1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (11 page)

Chandler was delighted with the Hammond article. He also talked about the President's anti-inflation plans and together we mapped out an article explaining what the President had in mind. This would have to be written by Lancing. Chandler also talked about the Schultz article. He wanted that to appear in the following issue.

“We'll keep them on the run, Steve,” he said, grinning like a schoolboy. “Hit them and keep hitting them. It's good news - Wally will be all right. He's a damn fine researcher. As soon as he's on his feet, I'll send him and his wife down to Palm Beach for some sun. How about a replacement until he can start work again?”

“Berry can handle it. I have a lot of good stuff we haven't used yet.”

As he walked me to the front door, he said, “You're doing a fine job. Sorry Linda couldn't come. I like that girl.”

I hesitated whether to tell him our marriage had broken down, but decided against it. There was time.

I got in my car, then drove to the Imperial hotel and using one of the telephone booths, I called Jean. There was a delay, then she answered.

“Could I come over?” I asked. “There's so much to tell you.”

“I'm sorry. I'm in bed. I'm utterly exhausted after two hours with that woman. It'll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“We never seem to have a moment in the office. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night so I can bring you up to date?”

“Not tomorrow. I have a date.”

“But this is important, Jean. Can't you break it?”

“No.”

The curt note in her voice told me that was final. I then began to get worried.

“Jean . . . I know nothing about you. May I ask if there is someone?”

A long pause, then she said, “There is someone . . . yes.”

When she said that, I really realised I loved her. I experienced shock and bitter disappointment.

“Really someone?” My voice turned husky.

“I must get some sleep.” Again that curt note in her voice told me that too was final. “Good night,” and she hung up.

Walking slowly, I went to my car. I had never felt so lonely.

I had known her for eighteen months and had been blind to everything about her except her efficiency. Then suddenly I had seen her as a complete woman. It was like drawing aside a curtain and letting in the sun. I should have known that a girl like her must have a man in her life. Well, I knew now, but it didn't help or console me.

I drove home and put the car in the garage. As I unlocked the door into the house a voice said, “Manson . . .”

I spun around.

Sergeant Brenner was standing in the shadows.

“Turn the light off. I don't want to be seen.”

***

We sat facing each other in my living room. As I looked at Brenner I got a shock. This wasn't the hard tough cop that I had known. This was a different man: a man who seemed to have fallen to pieces. His face was white and drawn. The hard lines were ironed out and could there be sudden flabbiness in his body?

“Listen, Manson, I want you to level with me,” he said, his big hands turning into fists. “Did you get that film and the blow-ups? Don't lie to me.”

“I didn't get them.”

He sagged in the chair.

“Goldstein now knows Gordy was a blackmailer. He knows someone has the film.”

“If you're in the same mess as I am, suppose we put our cards on the table?”

He regarded me.

“Yeah . . . go ahead. Don't regard me as a cop. Level with me.”

“We might help each other,” I said. “My wife stole a bottle of expensive perfume from the store. She was caught on the scanner. Gordy wanted twenty thousand dollars for the strip of film, showing her stealing. He told me other husbands were involved. I decided to pay, but I couldn't raise all the money. I went to Gordy's house with three thousand. I found him dead. I was about to search the house for the film when a woman arrived. I got away while she was calling the police. I didn't shoot him, but I'm sure the gun that killed him was the one I was given on the pistol permit. I had left the gun right here on that settee. My thinking is someone took it, killed Gordy, then replaced it. I've got rid of the gun.” I stared at him. “That's the story, Brenner. Feel like giving me your story?”

“The same as yours.” He lifted his fists in despair. “Why the hell do women do it? On my pay, I can't give her all that much, but I thought she was happy. The scanner caught her. She was one of the first. The bastard wanted three thousand: that's money I haven't got. So he was selling me a frame from the film at a time for thirty dollars a week.”

Although I didn't like him, I felt sorry for him.

