1979 - A Can of Worms (13 page)

“I may be rich, but I’m not stupid,” I said.

* * *

At 09.45 the following morning, feeling jaded, I pulled up before the pole barrier that guarded the Paradise Largo estates. The guard came out of his thatched roof cabin and walked majestically towards me.

I regarded him as he came: a big, red-faced Mick, around fifty, with weight lifting shoulders and a belly on him that a Japanese wrestler might envy. There was something familiar about him, then I recognized him: Mike O’Flagherty, who once worked as one of Parnell’s operators. He had retired a month after I had joined the outfit.

“For Pete’s sake, Mike,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Bart Anderson!” He shoved a big hairy hand through the open window and nearly dislocated my fingers.

“How’s the boy?”

“What the hell are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?”

He grinned.

“Big deal, Bart. When I quit the Agency, I got myself a real softie. I’m one of the guards here. Nothing to do except make people’s lives miserable. I lean with my weight, make with the importance, and get paid for it.”

“When my time comes, sounds the job for me. Is there a waiting list?”

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t suit you, pal. This is strictly snob-land. What brings you here?”

“Mr. Russ Hamel. I have a date with him at ten.”

O’Flagherty’s eyes popped.

“Is that right? Mr. Hamel is one of our most important clients. Stick around, Bart. I’ll check.”

“What’s with the checking? Lift the pole and let me in.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll tell you something. This largo is the safest most secure spot in the whole of Florida. No one — repeat no one — goes past that pole without being checked, and without an appointment. No kidnapping, no break and entry, no nothing for the mugs. I’d lose my job if I didn’t check you out even though I know who and what you are.”

“Don’t tell me you check in and out the residents?”

“That would lose me my job.” He spat. “Man! The creeps and the bitches who live here turn my stomach! I know every one of them, know their car numbers. When I see them, up goes the pole. If I keep them waiting, they yell at me, but strangers . . . no!”

“Nice to be that rich.”

He grunted, and went back into the guardhouse. After a few minutes, he lifted the pole.

“Go ahead. First Avenue to your left. Third gate to your right. There’s a T. V. scanner at the gate. Get out of your car, hold up your driving licence, press the red button and wait. After you’ve waited until some goddamn butler has buttoned his pants, you’ll get in.”

“Some security,” I said as I set the Maser in motion.

O’Flagherty spat.

“You can say that again.”

I followed his directions and pulled up outside fifteen foot high, solid oak, nail encrusted gates. Getting out of the car, I pressed the red button on the gate post, held up my driving licence and waited. After a minute or so, the gates swung open: an impressive piece of security. Anyone planning to burglarize the Hamel residence would end in bitter frustration.

I drove up the sand covered drive, shaded by citrus trees, and to a deluxe ranch style house where a black man in tropical whites stood before the open front door.

I parked the Maser beside a Ford station wagon, got out and walked up the three steps.

“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” the black man said with a stiff little bow. “Mr. Hamel is expecting you. This way if you please.”

I followed him into a big lobby decorated in warm brown and orange, along a short corridor, out onto a patio where a big fountain in a bigger marble bowl, tossed water into the hot, humid air. Tropical fish swam lazily, looking well fed and smug. There were lounging chairs, glass top tables for when the sun went down. On we went, back into the house, down a passage to a door. Here the black man paused, rapped, then stood aside, opening the door.

“Mr. Anderson, sir,” he said, and motioned me forward.

All very impressive, rich, big wheel stuff. I am easily impressed by the show of money, so I was impressed.

“Come in, Mr. Anderson,” a voice called: a hearty, baritone of a voice of a man who is very sure of himself.

I entered the big air-conditioned room. It was a room I immediately envied: comfortable, intimate with lounging chairs, big settees, occasional tables, a big desk, teak polished floor with rich looking rugs, well stocked cocktail cabinet, tape recorders and an I.B.M. C82 typewriter on a typing table. A big picture window gave onto a lush lawn that sloped down to the canal.

Behind the desk sat Russ Hamel. He was just like his photograph: square faced, heavily built, tanned and handsome. He got to his feet and extended his hand.

