1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

by James Hadley Chase

  As I started towards the door, she said viciously, “I hope that Kesey bitch is taking care of you.”

  “Don't make yourself more hateful than you already are,” I said and went back to my car.

  As I reached my house, I saw a car parked outside.

  “Hi, Steve! I was wondering where you had got to.”

  Frank Latimer came out of the shadows as I pulled up.

  Latimer was a successful insurance broker. He was around forty years of age, balding, potbellied but good fun.

  “I heard the news about Linda's mum and I thought, as I was passing, I'll see if you felt like joining us for dinner. Sally has been on a shopping spree so we're eating late.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I've already eaten. I've got a whale of a lot of work to do.”

  “Yeah . . . I can imagine. That mag of yours is just dandy. Well, I thought I'd stop by. If there's anything we can do . . .”

  “It's all under control. Linda will be back soon and Cissy is looking after me.”

  “You know where we are if you want us.”

  When he had driven away, I put my car in the garage.

  According to Wally's report which Jean had told me about, Sally, Frank's wife, had been stealing. I wondered if Gordy had put the bite on him and if he was going to pay or had paid.

  I looked at my watch. The time was 20.50: time I went to see Gordy. I locked up the garage, then walked down the avenue, passing the lighted windows of my neighbours, hearing the sound of television sets and wondering how Gordy would react when I offered him only three thousand dollars.

  Turning to my right brought me to East Avenue.

  According to the plan of the estate, Gordy's house was some two hundred yards at the far end.

  I quickened my pace. The avenue housed the cheaper villas on the estate and was not all that well lit. I came suddenly on a figure who emerged from the shadows, a spaniel dog at his heels. I recognised Mark Creeden: a tall, heavily built man in his early sixties.

  Creeden was regarded by those living in Eastlake as the Czar of the estate. He was nearly as wealthy as Chandler and his house, I knew, cost four times the amount I had paid for mine. He ran a Rolls Corniche and his wife, Mabel, a Bentley T. Although both of them were a little regal, they entertained so lavishly, they were popular, but not really liked.

  He stopped and peered at me. His over-red face creased into his wide, rather patronising grin.

  “Hello, Steve! What are you doing out here?”

  “Taking a walk to solve a problem,” I said, wishing I hadn't run into him.

  “Nothing like a walk to solve a problem. I'm exercising the dog. Mabel buys him and I have to do all the work.” He laughed his jolly laugh: the sort of laugh ambassadors use to get a party going. “When are you two nice people coming to see us?”

  “I guess when we are invited. Right now, Linda is in Dallas. Her mother is sick.”

  “Is that right? I'm sorry. There's a lot of illness around. So you are on your own?”

  “Gives me a chance to catch up with my work.”

  “That's a fine magazine you're producing, Steve. I read every word. I won't keep you. I'll get Mabel to give you a call. We should see more of you both.” More ambassador's talk. He bent to pat the spaniel. I thought it was a pity there were no press photographers to register the scene. “Bye now, Steve.” He waved his hand as if leaving on a train and walked on.

  I stared after him.

  A coincidence?

  First, Frank Latimer: now Mark Creeden. According to Wally, both these men's wives had been stealing from the Welcome store.

  I wondered if Creeden had just left Gordy. Had he paid blackmail money to buy a strip of damaging film?

  I moved on. I had some trouble finding Gordy's small two-storey house. It was well off the road. About two hundred yards from the rear of the house was the goods entrance to the Welcome store. The big store was in darkness, but there was a light showing through the yellow curtains of the lower room of Gordy's house. The rest of the house was in darkness.

  I walked up the path, lined by straggly rose bushes. I pressed the bell. Chimes sounded, then died away.

  I was sweating slightly and my hands felt cold and clammy. My heart was beating with an uneven thump-thump-thump. I knew I was doing a crazy thing to come here and pay money to a blackmailer, but the alternative of going to the police, even though the article on Schultz had been shelved, was too dangerous for Linda: too dangerous for me too. This stupid, greedy thieving could leak back to Chandler, and then there would be a full stop to my career.

