood looking at him, leaning against the door-post. He smiled sympathetically. "I'm sorry, but we're not interested in divorce cases. We don't handle that type of work."
Grant said: "Mr. O'Day, I assure you this isn't a divorce case. It's much more serious to me than that."
O'Day nodded. "I see.... Would you like to come and talk to me about it?"
"Thank you..." Grant got up; followed the detective along the corridor to his office.
O'Day switched on the lights; indicated the armchair beside the desk. He said: "Sit down and relax, and tell me all about it. But make certain you tell me all about it. It's no good telling half-truths to a private detective whose help you need."
"I know that," said Grant. "I'll tell you everything I know and I'll make it as short as possible. Have you ever heard of Velma Wycherley?"
O'Day nodded. Had he heard of Velma Wycherley? Who hadn't? Especially those people whose business brought them into the half-world that exists beneath the shadow of London's night life. His quick mind began to sort out some of the rumours he had heard about the volatile Miss Wycherley—the authoress who had put the capital "R" into Romance and who believed (sometimes to her own disadvantage) that a writer should try to experience some of the things she writes about. Some people believed that Velma Wycherley had the courage of her convictions and some people considered that she was merely a neurotic who attributed her lack of control to the demands of her "artistic temperament"—that peculiar quality—or lack of it—that is supposed to cover a multitude of sins.
He said: "Yes, I've heard of her. A very successful woman novelist. I've read one or two of her books. Quite a personality, I should imagine."
Grant smiled cynically. "You don't know how right you are. I'm her husband and I ought to know."
O'Day said: "I see. What's the trouble?"
"The trouble is a man," said Grant. O'Day recognised the note of anger in the subdued voice. "My wife and I, Mr. O'Day, have been married for ten years. We were quite happy. But about eighteen months ago her attitude changed. This was soon after she had met a man named John Chetwynd—"
O'Day interrupted: "The other man, I suppose? What's John Chetwynd like?"
Grant shrugged his shoulders. "He's one of those people," he said bitterly. "If you know what I mean—good-looking, attractive, with a certain amount of money—a dilettante. He plays at being a writer, a poet, a composer. He's a jack of all trades and a master of none. But he certainly has something—something that appeals very much to my wile."
O'Day nodded sympathetically. "Go on..."
Grant went on: "He lives in an apartment block not far from us. Obviously my wife is greatly attracted to this man. They go about a great deal together. At first I didn't think there was anything in it—anything particularly wrong, I mean, because, you know, one can't make too many rules for a brilliant woman writer like my wife. But gradually she began to change. She became nervous, odd, sometimes almost hysterical. She had extraordinary flashes of, anger—usually directed against me."
O'Day asked: "Have you any explanation for that?"
Grant shrugged his shoulders. "There's only one thing I can think of. I believe that Velma considers she has fallen in love with this man. Whether she has or not, I don't know, but he certainly seems to possess some strange power over her—almost hypnotic. I suppose that sounds impossible?"
O'Day said: "I don't see why it should be."
Grant continued: "I think she's having a terrific fight with herself; that she doesn't know whether to go off with Chetwynd or stay with me; that she doesn't know what to do. I think she's worried sick."
"Well, what can I do?" asked O'Day. "You don't seem to be certain as to whether you have grounds for a divorce or not, but even if you have you don't seem particularly keen on that. In any event, as I told you, we don't handle divorce cases. And what else is there to be done?"
Grant said: "I'll tell you. What I want you to do, if you can, Mr. O'Day—and money is no object—is to find out everything possible about this man Chetwynd. To-morrow I'll drop you a line and give you all the information I have about him. I'd like you to investigate this person thoroughly, to find out just what he is, where he gets his money from, what sort of man he is and whether there has ever been anything definitely wrong between my wife and him."
O'Day was about to speak when the telephone jangled. He picked up the receiver.
Donoghue on the switchboard said: "A lady to speak to you, Mr. O'Day—a Miss Wycherley."
O'Day cocked one eyebrow. "Put her through...."
A voice came on the line. It was rather a cynical voice—soft and attractive but with a cynical note.
The voice said: "Good evening. Is that Mr. O'Day?"
O'Day said: "Yes."
The voice went on: "I believe my husband is with you at the moment. His name is Grant. He's probably very concerned and interested in me and my friend—Mr. Chetwynd. He's probably told you that I have behaved very badly to him. Don't ask me how I know he's with you but, as you know, Mr. O'Day&mdashbeing a detective—there are ways and means of finding out things like that."
O'Day asked: "Did you ring me up to tell me that?"
"No," she answered. "I rang you up to ask you to tell my husband that he need not worry about me any more. He need not commission you to pry into my private affairs and those of my friends." She laughed, a trifle hysterically, O'Day thought. "You can tell my husband to go to hell, Mr. O'Day. You can tell him that I'm heartily sick of the whole business; that I'm sick of him; that I'm sick of Chetwynd; that I'm busily engaged in packing at the moment; that I'm going and I don't care whether I ever see him again or not. Will you tell him that?"
O'Day grinned. "Why not?" He heard the receiver at the other end click. He took out his cigarette case; lighted a cigarette.
He said to Grant: "That was your wife. She knew somehow that you were with me. She says it is unnecessary for you to employ me to pry into her private affairs or those of her friends; that she's sick of the whole business; that she's packing up and clearing out now. In point of fact," said O'Day with a half smile, "she said you could go to hell!"
Grant jumped to his feet. "My God... how terrible! Sometimes I think she's a little mad. What am I to do?"
O'Day said: "If you're all that interested why don't you go home and try and stop her? She's a clever woman, but she sounds a trifle hysterical at the moment. They get that way sometimes, you know. But perhaps she'll listen to reason. In any event, you'll find out what she intends to do."
"I'll do that," said Grant. "Thank you for your help. I'll get in touch with you some time to-morrow. Good night." He went out of the office quickly.
O'Day leaned back in his chair; put his feet on the desk. He thought that life was an odd proposition.
People grumbled because they could not afford to get married or because they couldn't find the right sort of woman to want to marry. Or if they were married they didn't like their wives—or vice versa. He thought the eternal conflict between map and woman was an odd thing—sometimes a tough thing. He lay back in his chair relaxed, blowing smoke-rings.
TWENTY minutes later the telephone rang. O'Day took his feet
off the desk; picked up the receiver.
Donoghue, on the switchboard, said: "It's Mr. Grant, Mr. O'Day."
O'Day said: "Put him through."
Grant came on the line. His voice was high-pitched and shaking. He said: "For God's sake, O'Day, can you come round here? A shocking thing's happened."
"What thing?" asked O'Day.
"When I got back here," said Grant, "and I was lucky enough to pick up a cab outside your office—I live at Chelsham Court, just off Ryder Street—I went into the flat. There was no sign of my wife, but all the lights were on. She hadn't even finished packing her suitcases. I went into the bathroom. I found her there—lying on the floor dead. She's shot herself!"
O'Day said: "That's not so good, is it? Well, take it easy if you can. Give yourself a whisky and soda. I'll be with you as soon as I can get there. And don't touch anything. You understand? Not a thing."
O'Day and Grant stood in the doorway of the bathroom. It was a large, expensive room with a built-in bath, a tiled floor. The light-coloured bath-mat was an ominous crimson. The hot-water tap was running into the bath. The room was full of steam from the hot water; the mirror misted with it.
Beside the bath lay the body of a woman, slumped against the wall. She was wearing an ice-blue brocade evening frock, but the bodice of it, showing beneath the expensive Chinchilla coat, was red with blood. She lay on the floor at an angle against the wall, a .38 automatic pistol in her right hand. O'Day thought that it was not a very pretty sight.
Grant said: "It's awful, isn't it? I've touched nothing as you see. But why in the name of everything did she have to turn on the hot water? What's that for?"
O'Day said: "Take it easy. Let's have a look round. Let's look in her bedroom."
He followed Grant into the bedroom. Two suitcases were on the bed, both of them half packed.
O'Day said: "It's certainly odd. It looks as if she was packing, but she's dressed for a party or something. Maybe she was going out to a late one—and then something happened. And it must have happened after she telephoned me. Perhaps she had a phone call or a visit from somebody. Something disturbed her. So she made up her mind to kill herself."
Grant said: "But why should she want to go into the bathroom? Why did she turn on the hot water?"
"There's a possible explanation for that," said O'Day. "Maybe she thought she would make a mess, so she turned on the water. She intended when she shot herself to fall forwards into the bath. She didn't realise that the impact of the shot would throw her against the wall."
He led the way back to the bathroom; stood looking at the prone figure. Then he knelt down; pulled aside the Chinchilla coat with careful fingers.
He said: "This is rather funny, Grant. You notice that some of the hooks at the side of her frock aren't done up. See? There are six of them unhooked. No one as well-dressed as she was would have put on a fur coat and gone out like that. This might not be a suicide."
Grant said in a dull voice: "What do you mean?"
"After she phoned me," said O'Day, "she might have had a visit from somebody. There might have been a caller. Somebody may have shot her in here, wiped the prints off the butt of the gun, put it in her hand. Someone may have put this coat on after she was dead. And the same somebody may have turned on the hot water."
Grant asked: "Why should they do that?"
O'Day said: "The room is full of steam. It's so hot in here you can hardly breathe. Don't you realise that this heat would retard rigor mortis. I don't suppose there's a doctor alive could tell you within a couple of hours when this woman was shot."
