1979 - A Can of Worms

by James Hadley Chase

“I promise you one thing, Mr. Anderson, if you try to put pressure on again, you will have an unpleasant end. I, personally, will take care of you. You will die slowly. Okay?”

  I felt a chill run up my spine as our eyes locked. I have a dread of snakes, and right now, Diaz looked like a snake.

  “You have yourself a deal,” I said. “Keep clear of me and I’ll keep clear of you.” I got to my feet, picked up the document case, then walked to the door. I paused and looked at him. “Was it you who killed Pete and the boy?”

  He gave me a bored stare.

  “Why should you care?” he asked, and began putting my statement back in its envelope.

  I left him, crossed the bar and out into the hot sunshine.

  My one thought was to get this money into safekeeping. I drove fast to my bank, rented an individual safe, took from the document case five one hundred dollar bills and locked the rest away.

  It was as I was about to head for home, I remembered Joey. I drove back to the waterfront, parked the car and walked fast to Lobster Court. I had to knock several times on Joey’s door before he opened up. He was wearing a pair of underpants and he looked sleepy.

  “Did I wake you, Joey?” I said, moving into the room.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Jimbo still on the job?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

  “The job’s finished, Joey. Call him off. I don’t want them watched anymore.” I took out my wallet and gave him a $50 bill. “Okay?”

  His eyes brightened.

  “Gee! Thanks Mr. Anderson! You don’t want me to report anymore?”

  “That’s right. Forget it, will you, Joey?”

  He gave me an odd, sly smile.

  “I don’t forget, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy.”

  “Yeah, I know, but forget them. They are dangerous. Keep away from them. Okay?”

  He smiled again.

  “You look after your business, Mr. Anderson. Me and Jimbo will look after ours.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Leave them alone! You can’t do anything to that bunch. They are in the big league.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

  “Just as you say, Mr. Anderson.”

  “That’s my boy!” I slapped him on his shoulder and went down the rickety stairs three at a time.

  As I headed for home, I thought of all that green stuff stashed away in the bank. I could scarcely believe a snake like Diaz would have parted so easily. Well, he had parted, and I was rich!

  This called for a celebration. Bertha and I would go out on the town! I looked at the dashboard clock. The time was close to 19.00. She would be back home by now. If she had a date, she would have to break it.

  Leaving the Maser outside the highrise, I took the express elevator to my floor, unlocked the front door and hurried in. As I shut the door, the telephone bell began to ring.

  Bertha! I grinned to myself. She could smell money two hundred miles away.

  I snatched up the receiver.

  “Hi, baby!”

  A cool, detached voice, snooty and feminine, said, “Is that Mr. Bart Anderson?”

  “Sure. Who is it?”

  “Hold a moment. Mr. Mel Palmer wants to speak to you.”

  Before I could think of a reason why I didn’t want to speak to him, there was a click, and Palmer came on the line.

  “I have been trying to contact you, Mr. Anderson,” he said plaintively.

  “Right now, Mr. Palmer, I am on vacation,” I said briskly. “If it’s anything important, will you call the office?”

  “Mr. Anderson, I have given Mr. Hamel your report and he is satisfied, but he wants to talk to you personally.”

  I blinked, then asked, “What about, Mr. Palmer?”

  He heaved a sigh that came over the line like a death rattle.

  “Mr. Anderson, if I could fathom every whim or request Mr. Hamel inflicts on me, I would be less neurotic that I am. All I know is he wants to see you at his place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Tell him I’m on vacation,” I said, just to make life harder for him.

  “Mr. Anderson! Please be there. Mr. Hamel is expecting you.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “What was that?”

  “I’ll be breaking into my vacation so I will be working again. I don’t work for nothing.”

  He gave a soft moan.

  “Do I have to do this through Miss Kerry?”

  “Send me a personal cheque for a hundred dollars, Mr. Palmer, and there’s no problem.”

