It Couldn't Matter Less

1: Birthday Night CALLAGHAN— sole occupant of the downstairs bar at the Green Paroquet Club— tilted his chair back against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, gazed solemnly, with eyes that were a trifle glazed, at the chromium fittings of the bar-counter at the other end of the room. The bartender, warily polishing glasses, wondered when he would go. Callaghan was wearing a well-cut double-breasted dinner-jacket, a white silk shirt with a soft collar, a black watered-silk bow. His face was inclined to thinness and his jaw-bones stood out. His hair was black and unruly. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a thin waist and slim hips. He tilted the chair forward, felt in the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a thin red and white gold cigarette case. He flipped it open, took out a cigarette, lit it and sat, his shoulders hunched up, looking at the inside of the open case. Inset on the red gold in silver were the words: "To Slim Callaghan from Audrey Vendayne." Callaghan began to think about the Vendayne case and Audrey Vendayne. After a bit he tilted his chair back against the wall again and began to whistle softly. He was whistling a tune called: It Was Good While It Lasted. The bartender rested his elbow on the bar, his head on his hand, and yawned. Callaghan put the case back in his pocket, got up. He put on a black soft hat and walked slowly towards the exit. The bartender said lugubriously: "There's another bleedin' air raid on, it's rainin' an' it's no good lookin' on the rank outside for a cab becos there ain't none." Callaghan looked at him. For some unknown reason the gloom of the bartender made him feel better. He said, almost cheerfully: "That's too bad. But why be depressed?" "Why not?" asked the man. "What 'ave I got to be pleased about. Look at this bleedin' war..." "All right," said Callaghan. "Look at it." The bartender took down a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured a small brandy. He drank it slowly. He hiccupped. He said: "My missus 'as joined the A.T.S. Every time I see 'er she's always beefin' off about the sergeant. My missus don't like the sergeant becos the sergeant is a blonde— a natural one I mean, an' my missus can't get the same effec' with peroxide. Las' week I find out that the sergeant is a girl I 'ad a bit of trouble with a year ago. It's a lousy situation...." Callaghan nodded. He said: "It's pretty bad. Practically anything can happen.... I know what I'd do if I were you." The bartender asked: "What would you do?" "I'd cut my throat," said Callaghan. "Do that. You'll feel happier...." He pushed the door open and went out. CHIEF Detective-Inspector Gringall, his overcoat collar turned up, his hands in his pockets, his bowler hat tilted slightly forward, turned off Bond Street and began to walk towards "Ferdie's Place." When he arrived he went down the area steps, knocked on the door and waited. After a minute the door opened. Framed in the dim light from within was a short figure in a dinner-jacket. Gringall said: "Hallo, how are you, Ferdie?" Ferdie grinned. "All right, thanks, Mr. Gringall," he said. He grinned again. "We've got a new turn to-night," he said. "I think you'll like her. She'll be on in five minutes." Gringall said: "I think I'll come in out of the rain." He followed Ferdie along the passage, left his coat and hat in the cloakroom, went up the stairs to the Club Room Floor. There were a lot of people sitting round at the tables, making the most of their one-course meals. Gringall sat down, ordered a sandwich and a bottle of Worthington. Five minutes later the band wandered on to their platform and began to play a haunting tune. People got up and danced. Half-way through the refrain the lights went out. The curtains at the far end of the room parted and a spotlight fell on the figure of a woman who had begun to sing. The dancers went back to their tables. Gringall looked at the woman appreciatively. She was about five feet eight inches in height, slim but curved in the right places. As she sang she moved her hips slightly in a quiet unexaggerated way that was very effective. Her face was surprising. It was quite beautiful, very intelligent. Her big eyes, extraordinarily blue, looked at you with an expression that denoted a vague surprise. She sang very quietly, very effectively. You could have heard a pin drop. Towards the end of the number Gringall stubbed out the cigarette he had lit, got up very quietly and went to the telephone box in the passage. WINDEMERE Nikolls, his arms hanging over the sides of Callaghan's best arm-chair, his feet on Callaghan's desk, lit a Lucky Strike from the stub end of the last one. Nikolls was wide in the shoulder, running to a little fat. His eyes were bright and penetrating, his face round and good-humoured. He got up, switched off the light, went across to the window, drew aside the black-out curtain and looked out. A shaft of moonlight was trying to illuminate the corner of Berkeley Square. Nikolls dropped the curtain back into place, switched on the light. He stood leaning against the wall looking through the half-open door of the outer office, appreciating the side view of Effie Thompson. Effie, in a smart fur coat over a blue suit, a little hat on one side of her head, sat before her desk with her gloved hands clasped in an attitude of patient resignation. Nikolls heaved himself away from the wall and walked into the doorway. He said: "Effie, has anybody ever told you you've got one helluva figure?" She said yes without looking at him. "You don't say," said Nikolls. "Who?" "You have," she said, "a thousand times. Don't you ever think about anything else except my