Grant said: "My God!"
O'Day led the way back to the sitting-room. He said: "Now, look, the police must be informed immediately about this. I'll do that. In the meantime let's get some action. You go and see this man, Chetwynd, who was your wife's boy-friend—you said he lives near here. Go round there immediately. You're the man to go, because there's some reason for your going. If I went he wouldn't talk. If he's there ask him what he's been doing this evening. Maybe you'll find he's gone. If he has, find out what time he went, and if he left any forwarding address. Get all the information you can, and then come back here."
Grant said: "Very well. It's a relief to do anything except stay here." He picked up his hat.
O'Day heard the front door close behind him.
He lighted another cigarette. On the sideboard was the decanter of whisky and the syphon which Grant had used. O'Day walked over and helped himself to a drink. He wondered if Grant would find Chetwynd. He thought not. More and more he concluded that Grant's wife had been murdered. When she had rung his office on the telephone her voice had been firm and determined. It was the voice of a woman who had made up her mind to do something definite. She had said she was going away, that she was sick of the whole business. Maybe the explanation was simple.
She was sick of her husband, and, apparently, also sick of her friend Chetwynd, and Velma Wycherley was a rich woman. She had made a lot of money out of her books. Maybe she had telephoned Chetwynd; had told him the same thing. Maybe he had not liked it. It was quite on the cards that Chetwynd had gone to the flat. It was quite on the cards that he was there whilst she was telephoning to O'Day's office. If he had lured her to the bathroom and shot her at once, he would have had time to put the Chinchilla coat on her and clear out before Grant had arrived.
O'Day finished the drink. He went to the telephone that stood on a small table on the other side of the room. He dialled 999.
When he had finished talking to the police he began to walk about the flat. From the bathroom came the sound of the hot water splashing into the bath. For some unknown reason the noise annoyed O'Day.
At the end of the corridor was a door. He opened it; went inside the room; found the light switch; switched on the electric light. He looked about him. Quite obviously, the room was the study in which Velma Wycherley worked. One wall had been turned into a bookcase. All the copies of her books were there, in neat, chronological order. On the wall opposite was a specially made rack filled with dictaphone records, each record box carefully labelled with the name of the book. On the table was the dictaphone. O'Day thought that Velma Wycherley had had an orderly mind. He visualised her sitting at the broad desk and talking into the dictaphone, dictating the novels which had brought pleasure to so many people.
On a small table next to the desk was the play-back machine—the part used by the typist when typing from the records. O'Day took one of the record boxes from the rack. The title was Love in June. He remembered the book and the minor sensation it had caused. He slipped the record on to the cylinder; switched on the play-back. He walked up and down the room listening to Velma Wycherley dictating. He thought life could be odd....
The front-door bell rang. O'Day switched off the machine; opened the front door. Three police officers came into the flat. O'Day led the way to the bathroom.
Five minutes afterwards, Grant opened the door with his key; came into the flat. The three police officers stood in the passage-way outside the bathroom.
One said: "Good evening, Mr. Grant. This is pretty hard luck for you."
Grant said: "Yes..." He turned to O'Day. "He wasn't there. You were right. He'd gone. He left about half an hour ago. He had his things packed. He went away in his own car. He's left no forwarding address. Maybe they'll never catch him."
The police officer smiled. "I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Grant. I don't suppose he'll get very far. We'll get him all right."
O'Day said: "It doesn't matter about him. I'm much more concerned with you. Grant."
Grant asked: "What do you mean?"
"You killed your wife," said O'Day. "And I think you might very easily have got away with it, except for the fact that I'm a very curious man. Whilst I was waiting for the police just now I went into your wife's study. I put one of her dictaphone records on the machine and listened to it. I thought she had a very nice voice, but it wasn't the voice of the woman who rang me at the office to-night, Grant. I suppose that was the voice of your girl-friend—the woman whom you arranged should telephone through to me so that you could establish that your wife was alive while you were in my office."
Grant leaned against the wall. He made a peculiar hissing sound through his teeth.
O'Day went on: "You killed your wife before you came to my office to-night. You shot her in the bathroom. She was dressing to go out. She had put on her evening frock, but you didn't notice that she hadn't fastened it properly. You put her Chinchilla coat on her after she was dead for the same reason that you turned on the hot-water tap, and you turned the hot-water tap on because you knew the room would be so hot that the medical evidence as to the actual time of death would be useless. Then you came round and saw me and arranged your alibi by having the other woman ring through to me. It's an awful pity for you that your wife used to use a dictaphone."
Grant said nothing. He stood looking at them with dull eyes.
One of the police officers said: "Mr. Grant, would you like to come round to the station? Perhaps you'd like to make a statement."
CALLAGHAN leaned against the wall of the refreshment buffet under the clock. Punctually at three o'clock a woman, wearing a white gardenia on the right lapel of her neat suit, graceful, quick-moving, heavily-veiled, crossed the platform. He touched his hat. He said: "Miss Merivale?"
She answered: "Yes!" Her voice was trembling.
Callaghan said: "Take it easy. Nothing's so bad that it might not be worse. Supposing we have some tea." He led the way into the buffet.
They sat at a deserted table in the corner.
Callaghan said: "I didn't ask you any questions when you rang my office, Miss Merivale. I didn't think it was indicated. What's the trouble? Is it serious?"
She laughed—a bitter laugh. Callaghan could see she was near to tears.
She said: "Serious! It's awful! Mr. Callaghan, I'm going to tell you a terrible story. I'm going to trust you. You've got to do your best for me—for us. Don't worry about money. You can have as much as you want."
Callaghan grinned.
"I never worry about money. What's the trouble?"
She said: "For some time I've been a close friend of John Gallantry—I suppose that name means something to you?"
Callaghan said: "It means plenty—a potential Minister of the Crown. Go on."
She said: "I used to be his secretary. I ceased to be his secretary because of the fatuous jealousy of his wife. But John and I liked each other. You understand that, Mr. Callaghan. We liked each other. There was nothing else between us."
Callaghan said: "I've got it. I believe you. You don't have to sell anything to me."
She went on: "We liked to see each other sometimes and talk, but we had to pick our times and places because of her. She's terribly jealous. She loathes me. She went so far as to issue a divorce petition a fortnight ago against her husband. That was to frighten me."
Callaghan said: "Who was the woman—you?"
"No," she said. "That's just it. She hasn't any evidence and she knows it. The petition cited an unknown woman."
Callaghan said: "All right. Go on."
"Last night I had an appointment to meet John at the Grape-Vine Inn. It's a little place out towards Dorking. We supped there—very quietly—and talked.
"Well, there was some trouble. A man who was there was killed. He was shot. I expect you've read about it in the papers."
Callaghan said: "Yes, I've read about it."
She went on: "The police came. John knew there would be trouble if he and I were discovered there together. We got out by the back door. Just as we were getting away, congratulating ourselves that no one had seen us, a fearful thing happened. At the gate leading from the hotel to the garage where John's car was, we ran into a man—Hubertson, the crime reporter of The Daily Sentinel. He was in the neighbourhood and heard about the killing, and apparently had come along. He saw John—recognised him."
Callaghan said: "Well, what does that matter? Hubertson isn't likely to connect either you or Gallantry with the murder."
She said: "I wish I could think you were right. He must connect us with it."
Callaghan said: "Yes?" He looked interested. "Why?"
She said: "Will you give me a cigarette?"
He gave her one; lit it. He could see her fingers were trembling.
"He'll connect us with it," she said, "because the man who was shot was a detective employed by Mrs. Gallantry to watch John."
Callaghan whistled softly.
"That's not so good, is it?"
She looked at him.
"No, it's not so good, Mr. Callaghan."
He asked: "Does Mrs. Gallantry know where her husband was last night?"
She said: "No. Apparently they have separate rooms—connecting—each with an individual exit to a low balcony which gives access to the back lawn. John told her he was going to bed, but didn't. He got over the balcony and crossed the lawn. He came to meet me. He told me this morning that when he got back he looked into his wife's room. She was asleep."
Callaghan said: "Well, that's all right. Well, Miss Merivale, what am I supposed to do?"
She fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. She produced a wad of bank notes. There were twenty new fifty-pound notes. She pushed them across the table towards Callaghan.
She said: "You've got to stop Hubertson's mouth. You've got to stop him talking. Don't you see, unless you do he'll put two and two together. He knows about Mrs. Gallantry and her husband. There'll be a cut-and-dried motive for the murder of this private detective. Hubertson will tell the police. John will be suspected."
Callaghan said: "I see." He looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow cocked. "I suppose Gallantry didn't shoot this detective, did he?"
She said: "No, he didn't. How can you ask such a question?"
Callaghan said: "Well, I thought I'd like to know." He lit a cigarette. He went on: "Have you any reason to believe that Hubertson, the crime reporter, will keep his mouth shut for a thousand?"
She said: "From what I've heard of him he'd forget anything for a thousand pounds."
Callaghan nodded. He said: "I hope you're right."
She put her hand on his. He could feel her fingers quivering. She said: "Mr. Callaghan, you've got to help us. You've got to straighten this out."
Callaghan said: "I'll do my best. In the meantime take it easy. Where can I reach you?"
She said: "I'll give you a telephone number. Don't ask for me by name. Ask for me by my first name—ask for Miss Carolyn."
Callaghan said: "All right. We'll see what we can do."
