She lifted her right hand and I saw she had a gun.
“Tell me or I'll kill you! Where is it?”
I looked at the gun . . . my gun. That story about putting the gun in a sack of rubbish! She had kept it and had killed again with it! Looking at her, I was sure she was now mentally unbalanced and yet I had no fear of her. I was just sick that I had lost her, that my stupid dreams that she would get bored with this other man and then she and I could come together were finished.
I took the film cassette from my pocket and held it out to her.
“Here it is, Jean,” I said. “Why didn't you confide in me?”
She remained motionless, the gun pointing at me, then slowly her wild eyes moved from me to the cassette. She caught her breath in a retching sob.
“Really?”
“Freda Hawes sold it to me for fifteen hundred dollars,” I said. “Here it is, Jean . . . take it.”
The gun dropped from her hand. She came forward and snatched the cassette and held it against her face, then she fell on her knees. She began to moan softly like a small animal in agony.
I picked up the gun and tossed it by Max's gun on the settee. My legs felt unsteady and my head was beginning to ache. I was so very sick of all this. I sat on the arm of a ruined armchair and watched her, cradling the cassette and muttering to herself. This, I thought, must be a proof of love and I wished Chandler was here to see her.
Minutes ticked away. I just sat there, waiting.
Finally she stopped moaning and muttering.
“I'll get you a drink,” I said and went to the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff brandy.
She was now on her feet, clutching the cassette, her eyes less wild.
“I don't want it!”
“Drink it!”
The glass chattered against her teeth, but she drank the brandy. She shuddered as she set down the glass.
“This really is the film?” she asked huskily.
“That's it. You and Chandler. I'm leaving the city. If you'll go now, I'll be able to get on with my packing.”
She dropped onto one of the slashed cushions.
“I love him. He is the perfect man. Ever since I began to work for him, I loved him. I would do anything for him. I have done everything for him.” She stared at me. “You wouldn't know what real love means. So few people do: to make sacrifices, to do anything for the person you love.”
She pressed her hands against her face. “The moment I met him I fell in love with him. It took longer for him to love me. He is such a fine, splendid man. We knew our love for each other had to be kept secret and yet we yearned for each other. It became too dangerous for me to work with him. There were so many prying eyes and we knew if we worked together we would give ourselves away. So he sent me to work for you. Yet we had to meet.” She closed her eyes. “Those awful, furtive places: a movie house when I had to search for him in the dark, taxi rides that were dangerous, dreadful little bars and then the Welcome store.” Her voice faltered. “We thought we were so clever going to the Welcome store early, but we didn't know about the camera.” She lifted her shoulders helplessly. “There was nothing more. Only the touch of his lips, the feel of his hands . . . that was all.”
Listening to all this sickened me.
“Please stop,” I said. “You have the film. Please go away. I have packing to do.”
“I want to confess.” Her eyes became red embers again. “I have so much to confess. Gordy came to me. He hadn't the guts to go to Henry. He told me about the film. His price was a million dollars. Sneering at me, he said Henry and I were in good company, and he mentioned these other women's names I told you Wally had given me. Wally knew nothing about the Welcome store. I lied when I told you he had been researching. How else could I gain your confidence? I needed as much information as I could get. The attack on Wally was nothing to do with Gordy. It was mugging. I realised I had to have help so I went to Webber. Without Henry, Webber is nothing and he knows it. He is the only one who knows Henry and I love each other. He knew this woman Hawes was close to Gordy. He went to her apartment when she was out and found the blow-ups which he destroyed as he destroyed Gordy's file so you shouldn't have it. In the file was Gordy's past record. He had served ten years for blackmail. I was scared if you knew this you might scare Gordy into talking about Henry and me.” She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “With the blow-ups destroyed, I had to get the film. I needed a gun. I planned to frighten Gordy into giving me the film. I knew you had a gun and I followed you home, watched you leave, found the front door unlocked, and got the gun. I drove to Gordy's house. I threatened him and he laughed at me so I shot him.” She paused to look around the wrecked room, her face a wooden mask. “It was a crazy thing to have done because I hadn't the film. I realised the police might be able to prove I had killed him and that would involve Henry.” She looked directly at me. “So I decided to make you responsible for Gordy's death. You mean nothing to me. You never have. I know you think you are in love with me.” Her face twitched in a grimace of disgust. “To me that is an obscene joke. Compare yourself with Henry and you will see why. It seemed easy. I had your gun. Webber's men never let you out of their sight. They got the reel of tape which would incriminate you. They also got the film when you found it, showing your wife stealing. You can't imagine how I suffered when I discovered there had to be a second film. That police lieutenant is dangerous. I decided to kill you.” She paused and shuddered, looking away from me. “Please, try to understand that all this was driving me out of my mind. I have duplicate keys to all Borg's apartments. I came here the other night with the tape, the film and the gun. You were asleep. I planned to shoot you, leaving the tape, the film and the gun by your side. I was sure the police would think you had killed yourself. I stood over you, the gun at your head, but I couldn't pull the trigger. I stayed by you for a long time, but something stopped me, so in despair, I went away and I destroyed the tape and the film. Webber told me you had met this Hawes woman. I went to her place and met her as she was returning home. She had an overnight bag and I felt sure she had the film in it. I shot her.” Her face twisted as if she had suffered a pang of pain. “God forgive me! She was so arrogant. She spat at me . . . so I shot her. There was no film. So I came here . . . my last hope. I hunted and hunted and searched and searched. Now I have it.” Her face went to pieces and she began to sob. “The joke against me is that Henry knows nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing about all this. He has no idea, and he never will, what I have done for him . . . what I have done to protect him. He is living in that lovely house with that stupid, snob, horrible bitch and he imagines I am happy because he sneaks away twice a week to give me a kiss and to touch my hands.”
