Série Slim Callaghan Series

CALLAGHAN turned the corner into Chancery Lane. A gust of cold wind met him, blowing back the flaps of his not-so-clean raincoat, sending the rain through his threadbare trouser legs. He was five feet ten and thin. He had sevenpence halfpenny and a heavy smoker's cough. His arms were a little too long for his height and his face was surprising. It was the sort of face that you looked at twice in case you'd been mistaken the first time. The eyes were set wide apart over a long, rather thin nose. They were a light turquoise in colour and seldom blinked. His face was long and his chin pointed. He was clean shaven and women liked the shape of his mouth for reasons best known to themselves.

CALLAGHAN awoke and looked at the ceiling. The fire sent grotesque shadows flickering across the white expanse above him. He yawned, turned over, kicked off the bedclothes, swung his legs to the floor. He sat, his tousled black head in his hands, looking at the fire. His lips were dry and his tongue felt like a yellow plush sofa. Outside he could hear the rain pattering on the windows. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was eight o'clock. He got up and began to walk to the bathroom, when the telephone bell jangled. It was Effie Thompson. He growled into the receiver. 'All right,' she said primly. 'Is it my fault if you've got a head? Forgive me for troubling you, but are you ever coming back to this office? Things are happening down here.'

THE Chinese clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. A beam of May sunshine, following a sharp shower, pushed its way through the crack between the heavy velvet curtains, slanted obliquely across the big settee, stayed for a moment in the long, expensively furnished bedroom then, apparently disheartened, disappeared, giving place to a fresh shower. The door between the sitting-room and the bedroom opened slowly. Effie Thompson's red head appeared, followed by the rest of her. She stood in the doorway, one hand on hip, her green eyes narrowed, scanning the disordered room, noting the trail of trousers, coat, waistcoat, shirt and what-will-you that lay between the doorway and the settee. She sighed. She walked quietly about the room, picking up the clothes, folding them, laying them on a chair. On the settee, Callaghan lay stretched out at full length. He was wearing a sea-green silk undervest and shorts. One foot sported a blue silk sock and a well-polished shoe; the other merely a suspender which hung precariously from the big toe. His hands were folded across his belly. He slept deeply and peacefully. His broad shoulders, which almost covered the width of the settee, descended to a thin waist and narrow hips. His face was thin and the high cheekbones made it appear longer. His black hair was tousled and unruly. On the floor beside the settee was a big, half-empty bottle of eau-de-Cologne with the stopper beside it.

EFFIE THOMPSON was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast. She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan.  

Not many people knew of The Crescent & Star. Those who did were the more happy. For Mrs Melander, the hostess, was a lady of a certain charm, acumen and versatility. Sometimes the inn was full, but often, as just now, it was empty except for two guests. On such occasions Mrs Melander—who, as has been suggested, was a woman of discernment—and her two daughters Suzanne and Emilienne, provided adequate if not delightful company. It was raining. It had rained for six hours unceasingly. Dark clouds turned the August evening prematurely into something like night. The rhododendron bushes dripped. An antiquated owl, denizen of one of the trees in the wood near the inn, hooted dolorously as if he had made up his mind to contribute something to the sombre atmosphere which enshrouded him. Rivulets of rain ran from the gutterspouts and splashed into the narrow stone courtyard at the side of the hotel in miniature cascades.

THE wind came in from the sea, driving the rain before it. It descended in sheets beating down on the rolling Sussex Downs, forming little rivulets that ran swiftly down the gutters of the winding roads about Alfriston. The wind howled dismally through the woods that topped the long rise of downland behind the village. Dark Spinney, the old rambling Alardyse house, stood on the hillside above the village of High and Over, commonly called Hangover. The high red lichen and moss-covered wall that surrounded the house showed dimly through the darkness; reflected fitfully the gleam of the lights of a car that came over the downs and wended its lonely way towards Alfriston. Inside, in the old oak-panelled wall, a wheezy grandfather's clock struck eight.

WHEN Callaghan came into the office, Effie Thompson stopped typing. She said: "Good morning, Mr. Callaghan. There have been a few telephone calls, and your letters are on your desk." Callaghan said: "Right, Effie. Has Fallon or Craske been through?" She shook her head. Callaghan went into his office. She followed him with her notebook. She said: "You're expecting a call from Fallon or Craske? If either of them come through while you're out what shall I do about it?" Callaghan said: "There's nothing you can do, Effie. Both those birds ought to be pretty scared by this time—both of them or one of them." She said: "You don't know which one was really responsible for that fraudulent claim?"