“Good of you to come, Mr. Anderson. I hear you are on vacation.”

I made noises as we shook hands. He waved me to an armchair.

“Coffee? A drink? A cigar?”

“Nothing right now, thank you sir.” I sat down.

“I’ve read your report.” He tapped the report lying on his desk. “I bet you have no idea why I hired you to watch my wife.”

I looked straight at him, giving him my modified cop stare.

“That’s an easy one, Mr. Hamel. You wanted authentic material for the book you’re writing so you wrote yourself some poison pen letters, instructed your agent to hire us, picked on Mrs. Hamel as a stooge and asked me to come along so you could see what a shamus looks and acts like.”

He gaped at me, then threw back his head and burst out laughing. Right then I liked the guy: I really liked him.

“Well, for God’s sake! And I thought I was being smart. How did you find out?”

“I’m a private detective, Mr. Hamel. It’s my job to find out things like that as it’s your job to write very successful books.”

“You’re spot on, Mr. Anderson. I got stuck wondering how an Agency works.” He grinned. “Your report has been most valuable. Now would you mind telling me about yourself? I’d like to put you in my book.”

“I don’t mind, sir.”

“I won’t be wasting your time, Mr. Anderson. I pay for any material I collect.”

Man! I thought. Is this my golden age!

“That’s fine with me, sir. What do you want to know?”

We spent the next half hour, talking, or rather I did most of the talking, while he shot questions at me. He wanted to know about the organization of the Agency, the training of operators, my own background: all intelligent questions.

Finally, he nodded.

“Well, thanks, Mr. Anderson. You’ve given me just what I want.” He reached for my lengthy report. “But this is what I really wanted.” He regarded me with a smile. “This report of yours is not only of value for the book I’m writing, but it is more than valuable to me in my personal life.”

“Is that right?” I said blankly.

“My plot revolves around a woman married to a busy surgeon. She is considerably younger than he is,” Hamel said. “He gets poison pen letters about his wife so he has her watched. This is a tale of jealousy. The detective turns in a report that matches yours. The surgeon’s wife leads a blameless, lonely life. The reason why I decided to use my wife as a guinea pig is because I know for certain she also leads a blameless, lonely life.” He smiled. “I wasn’t taking any risks. I was sure, as I am sitting here, you would turn in a report like this one.”

I looked away.

Man! I thought, if you only knew what a can of worms you have opened, you wouldn’t be sitting there with that wide, confident smile on your face!

“I’m grateful to you, Mr. Anderson,” he went on, “for such a detailed report. I didn’t realize how dull and lonely my wife’s life has been while I have been locked away writing this book. That is going to be altered.”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.” He produced a sealed envelope which he handed to me, then stood up.

“Accept this as a fee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel,” I said, and he conducted me to the door.

His black servant was waiting.

“So long,” Hamel said, shook hands and retired back to his room.

In the Maser, I lit a cigarette and wondered how long it would be before Hamel discovered he had married a murderess. With any luck, he might never know. I hoped he wouldn’t. I liked the guy. I liked him still more, when opening the envelope he had given me, I found I was $500 the richer.

CHAPTER SIX

N
othing lasts forever, but while it lasted, it had been a technicolour dream. As I lay on the sun deck with Bertha by my side, I looked back on those four gorgeous, lush-plush weeks we had spent on this super-duper yacht.

Bertha had fixed it to charter the yacht for $20,000, the round trip, but there had been a catch in it. Whether she didn’t give out enough or the Fink’s demands made her draw a line, he agreed she could have the yacht, but she would have to foot the check for the crew, the food and the drink. As she was spending my money, she agreed. When she broke the news, I thought of all that green stuff I now owned and remembered what my father once had said:
Never act like a piker, even if you are one.
So I said okay . . . what’s money for?

We had visited Cayman Islands, Bermuda, the Bahamas and Martinique. We had swum, eaten the best food money could provide, drank four bottles of champagne every day, plus a continuous supply of rum punches that had made Bertha so sexy I had trouble to supply the demand.

