1979 - A Can of Worms

by James Hadley Chase

  I knew she had been conned most of her life by guys who could spin her a yarn. If I had even thought of spinning such a yarn to Bertha she would have crowned me with a beer bottle, but Gloria wasn’t in the same league as Bertha.

  I watched her think. I could almost hear her think.

  There was a red light flashing in her tiny mind, warning her not to trust me, but the thought of getting her hands on ten thousand dollars turned the red light to green.

  “How do I know you’ll give me the money?” she demanded.

  “I swear it on my father’s tomb.”

  She studied me suspiciously.

  “How do I know your father is dead?”

  “For Pete’s sake! Dial Heaven: they’ll tell you.”

  She thought some more, but greed won over caution.

  “Okay, I’ll do it, but if you don’t give me the money. I’ll cut off your family jewels.”

  * * *

  Washington Smith joined Jarvis and me for lunch. He had had a telephone call from Hamel, saying he would be returning that evening. It appeared the director of the film had been taken ill, so the meeting had been postponed for a week. Smith would be required to unpack for Hamel.

  “How is Mrs. Hamel?” I asked, as Jarvis served chicken Maryland.

  “I am glad to say she is much better. She left soon after Mr. Hamel departed. I understand she is spending the day on the yacht. Sun and the sea are great healers.”

  It was while we were finishing the meal, the sound of a deep throated engine made Smith get to his feet.

  “That must be Mrs. Hamel returning,” he said. “I know the sound of her car anywhere. I had better go.”

  “Now, Mr. Smith,” Jarvis said, chidingly. “I am sure Mrs. Hamel won’t expect you to be on duty at lunch time. I have a very special Stilton I would like you to try.”

  Smith hesitated, then sat down.

  “Yes, you’re right. I informed Mrs. Hamel that I would be lunching here! A Stilton? What luxury!”

  I pushed back my chair.

  “I’d better show the flag,” I said, “but I won’t be long,” and winking at Jarvis, I set off down the drive towards the gates.

  As soon as I was out of sight of the cottage, I broke into a run and climbed the tree to overlook the opposite hedge.

  The Ferrari was standing before the house. The front door stood open. I waited. After five minutes or so, Nancy came out. She was wearing a dark blue turtle neck sweater, white slacks, her hair concealed by a red scarf, and enormous black goggles masked her face. She slid into the car and drove down to the gates which opened automatically. I looked straight down onto the roof of the car as, with a roar, if sped away.

  I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage. Smith looked inquiringly at me as I took my place at the table.

  “She’s gone,” I said. “She must have forgotten something.”

  “Yes. Ladies have a habit of forgetting things. I left a note saying Mr. Hamel would be back at seven. No doubt she saw it.”

  “Try a little more,” Jarvis said, scooping a big portion from the napkin wrapped cheese.

  Smith left after 15.00. Jarvis retired for a nap. I sat in the shade, and also took a nap.

  Around 19.00 while Jarvis was supervising the dinner, I again climbed the tree. There was no sign of the Ferrari.

  After a few minutes of patient waiting, I saw a taxi pull up. Hamel got out. He paid the cabby, then using a key, he unlocked the gates and walked up the drive. I saw he had swung the gates to, but they didn’t close.

  As I watched him approach the house, I wondered if he would be surprised that Nancy wasn’t there to greet him. I also wondered where she was. She had been away from the house now for over six hours.

  I descended the tree and walked back to the cottage.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Anderson. I was about to call you,” Jarvis said. “I hope this will be to your taste.”

  I regarded the silver dish on which lay a magnificent salmon, poached in a cream and herb sauce.

  “It looks good enough for two honest, hardworking men to eat, Mr. Jarvis,” I said, sitting at the table.

  “I think champagne goes well with salmon. I ventured to put a bottle in the ice bucket.”

  Man! I thought. This is the way to live!

