It Couldn't Matter Less

Chapter 1-3

Callaghan closed the bag, put it back on the table and went back to the sideboard. He poured out two glasses of champagne and pushed the big arm-chairs into place in front of the fire.

When she came back he was standing with his back to the fire. He passed her a glass and indicated an arm-chair. He said "Happy days" and drank off the glass of champagne. He went to the sideboard, brought back the bottle, refilled his glass.

She said: "I suppose you're a very expensive detective...?"

Callaghan nodded solemnly.

"Very," he said. He began to drink his second glass of champagne.

She went on: "I haven't a great deal of money, but I've some money. I want to find someone. Nobody seems to know where he is."

Callaghan finished his second glass of champagne.

"That's too bad," he said.

He watched her drink her own drink. He refilled her glass.

She looked up at him. He could see that her blue eyes were misty.

"I'm fearfully serious about this," she said. "That's why I came here...."

He grinned.

"I knew there was a catch somewhere," he said. "Tell me about the boy friend. Maybe he's joined the Army... or something...."

She shook her head.

"He hasn't done that," she said. "He couldn't. He couldn't pass the doctors."

Callaghan went to the sideboard and poured out some bourbon. He came back with the glass in his hand. He said:

"I'd like to hear all about it. I'm very interested."

She threw him a quick glance. She said:

"I'm not quite certain as to whether you're taking me absolutely seriously, but I'll tell you about it and then you can tell me how much you'll want to help."

She drank some champagne. She said:

"His name is Lionel Wilbery. He's a poet. He's one of those young men, very good-looking, very well-dressed. The sort of young man who pays a guinea for a tie and isn't quite certain where the money to pay for it is coming from. I should think Lionel owed rather a lot of money."

Callaghan nodded sympathetically.

"He sounds as if he might," he said. "Does he drink a lot too...?"

"No," she said. "Lionel doesn't drink much. He used to, but he gave it up. He gave up drinking when he began to take drugs...."

"Yes," said Callaghan. "They usually do...."

"He was fearfully interested in writing poetry," she went on. "He was quite keen about it and, I believe, not at all bad. He used to write verse mainly about the sea. He was very fond of the sea...."

Callaghan c****d an eyebrow.

"Perhaps he's drowned himself in it," he said.

"Oh, no," she went on. "I'm certain he hasn't done that. I'm certain that he is about somewhere, but I've got to find out where." She looked at Callaghan. "You see," she said quietly, "I'm terribly in love with Lionel. I've got to know about him."

Callaghan said: "What about the police? They're not half bad at finding people. If I wanted to find somebody I'd probably go to the police. And they don't charge anything."

She shook her head.

"That would be quite useless," she said. "I'll tell you why. Lionel got into rather an odd crowd... a not very nice set of people. I'd just got him to stop drinking and then he met these people, and I'm certain they introduced him to drugs. He's rather a weak type."

"D'you know who these people are?" Callaghan asked.

"No," she replied. "I only know about them from Lionel. He told me about them after he'd first met them. He thought they were very clever and amusing and smart. And there was an attractive woman, I believe.... They are the sort of people who don't do anything and have enough money to be comfortable on and spent quite a lot on drink and things like that."

Callaghan took the Goulay bottle from the mantelpiece and filled her glass. She sipped the wine absently.

"I don't know why," she said. "But I believe they've got Lionel somewhere. I believe they've got some scheme about him. Probably something that they would consider amusing.... Do you think you can do anything?"

Callaghan grinned.

"I can try," he said. He walked across to the writing desk in the far corner and came back with a sheet of notepaper and a fountain-pen. "Write down his name and address— the last address you know," he said. "I'll get in touch with you in a day or so and let you know what I think about it."

She rested the notepaper on the arm of the chair and wrote on it. Then she handed the pen and paper to Callaghan. He put them on the mantelpiece.

She got up. She said:

"I'll send you a cheque for a hundred pounds to-morrow. Will that do?"

"It's a good start," said Callaghan. He stood looking at her, grinning.

"I think I'll go home now," she said. "You won't forget to let me know about things, will you?"

Callaghan said he wouldn't. He finished his bourbon. She began to walk towards the hall. She looked at Callaghan when he took his hat and overcoat. He grinned at her.

"I'll drop you," he said. "Where are you going?"

"I have a tiny house off Wilton Place, in Knightsbridge," she said. "Is that too far...?"

Callaghan picked up a late cab in Berkeley Square. The moon had gone in and the black-out was very black. His head ached a little. He wondered vaguely just how much he had drunk during the day.

Doria Varette sat back in the corner of the cab and said nothing at all. Callaghan, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, saw she had regained the cold self-control which, in spite of the dressing-room episode, seemed characteristic.

He paid off the cab on the corner of Knightsbridge and Wilton Street. They walked a little way down the street and turned into a cul-de-sac. At the end a blue door showed dimly in the light of his electric flash. She pushed it open. Inside a little flight of four or five stairs curved up to another doorway.

She went inside. Callaghan heard her keys jangle. Standing on the doorstep of the outer door he flashed the torch so that she might find the keyhole.

