“Yeah?”
“Bart!” Bertha’s strident voice slammed against my eardrum.
“Hi, honey,” I said feebly.
“Have you seen the papers? Hamel’s shot himself!”
“Yeah . . . I know.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“For God’s sake, baby . . .”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
She made a noise like a hornet trapped in a bottle.
“Okay, Bart. You have had your chance, and you fluffed it.”
“You can say that again.”
“My fink called me. He wants to marry me.”
I stiffened.
“Do you want to marry him, baby?”
“Why not? He has this yacht, a penthouse, servants and a bloated bank account, so why not?”
“Wait a minute! Think! Do you want to spend the next best years of your life waving your fanny at a kink?”
“For that yacht, his penthouse, his slaves and his money, I’d do a lot more than wave my ass. Wouldn’t you?”
I heaved a sigh.
“You have a point. Okay, go ahead and marry him. Be happy.”
“When I marry him, I’ll be faithful. This is the big goodbye, Bart. You can’t say you didn’t have your chance,” and she hung up.
I lay back on the pillow, feeling depressed, then I began to use my smart brain. There were many other beautiful dolls in the world. Variety is the spice of life, and a change of doll-scene offered fresh excitement. Anyway, that gag about Bertha being faithful, was the big laugh of the day.
I went asleep again.
* * *
After a late dinner, I read Hamel’s obituary in The Paradise City Herald. His suicide made front page headlines. There was no mention of the suicide note. I guessed Mel Palmer had swept that under the rug. There was a vague suggestion that Hamel had been over-working and had become depressed. His wife had collapsed, and Palmer, very much in charge, had gone down to the barrier to be interviewed by the press and the T.V. vultures. No one was allowed past the barrier. I imagined Mike O’Flagherty was having the time of his life. Palmer had made a brief statement. Mrs. Hamel would grant no interviews.
All around me in the restaurant, people were talking about Hamel’s death.
One loud-mouthed woman summed it up. She said, “Well, when a guy writes the muck he did, he must have been a nutcase. I mean, those bedroom scenes! He’s better off dead.”
I wanted to tell her how wrong she was, but I didn’t. I thought of Hamel. I had liked him. I felt sorry for him.
Soon after 23.20, I drove to Paradise Largo. As I pulled up at the barrier, I saw some dozen men, sitting on the grass verge, smoking and talking. The press vultures never gave up!
O’Flagherty came out of the guardhouse.
“Man!” I said. “You are certainly having a ball!”
He grinned.
“Yeah. No one gets by me, Bart. No one got by me. I told Lepski.” O’Flagherty’s moon-shaped face was glistening with sweat. “What a thing!”
“Sure is.” I waited until he raised the pole, watched by envious eyes, then I drove to Herschenheimer’s gates. Carl let me in.
“Man!” he exclaimed. “The old man’s flipping.”
“So?”
He grinned.
“So nothing. He’s keeping Jarvis out of bed. Just look busy. I’ve had enough of it. See you.”
When he had gone, I went into the cottage, found a pack of sandwiches waiting, and I sat down. I wondered what was going on across the road. I wondered if Palmer was still there, fussing around.
As I began to eat the sandwiches, Jarvis appeared. I saw he was doing a flipping act.
“Mr. Anderson, I couldn’t sleep until I talked to you.”
“Something wrong?”
“Yes.” He moved forward and sat down. “What a day I’ve had! I have had to give Mr. Herschenheimer a sedative. He is now sleeping.”
I munched on the third sandwich.
“What’s cooking?”
“Mr. Washington Smith and his wife have been dismissed.”
This news didn’t surprise me. It made sense. Knowing what I knew, Smith and his wife would be a menace to Pofferi, hiding in the house.
I put on my surprised expression.
“Dismissed?”
“Yes.” Jarvis looked miserable. “Mr. Palmer told them they must go immediately. They were given no time . . .just pack and go. Dreadful! After fifteen years of faithful service! They were paid a year’s salary. Mr. Palmer explained that Mrs. Hamel wanted them to go. He was nice about it. He seemed shocked.”