  As we ate, I launched into one of my fabricated crime stories. It was sometime after 21.00 that I brought the yarn to an exciting conclusion. We were sipping coffee, with a Napoleon brandy for support, when we both heard the sharp bang of a fired gun.

  I put down my coffee cup and jumped to my feet. The shot had come from across the road.

  Leaving Jarvis gaping, I ran fast down the drive to the gates. I was sure the shot had come from Hamel’s place.

  Moving across the road, I shoved open the Hamel gates, and started up the drive to the ranch house.

  As I reached the front door, it was open, and Washington Smith appeared in the doorway. He was shaking, his eyes rolling, his face the colour of lead.

  “Oh, Mr. Anderson . . .”

  “Take it easy,” I said, and caught hold of him.

  “Mr. Hamel . . . in his study,” Smith gasped, then his knees buckled.

  I pushed him aside and walked into the big lobby. A fat, elderly negress sat on a chair, her apron covering her face, and she was making whimpering sounds. Crossing the patio, I walked to Hamel’s study. The door stood wide open.

  I smelt gun smoke. Pausing, I looked into the big room where, not so long ago, Hamel had talked to me.

  Facing me was his big desk. He sat behind the desk, his head resting on the highback of the desk chair, his eyes staring at me with the emptiness of death. Blood trickled down the right side of his face. Powder bums discoloured the small hole in his temple.

  For a long moment, I stood looking at him and the only thought that came to me was I would now never own a million dollars. Then shaking off this depression, I moved into the room, and up to the desk. On the floor, by the chair lay a Beretta 6.35 pistol. I looked at it, but didn’t touch it. The air conditioner was on. The windows were closed. My eyes travelled to the desk. An IBM typewriter stood before Hamel and there was a sheet of paper in the machine.

  There was writing. I leaned forward and read: Why go on? I am of no use to a woman. I have spoilt two marriages. Why go on?

  I stood away and stared at the dead man.

  “You poor sap,” I said, half aloud. “You certainly got your values wrong.”

  “Mr. Anderson . . .”

  I turned.

  Smith stood wringing his hands, in the doorway.

  “He’s dead,” I said. “Don’t touch anything here.” I moved out of the room and closed the door. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

  “Dead? Oh, Mr. Anderson . . . he was so good to us.”

  “Get hold of yourself!” I barked. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t returned.”

  Then it flashed into my mind that if Nancy found me — the guy who had bitten her for fifty thousand dollars — plus the news her husband had killed himself, she might flip and start trouble I wouldn’t want. I decided to do a quick fade.

  “Mr. Smith! Listen carefully. I’ll get action. Don’t let Mrs. Hamel go in there. Just wait . . . okay?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  Moving fast, I left the ranch house and ran back to the cottage where Jarvis was waiting, his big black eyes alarmed question marks.

  Briefly, I told him that Hamel had killed himself. Then I went into the cottage for the telephone, then paused. Mel Palmer had to be the first on the scene, then the cops.

  Jarvis was hovering around.

  “Got a telephone book?” I demanded.

  He produced the local book. I found Palmer’s home number and, praying he would be home, I dialled.

  I had to talk my way around a snooty sounding butler before Palmer came on the line.

  “What is it, Mr. Anderson?” he asked crossly. “I have guests.”


  “Russ Hamel has just shot himself,” I said. “He’s dead. Mrs. Hamel isn’t home. There’s a suicide note in his typewriter the press will love. I leave it to you to call the police.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Palmer croaked.

  “He’s dead. Get moving,” and I hung up.

  As I moved out of the cottage into the humid darkness, I heard the throaty roar of the Ferrari. Nancy was back! I belted down the drive and climbed the tree. I was in time to see Nancy getting out of the car. She walked slowly up the steps to the front door. The porch light was on and I could see her clearly. Then Smith opened the door. He stepped back, and she moved forward and out of sight.

  The door closed.

  I would have given a lot to have been able to watch Nancy’s reactions when Smith broke the news to her. Had she loved Hamel or had she married him only to escape from the Italian police?

