She paused in the doorway, then moved directly to the man claiming to be Terry Thorsen.
‘Terry!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is marvellous! How long it has been!’
‘Yeah,’ the man who was claiming to be Thorsen said. ‘Look, we’ll talk later. I want the money, and then let’s get the hell out of here.’
She nodded.
‘Of course, Terry.’ She turned to Ackland who was now standing and beaming. ‘This is my brother. Will you pay him, please? I want to have a long talk with him.’
‘Certainly, Miss Thorsen. You do identify him?’ Ackland said.
‘I said so, didn’t I?’ There was a hard snap in her voice. ‘I want to talk to my brother!’
Looking flustered, Ackland pushed some papers across his desk.
‘If you would sign these, Mr. Thorsen, then I will arrange immediate payment.’ Ackland was falling over himself to give Angela Thorsen service. ‘How would you like the money?’
‘In cash,’ the longhaired man snarled, snatching the pen Ackland offered, and scrawled on the lines Ackland pointed out.
While he was doing this I went to the door and looked out. I saw Bill waiting with two people who were clearly Harry Rich and Liza Manchini.
‘Mr. Rich, please,’ I said and signalled to Bill to hold back Miss Manchini. It looked like he’d have his work cut out.
Harry Rich, immaculately dressed, moved into Ackland’s office.
Ackland looked bewildered.
‘Who is this gentleman?’ he asked.
‘This is Mr. Harry Rich who owns a nightclub, Mr. Ackland,’ I said. ‘He employed Mr. Thorsen as a pianist. Mr. Thorsen was then known as Terry Zeigler. I thought it would be constructive for Mr. Rich to identify Mr. Thorsen before you parted with the money.’
‘But Miss Thorsen has already identified him!’ Ackland spluttered.
I turned to Rich.
‘Is this man Terry Zeigler?’
Rich stared hard at the longhaired man, then he shook his head.
‘He dresses the way Terry dressed, but he is not Terry. I don’t know who the hell he is, but he is not Terry Zeigler.’
‘Sure of that, Mr. Rich?’
‘Of course, I am sure. Terry worked for me for months. I paid his wages into his hand every week. I don’t know what you’re trying but you have been wasting my time, Wallace,’ and Rich walked out.
Without giving Ackland time to recover from this shock, I went to the door and signalled to Bill.
‘This is Miss Manchini,’ I said. ‘She lived with Terry Thorsen, known to her as Terry Zeigler, for quite a time.’ I turned to Liza who had swept forward, her face alight with anticipation of seeing Terry again. Then she stopped short, staring at the man with the long hair who was glaring at her.
‘Miss Manchini,’ I said, ‘is this man Terry Zeigler?’
Her frustration and disappointment were too genuine to doubt.
‘That slob! Terry! Do you imagine I wouldn’t know Terry when I see him again?’
‘You are saying this man is not Terry Zeigler?’ I said.
‘Yes! Do you think I would go to bed with a slob like this?’ Her voice became shrill. ‘God! I thought I was going to see Terry again,’ and she began to cry.
Bill, who was standing by her, took a firm grip on her arm and led her out.
There was a long pause. I looked at the man who was claiming to be Terry. Sweat was running down his face, and his eyes burned with fury. I looked at Angela Thorsen. She was motionless, hidden behind her sun goggles. I looked at Ackland who sat in a heap as if his spine was broken.
As I expected, Angela was the first to recover and take the initiative. She walked up to Ackland’s desk and stood over him.
‘Mr. Ackland,’ she said, her voice harsh, ‘I know this man is my brother. Are you going to tell me you are going to take the word of a cheap nightclub owner and a whore against mine?’
Nice work, I thought, seeing Ackland’s reaction.
‘Of course not, Miss Thorsen, but there must be some mistake,’ he mumbled.
‘There is no mistake!’ Angela snapped.
‘These two people don’t want Terry to have the money left to him! They are deliberately lying! Please arrange for my brother to be paid!’
I came to Ackland’s rescue. He looked as if he was going to have a stroke.