  “Very well. Can I tell Mr. Hamel to expect you?”

  “You can bet your sweet life you can,” I said, and hung up.

  Man! I thought, the green is rolling in. I dialled Bertha’s number. When she answered, I said, “Hi, gorgeous! Guess who’s calling?”

  “Oh, you! Where’s the money I lent you?”

  “Is that all you think about . . . money?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Honey, relax. We’re going to celebrate tonight. Hold onto your bra straps. I’m going to take you to the Spanish Bay Grill. How’s that?”

  “Are you drunk?” Bertha demanded.

  “Not yet, but we will be, and another thing, baby, I’ve been looking at my big double bed. It looks lonely.”

  She giggled.

  “Just tell me, Bart, have you got my money?”

  “I’ve got it, baby. How about filling the second pillow?”

  “The Spanish Bay Grill?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Do you know what they charge for a dinner I’m going to eat?”

  “I know.”

  “This I can’t believe. Have you robbed a bank?”

  “I’ll give you one hour. If you’re not here in one hour, I’m calling another dolly bird.”

  “Those pattering feet you are hearing running down the corridor to your door are mine,” and she hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and cried Yip-hee!

  Man! I said. Isn’t money beautiful!

  * * *

  After four champagne cocktails, I was reckless enough to confide in Bertha. We were sitting in the super-duper restaurant of the Spanish Bay Grill, and we had ordered a meal that made even Bertha’s eyes pop.

  “How are you going to pay for it, Bart?” she asked. I believed she was anticipating the cops being called after we had eaten.

  So I told her. I didn’t go into the small print, but I told her part of the story.

  “The fact is, baby, Nancy Hamel hasn’t been behaving herself. By following her around I have opened a can of worms.”

  Bertha stared.

  “That prissy? What’s she been doing?”

  “Never mind. I chatted her up. I produced the evidence. She didn’t hesitate. She said she would buy the evidence and for me to forget it. What could I do? I obliged the lady.”

  Bertha patted my hand.

  “I always knew that one day, kiddo, you would get smart. How much?”

  “Fifty thousand bucks.”

  The moment I said it, I regretted it, but the last cocktail was enough to push me over the edge of caution.

  Bertha released a squeal that made everyone in the grillroom turn and stare.

  “For God’s sake!” I said feverishly. “Remember where you are.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” she hissed, leaning forward to gape at me.

  “Yep!”

  The waiter came forward to serve the caviar.

  “Fifty thousand dollars!” Bertha repeated as soon as the waiter had gone. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

  “You and I are going on vacation, baby. It’s time we relaxed. I’m thinking of hiring a yacht and drifting in the sun. Want to come?”

  “Try and stop me! Honey, leave this to me. I have gentlemen friends. I know a fink with a gorgeous yacht, and I can talk him into letting us have it for practically nothing. Four crew, a French chef, a butler and the food!”
She rolled her eyes. “For how long?”

  “Now wait a minute. That sounds expensive.”

  “How long?”

  “Four weeks: no more.”

  “I know he’s chartered that yacht for twenty thousand a week,” Bertha said. “I’ll bet my panties I can get it for twenty thousand for four weeks. Imagine!”

  I stared suspiciously at her.

  “How do you do that?”

  “He’s a kink. All I have to do is toss off my clothes and dance around his apartment while he sits and drools.”

  “For that he’ll let us have his yacht for four weeks for twenty thousand?”

  “Well, he’ll expect a few extras, but it’s all sex by remote control. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Okay. It’s a deal. When do we take off?”

  The salmon in aspic arrived.

  “I’ll see him tomorrow and fix it.”

  “Are you sure you can?”

  She winked at me.

  “Want to bet?”

  “I may be rich, but I’m not stupid,” I said.

  * * *

  At 09.45 the following morning, feeling jaded, I pulled up before the pole barrier that guarded the Paradise Largo estates. The guard came out of his thatched roof cabin and walked majestically towards me.

