1973 - Have a Change of Scene (21 page)

On the fourth day, I made the effort and took a taxi to the shop. In my briefcase I had the Plessington necklace.

I received a big welcome from Miss Barlow, Pierre Martin and Hans Kloch. Even Terry, although not enthusiastic, did have the grace to say he hoped I was better.

I went into Tom Luce’s office and put the case containing the necklace on his desk.

‘Tom, I want to explain about the necklace,’ I said.

He gave me a rather old-fashioned look, nodded and waited.

I told him the truth: how Sydney had wanted to make the resale of the necklace a private deal, how I had warned him this wasn’t ethical and how he had persisted.

‘I know that,’ Luce said quietly. ‘You see, Larry, not much escapes me. I handled Sydney’s stocks and when he told me he wanted to sell a block worth three-quarters of a million and when I heard Mrs. P. was up to her eyes in debt, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. It didn’t worry me and I’m sorry it worried Sydney.’

‘The necklace is mine now,’ I said. ‘I’m handing it over to the firm, Tom. When we sell it, using Sydney’s design, I want the firm to make the profit.’

‘That’s the way a partner should act,’ he said, ‘but the firm will buy it off you at what Sydney paid. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? The profit of the sale goes into the firm.’

‘Fine buy me some stock, Tom. You looked after Sydney’s affairs, I’d be grateful if you’ll look after mine.’

That pleased him.

We talked about the business. Both Martin and Kloch were giving satisfaction and even Terry was behaving himself.

‘I don’t think you should start work yet, Larry,’ Luce said. ‘You don’t look right. Why don’t you take a sea trip?’

‘I’m thinking about it, but not just yet. I’m going over to Sydney’s penthouse now. Before I take a trip, I have to get rid of my apartment and the furniture and settle in the penthouse. So I’ll be around for a week or so. If anything comes up that looks tricky, you can always consult me.’

Leaving him, I drove to Sydney’s apartment block. Harry Gregson, the day porter, saluted me as I crossed to his desk.

‘Glad to see you about again, Mr. Carr,’ he said. ‘A real nasty business. I miss Mr. Sydney, he was a gentleman.’

‘Yes.’ A pause, then I went on, ‘I’m taking over the penthouse, Harry. Have you the keys?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw about it in the papers. I said then as I say now: good luck to you, Mr. Carr. The staff here are very pleased you will be living here.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

‘No one’s been up there since the police left it. It’ll need cleaning before you move in.’

‘Do you have Claude’s address, Harry? I was wondering if he would work for me.’

‘I don’t see why not. Yeah, I’ve got his telephone number. Just a moment.’ He went into his office and after searching through a desk drawer he came out with a slip of paper. ‘I heard he was pretty upset.’

‘He hasn’t been here since?’

‘No, sir. He went to stay with his old mother for a couple of weeks, but I guess he could be back by now.’

‘I’ll call him.’ Taking the slip of paper and the keys of the penthouse, I went on, ‘Thanks, Harry. I’m just taking a quick look around. I won’t be long.’

As the elevator took me up to the penthouse my thoughts went back to that fatal night. I flinched at the thought of entering Sydney’s home for the first time since his death.

As I paused outside the front door, I hesitated. I had a feeling of sick uneasiness, but this was crazy, I told myself. Sydney was dead. This marvellous penthouse now belonged to me it was to be my future home! I must rid myself of this guilt complex. I was not responsible for his death! I had told myself that over and over again during my long hours of loneliness. I had to get this feeling of guilt out of my mind.

I sank the key into the lock and moved into the lobby. I could hear the faint whirring of the air conditioner and I paused, listening. Had the police left the air conditioner on? Hadn’t anyone been up here to make sure the lights and the air conditioner had been turned off?

Puzzled, I pushed open the door.

Facing me, gun in hand, was Fel Morgan.

* * *

On the floor below came the sound of a dog yapping, then the murmur of voices, then the dog yapped again.

I stood motionless, staring at the gun that could produce death.

Faintly through the double-glazing I could hear the siren of an ambulance. Far below and away from me, Paradise City was living its life.

I shifted my eyes from the gun to Fel’s face. As I did so, he lowered the gun and said in a shuddering, terrified voice, ‘Jesus God! I thought you were the fuzz!’