figure?" Her voice was slightly acid. Nikolls considered. "Sometimes I do," he said, "but not often." Effie said: "I'm about sick of this. He said he'd be back at five, that I was to stay till he came back. He wanted to dictate a report on that Mailing case. I suppose it's some woman." Her voice was sarcastic. "I wouldn't be surprised," said Nikolls. He opened his mouth and exuded a large mouthful of smoke. "Another thing," he said, "I just remembered something. It's his birthday." "My God!" said Effie. "I suppose that means he won't be back at all." The telephone jangled. Nikolls lounged over to Callaghan's desk and took the call. After he had hung up, he said: "That was Gringall. I wonder what the hell he wants." Effie said: "I hope nobody's going to start something at this time of night. I'm fed up. I had a date to go to the Cinema." "There'll be other dates, honey," said Nikolls. "I remember a dame I knew when I was in Chicago..." "I know... I know," said Effie. "The one with the different coloured eyes...." She c****d her head on one side as the sound of a footstep came from the corridor outside. They both listened. They heard the lift gates clang and the noise of the lift ascending. "That's him," said Nikolls. "He's forgot all about us. He's just gone straight up to bed." He grinned. "Ain't he the heartless guy?" he concluded. Effie said: "I'm going to ring through and tell him what I think about this. I wonder if he realises it's nearly twelve o'clock." Nikolls said: "He probably don't realise anything. But if I was you I wouldn't use the telephone. Sometimes he's sorta acid at this time of night. Why don't you go up, honey?" Effie said: "Why should I?" "Go on," said Nikolls. "You know you're curious. You wanta see if he's really c**k-eyed or only half stewed. I know you. Another thing, there's always the hope he might even kiss you." Effie said: "You damned Canadian. Sometimes I hate you." Nikolls's grin was broad and benevolent. "Sure you do," he said. "I sympathise with you. But stick around long enough and he might— who knows!" He went back to the arm-chair as Effie walked towards the office door. As she turned the handle he called out: "You might tell him that Gringall was on the line just now. He wanted Slim to go over to some dump called 'Ferdie's Place,' off Bruton Street. He wanted to see him there." "I see," said Effie. "Anything else?" "Yes," said Nikolls. "I told him it was Slim's birthday to-day. I told him that I thought he'd been out on a jag with somebody, that he probably wouldn't be comin' over. Gringall said to tell him that there's a woman over there doing a torch act that would make a dead man sit up and blink. He said he thought she was the real Callaghan type." Effie said bitterly: "I suppose he thought that would do the trick." Nikolls shrugged his shoulders. When Effie Thompson walked into the sitting-room of Callaghan's flat on the floor above the office, he was lying back in a big leather arm-chair blowing smoke rings. She said icily: "Can I go. You've probably forgotten that I've been waiting since five o'clock. You said I was to wait till you came back. I suppose you did forget?" Callaghan said: "Correct— I forgot. Do you want to resign or something?" Effie flushed. Her green eyes gleamed. "That was uncalled for," she said. Callaghan nodded. "That's what I thought," he said. "Anything else?" She said: "Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall came through six or seven minutes ago. He was speaking from a Club called 'Ferdie's Place,' off Bruton Street. He wanted to know if you would go over there and meet him. He didn't say what it was about. Nikolls told him that it was improbable, that it was your birthday and that you were out— probably with somebody. I suppose you won't go?" Callaghan said: "Your supposition is correct. I'm not going. Anything else?" "Yes," said Effie. "Mr. Gringall said also that there was some woman at Ferdie's Place, a singer I believe. He said she was a most wonderful person; that she was a Callaghan type. I suppose," she concluded acidly, "he thought that might get you over there." Callaghan said: "You don't say?" She said: "If he comes through again is Nikolls to tell him you're not going over there?" He looked at her. "I wouldn't know," he said. "I think not. Good-night, Effie." "Good-night," she said. She walked to the door of the sitting-room. When she got there, Callaghan said: "Effie!" She turned round. "You've got very nice ankles, Effie," said Callaghan. "That gets me somewhere, doesn't it?" she said caustically. "Nikolls told me a few minutes ago that I'd got a good figure. I'm doing well to-day." Callaghan grinned at her. He said amiably: "I'm glad you're pleased. Good-night, Effie...." She paused with her hand on the door-knob. She said: "I wanted to wish you many happy returns of the day. I haven't had the chance before...." "Too bad," said Callaghan. "Are you going to?" She asked: "Am I going to what...?" Callaghan smiled patiently at her. "Wish me many happy returns of the day?" he asked. "But I've just done it," she said. He shook his head. "You haven't. You said you wanted to do it. Always do what you want, Effie. It's a good habit." His grin was maddening. She opened the door. Over her shoulder she said: "Many happy returns of the day." Her voice was like an icicle. Callaghan said: "The same to you, Effie...." She opened her mouth to say something. Then she shut it with a snap of her white teeth. She drew the door slowly to behind her and, when it was almost closed, slammed it viciously. She walked along the passage, entered the lift, crashed the gate and descended. On the way to the ground floor she thought of some of the things she would like to do to Callaghan.