1979 - A Can of Worms (10 page)

“Hi, Tom! How’s the thing?”

He blew out his cheeks.

“Still digging. I keep asking myself who would want to knock off Pete and a boy of fourteen.”

“Like I told Lu. A grudge killing and the boy was unlucky.”

“Could be. What are you doing here?

“Digging.” I began to move around him. “See you, Tom,” and started on my way.

Lepski’s hand dropped on my arm.

“Coldwell seems sure Pofferi isn’t here, but I still like him for these shootings, so keep your eyes open.”

I jerked my arm loose.

“If I see him you’ll be the first to know,” and I went on down the alley. Before turning under the arch that led to Crab Court, I paused to look back. There was no sign of Lepski, so I continued on, through another archway into a courtyard that smelt of decay. Kids were kicking a ball around. They stopped when they saw me, suspicion in their dark eyes. I kept on and into another courtyard. As soon as I moved on, they resumed their game.

There was a weather-beaten sign that read:
Lobster
Court.

Across the squalid courtyard, I found No 2. I climbed creaking stairs. The building stank. The banister rails were ready to fall apart. Each step of the stairs threatened to give under my weight. I kept climbing.

Sounds came to me: a T.V. set in full blast: a woman screaming abuse: a child crying: a dog barking. Finally, I reached the top floor. The roof made the top floor into a narrow attic. Ahead of me was a door. The heat up there was enough to fry an egg. Sweat began to run down my face. I rapped on the door and waited, having trouble in breathing. There was a delay, so I knuckled the door again. It opened.

Joey stared at me. His dark little face lit up with a grin.

“Hi, Joey!” I said. “Man! Is it hot up here!”

He stood aside and I walked into a small room with a skylight; three beds, a table, three chairs and a battered radio. Although the skylight was wide open, the heat in the room was like a furnace.

“Any news for me, Joey?” I asked, getting near the open skylight.

“Jimbo is watching, Mr. Anderson. They are still there.”

“Sure?”

He nodded.

“They are still there.”

“They could be moving.” I took out my depleted wallet and gave him another $10. “Keep close watch, Joey. If they move, I want to know where to.”

He nodded as he took the bill.

“Okay, Mr. Anderson. I’ll get over there right away and tell Jimbo.”

“Watch out, Joey.”

He lost his smile and a vicious look came into his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy, but they won’t kill Jimbo or me.”

“All the same, Joey, watch out.”

I left him and walked along the waterfront to where I had parked the Maser. Getting in, I drove along Ocean Promenade. It was time for lunch. I stopped off at a seafood restaurant where I ate from time to time.

The Vietnamese owner welcomed me and took me to a corner table. There were a few tourists, already eating, but it was early. The rush would begin later. I ordered the day’s special, lit a cigarette and considered my morning’s work.

Well, Bart, baby, I thought, you’ve certainly laid it on the line.

One hundred thousand dollars!

I began to think what I would do when Nancy Hamel handed over the loot. I felt pretty sure that somehow, she would find the money.

Once she paid up, I would give the Colonel the negative report. He would give it to Palmer who would give it to Hamel who, unless he needed his head examined would call off the surveillance. The Colonel would send in his account and I would be free to go off on my overdue vacation With one hundred thousand dollars in my sack, I would take off into the blue and Paradise City would see - the last of me. With all that green stuff, I could go where I fancied. I had always wanted to charter a yacht and cruise in style around the Bahamas and the other islands. I decided I would take Bertha along for company.

I ate the special while I continued to dream. Man! Would I have a ball!

Then an unpleasant thought dropped into my mind.

Suppose Nancy didn’t come up with the money? Suppose she was stupid enough or smart enough to tell me to go screw myself?

What then?

I pushed aside my plate and lit a cigarette. This was a decidedly unpleasant thought, but I have always believed in looking at both sides of the coin. So, suppose Nancy didn’t produce the money? Considering this depressing thought, it then dawned on me that I was in no position to put pressure on her. I was in as big a jam as she was. She was concealing two wanted killers, and, by keeping my mouth shut, so was I! If she either couldn’t raise the money or decided to call my bluff, I couldn’t threaten her with the cops. She would tell them I had tried to squeeze her for one hundred thousand dollars. Cops were always on the lookout for blackmailing private eyes. No matter how fast I talked, they would take me in and give me the treatment. Their first question would be to ask why I hadn’t blown the whistle on Pofferi as soon as I had known where his hideout was. I knew I couldn’t talk myself out of that one.