‘Miss Thorsen!’ I barked in my cop voice. ‘Mr. Ackland has no authority to pay out this money! I am representing Mr. Lewis who is the executor of Miss Angus’s will. I am not satisfied. You say this man is your brother. Two people, who have known your brother for some time, say this man is an impostor. Mr. Ackland will not be given the authority to payout one hundred thousand dollars until I am satisfied this man is really your brother.’
She turned. I longed to hook off her big sun goggles that completely masked her face, but I could see by her thin, trembling body how furious she was.
‘I demand my brother gets the money!’ she said, her voice low and full of hate.
‘There is really no problem,’ I said ‘Across the road is the Eden Club. Suppose we all go over there, and I will arrange with the owner, who is a friend of mine, for this guy to sit at the piano and play. If he plays as well as Fats Waller, then he gets the money. Fair enough?’
The man trying to pass himself off as Terry Zeigler suddenly went berserk.
‘I told that fucking slob it wouldn’t work!’ he yelled. ‘I told you, you stupid bitch, it wouldn’t work!’ and shoving by me, he rushed out of the office.
‘Well, Mr. Ackland, that seems to be that,’ I said, feeling sorry for him as he sat deflated, his fat face as white as a sheet.
‘When Terry Thorsen does turn up, I’ll alert you.’ I looked at Angela who was standing like a statue. ‘A good try, Miss Thorsen, but not good enough.’
She turned slowly.
‘I will make you sorry for this,’ she said, her voice a low hiss. ‘God! You will be sorry!’
The vicious menace in her voice was unmistakable.
‘Try to grow up, Miss Thorsen,’ I said quietly. ‘Money isn’t everything.’ and I left the office, feeling sorry for Ackland who now had this vicious girl to cope with.
I expected to find Bill waiting for me, but he wasn’t there. I walked to where I had parked my car. That wasn’t there either. I flagged down a cab and returned to the office.
I had quite a report to write up for the Thorsen file.
CHAPTER 5
I was expecting to find Bill at his desk, but he wasn’t there, so I put a phone call through to Solly Lewis, Miss Angus’s executor.
He answered on the first ring and sounded like a man hopefully needing a rich client.
‘Solly Lewis, attorney,’ he announced in a firm, determined voice.
‘Who else?’ I said. ‘This is Wallace. Acme.’
‘Oh.’ A disappointed pause, then ‘Yes, Mr. Wallace?’ His voice had gone down two major tones.
‘You busy?’
‘Not right now. What is it?’
‘Relax, Mr. Lewis, and listen.’ I then gave him a blow-by-blow account of the afternoon’s performance at the bank. He listened in complete silence, then I concluded, ‘Looks, Mr. Lewis, that Miss Angus’s money is attracting flies.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Miss Thorsen identified this man as her brother.’
‘Don’t let us waste time. I’ve given you the facts. Have you ever seen Terry Thorsen?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘I told Ackland you would not release the money unless you had complete assurance that the claimant was Terry Thorsen. Right?’
‘The money was left to Terry Zeigler, Mr. Wallace.’
‘From my information,’ I said patiently ‘Thorsen and Zeigler are one and the same.’
‘I don’t know. All I do know is the money has been left to a man called Terry Zeigler.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘What information have you that Thorsen and Zeigler are the same?’
Patiently, I explained that when Terry left home he got a job playing the piano at the Dead End club, and changed his name to Zeigler.
‘Very well, Mr. Wallace,’ Lewis said. ‘Then I can assume that Thorsen and Zeigler are one and the same.’
‘That’s what you can do. Now tell me: if Zeigler is dead or is never found, who gets the money?’
‘Miss Angus left the money to him. No one will get it unless it can be proved without doubt that Zeigler was Thorsen, then Thorsen’s next of kin gets it.’
‘Would that be his mother or his sister?’
‘His mother.’
‘OK, Mr. Lewis. We’ll keep in contact. Maybe it would be an idea for you to call Ackland and tell him the money stays in the bank until you are satisfied about the claimant. O.K?’
‘I’ll do that right now.’
‘Fine. I’ll be talking to you again, Mr. Lewis,’ and I hung up.