“That’s tough,” I said.
“I will miss Mr. Smith. It is difficult to understand. Mr. and Mrs. Smith kept that house beautifully.”
“Any news of Mrs. Hamel?”
Jarvis lifted his lean shoulders. From his expression, I could see Nancy Hamel was no longer in favour.
“Mr. Smith didn’t even see her to say goodbye. It was so abrupt.”
I took another sandwich: thinly cut lobster meat with a touch of mayonnaise.
“So who’s going to run the house?”
“That is something Mr. Smith or I cannot understand. Mr. Smith was told by Mr. Palmer that Josh Jones will look after things until Mrs. Hamel leaves. She intends to sell the estate as soon as the burial has taken place.”
“Josh Jones? Who is he?” I asked, probing.
“Mr. Hamel’s crewman.” Jarvis looked down his nose. “A no-good nigger.”
“Is Mr. Palmer still over there?”
“He left after the police had gone.”
I now had all the information I needed. I wanted Jarvis out of the way. I told him he looked tired. I said I would be right here if he needed me and taking the hint, he went back to the house. I gave him five minutes, then walked down to the gates and climbed the tree.
There was a light on in the living room, but the curtains were drawn. I wondered if Nancy and Pofferi were behind those curtains, talking together, planning what they would do with the money once Nancy inherited it. I sat with my back against the tree, waiting and watching.
Nothing happened.
After an hour, the light went out and a light went on in a room at the far end of the ranch house. Nancy’s bedroom? Then I heard the sound of a car approaching.
Leaning forward, I saw the car stop outside Hamel’s gates.
From my perch in the tree, I could see right down on the car’s roof. I watched Josh Jones get out of the car, thumb the red button and wait. The gates opened. He slid into the car and drove up the drive. The gates automatically closed.
The porch light went on as he pulled up and the front door opened.
Framed in the doorway was Pofferi!
There was no mistaking the broad shouldered, squat figure. Jones shouted to him and the porch light went out.
I tried to pierce the darkness, but I could only make out the silhouette of the car.
Then the lights went on behind the curtains of the living room.
Resting my back against the trunk of the tree, I waited.
After some minutes, another light went on in the room next to Nancy’s room. I waited. Time crawled by, then all the lights went out.
I slid down the tree and returned to the cottage. Jarvis, had left a bottle of Scotch on the desk. I poured, drank and sat down.
Then a beautiful idea struck me. There were times when even I surprised myself when my money hunting mind clicks into action.
A million dollars!
Bart, baby, I said to myself, it’s waiting for you across the road. Play your cards right, and you have it made.
Across the road, in Hamel’s house, two terrorists were hiding. One of them would inherit Hamel’s fortune. I had no idea what he was worth, but the fact this book would bring in eleven million gross, he must be worth at least twenty million.
Twenty million! And I had been dim enough to wonder why Diaz had parted with fifty thous
and without a whimper to keep me quiet. Man! Had I been dim! Diaz knew that if I had blown the whistle, some twenty million or more would have gone down the drain. No wonder he parted so easily. Fifty thousand . . . peanuts!
I thought of Diaz.
I promise you one thing, if you try to put pressure on me again, you will have an unpleasant end.
Oh, yeah?
That cheap greaseball wasn’t going to scare me away from a million dollars.
There was a typewriter on the desk.
More paperwork, Bart, baby, I said. More life insurance. I typed out in duplicate, the facts as I knew them: how Nancy had smuggled Pofferi into the ranch house, how she had gone off in the yacht to establish an alibi, how Pofferi had murdered Hamel to look like suicide, and that he and Nancy were still in the ranch house, bottled up by the waiting press.
I put the original of the statement in an envelope which I addressed to Howard Selby with a covering note. If he didn’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, he was to hand the envelope to Chief of Police Terrell. The second copy I put in another envelope.
I made myself a drink and relaxed back in a lounging chair. I thought out the next moves.