  There was no answer to my ring, so I rang again. I looked down the short, dark path, uneasy that someone could be watching me.

  When again there was no answer, I hesitated, then put my hand on the door handle, turned and gently pushed. The door swung open. I stood there, looking into a small lobby.

  The light coming from the living room - the door was ajar - showed me a coat rack on which hung a shabby dustcoat and a shabbier hat.

  Anxious not to be seen by any passerby, I moved into the lobby and closed the front door.

  I wondered if Gordy lived alone. I wondered if he had a wife and if she knew he was a blackmailer.

  “Gordy?”

  I slightly raised my voice and waited.

  I heard the sound of a refrigerator start up, but otherwise there was silence.

  “Gordy?”

  I moved to the door, tapped, then pushed it wide open.

  How often have I read of this scene in books and seen it on television?

  The shabby room with its fading, sun-bleached wallpaper, the ugly furniture, well used and much travelled, the cheap, well-worn rugs. There were two poor reproductions of Van Gogh's landscapes on the wall and a few tattered paperbacks huddled together on a shelf. A TV set, a half-empty bottle of scotch and on the overmantel, a French doll with black fuzz glued to her crotch. The trappings of a home, but not much of a home.

  But the centrepiece of this sad, sordid room, held me.

  Jesse Gordy sat facing me. His hands lay on the arms of the shabby chair. The front of his blue shirt and his shabby grey jacket were red with blood. At his feet was more blood: a small puddle in which one of his shoes rested.

  His lips were drawn back, showing his yellow rat-like teeth in a snarl of hate and fear. His eyes glared at me: dead eyes, but still hating.

  Paralysed with horror, I stared at him. Then the sound of the telephone bell made me stiffen. I looked around, my breathing quick and light. The telephone stood on a table by the dead man.

  I stood there, listening to the bell until it finally stopped ringing.

  Then in a panic, I started to leave. My immediate thought was to get away, but as I reached the front door, my shock began to recede and my mind began to function.

  I paused.

  Gordy had been murdered. Someone had either shot or stabbed him. Was that someone a man or a woman Gordy had been blackmailing? Was the film still in the house or had this someone taken it? If the police found the film, both Linda and I would have no future as we knew it now.

  Shouldn't I search the house and try to find the film? If the film was found, every wife, photographed stealing, would be investigated by the police. She and her husband would be checked to see if she or he could have murdered Gordy.

  Standing there, my mind racing, I suddenly realised that I could be suspect Number one. If questioned, Creeden would say he had met me going towards Gordy's house. I had the motive.

  Creeden?

  I thought of him as he had come down East Avenue, his spaniel at his heels. He could have killed Gordy. Yes, he fitted. He was big business and ruthless in spite of his ambassador's smile. Rather than let his wife be prosecuted for theft he would have thought nothing of killing a creep like Gordy.

  Dare I stay and search the house? Suppose someone came and caught me? The film could be anywhere: cunningly hidden. It could take me hours to search the house.

  As I started for
the front door, I again paused.

  Gordy had been expecting me. Wouldn't he have the snippet of film ready? Why should I care about the rest of the film? It was worth the risk to see if I could find the bit of film that involved Linda, but as I forced myself to turn back to the living room, I heard a car pull up outside the house.

  I whirled around and dashed up the stairs, reaching the upper landing as the front door bell rang. I leaned against the banister rail, looking down into the half lit lobby, my heart hammering.

  The bells chimed, then I hear the door push open.

  “Jesse?” A woman's voice.

  I peered over the rail and caught a glimpse of a woman who moved so swiftly into the living room I only got an impression of her: small, dark, wearing something dark. I heard her catch her breath, then her scream set my teeth on edge.

  “Jesse!”

  Slowly, silently, I began to descend the stairs.

  “God!”

