Sorry You've Been Troubled

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

No one asked Slim Callaghan to investigate - he just did it - and they had to like it. A £40,000 insurance claim, two beautiful women and possibly a fake suicide were at stake. Slim Callaghan, private detective, reckoned the situation looked very interesting indeed, but he didn't have a client. Callaghan's motto was, 'We get there somehow and who the hell cares how'. He got there and got himself a client, eventually - an exquisitely beautiful client ...

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 288

Sample

I

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.

‘Straight poker,’ he said. ‘Five pound rises, no limit to betting, and a pound to play. O.K.?’

Everyone said O.K. They picked cards for deal. Starata drew an ace and dealt. Callaghan was on his left.

They all played. Callaghan put in his pound-note before he even looked at his cards. When he looked he was mildly surprised. He held a full house with Queens.

He bet five pounds. Preem and Lingley checked the first time round. Starata raised it to ten. Callaghan put it up to twenty. Preem and Lingley threw in their cards. Starata raised Callaghan to
thirty. Callaghan made it forty. Starata saw him at forty. He had two pairs. Callaghan picked up the money.

‘Nice work – if you can get it,’ he said.

Preem’s head was nodding a little. He said thickly:

‘That damned whisky we had to-night wasn’t so good. I believe they make the stuff themselves up in the bathroom at that cursed Anchor Club. I feel like hell.’

Starata smiled amiably. He said:

‘You look like hell, Preem. But then you always do. You want to get wise to yourself. You’ve started slipping.’

Preem looked at Starata with narrowed eyes. He said:

‘Oh yes? Well, look . . . you better have a look at yourself too. Let me tell you something . . . Willie Lagos is walking around talking a bit too much. He’s not
very happy. You want to know why?’

Starata folded his hands on the table before him. He was still smiling.

‘You tell me why,’ he said.

‘O.K.,’ said Preem. ‘I’ll tell you why. He’s been sore at you ever since you took that girl off him. You know – the strawberry number. And why shouldn’t
he? Willie’s got an idea you’re too goddam fond of pinching other people’s women.’

Starata said, quite pleasantly: ‘Yes? Go on. You interest me, Johnnie.

Preem said: ‘Don’t worry, I’m going on. I got a bit of news for you. The Sphere & International don’t like that claim of yours on the warehouse fire. They think it
stinks.’

Starata said: ‘This is getting very interesting. Tell me some more, Johnnie.’

Preem hiccoughed. He said:

‘Willie Lagos and Callaghan were drinking highballs in the Silver Bar in Mayfair the day before yesterday.’

He stopped speaking as the door opened.

A man came in. He was short, thin, too well dressed. His black hair was sleeked down with some shiny hair compound, a cigarette was hanging from one corner of his mouth, a black soft hat was
perched precariously over one eye. He stood in the doorway looking at the quartet. Callaghan put his hands on the table and tilted his chair back a little.

Starata said: ‘Hallo, Leon, I’m glad to see you.’

The newcomer leaned up against the doorpost. He put his hands in his pockets. He looked at Starata with a peculiar smile playing about his lips. He said:

‘Well, may I be sugared and iced, but I never expected to see Nick Starata playing cards with Mister Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations.’

There was a silence. It was broken by the noise of Starata gently drawing his breath through his teeth. Callaghan grinned at him.

‘Too bad, isn’t it, Nicky?’ he said. ‘Anyway, I told you my name wasn’t Pelham.’

Starata said to Preem: ‘Listen . . . did you bring him in on this party?’

Preem said: ‘What the hell! I never saw him before to-night. I thought he was a pal of Lingley’s.’

Callaghan said to Starata: ‘The trouble with your friend Preem is he talks too much and thinks too little. That bit of information he gave me about Willie Lagos was just too sweet.
I’ll be able to go to work now.’

Starata smiled. He said: ‘Will you . . . ?’

Callaghan pushed back his chair, and in almost one movement kicked over the table; threw his chair at the electric standard. As the light went out, he swung round, hit Starata in the mouth with
his left elbow. Leon’s quiet voice came from the door. It said:

‘All right, Nicky. I’m looking after the door. The bastard won’t get out of here.’

Callaghan put his hand out. It found something soft. It was Preem’s face. Callaghan hit it hard. Lingley’s voice said:

‘Where is that son of a bitch?’

Leon said casually from the doorway: ‘Well, he’s still here.’

Starata said coolly: ‘Somebody strike a match.’

Behind Callaghan was the mantelpiece. He ran his hand along it until it met the clock. Callaghan took a careful aim at the doorway; he threw the clock. It was a lucky shot. It hit Leon in the
stomach. He yelped, subsided on the floor.