Nikolls came into the office, threw his hat on to a peg, produced a cigarette, struck a match artistically on the seat of his trousers. He said to Callaghan:
"The detective was a guy named Frank Gregory, who was working for the International Agency in Long Acre, but there's something funny about it."
Callaghan asked: "What was funny?"
Nikolls said: "What the Merivale dame told you was right—some of it. Mrs. Gallantry employed the International Agency to keep tabs on her husband. She suspected there was something on between him and this Carolyn Merivale, see? They put Gregory on the job. But Gregory was a bad egg. He was always cock-eyed. So the International Agency sacked him ten days ago. The night he was shot he wasn't workin' for them. He was out of work."
Callaghan said: "I see. What the devil was he doing down at the Grape-Vine then? Do you think he was trying to do a bit of work on his own? Perhaps he thought he'd carry on with the job and Mrs. Gallantry might pay him if he found something out."
"No soap," said Nikolls. "Mrs. Gallantry was the one who had him fired. She was the one who complained about him bein' drunk an' not doin' his job, see? She asked for a new man to be put on."
Callaghan said: "I see. It doesn't add up, does it? Did you get anything else?"
Nikolls said: "Not much. But it's stickin' outa foot that Mrs. Gallantry don't like her husband. It's also stickin' outa foot that she don't like Carolyn Merivale. She's got it in for those two. She issued the divorce petition a coupla weeks ago, but she'll never get away with it. She cites an unknown woman, so it's a stone certainty that she hadn't anythin' on her husband an' the Merivale dame. If she had she'd have cited her. She was tryin' to scare 'em."
Callaghan said: "It's a funny situation, isn't it? I wonder why Mrs. Gallantry doesn't leave her husband if she feels like that about him." Nikolls shrugged.
"Tryin' to keep up a front, I suppose. There's another thing I found out—Gallantry an' his wife are supposed to be leavin' for Canada. She's supposed to be goin' ahead of him the day after to-morrow. He goes next week."
Callaghan nodded.
"It's not going to be so good for him," he said. "If Hubertson—the crime reporter on The Sentinel—shoots his mouth to somebody that he saw Gallantry and Carolyn Merivale at the Grape-Vine, the police'll tie it up in no time."
Nikolls said: "Well, listen, I got an idea. This fella Gregory—he's been watchin' Gallantry for some time for the International, hey? All right, he gets laid off because he's tight. Maybe he has got somethin' on Gallantry an' Merivale—somethin' that he didn't tell anybody. All right. Now he's out of a job an' he's broke. So he gets a big idea. He tails Gallantry or Carolyn Merivale down to this Grape-Vine place. Maybe he has an idea that they're gonna meet there. When he gets down there maybe he puts up a proposition to Gallantry. He tells him that if Gallantry is prepared to pay, Gregory will keep his trap shut about what he knows. Gallantry don't like it an' bumps him. Well, how's that?"
Callaghan said: "It could be. Gregory was killed in the passage leading to the men's wash-room, wasn't he?"
Nikolls said: "Yeah—just the sorta place two guys would meet to talk over a thing like that. There'd probably be nobody else there. How'ya gonna play this, Slim?"
Callaghan said: "I don't like it. It doesn't look so good for our client, does it?"
Nikolls said: "You're tellin' me!"
"There's only one thing to be done," said Callaghan. "I'll go and see Hubertson. I don't like it, but I've got to try it. We've got to keep his mouth shut."
Nikolls said: "Yeah, but even if he takes the thousand, you got no guarantee that he's not gonna squawk, have you?"
Callaghan said: "No, but you've got to take a chance some time."
HUBERTSON—the crime reporter of The Daily
Sentinel—his soft hat over one eye, a cigarette hanging
out of the corner of his mouth, leaned up against the bar. He
drank his whisky and soda, looked at Callaghan.
Callaghan said: "I've often wanted to talk to you, Hubertson. You get around. I think you and I could be of use to each other maybe."
Hubertson said: "Why not?"
Callaghan ordered two more whiskies. He lit a cigarette. He said casually: "Did you have a good time at the Grape-Vine the other night?"
Hubertson said: "Not too bad. Why?" He looked at Callaghan out of the corner of his eye.
Callaghan said: "Look, maybe I'm making a mistake, but I've got an idea about something. I think there might be a little cash in it for both of us, see? Did you go down to the Grape-Vine on business the other night?"
Hubertson said: "I'm always on business. I never know when something's going to turn up. But I didn't go to the Grape-Vine for anything special. I was coming back from Holmwood. I'd been out there on an inquest. I went into the Grape-Vine to get a drink."
Callaghan said: "I see. You must have had an interesting time."
"You're telling me," said Hubertson. "Very interesting. I ran right into a murder. What a break for a crime reporter. Somebody had knocked off a private detective named Gregory."
Callaghan said: "That was lucky for you."
Hubertson grinned wryly. "Yes," he said. "Some story!"
Callaghan raised his eyebrows inquiringly. He ordered more drinks.
Hubertson went on: "When I arrived at the inn, I went into the front bar. I know the barmaid there; I wanted to cash a cheque. I gave her the cheque and she went off with it. Apparently by the time she got upstairs to the office she'd heard about the murder. That took place at the back of the dance room on the other side of the inn. So she didn't come back with my money for an hour."
Callaghan said: "That was too bad. And you were left in the bar on your own?"
Hubertson said: "I should worry! I was on my own, but there was a lot of whisky there."
Callaghan said: "Anyway even if you didn't hear about it right away you were the first reporter on the spot."
"That's right," said Hubertson. He drank his whisky and soda. He said a little thickly: "By the time I heard about that murder I was just ripe for it." He looked at Callaghan quickly. He said: "Look, you wouldn't be trying to pump me or anything, would you?"
Callaghan said: "No, I wouldn't do a thing like that. Let's have a drink."
CALLAGHAN stood in the shadow of the booking office. He smoked
silently, watching the platform. Once or twice he glanced at the
clock in the booking hall.
Nikolls slipped in by the side entrance. He came up to Callaghan unobtrusively. He said:
"I thought you might like to know your guess was right—about the money, I mean."
Callaghan nodded.
"All right," he said. "I'll be seeing you, Windy."
Nikolls disappeared. Callaghan lit a fresh cigarette. Five minutes went by.
The woman came through the main barrier. She wore a tweed suit and a brown sports hat. Callaghan thought she looked quite delightful.
As she came level with the booking office entrance, he stepped out on to the platform. He said:
"Hallo, Miss Merivale. Can I have a word with you?"
She gave a little gasp.
"You frightened me, Mr. Callaghan," she said. "I'm afraid I haven't much time to talk. I've got to catch this train."
Callaghan grinned. "Not this train, surely?" he queried. "This is the Liverpool boat-train. You wouldn't be catching that, would you?"
She said, a little stiffly: "Why not, Mr. Callaghan?"
He said: "That's the train that Mrs. Gallantry's catching—the train that links up with the Canadian boat."
She said: "Is it... I...."
Callaghan said: "It's too bad, Mrs. Gallantry. I'm wise to you. You're not catching that train...."
She said, in an odd voice: "What do you mean?"
Callaghan looked over his shoulder. Two plainclothes men came out of the booking hall towards them.
She looked up at Callaghan's brooding face. Her eyes were bright with hatred.
He said: "You see, it was all right with me at first. I fell for that line that you were Carolyn Merivale. I'd never seen Mrs. Gallantry and you were going to take darn good care I didn't see her either. You knew you were going to Canada to-day. You thought you'd be well out of the way." He smiled at her. "It was quite a bright idea to come to me, pretend to be Carolyn Merivale, and then, using me as a stooge, get your husband and the real Carolyn Merivale picked up for the murder of Gregory."
The two plain-clothes men stood quietly, a few feet away. They kept their eyes on Mrs. Gallantry.
Callaghan went on: "I couldn't understand what Gregory was doing down at the Grape-Vine Inn. It was too much of a coincidence for him to have been there by accident at the same time as your husband and Carolyn Merivale."
He flicked the ash off his cigarette. A porter began to shout: "All aboard for the boat-train..." They began to close the carriage doors.
"At first," Callaghan continued in his quiet, toneless voice, "at first I thought that Gregory might have followed them down there. But I knew that wasn't right. Why should he have done that? He wasn't working tor the International. He'd been sacked. You got him sacked. And he didn't like you a bit. Why should he go on working in your interest?
"Then I saw Hubertson. But I didn't do what you wanted me to do, Mrs. Gallantry. I didn't offer him a thousand pounds to keep quiet about having seen your husband and Miss Merivale at the Grape-Vine. That's what you wanted me to do. You wanted me to tell him in effect by bribing him to keep quiet about something he didn't even know."
She did not move. She made a little hissing noise between her teeth.
Callaghan threw away his cigarette stub.
"I was still worrying about Gregory and why he was there," said Callaghan. "Then I got it. I got an idea and everything matched in with it. You got Gregory sacked because he wouldn't swear to fake evidence for that divorce petition that you wanted to bring against your husband, citing Miss Merivale. He wouldn't do that so you got him the sack. Gregory didn't like you and he was waiting for a chance to get back at you. He followed your husband and Miss Merivale down to the Grape-Vine, and when he saw that they were settled down to their supper he telephoned through to you and asked you to come out. Probably he told you he was going to do what you wanted."