  Then a thought struck me with considerable force. By Hamel’s stupid suicide, Nancy would inherit his wealth, his copyrights and his film earnings. As his widow, she would become immensely rich!

  Then my mind switched to Pofferi. According to Lu Coldwell, Pofferi had come to the United States to raise money for his murderous organisation. Nancy was his wife. He would have access to Hamel’s fortune to be used to finance the Red Brigade!

  I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage, my mind busy. As I reached the cottage, I heard the telephone bell ringing. Entering, I picked up the receiver.

  “Mr. Anderson,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Herschenheimer heard the shot. He is extremely nervous. I am staying with him. Will you watch the gates? I told him about this unfortunate suicide, but he doesn’t believe it. He is sure an assassin is on the island.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell him no one will get near him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He will be relieved.”

  I replaced the receiver, then realizing that Mel Palmer could have trouble getting past the security barrier, I called Mike O’Flagherty at the guardhouse.

  I explained the situation.

  “I’ve alerted Mr. Hamel’s agent, Mr. Palmer,” I said.

  “He’ll be arriving any moment. Let him through, Mike. The police will also be arriving. Let them through.”

  “Holy Mary!” Mike exclaimed. “The poor man has killed himself?”

  “Let Mr. Palmer through,” I said, and hung up.

  I went down to the gates and waited. Ten minutes later, a Cadillac pulled up outside Hamel’s gates. I watched Palmer get out of the car, push open the gates and hurry up the drive.

  I waited, and while I waited, I thought of the fifty thousand dollars I had squandered. I stopped thinking when I began to think of my future: those thoughts were too depressing.

  Around 23.00, a police car arrived. From it spilled Tom Lepski and Max Jacoby. I walked across the road as they got from the car.

  Lepski regarded me.

  “What’s cooking?” he demanded.

  I explained I had been on duty guarding Herschenheimer. I had heard a shot, found Hamel dead, alerted Palmer and was now back on guard duty.

  Lepski glared at me.

  “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “That’s Palmer’s job,” I said. “The suicide note could be damaging. There’s a load of money involved.”

  “What suicide note?”

  “Hamel was impotent according to the note. The press will love it, Tom. A big selling author of porno, impotent! It’s something only Palmer can handle.”

  “You have been up there?”

  “I found him.”

  Lepski’s eyes narrowed.

  “Touch anything?”

  “Come on, Tom, you know better than to ask a stupid question. Mrs. Hamel was out on the yacht. She got back around half an hour ago.”

  “Okay. I’ll want to talk to you again,” and he and Jacoby hurried up the drive.

  Just before midnight, Carl arrived to relieve me.

  “Mike told me,” he said. “Excitements, huh?”

  “You can say that. The old nut is laying an egg. He heard the shot.”

  Carl groaned.

  “That means I keep awake tonight.”

  “That’s what it means.”

  “Had some excitement down on the waterfront this afternoon,” he said, and laughed. “Some joker let off a smoke bomb on the harbour. Man! You should have seen the panic! I was getting a snack at the Alameda bar when the bomb went off! In two seconds, the rubberneckers and all the other crumbs vanished. Some kid, I guess, but you should have seen how fast everyone ran.”

  I wasn’t interested.

  “I guess I’ll get home,” I said. “See you tomorrow and keep alert.”

  Carl laughed.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “If the cops want me, tell them I’m home.”

  “Why should they want you?”

  “Why do cops want anything?”

  We walked together up the drive.

  “Why did this rich jerk want to knock himself off?”

  “It happens,” I said, started the car and drove down to the barrier.

  O’Flagherty came out of the guardhouse.

  “What a thing!” he said. “Why should Mr. Hamel do that?”

  “It happens,” I said and gunned the engine impatiently. He took the hint and lifted the pole. I gave him a wave and headed for home.

  The first thing I did when I had shut my front door was to pour a double Scotch. I took the drink to a lounging chair and sat down.

