Читать книгу Uneasy Terms - Peter Cheyney - Страница 4

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It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Callaghan rang through from his apartment above the office, on the intercommunication telephone. Effie Thompson picked up the receiver.

She said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Callaghan. I hope you slept well.”

“Very well,” said Callaghan. “Is anything happening, Effie?”

“No,” she answered. “There’s nothing very much in your mail.”

“No telephone calls that matter?” asked Callaghan.

She said, “No.”

Callaghan said, “I shall be down in half an hour. I’ll sign any letters then. I may be going to the country. You might telephone to the garage and tell them to send the car round at four o’clock.”

“Very well,” said Effie. There was a pause; then she said, “Do you, by any chance, want me to wire or telephone anybody?”

Callaghan said, “Do I? Such as who?”

“Such as Mrs. Denys,” said Effie casually.

Callaghan said, “You must be a thought reader. Thanks for reminding me. Yes, send a wire. The number is Waverley 78945. Tell Mrs. Denys that I expect to be with her at dinner to-night.”

“Very well,” said Effie. She replaced the receiver. She said under her breath, “Damn Mrs. Denys.”

She dialled “Telegrams”; waited; got through; began to send the telegram.

She had just finished; was about to replace the receiver, when the door opened. Viola Alardyse stood in the doorway. Effie Thompson caught her breath at the picture.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?” she asked.

The caller said, “Thank you. I am Miss Alardyse. I wish to see Mr. Callaghan. The matter is important, and I should like to see him immediately.”

Effie smiled a little. She said pleasantly, “I quite understand. But Mr. Callaghan is a rather difficult person to see immediately. He’s like that. Also he’s not in at the moment. Would you like to leave a message? And he seldom sees clients without an appointment.”

“I’m not a client,” said Miss Alardyse, “and it would be to Mr. Callaghan’s advantage to see me. Perhaps you would tell me when he will be in. I should hate to make things difficult for him without giving him the chance of talking to me first of all.”

Effie thought, So it’s like that? I wonder what he’s started now. She’s beautiful and could be tough. Still ... they often begin like that. She remembered other ladies....

She said, “Will you sit down please? I’ll try and get in touch with Mr. Callaghan.”

Miss Alardyse said, “Thank you.” She sat down. She crossed her legs. Effie Thompson noted, with a definite annoyance, that the Alardyse legs and ankles and shoes and stockings were quite lovely.

She said, “Excuse me, please.” She went into Callaghan’s office; closed the door behind her. She crossed to his desk; picked up the telephone; called the hall porter. She said, “Wilkie, give me a line through to Mr. Callaghan’s apartment. Make it snappy.”

“O.K.,” said Wilkie.

Almost immediately Callaghan came on the line.

Effie said, “Things are happening down here. A lady has just arrived to see you. She’s inclined to be definite about life—if you get me. She says that she’d hate to make things difficult for you without giving you the chance of talking to her. She’s like that.”

“No,” said Callaghan. “Just fancy. What else?”

She went on, “She’s quite beautiful. Really lovely ... if you know what I mean. She looks aristocratic and bad tempered. She doesn’t sound as if she liked you awfully. She’s wearing a cherry corduroy coat and skirt that were made by a real tailor, a beaver coat and toque. Her stockings are silk—real silk—and her shoes are hand made. She’s wearing one brooch—diamonds and rubies—worth a lot of money. And driving gloves. I think she’s come by car.”

Callaghan said, “Well ... well ... Do we know her name?”

“She’s a Miss Alardyse,” she answered.

There was a pause. Then Callaghan said, “She sounds too good to be true. Tell her to write for an appointment.”

There was another pause. Then Effie said, “I wish you’d see her, Mr. Callaghan. She’s got something on her mind. And she looks well bred enough to be dangerous.”

Callaghan said, “Why should I worry about that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Effie replied primly. “I thought perhaps you knew her. I said that I thought you ought to see her because I imagined she was rather your type.”

“What does that mean?” asked Callaghan.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever you want it to mean,” she said. “But I’d see her. Even if you only took a look I think you’d say it was worth it.”

Callaghan said, “All right. I’ll come down. In five minutes. Put her in my room.”

“Very well,” said Effie. She hung up; went back to the outer office.

She said, “Miss Alardyse, I’ve spoken to Mr. Callaghan on the telephone. He says he’ll see you in five minutes. Will you come this way, please?”

She led the way back into Callaghan’s office; pushed forward the big leather arm-chair; opened his silver cigarette box; moved over the desk lighter.

She said brightly, “Please smoke if you want to.”

She went out; closed the door. Seated once more at her desk, she said to herself, “Exit Mrs. Denys!”

She felt almost happy.

Viola Alardyse sat down and began to think about private detectives. Private detectives, she thought, were not very nice people. They were, she imagined, odd types who snooped about the place in divorce cases; gave evidence and were often the butt of rude remarks by counsel. Also, she considered, they were people who would scare easily. She visualized Callaghan as a rather fat man, with a beefy face, a partially bald head, and a half-smoked cigar.

He came into the office. He looked at her casually, went to his desk, sat down. He was wearing a brown tweed coat and slacks, a brown suede waistcoat, a fawn silk shirt and collar, a madder brown tie. His thin face was freshly shaven. He looked alert and much too cheerful.

He took a cigarette from the silver box on the desk, lit it; leaned back in his chair; regarded her with equanimity.

