Sorry Youve Been Troubled

1: So Long, Admiral EFFIE THOMPSON was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast. She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan. She was right. He said: 'Hallo, is that you, Effie? I suppose you weren't asleep by any chance?' 'Yes, Mr. Callaghan, I was asleep, strangely enough. But please don't worry about that. You wouldn't think I was annoyed, would you?' Her tone was slightly acid. Callaghan said: 'That's big of you, Effie....' Under her breath she called him a rude name. Always, she thought, she left herself open for a wisecrack from Callaghan. Always, half an hour afterwards, she thought of some terrific come-back that would have slain him. She sighed. He said briskly: 'You remember that Starata case— the people who put in a big claim for fire damage on the Sphere & International? Well, I've just run into Jack Starata. He doesn't know I'm me. He and one or two friends of his are going to play poker. They're all pretty high. I think they might talk.' She said quickly: 'You know, Mr. Callaghan, Starata is supposed to be dangerous.' She heard him laugh. 'You don't say?' he said. 'Listen... get on to Nikolls. Tell him that if I don't call through to him by four o'clock this morning and say I'm back in Berkeley Square, he's to come along to 22 Chapel Street— that's off Knightsbridge— and find where I am.' Effie said: 'You're expecting trouble?' She felt scared. Callaghan said: 'I've been expecting trouble all my life, Effie, and I usually get it. Sleep well... Oh, by the way, what colour nightgown are you wearing?' She gasped a little. She said: 'Well, if you must know, Mr. Callaghan, its eau-de-nil satin.' He said: 'Charming! That must look pretty well with those green eyes and that red hair of yours. I always like to feel that my staff look well turned out. Good-night.' She hung up. She called Callaghan another rude name. Then she picked up the receiver, dialled Nikolls's number. She hoped that nothing would happen to Callaghan— in the same breath asking herself why she bothered. When the telephone rang Nikolls wakened quickly. He looked like nothing on earth. His tongue tasted like a yellow plush sofa. He sat, his hands folded across his plump stomach, regarding the instrument malevolently. He wished he had not drunk that half-bottle of Bacardi on top of the whisky. He took off the receiver. Effie Thompson said: 'Listen, Mr. Nikolls... Mr. Callaghan's just been through. Apparently he's still working on that Starata case. He's met Starata and some friends of his. He's going to play poker with them. As far as I can understand Starata and his friends are drunk, and Mr. Callaghan thinks they might talk.' Nikolls said: 'Like hell they will! That bunch are too clever, and if they do talk, and find out who he is, that he's a sleuth for the Sphere & International, they'll pull him into little pieces. There's over a quarter of a million in that claim.' 'Quite,' said Effie. 'That's the point. Mr. Callaghan says if he doesn't ring you by four o'clock this morning, you're to go to 22 Chapel Street, Knightsbridge, and find out what's happening. Do you understand that? He sounded as if he thought there might be some trouble.' 'Yeah,' said Nikolls. 'Ain't life just too sweet? I have to stick around here till four o'clock waiting for the telephone bell to ring. If it don't ring, I have to go and find if somebody's killed Slim. Me... I wonder why I ever left Canada...' 'That's easy,' she said. 'A woman, I expect.' 'Look,' said Nikolls. 'You got a wrong impression, Effie. Any dames I knew in Canada was all shot to pieces when I left...' 'I can believe that too,' she said. 'But don't worry, Canada's a long way away, and they can't get at you while the war's on.' The apartment telephone on the other side of Nikolls's bedroom began to ring. He said: 'Hang on, Effie, my other phone's goin'. It might be something.' 'All right,' said Effie. Nikolls got out of bed. He was wearing pale-blue pyjamas with white spots on them. He looked like an apparition. The cord of his pyjamas was tied very tightly round his middle; he bulged both above and below it. On his way to the telephone he picked up the water carafe and took a copious draught. It was Wilkie, the night porter at Berkeley Square, calling. He said: 'That you, Mr. Nikolls? Look, I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's too much going on around here for my liking.' 'Yeah?' said Nikolls. 'There's too much going on around here too. Any time I wanta sleep somethin' happens. What's the matter, Wilkie? What's cookin' around there?' The night porter said: 'About an hour after you left the offices to-night an Admiral Gardell came through. He wanted to speak to Mr. Callaghan. He said it was important. He asked where Mr. Callaghan was. I told him there was nobody in the offices, and I told him that I'd been through to Mr. Callaghan's flat on the floor above and couldn't get a reply. I said I didn't know where Mr. Callaghan was and he had better get through to-morrow morning. He said all right. Half an hour later he came through again. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan. It was a matter of life and death. He said he was certain Mr. Callaghan would see him. I told him what I said before— if I knew where Callaghan was I'd get in touch with him, but I didn't.' Nikolls sighed. 'Ain't this guy persistent?' he said. 'What's the matter with him? Has somebody run off with his wife?' Wilkie said: 'I don't know, Mr. Nikolls. But half an hour ago he came round here. He looks awfully bad. I don't like the look of him at all. He said he'd got to see Mr. Callaghan somehow. He said he was going to stay here until he turned up.' Nikolls yawned. 