Dangerous Curves

1: Friday: One In The Bag CALLAGHAN awoke and looked at the ceiling. The fire sent grotesque shadows flickering across the white expanse above him. He yawned, turned over, kicked off the bedclothes, swung his legs to the floor. He sat, his tousled black head in his hands, looking at the fire. His lips were dry and his tongue felt like a yellow plush sofa. Outside he could hear the rain pattering on the windows. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was eight o'clock. He got up and began to walk to the bathroom, when the telephone bell jangled. It was Effie Thompson. He growled into the receiver. 'All right,' she said primly. 'Is it my fault if you've got a head? Forgive me for troubling you, but are you ever coming back to this office? Things are happening down here.' Callaghan ran a furry tongue over dry lips. 'Well, why the hell didn't you phone up, Effie?' he asked. 'What's the matter with you? Why do I have my apartment two floors above my office? If you wanted to get at me, why didn't you telephone?' 'Don't make me laugh,' she said. 'I've been ringing you most of the day—you've just been unconscious.' 'I was on a jag last night,' said Callaghan. 'I feel like hell. What's happenin' down there?' 'The Riverton case is happening,' she answered. 'It's breaking out all over the place. If you want to hold on to those clients you'll have to make something happen. I think...' 'I'm not askin' for your advice,' snapped Callaghan. 'When I want you to run my dam' business I'll ask you.' 'All right, sir,' Effie's cool voice came back accenting the 'sir'. 'Let me give you the details. First of all I'd like to point out to you that you haven't been here for two days. There's a pile of correspondence on your desk that'll take you a week to answer. But that's not all. There have been eight calls from the Manor House. I think the Colonel must be getting a little bit annoyed with Callaghan Investigations. And there's a letter here from Selby, Raukes & White, the Riverton solicitors. Would you like me to read it?' 'No, thanks,' said Callaghan. 'I'm comin' down. Anything else?' 'Yes. A man who owns a cinema came in this afternoon. He employs a woman manageress who banks the takings. He says there's a shortage somewhere and wants you to investigate. What do you want done?' 'Did you ask him why he hasn't been to the police?' asked Callaghan. 'Yes,' she answered. 'I don't think he wants to. He sounded a bit nervous when he talked about the manageress.' Callaghan grunted. 'It sounds like the old story,' he said. 'Charge him fifty pounds retainer and put Findon on the case. He likes movies.' 'I know,' said Effie. She paused for a second. 'He also likes women. I thought Nikolas was the man for that job. So I put him on to it. And I charged a hundred.' Callaghan grinned. 'Nice goin', Effie,' he said. He hung up. He walked across the long luxurious bedroom towards the bathroom. He was wearing the top half of a pair of red silk pyjamas. When he walked he put his well-shaped wiry legs on the floor like a cat. He took off the pyjama jacket and stood under the shower. He started the water very hot, ran it through to hike-warm, then to cold. Then he put on a bathrobe, sat down on the stool and began to rub hair-dressing into his tousled hair. He thought about the Riverton business and began to curse quietly, systematically and comprehensively. The telephone rang in the bedroom. It was Kells. Callaghan, who, still wet, had picked up the receiver with an oath, toned down when he heard the Canadian accent on the line. 'Hallo, Slim,' said Kells. 'How's it going?' 'All right, Monty,' said Callaghan. 'I've got a hangover, that's all. What is it?' 'I've got that skirt,' said Kells. 'The Dixon dame. Her name's Azelda Dixon and they call her "Swing-It". And by God does she! She's got something, this baby, except she looks tired to death.' Callaghan grinned. 'Nice work, Monty,' he said. 'Will she talk?' 'Not a crack,' said Monty. 'She's as quiet as a goddam grave. I don't even know where she lives. She's a tight one, that doll.' 'They're all tight,' said Callaghan. 'Those women either talk too much or say nothin'.' 'You said it,' said Kells. 'I've fixed it this way: I'm seeing her again, so maybe she's going to fall for my s*x appeal an' come across. If she don't, I'll have to think up something else. I'll be seeing you.' 'All right, Monty,' said Callaghan. 'Listen, I'm going over to Martinella's place tonight. I want to see that fight. I'll finish up at Perruqui's. Effie says the Manor House has been telephonin' all day. They're gettin' dam' excited about something. Maybe they don't think I'm doin' enough for that £100 a week. It looks as if we'll have to get a ripple on.' 'I like that,' said Kells. 'For Jeez' sake, what do they think we've been doing?' Callaghan hung up. He dressed himself. He put on a white silk shirt, a low, stiff double collar and a black, watered silk bow. His double-breasted dinner-jacket was well cut. His clothes looked good and expensive. He put on a black soft hat and lit a cigarette. After the first few puffs he began to cough and went on coughing for quite a while. He walked over to the cupboard in the corner and poured himself out four fingers of rye whisky. He drank it in one gulp. He went into the corridor and rang for the lift. On the window at the end of the long passage—the window at the Berkeley Square end—the rain was beating hard against the window pane. He stood there waiting, thinking about the Riverton business. Callaghan was five feet ten inches high; his shoulders were broad, descending to a thin waist and narrow hips. His arms were long; his face was thin with high cheekbones, a decided jaw, ears that lay flat against his head. His eyes were of a peculiar blue, his hair black and unruly, and women liked the shape of his mouth. Looking at him, one got an impression of utter ruthlessness and a cynical humour. The lift came up. Callaghan went down to his office two floors below. Effie Thompson was at the filing cabinet in the inner office. She was of medium height, well rounded. Her hair was red, her eyes green. Her clothes fitted her as clothes ought to fit. She looked trim and efficient. Callaghan sat down behind the big desk. He began to open the letter from Selby, Raukes & White. He said suddenly: 'Has Kells been in?' She nodded. 