The Urgent Hangman

Chapter 1-2

What the hell! Maybe he shouldn't have sacked Perkins. Effie was good. She'd been with him for five years. She knew his technique. Supposing here was a good case, one in the bag, and he needed an assistant who was at least as sharp as Effie Perkins.

He smiled at her. The smile— which was as much a part of the business as the telephone— illuminated his face. It said: 'Madame, Callaghan Investigations are an honest firm. We may be a bit smart occasionally, but we are a very good firm, and our clients are always safe with us. We never talk. So let go and get it off your chest.'

She said:

'Do you mind if I smoke?'

He nodded. He knew she would have a voice like that— low and the words very clearly enunciated. She took a thin case out of her handbag and his mouth watered when he saw that they were Player's. He wondered if she would offer him one. When he lit a match for her and walked round the desk to light the cigarette she laid the opened case on the desk, indicated that it was at his disposal. Callaghan took one and was glad of it. He hadn't smoked for seven hours.

'Mr Callaghan,' she said. 'I will be as brief as possible, because it is more than likely that I am wasting both your time and mine. I have come here only because Willie Meraulton, to whom I am engaged, insists on it. He believes that I am in some sort of danger. It seems that a Mr Fingal has recommended you as a person who might be of assistance under certain circumstances.'

Callaghan nodded. This was going to be good!

'I should tell you,' she went on, 'that August Meraulton is my stepfather. Possibly you have heard of him. Most people who know him think that he ought to be in a madhouse. I feel that way occasionally myself. He is an extremely rich man and can afford to indulge in certain idiosyncrasies such as making the life of everyone around him a misery and generally creating hell upon earth for such people as are unable to see eye to eye with him.

'His brother was Charles Meraulton, who died five years ago. He, too, was rich, and he left his money to his five sons— I suppose you would call them my half-cousins. They are Willie Meraulton— a grand person, whom I am going to marry— Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy. If you read the papers you will probably know about them. They've spent their money, and they have little interest beyond chasing odd women and drinking too much.

'Briefly the position is this: My stepfather— who has become even more peculiar since the death of my mother three years ago— does not expect to live very much longer. He has angina pectoris, an illness which does not go well with his sort of temper. He knows that Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy are just waiting for him to die, and die quickly, so that they may have some more money to waste. He knows, too, that they are aware that under his will his estate is to be equally divided between his five nephews and myself.

'Two days ago he gave a dinner-party. There were present the five of them, myself and my stepfather. He told them that he had made a new will, that it was typed on a thin piece of copy paper and that he was carrying it round with him in his watch case. He said that when he died and it was read most of them would hate him more than they did now, but that if, by some chance, he felt better disposed towards them he'd tear it up and they'd still get their money. Do you understand?'

Callaghan nodded.

'I suppose that most of 'em have already pawned or mortgaged their expectation under the original will?' he asked.

'Exactly,' she continued. 'He has therefore created the situation under which the four of them— I do not include Willie, who is nice and who works hard and still has his original legacy from his father— do not know whether his death will make them rich or bankrupt. If he revokes the new will— the one in his watch-case— or destroys it, then they may be able to get through. If not, each one of them will face ruin, and, if I know anything of them, possibly something worse.'

Callaghan blew a smoke ring carefully. He was looking out of the window, thinking.

'Willie is terribly worried,' she went on. 'He believes that if any of the four could get August out of the way quickly and quietly they'd do it. But more importantly he knows that they are aware of my own quarrels with my stepfather. Today he told me that all sorts of weird things are going on, that he was afraid for me.'

Callaghan looked up.

'Afraid for you?' he repeated. 'Why?'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'Willie says that they're all half crazy. He says that he has a fearful idea that one of them will do something to August to get that new will and destroy it— or employ someone else to do it for them. He says that if they do they'll somehow try to hang it on to me.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Isn't that bein' rather a bit far-fetched?' he asked. 'D'you mean that your young man Willie honestly believes that one of this precious quartet is goin' to do in the old boy an' then somehow frame you for the murder?'

She nodded.

'That is what he means,' she said.

Callaghan looked at her. He looked at her for a long time.

'What do you think?' he asked.

She shrugged again.

'I don't know what I think,' she said in the same cool tone. 'I'm rather worried and very bored with it all. Today Willie telephoned me that I was to get into touch with you. Mr Fingal said that you were the sort of man who could "keep up"— those were his words— with Bellamy, Paul, Percival and Jeremy.'

She smiled a little grimly.

'Willie said that Mr Fingal tells him that they'd have to be very smart to be smarter than Mr Callaghan.'

She looked at him with a sudden gleam of interest in her eyes.

