Sorry You've Been Troubled by Peter Cheyney

Author:Peter Cheyney [Cheyney, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2021-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

V

It was half-past one when Callaghan put the car away in the Berkeley Square garage. He went straight up to his apartment; walked across to the house telephone.

He said: ‘Wilkie, give me a ring at four-thirty, and keep ringing until I answer.’

Wilkie said: ‘Right, Mr. Callaghan.’

Callaghan said: ‘Get through to Trunk Directory and get me the number of Chipley Grange, Chipley, Sussex. You can give that to me at four-thirty.’

Wilkie said he’d do that.

Callaghan went into the bedroom, undressed, got into bed. He lay there, looking at the ceiling, smoking.

He switched off the light; went to sleep.

He was awakened by the jangling of the telephone bell. He sat up in bed, cursing quietly, consigning everybody and everything to perdition.

He got up, walked into the sitting-room, took off the receiver of the house telephone.

Wilkie said: ‘It’s just four-thirty, Mr. Callaghan. And the number you want is Chipley 072. Shall I ring it for you?’

‘No,’ said Callaghan.

He hung up. Wandered across to the electric fire, turned it on. He went across to the sideboard, helped himself to four fingers of bourbon and a cigarette.

He sat in the arm-chair in front of the fire and thought about Desirée. He wondered why the hell he should sit about at four-thirty in the morning, dressed in the top half of a pair of violet silk pyjamas, thinking about Desirée. The idea amused him.

He threw his cigarette stub away, looked at the Chinese clock on the mantelpiece. It was quarter to five. He went to the telephone, called Trunks; asked for Chipley 072.

He could hear the bell ringing at the other end. He wondered if any one would bother to answer it.

Exchange said: ‘I’m ringing your number. But there isn’t any answer. Shall I call you?’

‘No thanks,’ said Callaghan. ‘I’ll just hang on. I can hear their bell ringing. Maybe somebody’s coming.’

Exchange said: ‘Here they are.’

A man’s voice said: ‘Hallo . . . this is The Grange, Chipley. Who – ’

Callaghan said: ‘Is that Grant, the butler?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Grant.

Callaghan grinned. He thought it a damned shame to get the old boy out of bed.

He said: ‘This is Mr. Callaghan. You remember me, Grant?’

‘Why yes, sir,’ said Grant. ‘But . . .’

‘All right,’ said Callaghan. ‘Where were you when the telephone bell rang, and where are you speaking from?’

Grant said in a surprised voice: ‘I was in my room, sir, on the floor above – the third floor. When I heard the telephone I put on a dressing-gown and came down to the library on the floor below. I took your call on the extension line. It’s always put through the library at night. Shall I . . .’

Callaghan said: ‘Did you answer any telephone calls the night the Admiral died?’

Grant said: ‘Yes, sir, I did. But you see – ’ There was a pause, and the sound of another voice; then Grant continued: ‘Miss Gardell’s here, sir. Would you like to speak to her?’

Callaghan said: ‘If you like. I don’t mind.’

Desirée came on the line. Her voice was very low, almost caressing.

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