  The time was 00.30. Should I call Bertha and break the news? I didn’t believe she had sold her apartment and her furniture, but suppose she had? I had a depressing feeling that as soon as she learned there was to be no million dollars, I would see the last of her.

  The telephone bell rang.

  Bertha?

  I hesitated, then got up and walked over to the desk.

  Lifting the receiver, I said, “Hello there?”

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  I stiffened. I recognized Joey’s voice.

  “That you, Joey?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

  “I’ve been trying to contact you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Jimbo. Where are you calling from?”

  “Mr. Anderson, that man left the Alameda this morning. I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “The man who’s hiding there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson. I saw him leave. I saw someone throw something from the upper window. It exploded in smoke. There was excitement. While everyone was running, the bearded man came out and got in the boot of a car that was parked right outside.”

  “What car, Joey?”

  “A Ferrari. There was a woman, driving. As soon as he was in the trunk, she drove off. No one saw, but me. Everyone was running around because of the smoke.”

  “What time was this, Joey?”

  “Eleven forty, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Was the woman wearing a red head scarf and big sunglasses?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Right. Now listen, Joey . . .”

  The line went dead as he hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and stood staring down at the carpet.

  Nancy had left home soon after Hamel had left for Hollywood. She had returned a little after midday and had left again five minutes later.

  I lit a cigarette with a slightly unsteady hand.

  She had brought Pofferi, hidden in the trunk of the Ferrari, to the ranch house. O’Flagherty would have waved her through.

  Pofferi had been hidden somewhere in the ranch house when Hamel had returned.

  Suicide?

  I crushed out my cigarette.

  Hamel hadn’t committed suicide. Pofferi had murdered him!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As I sat thinking, the pieces of the jigsaw began to fall into place.

  Hamel, enormously rich, had met Nancy (Lucia Pofferi) in Rome, and had fallen for her. He wasn’t to know that she was on the run for two mur
ders. By dying her hair dark and wearing big sun goggles, she had evaded the police hunt, but she knew the net was drawing tighter.

  Hamel had offered marriage. The fact that she was already married to Pofferi didn’t stop her accepting. By marrying Hamel she had the safe way of escaping from Italy.

  Pofferi, also hunted by the police, had been trying to raise funds for his murderous organisation. Nancy would inherit Hamel’s fortune if she became Hamel’s widow.

  Once she got the money, Pofferi would use it for his organisation. Somehow, Pofferi had reached the United States, and with Nancy’s help, had hidden on the pirates’ island. He had learned from Nancy that Hamel was impotent.

  The pair had been patient. They had waited some six weeks before putting their plan into operation. They wanted Hamel to finish his book and collect all those millions on the advances. As soon as he had finished the book, they moved into action.

  Nancy knew she couldn’t get Pofferi past the barrier without O’Flagherty spotting him. Probably Pofferi had solved this problem by creating a diversion on the waterfront, hiding in the trunk of the Ferrari, and O’Flagherty had been fooled.

  When the police investigated Hamel’s death, they would be satisfied that no outsider could have been involved. Nancy was out on the yacht. Washington Smith and his wife were above suspicion. So . . . suicide.

  But I knew Nancy had smuggled Pofferi into the ranch house, and I was now certain Pofferi had shot Hamel and had staged the scene to look like suicide.

  I sat up with a jerk.

  Right at this moment, Pofferi must he hiding somewhere in the ranch house. He couldn’t get off the Largo without Nancy’s help, and she had to stay to answer police questions.

  So what should I do? Call the cops and tell them that Pofferi was hiding in the ranch house? Then what?

  Keep out of it, baby, I said to myself. If you start flapping with your mouth, you’ll be in trouble. So keep out of it.

  I went to bed. It took me a little time before I slept. For the first ten minutes, I wondered what Pofferi was doing: what Nancy was doing: what the cops were doing. I had no answers, so eventually, I slept.

  The telephone bell woke me at 10.23. I dragged myself across the bed and picked up the receiver.