It was after eight o'clock when Callaghan got back to the office. Effie Thompson, an expression of patient resignation on her face, sat smoking a cigarette in the outer office, her hat on, her handbag and umbrella on the desk.
'Get me Darkie on the telephone,' said Callaghan as he passed through her room, 'an' then you go home, Effie. Have a nice week-end.'
He grinned at her, noticed the pout on her pretty lips.
He took the call in his own room.
'You listen to me, Darkie,' he said. 'There's a young feller called Riverton—Wilfred Riverton—five feet nine about—thin an' sick lookin'. His face is a bit bloated from too much liquor an' he's takin' dope. He's got blond hair a bit long an' he's short-tempered. You got all that?'
Darkie said he had.
'Last night he was dropped near Down Stree