We entertained the usual scroungers who always invade luxury yachts when they tie up.

We had a ball, but nothing lasts forever.

We were now heading back to Paradise City and would arrive this evening.

“Are you packed, honey?” I asked, stretching.

“Don’t spoil it. I don’t want this ever to end.”

“Me too, but we’d better pack.” I got to my feet. “I’ll pack first, you next, huh?”

“Go away!”

I went down to the state cabin and looked around.

Man! Was I going to miss all this! Reluctantly, I took a suitcase from the closet and tossed it on the bed.

There came a knock on the door, and the Chief steward-cum-butler-cum-valet entered.

He was tall, lean with a hatchet shaped face and beady eyes as animated as sea washed pebbles. His service to us had been immaculate, but all the time he was with us, he looked as if there was a faint, unpleasant smell under his thin nostrils.

“I will be happy to do that for you, sir. You will be leaving us I believe this evening?”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea. Pack for me, and pack for Mrs. Anderson.”

For the sake of decency, we had come aboard as husband and wife, but I had the idea that we weren’t conning this guy, nor the Captain, nor the rest of the crew.

“Yes, sir.” He paused, then produced a fat envelope.

“Here is the accounting, sir. It is usual to settle before we land.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll fix that.”

“It is also usual to distribute twenty-five percent of the total amongst the crew, sir. I will be happy to do this for you.”

I looked at him and he looked at me.

“Twenty-five percent?”

He allowed his thin lips to part in a smile.

“Well, of course, sir, if you wish to increase the amount . . .”

“Sure . . . sure,” and I left him and went into the saloon. Sitting down at the desk, I opened the envelope and regarded the account. The total came to $36,000. The Chief Steward had added in pencil $9,000 for booking: final total $45,000. I sucked in a long, slow breath. Then I went through the items. Then I sat back. After more staring at the account, I took out my pencil and did a little figuring. I came to the conclusion that I was now worth two thousand, three hundred dollars, after having had over fifty thousand dollars four weeks ago.

I walked to the sun deck where Bertha was pouring yet another glass of champagne.

“That was quick,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’ve packed already.”

“Prune face is doing it. He’s doing yours too.”

She stretched, smiling.

“This is the life, Bart, Hmmm, lovely.”

“Yeah. Take a close look.”

I handed her the misery. She spent a few minutes going through the items, then shrugged and handed the accounts back to me.

“It was worth it. I don’t regret a dime.”

My money, of course, not hers.

“This practically puts me back in hock again, baby.”

“Well, you still have your job.”

“Yeah. I still have my job.”

She poured me champagne and patted the mattress.

“Don’t look so down in the mouth, pet. Money is for spending.”

I sat beside her. I was now thinking what a birdbrain I had been to have accepted fifty thousand dollars from Snake Diaz. I hadn’t even pressed him. I had asked for one hundred thousand, and had let him rob me off with half!

Man! How stupid can you be? I thought. I had had that snake over a barrel, and I had let him get away with it.

Then I remembered what he had said:
Don’t come back
for more. Blackmailers are greedy. This is the final
payment. Okay?
Then he had said:
I promise you one
thing, if you try to put the pressure on again, you will have
an unpleasant end. I, personally, will take care of you. You will die slowly.

What a mug! I thought. Well, that’s it. I’m not taking any more chances with that snake. He means just what he said.

“Bart!” Bertha said sharply. “Tell me something: how bad is this can of worms you’ve opened?”

“Couldn’t be worse.”

“She paid fifty thousand to keep it quiet without a struggle?”

“Well, not quite, but she paid.”

“You went to the wrong customer, Bart. You shouldn’t have gone to her.”

I stared at her.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Did you or did you not get the money from Nancy Hamel?”

“I worked through her agent, but she found the money.”

“If the can is as bad as you say it is, you could have asked much more, couldn’t you?”

“She hadn’t any more.”

Bertha nodded.

“That’s where you made your big mistake. You should have gone to Russ Hamel who is worth millions.”