You cant keep the change, p.1
You Can't Keep the Change, page 1
Peter Cheyney
You Can’t Keep The Change
All sorts and conditions of ladies and gentlemen found their way into the expensively furnished, well-appointed Ventura Club. You could get anything you liked there if you knew how to ask for it.
Slim Callaghan is called to Devonshire to investigate a burglary at Margraud Manor, where valuable jewels – heirlooms of the Vendayne family insured for £100,000 – have disappeared.
With his assistant, Windemere Nikolls, he discovers some startling facts – particularly about the lovely Esme Vendayne – and the mystery leads Callaghan to a shady London nightclub and a violent underworld.
You Can’t Keep The Change was originally published in 1940.
‘Peter Cheyney is the Damon Runyon of crime’ The Times
‘Slim Callaghan’s quick wit and knowledge of rough and tumble place him in the top ranks of private eyes. What a man!’ New York Times
Contents
Cover
Title Page/About the Book
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Titles by Peter Cheyney
Copyright
Chapter One
Easy Money
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 replaced the stopper and stood looking down at Callaghan’s face. She looked at his mouth. She wondered why the devil she should be so intrigued with that mouth.
Callaghan grunted.
She went out of the room closing the door behind her gently. She walked across the sitting-room out into the corridor. She went into the electric lift and down to the offices two floors below.
As she walked along the passage that led to the main door of the offices she found herself wondering why Callaghan had been on a jag. She expected it was a woman. Whenever something started—or ended—with Callaghan there was a jag. She wondered whether this was the start of something or the ending of something . . . or somebody . . .
She said a very wicked word under her breath.
Nikolls was sitting in Callaghan’s room, with his chair tipped back on its hind legs. He was smoking a Lucky Strike and blowing smoke rings. Nikolls was broad in the shoulder and inclined to run to a little fat in the region of the waist-belt. His face was round and good-humored; his eyes intelligent, penetrating.
As Effie Thompson passed him on the way to Callaghan’s desk he began to sing “You Got Snake’s Hips.” Simultaneously, and with amazing speed, he switched his chair round and aimed a playful smack at the most obvious portion of her anatomy. She side-stepped expertly—just in time. She said:
“Listen, you damned Canadian. I’ve told you to keep your hands to yourself. One of these days I’m going to kick you on the shins.”
Nikolls sighed.
“Look, honey,” he said plaintively. “Be human. Why can’t a man take a smack at you now an’ again. It’s natural—ain’t it?”
She sat down behind the desk. She began to tidy the litter of papers.
“Why is it natural?” she asked.
Her green eyes were angry.
Nikolls fished about in his coat pocket and produced a fresh cigarette. He lit it from the stub of the old one. Then, with the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he heaved a sigh which, intended to be tragic, sounded like a whale coming up for air.
“Every guy has got a weakness, honey,” he said. “Ain’t you ever learned that? Every normal guy, I mean. O.K. Well, my weakness is hips. I go for hips. I always have gone for ’em an’ I always will. In a big way I mean.”
He shifted the cigarette to the other corner of his mouth.
“Some fellas think ankles are the thing,” Nikolls continued, almost dreamily, “other fellas go for face, an’ fancy hairstyles, or poise, or a nice line in talks but with me it’s hips, an’ I’m gonna stand up an’ tell the whole cock-eyed world that when it comes to hips you got every dame I ever met lookin’ like somethin’ you find under a rock when the tide goes out. An’ I’m gonna tell you somethin’. Just before I die I’m gonna take one big smack at you an’ then I’ll pass out happy.”
She pushed a tendril of red hair back into place.
She said: “Nikolls . . . I’ve never heard any one talk such rot as you do. You . . .”
He grinned at her.
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Looky . . . maybe you wouldn’t mind if somebody did take a smack at you, so long as it was the right guy . . . Now, if it was Slim . . . ?”
She reddened, flashed an angry look at him.
He blew a smoke ring.
“Say, how is the big boy?” he asked. “Is he conscious yet?”
“He’s snoring his head off,” said Effie. “Clothes all over the bedroom. He must have had a head last night. He’s used half a bottle of eau-de-Cologne.”
Nikolls nodded.
“That one certainly did drink some liquor last night,” he said. “Plenty. An’ he was as happy as a sandlark . . .”
She shut a drawer with a bang.
“The advent of a new lady friend or the end of an old one,” she said.
She looked at Nikolls. He grinned back at her mischievously.
“You’re sorta curious, ain’t you, honey?” he said. “Well, I don’t know a thing . . . Slim never talks about dolls to me. He’s a very close guy. Mind you, I’ve seen him around with one or two very sweet numbers. But still that wouldn’t interest you, would it, honey?”
She flushed.