  I regarded him as he came: a big, red-faced Mick, around fifty, with weight lifting shoulders and a belly on him that a Japanese wrestler might envy. There was something familiar about him, then I recognized him: Mike O’Flagherty, who once worked as one of Parnell’s operators. He had retired a month after I had joined the outfit.

  “For Pete’s sake, Mike,” I said. “Remember me?”

  “Bart Anderson!” He shoved a big hairy hand through the open window and nearly dislocated my fingers.

  “How’s the boy?”

  “What the hell are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?”

  He grinned.

  “Big deal, Bart. When I quit the Agency, I got myself a real softie. I’m one of the guards here. Nothing to do except make people’s lives miserable. I lean with my weight, make with the importance, and get paid for it.”

  “When my time comes, sounds the job for me. Is there a waiting list?”

  He laughed.

  “Wouldn’t suit you, pal. This is strictly snob-land. What brings you here?”

  “Mr. Russ Hamel. I have a date with him at ten.”

  O’Flagherty’s eyes popped.

  “Is that right? Mr. Hamel is one of our most important clients. Stick around, Bart. I’ll check.”

  “What’s with the checking? Lift the pole and let me in.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you something. This largo is the safest most secure spot in the whole of Florida. No one — repeat no one — goes past that pole without being checked, and without an appointment. No kidnapping, no break and entry, no nothing for the mugs. I’d lose my job if I didn’t check you out even though I know who and what you are.”

  “Don’t tell me you check in and out the residents?”

  “That would lose me my job.” He spat. “Man! The creeps and the bitches who live here turn my stomach! I know every one of them, know their car numbers. When I see them, up goes the pole. If I keep them waiting, they yell at me, but strangers . . . no!”

  “Nice to be that rich.”

  He grunted, and went back into the guardhouse. After a few minutes, he lifted the pole.

  “Go ahead. First Avenue to your left. Third gate to your right. There’s a T. V. scanner at the gate. Get out of your car, hold up your driving licence, press the red button and wait. After you’ve waited until some goddamn butler has buttoned his pants, you’ll get in.”

  “Some security,” I said as I set the Maser in motion.

  O’Flagherty spat.

  “You can say that again.”

  I followed his directions and pulled up outside fifteen foot high, solid oak, nail encrusted gates. Getting out of the car, I pressed the red button on the gate post, held up my driving licence and waited. After a minute or so, the gates swung open: an impressive piece of security. Anyone planning to burglarize the Hamel residence would end in bitter frustration.

  I drove up the sand covered drive, shaded by citrus trees, and to a deluxe ranch style house where a black man in tropical whites stood before the open front door.

  I parked the Maser beside a Ford station wagon, got out and walked up the three steps.

  “Morning, Mr. Anderson,” the black man said with a stiff little bow. “Mr. Hamel is expecting you. This way if you please.”

  I followed him into a big lobby decorated in warm brown and orange, along a short corridor, out onto a patio where a big fountain in a bigger marble bowl, tossed water into the hot, humid air. Tropical fish swam lazily, looking well fed and smug. There were lounging chairs, glass top tables for when the sun went down. On we went, back into the house, down a passage to a door. Here the black man paused, rapped, then stood aside, opening the door.

  “Mr. Anderson, sir,” he said, and motioned me forward.

  All very impressive, rich, big wheel stuff. I am easily impressed by the show of money, so I was impressed.

  “Come in, Mr. Anderson,” a voice called: a hearty, baritone of a voice of a man who is very sure of himself.

  I entered the big air-conditioned room. It was a room I immediately envied: comfortable, intimate with lounging chairs, big settees, occasional tables, a big desk, teak polished floor with rich looking rugs, well stocked cocktail cabinet, tape recorders and an I.B.M. C82 typewriter on a typing table. A big picture window gave onto a lush lawn that sloped down to the canal.