She said, “Mr. Callaghan ... I haven’t a great deal of time, and so I’d better say what I have to say quickly.”

He nodded. “That’s always a good idea,” he said. “Most women who come here take an awfully long time to get it off their chests. I’m so glad you’re not like that.” He smiled at her benignly.

She went on, “Last night Colonel Stenhurst, who is one of my trustees, telephoned you. I felt that I ought to see you before you decided to take any steps as a result of his call.”

Callaghan nodded. He said, “Yes?”

“I don’t know exactly what he told you,” continued Miss Alardyse, “or what he asked you to do. But I think you ought to know that I have a decided dislike to your undertaking any sort of business on his behalf to which I might object.”

Callaghan drew a long breath of tobacco smoke into his lungs. He seemed to take great pleasure in the act. Then, very slowly, he proceeded to expel the smoke through pursed lips. He blew two very good smoke rings. He watched them sail across the office.

He said, “Aren’t you getting a little mixed?” He smiled at her again, and for some reason she found the process irritating. He continued, “You say first of all that you don’t know what Colonel Stenhurst told me; that you don’t know what he asked me to do, but that in any event I’m not to do it. Vaguely,” said Callaghan, “but only very vaguely, you remind me of the late Adolf Hitler. He used to talk like that and look where it got him.”

She moved a little. She said, “Mr. Callaghan, are you trying to be rude?”

He shook his head. He said, “I never try to be rude. In any event, why should I be rude to you, Miss Alardyse? I’m simply trying to project a little sense into this conversation. May I suggest,” he went on, “that if you don’t want me to do whatever it is Colonel Stenhurst wants me to do, it would be a good idea if you told me what it is he wants me to do?”

She said, “Am I to understand, Mr. Callaghan, that you have not talked to Colonel Stenhurst on the telephone? Are you telling me that he hasn’t given you any instructions?”

Callaghan said warily, “Miss Alardyse, I’m a private detective. Let us imagine, for the sake of argument, that I have had a long talk with Colonel Stenhurst, and that he has asked me to do certain things. I couldn’t possibly discuss those things with you except with his permission.”

There was a silence. Callaghan inhaled some more cigarette smoke.

He went on, “May I make a suggestion? You know, Miss Alardyse, I’ve always found that truth is a very potent weapon. It is quite obvious that some situation has arisen between Colonel Stenhurst and yourself that you find unpleasant. Why don’t you tell me what it is? It would make things much easier in the long run.”

She raised her eyebrows. She asked, “Would it? Perhaps I’m not inclined to agree with that, Mr. Callaghan. As I told you before, I came here to stop you putting yourself into a very difficult position.”

Callaghan said, “Thank you very much. I promise I won’t put myself into a difficult position if I can help it. Of course, if you’re afraid of Colonel Stenhurst—”

She asked icily, “What do you mean?”

Callaghan continued glibly, “Well, quite obviously, you are rather scared about something, aren’t you? Let’s be logical about this.” He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the situation. He went on, “Colonel Stenhurst—and at the moment I don’t quite know what the connection between this gentleman and yourself is—obviously intended to telephone me and ask me to do something. Well, if he has, I don’t know anything about it. It also seems logical,” Callaghan continued, “that you knew that he intended to telephone me and you thought you’d get here first to see that I didn’t do whatever it was he wanted me to do.” Callaghan smiled beatifically. He said, “Do you know, Miss Alardyse, I’m beginning to be awfully intrigued with Colonel Stenhurst.”

Two little red spots appeared on her cheeks. She was very angry. She said nothing.

Callaghan went on cheerfully, “I think it would be a very good idea if I got through to Colonel Stenhurst, don’t you—and heard what he’s got to say about things? Then perhaps I should be able to discuss your point of view.”

She got up. She said, “Mr. Callaghan, this interview is beginning to bore me. I’ll tell you exactly what was in my mind when I came here. Last night at dinner, Colonel Stenhurst—who is my stepfather and a trustee under my mother’s Will—informed me that in certain circumstances he might employ a private detective for the purpose of having me watched. I do not propose to allow such a process. I don’t propose to have a private detective anywhere in the vicinity of Dark Spinney, of which I am the owner. I do not propose to be spied on. Incidentally,” she went on, “I believe there are laws in this country dealing with that sort of thing. If you intend to carry out any instructions of Colonel Stenhurst’s on those lines I shall be forced to put the matter in the hands of the police.”

Callaghan nodded. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He said, “That, I am sure, would create a very odd, and possibly humorous, situation. By the sound of the house ‘Dark Spinney’ it might be somewhere in the country. If you went to the local police, Miss Alardyse, you might create all sorts of situations. People might even begin to talk. Consider,” said Callaghan whimsically, “Callaghan Investigations following Miss Alardyse about the hills and dales, and in turn being followed by the village policeman—probably on a bicycle. Not so good—hey? We shall have to find something better than that, shan’t we?”

She said, “Mr. Callaghan, I’ve said all I’m going to say. I hope you’ll be warned.”

Callaghan looked as near alarmed as was possible. Then he smiled beatifically at her. He said, “Miss Alardyse, I am warned. I’m beginning to be scared stiff. And I think it was very good of you to come and see me.”

She moved towards the door. He opened it for her.

He said, “Good afternoon, Miss Alardyse.”

She looked at him. Callaghan thought that he had never seen two such beautiful eyes so hostile.

She said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Callaghan.”

She crossed the outer office, opened the door, went out.

