1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (19 page)

I got in my car and edged into the traffic. Three minutes later, I spotted the blue Mustang, two cars behind me. It was easy when you knew who and what to look for.

I drove to the Imperial hotel and went into the grillroom.

Henri, the Captain of waiters, knew me well and welcomed me. I asked for a corner table and sat with my back to the wall, facing the entrance. I ordered the special, then lit a cigarette and toyed with a dry martini while I waited.

After some minutes, Taylor came to the entrance, glanced around, his eyes seeming not to notice me, then he moved back into the lounge.

Henri served me and as trade was quiet, he stood around, saying nice things about the magazine. I was glad to have him. Once again Taylor looked in as if he were expecting a guest, then moved out of sight.

“Henri,” I said, when I had finished the meal, “I'm on an assignment this evening for the mag. It's something red hot. A couple of newsmen from the
Sun
are tailing me, hoping to get a lead.” I took a ten spot from my hip pocket and slid it to him. “Is there a way out the back?”

He loved this. His eyes sparkled.

“Through the service door, Mr. Manson, straight ahead, down some steps and the door facing you. It's bolted but not locked. It takes you onto Granby Street.”

“Take a look in the lounge. There are two of them: one tall, dark with a crew cut and the other short, red hair. If they look busy, rub the back of your neck.”

“Sure, Mr. Manson.”

The service door was two yards from me. I pushed back my chair, my heart thumping and watched Henri wander to the entrance. He paused, holding a sheaf of menus as if looking for clients, then he rubbed the back of his neck.

I was out of my chair, through the service door where I nearly cannoned into a waiter, carrying a loaded tray, and down the stairs, eased back the bolt and was in the hot night air.

I had all the luck in the world. An empty cab cruised towards me. I bundled in and told the cabby to take me fast to the Plaza movie house which was within easy range of my bank.

I sat back, breathing heavily. At the end of the narrow street, I looked through the rear window, but the street was deserted. I felt pretty sure I had shaken them off.

Now for the film.

***

The clerk at the reception desk gave me a smile of welcome as I crossed the lobby.

“Hello there, Mr. Manson. Do you want something from your safe?”

“That's right. Can I go down?”

“Sure. Charlie is down there. He'll take care of you.” As I started for the stairs, leading to the vault, he said, “Oh, Mr. Manson. I nearly forgot. I have a telephone message for you.”

I stared at him.

“For me?”

“Came in half an hour ago.” He handed me a slip of paper.

Urgent. Call Western 00798

“If you want to call now, Mr. Manson, there's a booth over to your right.”

I went to the booth, put in coins, dialled and waited.

Brenner's voice came on the line. He said: “Who's that?”

“Manson. What is it?”

“This evening Taylor reported to Goldstein that you are being tailed by two of Webber's men. They are smart operators, but Taylor spotted them. Have you any idea why they are tailing you?”

This information so shocked me, I was unable to think. I felt that chill again.

“Manson?”

“I have no idea.”

“So you have four pros on your tail. You'd better watch it. Looks like you're in real trouble.”

I pulled myself together and forced my mind to work.

“Can you give me a description of them?”

“Sure. I worked with them before they quit to hook up with Webber. Meyer is big, around forty-five, has a broad white scar on his left cheek he got when arresting a junkie. Freeman is big, around fifty and he limps. He had a car smash.”

Had these two men followed me to the bank? Why were they following me . . . the film? I felt horribly alone as I stood, sweating in the airless booth.

“You got the film yet?” Brenner asked.

“Not yet.”

“Well, watch it,” and he hung up.

I leaned against the wall of the booth and thought. I was sure I had shaken off Taylor and O'Hara, but I had no idea if I had shaken off Webber's men. This was no time to take chances. I certainly wasn't going on the streets, carrying that film. But what to do? After a few moments, an idea occurred to me. Leaving the booth, I went down to the vault.

Charlie, fat and elderly and always ready to oblige, got to his feet as I crossed the floor.

“You're late, Mr. Manson.”

“Yes. I want to open my safe.”

He went with me, turned the first lock with his passkey, then moved away while I opened the second lock with my key. I took out the carton of film.

