“What does he want?”
There was a pause, then Jean said, her voice sounding a little troubled, “He says it is personal and confidential.”
“Send him in in three minutes.”
This would give me time to put a tape on the recorder, switch on the mike, settle myself behind my desk and light another cigarette.
Jean opened my door and stood aside as a tall, thin man, wearing a well-worn, but neatly pressed suit, came into my office. He was around forty years of age, balding with a broad forehead, tapering down to narrow jaws, a thin nose, deep-set eyes and an almost lipless mouth.
I stood up to shake hands. His hand felt dry and hard.
“Mr. Gordy?”
“That's right. Jesse Gordy.” He smiled and showed small yellow teeth. “You wouldn't know me, Mr. Manson, but, of course, I know you.”
I waved him to a chair.
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you.” He settled himself in the chair, took out a pack of Camels and lit up. There was something about his movements, his expression, his arrogant, confident ease that began to bother me.
“Was there something?” I moved some papers to give him the hint I hadn't time to waste.
“I think I have information for you, Mr. Manson that would make an interesting article.” He again revealed his yellow teeth in a tight smile. “I have been reading your magazine: quite first class: quite the thing this city needs.”
“I'm glad you think so, Mr. Gordy. What is this information?”
“First, let me introduce myself. I am the manager of the Welcome Self-service store on the Eastlake estate. I don't believe you come to the store, but your wife shops with us I am happy to say.” Again the lips lifted, again I saw the small yellow teeth: they began to make me think of a rat.
“Every lady living at Eastlake shops with us.”
I had a growing feeling that there was something menacing behind this smooth talk and I was careful to look interested, to nod encouragingly and to wait.
“Mr. Manson, you have created a splendid, vigorous magazine that attacks dishonest people. It is a fine, much needed endeavour,” Gordy said. “I have read all the issues and I look forward to reading the next.” He leaned forward to tap ash off his cigarette into my glass ashtray. “I'm here, Mr. Manson, to offer you information concerning petty theft in my store. It is called petty theft, but over a year, the amount of stealing comes to some $80,000.”
I stared at him.
“You mean people living on the estate steal $80,000 a year from your store?”
He nodded.
“That is correct. I don't know why it is, but people do steal: even well-off people. It is an oddity that, so far, hasn't been explained. A servant working on the estate will buy ten dollars' worth of goods and will steal two packs of cigarettes. A wealthy lady will buy a hundred dollars' worth of goods and yet will steal an expensive bottle of perfume.”
This began to interest me. If what this man was telling me was true I could write an explosive article which Chandler would love. '
“You surprise me, Mr. Gordy,” I said. “You have proof?”
“Of course.”
“What proof have you?”
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another as he smiled at me.
“In spite of the heavy cost, my directors decided to install camera scanners that cover the whole store. The cameras began to operate two weeks ago. My directors consulted the Chief of Police who expressed his willingness to prosecute on the evidence the film produced, providing the film was convincing.” He relaxed back in his chair. “The film I now have, Mr. Manson, is so convincing, I hesitate to hand it over to Captain Schultz. I felt I should first consult you and a number of husbands whose wives shop in my store.”
I felt a sudden rush of cold blood up my spine.
“I'm not following you, Mr. Gordy,” I said and heard my voice was husky. “Just what do you mean?”
“Mr. Manson, please don't let us waste time. Your time is precious and so is mine.” He produced from his pocket an envelope and flicked it on to my desk. “Look at this. It is a blow-up from a frame of twenty feet of film. I suggest it is enough proof, apart from the film, to tell you that Mrs. Manson has been naughty.”
I picked up the envelope and drew from it a glossy photograph. It showed Linda, looking furtive, putting a bottle of Chanel No. 5 into her handbag.
I sat still, like a stone man, staring at the photograph.
“Of course she isn't the only one,” Gordy said gently.