Effie Thompson looked at Callaghan out of the corner of her eye. She said nothing. Then she looked demurely at the typewriter in front of her.

Callaghan said, “Yes, Effie?”

She said, “I was just thinking, Mr. Callaghan ... I was wondering.”

“Wondering what?” Callaghan asked.

She smiled a little. “Whether you still intended to go down to Waverley.”

Callaghan said, “No, I shan’t go down to Waverley. You’d better send another wire to Mrs. Denys. Tell her that important business has detained me in town; that I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I can.”

She said primly, “Very well, Mr. Callaghan.”

Callaghan went back to his desk. He called through the open door, “Send Nikolls in to me, Effie.”

Nikolls came into the office. He said, “Is she a looker, that one, or is she? I am walkin’ around the passage outside when she goes along to the lift. Say, have you watched that babe walk? She don’t walk—she floats. Is she a customer?”

Callaghan said, “Not quite—at the moment. She might be.” He leaned back in his chair. He said, “Windy, this Colonel Stenhurst who came through last night—tell me what happened.”

“He sounded like an old guy,” said Nikolls. “He was a bit steamed up about somethin’. He said he’d gotta talk to you; that it was urgent. He said, ‘I gotta see Mr. Callaghan. He’s gotta come down here an’ see me’—or something like that.”

Callaghan asked, “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Nikolls. “He said something about a letter. He said, ‘I got a letter ...’ and then he stopped.”

Callaghan said, “So he had a letter—a letter that made him either excited or angry.”

Nikolls said, “I thought maybe it was some business. I thought you might want the case. I didn’t know whether you was comin’ back, or whether you’d be here to-day, so I told him to call you at the Night Light Club. I gave him the number.”

Callaghan said, “I see. It’s funny that he hasn’t been through to-day.”

Nikolls shrugged his shoulders. He said, “Yeah. Maybe he’s cooled off.”

Callaghan said, “Get him on the telephone.”

“O.K.,” said Nikolls.

He went to the telephone in the outer office. Callaghan could hear him asking trunk enquiry for the number.

He relaxed in his chair; sat looking at the ceiling above him. He was thinking about Viola Alardyse.

Some minutes passed. Nikolls came in. He said, “I got the number. It’s Alfriston 76421. But Effie can’t get through. There’s a fault on the line.”

Callaghan nodded. “I see.” He got up. He said to Nikolls, “Get through to the garage and tell them to send the car round at once. Then get hold of the A.A. book and get me a route to Hangover. It ought to be fairly easy. I’ve got some things packed upstairs. Have them sent down. Then tell Effie to wire to Colonel Stenhurst. Tell him I’ll be down this evening.”

Nikolls said, “O.K.” He grinned. “Are you gonna start somethin’?”

Callaghan said, “Why not?” He went into the outer office. He said to Effie Thompson, “Effie, get your book and make a note. The name is Stenhurst. It’s too late to do any searching to-day, but to-morrow morning first thing, go down to the Probate Registry and find me a Will in that name—Mrs. Stenhurst. The name’s uncommon, so it should be easy, and it ought to be within the last twenty years. The beneficiary under the Will is Miss Viola Alardyse.”

She said, “Yes, Mr. Callaghan.”

Callaghan said, “You know they don’t like you taking copies at the Registry, but I want a copy, so you’d better ask for four or five other Wills after you’ve got the Stenhurst one, and whilst they’re searching for them take a shorthand note of the Stenhurst Will. You got that?”

She said, “I’ve got it, Mr. Callaghan.”

He went on, “You ought to have that by ten o’clock to-morrow. Come back to the office and type your note. Give it to Nikolls. He can hire a car and bring it down to me. Now give me the hotel guide.”

She got up, went to a shelf, handed him a book. He looked through it. After a minute’s search he said,

“Tell Nikolls to contact me at the Two Friars Hotel at Alfriston at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”

Effie said, “Very well, Mr. Callaghan.” She went on demurely, “I’ll send the wires off now. Which one would you like to go first—to Colonel Stenhurst or Mrs. Denys?”

Callaghan said, “Mrs. Denys. Didn’t they tell you—ladies first!”

He went back to his room.

·····

At five o’clock Callaghan drove his open touring car slowly up Berkeley Street. He was wondering about Colonel Stenhurst. He thought that it might have been a very good thing for somebody that Colonel Stenhurst hadn’t talked to him last night, and that there was a fault on the telephone line to-day—not that faults on telephone lines matter; you can always use another phone. Callaghan wondered, if the matter was important, why the Colonel hadn’t used another telephone. But you never knew. Country places are sometimes small. Sometimes people listened on telephone exchanges. Perhaps the Colonel was rather keen on speaking on his own line. Callaghan shrugged his shoulders.

It was ten past five when he stopped the car outside the little alleyway that led to the Night Light Club. He went in. There was only one person in the bar—a man sitting in the corner—half asleep.

O’Shaughnessy, the bar-tender, said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Callaghan. This is early for you.”

Callaghan nodded. He said, “Perhaps I was wrong about that whisky last night.”

The bar-tender grinned. He said, “You going to take another chance, Mr. Callaghan?”

Callaghan nodded. He said, “I’ll take another chance.”

O’Shaughnessy poured out the drink; squirted in some soda. Callaghan put the glass to his lips, finished it.

He said, “There’s nothing much the matter with that whisky.” He took out his note-case; extracted two one-pound notes. He pushed them across the bar to O’Shaughnessy. He said, “Keep the change. And tell me something. Last night, just before that telephone call came for me, a lady came and sat on the stool next to mine. I don’t remember looking at her, but she wore a very heavy perfume. Who would that be?”