“Charlie . . . have you a big envelope to take this?” I showed him the carton.

“Sure . . . right here.” He produced an envelope. I took the film cassette out of its carton and put it in the envelope and sealed it. A bit of flat lead which Charlie probably used as a paperweight caught my eye.

“Want to earn fifty dollars, Charlie?”

His eyes popped open.

“Try me and see, Mr. Manson.”

I scribbled Max Berry's address on the envelope.

“Could you deliver this yourself tonight?”

He squinted at the address. .

“Why, sure, Mr. Manson. That's not too far from my home, but I won't be off duty until two.”

“That's okay. Look, Charlie, this is top secret. It's to do with the magazine. Don't carry it in your hand. Put it inside your jacket. Understand?”

His eyes popped again, but he nodded.

“Let's see you do it.”

He unbuttoned his grey uniform jacket and pushed the envelope inside.

“Fine. Keep it like that until you see Mr. Berry.” I gave him a fifty-dollar bill. Then I picked up the small bar of lead. “Can I have this?”

“Why, sure, Mr. Manson.”

I put the lead bar in the empty carton to give it weight, then I put the carton in my briefcase.

“Okay, Charlie . . . I'm relying on you.”

“You can, Mr. Manson. This envelope . . .” He tapped his chest, “will be with Mr. Berry by half past two.”

I went up the stairs and back into the call booth. I called Max. He answered after a delay and he sounded sleepy.

“Max! This is Steve! A messenger from my bank is bringing you a sealed envelope. The contents are dynamite. Two people have been killed because of it and I think Wally got beaten up because of it. Hide it somewhere in your place where it can't be found.”

“For God's sake!” Max now sounded very much awake. “What is it?”

“I can't tell you. Don't look at it. The messenger will be arriving around two-thirty. Stay with it until I telephone you tomorrow from the office.”

“Okay, Steve.”

Before leaving the booth, I eased the gun in its holster and satisfied myself it would come out fast, then holding the briefcase firmly under my arm, I walked out into the night.

Moving fast down the street, I looked anxiously for a cab, but this time I had no luck.

More than any time before, I felt someone breathing down my neck. I kept looking over my shoulder. At this time of the night the down town section of the city was almost deserted.

Then it happened.

I didn't even see them.

I felt the briefcase jerk away from under my arm and I received a stunning, chopping blow at the back of my neck.

I was still on my hands and knees, trying to clear my head when I heard a car start up and drive away.

9

A
s the cab drove me to the Imperial hotel, I nursed my aching neck with both hands and reviewed the situation.

When Webber's men realised I had sold them a dummy - and it wouldn't take long - they would come after me. I realised that I was out of their class, so I needed police protection. I had it without asking for it! As soon as Taylor and O'Hara picked me up they would stay with me, and I had no intention now of losing them. With them watching me, Webber's men wouldn't risk moving in on me.

Still unsteady on my legs, I paid off the cabby and walked to where I had left my car. I saw the blue Mustang was parked five bays from mine. Taylor was sitting at the wheel.

There was no sign of O'Hara.

I got in my car and drove to my apartment. From time to time I checked my driving mirror. The Mustang was following. I drove into the underground garage, then took the elevator to my apartment.

As the cage arrived at my floor, I took out the gun and held it down by my side. I couldn't be sure Webber's men had found out they had no film and had already arrived.

I stepped from the cage onto the corridor, looked to right and left, saw nothing to alarm me, stepped across to my front door, unlocked it, moved into the lobby, shut the door and switched on the light. I then pushed open the living room door, stood back as I reached for the light switch and snapped it up. No one there. I paused to lock the front door and shoot the bolt, then moving carefully, I explored the apartment. They hadn't arrived.

For the moment I was safe. Short of battering down the door, no one could get in.

I put the gun on the table and crossed over to the liquor cabinet. I poured myself a stiff shot of whisky and dropped into a lounging chair.

I thought about what had happened. The question that baffled me was why Webber was involved. Until Brenner had alerted me, I had no reason to suspect that Webber's men were shadowing me. How long had they been doing this? My mind shifted to Creeden. He had enough money to hire Webber. If his wife was on the film, then he would need help and Webber would be the man to hire.