I began to sweat.

Man! I thought, this is beginning to look rough. Then I forced myself to relax. Take it easy, baby, I said to myself.

It’s not the end of the road. You can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without a little sweat. So be optimistic. It’s a 60-40 bet she won’t realize she is in as big a jam as I am. She could find the money, but if she didn’t, if she called my bluff, then that would be that. I would give the Colonel the negative report and that yak of Bertha’s about putting the bite on the rich creeps would be yet another pipe dream.

The chartered yacht and Bertha, popping champagne corks while we sailed in the sun, began to look out of focus.

Still, on Friday, I might be lucky. Nancy might be waiting to hand over the loot.

I then turned my mind to Russ Hamel and the poison pen letters. This was a puzzle that nagged me.

I recalled what Nancy had said:
My husband wrote
those letters. Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading
character in the book he is now writing.

She had said that with such conviction, I believed her.

So why should a rich, famous author write poison pen letters to himself?

Nancy’s explanation was that he needed an excuse to hire a private detective.

I thought about this. Maybe this was the answer. I had no idea how an author created a plot, but it seemed possible that these poison pen letters were part of the plot of his new book and he was testing for reactions. In his position as a famous author, he wouldn’t want to be bothered to approach an investigating agency, but by writing those letters, he could get his agent, Mel Palmer, to do it. This seemed to me to be a cockeyed method of obtaining authentic material, but Hamel was rich enough to act on a whim, and this could be the explanation of the letters.

Needing authentic details of how an agency set about wife-watching, he had used his wife as a stooge,
believing
she was leading a blameless life.
Unwittingly, he had opened a real can of worms.

For the first time since I had been with the Parnell Agency, I found I had no work to do.

There was no point in going to the Country Club to check on Nancy. Whatever she did now was no concern of mine. I had the afternoon before me, then I would check in at the office, making out I had been on the job with still nothing to report.

I was about to make plans how to spend the afternoon, when I remembered, scattered around this lush city, were nineteen of Parnell’s operators, all working for a living. It wouldn’t do for one of them to spot me relaxing. Chick and I being Parnell’s top operators, weren’t all that popular with the other operators. There was always one who might be tempted to put in the knife.

So, reluctantly, I drove to the Country Club and looked around. There was no sign of Nancy. It was just as well that I made the effort to appear to be working for I saw, sitting on the terrace, Larry Fraser, one of Parnell s dim operators who liked me like you like a hole in the head.

He stared at me blankly as if he didn’t know me and then looked away. I took that as a hint he didn’t want to exchange words, so I went down to the swimming pool. He was probably on yet another wife-watching stint.

As soon as I lost sight of him, I walked by the pool, made sure Nancy wasn’t around, then took the back way to my car. At least, Larry, if asked, could say I had been on the job.

I drove down to the waterfront. Leaving the car, I walked along to where Hamel’s yacht was berthed, but there was no sign of it.

Spotting Al Barney, sitting on his bollard, I went over to him.

“Too early for a beer, Al?”

He gave me his shark-like smile.

“When is it too early, Mr. Anderson?”

We went together to the Neptune and Sam brought two beers.

“Has Mrs. Hamel gone off in her boat, Al?” I asked as we settled.

He drank deep and long, slapped down the glass, looked at Sam, who rushed over a refill.

“She went off an hour ago,” Barney said.

“With Jones?”

He nodded.

“No one else?”

He shook his head, drank and set the glass down gently.

“About Pete,” I said. “Lepski didn’t get anything out of you, did he?”

Barney scowled.

“There’s a stupid, ambitious cop,” he said with scorn. “Don’t even talk to me about him.”

“Any ideas about what happened to Pete?”

“Well, Mr. Anderson, I could make suggestions. I liked Pete. Of course, he drank too much.” Barney paused to look virtuous. “The trouble with him was he stuck his nose into other people’s business, and talked.”