  I heard her dialling. She could only be calling the police.

  I was now in the lobby.

  “It's murder!” Her voice was shrill and hysterical. “Send someone!”

  I reached the door, moved silently into the warm darkness. I heard her screaming, “189, East Avenue! It's murder!”

  I was ready to run, but instinct warned me. I paused long enough to whip out my handkerchief and wipe the front door handle, the only thing I had touched in the house, then I moved down the path and once on the road, I began to run.

  I reached my house, breathless. I had met no one. It was television peak time and everyone, unless throwing a party, was indoors.

  With a shaky hand, I got out my front door key and sank it into the lock. It wouldn't turn. I tried again, then pulling out the key, I turned the door handle and the door opened.

  It passed through my mind, as I entered the dark lobby, that I had forgotten to lock up.

  As I closed the front door, I heard the sound of a police siren and saw the lights of a patrol car through the window, storming past and towards East Avenue.

  4

  In the familiar background of my big living room, I was able to think. I sat in an armchair and considered the situation.

  Gordy had been murdered. A woman (who?) had alerted the police who were already on the scene. Before very long more police and the Homicide squad would arrive. They would search the house, hunt for fingerprints and ask around. If they found the blackmail film then Linda and I, Mark and Mabel Creeden, Frank and Sally Latimer and possibly others living on the estate would be on the hot seat. From the film the police would know our wives were thieves: a motive for murder. We all would be checked. If it was discovered that Creeden had been near Gordy's house around the time of the killing he would be an immediate suspect and as he had seen me, I would also be a suspect. . .unless Creeden kept his mouth shut and I also kept my mouth shut.

  It seemed to me my first move was to try to shut Creeden's mouth.

  Time was pressing. I went over to the telephone and called his number. His butler answered. I told him who I was and said I wanted to speak to Mr. Creeden. There was a delay, then Creeden came on the line.

  “Yes, Steve?”

  “Listen carefully, Creeden,” I said. “I have information that your wife has been stealing from the Welcome store. My wife has been doing the same thing. I am being blackmailed. I suspect you are too. I went tonight to pay Gordy off. I found him murdered. I saw you in East Avenue where his house is and you saw me. There will be an investigation. I suggest we didn't see each other tonight.”

  A long pause, then he said, “That makes remarkable sense to me. You didn't see me . . . I didn't see you . . . right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's how it will be,” he said and hung up.

  I put down the receiver and drew in a long deep breath.

  It was hard to believe it could be this easy.

  Now Linda.

  This was something I couldn't do over the telephone. I had to see her. I didn't want to, but I had to. As I got to my feet, I saw the gun and the holster lying on the settee. I picked them up and put them in my desk drawer. Then turning off the light, I left the house, locked the front door and started down the drive. As I reached the gate, I heard a police siren. I watched two police cars sweep past, heading for East Avenue.

  I started the long walk to Lucilla's bungalow. Again I heard approaching police sirens and I stepped off the road as another police car, followed by an ambulance went by.

  By now my heart was thumping. Fortunately there must have been a good TV show on and the sound had drowned the sirens, otherwise everyone would have been at their garden gates.

  I finally reached Lucilla's place, walked up the path and rang the bell.

  There was an irritating delay, then Lucilla opened the door.

  “Ah, Steve,” she drawled. “So you've come to give us good news . . . or have you?”

  “No good news.”

  I followed her into the living room. Linda was still reclining on the settee. She looked at me, her one eye cold and hostile.

  “Well?”

  Lucilla moved back.

  “I'll leave you two dears to talk,” she said.

  “I'd rather you stay. You could be involved in this,” I said.

  “Really?” She walked over to a chair, sat down and began to fit a cigarette into a foot long holder.

  Briefly, I told them that I had gone to Gordy's place, found him murdered and the police were already arriving.

  “If Gordy kept the film in the house and the negatives of the blow-ups and the police find them, we are in real trouble.” I was talking to Linda. Her face slowly went to pieces and her complexion turned the colour of putty.