The time now was 16.15. I wondered where Bill had got to. I wanted to discuss with him this new development. I pulled my typewriter towards me and began to thump out my report.
I had just finished when Bill walked in.
Whipping the last page from my typewriter, I said, ‘Where’ve you been? I thought you had dropped dead.’
‘I could do with a drink,’ he said as he slumped into his desk chair. ‘Where’ve I been? I’ve been working my ass off.’
I produced the office bottle, noting the time was 18.40. I made two drinks, found ice and shoved a glass over to Bill.
‘So?’
‘When this guy, pretending to be Terry, came charging out of Ackland’s office, I could see he was crazy mad. I followed him into the street. He had one of these big souped-up Honda motor cycles, and he took off. He was heading for the waterfront, and it was my guess he was going to the Black Cassette, but I was wrong. He drove past the joint, went further, then turned up Oyster Alley. There are three blocks of walkups there, used by the waterfront fishermen. I didn’t drive in. I heard the Honda engine die. By the time I had parked the car and walked up the alley there was no sign of this guy, but his Honda was parked outside a sleazy looking building. I took the number of the Honda, then drove to the car registration office. No problem there. The guy’s name is Lu Gerando, living at apartment 10, 3 Oyster Alley.’
Bill paused to take a long drink at his Scotch.
‘So I went along to the cop house and had a talk to Joe Beigler. He wanted to know what my interest was in Gerando. I said I was just asking for information and did he know anything about the guy. He said he knew of him, but he was clean so far as the cops were concerned. All the same, the cops were keeping an eye on him. His father worked for the Mafia. He must have crossed his lines because he was blown away when Lu was 15 years old. He took care of his mother by doing casual labour on the waterfront until she died. They are Sicilians, and Beigler is suspicious of Gerando, but has nothing to pin onto him. I went back to the waterfront and contacted a couple of guys I know down there, but they could tell me nothing. They don’t know what Gerando does for a living.’ Bill finished his drink. ‘That’s it, Dirk.’
‘Good progress, Bill,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Al Barney. He could come up with something.’
The intercom buzzed. I pressed the switch.
‘Dirk?’ Glenda snapped. ‘Bring the Thorsen file, please,’ and she switched off.
Bill and I exchanged glances, then I got the file.
‘So what’s eating her?’ I said as I made for the door.
I entered Glenda’s office and put the file on her desk.
‘Right up to date,’ I said.
‘Colonel Parnell will be back tomorrow morning,’ Glenda said. ‘He will want to see this.’
She tapped the file. ‘The investigation is finished. I had a telephone call from Mrs. Thorsen. She said she was not paying us anymore fees, and she was no longer interested. So, Dirk, you can forget the Thorsen case.’
I stared at her.
‘You mean all this is so much waste of time?’
I slammed my fist down on the file.
Glenda smiled.
‘We’ve done very nicely out of Mrs. Thorsen. I wouldn’t call it a waste of time.’
‘Just when it began to look interesting.’ I shrugged. ‘So, OK. What’s the next assignment?’
‘That’s for the colonel to decide. You’ll be seeing him tomorrow.’
I returned to my office and broke the news to Bill.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed in disgust.
‘That makes two of us,’ I said. ‘Well, there it is. The colonel will find us something else to work on.’ I looked at my watch. The time was 19.20. ‘Let’s go and eat. How about Lucino again?’
Bill’s face brightened.
‘Great! Let’s go!’
Then the telephone bell on my desk came alive. Impatiently, I snatched up the receiver.
I was hungry and depressed, but I wasn’t to know this telephone call would alter my whole way of life.
‘Dirk Wallace,’ I snapped. ‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, Dirk!’ A woman’s quavering voice. ‘This is Betty Stowell.’
Betty Stowell was the third receptionist at the Bellevue Hotel. She and Suzy were close friends. I had met Betty from time to time, a nice, cuddly girl with no complexes, a steady boyfriend and hopes of raising a big family.
‘Hi, Betty,’ I said, then stiffened as I could hear she was crying. ‘For God’s sake, Betty, what’s the trouble?’