  Behind the desk sat Russ Hamel. He was just like his photograph: square faced, heavily built, tanned and handsome. He got to his feet and extended his hand.

  “Good of you to come, Mr. Anderson. I hear you are on vacation.”

  I made noises as we shook hands. He waved me to an armchair.

  “Coffee? A drink? A cigar?”

  “Nothing right now, thank you sir.” I sat down.

  “I’ve read your report.” He tapped the report lying on his desk. “I bet you have no idea why I hired you to watch my wife.”

  I looked straight at him, giving him my modified cop stare.

  “That’s an easy one, Mr. Hamel. You wanted authentic material for the book you’re writing so you wrote yourself some poison pen letters, instructed your agent to hire us, picked on Mrs. Hamel as a stooge and asked me to come along so you could see what a shamus looks and acts like.”

  He gaped at me, then threw back his head and burst out laughing. Right then I liked the guy: I really liked him.

  “Well, for God’s sake! And I thought I was being smart. How did you find out?”

  “I’m a private detective, Mr. Hamel. It’s my job to find out things like that as it’s your job to write very successful books.”

  “You’re spot on, Mr. Anderson. I got stuck wondering how an Agency works.” He grinned. “Your report has been most valuable. Now would you mind telling me about yourself? I’d like to put you in my book.”

  “I don’t mind, sir.”

  “I won’t be wasting your time, Mr. Anderson. I pay for any material I collect.”

  Man! I thought. Is this my golden age!

  “That’s fine with me, sir. What do you want to know?”

  We spent the next half hour, talking, or rather I did most of the talking, while he shot questions at me. He wanted to know about the organization of the Agency, the training of operators, my own background: all intelligent questions.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “Well, thanks, Mr. Anderson. You’ve given me just what I want.” He reached for my lengthy report. “But this is what I really wanted.” He regarded me with a smile. “This report of yours is not only of value for the book I’m writing, but it is more than valuable to me in my personal life.”

  “Is that right?” I said blankly.

  “My
plot revolves around a woman married to a busy surgeon. She is considerably younger than he is,” Hamel said. “He gets poison pen letters about his wife so he has her watched. This is a tale of jealousy. The detective turns in a report that matches yours. The surgeon’s wife leads a blameless, lonely life. The reason why I decided to use my wife as a guinea pig is because I know for certain she also leads a blameless, lonely life.” He smiled. “I wasn’t taking any risks. I was sure, as I am sitting here, you would turn in a report like this one.”

  I looked away.

  Man! I thought, if you only knew what a can of worms you have opened, you wouldn’t be sitting there with that wide, confident smile on your face!

  “I’m grateful to you, Mr. Anderson,” he went on, “for such a detailed report. I didn’t realize how dull and lonely my wife’s life has been while I have been locked away writing this book. That is going to be altered.”

  I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.” He produced a sealed envelope which he handed to me, then stood up.

  “Accept this as a fee.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamel,” I said, and he conducted me to the door.

  His black servant was waiting.

  “So long,” Hamel said, shook hands and retired back to his room.

  In the Maser, I lit a cigarette and wondered how long it would be before Hamel discovered he had married a murderess. With any luck, he might never know. I hoped he wouldn’t. I liked the guy. I liked him still more, when opening the envelope he had given me, I found I was $500 the richer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nothing lasts forever, but while it lasted, it had been a technicolour dream. As I lay on the sun deck with Bertha by my side, I looked back on those four gorgeous, lush-plush weeks we had spent on this super-duper yacht.

  Bertha had fixed it to charter the yacht for $20,000, the round trip, but there had been a catch in it. Whether she didn’t give out enough or the Fink’s demands made her draw a line, he agreed she could have the yacht, but she would have to foot the check for the crew, the food and the drink. As she was spending my money, she agreed. When she broke the news, I thought of all that green stuff I now owned and remembered what my father once had said: Never act like a piker, even if you are one. So I said okay . . . what’s money for?