  “Well, at least you don't have to pay the beastly man,” Lucilla said.

  Suddenly Linda exploded in hysterical rage.

  “I wish to God I had never married you!” she screamed at me. She turned to Lucilla. “Lucy! Help me! What are we going to do?”

  Watching her, seeing the way she looked at this middle-aged lesbian told me Lucilla meant much more to her than I ever did.

  “Do?” Lucilla tapped ash off her cigarette. “You want a divorce, don't you, my pet?”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, then, what could be simpler?” Lucilla looked at me. “I imagine you will give Lindy a divorce?”

  It came to me what a relief it would be to be rid of Linda.

  I had had little pleasure from her. For over three years I had put up with her grumbles and her greed.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then there is no problem. We will leave immediately for Dallas. The story Steve has already put our that your mother has to have an operation is just a cover to stop gossip that you two are divorcing. Don't bother about clothes, Lindy. Steve will send everything you need to Dallas. I'm sure he can give you some money, but if he can't, I can. I'm sure your mother will understand.”

  Linda began to cry.

  “Oh, darling Lucy, I don't know what I would do without you,” she mumbled.

  Sickened, I took out my billfold and put the three thousand dollars I was going to give to Gordy on the table.

  “I'll leave you two,” I said and started for the door, paused, looking at Lucilla. “You really mean you can go tonight?”

  She smiled at me.

  “I have no problems. You take care of your problems. Within an hour, we'll be on our way.”

  “The police will check.”

  “Of course. Men always check, but there will be no problem. You and Linda have been quarrelling. She came to me. I took her to her mother. You wanted to give her money so you told the bank you needed an emergency fund.”

  I stared at her, then nodded. Then not looking at Linda, I left the room and started the long walk back to my house.

  Back home again, I called Jean.

  She answered so quickly, I had the impression she had been sitting by the telephone.

  “Could we meet somewhere?�
� I said. “There are complications.”

  “Come to me? 1190, Westside, top floor.”

  “In twenty minutes.”

  As I started to the door, the telephone bell rang. I hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

  “Steve? This is Max,” Berry said. “I've got the photocopy of the Hammond estimates. It's taken me until now. Man! Will this cut this punk down to size! I've also got photocopies of the three estimates from the other contractors. They really kick the floor from under Hammond.”

  “Wonderful! Let's go over them tomorrow. I have your gun and pistol permit.”

  He laughed.

  “See you tomorrow, Steve. I thought I had to tell you. Linda okay?”

  “Sure . . . great work, Max,” and I hung up.

  Again as I started for the door, I paused. Why go without the gun? I had asked for a gun and I had got it. I would look a pea brain if I ran into trouble and had left the gun at home.

  Taking the gun and the holster from my desk drawer, I put the gun on the desk while I strapped on the holster. As I was about to put the gun into the holster, I smelt gun powder. I have a very sensitive nose. I can smell things that few people seem able to smell. I lifted the gun barrel to my nose. It had been fired very recently. I stared at it for a long moment, then slid out the magazine. I had loaded the gun with six slugs. Examining the magazine, I found there were only five slugs.

  I stood there, feeling a cold chill run through me. The gun had been fired. Was the ejected cartridge case lying on the floor of Gordy's shabby living room?

  ***

  Jean opened the door of her apartment a moment after I had pressed the bell.

  She was wearing a claret-coloured pyjama suit and her feet in embroidered slippers. To me, she looked lovely.

  I moved into the big, furnished room as she stood aside.

  “More trouble, Steve?” she said as she closed the door.

  “I'll say.” I looked at her. “I shouldn't have come here, but I just had to talk to someone and who better than you?”

  “Sit down and tell me.”

  “Jean . . . Linda wants a divorce. Our marriage is washed up.”

  “I'm sorry, but sit down.” She moved away from me and sat in a chair a yard or so from the chair she waved me to.