I finished my drink, set down the glass and got to my feet.

I was sure the key to all this was on the film that Max had, but did he have it? Had Webber guessed what I had done and had sent his men after Charlie?

I dialled Max's number.

The time now was 03.15.

There was a long delay, then Max mumbled, “Who the hell is this?”

“Steve. Did you get it? Answer yes or no . . . nothing else.”

“For the sake of Judas! Yes!”

I hung up.

I went into the lonely bedroom, stripped off my clothes and flopped on the bed. My neck was aching, my body limp and exhausted. I lay like that, my mind churning, until finally sleep came.

The following morning, with the Mustang following me, I drove to my office. I felt secure with these two cops tailing me. They would give Webber's men no room to manoeuvre.

Judy greeted me with a smile.

“Jean says she'll be in after lunch, Mr. Manson. She still sounds pretty bad. Miss Shelley is here and waiting.”

“Thanks, Judy.”

I dealt with the mail, then when Miss Shelley, a dumpy, serious-looking girl who dwelt behind enormous glasses, had gone into Jean's office to type, I called Freddie Dunmore.

“Freddie . . . I didn't make it last night. I want that projector. Will you send it over?”

“Sure, Steve.”

“Wrap it. I don't want anyone here to know it's a projector.”

A pause, then he said, “James Bond stuff, huh?”

“That's the idea. Make a parcel of it and get it over here fast.”

“Will and can do,” and he hung up.

I then called Max Berry.

“Bring that envelope over right away, Max. Put it under your jacket. As I told you, it's dynamite.”

“Okay, Steve. I'm on my way.”

There was nothing else I could do now but to hope.

Although I hadn't the time to spare, I told Judy to call Jean for me.

While I was wrestling with a heap of mail, the call came through.

“Jean! How do you feel?”

“I'm all right. I told Judy to tell you I'll be in after lunch. I'm still a bit queasy, but I'll survive.”

“Don't come in unless you're really fit.”

“I'm coming in.”

I couldn't resist it.

“I've missed you.”

“Thank you. I'll be in,” and the line went dead.

My old man had told me to hang on. I wasn't getting any encouragement, but I loved her, I wanted her, I needed her, so I was going to hang on.

I settled down to read Rafferty's film column that had come in the mail. I was only half concentrating. Suddenly, I got up, went to the window and looked down on the street.

This time it was O'Hara who was propping up the fire hydrant. The sight of him was reassuring. As long as he was there I couldn't imagine Webber's men visiting me. Taylor was probably covering the lobby.

The intercom buzzed.

“There's a parcel for you, Mr. Manson,” Judy told me. “Shall I bring it in?”

“Thanks.”

It was the projector, carefully wrapped. A note from Freddie saying he enclosed the instruction book and if I was in trouble to call him.

I put the projector in a closet and finished the Rafferty article. I okayed it and tossed it in my out-tray. As I was starting to read a short story submitted by one of my agents, Max Berry came in.

“Here it is,” he said, putting the envelope on my desk.

“What's the big excitement about, Steve? You got me out of bed twice last night. What's all this about dynamite?”

“No comment, Max, for the moment,” I said. “Thanks for bringing it. How's the Linsky article building?”

He gaped at me.

“For Pete's sake, is that all you're going to say?”

“That's all. How's the Linsky article building?”

“I'll have it finished tomorrow.” He eyed the envelope, looked questioningly at me, then said, “Well, if that's all, I'll get back to it.”

“Do that and thanks again.”

Looking mystified, he left me.

I stared at the envelope, then looked at my desk clock.

The time was close to midday. In another quarter of an hour, Judy would be going to lunch and I would have the office to myself. I put the envelope in my desk drawer, then tried to settle to reading the short story but concentration was impossible. I was sweating and my heart was thumping. In a few minutes now I could know the truth unless Freda had sold me a pup. There was always that chance, but thinking back, seeing her serious eyes, hearing her say, 'Boy scout's honour' I felt sure this was the film now in my desk drawer that had caused her and Gordy's death.