Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief James Hadley Chase
Banned in the UK! Author and Publisher Fined! Not seen in 70 Years!
This is the story of Miss Callaghan. Not of any particular Miss Callaghan, but of the hundreds of Miss Callaghans who disappear from their homes suddenly and mysteriously and are seen no more by those who knew and loved them.
This is also the story of Raven, who played with clockwork trains, the leader of the White Slave Ring in East St. Louis, who was responsible for the keeping to full strength the army of women for the service of men.
James Hadley Chase needs no introduction now. He has established a reputation for unmitigated toughness and plain writing. Under his blunt treatment, the traffic of women in America is shown to be what it isa loathsome, corrupt stain on the pages of American history.
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
JAMES HADLEY CHASE
PROLOGUE
IT WAS A HOT night. Oven?heat that baked the sweat out of the body and played hell with the dogs. It had been hot all day, and now the sun had gone down the streets still held the stifling heat.
Phillips of the
Phillips dragged down his tie and undid his collar. The long highball slopped a little as he groped to put it on the table. He said, “What a night! What's the time, Franky?”
Franklin, his face white with exhaustion and his eyes heavy and red?lidded, peered at the face of his watch. “Just after twelve,” he said, letting his head fall back with a thud on the leather padding of his chair.
“After twelve, huh?” Phillips shifted uneasily. “That's bad. That's dug my grave good and deep. Know what I should be doin' right now?”
Franklin had to make an effort to shake his head.
“I gotta date to meet a dame tonight,” Phillips told him, blotting his face and neck with his handkerchief.
“Right now that babe is waiting for me. Is she goin' to be mad?”
Franklin groaned.
“Franky, pal, I couldn't do it. It's a low trick, but not on a night like this. No, sir, I couldn't do it.”
“Break it up,” Franklin pleaded, scooping sweat out of his neckband. “I want to freeze myself to death in a big refrigerator.”
Phillips raised himself slowly. A look of faint animation came over his thin face. Drunkenly, he patted Franklin on his back. “You've got somethin' there,” he said. “Gee! The guy's got brains. I've been doin' you dirt. Boy, you've certainly got somethin' there!”
Franklin pushed him away. “Sit down,” he said crossly; “you're tight.”
Phillips shook his head solemnly. “Come on, bud, you've given me an idea.”
“I ain't moving. I'm staying right here.”
Phillips grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the chair. “I'm goin' to save your life,” he said. “We'll take a cab an' spend the night in the morgue.”
Franklin gaped at him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I ain't goin' to sleep with a lotta stiffs. You're crazy.”
“Aw, come on. What the hell? Stiffs ain't goin' to worry you. Think how cold it'll be.”
Franklin wavered. “Yeah,” he said, clinging to the table, “but I don't like it. Think you can get in?”
Phillips leered. “Sure I can get in. Know the guy there. He's a good guy. He won't mind. Now come on, let's get goin'.”
Franklin's face suddenly brightened. “Sure,” he said; “it ain't such a bad idea. Let's go.”
Out in the street they flagged a taxi. The driver looked at them suspiciously. “Where?” he demanded, not believing his ears.
Phillips shoved Franklin into the cab. “The County Morgue,” he repeated patiently. “We're passin' in our pails. This is just a matter of convenience, see, buddy?”
The driver climbed off his box. “Now listen, pal,” he said, “you guys don't want the morgue. You wantta go home. Just you take it easy. I'm useta handlin' drunks. You leave it to me. Where do you live? Now, come on. I'll have you in bed before you know it.”
Phillips peered at him, then put his head inside the cab. “Hi, Franky, this guy wants to go to bed with me.”
“Do you like him?” Franky asked.
Phillips turned his head and looked at the driver. “I don't know. He seems all right.”
The driver wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now listen, you guys,” he said pleadingly, “I ain't said nuttin' about gettin' into bed wid youse.”
Phillips climbed into the cab. “He's changed his mind,” he said mournfully. “I've got a mind to slosh him in the puss.”
“Well, maybe you're lucky. I thought he'd got a foxy smell about him. I don't think you'd've liked that.”
The driver came close to the window. “Where to, boss?” he asked, in what he thought was a soothing voice. “This ain't the time to fool around. It's too goddam hot.”
“The County Morgue,” Phillips said, leaning out of the window. “Don't you understand? That's the one cold spot in this burg, an' we're headin' for it.”
The driver shook his head. “You'd never make it,” he said; “they wouldn't let you in.”
“Who said? They'll let me in all right. I know the guy there.”
“That on the level? Could you get me in too, boss?”
“Sure. I could get anyone in there. Don't stand around usin' up air. Get to it.”
