Dangerous Curves

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A dame has to have more than beauty and breeding to stop Slim Callaghan doing things his way. Mrs Riverton has plenty of both, but when she begins to interfere in Slim's search for her stepson, things start to hot up. Slim's motto is: 'We get there somehow and who the hell cares'. The problem is that someone does ...

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 288

Sample

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.’

Callaghan ran a furry tongue over dry lips.

‘Well, why the hell didn’t you phone up, Effie?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why do I have my apartment two floors above my office? If you wanted to get
at me, why didn’t you telephone?’

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said. ‘I’ve been ringing you most of the day – you’ve just been unconscious.’

‘I was on a jag last night,’ said Callaghan. ‘I feel like hell. What’s happenin’ down there?’

‘The Riverton case is happening,’ she answered. ‘It’s breaking out all over the place. If you want to hold on to those clients you’ll have to make something happen.
I think . . .’

‘I’m not askin’ for your advice,’ snapped Callaghan. ‘When I want you to run my dam’ business I’ll ask you.’

‘All right, sir,’ Effie’s cool voice came back accenting the ‘sir’. ‘Let me give you the details. First of all I’d like to point out to you that you
haven’t been here for two days. There’s a pile of correspondence on your desk that’ll take you a week to answer. But that’s not all. There have been eight calls from the
Manor House. I think the Colonel must be getting a little bit annoyed with Callaghan Investigations. And there’s a letter here from Selby, Raukes & White, the Riverton solicitors. Would
you like me to read it?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Callaghan. ‘I’m comin’ down. Anything else?’

‘Yes. A man who owns a cinema came in this afternoon. He employs a woman manageress who banks the takings. He says there’s a shortage somewhere and wants you to investigate. What do
you want done?’

‘Did you ask him why he hasn’t been to the police?’ asked Callaghan.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I don’t think he wants to. He sounded a bit nervous when he talked about the manageress.’

Callaghan grunted.

‘It sounds like the old story,’ he said. ‘Charge him fifty pounds retainer and put Findon on the case. He likes movies.’

‘I know,’ said Effie. She paused for a second. ‘He also likes women. I thought Nikolas was the man for that job. So I put him on to it. And I charged a hundred.’

Callaghan grinned.

‘Nice goin’, Effie,’ he said.

He hung up. He walked across the long luxurious bedroom towards the bathroom. He was wearing the top half of a pair of red silk pyjamas. When he walked he put his well-shaped wiry legs on the
floor like a cat.

He took off the pyjama jacket and stood under the shower. He started the water very hot, ran it through to hike-warm, then to cold. Then he put on a bathrobe, sat down on the stool and began to
rub hair-dressing into his tousled hair. He thought about the Riverton business and began to curse quietly, systematically and comprehensively.

The telephone rang in the bedroom. It was Kells. Callaghan, who, still wet, had picked up the receiver with an oath, toned down when he heard the Canadian accent on the line.

‘Hallo, Slim,’ said Kells. ‘How’s it going?’

‘All right, Monty,’ said Callaghan. ‘I’ve got a hangover, that’s all. What is it?’

‘I’ve got that skirt,’ said Kells. ‘The Dixon dame. Her name’s Azelda Dixon and they call her “Swing-It”. And by God does she! She’s got
something, this baby, except she looks tired to death.’

Callaghan grinned.

‘Nice work, Monty,’ he said. ‘Will she talk?’

‘Not a crack,’ said Monty. ‘She’s as quiet as a goddam grave. I don’t even know where she lives. She’s a tight one, that doll.’

‘They’re all tight,’ said Callaghan. ‘Those women either talk too much or say nothin’.’

‘You said it,’ said Kells. ‘I’ve fixed it this way: I’m seeing her again, so maybe she’s going to fall for my sex appeal an’ come across. If she
don’t, I’ll have to think up something else. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘All right, Monty,’ said Callaghan. ‘Listen, I’m going over to Martinella’s place tonight. I want to see that fight. I’ll finish up at Perruqui’s. Effie
says the Manor House has been telephonin’ all day. They’re gettin’ dam’ excited about something. Maybe they don’t think I’m doin’ enough for that
£100 a week. It looks as if we’ll have to get a ripple on.’

‘I like that,’ said Kells. ‘For Jeez’ sake, what do they think we’ve been doing?’

Callaghan hung up.

He dressed himself. He put on a white silk shirt, a low, stiff double collar and a black, watered silk bow. His double-breasted dinner-jacket was well cut. His clothes looked good and
expensive.

