Sorry Youve Been Troubled

Chapter 1-3

'You don't say?' said Callaghan.

'Yes,' said Gringall. 'He was looking for you. Apparently he saw the night porter downstairs, who got in touch with Nikolls, your assistant. Perhaps they didn't tell you about it?'

Callaghan said: 'I was on a job last night. What did the Admiral want to see me about?'

'I don't know,' said Gringall. 'I hoped you'd be able to tell me that. I thought it might give us a lead.'

Callaghan said: 'What's it all about?'

The Chief Detective-Inspector finished his chocolate cake. He said:

'They found the Admiral in a coppice near his house, nearly forty miles from London, at ten o'clock this morning. The local police surgeon thinks he was killed somewhere between four and five. He was shot at fairly close range. He must have died immediately.'

Callaghan nodded.

'Have they found the gun?' he asked.

Gringall shook his head. 'No!' He felt in his overcoat and produced a short briar pipe. He began to fill it. 'The County police came through to us this morning. The local force is depleted because of the war, and they thought we might get on to it right away. I made some inquiries on the telephone, and I found that Gardell came up here late last night by car. I discovered that he'd been here. I thought I'd come and ask you if you knew anything about it.'

Callaghan said: 'I'm sorry, Gringall, I don't know a thing. If I did I'd tell you.'

Gringall got up. He was smiling pleasantly. He said:

'You mean you'd tell me if it suited your book to tell me.'

'All right,' said Callaghan, 'you have it that way.'

Gringall picked up his bowler hat. He said:

'Well, I'll be seeing you, Slim.'

Callaghan said: 'So long!'

Gringall went out.

Callaghan looked at his untasted cup of tea on the tea-tray. It was nearly cold. The surface of the tea was discoloured with tannin. He thought it looked awful. He went over to the cupboard in the corner, extracted the bottle, took another long pull. He put the bottle back and went to the window. Outside, crossing Berkeley Square, was the sturdy figure of the Detective-Inspector. He was walking briskly along, his hands in his raincoat pockets, his bowler hat almost at a jaunty angle. Callaghan grinned. There were very few police officers like George Henry Porteous Gringall, he thought— very few.

Callaghan went to the telephone. He called through to Effie Thompson.

'Effie,' he asked, 'is Nikolls in the office?'

'Yes, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'I'll put him on.'

Nikolls came on the phone. He said:

'Hallo, Slim. How're you feelin', or aren't you?'

Callaghan said brusquely: 'I'm not. Listen— I discovered last night that it was Willie Lagos who started that warehouse fire for Starata. Lagos is frightened and is prepared to talk. Starata may try to get at him, but I don't think he will. I think he'll lay off because if anything happens to Lagos, Starata will be suspect. He'll probably try to disappear for a bit.'

Nikolls said: 'I see. What do we do?'

Callaghan said: 'We don't do anything. If the Sphere & International want Starata pulled in that's a police job.' He drew some cigarette smoke down into his lungs. 'You get on to the Sphere & International,' he said. 'Tell 'em to hold up that claim over the Starata Factory. Tell 'em it was a fire-bug case. Then get out and find Willie Lagos. Put the screw on him and make him talk. Get a signed statement from him. Try and do that to-night. You got that?'

Nikolls said: 'I got it. It's goddam funny, but every time I make a date with a dame to take her to the movies I have to start being a detective.'

Callaghan said: 'Why worry? There'll be another night, and— I should imagine— another woman.'

'I hope!' said Nikolls.

Callaghan said: 'Give me Effie.' He said to her: 'Effie, you can bring that letter up from the late Admiral— now.'

Somewhere in the vicinity a clock struck nine. Callaghan came out of the Albemarle Lounge in Dover Street and began to walk towards Hay Hill. When he arrived at the top of the street he turned down towards Berkeley Square, stopped to light a cigarette.

He went into the telephone-box on the corner of the Square. He dialled the office number. Effie Thompson came on the line. Callaghan said:

'Has Nikolls been through yet?'