Patrick said, “That’s easy, Mr. Callaghan. That’s Miss La Valliere.”

Callaghan asked, “Is that her name?”

O’Shaughnessy grinned. He said, “It’s the one she’s using now.”

Callaghan asked, “Where does she live, Patrick?”

The bar-tender said, “She’s got a flat—not far from here in Mayfield Street. I’ll get you the number.” He fumbled under the bar; produced a register of the club members. He turned over the pages. He said, “Here we are—14 Mayfield Street. The ’phone number’s Regent 55443. Would you like me to get her on the ’phone?” He looked at Callaghan enquiringly.

Callaghan said, “No, thank you.”

He went back to his car; drove to 14 Mayfield Street. The place was an ordinary apartment block on a side street. He went in; looked at the indicator in the hall. Miss La Valliere, it seemed, was on the first floor. Callaghan walked up the stairs. He found No. 14, put his forefinger on the bell-push, kept it there. He seemed to keep it there for a long time. He took it off when the door opened.

Miss La Valliere stood framed in the doorway. She was looking a little tired. Her make-up had been put on very quickly. She was wearing a long black kimono covered with impossible silver dragons, very high-heeled red crêpe-de-chine shoes, no stockings. Callaghan noticed she had small well-shaped feet.

She said, “Well, what the hell goes on? Is the place on fire or something?”

Callaghan said, “I don’t think so. I just kept my finger on the bell. I’m in a hurry.”

Miss La Valliere looked at him with a little smile. She said, “You don’t say. So you’re in a hurry and you kept your finger on the bell-push. You know what I think you are, don’t you?”

Callaghan said, “Don’t tell me. Just get inside. I want to talk to you.”

He put up his hand as she began to speak. He said, “Listen, if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to do what I say.” He smiled at her.

She said, “What goes on? Come on in.”

In the small sitting-room she turned and faced him. She said, “Well, what is it? If you’re in such a hurry you can get it off your chest and scram. I got a lot to do.”

“It won’t take long,” Callaghan said. “Just tell me something. Last night you came and sat next to me at the Night Light Club. Remember?”

“Why should I?” she asked acidly.

Callaghan said, “I don’t know, but you will.” He went on, “A telephone call came through for me. You knew it was coming through. Somehow you knew that somebody was going to ring me at the Night Light Club and you got round there quickly. You sat next to me. In fact,” said Callaghan, “you were just in time. When O’Shaughnessy, the bar-tender, told me I was wanted on the telephone you slipped something into my whisky and soda. You turned a perfectly innocent drink into a Mickey Finn.” He smiled reminiscently. “A pretty good one too,” he said. “I just got as far as the telephone room and went out cold. The point was,” he said, “I never took the telephone call. Now you talk.”

She said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All right,” said Callaghan. “Listen to me. The name’s Callaghan. I’m a private detective. I know the police pretty well and they know me. You’re either going to talk or I’m going to take you round to Sackville Street.”

She said, “You’re talking rubbish.” But her eyes were scared.

Callaghan shrugged his shoulders. He said casually, “I’m talking rubbish. But it’s rubbish that I’m going to make stick. If you don’t talk you’re going round to Sackville Street.” He grinned at her. “Maybe they’ve met you there before,” he went on, “even if they don’t know you as Miss La Valliere. Well?”

She shrugged her shoulders. She said plaintively, “What the hell’s a girl to do? I think I’m a mug. I’m always getting in bad.”

Callaghan asked, “What did you get for it?”

She said sullenly, “A fiver.”

Callaghan said, “If you’re a sensible girl and talk, you’ll get ten. Who told you to do it?”

She thought for a moment; then she said, “It doesn’t matter a thing anyhow. It was some man I used to know. A chucker-out in a dump I worked in. A tough egg. I don’t know a thing about it or what’s behind it, but I was hard up ... and ... well ... you know how it is.”

Callaghan opened his note-case. He produced two five-pound notes. He asked, “Who’s the boy friend? Where does he live?”

“Off Macclesfield Street,” said Miss La Valliere. “Grays Mansions—No. 24. The name’s Grellin. You ought to watch your step. He can get bad-tempered sometimes. Look ... do you think you could keep me out of this?”

He gave her the money. He said, “Why worry.”

·····

It was half-past five when Callaghan rang the doorbell on the third floor at Grays Mansions.

Grays Mansions was an unsalubrious place. It was dusty. The walls were grimy; the passages unswept. There was an air of desolation about the place. After a moment somebody called out, “Come on in. The door’s open.”

Callaghan went in. The room in front of him was a bed-sitting-room—one of those rooms which are converted by pushing the bed into a corner and putting a settee-cover over it. At the moment it was still a bedroom. Clothes lay on the floor. In the bed, an unprepossessing specimen with black hair and an unshaven face looked at Callaghan curiously.

He said, “What the hell do you want? I thought you was Struby.”

Callaghan said, “I’m not. My name’s Callaghan. You’re Grellin, aren’t you?”

The man in the bed said, “That’s my name. And what the hell does that mean to you?”

“At the moment quite a lot,” Callaghan replied. “I’ve got an idea that some time last night somebody telephoned through to you, told you I was going to the Night Light Club; and asked you if you could fix it that I didn’t get a telephone call that was coming through for me there. Somebody evidently wanted to stall a little for time. You fixed it. You got through to your friend Miss La Valliere who you knew was a member of the Night Light. All right ... well, who told you to do it and why—if you know why?”

