1979 - A Can of Worms (16 page)

His old face lit up with a wide smile when he saw me.

“What a pleasure, Mr. Anderson,” he said, shaking hands. “I asked for you, but Miss Kerry wasn’t sure you would be back from your vacation. I’m so glad. Did you have an enjoyable time?”

As we walked back to the cottage, I told him about the yacht, and about Bertha. He had heard from me about Bertha on my previous stint. I told him Bertha worked for the CIA, so anything I even hinted at about her, he absorbed with wide eyed interest.

When I ran out of telling him lies about my own adventures, I switched to Bertha who, according to me, made Mata Hari look like a convent novice.

We settled in the shade outside the cottage, and he began questioning me about what I had been doing.

Having just read a Hadley Chase thriller, I outlined the plot to him, with me as a central character. When I had concluded, an hour later, he got reluctantly to his feet.

“You live a most remarkable life, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “I must now attend to Mr. Herschenheimer’s tea. I have invited Mr. Washington Smith to have dinner with me at seven. Perhaps you would join us? Mr. Smith is Mr. Hamel’s butler. He comes over here during his hours off. He is a pleasant, well-spoken man.”

“Sure,” I said. “Glad to.”

“I’ll arrange to have the meal served in the cottage. It will be more convenient for you to keep an eye on possible intruders,” and he gave me a bass laugh to show he was joking.

When he returned to the house, I walked down to the big tree by the entrance gates. It was screened from the house by other trees. I had no trouble swinging myself up to the lower branches, and from there, climbed up and up, until I was overlooking the high hedge that surrounded the Hamel residence.

Sitting astride a branch with my back to the tree trunk, I looked down into the Hamel garden and the ranch style house.

The Ferrari and the Ford wagon stood on the tarmac before the house. There was no sign of life. I sat there for the next two hours, but no one appeared. The house might have been empty.

At 19.00, Jarvis arrived at the cottage with Hamel’s butler.

“Mr. Washington Smith meet Mr. Bart Anderson who is looking after the security of the estate while Mr. Jordan is on vacation,” Jarvis said.

Mr. Smith smiled as we shook hands.

“We have met before Mr. Anderson.”

“That’s right. Glad to see you again.”

A young negro in white wheeled in a trolley, and quickly laid the table while Jarvis poured martini cocktails.

“Hey! I thought the boss didn’t dig liquor,” I said.

Jarvis smiled.

“There’s an old saying, Mr. Anderson, about what the eye doesn’t see.”

“The heart doesn’t grieve about,” Smith concluded as he reached for a glass.

It was during a good meal of pork chops in chili sauce that I began to pump Smith.

I said it was sad about Mrs. Highbee. I had been at the funeral, and had seen Mrs. Hamel collapse. How was she?

Smith munched for a few moments, then shook his head.

“She is recovering. Mrs. Highbee was her closest friend. It was a great shock, but she is recovering.”

“And Mr. Hamel?” I said, my voice casual. “I found him an impressive personality. He said he was going to use me in his book.”

Smith sighed.

“I’m worried about Mr. Hamel. He has never been happy since he took up marriage. I have been with him for the past fifteen years. He made a mistake marrying Mrs. Gloria . . . she was no lady. The divorce distressed him. I thought all would be well when he married Mrs. Nancy.” He looked at me. “I don’t know a nicer lady. I had every hope that the marriage would be a success, but Mr. Hamel is not happy. I don’t understand it.”

I could have told him. I remember what Gloria Cort had said:
You’d think a guy who could write that stuff
would be good in bed. Was I conned? He’s as useless to a
woman as boiled spaghetti.

“Well, he certainly makes money with his books. I guess one can’t have everything,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. Tomorrow, he goes to Hollywood to discuss the film treatment,” Smith said. “The film will bring him a lot of money. Mr. Hamel is most generous. He always gives me and my wife, who does the cooking, a present when he sells a film.”

“How about the other staff?” I asked, probing. “Do they get something?”

“We have no other staff. In spite of his wealth, Mr. Hamel likes to live simply. He seldom entertains, and when he does, he hires staff and orders food. It is an easy place to run, and my wife and I are not pressed. He always has cold supper. That is why I am able to grace Mr. Jarvis’s excellent table.”

“I guess Mrs. Hamel will be going with him to Hollywood? Should take her mind off her loss.”

He shook his head.

“No, Mrs. Hamel will stay. It will only be for three or four days. I don’t think she feels like mixing with the Hollywood people.” He frowned. “They are very special.”

Jarvis, who had been listening without interest, broke in, “You must tell us about these two Indian boys who died, Mr. Anderson. I am sure you have theories about them.”

“Well, no. Even the police don’t understand it,” I said, thinking how their eyes would bolt out if I told them the facts. “But I can tell you about this odd business the Agency handled last year,” and I launched in to yet another of my made-up cases which kept them on the edges of their chairs until Smith said regretfully he had to get back or his wife would be wondering where he was.

Jarvis also remembered he had to see the old nut to bed.

I was left on my own and with my thoughts.

I had learned a lot from Smith. He had confirmed what Gloria Cort had told me: Hamel was impotent. He had told me Hamel would be away for three or four days, leaving Nancy on her own. Hamel being away, gave me time. It would also keep Bertha quiet.

My afternoon hadn’t been wasted. I relaxed, and when I relax, my thoughts turn to money. I was still spending a million dollars when Carl arrived to relieve me.