'He came in the office half an hour ago,' she said. 'He's seen Lagos. Lagos has made a statement. I've locked it in the drawer in your desk.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'I'll deal with it to-morrow. And, Effie, remind me to write a line to the Managing Director of the Sphere & International, to suggest that, owing to war conditions, etc., Callaghan Investigations would like its retainer doubled.'

'Very well, Mr. Callaghan,' said Effie. 'Of course you remember they doubled your retainer four months ago.'

Callaghan said shortly: 'I remember.'

'Sorry,' she said. 'I thought you might like to be reminded.'

'So I gathered,' said Callaghan.

The sound of a long-suffering sigh came to Callaghan's ears. He grinned and said:

'I think you might go home now, Effie. Go to a movie. Get your mind off your work. Why don't you buy yourself some new stockings or something— it makes a change.'

She said tartly: 'Stockings need coupons. Anyway, you can't buy them at nine o'clock at night, and I don't want to go to a movie.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Don't go. Just go home, relax, and get some sleep.'

'I'd like to,' she said. 'And in order that I do get some sleep, I'd better tell you that a Miss Gardell has been on the telephone asking for you. She wants to see you. She was speaking from the Regency... she sounded urgent.'

'Did she?' said Callaghan. 'What did she sound like— besides sounding urgent...?'

'If you mean her voice,' said Effie, 'she had a soft, cultured voice.' There was a pause. 'I think she had the sort of voice you'd like,' she went on.

Callaghan asked: 'What sort of voice do I like?'

Effie said primly: 'I imagine it would be a composite sort of voice. A mixture of some of the clients in your more successful cases. Something like Miss Vendayne's or Mrs. Riverton's or Mrs. Thurlston's or Miss...'

'I've got it,' said Callaghan. 'Just one of those voices...'

'Quite,' said Effie. 'You see, I've had ample opportunity of studying them in the small hours when I've been trying to get to sleep and you've been wanted on a case. I was thinking...'

'What were you thinking?' said Callaghan. He stubbed his cigarette out against the telephone-box.

'I was thinking that it would be a nice change if some of our male clients telephone in the middle of the night.' He heard her yawn delicately.

Callaghan said: 'Well... have patience, Effie. It might happen...'

'Is that all?' she asked.

'That's all,' said Callaghan. 'Good-night, Effie.'

'Good-night, Mr. Callaghan,' she said.

He hung up. He went out of the telephone-box, and began to walk towards Freddy's Bar in Conduit Street.

In the Berkeley Square Office, Effie Thompson put the cover on her typewriter. She exuded rage. Her green eyes flashed.

She banged the catch on the typewriter, slipped into her fur coat, adjusted her hat. She stood with her hand on the outer office door.

'Good-night, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'And damn Miss Gardell's voice...'

FREDDY'S BAR was deserted. It was a well-furnished fourth floor, reached by a passenger lift, and most of Freddy's rather peculiar clients were elsewhere. The bartender, wearing a white jacket and a bored expression, polished the chromium top of the bar, sang wearily under his breath. In the far corner, opposite the solitary pin-table, a lady in a very well-fitting black suit, cut so as to show the lines of her well-developed figure to the best advantage, drank a glass of crème-de-menthe, and dreamily considered bygone days.

Callaghan ordered a double whisky and soda. He took it to the table farthest from the bar. He sat down. He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and read the note from Admiral Gardell:

Chipley Grange,

Chipley,

Sussex.

17th March, 1941.

Dear Mr. Callaghan,

I proposed to see you to-night to discuss with you a rather urgent matter which I feel requires your attention. I had hopes, as I have elicited the fact that your flat is above your office in Berkeley Square, that I should be able to contact you through the night porter. He informs me, however, that you are out, and that he may have difficulty in getting in touch with you. I am therefore leaving this note, which I hope he will get into your hands as quickly as possible, so that when I return in an hour's time I may be sure of seeing you.

I have heard that you are an extremely busy person and I have no doubt that you will not care to be troubled in the middle of the night, but this is the only time at my disposal.

The reason that this sudden appointment with you is the only time at my disposal is because I am afraid (and I cannot even say I regret it) that I shall have no further opportunity of seeing you, as I propose to commit suicide some time in the early hours of to-morrow morning.