'He was in this morning, and I wish he'd keep his hands to himself!' She shut the cabinet with a bang. Callaghan grinned. His eyes lit with an impish humour. 'So he's been pinchin' you again?' he said. 'It's dam' funny, but women always seem to get pinched by the wrong man... eh, Effie?' She flushed, walked into her own office. He heard her typewriter begin to clatter. Callaghan read the letter: Selby, Raukes & White, Solicitors, 478 Lincoln's Inn Fields, W.C. 15th November, 1938. Dear Mr Callaghan, We are instructed by Colonel Riverton, who, we regret to say, is now seriously ill, to write you again in the matter of his son Mr Wilfred Eustace Riverton. It is now eight weeks since you were originally asked to provide our client with comprehensive information about the whereabouts of his son, his mode of living, the names of his immediate associates and, if possible, some definite indication where the large sums of money which Mr Wilfred Riverton has been spending—or losing—have gone. We hope that you will be able to report within a few days, and in this connection would remind you that your retainer of £100 per week is, in our opinion, a generous one, and should enable you to proceed more quickly in this matter than has been indicated up to the moment of writing. We are, Truly yours, pp Selby, Raukes & White, T.J. Selby. Callaghan swore softly. He rang the bell-push on his desk. Effie Thompson, her book open, came in. 'Write to these people, acknowledge receipt of their letter, and tell 'em if they don't like the way I handle my cases they can go to somebody else. Sign it for me.' He threw the letter across the desk. She picked it up. 'You were supposed to be having dinner with Juanita tonight,' she said primly. 'Are you, or do I telephone as usual?' 'You write that letter an' go home,' he said. 'I'll do the telephonin'.' She nodded. 'Mrs Riverton came through at six o'clock,' she said. 'She sounded as if she was rather fed-up with Callaghan Investigations. She seemed to think we were all asleep round here. She's in town. She's at the Chartres Hotel. She'll be back there at eleven o'clock tonight. She said I was to tell you to telephone her at eleven-fifteen.' He nodded. 'Good night, Effie,' she said. Five minutes later he heard the outer door close behind her. He took off the telephone receiver, dialled a Park number. 'Hallo, Juanita,' he said. 'Sorry I've got to miss that dinner we arranged. I'm busy.... Now, it's no dam' good crackin' on... that's how it is.... Yes... I'll call you tomorrow.' He hung up the receiver. Then he leaned down and opened the bottom desk drawer and took out a quart bottle of rye whisky. He pulled the cork and took a long swig. Then he opened another drawer and took out a Mauser automatic. He looked at the gun for a moment and then threw it back into the drawer. He got up, switched off the lights, walked through the centre and outer offices, which were still lit, closed and locked the outer door. The electric lift took him to the ground floor. He waited until a cab from the Berkeley Square rank appeared. He hailed it. 'Go to Joe Martinella's place,' he told the driver, 'and step on it.' Callaghan stood at the end of the long white-washed passage that ran from the street entrance, and looked round Joe Martinella's place. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air above the ring. The tiered seats, rising on steps set behind the six rows of ringside seats, were packed with men of every description and a few women. One or two of the women in the ringside seats—ladies who liked occasional, pugilistic slumming—were in evening frocks. In the ring two reputed lightweights banged each other about in a desultory fashion, punching as if they meant it only when some raucous voice accused one of them of being a sissy. A babel of sound echoed throughout the place, hitting the white-washed walls at each end of the old-time gymnasium, echoing back. Callaghan walked through the narrow gangway. He put his soft black hat on one of the ringside seats in the second row. Then he walked round the ring, through the opposite gangway, along the passage that ran to the dressing-rooms and turned off into Joe Martinella's private bar. The room was small. It smelt of stale tobacco smoke, horse oil embrocation and sweat. Leaning up against the bar, talking to Joe and one or two bookmakers and professional gamblers, was Gill Charleston. Callaghan thought that Charleston looked like a fish out of water. His tall, well-built body, dressed in a well-cut dinner coat, expensive linen and quiet jewellery, added a touch of distinction to a nondescript collection of near-toughs. Charleston looked up and saw Callaghan. He smiled and his eyes lit up. Callaghan sent him a heavy wink. Then he went outside and stood round the doorway, in the passage, lighting a cigarette. Charleston came out. 'Well, you old horse-thief,' he said pleasantly. 'Who are you after this time? How's business—or are the clients getting wise?' Callaghan knocked the ash off his cigarette. 'Gill,' he said, 'I'm in a bit of a jam an' I'm goin' to put my cards on the table. Maybe you can help me. It's about Wilfred Riverton—The Mug.' Charleston nodded. 'Go ahead, Slim,' he said. 'The family's gettin' on my tail,' said Callaghan. 'The old boy—the Colonel—is pretty sick, an' he's worryin'. I'm gettin' a hundred a week to find out where his little boy is throwin' the family money—who the women are, or—if it's not women—who's runnin' the roulette board or whatever is separatin' The Mug from the Riverton cash. I haven't done so well.'