‘Oh, Dirk. God forgive me for having to tell you, but someone must tell you. Oh, Dirk. . .’
Cold sweat began to run down my back.
‘Is it Suzy?’
‘Yes, dear Dirk. Suzy is dead.’
‘What are you telling me?’ I shouted. ‘Suzy dead?’
‘Yes.’
I sat motionless, listening to the sounds of her sobbing, and knowing from these sounds there could be no mistake. Suzy was dead! Suzy whom I loved, planned to marry, who did so much for me—dead!
‘What happened?’ I shouted.
‘Please—the police know. I can’t talk anymore,’ and still sobbing, she hung up.
I closed my eyes.
Suzy dead!
Vaguely, I heard Bill say, ‘Jesus! I’m sorry, Dirk,’ and then he got up and left me alone.
I was grateful for that. I sat, staring into space, thinking of Suzy, what she had meant to me, and realising, perhaps for the first time, how much I loved her.
I sat there for maybe ten minutes, then I got hold of myself.
How did it happen?
I pulled the telephone to me and dialled the police headquarters. I asked to speak to Joe Beigler. He and I had a good association. If anyone knew, he would.
He came on the line.
‘Joe, this is Dirk Wallace,’ I said.
‘Look, Dirk, I’m just signing off. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘Suzy Long,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘What’s she to you?’ Beigler demanded.
‘She was my girlfriend, Joe. We were planning to get married. That’s what she meant to me.’
‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry to hear that!’
‘What happened?’
‘The facts are these,’ Beigler said. ‘This morning as Miss Long was leaving for the hotel, a car pulled up and a man asked her if she could direct him to Westbury Drive. There were two old women passing and they heard this. Miss Long went up to the car and began to give directions. She got a face full of acid, and the car took off. These two old women say that Miss Long, covering her face and screaming, ran into the road and was crushed to death by a passing truck.’
I felt bile rise in my mouth and had a struggle not to vomit.
Beigler, understanding my feelings, gave me a long moment, then he said, ‘The boys are working on this, but so far, they’ve turned up nothing. The two witnesses were old and useless. Neither of them could give a description of the car. One of them thought the driver was black, but h
er friend said she imagined that. The boys are questioning everyone living in the various blocks. They could come up with something.’
The driver was black.
I took a long, deep breath.
‘Where is she?’
‘The city’s morgue.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘Look, Dirk, leave it. Miss Stowell has been most helpful. The staff manager of the hotel has identified Miss Long. We have informed her father who is flying here to take care of the funeral. Take my tip, Dirk, don’t go look at her. The acid did a job, and so did the truck. Keep out of it.’
‘Thanks, Joe,’ I said and hung up.
He was right. I wanted to keep in my memory Suzy’s bright, lovely face, not a face disfigured by acid. I told myself I wouldn’t even go to the funeral. The dead are dead.
I sat back and lit a cigarette. This awful empty feeling of loss gradually turned into a burning feeling for revenge. I sat there for maybe twenty minutes before making any decision.
Having made it, I locked my desk drawers, turned off the lights and walked down the corridor to the elevators.
I drove back to my apartment. As I paused outside my front door, fumbling for my keys, I saw a scrap of paper pasted on the door.
On it, scrawled in small lettering was the message: YOU WERE WARNED, SUCKER.
A full moon was climbing lazily into a cloudless sky as I found parking on the waterfront.
I had showered and changed into a sports shirt and linen slacks. I had checked my last bank statement. I was worth $12,000. This was money I had been saving for when Suzy and I setup home. No more Suzy—no more home.
I left the car and walked along the waterfront which was crowded with tourists, gaping at the various characters coming off the fishing boats.
The time was 21.30. The air was hot and humid, but, at least, there was no sign of rain.
I walked to the Neptune Tavern. There were a few fishermen at the tables, eating. This wasn’t a tourist haunt. Across the room Al Barney, in his special corner, was eating, a beer at his elbow.
He put down his knife and fork as I sat down at his table. His fat face wore a mournful look.
‘I was hoping to see you, Mr. Wallace,’ he said. ‘Have something on the house.’
1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 7