I hope therefore that I may claim your indulgence, as you will note that the matter is one which you might consider sufficiently urgent to merit your immediate attention.

Yours truly,

Hubert Gardell.

Callaghan replaced the letter in the envelope, put it back into his pocket. He drank the whisky and soda, carried the glass to the bar, ordered another one. He leaned up against the bar. The bartender said:

'I've not seen you for a long time, Mr. Callaghan.'

Callaghan nodded.

'I've been busy,' he said, 'and it doesn't look as if you are.'

The bartender shrugged.

'Everybody's away,' he said. 'The sort of people who used to come here and spend a little money don't do it in London any more. All the fun's just on the outside of London— twenty or thirty miles around.'

Callaghan said: 'Yes? I wonder Freddy doesn't get some places open in these spots.'

The bartender grinned.

'He's opened about six in the last five months,' he said.

'I see,' said Callaghan. 'But he still keeps this place going.' He grinned. 'I suppose a headquarters is necessary,' he said. 'You've got to have some place for the suckers to come into first— a sort of ante-room.'

The smile disappeared from the bartender's face. He said nothing.

Callaghan emptied his glass. He put on his hat and went out. He walked down the four flights of stairs to the street. He stopped in Bond Street to light a cigarette. It was a dark, gusty night. Callaghan thought there was some rain about. He wondered why he should spend time considering the weather. He wandered slowly down Bond Street, along Grafton Street, and down Hay Hill. He went into the telephone-box. Inside he stood leaning up against the wall, drawing the smoke from his cigarette down into his lungs, thinking of some interesting conversation he had had from this same box. He remembered the night when he telephoned Gringall about Eustace Riverton in the Riverton case. He began to grin.

He took out a small pocket torch, flipped through the pages of the telephone directory. He found and dialled the number of the Regency Hotel. He asked to be put through to Miss Gardell. After a moment a feminine voice came on the telephone. Callaghan listened carefully. He was thinking of Effie's description of the voice. He concluded after hearing one word that she was right. He said:

'Good-evening, Miss Gardell. My name's Callaghan, of Callaghan Investigations. I believe you telephoned through to my office. You wanted to talk to me about something.'

'I did want to talk to you, Mr. Callaghan,' said the voice, 'rather urgently.'

Callaghan said: 'Perhaps you'd like to indicate what you wanted to talk to me about.'

She said: 'I wouldn't like to do that now on the telephone.'

Callaghan said: 'I see. Just how urgent do you think the matter is, Miss Gardell?'

She said: 'I don't know. You might even consider that it isn't very urgent, but I think it is.'

Callaghan said: 'I gather you want me to do something for you. Is that right?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'That again is a matter for you to decide. At the moment I want to talk to you.'

'All right,' said Callaghan. 'Where do we talk— and when?'

She said: 'I hadn't thought about that. When I telephoned your office I had a vague idea that I should be in touch with you earlier than this. I've been busy and I haven't had any dinner. I was thinking of getting supper somewhere. Perhaps you'd like to see me to-morrow morning.'

Callaghan said: 'No, I wouldn't. I'm not awfully keen on seeing people in the mornings. If you haven't dined, perhaps you'd like to have supper with me. Then we can talk.'

She said: 'That's very nice of you. It should be an experience. I've never had supper with a private detective before.'

Callaghan said: 'Well, I don't want to disappoint you, and I can't promise any special excitement because I happen to be a private detective.'

She said: 'Oh!' Then went on: 'I didn't mean that, Mr. Callaghan.'

'No?' said Callaghan. 'Exactly what did you mean?'

There was no reply. Callaghan waited a moment. Then he went on: 'Anyway, that's something we might discuss at supper. I suggest that I call for you in ten minutes' time.'

She said: 'Very well, Mr. Callaghan. I'll be ready. Oh, by the way, I suppose I ought to ask you about your fees.'

Callaghan said: 'I wouldn't worry about that at the moment. I never charge anything for having supper with clients— well, not often— but we can discuss that too. Au revoir, Miss Gardell.'

He hung up. He came out of the telephone-box and began to walk towards the taxi rank in Berkeley Square.