It Couldn't Matter Less

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

It's wartime London. Inspector Gringall of the Yard, long-time friendly rival of private detective Slim Callaghan, sends Slim on a mission to meet Doria Varette, a torch singer at Ferdie's Place. Callaghan knows Gringall has something up his sleeve. And when, backstage, Doria asks him to take on a job - to find her boyfriend Lionel Wilbery, a poet with the wrong friends and a drug problem - Callaghan finds Gringall has more than a missing person in his sights.

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 288

Sample

I

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.

II

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.

III

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 cocked 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 cock-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.

IV

Callaghan got up from the arm-chair and began to undress. As he took off his clothes he threw them on to the floor. When he had stripped to his underwear he went into the
bathroom, filled the wash-basin with cold water and dipped his head into it. He kept it there until it began to ache.

Then he dried his face and began to rub eau-de-cologne from a quart bottle into his thick black hair.

Still rubbing, carrying the bottle in his hand, he went back into the sitting-room. He picked up the inter-communication telephone and waited. After a while Nikolls’s voice came over the
wire from the office.

Callaghan said: “Come up here, Windy.”

He put the bottle on the floor, went into the bedroom, selected a shirt, collar, tie and lounge suit, and began to dress.

Nikolls came in. He was smoking a cigar. He said: “Happy Birthday. Are you finishin’ it or startin’ another one?”

Callaghan put on his trousers. Then he walked into the sitting-room, went over to the sideboard and poured himself out four fingers of Canadian Club. He drank it neat, lit a cigarette, indulged
in a fit of coughing. When it was over he asked:

“What did Gringall want?”

Nikolls shrugged his shoulders.

“Search me,” he said. “I think he wanted you to go over to the dump he was at—Ferdie’s Place, off Bruton Street—an’ see him. I told him you wasn’t
in. He said it didn’t matter.”

Callaghan said: “All right. . . . Look in about eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, Windy.”

Nikolls exuded a large mouthful of cigar smoke.

He said: “O.K. I hope you had a nice birthday an’ everything.”

He went out. Callaghan heard the lift gates close.

He stood leaning up against the sideboard. He drew a mouthful of smoke down into his lungs and sent it out in a thin stream through one nostril. He finished dressing, put on a thin overcoat, a
black soft hat, and went down the stairs to the office. He unlocked the outer office door, switched on the light, opened the telephone directory. He looked up the address of Ferdie’s
Place.

Three minutes afterwards he was crossing Berkeley Square in the direction of Bruton Street. The moon had come out from behind the clouds—the thin sleeting rain had stopped. Somewhere above
a German bomber droned.

At the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street he stopped to light a cigarette. He was thinking about Audrey Vendayne. After a while he began to think of Mrs. Riverton and some other women whose
faces flashed across his mind.

He turned off Bruton Street, found the address he sought, went down the basement steps, knocked on the door. After a few minutes Ferdie opened it.

Callaghan said: “My name’s Callaghan. Mr. Gringall telephoned me from here some time ago. Is he still here?”

Ferdie said: “No, Mr. Callaghan. He’s gone.” He was smiling amiably.

“I’m not a member,” said Callaghan. “But I’d like a drink. . . .”

“That’s perfectly all right,” said Ferdie. “Any friend of the Chief Inspector’s . . .”

He led the way along the passage.

When Callaghan had left his coat and hat he went up the stairs and into the main room. There were a lot of people there dancing or eating and drinking. They were the usual sort of people that
you find in a place like Ferdie’s at times like this.

Ferdie said: “Order anything you want, Mr. Callaghan. It’s on the house. I’ll have your name put on the invitation list to-morrow. There’s a turn on in a few minutes . .
. a good one. . . . I hope we’ll see a lot of you.”

Callaghan sat down on a gold chair at a small gold table. He picked up the menu and read it. Printed on the back in silver lettering were the words, “Ferdie’s Place . . .
London’s Most Famous Bottle Party . . . with Doria . . .”

A waiter came to the table. Callaghan ordered a double Canadian Club. He asked the waiter who Doria was. The man said she was Miss Doria Varette; that she sang. He went away.

Callaghan sat looking at the people around him. He thought they were not fearfully interesting. He wondered what they did—or did not do—when they weren’t at Ferdie’s
Place.

The band stopped playing and the people on the floor went to their tables. Ferdie went on to the band platform and the house lights went out. A spot lime was put on Ferdie. He said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present with great pleasure . . . Doria. . . .”