'That was damn nice of Mr Fingal,' he said. 'Maybe he said some other things as well?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'I believe he said some other things,' she continued. 'I believe he said there were one or two police officers would give half a year's pay to get their hands on you because you've been a little bit more than clever, that you're rather expert in sailing close to the wind.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Very nice of him,' he said.

He got up, stood leaning against the wall behind the desk.

'All right,' he said. 'All right, I'm takin' this case. Maybe you'll tell me who my client is? Is it you or is it your boy friend Willie Meraulton?'

She took another cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter.

'Does it matter?' she said.

He grinned.

'So far as I can see,' he said, 'I'm supposed to be a watchdog. My business is to keep a sort of fatherly eye on your halfcousins— the Meraulton quartet. Well, that's all right with me, but jobs like that cost money.'

She indicated the square manilla envelope on the desk.

'There are four one-hundred-pound notes, eight ten-pound notes and twenty one-pound notes in the envelope,' she said. 'Willie Meraulton said you were to have that on account of your services. Mr Fingal told him that you'd want everything you could get.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Once again Fingal is right,' he said. 'I do— an' don't you?' His tone was still pleasant.

She got up. Callaghan was still leaning against the wall.

'Just one minute, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'Tell me something. Willie— the boy friend— is worried about you. All right. Well, I reckon that if I was your boy friend I'd worry about you, too. I want to ask you a lot of questions, because even a private detective with a fourth-floor office an' a reputation that makes Scotland Yard sneeze sometimes has to know somethin' about what he's doin'.'

She moved to the door.

'Not tonight, Mr Callaghan,' she said. 'It's late, and I have an appointment.'

'All right,' he said. 'You're the boss. But you might tell me why it was so urgent that you had to see me tonight. Why wouldn't tomorrow mornin' do? Or would you call that a rude question?'

'I might be busy in the morning, and I do not always explain my reasons for seeing people I employ at hours when I want to see them, Mr Callaghan. And may I ask you a question? You said that my fiancé was worried about me, and you were good enough to add that if you were my boy friend— as you call it— you would worry about me, too. Why?'

Callaghan smiled slowly. He said nothing. His eyes travelled over her from her hair down to her feet. His glance was as slow as his smile.

She flushed.

Callaghan pulled open a drawer and took out a pad.

'Can I have your address and the telephone number?' he asked.

She gave them.

He threw the pad back in the drawer.

'Good-night, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'I'll handle this. I s'pose you don't really give a damn if somebody kills August so long as they don't try an' show you did it. By the way, have you always been livin' at this address? Did you ever live in the same house as your stepfather?'

'I left there three days ago,' she said.

She put her hand on the doorknob.

Callaghan walked slowly over to the door and opened it. In the outer office he saw Effie Perkins tidying up her desk, clearing out the drawers. He snarled.

He walked to the outer office door and held it open.

'Good-night, Miss Meraulton,' he said. 'By the way, what's your first name?'

She registered polite astonishment.

'My name is Cynthis,' she said.

She went through the door.

'I think it's a nice name,' said Callaghan. 'I like names with Cyn in 'em. Good-night, madame.'

He closed the door.

Effie Perkins picked up her handbag from her typing table and settled her coat.

'So you're goin',' said Callaghan. 'All right— as you are goin' there's no need for me to tell you that it's damned silly of you to have left your glove lyin' there by my office door where you dropped it when you were listenin' at the keyhole. I hope you enjoyed yourself. Good-night, you red-headed cat!'

He stood there until she slammed the door behind her. Then, muttering a rude word to himself, he went back into his office.

He picked up the envelope from the desk, took out the money and counted the notes. He put them in his hip pocket.

Then he stood in the middle of the office, put up his nose and sniffed like a dog. On the air there was still a vague suggestion of the perfume that Cynthis Meraulton had been wearing.

He walked over to the telephone table and called a Holborn number. He waited, listening to the ringing tone at the other end, drumming on the table with his fingers.

'Listen,' he said, 'is that you, Darkie? All right. Get some of that sleep out of your eyes an' get yourself a piece of paper. Got it? All right, here's what I want: There's an old boy— you've heard of him, he's half nuts— called August Meraulton. I want his address an' anything else you can get. Got that? All right. Well, I want the addresses and telephone numbers of his nephews Willie, Bellamy, Paul, Percival an' Jeremy. Get anything else you can on this bunch an' get it quick. Got that? Well, this August Meraulton has got a stepdaughter Cynthis. Find out why she calls herself Meraulton instead of by her father's name. Now get a move on an' try an' have all that by tomorrow. Send somebody round to the cuttin' people an' get every damned cuttin' on the Meraulton family you can get hold of. I'll call you tomorrow. An' listen, this isn't any cheap business, either. You can make some real money this time. Good-night.'