Later, when I was satisfied I had got the scene set, I turned my mind to what I would do with a million dollars.
I wondered if I should telephone Bertha and tell her not to marry her Fink. Bertha had become a habit with me. I hesitated about losing her. I thought some more and decided to hell with her! It would be fun to sit back and let the dolly birds chase me for a change. Would they come arunning, once the news leaked out that I was worth a million!
Dreams!
As soon as Carl relieved me at midday the following morning, I got in the Maser and drove to the Trueman building. There I handed my statement to the mousy looking girl, telling her I wanted a receipt. I stood over her while she typed to my dictation on Selby’s letter heading. I waited until she took the receipt into Selby who had a client. She returned with his signature and I told her to lock the letter in the safe.
Bug-eyed, she said she would.
Just to give her a thrill, I gave her my sexy smile, and said in my alluring voice, “You have beautiful hands.”
There was nothing else about her I could say truthfully.
She turned the colour of a cooked beetroot and simpered. I left, knowing that I had made her day.
The Parnell Agency had many informers on the payroll.
It cost the Colonel a bomb, but then he was loaded with the green, and to have ears to the ground was essential to the successful running of his business.
I contacted Amelia Bronson who was Mark Highbee’s second secretary.
Amelia Bronson was a fat, middle aged harridan, with a face like a discarded boot, but with a brain that would make a razor blade seem blunt. She had been on the Agency’s gift-roll for some time. She got a turkey and two bottles of Scotch each Christmas, and a hamper of food on her birthday. So far, the Agency hadn’t asked for a quid pro quo.
I took her to an Italian restaurant where she demolished an enormous plate of spaghetti, four vast pieces of Osso Bucco, plus cheese, plus a banana split.
Coffee and brandy left her placid and ready to talk.
Mark Highbee was Russ Hamel’s attorney. He would be handling Hamel’s affairs. Amelia would be doing the paper work. So I asked questions, and Amelia, bloated with food, answered them.
I slid her a hundred dollar bill when we parted. I hated to do this, but Amelia liked money as much as she liked food.
I then drove to Solly Finklestein’s office. I had a little trouble getting to see him. S.F. (as he was known in the city) was absorbed in making money. He was the biggest loan shark on the Pacific Coast. Here again, he got a hamper of luxury food every Christmas from the Agency, and when we needed information about who was borrowing, who was in the squeeze, S.F. parted with the necessary.
I talked to him about raising a loan for a million. He said there was nothing difficult about that. It was some cheapie who wanted to raise a hundred thousand that caused trouble. But for a million, his rates were 25 %, and the collateral wasn’t all that important. He grinned his shark’s grin.
“We collect on bad payers, Bart.”
I knew what that meant. Some thug would arrive with a length of lead piping. You paid or else.
By this time, I had all the necessary ammunition.
Feeling confident, I drove down to the waterfront. I sat in the Maser and surveyed the scene. Tourists jostled, the vendors shouted big discounts, fishing boats were unloading.
I thought of Diaz.
A dangerous snake, but I felt confident I had him in such a squeeze, he wouldn’t strike back.
I fingered the gun in the holster under my jacket. Then bracing myself, I got out of the car and walked to the Alameda bar.
The fat Mexican barkeep gave me an oily grin as I walked up to the crowded bar. The riff-raff and the fishermen stared at me, then returned to their drinks.
“Diaz,” I said to the barkeep.
He nodded, went down the bar to the telephone and as he began to talk, I walked along the bar and through to Diaz’s office. I pushed open the door and paused.
Diaz was behind his desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was putting down the telephone receiver as I walked in.
“Hi!” I said. “Remember me?”
I shoved an upright chair close to his desk and strided it, giving him my friendly smile.
“I thought I told you to stay clear of me,” he said softly.
His voice was like the hissing of a snake.
“Times change,” I said. “Yesterday isn’t today.”
He tapped ash off his cigar onto the floor. His snake-like face was expressionless.