“So many ladies of Eastlake do this kind of thing. The film is very revealing. Captain Schultz would have no difficulty in prosecuting. Your nice, beautiful wife, Mr. Manson, could even go to prison.”
Slowly, I put the photograph down on my desk.
Gordy got to his feet.
“This is, of course, a shock to you,” he said, showing his yellow teeth. “You will need time to think about it and even discuss it with Mrs. Manson. We could arrange this sad affair. Before I give Captain Schultz this revealing cassette of film I could snip out your wife's participation. I suggest $20,000 and you get the film. It is not a lot of money considering your success. May I suggest you come and see me tomorrow night with cash. I have a small, modest house not so far from your beautiful house. No. 189 Eastlake.”
He leaned forward, staring at me, his eyes like chips of ice, his yellow teeth now revealed in a snarl. “Tomorrow night, Mr. Manson . . . cash please,” and he walked out of my office while I sat there, staring at Linda's beautiful face, seeing her doing this mean, mean thing and knowing I would have to save her from prosecution.
But how?
I had always told myself that if ever anyone tried to blackmail me, I would go immediately to the police: the only way of dealing with a situation like that. But my attack on Schultz would make this impossible for me to go to him.
He would certainly stamp on Gordy, but he would have no mercy on Linda unless . . .
Could I withdraw the article? I still had over a week before the printing run. I had a lot of material I could substitute but Chandler had okayed the article. He had given me a bonus of $10,000, clearing my debts, for creating the article. Could I now persuade him that our facts might not stand up and we could get landed with a hell of a libel suit?
There was a tap on my door and Wally Mitford came in.
“Have you time to look at this draft about the new High school building, Steve?”
I wanted to be alone to think and it was an effort to say, “Sure. Sit down.”
Wally took a chair and began spreading papers on my desk. I slid the photo of Linda into my desk drawer and turned off the tape recorder.
Wally was tubby and amiable looking, around forty years of age. He had a receding hairline, eyes almost hidden behind thick-lensed glasses and the jaw of a bulldog. He was the best research reporter I knew and I have met a lot of them.
We discussed the new High School which was being built by a contractor employed by the City Hall. Wally thought the estimate was far too high. He had inquired around and had discovered at least three other contractors who had put in a much lower bid.
“It's Hammond,” he said. “He's getting a big rake off. We could start trouble for him. What do you think?”
“See what Webber can dig up about him.”
Webber was head of Chandler's detective agency.
“Okay.” Wally made a note. “Are you all right, Steve? You look as if you're sickening for the flu.”
“Nothing more than a headache.” I paused, then said, “That article about Schultz. Do you think we should run it?”
“Run it?” He gaped at me. “Are you fooling?”
“I've been thinking about it. It could land us in a lot of trouble. I mean the cops will really turn sour and it could mean personal trouble for us all.”
“We talked that out when we planned the article, didn't we?” Wally grinned. “You planned it and I wrote it: so you and I are the
boys out on a limb. What have we to worry about? What can the cops do to us? I, like you, behave myself. . . so what?” He regarded me. “Are you getting cold feet, Steve? Have you a secret past?” His wide grin did nothing for me. “Besides the boss has given us the green light. If there is any trouble he takes care of it and that sonofabitch Schultz has it coming.”
“Yes. Okay. You talk to Webber and see what you can dig up about Hammond.”
He gave me a thoughtful stare, gathered up his papers and started for the door.
“Take it easy tonight, Steve. Go to bed early.”
When he had gone, I ran off the tape and put the cassette in my pocket. I put the photograph in my briefcase, then I went into Jean's office.
“I'm going home, Jean. I've got a chill or something. Wally will be here if anything turns up.”
She looked with concern at me.
“Have you any Aspros at home?”
“Sure. I'll be fine tomorrow,” and I went out into the corridor. Wally's office door was open. I looked in.
“I'm going home, Wally. If there's trouble, call me.”
“There won't be. Have an early night.”
I hesitated, but I had to know.