"So you went out, didn't you? You went in the back way and you met Gregory in the downstairs passage. Then he gave you a surprise. He told you that your husband and Miss Merivale were upstairs having supper. He told you that he was going to take you up there and tell them both what your little game was. That didn't sound so good, did it, Mrs. Gallantry? Carolyn Merivale would have had the laugh on you for ever, wouldn't she? So you had to do something about that."
She said, quite coolly: "Really, Mr. Callaghan. You are rather clever, aren't you? What a fool I was to try it on you."
Callaghan nodded.
"You shot Gregory, and got out quickly. No one had seen you arrive and no one saw you go. Next day you read Hubertson's story in The Daily Sentinel, saying that he was there when the murder was committed. Then you got your big idea. To come to me as Carolyn Merivale and get me to bribe Hubertson to keep his mouth shut about seeing Gallantry and Merivale.
"Just to make quite sure," said Callaghan, "I checked on the bank notes you gave me. You didn't think I'd do that, did you? I found they were drawn from Mrs. Gallantry's bank account. Then I knew I was right."
She said: "Yes ... I suppose they'll hang me?"
Callaghan said: "I should think so. I'm not quite sure if I'll be sorry or not. I don't think I will be." The two plain-clothes men came forward. Callaghan said: "Good night, Mrs. Gallantry."
O'DAY came out of the theatre; walked slowly down St. Martin's Lane. It was a lovely summer night, rather like that in the last act in the play he had just seen, which had sought to prove that the course of true love never did run smoothly.
O'Day found himself pondering about love and life in general, and the detective business and himself in particular. People, he thought, either did not get into the sort of amatory troubles they used to, or if they did, they were not inclined to take so much notice of it.
His mind went back to the years just after the war, when his offices had been besieged by a crowd of clients, all of them seeking advice or a way out of some difficulty. These were the personal cases which had given him a great deal of satisfaction. Now, ninety per cent of his business consisted of insurance investigations and matters that were so impersonal, so far as he was concerned, that they almost creaked.
He lighted a cigarette; began to think about Donoghue—the man on night duty on the telephone switchboard at his office. He wondered how long it was since the slumbers of Donoghue had been disturbed by some importunate feminine voice demanding O'Day's services to track down some erring husband or lover; or the voice of some disturbed husband who had reason to believe that Madame was looking sideways at another male and wanted to know what he could do about it.
O'Day wondered casually how Donoghue passed the long hours of the night. He grinned to himself. On the opposite side of the road was a telephone box. He thought it might be amusing to ring his office and see whether Donoghue was asleep or not.
He found two pennies, dialled the office number, and heard the buzz. Almost immediately Donoghue's brisk voice came on the line: "Terence O'Day Investigations. Can we help you?"
O'Day said: "Yes. Congratulations, Donoghue. I rang you up to see if you were asleep."
"I am very glad you did ring up, Mr. O'Day. A lady's been on the telephone six or seven times since I came on, and I told her there was just a chance you might ring or come in after the theatre. She seems very worried about something."
O'Day asked: "Did you get her number?"
"Yes," Donoghue replied.
O'Day said: "Ring her up. Tell her to come down to the office. Tell her I'll be there in ten minutes. Put her in the waiting-room, and give her something to read to keep her mind off things."
"Very good, sir."
O'Day hung up. He came out of the telephone box; began to walk slowly towards the office. He allowed his mind to wonder speculatively on the woman who had telephoned. He wondered what she would be like.
According to all the rules in the detective novel she should be tall and slim, very beautiful, up to her neck in all sorts of mischief from which she would, in due course, be rescued by O'Day Investigations.
He grinned to himself. Probably she would be not at all like that. She might be some plain, middle-aged woman who sensed an air of infidelity when her husband came down to breakfast, or a maiden lady who believed that some unkind neighbours were talking maliciously about her, and who had been told that she should consult a private detective.
Fifteen minutes later he walked into the office; went to the telephone room.
Donoghue said: "Good evening, Mr. O'Day. She's in the waiting-room. And is she something!"
O'Day grinned. "I can't wait!"
He went into his own office; switched on the lights; crossed the room; opened the door of the waiting-room.
She was sitting in a leather arm-chair on the other side of the room, holding a copy of the Tatler in her hand. O'Day realised that Donoghue had not exaggerated. He ran a quick and practised eye over her. She was beautiful and, by the cut of her nostrils, sensitive. He put her age at about somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. Her clothes were superb.
He said: "Good evening. I am Terence O'Day. Would you like to come into my office?"
"Thank you." She got up; moved gracefully across the waiting-room into O'Day's office. As she passed him he caught a subtle whiff of the perfume she was wearing. O'Day, who had a nose for perfume, recognised it as Scandale.
He said: "You will find the chair facing my desk is very comfortable, Miss ——?"
"My name is Aurora Verdayne."
O'Day said: "Well, Miss Verdayne.... I think it is a very becoming name. Before we begin to talk, is it necessary for me to remind you that people should always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, to their doctors, lawyers, bank managers, and "—he smiled at her—"private detectives?"
"I intend to do that, Mr. O'Day. There is no reason why I shouldn't, except that I am not particularly pleased with myself at having to tell you this story."
O'Day hung his hat up on its peg. He went behind his desk and sat down. "You know we all make mistakes, Miss Verdayne. Supposing you tell me all about it?"
She hesitated, then: "This story may sound ridiculous to you, Mr. O'Day, but it isn't ridiculous to me. I don't know what you will think of me when I've told it to you."
O'Day took out his cigarette case; offered her a cigarette; lighted it. "Things always seem much worse than they are, Miss Verdayne. Now let's have the story."
"It starts in 1939," she said. "I should tell you, Mr. O'Day, that at this time I was receiving quite a large allowance from my trustees. My father and mother were dead, but it was generally known that when I was thirty—last year—I should come into a very large sum of money which would be under my own control. I suppose this must have been one of the reasons that men found me not unattractive."
O'Day grinned. "I could give you another half a dozen reasons beside that, Miss Verdayne. But go on."
"I was a very stupid, foolish, and romantic young-woman," she continued. "I met a man whilst I was travelling on the Continent. He was extremely attractive, and I thought I was very much in love with him. I wrote him the rather amorous letters that a young woman does write, but eventually I discovered that he was not a particularly nice person, and did my best to put an end to the friendship."
O'Day queried: "And that wasn't so easy?"
She shook her head. "It was not at all easy, Mr. O'Day." She went on: "This man became a positive menace. Wherever I went he followed. He made my life a misery. I didn't know what to do. Eventually I came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea if I went off on a long cruise—far enough away not to be followed.
"Imagine my horror when, four days after the ship sailed, I discovered that the man was on board. Heaven knows how he had managed to find out that I should be on the ship, but he had Remember, Mr. O'Day, that I was young and foolish, but I was scared stiff."
O'Day asked: "What did you do about it? Did you go to the Captain?"
She shook her head. "How I wish I had. But I did what I considered to be the next best thing. I had made the acquaintance of another man on the ship. His name was Augustin Selby He was older than I, but he seemed intelligent, delightful, and wise. That night, in an outburst of confidence, I told him about this man who had made himself so unpleasant to me. I asked for his advice. He gave it to me, and it astounded me."
"Very often advice does astound people. What was it?" asked O'Day.
She said: "He told me that he thought the best thing for me to do would be to 'become a married woman.' He said that would be a very effective method of putting a stop to the other man's operations."
O'Day raised his eyebrows. "The advice was certainly interesting. But go on, Miss Verdayne."
She said: "Naturally I was amazed. I asked him if he was seriously advising me immediately to marry somebody else. He said yes and no, and made a suggestion, which at the time, Mr. O'Day, seemed rather amusing.
"He said that next day we would be stopping for two days at an island in the Pacific called Gwalu. He suggested that we should land there; that he would ring up the British Consul and make an appointment to see him on some business matter. He said that when he went to keep his appointment with the British Consul I should accompany him, and when we returned to the ship I should inform the Captain, and other acquaintances, that I had been married to him by the British Consul on Gwalu.
"He suggested that I should ask the Captain to radio advertisement of the marriage to be inserted in The Times and The Telegraph, just to make the thing look absolutely O.K., as he put it. This fake marriage, he said, would spike the guns once and for all of the man who had been pestering me."
O'Day said: "Well, it wasn't a bad idea really, was it?"
She nodded: "That is what I thought. Anyway I agreed. When the ship stopped at the island we landed. He rang the British Consul and made an appointment for the next morning. I accompanied him to the Consular Office, where he interviewed some officials about starting some sort of business on the island, after which we left. When we went back to the ship I told the Captain and several other people. The Captain immediately arranged for a radio telegram to be sent to the Daily Telegraph and The Times with a notice of my marriage to this man to be inserted in both papers."
O'Day said: "So far, so good. I suppose when the ship returned to England you and your fake husband both went your respective ways?"
"Yes," she said. "I thought it had been rather amusing. He had always treated me with the greatest chivalry and respect. I thought he was a lot of fun, and that I need not fear the other man any more."
O'Day asked: "And then what happened?"
She said: "Nothing. Nothing until two days ago. I believe I told you that last year I came into the bulk of my fortune, and about five or six months after that I met the only man in my life that I have ever really cared for. I had the satisfaction of knowing that he was not in love with me because of my money. I believe that he has a very big business, and that he is very well off. I am engaged to him and we are to be married in two months' time. And now something has happened. Something happened two days ago, Mr. O'Day, which was so awful I can hardly believe it." She stubbed her cigarette out in the ash-tray.