I saw then that he was more frightened than I was and this steadied me, although my heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I stared at him.

What a godawful wreck he looked!

He was dirty and emaciated; his face covered with red stubble. I could smell his dirt. He wore the red jacket with the black patch pockets but it was scarcely recognisable under its layer of filth. His shoes were mud encrusted as if he had been walking in a swamp. His eyes were sunken and frightened. His mouth twitched. His breath came in quick short gasps through his dirty teeth.

‘When I heard the lock turn,’ he said in a quavering voice, ‘it scared the crap out of me. I thought I’d be safe here for a few days.’ He turned away from me and dropped like a dead body into one of the lounging chairs. The gun slipped out of his fingers and thudded on to Sydney’s two-hundred year old Persian carpet. Fel put a filthy hand across his eyes and began to weep.

I closed the door, then walked unsteadily across to the liquor cabinet. With shaking hands I poured two stiff whiskies.

‘Take it easy,’ I said and put one of the glasses on the occasional table by his side. ‘Pull yourself together. Drink this.’

He looked up at me, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. There was a desperate, animal expression in his eyes that warned me how dangerous he was.

‘You bastard!’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘You got me into this with your smooth talk! You’re damn well going to get me out of it!’

I drank half the whisky, then walking to a chair near his, I sat down.

‘Where’s Rhea?’ I asked.

He clenched his fists and banged the sides of his head. I could see he was hysterical with fear and this gave me confidence.

‘Fel! Pull yourself together! Where’s Rhea?’

‘Don’t talk to me about that bitch!’ He now began to pound his fist on his knees. ‘You’ve got to help me! You got me into this! I saw the papers they want me for murder!’

Seeing his panic, hearing him talk, seeing he was way-out with fear, I felt I could handle him.

‘I’ll help you, but I must know what happened. Where’s Rhea?’

He began crying again: sobs shaking him. I took a long pull at the whisky, then sat back, watching him. His craven fear and his filth disgusted me.

I let him sob on. Finally, he couldn’t squeeze out any more tears and wiping his eyes on the heel of his wrist, he looked blearily at me.

‘If they catch me, they’ll put me away for twenty years,’ he gasped, each word jerking out of him. ‘I couldn’t stand that! I’m not built like that! Twenty years behind bars! They’ll never take me alive!’

‘Stop thinking about yourself,’ I said, ‘where’s Rhea?’

‘The bitch! My goddamn sister.’ He stood up, shook his fists above his head, then sat down again. He was behaving like a crazy man. ‘The guns weren’t loaded! I swear it! She must have loaded them! You said not to load them and I didn’t load them! She did it! She killed the queer! She tried to kill you! You know it! You must tell the fuzz I hadn’t anything to do with it!’

‘Where’s Rhea?’ I said.

‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m as bad as she is, don’t you? I’m not! She’s always been a curse to me! I should never have taken her back! I should never have listened to your smooth talk! Twenty years behind bars! I couldn’t take it!’

‘What are you doing here?’ I said quietly, hoping the sound of my voice might calm him.

He leaned back in the chair, holding his head in his hands.

‘Don’t ask goddamn questions! I want to get out of here! I want money! I want a car! I’ve got to get out of this goddamn place!’

‘I’ll give you money,’ I said. ‘I’ll help you get away. I’ll get you a car.’

He stared at me. He was shivering, but now there was a gleam of hope in his eyes.

‘You’d better!’ he said huskily. ‘You and your goddamn millions! This has been a sweet thing for you, hasn’t it?’

That was his mistake. I was beginning to feel sorry for him, but by saying that, he killed any feeling of pity I might have had for him.

‘I said I would help you,’ I said.

‘How could she have killed that queer?’ he said, staring down at his dirty hands. ‘She’s rotten! You know what she did to me - me her brother?’ He looked up, his eyes loaded with misery. ‘We chased out of this goddamn place. She had the necklace. We got in the car. She drove. We went like bats out of hell to the highway. I was cursing her for shooting, but she didn’t even look at me. I thought we were heading for Miami. I left it all to her: all I could do was to curse her. When we got on to the swamp road through the mangrove forest - you know? - just outside the city, she stood on the brakes. I was pissing myself, looking back to see if the fuzz were after us. I yelled at her to keep going. I can see her now.’