“If the film is found,” he went on, “I'll be finished. Goldstein has no use for me.” He rubbed his hand over his sweating face. “When I got there, I found the shell case. I recognised it and I was sure you had killed him and had got the film and the blow-ups. That was why I gave you the shell case. I knew if Goldstein had found it, he would have traced it to you. My thinking right at that moment was I didn't want anyone nailed for Gordy's murder. That was stupid thinking. Goldstein now knows about the scanners and he has checked the store for film. There's no film. He has checked Gordy's house: no film. So . . . Goldstein is a very smart cookie. He knows Gordy's killing involves blackmail and now he is starting an investigation, checking every customer who has used the store.”

“That doesn't mean he can prove anything unless he has the film,” I said.

“That's right but he is like a goddamn mongoose. Once he gets his teeth into something, he never lets go.”

“Let's look at this, Brenner.” I was glad to have someone to throw ideas at. “The film and the blow-ups could be in a safe deposit or they could be in the care of someone Gordy trusted or they could have been found by the killer. If they are in a safe deposit, sooner or later, Goldstein will find them. If the killer got them, he will have destroyed them.” I paused, then went on, “But if someone Gordy trusted has them, you and I could still be blackmailed.”

“I've thought of all that. That's why I was hoping you had them. There's no safe deposit. Goldstein has already checked. This means either the killer found them or else . . .”

“Who is this woman: Freda Hawes?”

“Gordy's mistress. She's a drunken toughie. When I arrived she was slobbering over Gordy, getting herself smeared with his blood, crying and screaming. It was while she was going through her act, I spotted the shell case. God knows if she had seen it. I took a chance.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“I've seen her around. She's a drinker and a hustler. She hangs around bars, cadging drinks. I don't know anything else about her.”

“Maybe it would be an idea to investigate her. I can't do it, but you could.” I went on to tell him about Herman Webber and about his story that Gordy's file had been stolen and why I knew he had been lying.

“Webber?” Brenner sneered. “If your boss hadn't set him up as a private eye and financed him, he would be selling matches on the streets. He was going to be booted off the force for corruption, but your boss saved him. That creep would cut his mother's throat for a dollar.”

“So he's crooked, but what interests me is why he said the Gordy file had been stolen. What's in the file he doesn't want me to see?”

Brenner nodded.

“Yeah . . . you have something there. Do you think he has destroyed the file?”

I shrugged.

“I don't know. Look, Brenner, I'm not the only suspect around here.” I went on to tell him about finding Frank Latimer outside my house and how I had run into Creeden coming away from Gordy's place. “Either of them could have walked into my house, taken the gun and killed Gordy. They had the same motive. Their wives had also been stealing.”

“I'll listen around. What I want to be sure of is the film has been destroyed.”

“Can you get me some information about Freda Hawes?”

“Sure, but you can bet Goldstein will be onto her by now.” He leaned forward and poked a thick finger at me.

“I'm working on the inside and you will be working on the outside, together we could find the film before Goldstein does. But listen, Manson, this is between you and me and no one else. You talk to anyone and I'll repeat that . . . you talk to anyone including your staff, we could be in trouble. So say nothing. We will work together, but no one else . . .understand?”

I thought of Jean. I had been going to tell her about Brenner. I loved her and I wanted to have her thoughts and advice, but now looking at Brenner's drawn, anxious face, I realised there was no point telling her. She had someone else. I wasn't in her life. I must not involve her.

“I understand.”

He got to his feet.

“We mustn't be seen together, Manson. If you get something or I get something, we use the telephone. If we have to meet, I'll come here late, but it is safer not to meet.”

He went away, leaving me feeling a little less lonely, but not much.

***

When Cissy arrived the following morning, I told her I had forgotten my keys and had to break in and could she get her husband to repair the window. She rolled her eyes and beamed and said it would be fixed by the time I returned.

I then told her that Mrs. Manson had gone to see her mother and would Cissy pack a couple of suitcases with clothes and have them sent to Dallas. I gave her three dollars for her trouble.

Having settled my home worries, I got in the car and drove to the office. I felt a little embarrassed facing Jean but I need not have been. She was her usual quiet, efficient self and we immediately got caught up in the machinery of the magazine. It wasn't until close on midday when she came in with printers' proofs that she said, “I'm sorry about tonight, Steve. Is there anything you want to tell me? We have a few moments.”