She went on: "The telephone bell in my apartment rang, and Augustin Selby spoke to me. He told me that he wanted to see me particularly. That he had heard the news of my engagement and wanted to congratulate me, but in addition to this he wished to see me on the most urgent business.
"That afternoon he came to see me. He said he was very glad to hear that I was engaged to be married, but how did I expect to be able to go through with a ceremony of marriage when I was already married to him."
O'Day whistled quietly. "Rather an amazing situation. Exactly what did he mean?"
She said: "He meant just this. He explained it very carefully. In 1941 Gwalu had been invaded by the Japanese. The entire British Consulate staff were killed. The Consulate was burned down, and every record in the building was burned with it. In other words, it was impossible for me to prove that I was not married to him and, as he pointed out to me, I had told my friends on the ship and the Captain that I had married him. I had also inserted the advertisement of the marriage in two London papers."
O'Day got up. He began to walk about the office. He said: "You know, Miss Verdayne, this sounds to me very much like blackmail. What did he want?"
She said: "He wanted money, Mr. O'Day. He told me that if I was willing to give him ten thousand pounds, in bank notes, and take it to his apartment, he would be prepared to give me evidence which would ensure that I got a divorce from him."
O'Day laughed. "The idea of divorcing a man you haven't married is amusing."
She nodded miserably. She went on: "But he told me that it would be the safest thing for me. Everybody was entitled to believe that we were married, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, and the best thing to do would be for me to obtain a divorce."
"This fellow has a nerve. What did you do?" asked O'Day. "Did you give him the money?"
She said: "Yes. I went there this morning at half-past twelve and handed an attaché-case to him containing ten thousand pounds in five-pound notes. Before doing so I asked him to give me a letter stating that we had never been legally married. He agreed readily; asked me to wait. He went out of the room, and a few minutes later returned with the letter. I read it. It seemed all right. I put it in my handbag, and left him the attaché-case with the money in it."
O'Day said: "Yes. And then?"
"I went. When I had not gone more than twenty yards from the entrance to his flat my handbag was snatched. I never even saw the man who did it. He disappeared too quickly into the crowd."
O'Day said: "He had arranged that with a friend when he went out of the room to write the letter. He telephoned somebody outside to wait for you." He went on: "So now you are in exactly the same position as you were before. Except that he has ten thousand pounds of yours. He can still say that he is married to you, even though we know that he isn't, and unfortunately I think that most people, in view of the fact that you yourself talked about this marriage and had insertions put in two London newspapers, would believe it."
She said miserably: "I know. What am I to do, Mr. O'Day?"
He went back to his desk; lighted another cigarette. "Candidly, I don't know. I'll try and think something out." He grinned at her. He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a writing pad. He passed it to her. "Miss Verdayne, I want you to write down your name, address and telephone number, the address of Selby's flat where you saw him this morning, and also the name and address and telephone number of the man to whom you are engaged."
She looked up. She said quickly: "What do you want that for, Mr. O'Day?"
He said: "I think it is a good thing to have it. By the way, does your fiancé know about this?"
"I told him the story when we were engaged," she said. "But I haven't told him about Selby telephoning me, and about my going to him with the money. I just couldn't do it."
"I understand that," said O'Day. "Now write down the names and addresses."
When she had finished, O'Day took the pad; returned it to the drawer. "Now go home, Miss Verdayne. Don't worry too much. Possibly I shall be able to do something. I will ring you in a few days' time."
She got up. She held out her hand. "I am feeling a little better already, Mr. O'Day. You are a very reassuring person."
O'Day picked up the telephone; spoke to the operator on the switchboard. He said: "Get Miss Verdayne a cab."
AT one o'clock in the morning O'Day was still sitting slumped
back in his office chair, his feet on the desk, blowing smoke
rings in the air. Then quite suddenly he stubbed out the
cigarette; removed his feet from the desk and reached for the
telephone. He dialled a number.
After a few minutes he said: "Is that you, Lanny? Are you doing anything? You're not? Good. I think I have a little job for you—one that might be profitable. Get in a cab and come round here, will you? All right, I'll expect you in a quarter of an hour."
He replaced the receiver; waited a few seconds; dialled again. He drummed impatiently with his fingers on the desk until he heard a voice on the line; then: "Is that you, Inky? Listen to me.... I want you to check immediately on these three people." He read out the names and addresses that Miss Verdayne had written on the pad. "I know it's late," he went on, "but I've got to have this information some time to-morrow. O.K. Get cracking, Inky."
He hung up; lighted a cigarette and settled down to wait for Lanny.
At three o'clock on the Monday afternoon John Harding was shown into O'Day's office.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, expensively dressed—a manly and impressive figure.
O'Day said: "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Harding. I thought that you might like to talk about this thing with me. I expect that by now Miss Verdayne has told you about her visit here on Saturday night."
Harding nodded. He took the chair that O'Day indicated; accepted the proffered cigarette; lighted it.
"Yes. It is a most unpleasant business, Mr. O'Day. It has worried me very much."
O'Day said: "I can understand that. I am very glad that Miss Verdayne told you about it in the first place."
Harding said: "So am I. Otherwise this would have been rather more of a shock than it has been. I think she was very foolish to pay that scoundrel the money."
"I wonder," said O'Day. "Of course, the whole story is ridiculous. It sounds almost impossible, but you probably know as well as I do, Mr. Harding, that very often the impossible comes off. Being in love with Miss Verdayne, you of course believe everything she says. You know she is an honest and trustworthy person, but supposing that you were an ordinary member of the public—or better still, supposing you were a judge sitting in court and trying the issue between this man and your fiance—would you be inclined to believe it? He said that he went ashore at Gwalu with Miss Verdayne, that they went to the Consulate office, where they had an appointment; that they were married there; and everything supports that story. The making of the appointment with the Consulate; the keeping of the appointment. And then what happens afterwards? Miss Verdayne returns to the ship, tells her acquaintances that she is married, and asks the aid of the Captain in getting ship radio messages through to London to insert the news in The Times and Daily Telegraph. Every one of these things supports his story, and what is her answer? Her answer is that she went to the Consulate with a man she had only known for a few days in order to create the impression that she was marrying him, because she wished to escape the attentions of a man she had met some time before.
"Now you and I know that is true, Mr. Harding. But a lot of people would believe him and not her. The tough part is that he knows it. His story can't be disproved because unfortunately all the documents in the Consulate were destroyed. The Consul and his staff are all dead."
Harding asked: "What are you going to do, Mr. O'Day?"
O'Day got up; lighted a cigarette; began to walk about the office. He said: "It is very annoying that a man of this character should have managed to obtain ten thousand pounds from Miss Verdayne on the strength of his story which, we must admit, is a good one. Now what is your candid opinion, Mr. Harding? Do you think if we went for Selby; if we took the matter to the police, that Miss Verdayne would stand a chance of getting the ten thousand back again?"
Harding said: "She might, but it's doubtful, isn't it? She has absolutely no proof whatever of her story, whilst he has a certain amount of circumstantial evidence to support his. Very good circumstantial evidence, too. I must say that my inclination, Mr. O'Day, is to let sleeping dogs lie. Let him have the ten thousand."
"All right," said O'Day. "And supposing we do? Is he going to be satisfied? How would you like it if in a year's time, when you are married to Miss Verdayne, this Selby turned up again with his story; suggested to you that your marriage to Miss Verdayne was bigamous because he was her husband? What would you do about that? How could you stop him doing that?"
Harding said: "A horse-whipping might help."
"Would it? How? He'd probably feel much more spiteful and desire even more vengeance after a horsewhipping than before."
Harding said: "I suppose so. This scoundrel seems in a very good position. If only Aurora hadn't been so stupid..."
"Precisely," said O'Day. "But she was stupid."
Harding thought deeply for a few minutes. Then he said: "Look here, Mr. O'Day. You probably won't like this suggestion, but it is the only one I can make. Miss Verdayne, as you know, is a very rich woman, and I am not exactly a poor man myself. Supposing, for the sake of argument, you can arrange a meeting between all of us here at your office. You tell Selby that if he is prepared to make an affidavit telling the truth about this matter; if he is prepared to swear such an affidavit before a Commissioner of Oaths, we would allow him to keep the ten thousand he has got and give him another, say, five thousand pounds. Such a sum would not hurt Miss Verdayne very much, and we would guarantee him immunity from any prosecution in the future."
O'Day said: "Yes. That might succeed. But it's a lot of money to give a scoundrel."
Harding shrugged his shoulders. "It is much better for Aurora to have a peaceful mind about this matter. Her happiness is of more importance than the money."
"I suppose so." O'Day stubbed out his cigarette. "Have you discussed this with Miss Verdayne?"
Harding said: "I suggested to her that in default of your having some better idea I'd put the suggestion up to you."
"I think you are right," said O'Day. "I'll try and get hold of this fellow Selby. I will try and get him here at the office this evening at seven o'clock. Will you be here at that time, and bring Miss Verdayne with you? It may be a good idea to have her here, and then we can settle this matter and get the thing over and done with."
Harding got up. "I'm sure, Mr. O'Day, that you are taking a very sensible viewpoint. I will be here at seven o'clock, and bring Aurora with me. Good afternoon. And thank you."
He shook hands with O'Day; went out of the office.
A few minutes before seven o'clock Selby was shown into O'Day's private office. O'Day thought he was a slick-looking person—too well dressed, and with a veneer that would have deceived few people. Also he seemed very sure of himself.