“It certainly would not,” she said.
One of the telephones on Callaghan’s desk jangled. She took off the receiver.
“Yes . . . This is Callaghan Investigations. I’m sorry, Mr. Layne, I’ve been trying to get Mr. Callaghan to call you all day. No . . . he’s in conference at this very moment. I can’t disturb him. I’m very sorry, but he’s just concluding a most important case. Will you speak to his first assistant, Mr. Nikolls . . . Thank you, Mr. Layne . . . hold on, please . . .”
She passed the receiver on its long cord to Nikolls. He shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth and tilted his chair back to a perilous angle.
“Is this Mr. Layne . . . ? This is Windemere Nikolls. What can we do for you, Mr. Layne? . . . I see . . . yeah . . . I’m ahead of you . . . well what’s the stuff worth? . . . One hundred thousand . . . You don’t say . . . Say, Mr. Layne, if you’ll let me have your number I’ll get Mr. Callaghan to call you right back directly he comes out of that conference he’s at right now. I’ll do that . . . ’Bye . . .”
He threw the receiver back to Effie Thompson who caught it neatly and replaced it. He got up.
“It looks like some big business is startin’ around here, sister,” he said. “You tinkle through to Slim an’ wake him up. I gotta talk to him.”
The telephone jangled again. She picked up the receiver. Nikolls heard Callaghan’s voice, brusque and rather acid, coming through from the flat above.
Effie said: “I’m glad you’re awake. I came up and looked at you, but I thought it was more than my life would be worth to disturb you.”
Nikolls got up and took the receiver from her hand.
“Hallo, Slim,” he said. “Say . . . what she really meant was that she just had to come up an’ look at them green silk underpants of yours. Yeah . . . it makes her feel good . . . but don’t tell her I said so. Look . . . do you want to listen to business? . . . OK. I’m coming up . . . All right.”
He hung up.
“He says you’re to telephone down to the service to send him up a big pot of tea . . . very hot an’ very strong . . . an’ then you can go home, sister . . . maybe one night when I ain’t busy you an’ me could go to a movie . . .”
“Like hell,” said Eff
Nikolls grinned.
“Why not, honey?” he said. “I’m swell in the dark an’ I’m just as dangerous in the daylight anyhow. I remember once some dame in Minnesota . . .”
The telephone jangled again. She said as she reached for it:
“I’d get upstairs if I were you. That’s him and he’s in a very bad temper if I know anything about Mr. Callaghan.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Nikolls.
He went to the door.
Effie said into the telephone in a very smooth, cool voice:
“Yes, Mr. Callaghan . . . Yes . . . he’s just left the office . . . he’s on his way up . . . and I’m ringing through to service for the tea. And is there anything else? . . .Very well . . . Good-night . . .”
Callaghan came out of the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror carefully tying a black watered-silk bow. When this was done he put on a double-breasted dinner jacket and went over to the corner cupboard. He produced a bottle of whisky, a water carafe and two glasses.
He poured out the whisky. He drank four fingers neat and swallowed a little water afterwards. Nikolls came across and helped himself.
Callaghan said: “What’s the story, Windy?”
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and began to cough.
Nikolls said: “It’s some lawyer guy named Layne. They’ve been tryin’ to get you all afternoon. The firm’s Layne, Norcot, Fellins, Treap and Layne. They’re good lawyers—act for a lot of swells. This Layne is the head man. The case is a steal . . . somebody’s pinched about a hundred thousand pounds worth of first-class ice from some guy in Devonshire. They’ve had the police on it but they don’t seem satisfied. I don’t know any more details. They want you to go in on it. Layne wants to see you. I said you’d ring back. He’s waiting at his office. It’s in Green Street just off the Park.”
Callaghan looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock.
“Ring through and say I’m coming round now,” he said. “I’ll be with him in ten minutes. And you stay around downstairs in case I want you.”
Nikolls nodded. As he got up the house telephone rang. He answered it. Callaghan was looking out of the window.
Nikolls put his hand over the transmitter.
“It’s a dame,” he said. “Her name’s Vendayne—Miss Vendayne. She says that she believes the Layne firm have been trying to get into touch with you. She says she wants to see you urgently. What do I say?”
Callaghan grinned.
“Funny business,” he said. “Make an appointment for tonight somewhere. Anywhere she likes—if it’s in London.”
Nikolls talked into the telephone. After he had hung up he said:
“It’s O.K. She says for you to meet her at Ventura’s Club, near Shepherd’s Market, at ten o’clock.”
Callaghan lit a fresh cigarette.
“What did she sound like?” he asked.
Nikolls grinned. He waved his big hands dreamily.
“She had one of those voices, Slim,” he said. “You know . . . music an’ promises of rewards an’ all that Omar Khayyám stuff . . .”