Mr. Grellin looked at Callaghan with supreme contempt.

He said, “Why don’t you get out of here?” He raised himself on one elbow. He looked almost ferocious.

Callaghan moved swiftly across the room. He put out his left hand and put the fingers into the neckband of Mr. Grellin’s rather soiled pyjamas. He brought his right arm up, hit Grellin in the face with the point of his elbow. The blow made a staccato noise like a mallet striking wood. Mr. Grellin’s head went back on the bed with a thud.

He said, “Now, talk, Grellin, or I’m going to take you apart. I don’t like you.”

The man in the bed put out a hand. He picked up a dirty handkerchief from the table by the bedside. He mopped his lips which were bleeding. He felt a tooth which was a little loose.

He said, “This ain’t so good. I didn’t know there was going to be any strings to this.”

Callaghan said grimly, “They always tell you that. Where did the call come from? Talk quickly; otherwise I’m going to start work on you.”

Grellin said, “Yes ... ?” He said something else too. Not at all a nice word. He shot out of the bed as if he had been expelled from a cannon; aimed a blow at Callaghan that would have finished him if it had connected.

It did not connect. Callaghan side-stepped. He spun round as Grellin came in for his second blitzkreig; ducked the terrific swing aimed at his head, stepped in and planted a nasty short-arm in the region of his opponent’s navel. Mr. Grellin gave a funny little gasp. He repeated it as Callaghan smashed in a left swing to his jaw and brought over another right to the stomach; turned it into a groan as Callaghan finished with a left-handed jab to Grellin’s mouth that removed the loose tooth and loosened two more.

Grellin subsided on the bed. He said, “I’ve ’ad it. This is not my bleedin’ day!” He picked up the handkerchief and resumed first-aid operations.

Callaghan said, “It looks to me as if it is. You’d better start talking, Grellin.”

Grellin sighed. Then he said something very rude under his breath. Then, “Well, all I know is I got a call from a pal of mine. He’s the head waiter at the Mardene Club—some place near Brighton. He said I was on to twenty pounds if you didn’t get the call. So I fixed it. Maybe you know how I fixed it.”

Callaghan said, “That doesn’t matter.” He went on, “What was the idea? What’s the good of stopping one telephone call? How did your man know there weren’t going to be some more?”

Grellin shrugged his shoulders. He mopped his mouth again. He said, “I wouldn’t know.”

Callaghan lit a cigarette. He asked, “What’s your friend’s name?”

Grellin said, “Charlie Maysin. He’s not a bad guy. He did me a good turn once. I always like to pay a good turn back.”

“Very commendable,” said Callaghan. He went on, “Take a tip from me, Grellin, mind your own business. Don’t stick your nose into anything that doesn’t concern you. If you do that, you’re likely to stay all in one piece.”

He turned on his heel; walked out of the room.

Left to himself, Mr. Grellin replaced his head on the pillow; pondered on the iniquities of life.

Callaghan drove slowly towards South Kensington. He sat at the wheel, relaxed, appreciating the dry, cold wind that stung his face. He was beginning to be very interested in Colonel Stenhurst, in Viola Alardyse, in the residents at Dark Spinney generally. And there were possibilities. Callaghan thought that someone was inclined to be nasty. He thought it possible that this same somebody might easily be even nastier. He wondered who it was that was going to get hurt.

·····

Somewhere a church clock struck eight. The chimes sounded attractively in the still evening air. Callaghan stopped his car at the beginning of the private road that bounded the high wall round the Dark Spinney grounds; turned off the headlights; switched on the parking lights; began to walk back towards the entrance.

He was thinking about Colonel Stenhurst. It was obvious that some sort of situation was due to develop within the next hour or so. It was also obvious to him that Miss Viola Alardyse did not particularly like her trustee—Colonel Stenhurst—and by the same token Callaghan imagined that Colonel Stenhurst was not too taken with her. Well, that was fairly normal. When trustees and beneficiaries under Wills fell out, private detectives often stepped in.

Callaghan went up the carriage-drive, admired the rhododendron bushes that flanked it; thought how beautiful the drive would be when the flowers were in bloom. He went up the steps; rang the doorbell.

Two or three minutes went by; then one of the double-doors opened. Sallins appeared. Callaghan noted with an appreciative eye the neatness of the butler’s well-brushed evening clothes—the carefully tied black satin tie, the thin face, the sparse grey hair. Definitely an old-type family retainer, thought Callaghan.

He said, “My name’s Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations. I’d like to see Colonel Stenhurst.”

Sallins said, “I’m afraid he’s not at home, Sir.”

“When do you expect him to return?” Callaghan asked.

Sallins took a large gold watch out of his black waistcoat pocket. He said, “It’s just after eight now, Sir. Usually the family dines at nine. The Colonel ought to be back in time to change. Would you like to wait, Sir, or will you come back?”

Callaghan said, “I think I’ll come back.”

He was about to turn away when a figure appeared behind Sallins. It was Miss Wymering.

She asked, “What is it, Sallins?”

The butler said, “This gentleman—a Mr. Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations—wishes to see the Colonel, Ma’am. I’ve just told him that he probably won’t be back till half-past eight.”