She opened the door and stepped inside. She said:

"Good-night, Mr. Callaghan. Thank you very much."

He said good-night. He pulled the outer door to, walked down the alleyway into the main road. As he turned towards Knightsbridge a car crossed the road and braked by the pavement.

Callaghan stopped. He leaned up against the wall and waited. The car stopped and someone got out. Callaghan could see the tiny disc of light from an electric torch moving along towards the cul-de-sac.

He moved quietly after it. It stopped for a moment in front of the outer door of Doria Varette's house and then disappeared.

Callaghan waited for a moment. Then he moved silently towards the outer door, found it, pushed it open a little way, inserted his head and looked round the corner, up the little stairway.

Doria Varette was framed in the open doorway at the top of the stairs. The light from behind her silhouetted the man who stood to one side of the door.

The man wore no overcoat. His lounge suit was exquisitely cut. He looked as if he had been poured into it. The shoulders were squared and descended into an ultra-slim waistline. The rather wide trousers were draped beautifully over well-polished, tiny shoes. He wore a white silk shirt with diagonal blue stripes and a stiff double collar with long points to match. His tie was made of plain, white matt silk. Stuck in the middle of it was a ruby heart surrounded with splinter diamonds.

He began to speak in a low voice. Callaghan could not hear the words. Doria Varette looked at him with no expression on her face. She stood quite still. In the middle of a sentence she slammed the door in the face of her visitor.

The man began to laugh softly. It was not a very nice laugh.

Callaghan walked down the cul-de-sac and stood leaning against the wall, on the corner. After a minute the man appeared, his torch picking out a tiny circle of light on the pavement.

Callaghan said: "Just a minute."

The man stopped. Callaghan flashed his torch upwards.

The man's face was of an olive colour. It was very thin, very bitter. The thin mouth looked like a slit.

Callaghan said: "I saw your car parked across the corner, on the pavement, when we drove up. You were waiting for Miss Varette...?"

The man said: "Yes." The word sounded sibilant.

Callaghan got the idea that he was a Cuban. He went on:

"If you wanted to speak to her why didn't you take the opportunity then? When we were going in. Or did you think you might be interrupting us?"

The other smiled. There was something pitying in the smile. After a moment he said:

"Señor, please believe tha-at you cannot do yourself any advantage in thees matter. Not at all. The Señora Varette is so-och a stranger to the trut'. You know? She makes fools of peepul. Maybe she makes one of you, Señor?"

Callaghan said: "Maybe.... I hadn't thought of that."

The Cuban laughed. It was an odd laugh. It started in the throat and trailed off. It sounded as if it came from a long way away.

"Eef you are a wise man you will theenk of tha-at now," he said. "You can take some good advice, hey, Señor?"

Callaghan felt in his pocket. He brought out a cigarette. He snapped on his lighter and lit the cigarette.

He said: "Why do I have to take advice from you?"

The Cuban shrugged his shoulders. Then he put a thin hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a leather case. He opened the case and took out two banknotes. Callaghan dropped the beam of light from his torch an inch or two. He could see that they were fifty-pound notes.

The man put the case back in his pocket and folded up the notes. He held them towards Callaghan.

"The Señora Varette," he said softly, "she is a one tha-at does not always know just wha-at she ees doing. Sometimes she takes a leetle piece of drug, sabe, Señor? A peench of thees... a leetle drop of tha-at. She ees what you call not so reliable... hey, Señor?"

Callaghan said: "Maybe.... I never thought of that either...."

He took the two banknotes.

The Cuban stopped smiling. His eyes became very narrow. Callaghan could see them like pin-points. When he spoke his voice was like a rasp. He said:

"So now you theenk... hey, Señor. You theenk it better tha-at you mind your own business?"

Callaghan nodded. He undid his overcoat and put the two banknotes into his waistcoat pocket. He was looking round the Cuban's shoulders, towards the car. He could not see it. It was too dark.

He said: "Thanks for the information. Good-night."

He took his electric torch in his left hand and held out his right.

The Cuban looked very surprised. He smiled a little cynically and shrugged his shoulders very slightly. Then he put out his hand.

Callaghan swung his right hand over the hand that came towards him. He brought up his elbow with all the force of his body behind it. He hit the Cuban under the point of the jaw with a thud that jerked his shoulder muscle. Simultaneously he stepped forward on his left foot, put out his left arm and caught the man as he fell backwards.

Callaghan, moving quietly, dragged the limp figure a few yards down the street. He propped it up half a dozen yards from the Knightsbridge Post Office, against the wall.

He crossed the road and began to walk towards Piccadilly. He stopped in the shadow of the cabman's shelter and examined the two banknotes under the light of his torch. He was glad to observe that they were genuine.

The moon, arriving from a bank of clouds, threw a half light down Piccadilly and made shadows in St. James's Park.

Callaghan put the notes away and continued on his walk. He stopped half-way down Piccadilly and fumbled in his fob-pocket for a couple of aspirin tablets.

His head felt a little better. He began to whistle very softly. He was whistling a tune called It Was Good While It Lasted.