“Whose business, Al?”

Barney’s bloated, fat face became expressionless.

“There’s not much that goes on around here, Mr. Anderson, that I don’t know about, but I know when to flap with my mouth and when to keep it shut.” He finished the beer. I signalled to Sam who came over with yet another refill.

Barney smiled, nodded his thanks to me, then lowering his voice, he said, “Between you and me, Mr. Anderson, Pete got too interested in Alphonso Diaz, and let me tell you, Diaz is a very tough hombre.”

“What interest, Al?”

Barney’s face again became expressionless.

“I wouldn’t know.”

I had gone through this routine with Barney a number of times in the past. Beer produced information, but food unlocked the gates.

“You look hungry, Al,” I said. “How about a hamburger?”

Barney beamed.

“Yeah. A hamburger would sit fine right now,” and he gave a signal to Sam.

There was a brief delay, then Sam came over with a mountain of hamburgers, soggy, greasy and covered with raw onion rings. He placed the plate before Barney and handed him a knife.

I waited until Barney had munched through the first hamburger, then tried again.

“I’m interested in Diaz,” I said. “Any little tip, Al, will be gratefully received.”

“Keep away from him, Mr. Anderson. You are a good friend of mine. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you, so keep well away from him,” Barney said, his mouth full.

“Why?”

“That’s it, Mr. Anderson. Just keep well away from him.” The flat note in his voice told me I’d get no further information from him.

I tried another approach.

“Josh Jones,” I said. “Give me something about him, Al.”

“You keep away from him too, Mr. Anderson. He’s a no-good nigger.”

“How about some of those chili sausages you like so much, Al?”

He eyed me.

“You know my weakness, Mr. Anderson,” and he signalled to Sam who brought over a plate of small sausages, cooked in chili sauce. Once I had been dopey enough to try one: it had practically blown the top of my head off.

Smiling, Barney began feeding these lethal objects into his mouth. After he had eaten five of them, his eyes began to water, and he paused to take a long drink of beer.

“You still interested in Jones, Mr. Anderson?” he asked, and thumped his chest with his clenched fist.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“I’ll tell you something.” He lowered his voice. “He and the first Mrs. Hamel, Gloria Cort, had it off together. That was before she hooked up with Diaz. From what I hear, Jones and she are still pretty close.”

“You mean while she was married to Hamel, she and Jones . . .”

“He’s the crewman. It happens.”

“Yes.” I watched him start on the sausages again, then asked, “Do you think the second Mrs. Hamel is fascinated with Jones?”

Barney frowned.

“No, sir. Not that lady . . . she’s nice. Nothing like that about her. I would have heard. I keep my ear to the ground.”

I looked at my watch. It was nearing 18.00.

“I’ll move along, Al. See you.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Anderson, and thanks for the food.”

He put a grimy, fat hand on my sleeve. “Remember what I’ve said: keep clear of Diaz and Jones.”

I went out onto the waterfront. I could see the Hamel yacht coming into the harbour. Nancy was in the bows.

Jones was steering the yacht in. I mixed with the crowd and headed with long strides towards the Maser. I didn’t want Nancy to see me.

Getting back to the office, I put my head around Gloria’s door.

“The Colonel wants you,” she said crisply. Go on in.

“Trouble, baby?” I asked.

“Consult your conscience. Go on in.”

“My pal,” I said, knocked on Parnell’s door and walked in.

Parnell was at his desk, going through a folder.

“The Hamel case,” he said. “What’s new?”

“Nothing, sir. A complete blank. I talked to Mr. Palmer this morning and told him I had nothing to report. He now wants a full report on my work and he is going to persuade Hamel to drop the investigation.”

“You are quite sure Mrs. Hamel hasn’t been misbehaving herself and hasn’t been associating with other men?” Parnell asked, his steel blue eyes probing.

“As far as I can tell, sir, she has been behaving herself, and has not been associating with other men. I have not been able to follow her this afternoon when she took off in the yacht, but when I did in the chopper, she just fished. I am satisfied that Hamel is getting crank letters to upset his work, and that’s all there is to it.”