1979 - A Can of Worms (17 page)

“They always do, baby. Don’t get conned again.”

“He’s different. Will you stake me for ten thousand dollars, Bart?”

I gaped at her.

“I’ve got buzzing in my ears. For a moment, I imagined you said ten thousand dollars.”

She nodded.

“That’s what I said.”

“Ten thousand! Baby! That’s insane! I haven’t even two thousand.”

“Don’t lie!” Her face turned vicious. “I know Alphonso shut your mouth with fifty thousand. I was listening outside the door. I want ten of that or else. . . .”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t any clothes on. The happy, sexy atmosphere had suddenly vanished. I slid off the bed and went into the bathroom. I shaved and showered, taking my time, my mind busy. When a woman, looking the way Gloria looked and said
or else
I knew I had to handle her very carefully.

When I returned to the bedroom, Gloria was dressed.

She stood looking out of the window, her back turned to me, cigarette smoke making a spiral above her carroty hair.

I dressed, then went to the closet for my police special.

The holster was hanging on the peg, but the gun was missing.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, you really have to handle this one with extreme care.

Gloria turned and lifted her right hand. The police special pointed at me.

“Looking for this, Bart?” Her voice was harsh and her eyes cold as ice.

“You wouldn’t want to shoot me, would you, honey?”

“I’ll shoot you in your goddamn leg if you don’t give me that money,” she said, and she looked vicious enough to do just that.

I moved carefully away and sat down.

“You squeezed fifty thousand out of Alphonso,” she went on, “now I’m going to squeeze ten thousand out of you.”

I drew in a long uneasy breath.

“Baby, I would give it to you if I had it. I’ve spent it.”

“Don’t give me that crap! No one spends that much money in five weeks!”

“You’re right. No one does, except me. I have a talent for spending money. I also have a talent for finding expensive dolls. All that beautiful loot went on a four week cruise. Where do you think I got this tan from? Working in a coal mine?”

She stared at me, and I saw her face start to fall to pieces.

“I want a getaway stake!” She lowered the gun. “You can’t have spent all that money!” A faint wail of misery crept into her voice. I relaxed a little. I was now over the danger line.

“I did. I can prove it. We’ll go to my bank, and they’ll tell you.”

“Oh, shut up!” She threw the gun on the bed and turned her back on me. I slid out of my chair, whipped up the gun and dropped it into my pocket. I began to breathe normally.

She spun around.

“What am I going to do? Freddie can’t have me unless I go into partnership with him. Can’t you find some money, Bart?”

“Rest your fanny, baby. Let’s see what we can do. Now start using your brains. Have you asked yourself why Diaz parted with fifty thousand without even a whimper.”

She sat down and stared at me.

“Why did he?”

“Because I opened such a can of worms he had to pay me to keep quiet.”

“What can of worms?”

“That’s something you don’t want to know about. It’s to do with this guy Diaz is hiding.”

“You mean the man and the woman?”

“A woman?”

“There’s a woman with him. I’ve heard them talking.”

I remembered the two beds in the tent on the pirates’ island, and the woman’s things I had seen. I had thought Nancy had used them when visiting Pofferi.

“Are you sure there’s a woman with him?”

“I’m sure. Who is he? What’s the fuss about?”

“Leave it. You want ten thousand to go to Frisco . . .right?”

“Are you deaf?” She thumped her fists on her knees. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“You could earn it, baby.”

She moved uneasily as she stared at me. .

“You kidding?”

“You could earn it.”

“How?”

“I want to know what goes on at the Alameda. I want to know about this man and this woman Diaz is hiding. I want you to find out about them and tell me.”

She reared back.

“Do you imagine I’m that crazy?” Her voice was shrill. “I’m not finishing up like Pete and those two kids.

No way!”

“Relax! All you have to do is to bug Diaz’s office. I’ve a gimmick which activates a tape recorder when someone starts talking. All you have to do is to plant the bug. No problem, baby. I’ll give you the bug and a recorder. Change the tape when it runs out. In one week from now, I’ll pay you ten thousand beautiful dollars in return for the tapes. How’s about it?”

I knew I was getting carried away. Unless Hamel came up with a million, I would never find ten thousand, but she wasn’t to know that. If the tapes came up with evidence that Diaz killed Pete and the two kids, I could squeeze him dry.

“Where will the ten thousand come from?” Gloria demanded. “You’ve just said you have no money.”

I gave her a confident smile.

“I haven’t right now, baby, but in a week, I will have. With some of the money I got from Diaz I bought a share of action with a friend of mine,” I lied. “It cost me five, but the return is a certain fifteen. Ten for you: five for me.”

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!