“What do you want?”
“You have yourself a new partner,” I said. “Me.”
“I warned you, you sonofabitch. So okay, this is where you get yours,” Diaz snarled, and a gun jumped into his hand.
I continued to smile at him.
“You have enough intelligence not to shoot me in your office,” I said. “You have enough intelligence not to shoot me anywhere. You have a new partner. There’s nothing you can do about it unless, of course, you want to lose more than twenty million dollars, and that I can’t believe.”
His eyes wavered and he lowered the gun.
“Listen, you blackmailing creep . . .” he began, then stopped.
A cheap bluffer, I told myself. This was going to be easy.
“Let me spell it out,” I said. “It’s nothing you don t know, but I want you to know I know. I guess Pofferi dreamed up the idea. I don’t imagine you did. You climbed on the gravy train as I am doing. As I see it, when Pofferi found out that Hamel, worth millions, had fallen for his wife, he saw his chance of cashing in. Nancy was on the run from the Italian cops with two murders tucked up her jersey. When Hamel offered marriage, Pofferi saw that Nancy could get out of Italy and she would inherit Hamel’s loot if and when he died. So Nancy married Hamel and Pofferi managed to get here. He hid up on an island. Nancy took care of him. Then I arrived on the scene, and, in a panic, Pofferi, through Josh Jones, came to you. You made a deal with him in return for protection. When I put the squeeze to Nancy, she alerted you. You, acting as her agent, decided to pay me off. You did a great job. You had me fooled. That psychological gimmick of yours to produce fifty grand in cash bought me off. It bought me off until I found out just how big the take was, and that Pofferi, aided by Nancy, had murdered Hamel, faking suicide.” I took from my wallet the statement I had written and dropped it in front of him. I added Selby’s receipt. “Take a look,” I went on. “It’s all in print.”
I saw sweat begin to trickle down his face as he read the statement and examined the receipt.
“So, go ahead and shoot me,” I said, smiling at him. “If you do, away goes all that lovely green and you and your buddies go behind bars for life. But don’t let that stop you . . . go ahead and shoot.”
He put down the gun, then stared at me, his snake-like eyes glazed.
“I’m not being greedy,” I said. “All I want is one million dollars, and I want it right now. I could squeeze you for a lot more, but a million will be fine. You and your buddies will still have lots of millions left. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”
He just sat there, staring at me.
“I have information for you,” I went on, enjoying myself. “First, it will take three months to wind up Hamel’s estate. The good news is Nancy inherits the lot. Could be around twenty millions. There will be a big yearly income from the copyrights, and this could go on for some years. The payoff is nice, huh?”
Still he sat there saying nothing.
“I want an immediate million.” I leaned forward, and gave him my friendly smile. “That is no problem. I have talked with Solly Finklestein. On your signature, he will loan you a million at twenty-five percent. He will want your joint as collateral: just good will, you understand. If, of course, you don’t repay, he will send his boys around but with all those millions coming, that’s no problem for you. Are you following me?”
He began to look like a snake cornered by a mongoose.
“All you have to do is to sign this paper Solly has drawn up, and we are in business.” I took from my wallet the contract S.F. had dictated and put it before Diaz.
“I’m not signing anything,” he mumbled, but he leaned forward and read the contract. “I’m not signing this!” he squealed. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“You would be crazy not to sign it, partner,” I said. “If you don’t: bye-bye millions. Twenty years behind bars.
It’s up to you.”
He sat there, sweat oozing out of his face, as he stared at the contract. Solly Finklestein was well known and what was more important, his methods of collecting bad debts were better known. Diaz knew if he signed, then couldn’t pay, he would be crippled for the rest of his days.
“Wake up, stupe!” I said, losing patience with him. “Sign now or I’ll blow the whistle. I could get off with a three-year stretch, but you and your buddies lose millions and gain a twenty-year stretch. Make up your tiny mind!”
He moved: nothing more lethal than wiping the sweat off his face.
1979 - A Can of Worms Page 15