Callaghan, moving round the left-hand side of the room along by the wall, got round to the doorway. He put his foot on Leon. As he did so someone charged at him. Callaghan thought that would be
Lingley. Starata wouldn’t be so excited. Callaghan went with the charge; he allowed himself to be forced backwards against the wall by the weight of Lingley’s body. Then he brought his
left knee up with a jerk into Lingley’s abdomen. As Lingley went back, Callaghan hit him in the face.

He slipped quietly through the doorway. As he was closing the door Starata called out:

‘Listen, Callaghan . . . don’t get this wrong. We can square this, hey? And there’ll be a nice piece of change in it for you. I . . .’

Callaghan closed the door. He felt for the key, turned it in the lock. He began to walk down the stairs.

At the end of Chapel Street, Callaghan turned into the telephone-box; called through to Nikolls. He told Nikolls not to worry about going to Chapel Street at four o’clock. Then he hung up.
He came out of the box and began to walk in the direction of Berkeley Square.

II

The Chinese clock on the bedroom mantelpiece struck four. Callaghan woke up, yawned, looked at the ceiling. His mouth was dry; his head ached. Through the window a gleam of cold
March afternoon sunlight made a pattern on the carpet. He got up, sat on the edge of the bed running his hands through his thick black hair. He was thinking about Starata.

It looked as if the Starata case was in the bag. Callaghan thought that in the normal course of events Nicky Starata would clear out his safe deposit and make a getaway, but in these days of war
there was no place to make a getaway to. It would be easy. A nice job, thought Callaghan. He made a mental note to ask the Sphere & International Insurance to increase his retainer.

He got up, began to walk towards the bathroom. On the way he stopped suddenly, turned off into the sitting-room, went to the corner cupboard, took out a bottle of Canadian Club, put the neck of
the bottle into his mouth and took a long swig. He shuddered. He wondered if the man who invented the proverb of ‘the hair of the dog that bit you’ really knew what he was talking
about.

The inter-communication telephone from the office downstairs rang. He took off the receiver. It was Effie Thompson. She said:

‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Callaghan.’

He said: Is that all?’

‘No,’ said Effie, ‘it isn’t. I hope you didn’t mind my saying “Good-afternoon.” I rang through to tell you that Mr. Gringall’s down there.
He’s just arrived. He says he’d like to see you personally.’

Callaghan said: ‘I wonder why. Where is Mr. Gringall?’

‘He’s in the outer office,’ said Effie. ‘I’m talking from your office. Do you think it might have something to do with last night, Mr. Callaghan?’

Callaghan said: ‘Why should he be concerned with last night?’

She said: ‘I don’t mean about the Starata business, Mr. Callaghan. Didn’t Mr. Nikolls tell you about the other thing?’

Callaghan said: ‘He hadn’t a chance. I didn’t see him. I rang him up and told him not to worry. What happened last night?’

‘An Admiral Gardell came here last night. He spoke to Wilkie. He wanted to see you urgently; said it was a matter of life or death. Wilkie stalled him, but when the Admiral bothered some
more he rang up Nikolls and told him.’

Callaghan said: ‘I see.’

‘Also,’ Effie went on, ‘this morning Wilkie brought me an envelope containing a note that the Admiral had left for you. Shall I send it up?’

‘No,’ said Callaghan, ‘don’t bother. Bring Mr. Gringall up and send up some tea.’

‘Very good,’ said Effie.

Callaghan hung up; went into the bathroom. He came out five minutes later wearing a pastel-grey crêpe-de-chine dressing-gown with black fleurs-de-lis.

Gringall was sitting in the big chair by the fire. He said:

‘Hallo, Slim. How are you? That’s a pretty good dressing-gown. Must have cost a lot of money. I suppose one of your women clients gave you that.’

Callaghan said: ‘How did you know? But then you know everything, don’t you?’

Gringall smiled.

‘Just a little bit,’ he said, ‘not very much.’

Callaghan stood in front of the fire looking at Gringall. His hair was black and tousled; his face thin and long. His jaw was obvious but not too obvious. His shoulders were wide, tapering down
to narrow flanks. He was five feet ten inches – compact – impatient-looking.

He said: ‘Tell me why I am honoured by a visit from Chief Detective-Inspector Gringall, and would it be in order for me to tell you that your waistband’s down by about four
inches?’

‘Whose waistband isn’t?’ said Gringall. ‘This war will take more than four inches off me by the time it’s through.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘You
haven’t been doing too badly for yourself lately, have you, Slim?’

Callaghan said: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No?’ said Gringall. ‘What about those three or four nice little jobs you had from the Home Security Department?’

Callaghan raised his eyebrows.

‘I see, so you were behind that, were you? Well, that’s all right. Look at the good turn I did you over that Haragos case. But for me you’d still be scrubbing around in the
undergrowth looking for somebody you’d never find.’

Gringall sighed. He said:

‘I think you private detectives are just too wonderful.’

Callaghan grinned. He said:

. . .