He put on a black soft hat and lit a cigarette. After the first few puffs he began to cough and went on coughing for quite a while. He walked over to the cupboard in the corner and poured
himself out four fingers of rye whisky. He drank it in one gulp.

He went into the corridor and rang for the lift. On the window at the end of the long passage – the window at the Berkeley Square end – the rain was beating hard against the window
pane. He stood there waiting, thinking about the Riverton business.

Callaghan was five feet ten inches high; his shoulders were broad, descending to a thin waist and narrow hips. His arms were long; his face was thin with high cheekbones, a decided jaw, ears
that lay flat against his head. His eyes were of a peculiar blue, his hair black and unruly, and women liked the shape of his mouth. Looking at him, one got an impression of utter ruthlessness and
a cynical humour.

The lift came up. Callaghan went down to his office two floors below.

Effie Thompson was at the filing cabinet in the inner office. She was of medium height, well rounded. Her hair was red, her eyes green. Her clothes fitted her as clothes ought
to fit. She looked trim and efficient.

Callaghan sat down behind the big desk. He began to open the letter from Selby, Raukes & White. He said suddenly:

‘Has Kells been in?’

She nodded.

‘He was in this morning, and I wish he’d keep his hands to himself!’

She shut the cabinet with a bang.

Callaghan grinned. His eyes lit with an impish humour.

‘So he’s been pinchin’ you again?’ he said. ‘It’s dam’ funny, but women always seem to get pinched by the wrong man . . . eh, Effie?’

She flushed, walked into her own office. He heard her typewriter begin to clatter.

Callaghan read the letter:

Selby, Raukes & White, Solicitors,

478 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, W.C.

15th November, 1938.

Dear Mr Callaghan,

We are instructed by Colonel Riverton, who, we regret to say, is now seriously ill, to write you again in the matter of his son Mr Wilfred Eustace Riverton.

It is now eight weeks since you were originally asked to provide our client with comprehensive information about the whereabouts of his son, his mode of living, the names of his
immediate associates and, if possible, some definite indication where the large sums of money which Mr Wilfred Riverton has been spending – or losing
– have gone.

We hope that you will be able to report within a few days, and in this connection would remind you that your retainer of £100 per week is, in our opinion, a
generous one, and should enable you to proceed more quickly in this matter than has been indicated up to the moment of writing.

We are,

Truly yours,

pp Selby, Raukes & White,

T. J. Selby.

Callaghan swore softly. He rang the bell-push on his desk. Effie Thompson, her book open, came in.

‘Write to these people, acknowledge receipt of their letter, and tell ’em if they don’t like the way I handle my cases they can go to somebody else. Sign it for me.’

He threw the letter across the desk. She picked it up.

‘You were supposed to be having dinner with Juanita tonight,’ she said primly. ‘Are you, or do I telephone as usual?’

‘You write that letter an’ go home,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the telephonin’.’

She nodded.

‘Mrs Riverton came through at six o’clock,’ she said. ‘She sounded as if she was rather fed-up with Callaghan Investigations. She seemed to think we were all asleep round
here. She’s in town. She’s at the Chartres Hotel. She’ll be back there at eleven o’clock tonight. She said I was to tell you to telephone her at eleven-fifteen.’

He nodded.

‘Good night, Effie,’ she said.

Five minutes later he heard the outer door close behind her. He took off the telephone receiver, dialled a Park number.

‘Hallo, Juanita,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’ve got to miss that dinner we arranged. I’m busy. . . . Now, it’s no dam’ good crackin’ on . . . that’s
how it is. . . . Yes . . . I’ll call you tomorrow.’

He hung up the receiver. Then he leaned down and opened the bottom desk drawer and took out a quart bottle of rye whisky. He pulled the cork and took a long swig. Then he opened another drawer
and took out a Mauser automatic. He looked at the gun for a moment and then threw it back into the drawer.

He got up, switched off the lights, walked through the centre and outer offices, which were still lit, closed and locked the outer door. The electric lift took him to the ground floor. He waited
until a cab from the Berkeley Square rank appeared. He hailed it.

‘Go to Joe Martinella’s place,’ he told the driver, ‘and step on it.’

Callaghan stood at the end of the long white-washed passage that ran from the street entrance, and looked round Joe Martinella’s place. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in
the air above the ring. The tiered seats, rising on steps set behind the six rows of ringside seats, were packed with men of every description and a few women. One or two of the women in the
ringside seats – ladies who liked occasional, pugilistic slumming – were in evening frocks.