The band started an ad lib. The spot lime was switched off Ferdie on to the opening between the curtains, which parted slowly. Callaghan looked at Doria.

She was wearing a tight-fitting frock of silver lamé with a little train. Over it she wore a three-quarter length cloak of the same material, lined with scarlet crêpe-de-chine.
There was a high black fox roll collar on the cloak.

She began to sing. She sang in a peculiarly effortless manner and rather as if she were bored with the process. She sang a number called “I Could Learn,” but by the way she sang it
she indicated that even if she could it would be too much trouble. She created an extraordinary atmosphere while she sang. Callaghan noticed the complete and utter silence in the room.

Occasionally she moved. Merely a suggestion of movement, but it was so graceful a movement, so alluring, that one waited expectantly for a repetition.

Callaghan drank his whisky and then a little water.

The woman finished singing. There was applause and the curtains came together. The house lights went up. A young man sitting at the next table leaned over and said to a subaltern in battle
dress: “Christ . . . what a hell of a woman. . . . Oh, boy . . .!”

Callaghan signalled the waiter who was hovering.

He tore off one half of the menu and wrote on the blank part: “I want to talk to you. It might be urgent.” He signed the note, gave it to the waiter. He said:

“Put that in an envelope and see that Miss Varette gets it immediately. And bring some more whisky.”

He gave the man a pound note.

The band began to play a tango. After a while the waiter came back with the whisky. He brought the bottle. Callaghan wondered whether Ferdie was always so generous to prospective customers. He
watched the dancers, drinking whisky when the sight bored him.

He waited a long time. Eventually a lanky page-boy appeared and quietly asked Callaghan to follow him. They went out of the room, downstairs and along a passage that ran parallel with the room
above. At the end was a door. The page-boy opened the door and went away.

Callaghan stood in the doorway looking into the dressing-room. He inhaled the scent of face powder and perfume that clings to such places.

Doria Varette was sitting in front of the large wing mirrors on her dressing-table. She was wearing a black suit and a fox fur. Beneath the fur Callaghan could see a suggestion of a lace
ruffle.

He thought that the young man upstairs was right. She was a hell of a woman. Her beauty was heightened by the incongruity of her raven black hair and the almost icy blueness of her eyes. The
whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her hair, and the sensitiveness of her nostrils was matched by that of her mouth.

When she moved to look at Callaghan she imbued the slight movement with the same peculiar grace that he had noticed when she was singing.

She said: “It was nice of you to want to meet me, Mr. Callaghan. I don’t often meet members of this place. But you said it might be urgent. Why is it urgent?”

She did not smile. While she spoke she held the piece of menu on which Callaghan had written his note between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand. She opened her fingers and the piece of
cardboard fell on to the table.

Callaghan thought that the gesture was as effortless as her singing. He said:

“I didn’t say it was urgent. I said it might be urgent.”

He grinned at her. He was leaning against the doorpost. She noticed the strength of his narrow jaw and his strong even teeth. Suddenly she smiled.

She picked up a cigarette case from the dressing-table and opened it. She offered it to him. Callaghan took a cigarette and produced his lighter.

She inhaled deeply. After a minute she said:

“Why might it be urgent?”

He shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been in this place before. Earlier a friend rang me up and asked me to meet him here. He also said that you were singing
here and that you were my type.” His grin became mischievous. “He was right. . . .”

She got up suddenly. She stood facing him. She was still smiling. Callaghan was looking at her mouth. He thought she had a hell of a mouth. It was superbly carved, mobile, sensitive.

“Well . . .” she said softly. “And where do we go from there?”

Callaghan said: “I don’t mind. I’ve a flat in Berkeley Square. There’s a good fire, two bottles of Goulay, a dozen Canadian rye and bourbon, some brandy and a little gin
. . . if that’s of interest. . . .”

She turned back towards the mirror, picked up a small tailor-made hat and began to put it on. Callaghan thought that putting on a hat was a good test for any woman’s figure. A woman either
looked very good or she didn’t. This one did.

She said suddenly: “You’re a detective, aren’t you—a private detective?”

Callaghan nodded.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Ferdinand told me. He said you had quite a reputation.”

“It just shows you,” said Callaghan, “doesn’t it . . .?” He inhaled and began to blow smoke rings. “Inc. . .