He said: "Good evening, Mr. O'Day. I had your telephone message this afternoon." He smiled. "Maybe I have an idea what you want to see me about."
"Good," said O'Day. "It saves a lot of talk. Miss Verdayne consulted me on Saturday night. She told me the whole story. This morning I had an interview with her fiancé, Mr. Harding. It rather looks as if you hold all the trump cards."
Selby looked at his finger-tips. "It does rather, doesn't it?"
O'Day said: "It's a good story and you're going to stick to it?"
"Oh, yes. You see, it isn't a good story. It's the truth, Mr. O'Day." Selby looked almost archly at the detective.
There was a knock at the door. O'Day's assistant came in. He said: "Miss Verdayne and Mr. Harding."
O'Day got up as they came into the room. He said: "Sit down, please. You'll find chairs on the other side of the office. As you see, Mr. Selby has arrived."
He went back to his chair. He went on: "The position is briefly this, Selby. Mr. Harding came to see me this afternoon. Of course we all realise that you were the person who was responsible for having Miss Verdayne's handbag snatched after she left your apartment last Saturday. But we might as well admit that we can't prove it. We can't prove that you're wrong when you say that Miss Verdayne married you, and we can't prove that you had her handbag stolen. There's only one thing we can do."
Selby lighted a cigarette nonchalantly. He asked: "And what's that?"
O'Day said: "We can give you some more money in exchange for an affidavit sworn by you that you and Miss Verdayne were not married."
"That seems very reasonable of you," said Selby. "Incidentally, that's about all you can do. What's the offer?"
O'Day said: "If you're prepared to accompany me to my lawyer to-morrow morning and swear the affidavit which we shall have ready for you, we'll pay you the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds."
"That's very nice of you," said Selby. "But I'm afraid it's not enough. I'd want rather more than that—"
O'Day asked: "What would you want?"
"Five thousand pounds," said Selby.
Harding said angrily: "I'd like to get my hands round your throat, Selby."
"Probably you would," said Selby, "but it wouldn't do you any good, would it? And I'm not such a pushover as I seem. It might make things even a little worse for you, Mr. Harding."
O'Day said: "No quarrelling, please, gentlemen. So you agree, Selby. In return for a further five thousand pounds you are prepared to make the affidavit?"
"With great pleasure," said Selby. "I'm quite prepared to come here to-morrow, receive the five thousand pounds and go to any lawyer you like and swear that affidavit."
"Good...." O'Day took out his cigarette case; selected a cigarette; lighted it slowly. "There is one little point, Selby. Quite obviously you haven't been to that wall-safe behind the picture in your drawing-room since Saturday."
"What the devil do you mean by that?" Selby's expression changed. His eyes glittered venomously. "You don't mean?"
O'Day said: "I do. After I had my interview with Miss Verdayne on Saturday night I telephoned an old acquaintance of mine. I won't bother to tell you his name, but he's the finest cracksman in Europe, and he's never yet met a safe he couldn't open. We knew you couldn't pay the money into a bank on Saturday because they were closed when you saw Miss Verdayne. He visited your apartment very early on Sunday morning and at eleven o'clock he handed me the attaché-case which Miss Verdayne left with you with the ten thousand pounds in it intact. Quite obviously, when you came here this evening you hadn't inspected the safe. Why should you? I guessed in any event that you wouldn't pay that money into the bank; you wanted notes, didn't you, Selby?"
Selby's eyes glittered. "Very well, you admit that this money was stolen from me. The money is mine. It was given to me on Saturday by Miss Verdayne, as you call her. On Saturday night you, as her agent, had my flat burgled and the money stolen. I am going to the police." He got up.
O'Day said: "Just a minute, Selby. Isn't your story that Miss Verdayne is your wife?"
"Yes, it is. That's why she gave me the money. Because she is my wife; because she wanted to make a present to me. She knew I was hard up."
"That's all right," said O'Day. "But what are you going to the police about? You can't accuse Miss Verdayne of being responsible for this robbery. She's quite entitled to take the money or to employ someone else to do it for her."
"What the hell do you mean by that?" asked Selby.
O'Day said: "I mean this. If she's your wife you can't prosecute her. Don't you know English Common Law? A husband can't charge his wife with taking anything out of his possession. See what I mean?"
Selby said: "My God...."
"Precisely," said O'Day. "It means you've cut your own throat. The attaché-case with ten thousand pounds inside it is in the drawer of my desk. It's going to stay there. But you're still going round to my lawyer to-morrow morning, and you're still going to swear that affidavit. Would you like me to tell you why?"
Selby had recovered his composure. "Yes, I should. I'd be very interested."
O'Day turned to the woman. "Miss Verdayne, when you came to see me you told me that for some unknown reason you'd always attracted the wrong sort of men. You're still doing it." He pointed to Harding. "Your fiancé is an accomplice of Selby's. Didn't it strike you as being very funny that this man Selby has allowed all these years to elapse before trying to blackmail you? Why? Because the information that you were engaged to this man who calls himself Harding was given to him by Harding. He suggested the scheme. My operatives have been checking on Harding. He's not a rich man and his business is a fake."
O'Day got up. He grinned at Harding. "When you came to this office this afternoon and suggested that we paid another five thousand to this blackmailer Selby to swear that affidavit, I knew my information about you was right. The pair of you would have split the fifteen thousand pounds." He put up his hand. "There's no need for you to do any talking, Harding—not unless you want me to ring for the police now." He turned to Selby. "The position is this. I've an open and shut case of blackmail by you and Harding against Miss Verdayne. The case proves itself. I'm going to suggest that if the affidavit is not sworn by eleven o'clock to-morrow morning I'm going to apply for a warrant for the arrest of the pair of you. Well, what are you going to do, Selby? Are you attending here at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning for the purpose of swearing the affidavit?"
There was a long pause, then Selby said: "Damn you, yes.... I suppose I've got to."
"Good," said O'Day. "And you, Harding, can turn up at the same time. I'd like a little note from you confirming your part in this little plot. If I get it, we'll take no action against you. If I don't get it I'll have you arrested on a separate count. There are about four things we could charge you with. Well, do we see you too at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning?"
Harding shrugged his shoulders. He said urbanely: "I suppose it might be best."
"Good," said O'Day. "Now get out, the pair of you. And don't try any funny business, because there'll be somebody on your tail until I see you to-morrow morning. Good evening, gentlemen."
They went out of the office. At the door Selby paused. He said: "I know what I'd like to do to you, O'Day."
O'Day smiled. "I think I can guess. It'd be very interesting, wouldn't it, Selby? Good night."
Selby followed Harding out of the room. The door slammed behind them.
O'Day said: "It looks as if it's all right, Miss Verdayne."
She got up; came towards him. She said: "I don't know what to do or say to thank you, Mr. O'Day."
"Don't try to. Incidentally, I hope you're going to be a little more careful about your men friends in future. Remember what you yourself said—that you were rather inclined to attract the wrong sort of men."
She looked at him. "I promise you I'm going to be very, very careful, Mr. O'Day. In fact I know I'm quite safe now."
She looked at him and dropped her eyes quickly. "You see, I have a definite feeling that I'm being attracted by the right sort of man!"
DURANTE got off the high stool. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out his loose change—a half a crown, a threepenny piece and five pennies. He paid for the glass of beer; went out of the bar.
He stood on the corner of the street, his hands in his pockets, looking towards Long Acre. He was about five feet eleven, and thin. His clothes were old but well cut, well brushed; his shoes polished, and though it seemed that the upper of the left shoe was about to part company with the sole, the way Durante wore the shoes made them look almost respectable.
He stood there considering life with a capital of somewhere in the region of two shillings. He began to walk towards Long Acre. It was seven o'clock. He thought it was a nice evening—if you had any money to go anywhere; if you had any place to go to.
He turned down a side street; stopped before a door next to a fruit warehouse; opened it; began to walk up the long, curving flight of wooden stairs. A shaft of evening sunlight shining through a dirty window picked up the thick dust in its beam. The place smelled of dust and decaying fruit skins. He thought it wasn't a good combination.
Durante had a thin, lined face—not a particularly happy sort of face. He looked like a man with a load of mischief on his shoulders. But sometimes, when he forgot about the mischief for a few minutes, his eyes lighted up. If you looked at him closely you thought that at one time he must have been quite attractive.
On the second floor, he began to walk along the long, board-floored corridor, passing half a dozen dusty-looking, half-frosted doors in the process. The names on the doors were those of commission agents, agents for this or that—the names of people who earned some sort of living in some sort of way—people who were interested in the amplifications of the word "fiddling."
At the end of the corridor, facing him, was his own doorway. It had on it "T.S. Durante," and in smaller print beneath it "The Durante Private Detective Agency." He opened the door; went in.
The office consisted of two rooms—the outer office and his private room. There was a note propped up against the dilapidated typewriter on his secretary's desk. He grinned ruefully; picked up the envelope; opened it; read the note. It said:
Dear Mr. Durante,
I haven't had any money for three weeks, and I have the offer of a job in the country. I'm taking it. I'd be a fool if I didn't. I have an idea in my head that the time is coming when the Durante Detective Agency can write itself off as a total loss.
One day, if you think of it, and if you've got it, you might get around to sending me my three weeks' money. If you haven't got it... so what!
I've balanced off the petty cash book and left the cash balance—3s. 9d.—in the cash box in my second drawer. If I weren't a nice girl I'd have had that anyway. But I'm a nice girl. You ought to know.