“I've been thinking about it, Jean.” I looked at her. “You have done enough. I could be in a jam but I'm not involving you further. The fact you got rid of the gun is more than enough.” I forced a smile. “It'll work out.”

“I'm not scared of getting involved. If I can help, I want to help.”

“It's okay and thanks for the offer.” I paused, then went on, “Whoever it is, Jean, I hope you will be happy.”

She flushed a little, then putting the proofs on my desk, she said, “Thank you. I'll go to lunch. I won't be long,” and she left me.

I sat for some moments feeling sorry for myself. I wondered who the man was, then the telephone brought me back to work. Later, I remembered I hadn't warned Shirley to tell Wally to keep his mouth shut about the Welcome store.

I called her home.

When she came on the line, I said, “Great news about Wally! You must be relieved.”

“Oh, boy! You can say that again.” Shirley sounded very elated. “I'm seeing him tomorrow afternoon. I might see him sooner. It depends on what Dr. Stanstead says.”

“Shirley . . . I hate to bother you with this, but the police will talk to Wally. It is essential he says nothing about the Welcome store. Would you tell him that?”

“The Welcome store? I don't understand.”

“Wally has been researching the store. He's not to tell the police.”

“But he hasn't!” A pause, then she said, “Well, at least, he didn't tell me about it.”

“I think he has. We are not ready yet to give out publicity to anyone about the store. It's important.”

“I'll tell him, of course. Isn't there a murder inquiry going on about the store? I've been so het-up, I have scarcely looked at a newspaper.”

“That's right. That's why it's important for Wally to say nothing until I've talked to him. This is really important, Shirley. Mr. Chandler wants it that way.”

“All right, Steve. I'll tell him . . . say nothing about the Welcome store . . . right?”

“That's it . . . nothing to nobody. Did Chandler tell you he is sending you and Wally to Palm Beach once Wally is on his feet?”

“He told me. He's a wonderful boss, Steve.”

“Yes. I hope to see Wally sometime tomorrow after noon,” and I hung up.

On an impulse, I picked up the telephone book and looked up Freda Hawes. She was in the book: 1189, East Street: not a good district: on the fringe of the city's little Harlem.

I was wondering about her when Max Berry came in and from then on until I had lunch I was occupied.

I went to my club for lunch and as I sat down at a table, Harry Mitchell joined me.

We both had the rather dreary businessman's lunch: mostly lettuce and tomatoes with a thin slice of ham.

We talked of this and that, then Mitchell said, “Steve, you know, in Eastlake, we live in a goldfish bowl. Punch me on the jaw if I'm stepping out of turn, but rumour says you and Linda are parting. Now . . . wait. If I've said anything out of turn, say so and let's forget it, but this happens to be important to me.”

I stared at him.

“I'm not with you.”

“Could you confirm that you and Linda are parting?” He forked up a bit of tomato, then put it back on his plate.

“I can confirm that.”

“I'm sorry, but I can see how it is. Linda needs living with.” He grinned at me. “Look, Steve, do you plan to stay on in that big house? If you don't, I have a buyer for you.”

I sat back, my lunch forgotten. The idea of being saddled with the house, with Cissy bleeding me white was a sudden nightmare I hadn't thought of.

“I could be in the market,” I said cautiously.

He leaned forward and patted my wrist.

“Man! Have I good news for you! Mom and Dad have been dying to live at Eastlake. We all get along fine together. There has been no, house vacant I could fix for them. You paid seventy-five thousand dollars . . . right?”

“Yes.”

“My old man is loaded. Suppose he offers eight-five?

Would you be interested?”

“I'll have to think about that, Harry. Property has jumped way ahead. Give me a week, huh?”

He pushed his salad this way and that, then he said, “I've already talked to Dad. He's crazy mad to have your place. Look, he's already got two homes. He doesn't want to bother to refit another house. I know your place. It has class. Would you sell it as it stands: all the furniture, the linen and so on? Would you do that?”