In the ring two reputed lightweights banged each other about in a desultory fashion, punching as if they meant it only when some raucous voice accused one of them of being a sissy. A babel of
sound echoed throughout the place, hitting the white-washed walls at each end of the old-time gymnasium, echoing back.

Callaghan walked through the narrow gangway. He put his soft black hat on one of the ringside seats in the second row. Then he walked round the ring, through the opposite gangway, along the
passage that ran to the dressing-rooms and turned off into Joe Martinella’s private bar.

The room was small. It smelt of stale tobacco smoke, horse oil embrocation and sweat. Leaning up against the bar, talking to Joe and one or two bookmakers and professional gamblers, was Gill
Charleston.

Callaghan thought that Charleston looked like a fish out of water. His tall, well-built body, dressed in a well-cut dinner coat, expensive linen and quiet jewellery, added a touch of distinction
to a nondescript collection of near-toughs.

Charleston looked up and saw Callaghan. He smiled and his eyes lit up. Callaghan sent him a heavy wink. Then he went outside and stood round the doorway, in the passage, lighting a cigarette.
Charleston came out.

‘Well, you old horse-thief,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Who are you after this time? How’s business – or are the clients getting wise?’

Callaghan knocked the ash off his cigarette.

‘Gill,’ he said, ‘I’m in a bit of a jam an’ I’m goin’ to put my cards on the table. Maybe you can help me. It’s about Wilfred Riverton – The
Mug.’

Charleston nodded.

‘Go ahead, Slim,’ he said.

‘The family’s gettin’ on my tail,’ said Callaghan. ‘The old boy – the Colonel – is pretty sick, an’ he’s worryin’. I’m
gettin’ a hundred a week to find out where his little boy is throwin’ the family money – who the women are, or – if it’s not women – who’s runnin’
the roulette board or whatever is separatin’ The Mug from the Riverton cash. I haven’t done so well.’

Charleston nodded.

‘How’ve you played it, Slim?’ he asked.

‘We’ve been hangin’ around all the usual joints,’ said Callaghan. ‘I reckon we’ve been into every high-class, low-class and lousy spieler in London.
We’re still dam’ cold. Whoever’s got little Wilfred on a hook is keepin’ it nice an’ quiet.’

Charleston lit a cigarette.

‘Look, Slim,’ he said quietly. ‘You know me. I like to keep out of trouble. I do a little gambling and I make a little money. I’d hate to get myself up against something
I couldn’t handle. See . . .’

Callaghan grinned.

‘I see . . .’ he said.

Charleston looked about him, dropped his voice.

‘Raffano’s the boyo,’ he said. ‘He’s the black in the woodpile. He’s as crooked as a couple of corkscrews an’ he’s getting away with it. He sells
’em everything. He’s got a boat somewhere in the country, and I hear there’s some sweet money dropped on it. He’s got other interests, too. One or two nice little dumps
outside London with one or two nice little girls with charming habits to get back the money off the boys who’re lucky enough to win. He’s half American and half Italian, and he’s
as tough as they come.’

Callaghan sent a cloud of smoke out of one nostril.

‘Thank you, Gill,’ he said. ‘I’ll do somethin’ for you one day.’

He was silent for a moment. Then:

‘Did you know I was interested in The Mug?’ he asked.

Charleston laughed.

‘Everybody knows it,’ he said. ‘All the clever boys, anyhow. But I reckon that they’ve all had a cut at the Riverton Mug, so they weren’t letting you in on
anything.’

He paused and looked at the glowing end of his cigarette.

‘Look, Slim,’ he said. ‘You said you’d like to do something for me. . . .’

Callaghan looked at him and smiled.

‘I’ll do anythin’ for you, Gill,’ he said softly. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Juanita,’ said Charleston. ‘I’m crazy about that girl. I’ve never been so nutty about a woman in my life. I’d give something to get
Juanita.’

Callaghan grinned.

‘Well, why not, Gill?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘Why not!’ echoed Charleston. ‘I like that. You’ve got your hooks into her so hard that she don’t even look at anybody. I’ve tried everything I know. Flowers
and invitations and everything else on the menu, and she’s as cold as a snowball. She’d rather be kept waiting by you than have a good time from me. . . .’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Callaghan. ‘Juanita is a clever girl. She’s not really stuck on me . . . she only thinks she is. I think you’re the sort of
feller she’d really go for.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have a little talk to her, Gill.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘And thanks for the tip-off about
Raffano.’