Miss Wymering said, “That is quite likely.” She said to Callaghan, “Mr. Callaghan, I wonder would you care to come in and wait. I don’t think my brother-in-law will be very long. In the meantime, I would like to speak to you. I am Miss Wymering.”

Callaghan said, “Of course.” He stepped past Sallins into the hallway. He followed Miss Wymering down the long passage; turned to the left down a smaller passage; entered an oak-wainscotted room.

She said, “Mr. Callaghan, I’m glad I’ve an opportunity of talking to you before you see the Colonel. Will you sit down—and would you like to smoke? I’ll get you some cigarettes?”

Callaghan said, “Thank you very much, Miss Wymering. Don’t bother. I’ll smoke one of my own.” He took out his case, lit a cigarette. He said, “Now tell me all about it.” He smiled at her. He went on, “I think you’re worried about something, aren’t you? But I shouldn’t if I were you.”

She looked at him closely. She thought she rather liked Mr. Callaghan. His smile was most kindly. He looked the sort of person you could trust—at least she hoped he was.

She said, “Mr. Callaghan, I’ll say what I have to say quickly, because my brother-in-law might be back. He is rather inclined to be bad tempered. You know, he was in the Indian Army.” She smiled whimsically. “Most of them seem to develop livers after fifty-five. But I don’t want him to make a mountain out of a molehill. I don’t want him to create a situation he might be sorry for afterwards.”

Callaghan said, “That wouldn’t be a good thing, would it? You can rely on my tact. Tact,” said Callaghan with a little grin, “is the main part of the stock-in-trade of private detectives.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Miss Wymering. “The position is this: My sister—Colonel Stenhurst was her second husband—is the mother of the three girls here—Viola, Corinne and Patricia. She left a rather peculiar Will—perhaps not so awfully peculiar because she knew what she wanted to do. But its placed the Colonel in a rather odd position. There are three trustees—he and I and a lawyer. At the moment, under this Will, Viola is the beneficiary and the life owner of this estate. The Colonel seems to have got an idea from somewhere or other that she and Corinne have got to know a rather unpleasant person or persons at Brighton. He doesn’t like that. He talked to the girls about it at dinner last night and there was a little unpleasantness.”

Callaghan said, “They didn’t like it?”

“No,” said Miss Wymering. “They didn’t like it. That’s quite understandable, isn’t it? After all, Viola is nearly thirty and Corinne is twenty-eight. Times have changed and girls aren’t like they were in my brother-in-law’s young days. Quite naturally, they resent what they consider to be an unwarrantable interference on his part in their affairs.”

Callaghan said, “I quite understand. They didn’t like it—they probably said so—and there was a row?”

She nodded. “There’ve been one or two rows lately,” she said. “I don’t like them, Mr. Callaghan. The position is made all the more difficult because Colonel Stenhurst has only his pension in addition to the two hundred and fifty pounds which he receives under my sister’s Will. That isn’t a great deal of money, especially in these days of high taxation. Viola allows him an additional thousand a year. That makes the situation a little more difficult.”

Callaghan said, “Of course it does. In other words, if Miss Alardyse gets annoyed she can turn off the Colonel’s thousand a year?”

She nodded. “Precisely.”

Callaghan asked, “Has she threatened to do that?”

She said, “No.”

Callaghan knocked the ash from his cigarette. He said, “I take it Patricia doesn’t come into this.”

She said, “We-ll ... not really. You see, Patricia’s only seventeen, but then she’s a peculiar sort of young woman in a way. She’s inclined to be a little dramatic, Mr. Callaghan. She goes to the pictures a great deal and she adores situations.”

Callaghan grinned. He said, “You mean she’s rather liking this. Perhaps she enjoys a family row?”

“Ye-es ...” said Miss Wymering. “I think she does. You see, she likes to dramatize everything and see herself as the central character. Really, she’s not concerned at all in this.”

Callaghan asked, “And Viola and Corinne?”

She said, “Viola is a delightful girl. It’s no good my saying she’s not my favourite because she is. Everybody likes Viola. Perhaps she’s a little quiet; a little strange. Sometimes I think she is worried. Then again I think it’s possibly just her temperament. She doesn’t seem to want to live or do the things that girls of her age normally do.”

“I see,” said Callaghan. “And Corinne?”

Miss Wymering said, “Well, Corinne is quite a different type. She can be quite hard if she wants to. Lots of people think she is—it’s rather an odd word to use,” said Miss Wymering diffidently, “a little flighty, but I think that’s normal. I don’t think any of the girls have enjoyed the war much, and Corinne worked very hard at the war hospital near Hurstmonceux. I expect she’s just relaxing like so many other people.”

Callaghan nodded. “I think I understand about Corinne. And as for Viola,” he went on, “she’s rather quiet—doesn’t want to do the things that young women do in the ordinary course of events, except”—he added—“this Brighton business in which Corinne also seems concerned. I suppose you don’t know anything about that, Miss Wymering?”

She said, “No. The Colonel didn’t say anything about that, but he seems to know something about it.”

“I understand,” said Callaghan. “You know, it struck me as a little bit extraordinary, Miss Wymering. It seems that the Colonel rang my office fairly late last night. He spoke to my assistant. He said he wanted to see me urgently; that he wanted me to come down here as soon as possible. He said something about having had a letter. My assistant gave him a telephone number at which he could get in touch with me later in the evening. A call came through for me which I imagine was from the Colonel,” Callaghan continued, “but unfortunately I wasn’t able to take it.”

She said, “I expect, having failed to get you once, he thought he’d wait.”