“Does Shirley shop at the Welcome stores?”
Shirley was Wally's nice, practical wife.
“That den of thieves?” Wally shook his head. “I reckon they are more than fifteen percent ahead of any other store in the district. It's just for the rich and the snobs. We could do an exposure on them, Steve. We could cut them down to size.”
“It's a thought. Well, see you tomorrow,” and I took the elevator down to the street level. I got in my car, started the motor and stared bleakly through the windshield.
What was I to do? Twenty thousand dollars by tomorrow night or this film would go to Schultz. I could imagine the police arresting Linda. I could imagine the sensation and how the press would love it. Chandler would immediately give me the gate. I thought of all our neighbours: the yak, the head wagging and for the first time since I married Linda, I was thankful we had no children.
But there must be a way out.
I had cleared my overdraft. Would Ernie Mayhew advance the $20,000? That, after brief consideration, I knew was a pipe dream. He might advance me $5,000 if I thought up some reasonable excuse. But how to raise the rest of the money? I thought of Lu Meir who lent money and who I was planning to attack. Max Berry, my other researcher, had already drafted a blueprint. We were going to attack Meir on his 60% interest loans and Max had details about Meir's collectors: thugs who beat-up those unfortunates who couldn't pay this exorbitant interest.
Maybe if I killed the article, Meir would lend me the money at reasonable rates, but then I remembered Chandler had already seen Max's first draft and had approved it.
I shifted the gear stick to drive and headed for home.
***
Once out of the city and through the smog belt, the evening sun was hot and the air clear. I didn't expect to find Linda at home and I wasn't disappointed. The garage doors were open and the Austin Cooper not there. I drove my car into the garage, looked at my watch — the time was just after 18.00 - then unlocked the door from the garage into the house and went to my study. I wound the tape onto my recorder, put the photograph in my desk drawer, then went into Linda's dressing-room. It took me only a few minutes to find the bottle of Chanel No. 5. I then opened her make-up cabinet and surveyed the bottles and lotions that lined the shelves. Any of these, of course, could have been stolen.
There was a large, ornate bottle of Joy perfume. The New Yorker had told me in an ad that this was the most expensive perfume you could give a woman. I closed the cabinet door and went into the kitchen to get ice for a drink I badly needed.
The kitchen was in a mess: our breakfast things stood in the sink, the remains of a Quick-lunch curry chicken cluttered the kitchen table with a used plate, knife and fork.
Bread crumbs were scattered on the floor. I remembered that Cissy would arrive tomorrow. I went back to my study, fixed a drink and sat behind my desk. I sat there, trying to think up a solution. I admit to panic. I saw everything I had worked for, my whole future blown sky high because my stupid, beautiful wife had to be greedy. Why couldn't she have asked me to buy her perfume? How could she have been so utterly irresponsible as to turn thief, knowing if she were caught, what it would mean to both of us?
I forced my mind away from her and thought of Jesse Gordy. I thought back on what he had said, then not sure, I switched on the tape and listened to his voice.
The film I now have, Mr. Manson is so convincing, I hesitate to hand it to Captain Schultz. I felt I should first consult you and a number of other husbands whose wives shop in my store.
So, obviously, Linda wasn't the only thieving wife.
Others of my neighbours were being blackmailed. My mind darted as I thought of the people we knew who lived around us. The Mitchells? The Latimers? The Thiessens?
The Gilroys? The Creedens? The list could go on and on: all wealthy men with spoilt wives: much more wealthy than I was, but I doubted if their wives who I knew well were more spoilt than Linda. Could these husbands have received a visit from Gordy? Suppose there had been four other thieving wives? A demand of $20,000 a wife. $80,000 for a visit, a threat and a snippet of film!
I felt a sudden surge of anger and picking up the telephone receiver I called Herman Webber.