Good luck to you!
Your late secretary,
Angeline Smith
Durante tore up the note; threw the pieces of paper in the wastepaper-basket. He opened the second drawer of the desk; found the three and ninepence. He put it in his pocket. He went into the inner room; sat in the swivel-chair behind his desk with his feet on the desk, and thought.
He sat there quite a time, thinking about this and that. It looked to him as if the private detective racket was finished. It hadn't been too bad at first, immediately after the war. There had been the usual spate of divorce cases, all of which required a private detective; some of which required the rather dubious services of a dubious private detective. But there hadn't been any business for a month. Durante thought the reason wasn't hard to seek. Some of his cases had been very, very dubious and the method in which he had handled them even more so. He supposed the word had got round.
He felt in his jacket pocket for a loose cigarette; found one; lighted it. He leaned back in the chair; thought about all sorts of things. All the incidents which had led up to the present situation—some of them good, some merely stupid, some not so good. He was so immersed in thought that he did not hear the outer office door open. It was only when he looked up and saw the figure standing in the doorway that he took his feet off the desk.
The man was well dressed; grey-haired.
Durante said: "Good evening. What can I do for you?"
The man came into the room. He looked round it distastefully. He sniffed a little.
He asked: "Are you Mr. Durante?"
Durante grinned. "Myself... very much at your service...."
The other said: "My name's Haliwell." He put a card on the desk. "I'm Managing Clerk to Roberts, Roberts, Stone & Roberts. Perhaps you've heard of them?" He looked patronisingly at the private detective.
Durante nodded. "One of the most distinguished firms of lawyers in London. But you're not going to tell me they've got something for me?" He cocked one eyebrow.
Haliwell said: "Usually we employ better-known firms of investigators, Mr. Durante. But my instructions were to come to you, so I've come."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Durante. "What can I have the honour of doing for Messrs. Roberts, Roberts, Stone & Roberts? Perhaps you'd like to sit down. There's a chair over there, but I'd dust it first if I were you."
Haliwell said: "There's no need." He put some papers on the desk in front of Durante. "The matter concerns a divorce case, Mr. Durante. We are acting for the wife. Apparently her husband left her some months ago. She has reason to believe that he is misconducting himself with some other woman. In point of fact, we happen to know that he will be staying at the Greencroft Hotel—a small hotel in Vowles Street, North Kensington—this week-end, and that he will not be alone."
"I see..." said Durante. "He's staying there with some woman, and you want the usual evidence?"
Haliwell nodded. "I don't think you'll have any difficulty in getting your evidence. But to make certain of the job we would like you to keep an eye on the man in the case—the name's John Verlan—for perhaps a week or ten days."
Durante picked up the papers; looked through them. "It seems simple enough," he said.
Haliwell nodded. "I think you'll find it so. When you have the evidence of misconduct and your report ready perhaps you'll bring it to me at the office."
Durante said: "All right. I suppose you're paying the usual charges."
Haliwell nodded. "I'm instructed to give you fifty pounds on account of your charges and expenses. That should cover you until you have the report ready, which I take it will be in about twelve days' time." He laid ten five-pound notes on the desk; produced a receipt form; a gold-mounted fountain-pen.
Durante picked up the pen; signed the receipt.
Haliwell said: "Good evening, Mr. Durante."
He went out of the office. He seemed to have found the process of talking to Durante rather distasteful.
When the door had closed behind him, Durante looked through the papers that Haliwell had left; picked up the ten five-pound notes. He liked the feel of them. He put them in his pocket; put his feet back on the desk.
He went to sleep.
ONE night, two weeks after the visit of Haliwell, Durante came
into the office. He switched on the lights in the inner room; sat
down at the desk; began to write his report on the Verlan case.
He drafted the report in pencil on some loose sheets of foolscap
that he found in the desk drawer.
It was just another divorce case. They were almost routine. He thought that as it stood the case looked like an undefended suit. He shrugged his shoulders. But you never knew with divorce cases. Sometimes they went off at a tangent.
Somebody knocked on the door of the outer office. Durante put down the pencil; called: "Come in." He wondered who the hell would want to see him at a quarter-past eleven at night. He heard the outer door open and footsteps walking across the dark outer office. A man came into the room. He stood just inside the door, grinning at Durante.
He said: "Good evening, Durante. Remember me? The name's Verlan. It looks as if the hunter's being hunted, doesn't it?"
Durante got up. He took off his soft hat; threw it on the desk. He said: "What is this? What goes on?"
Verlan said: "I thought you'd be curious. Personally, I don't think you're a bad detective, but you're not quite good enough for me. I've a nose for private dicks. I suppose you thought that I didn't know you'd been on my tail for the last ten days? Besides which," he went on, "that housemaid at the Greencroft Hotel—what's her name—Lizzie—gave me the tip-off that you'd been gumshoeing around the place finding out who I stayed there with, and when and how, and all the rest of it. I hope you've got your evidence all nicely docketed.
"I'm satisfied with it," said Durante.
Verlan came over and sat on the edge of the desk. He was tall, well dressed; very good-looking in a brassy sort of way. His face was inclined to jowls, but his eyes were humorous and the black, pencil-line moustache gave him an almost foreign appearance. Durante thought that Verlan was not an unattractive man and that he was damned sure of himself. He wondered what was in the wind.
He said: "Well, now you're here, why not spill it?"
Verlan grinned. "That's what I came for. I know all about you. You're a private detective who does divorce work when he can get it. I'd like to know how you got this job, because you have a reputation that stinks from one end of London to another. Your secretary walked out on you a couple of weeks ago. You haven't paid your rent for months." He looked round the office. "I suppose the landlord hasn't kicked you out because nobody else would take this dump. In other words, you're not very well fixed, are you?"
Durante yawned. He produced a cigarette; lighted it. "All right. So I'm not very well fixed ... so what!"
Verlan got up. He began to walk about the office. He took a red and white striped gold cigarette case from his pocket; lighted a fat, Turkish cigarette. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He stopped walking in front of Durante's desk.
He said: "Now you listen to me. You've done some pretty odd things in your career, but the joke is I'm not asking you to do anything that's even odd. I'm not asking you to run yourself into any trouble at all. I'm not going to ask you to put yourself into a position in which anybody can do anything to you. So you don't have to worry about that, see?"
"I see. I never worry about anything. Why don't you get it off your chest?"
Verlan said: "I will. You can do a little something for me—something that you won't mind doing because it's the right and proper thing for you to do, and I'm going to give you a lot of money. Did you hear what I said—a lot of money? You can get out of this dump. You can re-start yourself in a decent business. You can do all sorts of things, and nobody can do anything to you. For once you'll be on the right side of the law."
Durante asked: "How much money?" He blew some cigarette smoke down his nostrils.
Verlan said: "I said a lot of money. I don't deal in fivers. How would you like to get yourself a couple of thousand quid?"
Durante grinned. "I'd like it a lot, but if the job's worth two thousand quid, it's worth more." He was still grinning.
Verlan laughed cynically. "What a technique! Well, what's your idea?"
"I might be interested at four thousand pounds," said Durante, "and I'm not even going to split the difference. I'm not even going to say three thousand. If it's worth two thousand to you it must be damned important, so it can be worth four thousand."
Verlan said: "All right. You've got your nerve. I'll pay you four thousand pounds. Now listen. My wife wants to divorce me. You know that. You're the guy they've sent out to get the evidence. Well, you've got the evidence. You must have a lot of evidence by now. That suits me. But it's not the whole story. I don't have to tell you what a collusive divorce case is, do I?"
Durante grinned again. "You don't. I've met a lot of 'em."
Verlan nodded. "All right... this is a collusive divorce case. The petition's brought by my wife, and if the court find out it's collusive you know what they'll do?"
"They'll non-suit your wife," said Durante. "They'll dismiss her petition."
"That's right. Now you listen to this, Durante. Mrs. Verlan married me three years ago. I don't know why, but she wanted to. I'm a man that women go for and she went for me. Did you know that she was a very rich woman?"
Durante shook his head.
"Well, she is," said Verlan. "She'd been married before once or twice. She's always marrying somebody. She's a very, very nice woman, but she isn't what I'd call a good picker."
He smiled cynically. "Anyway, two months ago she caught me out doing a little funny business. She told me all about it. She said she was sick of me and my women; that she'd tried to make a go of our marriage but it hadn't come off. There were one or two small points too. She'd missed a little jewellery. She had an idea that I knew all about it." Verlan smiled again. "You just don't know how right she was. Are you still with me?"
"I'm still with you," said Durante. "It sounds to me like the old, old story. Somebody ought to make a record of it and play it over in the evening. So she told you she wanted a divorce?"
Verlan nodded. "Just like that. She told me she wanted a divorce and I asked her what sort of a mug she took me for, because, you see, when she married me, and she thought she was very much in love with me, and she thought I was a very nice straight sort of man, she made a settlement on me for five thousand pounds a year. Pretty good, hey? And tax free too. What do you know about that one?"
Durante said: "Very nice—for you. And what terminates the settlement?"
Verlan grinned. "Only death or divorce. Got it?"
"I've got it. So what?"
Verlan shrugged his shoulders. He began to stroll about the office, smoking his cigarette. He was enjoying himself. He said: "I asked her what sort of mug she thought I was. I knew she had nothing on me then. She had no evidence of misconduct at all. I asked her if she thought I was going to take myself off and give her the necessary evidence for a divorce and in doing so lose my five thousand a year."