‘There’s your boy,’ said Charleston. ‘I’ve heard it said that he’s taken the Riverton Mug for thousands, and that he’s not through with him yet. But you
go easy, Slim . . . Raffano’s poison . . . and he’s got some tough boys working for him around the place. He takes no chances.’

Callaghan nodded.

‘So he’s a tough worker?’ he said.

‘Very tough,’ said Charleston. ‘Look at this fight tonight – the big fight after this cuddling match is over. You try and get a bet on the black . . . just try . . . you
can’t do it. Nobody’ll look at it. They all had their money on three days ago with any mug who’d take it . . . before Raffano put the fight in the bag. . . .’

Callaghan looked up. There was a gleam in his eye.

‘So it’s in the bag, Gill?’ he said.

Charleston nodded.

‘Lonney—the white boy—could murder that black if he wanted to,’ he said. ‘But he’s been told to lie down in the third round, and he’ll do it.
He’ll do it because he’ll get a hundred that way and some more easy money in the future. All the wise boys here know that, too.’

Callaghan nodded again.

‘An’ I suppose The Mug will be backin’ Lonney,’ he said. ‘I suppose that Raffano’s given him a sweet price an’ The Mug thinks he’s on a good
thing.’

He leaned against the passage wall.

‘Where does this Raffano feller hang out, Gill?’ he asked.

Charleston shrugged his shoulders.

‘He keeps out of the way most of the time,’ he said. ‘He’s not over here tonight. If things are goin’ all right he just doesn’t trouble. I believe he lives
somewhere in the country.’

Callaghan ran his tongue over his lips.

‘I see . . .’ he said quietly. ‘He just turns up when things are goin’ wrong.’ He straightened up. ‘Thanks for the information.’ He grinned. ‘I
won’t forget about Juanita,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can get her sort of interested in you. So long, Gill.’

He walked down the passage. Charleston went back into the bar. Half-way down the passage Callaghan stopped and stood for a minute or two thinking. Then he walked on and turned down the short
flight of stone steps that led towards the dressing-rooms.

There was nobody in the short passage. Callaghan walked quietly to the door at the end. He opened it far enough for him to put his head round. On the other side of the room, sitting on the
rubbing-down table, was Lonney, the fighter. His hands were already bandaged. He was looking at the floor. Callaghan went in, closed the door behind him.

‘Hallo, Lonney,’ he said. ‘You don’t look very happy.’

Lonney looked up.

‘I’m all right, Mr Callaghan,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Pretty well,’ said Callaghan.

He smiled, showing his white teeth. He reached back to his hip pocket and took out the thin gold cigarette-case that Cynthis Meraulton had given him two years before. He took out a cigarette,
lit it. He did everything slowly. He was watching the fighter.

‘I have got a £10 note in my hip pocket that says you’re going to kill this black,’ he said softly.

There was a pause. Then:

‘I dunno, Mr Callaghan. I’m not feeling so good. Maybe I’ve overtrained a bit.’

Callaghan grinned.

‘Like hell,’ he said.

He blew a smoke ring out of his mouth and watched it. Then he walked over and stood beside Lonney. He dropped his voice.

‘You listen to me, Lonney. Don’t make any mistakes. I know all about this fight. It’s been ready-eyed. It’s in the bag. You’re getting £100 to lie down in the
third round. You’re getting it just so’s that cheap skunk Raffano can clean up over this fight. I know what I’m talking about. You can’t get threepence on that black outside
because everybody knows he’s going to win.’

Callaghan sat down on the table beside Lonney.

‘Lonney,’ he said, ‘I’m goin’ to tell you something. Jake Raffano’s finished. He’s been doin’ pretty well over here, but he’s not
goin’ on doin’ well. I’m fed-up with that feller.

‘I’m goin’ to make a suggestion to you, Lonney,’ he went on, speaking in the same quiet, even voice. ‘You get into the ring and kill that dam’ black. You know
you can do it. You’ve forgotten more about fightin’ than that boy’ll ever know. All right, then. You take the winnin’ end of the purse, don’t you? That’s
£50. And tomorrow my office sends you another £100. So you get £150 instead of the £100 that Raffano was goin’ to pay you, and you win another fight. You put yourself
one rung up the ladder to that championship that there is somewhere in the distance. Well, what are you goin’ to do?’

Lonney looked at the door. His eyes were scared.

‘It ain’t so easy,’ he said. ‘If it was as easy as that it’d be all right. But if I cross him up and win this fight – and I can do it – what’s
Raffano goin’ to do to me? Somebody’s goin’ to wait for m. . .