'So what?' he said. 'Is he there now?' 'No,' said Wilkie. 'He's gone off to get a cup of coffee at a coffee stall. He's coming back in twenty minutes' time.' His voice changed. 'He looks in a bad way, Mr. Nikolls,' he said. 'I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd better tell you.' Nikolls said: 'Thanks, Wilkie. But what do I do? We can't start talking to people in the middle of the night. Besides, how do we know it's urgent? Everybody thinks their business is urgent. Doesn't this guy know that even private detectives have to go to sleep sometimes? Or maybe he thinks we're the "Eye That Never Sleeps"...?' Wilkie said: 'What shall I tell him when he comes back?' Nikolls said: 'You tell him to come around or call through to the office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. You tell him that Mr. Windemere Nikolls, Mr. Callaghan's principal assistant, will be at his desk punctually with a first-class hangover at that time. You got that, Wilkie?' 'I've got it,' said Wilkie. Nikolls hung up. He went back to the other telephone. He said: 'Hey, Effie... there's more excitement poppin'. Some guy called Admiral Gardell is rushin' around town tryin' to find Slim— one of those urgent cases.' She said: 'I see. Well, it can wait till to-morrow morning. Perhaps it's as well that we can't get in touch with Mr. Callaghan— otherwise he might want to start something now. I'd love to go and open up the office at three o'clock in the morning.' 'We don't do that for Admirals, do we, Effie?' he said. 'We only do that for beautiful dames like Miss Vendayne... you remember that case?' Effie said: 'I remember. It's a funny thing, but the only time we do any night work is when our clients are women.' Nikolls said: 'Listen, baby, if I had a client like Audrey Vendayne, I'd do a bit of night work myself.' She said nothing. Nikolls went on: 'Too bad you being woke up like this. I bet you're lookin' swell. I bet you got that red hair of yours tied up with a ribbon. You know,' he went on, 'I don't know whether I ever told you, Effie, you got something...' She said acidly: 'You've been telling me that ever since you've been with the firm, Mr. Nikolls. Anything I've got I'm going to keep.' 'O.K.,' said Nikolls. 'But there's no need to get tough. Just because you know I go for that hip-line of yours, you get snorty. Did I ever tell you about that dame in Chatanooga...?' 'Not once but sixty times,' interrupted Effie. 'Do you mind if I go to sleep?' 'No,' said Nikolls. 'If you feel that way, O.K. Me— I'm goin' to stay awake. I'm sorta reminiscent to-night.' Effie said: 'I hope it keeps fine for you.' She hung up the receiver with a jerk. Callaghan stood in front of the fireplace. He was slightly glass-eyed, but was wearing well otherwise. He wondered vaguely how much whisky he had drank since seven o'clock. He thought it must be a lot. He concluded that it didn't matter anyhow. Starata was mixing drinks at the sideboard. The short fat man, Lingley, was putting up the card-table, and the other one— Preem— was sitting on the settee looking at the electric light and blinking. Preem was almost in the last stages. He needed about four more drinks to go right out. Lingley was having a lot of trouble with the collapsible table. His language was ornate. Callaghan thought that Starata was all right. He carried his liquor well. But then he did most things well. He was good-looking too, and well dressed. Everything about Nicky Starata was rather high-class, and even if it was a little too high-class it got by. The women liked him. He had money. He had brains. He ought to have been in the Army and wasn't. He ought to have been in prison and wasn't. Nicky was a pip. He had seventeen suits, a cottage in the country, one or two bank accounts, a safe deposit, and a very well-filled stocking. Every one— except, apparently, the proper authorities— knew all about Nicky. He came over to Callaghan, handed a whisky and soda. He stood in front of Callaghan, smiling. He said: 'Well... here's luck, Pelham.' Callaghan said: 'And to you. And my name's not Pelham.' Nicky grinned. When he grinned you thought he was the most charming fellow in the world. He said: 'What does it matter. I don't give a damn what a man's name is. If I like a man, I like him.' He drank some whisky. 'I like you,' he concluded. Callaghan smiled. 'That's fine,' he said. 'I like you, too.' They stood smiling at each other. Starata looked at his glass and twiddled it round in his fingers. 'I don't know how you got in on this party,' he said. 'But I'm glad you're here. You're a friend of Preem's, aren't you?' Callaghan took a quick look at Preem. He concluded it was safe. He said: 'Yes... I've known him for a hell of a long time. He'll improve in a little while. How d'you find things?' Callaghan shrugged his shoulders. 'Not so good and not so bad,' he said. 'You know how it is?' Starata said he knew. He smiled again. 'What d'you do, if it isn't a rude question?' he asked. Callaghan smiled back. 'It isn't rude,' he said. 'I do more or less the same as you do. I fiddle around a little...' Starata laughed. 'You'll do,' he said. 'You and I must get together some time and have a talk. We might be able to do something together.' 'That would be nice,' said Callaghan. 'Let's do that.' They sat down. Starata began to shuffle the cards. Then he put the pack down, lit a cigarette and looked at them.