The Alert Detective Agency was owned by Henry Chandler and was run by Herman Webber. This man had been a police lieutenant, had resigned because his promotion wasn't rapid enough and had set up a private inquiry agency. He had been popular with the police and in next to no rime, five top-class police officers had deserted the force and had joined him. Chandler had financed him and had now taken him and his five officers under his wing.
Webber had done all the dirty research for The Voice of the People. I didn't like him: he was tough, hard and tricky to deal with, but he came up with facts and his facts stuck.
His hard, clipped voice came on the line.
“Webber.”
“This is Steve, Herman,” I said. “I have a little job that needs taking care of.”
“Go ahead: you're being taped.”
That was Webber: efficient and still the cop. He never took any assignment unless he had everything on tape.
“Jesse Gordy,” I said. “He runs the Welcome Self-service store. I want everything about him: repeat everything about him down to how often he cuts his toenails and fast.”
“Can do. No problem. I have a file on him that only needs bringing up to date. You'll have it by noon tomorrow.”
“Make it ten o'clock.”
He whistled.
“Like that?”
“I want it on my desk by ten o'clock,” and I hung up. I looked at my watch. The time now was 18.20. I looked in my address book, then called Ernie Mayhew's private number. Martha, Mayhew's wife, answered.
“Is Ernie back yet? This is Steve,” I said.
“He's just taking a pee,” Martha said and laughed.
“How are you both? It seems ages since we saw each other. When can we get together? How about next Friday? Do come along.”
“Fine. I'll talk to Linda. You know how it is, Martha, the man never counts. She could have something on.”
Martha squealed.
“Well, I hope so, Steve.”
Then Ernie took over.
“Hi, Steve!”
“Look, Ernie, an emergency has come up. Linda's mother has to have an operation. Sorry to talk business at this time but I want to pour oil. Am I okay for $15,000?”
There was a pause.
“You don't mean you're asking . . .” Suddenly aware that Martha was listening, he stopped.
“That's what I'm asking. You can have the house for security, Ernie.”
Again a long pause.
“Suppose we discuss this tomorrow, Steve? I'll make a date for nine-fifteen at my office.”
“
Can you give me some idea if you could or you couldn't?”
“We'll talk about it. I would say the amount isn't realistic. Anyway, let's talk. Sorry about Linda's mother.”
“Yes.”
“Let's get together, huh?”
“Sure. Okay. Ernie, tomorrow,” and I hung up.
I heard Linda's Austin Cooper as she drove into the garage. I flicked on my desk light, finished my drink and waited.
I heard the front door open and slam. She didn't bother to call out to me, but ran upstairs. I heard her heels thumping over my head as she crossed to the bathroom.
There was a pause, then the toilet flushed. I sat there, waiting. The telephone bell rang. Although the receiver was just by my hand I didn't touch it.
I heard Linda, from our bedroom, take the call. I listened to her yakking.
“Steve! It's Frank.” She had come out on the landing and was calling down. “He wants you.”
I picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Frank!”
“How's about coming over in twenty minutes?” Frank Latimer asked. Listening to his deep baritone voice I wondered if his wife was a thief as mine was. “Sally has just bought a box of King size prawns. Jack, Suzy, Merrill and Mabel are coming. How's about it?”
Linda came into the study.
“Not tonight, Frank . . . thanks all the same,” I said. “I've got a chill or something. I'm planning an early night.” I listened to his commiseration, then hung up.
“Chill?” Linda was glaring at me. “What are you talking about? We haven't any food in the house! Call him back and tell him you have changed your mind!”
“It won't hurt us to starve,” I said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
“If you don't want to go, I do!” She came over to my desk and reached for the telephone receiver as I took from my desk drawer the bottle of Chanel No. 5 and put it directly before her.
2
Often enough, and sadly enough, there comes a moment of truth when a husband or a wife looks at his/her partner and realises he/she is no longer in love. That the months and even years they have lived together have turned suddenly into grey ash, and love - which is a precious thing - no longer exists between them.
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 2