“That would seem to be the normal thing for him to have done,” said Callaghan, “but one would have imagined that as the matter was so urgent he’d have got through to-day. Yet he didn’t telephone me.”

She said, “No? Well, of course there’s an explanation for that. There’s been trouble here with the telephone. The man came out this afternoon and put it right. There was a fault or something—one of the connections was broken.”

Callaghan asked, “Exactly what do you want me to do, Miss Wymering?”

She said, “Of course you’ll do whatever the Colonel asks you to do I expect. But I don’t think that Viola will be prepared to stand for it. You see, he talked about having the girls watched which they naturally resented. I thought if I explained the situation to you, Mr. Callaghan, you might possibly discount a little of what he says to you. He’s rather inclined to exaggerate complaints against people. I don’t think any of the girls are at all popular with him at the moment. I’m not asking you not to—to take any notice of what he says to you. I’m only asking you not to take him too seriously.”

Callaghan smiled at her. He thought he liked Miss Wymering. He said, “Thank you very much, Miss Wymering. I think it would be a good idea if, after I’ve had my talk with the Colonel; after I’ve heard what he has to say, perhaps you and I could have another talk.”

She smiled at him. She was more certain than ever now that she trusted Mr. Callaghan. She said, “Yes, I think that would be a very good idea. But I don’t think we ought to meet here. He’d be awfully angry if he thought I was talking to you behind his back.”

Callaghan said, “We’ll meet somewhere else. I’m staying at the Two Friars Hotel in Alfriston. After I’ve had a talk with the Colonel you might come and see me. We could talk things over.”

She said, “That would be very nice.”

Callaghan looked at his watch. “It is a quarter past eight,” he said. “I think the best thing for me to do would be to telephone the Colonel after dinner—say at nine-thirty; tell him I’ve arrived at Alfriston; suggest that I drive over.”

She said, “An excellent idea.” She held out her hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Callaghan. I’m sure everything is going to be all right.”

Callaghan took her hand. He noticed that it was trembling. He wondered why. He thought perhaps Miss Wymering was a nervous type.

She said, “Did you leave your car in the carriage-drive?”

He shook his head. He said, “No, I left it fifty or sixty yards up the road, at the beginning of the little private road that leads round by the high wall.”

She said, “Well, if you don’t want to meet the Colonel on your way out; if you like to go through the side door in the hall passage, right across the garden path, across the lawn, you’ll find a green door in the wall. If you go through that you’ll arrive a few yards from your car.”

Callaghan said, “Thank you.”

He walked out of the room, down the passage, into the hall. He picked up his hat from the stand, noticed the time on the grandfather clock—twenty minutes past eight. He walked down the side passage, opened the door at the end. Before him in the pale moonlight he could see the long well-kept path stretching across the lawn, skirting a flower garden at the end. He began to walk up the path. It was a fine night, cold but cheerful. The air tasted good.

Callaghan thought about Miss Wymering. He thought family life even in rural England was not as easy as people thought it was. He reached the door in the wall. His hand was on the latch. He stopped and listened. Behind him he could hear footsteps. He looked over his shoulder. Sallins was half-running, half-stumbling towards him along the path that ran at right angles from the one on which Callaghan stood.

Callaghan said, “What’s the matter?”

The butler stood looking at Callaghan. His mouth was working spasmodically, but no words emerged. He stood there, an almost grotesque figure mouthing unintelligible nothings.

Callaghan said not unkindly, “Take it easy. What’s the matter? Whatever it is, it could have been worse.”

The butler found his voice. He said breathlessly, “After you’d gone with Miss Wymering, Sir, I noticed that the Colonel’s hat was still on the hallstand. He always wears one hat—a soft brown hat. I wondered where he could be. I thought he might be in the grounds, so I went out to look to tell him that you were here. There is a summer-house over there.” He pointed along the path from which he had come. “We call it the pagoda. More out of habit than anything else I looked in. He was lying there. He’s dead.”

Callaghan asked, “What did he die of?”

The butler said, “I think he’s shot himself. There’s a pistol there close by him.” He began to tremble again. “It’s not a nice sight,” he said.

“No, it never is,” said Callaghan. “What’s your name?”

The old man said, “My name’s Sallins, Sir. I’ve been here since I was a boy. My God, I never expected to see anything happen like this.”

Callaghan said, “I don’t expect you did. Look, Sallins, I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Just stay here and relax. When you feel better, go in and ring the police. Where are they?”

Sallins said, “The nearest police officer, Sir, is at Alfriston.”

“All right,” said Callaghan easily. “Wait here for a bit; then go back to the house. Ring the police at Alfriston and tell them what’s happened. I expect they’ll come out as soon as they can. You’re sure the Colonel is dead?”

Sallins said, “I think so, Sir.”

“I’ll go and look,” said Callaghan. “Do as I’ve told you, Sallins. Wait here for two or three minutes; then go in and ’phone the police.”

He began to walk along the path. Two minutes brought him to the edge of a coppice. The path ran through it. On the other side, in a little clearing, stood a pagoda-shaped summer-house. A circular verandah surrounded it. A flight of wooden steps led up to the door.

Callaghan went in. Through a window on the other side of the circular room, which was furnished with garden chairs and a table, came a gleam of moonlight. Lying on the floor was the body of the Colonel. He was lying on his left side. His right hand was outstretched, the fingers extended almost in an attitude of supplication. Five or six feet from him on the floor was a pistol. Looking at it casually, Callaghan thought it could be a .38 R.I.C. police pistol. He knelt down by the body. One side of the Colonel’s face was not at all pretty and was practically conspicuous by its absence. The other side was almost austere in the lines of death.