“You don’t say,” said Callaghan. “Windy, you’re getting poetic.”
“Yeah . . .” said Nikolls. “I’m like that sometimes . . . but I sorta spoil myself. I’m always poetic at the wrong times. Just when I oughta be spoutin’ poetry I find myself tryin’ to take a smack at some dame an’ I get all washed up.”
He got up.
“I’ll wait downstairs in the office,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come through later?”
Callaghan nodded. He put on a black soft hat and went out. As the bedroom door closed behind him, Nikolls reached for the whisky bottle.
Callaghan reopened the door.
“Help yourself to a drink, Windy,” he said.
He grinned.
Nikolls cursed softly to himself.
“Why in hell didn’t I wait?” he muttered.
Mr. Layne, of Layne, Norcot, Fellins, Treap and Layne was very thin, very dignified. He looked extremely ascetic and rather uncomfortable.
Callaghan, seated in the big chair on the other side of the lawyer’s desk, lit a cigarette with an engine-turned gold lighter.
Layne said: “I am afraid it’s rather an extraordinary case, Mr. Callaghan.”
Callaghan grinned.
“I gathered that,” he said. “When somebody steals £100,000 worth of jewellery it is a job for the police, not a private detective.” He looked at the lawyer. “That’s obvious, isn’t it?” he asked.
Layne nodded. He put the tips of his fingers together and looked over them at Callaghan. He said:
“Mr. Callaghan, I think I’d better give you the whole story from the beginning. I should like to point out to you that it was not my idea to employ a private detective in this case. During my legal experience I have always found the services of the police adequate.”
Callaghan said: “You don’t say . . .”
He flipped the ash from his cigarette.
“In a nutshell,” said Mr. Layne precisely, “the position is this: My client is Major Eustace Vendayne. You may have heard of the Vendaynes—a very old Devon family—very ancient indeed. Major Vendayne lives at Margraud Manor, a delightful estate near Gara in South Devon.
“He is—or was,” the lawyer went on, “the life owner of some extremely valuable antique jewellery, which came into possession of the family in rather unique circumstances. One of the Vendaynes sank a great deal of Spanish shipping at the time of Queen Elizabeth, and he was allowed to retain a percentage of the captured booty. He left directions as to its disposal after his death in his will.
“He directed that the head of the Vendayne family should be owner and trustee of the jewellery in his lifetime. He was to keep it intact in safe custody and allow it to be worn on the proper occasions by women members of the family. If he attempted to sell it, it was to pass immediately to the next male in line to whom it would go, in any event, after his death.
“Should any member of the family have no male heir by the time he was twenty-five years of age, and if there were no other male member of the family existing, then the holder was entitled to dispose of the jewellery as he saw fit. You understand?”
Callaghan nodded.
“The present owner and trustee of the jewellery is my client,” said Layne. “After his death it goes to his nephew Lancelot Vendayne, who, being over twenty-five years of age, being unmarried and having no heir, is entitled to dispose of it when it comes to him after my client’s death—should he wish to do so.
“Some eleven weeks ago,” the lawyer went on, “thieves broke into the Manor House, opened the safe and removed the jewellery. They were either very lucky or they had some means of knowing that on that particular night the jewellery would be in the house, because only the day before it had been brought over from the bank vault at Newton Abbott—where it was usually kept—for the purpose of a private exhibition which was to be held at the Manor.
“When the theft was discovered Major Vendayne informed the local police at once. The matter was taken up by the County Police and after a week’s delay the services of Scotland Yard were requested. It seems that up to the moment the authorities have discovered nothing.
“The jewellery,” Layne continued, “was insured for £100,000, which, believe me, does not represent its true value. Major Vendayne, of course, made a claim on the Insurance Company, but for some reason or other—and I must say I fail to understand this—the Company do not seem inclined to meet the claim promptly. They have during the past three or four weeks made all sorts of vague excuses, and, quite candidly, at the moment I have no information as to when they propose to settle the claim.
“This,” the lawyer went on, “is where Mr. Lancelot Vendayne comes into the story. As the next owner of the jewellery, and the one to whom it would actually belong in its entirety with power for him to do as he liked with it, he is, naturally, most perturbed about the situation. After all he was entitled to regard it almost as being his own property. My client is fifty-five years of age and has a weakness of the heart. He is not expected to live a great deal longer.
“To cut a long story short,” said the lawyer, “Mr. Lancelot Vendayne has become more and more perturbed about the attitude of the Insurance Company. It had been arranged between him and Major Vendayne—and I think the young man’s attitude was most generous—that when the claim was settled he should receive £75,000 and my client would be entitled to keep the remaining balance of £25,000.