Again he thumped his knees with his clenched fists. ‘Her goddamn eyes were like ice chips. “Rear tyre, offside is flat,” she said. “Get out and check.” So I got out and checked. Okay, so I’m a dope: so I buy anything, like I bought your smooth talk. I hadn’t even reached the back of the car before the bitch was away with all those diamonds not caring a goddamn what happened to me.’ His voice broke and he began to cry again, rocking himself to and fro in his misery.

I lit a cigarette. I was no longer frightened of him, although I knew he was still dangerous. If the police got him, he would talk.

Looking at him, I came to a cold-blooded decision. He had to be silenced. There was no other solution if I were to remain safe.

I sat there, smoking and looking at him as he snivelled and cried. His dirt, his smell, his craven spirit made him no more important to me than a fly on the wall.

The City Hall clock struck twelve.

‘You must be hungry, Fel,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you something to eat.’

He stopped snivelling.

‘Hungry? I’m bloody starving! The time I’ve had! I’ve been living on raw fish and crabs in that goddamn swamp! You ever been in there? The stinking place is full of snakes and alligators!’

I telephoned the restaurant and asked the maître d’ to send up the lunch.

‘Go out on the terrace, Fel, and keep out of sight.’

He grabbed up his glass of whisky, drained it, then went out on to the terrace.

I took his glass into the kitchen, my mind busy. How to silence him? I realised I was planning to murder him, but the thought didn’t shock me. If I could get rid of him and then get rid of Rhea I would be safe, and not only safe, but the world would truly be at my feet.

I returned to the sitting room and sat down. During the quarter of an hour’s wait until the waiter appeared, an idea began to form in my mind. It seemed to me that Fel could be easily dealt with, but not Rhea. Well, one bridge at the time, I told myself.

The waiter came in, wheeling a trolley. He beamed at me.

‘Morning, Mr. Carr. Good to see you again. There’s a bottle of champagne with the maître d’s compliments. The chef has given you his special for today.’

I tipped him two dollars and when he had gone, I went out on to the terrace where Fel was sitting with his back against the balustrade, his knees drawn up to his chin.

‘Come and get it,’ I said.

He shoved past me, went to the table and stared at the food, then he sat down and began to eat. He ate like a starving pig, stuffing food into his mouth, bolting it down, making choking noises. He so sickened me, I went out on to the terrace and waited there until he had finished, but while waiting, I went over the plan in my mind: the plan to get rid of him for good and in safety.

Hearing a loud belch, I decided he had finished eating and I returned to the sitting room.

God knows what the waiter would think when he came to collect the trolley, I thought as I looked at the debris. Fel had spilt food on the table cloth; there was nothing left from the copious cheese board; the basket that had contained six rolls of bread was empty. There were wine stains not only on the table cloth, but also on the immaculate cloth that covered the trolley. Even the fruit basket was empty.

Never mind, I told myself, a ten-dollar tip would put this right.

I looked at Fel who was lighting a cigarette.

‘Man!’ he said. ‘Do you rich creeps know how to live! That was the best goddamn meal I’ve ever eaten!’

‘You must have been hungry,’ I said.

‘Yeah, you sitting in this plush joint and me out there in the dark with snakes.’ He stared at me, his eyes hating me. ‘Well, buster, you got me into this mess you get me out of it or I’ll fix you! If the cops catch up with me, I’ll sing. You and me will go away for twenty goddamn years!’

He didn’t know it but he was talking himself into death.

‘How did you get into this apartment, Fel?’ I asked, sitting down and lighting a cigarette.

‘Any punk could get in here. That wasn’t so tough. Never mind that. I want a car and I want money.’

‘You can take my car. It’s parked outside. How much money do you want?’

He squinted at me.

‘Fifty grand.’

I nodded.

‘I can manage that. What are your plans, Fel?’

‘I’ll drive to Key West. I have a pal who’ll get me to Cuba. Once there, I’ll send you my address.’ He leered at me and I could see the whisky was hitting him. ‘Then you’ll send me five hundred grand. That’ll be my final pay off. When I get it, you won’t ever hear from me again.’

‘But I could hear from Rhea,’ I said.

‘That’s your funeral. I’m talking for myself. She’s got the necklace so why should she worry you? I’ve got nothing!’

‘Where is she, Fel?’