Callaghan sighed. As he rose from his knee he saw a gleam of white under the body. He snapped on his cigarette lighter, bent down again. It was a small lace handkerchief. He picked it up. There were two initials in the corner—V.A. He moved over to the window; stood leaning against the wooden wall, the wisp of lace in his hand, looking at the thing which had once been Colonel Gervase Stenhurst.

Then he moved to the body. He put the back of his hand against the good side of the corpse’s face. He thought the Colonel had been dead for some little time.

He straightened up. He walked over to the door, went through it, closed it behind him, descended the five wooden steps. Then he stopped. He thought to himself that even if truth was at the bottom of the well it had an odd way of putting its head up in the long run. No matter what happened it eventually emerged. There ...

Callaghan listened attentively. There was not a sound. Then after a minute he heard footsteps on a gravel path. That, he thought, would be Sallins walking back to the house. Callaghan turned. He went quickly up the wooden steps, back into the pagoda. He knelt down by the body, took the unused handkerchief in the left breast pocket of the coat. He spread the handkerchief over the palm of his right hand, picked up the pistol, wiped it. Holding the butt of the pistol in the handkerchief he took the Colonel’s left hand; pressed the fingers on the barrel. He put the pistol down within two or three feet of the body; then carefully inserted the handkerchief between the open fingers of the Colonel’s right hand. He went out of the pagoda, closing the door softly behind him. Outside he stopped to light a cigarette; then he began to walk slowly along the path towards the green door.

Callaghan thought life was damned funny. You did things and you weren’t quite certain why you did them. At least you thought you weren’t certain. Actually, at the back of his mind he knew perfectly well why.... He shrugged his shoulders.

He pulled up the latch of the green oak door and opened it. He stood there, with the door held wide open, smiling. Viola Alardyse stood on the other side of the door on the dirt road. A few yards away he could see the rear light of his car shining in the half light.

He moved to one side. He said, “Good evening, Miss Alardyse.”

It was quite a little while before she spoke. She looked at him steadily. When she did speak her voice was quiet but angry.

She said, “This afternoon when I saw you, Mr. Callaghan, I gave you some excellent advice. I’m very sorry that you haven’t been wise enough to take it.”

He felt for his cigarette case, opened it, took a cigarette. He looked at her through the flame of the lighter.

“I never take advice, Miss Alardyse,” he said. “I’ve found that other people’s advice doesn’t often interest me. I prefer to make my own mistakes.” He grinned at her, almost insolently.

She said in a low tense voice, “I don’t care what you prefer to do, Mr. Callaghan, but I insist that you make your mistakes elsewhere and not in my house or grounds. If I find you here again I shall have you thrown out. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Callaghan. His grin was maddening. “I wonder who’s going to do the throwing out,” he asked. “Is it to be Sallins—your ancient retainer—or Miss Wymering, or yourself assisted by your sisters? Then again,” he went on, “I might not want to be thrown out. I might elect to go quietly.”

She stepped past him, through the door, on to the gravel path. She was standing quite near him. A suggestion of her perfume came to his nostrils. Callaghan thought it was extremely attractive.

She said, “I hope you will be sensible enough to make the throwing-out process unnecessary. In any event, I am going to order that you are not to be admitted to the house or grounds. I don’t like you, Mr. Callaghan.”

Callaghan nodded casually. “I understand,” he said. His smile was illuminating. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

She said, “I have nothing to say to you and I want to hear nothing from you. Is that plain?”

“Perfectly,” said Callaghan. He drew on his cigarette. He said, “Very well. You have it your way. But when you go to bed to-night I’d like you to spend a few minutes thinking this out:

“Last night your guardian telephoned my office from this house. I wasn’t in. It was suggested to him that he telephone me, at a number which was given to him, in half an hour. He did so, but I didn’t get the call because somebody who knew he was coming through doped my drink. I went out before I could take the call. So somebody here listened in to his telephone conversation with my office and had time enough to fix things so that I didn’t get the second call.

“That somebody knew that the Colonel would probably telephone me from this house to-day. They’d made up their minds that he wasn’t going to. They cut the telephone wire here. They were playing for time; playing for time until they could fix something else. Something that would definitely—once and for all—stop the Colonel from telling me anything I wasn’t intended to hear.

“This afternoon you arrived at my office and told me that I wasn’t to see the Colonel. That if I did you wouldn’t pay for it; that if I came down here and stuck my nose into something that didn’t concern me you’d go to the police.”

Callaghan threw his cigarette stub on the ground and trod on it. Then he said pleasantly, “Think those points out to-night, Miss Alardyse, and see how you feel. Then if you still feel like going to the police ... well, get on with it.

“But you won’t. You won’t go to the police and you’ll find that sooner or later you’ll have to have a little talk—with me. And, if you’re as sensible as I think you might be, you’ll make it sooner—not later.”

He stepped through the door. On the road outside, he turned and looked at her. She had not moved.

“Good-night,” said Callaghan cheerfully. He took off his black soft hat, walked over to his car; got in; started it. He backed it down the narrow road past the green door.

She was standing where he had left her. A moment afterwards he heard the door shut with a bang.

On the main road he swung the car round, drove towards Alfriston.

He began to whistle softly to himself.