I got to my feet and wandered around the wrecked room.
Listening to her sobbing made no impact on me. I just wanted to get away.
“This is something you will have to live with, Jean,” I said. “How you work it out, is your affair. I'm sorry you think my love for you is an obscene joke. Will you please go now?”
She stiffened and choked back her sobs.
“Yes, of course.” She got unsteadily to her feet. “You could never understand.” She clutched the cassette in her hand. “You don't know what love means.”
I wanted to be rid of her. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn't know what love meant, but if it meant the death of two people, no matter how worthless, I didn't want to know.
I walked to the door and opened it.
“Goodbye, Jean.”
She moved forward, then paused, looking at me.
“Will you do something for me?”
“If I can.”
She held out the cassette.
“Will you destroy it, please?”
“That's your business, Jean.”
“Please . . . do it for me.”
“All right.” I took the cassette and dropped it into my pocket. She moved slowly by me and out into the corridor.
She turned an
d looked at me.
“Thank you. Goodbye, Steve.”
I regarded her. How odd, I thought, that this woman had at one time seemed to me the only woman for me. I looked at her haggard, white face and the misery in her eyes and I was looking at a stranger.
“Goodbye.”
I was glad to shut the door and see the last of her. After wandering around the wrecked room for some minutes, I went to the telephone and called Borg. When he came on the line, I said, “I have had burglars in here, Joe. The place is completely wrecked. I'm leaving for Los Angeles in an hour. Will you handle it?”
“Have you called the police?”
“I haven't the time to tangle with the police. You do that.”
“Hell! I'll get Jean to handle it.”
“I would handle it myself if I were you,” I said and hung up.
I packed two suitcases, then I picked up the gun that had shot Gordy and Freda and went down to the basement. I dropped the gun in the rubbish tip which was constantly smothered with refuse and I dropped the cassette into the furnace. I returned to the apartment, picked up my bags and rode down in the elevator to my car.
I had more than two hours before my plane to Los Angeles took off. I drove slowly to the airport, aware the blue Mustang was following me. Leaving the car at the airport garage, I checked my bags in, then went into the bar.
I didn't feel like eating. I sat in a corner, nursing a whisky on the rocks and thought about Jean. I thought about what she had told me and I longed to be in the aircraft, flying away from this city.
Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, my flight number was called' and I walked across the tarmac to the waiting plane. I embarked, sat, smoked and tried to consider my future. My thoughts kept being interrupted by the picture of Chandler and Jean standing in the aisle of the Welcome store. That picture, I knew, was going to haunt me for a long time.
On arrival, I collected my bags and started across the lobby in search of a cab.
“Mr. Manson?”
I looked around at a tall, lean man who was smiling at me.
“I'm Terry Rogers of the Hollywood Reporter.” His smile broadened into a grin. “The grapevine told me you were on the plane. Mr. Manson, is it correct that you have resigned as editor of The Voice of the People?”
“That is correct.”
“Was there a difference of opinion between you and Mr. Chandler?”
“No. I decided the editorial chair isn't for me.” I began to move away from him. “Sorry about your secretary.”
I paused and eyed him.
“My secretary?”
“Miss Jean Kesey. She was your secretary, wasn't she?”
“Yes. What about her?”
“Came over the tape about ten minutes ago. She walked under a truck.”
I felt no reaction. It had to end that way.
“Did she?”
“When he heard, Mr. Chandler said it was a very sad loss for the magazine. Have you any comment, Mr. Manson?”
“All of us have to die sometime - even goldfish,” I said and left him, staring after me.
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 17
