9: Tuesday: Nothing Like Love
CALLAGHAN awoke at nine o'clock. He stretched, looked at the ceiling, began to think about Monty Kells. He grinned cynically. Was it dam' funny or was it that a man who had been in the Royal Canadian Police for five years, in the Chicago office of the Trans-Continental Detective Agency of America for seven years— with all that that implied— should be rubbed out in a cellar in rural England— and just because he hadn't got a gun! Callaghan remembered that but for him Monty would, in all probability, have been carrying a gun.
He got up, bathed, went down to the office. He threw a short smile at Effie Thompson as he walked through the outer office. He told her to get Juanita on the telephone.
Juanita was in good humour. Callaghan, sitting back in his chair, a c
