CONFIDENTIAL FILE

Chandler? The Name's Familiar

If you want the truth, I'm pretty sticky about accepting collect telephone calls.

No slur intended at the phone company, but they're just not worth the price.

Long
years of sad experience have taught me that they are placed by people
who get drunk in the afternoon, by people who have hot stories about
cats stuck up in trees, or by my mother.

So I made a firm resolve not to accept them.

But
the phone rang just as I was leaving the office Friday afternoon and my
firm resolve was visibly shaken when the operator asked crisply:

"Mr. Paul Coates? I have a collect call for you from Mr. Chandler."

It
happens that the name Chandler carries a little weight around my
office. And while I am no master in the art of diplomacy, I had enough
sense of survival not to brush this call off without a little extra
investigation.

"A Mr. Chandler calling collect?" I asked.

"Collect," she answered.

"I see," I said, stalling for time. "This collect call. Where is it from?"

"New York, sir," she replied.

Now, obviously, there's more than one Chandler in the world. But why take chances?

"Operator," I whispered, "did you catch the man's first name?"

"I can ask if you'd like, sir."

"No, no," I cried hurriedly. "Don't bother him. He's a very busy man."

I began to feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. (And when my stomach sinks, it's a drop of major proportion).

Why was Norman Chandler calling me? And from New York?

My life began flashing before me. At least, the last few days of my life.

There
was Tuesday. When I got home, I realized that I had accidentally taken
a couple of company copy pencils and I hadn't returned them yet.

Wednesday, I forgot to put the cover on my typewriter before leaving.

 And Thursday, I dangled a participle in the morning and split an infinitive shortly after the fifth edition.

But
he wouldn't be calling me for something like that. Maybe it was just a
social call. Maybe I was getting myself upset for nothing.

"Mr. Coates?"

"Yes, operator."

"For a minute I thought you had left the line, sir. Will you accept the charges?"

"But why is he calling ME?" I asked aloud.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she answered. "We aren't allowed to relay messages."

And she said it a little more curtly than was absolutely necessary.

"I didn't even know he'd left town," I explained.

The operator sighed heavily.

 "What's the matter, lady?" I asked. You feel sick?"

"Sir, I can't hold the line open more than three minutes. Either you accept the call or I'll have to disconnect your party."

'I've Got to Think'

"No" I cried. "Don't do that. Let me think. I've got to think."

"Will you or won't you accept the charges?" she demanded.

Why would he call me collect? I wondered. That's very strange. But maybe he was visiting someone's
home and he didn't want to charge the call to them. And after all, in
final analysis, it was his phone I was using, so he's get the bill
anyway.

I made a snap decision.

"Put Mr. Chandler on," I said.

"Go ahead, Mr. Chandler," the operator announced triumphantly. "Here's your party."

My voice adopted the syrupy quality that I reserve for anyone from city editors on up.

"Norman?" I chimed.

"Norman?"
a whisky-thickened voice said. "I ain't Norman. I'm Sam. Sam Chandler,
buddy-boy. Your mother told me to call you. She said you'd want the
story. I'm at this bar and grill on 8th Avenue, old pal, and there's a cat stuck up in the tree outside."