Durante asked: "What did she say to that one?"
"She wasn't even surprised," said Verlan. "She asked me what I wanted, so I told her. I told her that I was fed up with her; that she was too good a type for me; that I was tired of her; that I'd love to go but I didn't intend to lose all that money. So I made her a fair offer. I said that I'd go through with this divorce and like it, but that the day after the decree nisi was pronounced—which would mean that I'd lost my five thousand a year—she was to pay me fifty thousand pounds. I pointed out to her how she was saving money because fifty thousand pounds, if you work it out, is much less capital than that required to produce five thousand a year."
Durante said: "So she said yes?"
Verlan shook his head. "She didn't—not for fifty thousand. But we agreed on forty thousand."
Durante said: "So she's going to pay you forty thousand pounds the day after the decree nisi is made. Why not the decree absolute?"
Verlan grinned. "That's where I've been very clever. When she told me that she'd willingly pay me forty thousand pounds when the divorce was over, I said I'd got to be certain I was going to get the money, and there was only one way I could be certain. She was to write me a letter saying that, when the divorce was over she'd pay me forty thousand pounds." He paused for a moment; then he said: "Listen to this one. It'll make you laugh. I drafted out the letter, but I didn't say on the day after the decree was made absolute. I said on the day after the decree nisi was pronounced, and the mug copied out the letter and signed it. What do you know about that?"
Durante said: "Go on."
"The idea is this," said Verlan. He came over to the desk; put his hands on it; leaned over towards Durante. "It's a lovely idea. You've got your evidence of misconduct and you take it to your lawyers. They put the petition on the file and the case is heard. The decree nisi is made. The day after she pays me forty thousand. Then I come round to you and pay you the four thousand I've promised you, and when I give you your four thousand I give you the letter she wrote to me agreeing to pay the forty thousand. You take this letter round to the King's Proctor, see? He reads that letter and he knows it's a collusive divorce, so he intervenes. Her petition is dismissed. I've got thirty-six thousand pounds; you've got four thousand—"
Durante interrupted. "And she's got to go on paying you the five thousand a year for the rest of her life?"
Verlan grinned. "Something like that. Or until she can bring a new divorce, if they'd let her. And if they did they'd keep her waiting three or four years, wouldn't they?"
Durante nodded. "It's a hell of a scheme. You can't go wrong. There's only one snag about it."
Verlan asked: "What's the snag?"
Durante said: "I want ten thousand pounds."
There was a long pause.
Verlan said: "You're a lousy chiseller. You know what I'd like to do to you—"
Durante interrupted. "I know. But you won't. Are you going to pay ten thousand?"
Verlan said angrily: "I'm going to do it because I've got to. All right. I get thirty thousand and you get ten thousand. You're doing pretty well for yourself, aren't you?"
"So are you," said Durante. "You get thirty thousand and the five thousand a year that goes on because you won't be divorced. And what you said about it is right. Nobody could do anything to me. I shall be doing my duty."
Verlan said: "All right, that's how we play it. Put your report in; let the lawyers get cracking. Of course I won't defend the suit. Then the day after the decree nisi is made I'll pay you ten thousand pounds. Aren't you a lucky fellow?"
"That's all right," said Durante. "But there's another snag."
Verlan said grimly: "What are you trying to do now?"
"All I'm trying to do," said Durante, "is to protect my interests. You say the day after the decree nisi is made you come round to see me and give me my ten thousand pounds. That's what you say. But how do I know you will? You might get another idea in the meantime, mightn't you?"
Verlan said: "You must be nuts. Our interests are mutual. Haven't you got that?"
"Maybe. But if you're on the up and up with me there's one way you can make this job right."
Verlan asked: "What way?"
"You give me that letter now—the letter she wrote—the letter that turns this case into a collusive divorce case. You give the letter to me; then I know you'll turn up. Work it out for yourself. As you say, our interests are mutual. All I'm going to do is to keep the letter in my own hands, just to make certain that you turn up the day after the decree nisi with my ten thousand pounds. That's fair enough, isn't it?"
Verlan shrugged his shoulders. "What do I care? I'll give you the letter. You can't use it now without finishing up in the clink. The only straight way you can use it is my way."
Durante said: "Do you think I don't know that?"
Verlan produced a pocket case—a sealskin case bound with gold. He opened it. He took out a letter; threw it across the desk. Durante took it up; read it.
He said: "That's O.K. by me."
"All right," said Verlan, "you can keep it as security. Don't worry. This is going to be easy, and you get ten thousand pounds." He grinned. "You're a lucky fellow, aren't you? And don't lose that letter."
Durante said: "Don't make me laugh. This letter's worth a lot of money to me." He put it in his breast pocket. "Now I know why you came so late at night. You realise we mustn't be seen together. I'm putting in my report to the lawyers to-morrow. Come and see me the day after the decree nisi. I'll be very glad to see you."
"O.K.," said Verlan. He waved his hand airily. "Good night, Durante. I'll be seeing you."
He went out.
IT was seven o'clock. The summer sun shone through the grimy
window of Durante's office and made grotesque shadows on the
floor. Durante sat in his usual position, slumped back in the
office chair with his feet on the desk. The telephone
jangled.
Durante took his feet off the desk; reached for the instrument. He heard the precise voice of Haliwell.
"Good evening, Mr. Durante," said the Managing Clerk. "I am just telephoning to ask you to put in your account in the Verlan case. We got the decree nisi yesterday. We didn't bother to subpoena you because it was an open and shut case and the maidservant's evidence was quite good enough."
Durante asked: "What do you think I ought to charge?"
There was a pause. Haliwell said: "I think it will stand fifty guineas on top of what we've paid you for expenses."
"All right," said Durante. "I'll put the account in to-morrow."
He hung up; lighted a cigarette; put his feet back on the desk. After a few minutes he heard the footsteps coming along the corridor. Then the outer door opened. Durante turned his head as Verlan came into the room.
Verlan was smiling. He was wearing a new suit a little too wide in the shoulder, too narrow at the waist. He exuded bonhomie and a too heavily perfumed hair-oil. He carried a small leather attaché-case.
He said: "Well ... so it came off. She's paid the money." He walked across the room; shook the dust off the seat of a chair; straddled across it, looking at Durante, grinning.
Durante said: "So you've got ten thousand pounds for me?"
Verlan nodded. "That's right." He got up; put the attaché-case on Durante's desk. "Count it... you'll find it's all there."
Durante said: "I'll take your word for it."
Verlan shrugged his shoulders. "As you like.... A trusting guy, hey?"
"No, I'm not trusting," Durante grinned. "I'm just not interested."
Verlan raised his eyebrows. "You're a funny guy. What do you mean, you're not interested? Do you mean to tell me you're not interested in ten thousand pounds?"
Durante nodded. "I'm not interested in this ten thousand pounds. You have it. You're entitled to it. You made an arrangement with Mrs. Verlan that on the day after she got her decree nisi you'd get forty thousand pounds. Well, you've got it. I don't want it."
Verlan asked: "What the hell do you mean by that?"
Durante took his feet off the desk; stubbed his cigarette out in the dusty ash-tray. He said: "This is one of those things.... When this business started I wondered why Roberts, Roberts, Stone & Roberts came to me. They are a first-class firm of solicitors. They can use the very best, most responsible investigators. So why did they have to send their Managing Clerk round to put me in on this job—the rather lousy proprietor of a lousy detective business whose reputation stinks from one end of London to another?"
Verlan sat down on the chair again. He asked: "What's all this in aid of?"
"I'll tell you," said Durante. "They sent Haliwell round to ask me to make the investigation in this case because their client, Mrs. Verlan, had asked them to employ me. I understood why after you appeared with that rather attractive proposition of yours."
Verlan said suspiciously: "So you understood why. Well... why?"
Durante grinned. "I used to be Mrs. Verlan's husband," he said. "I was her first husband. She'd been married twice before she met you. You remember you told me she was a bit of a mug about men. Maybe she is, but she had enough sense, when you made her sign that letter, to ask her lawyers to put me in charge of the investigations to get the evidence in the divorce case. She had an idea at the back of her head that if you tried to pull too much on her I still might be decent enough to try and help her." He grinned again. "She was right. Just for once she was right about a man. She knew she'd been good to me; that I owed her a hell of a lot. She thought that just for once I might do the right thing. I'm doing it. This ten thousand is an account overdue to her and I'm paying it."
Verlan's jaw dropped. He said nothing.
"So I burned the letter she wrote to you," said Durante. "The letter that made this divorce case a collusive one. But nothing can upset it now. In six weeks' time her decree will be made absolute and she'll be free of you. You've got your forty thousand and you won't be able to blackmail her any more. How do you like that, pal?"
Verlan got up. His face was taut and white with rage. He said: "You—"
Durante said: "Don't get excited. It's not going to do you any good. I know you're bigger than I am, but most of it is fat. I'm pretty tough. You might find that any strong-arm stuff wouldn't be too good for you. Take your ten thousand and get out."
Verlan picked up the attaché-case. He said: "For Pete's sake! So of all people I had to come to you?"
"Yes," said Durante. "Damned funny, isn't it? Good night, Verlan."
Verlan went out of the office. Durante listened to the sound of his footsteps dying away on the wooden floor of the corridor. He put his feet back on the desk. He lighted a cigarette. He sat there smoking, thinking, until the shadows began to fall.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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