“I bet you were busy,” he said, grinning.

“A beautiful dinner,” I said. “Man! Is this the job?”

I was getting into bed when the telephone bell rang.

For a long moment, I hesitated to answer it, then I lifted the receiver.

“Bart!” Bertha’s strident voice hit my eardrum like a sledge hammer.

“Hi, honey,” I managed to say.

“What about it?”

“What about what?” Although I knew.

She made a sound a train whistle would envy.

“What’s happening? Have you seen him?”

“Relax . . . he’s away . . . Hollywood. I have it under control, baby.”

“When will he be back?”

“Don’t be so goddam anxious. Three or four days. Quiet down baby. I’m handling this . . . remember?”

“You’d better be. I’ve sold my apartment, and the furniture. Give with the action, Bart! As soon as he gets back, bite him!”

“You’ve sold . . .? What the hell are you saying?”

“Who wants to live in this crummy place when we’re worth millions?” Bertha demanded. “I had a good offer, so I’ve sold. Now the action is in your court.”

I suppressed a groan.

“Okay, okay. Three or four days. I’ll fix it.”

“Do that,” and she hung up.

*
* *

Some minutes before midnight, I arrived at the Paradise Largo to begin my night’s stint. I stopped to chat up Mike O’Flagherty who was going off duty.

We talked of this and that, then I steered the conversation around to the Hamels.

“Any news of Mrs. Hamel?” I asked as I offered him a cigarette.

“The quack called again today. Mr. Hamel left early this morning. I hear he is going to Hollywood: a film deal.”

That was what I wanted to know. Hamel was now on his way to Hollywood.

I found Carl waiting to be relieved. Jarvis had left a stack of sandwiches for me in case I starved during the night.

“There’s a bottle of Scotch in my drawer,” Carl said. “Help yourself.”

When he had gone, I ate the sandwiches, had a couple of drinks, then walked to the tree by the gates. I climbed it, surveyed Hamel’s ranch house which was in darkness, and after waiting for more than an hour when nothing happened, I returned to the cottage, lay on the settee and went to sleep. Around five in the morning, I forced myself awake, shaved and showered, and wandered around the garden, trying to look like an energetic guard. At 08.00, Jarvis arrived with coffee, pancakes, maple syrup, grilled sausages and scrambled eggs.

While I ate, he talked. He said that as I would be on duty tomorrow at midday, he would arrange another dinner with Washington Smith. I said that was fine with me.

Carl relieved me at midday. I went swimming, then returned to my apartment and slept until 18.00. I didn’t feel like coping with Bertha, so I went to a bar for a drink, then feeling hungry, I headed to where I had parked the Maser. As I was getting into the car, I spotted Gloria Cort coming towards me.

“Hi, there!”

She stopped and regarded me, then she smiled, and came up to the Maser.

“Hi! Where did you spring from?” She leant against the car. Her breasts swung against the flimsy material of her dress.

“I’m about to feed my face,” I said. “Any chance of your company? I hate eating alone.”

She moved rapidly to the off-side and opened the passenger’s door.

“Where?”

“Do you like seafood?”

“I prefer meat. There’s a restaurant not far from here: Beef on the Hoof. Know it?”

Just like Bertha. The prices at this restaurant would have startled an oil Sheik.

“Not there,” I said firmly. “I know a joint where you can get a steak that sits up on your plate and makes bull noises.”

She laughed.

“Well, it was a try.” She settled herself beside me and her hand fell into my lap. “Nice car.”

I gently removed her hand.

“Not right now, baby . . . later, huh?”

I drove her to the restaurant which was off Paradise Avenue. It had piped music that blew your ears, a lot of action, and the waiters dressed as bullfighters.

When we had settled and ordered steaks, she leaned back, thrusting her breasts at me.

“Where have you been, handsome?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you since you blew into the Alameda.”

“I get around. What are you doing, footloose? Don’t you do an act there, or something?”

“Only Saturdays. What do you do?”

“Me? I chase the fast buck, and sometimes catch it. How’s Diaz these days?”

She gave me a long, searching look.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Bart Anderson.”

She nodded.

“Keep clear of Diaz, Bart.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Now
I’m
telling you. Keep clear of him.”

The steaks arrived and we began to eat.

“If he’s that poisonous, what’s a nice girl like you doing hooking up with him?”

“Who the hell said I was nice?” She pursed her lips and made a rude noise. “But you’re right. Whenever I meet up with a man, sooner or later, I ask myself what I’m doing with him, and I never come up with an answer. The trouble with me is I get infatuated. I got infatuated with that jerk Hamel. Then I got infatuated with this creep Diaz. If I told you how many goddamn finks I’ve got infatuated with it would take all night.”

“Tough,” I said. “How’s the steak?”

“Marvellous.” She started eating again.

So I let her eat. When she finished, she said she would have a sundae with plenty of bananas and cherries. I let her work through that while I drank coffee. When there was nothing more for her to eat, she nodded, pushed back her chair and stood up.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m going to give you a work out. It’ll be an experience you’ll write up in your diary.”

“I don’t keep a diary,” I said as I paid the check.

“But you will, brother! You certainly will!” Catching hold of my arm, she dragged me out of the restaurant.

* * *

The telephone bell brought me awake. I clawed open my eyes and squinted at the bedside clock. It showed 10.05. The sound of the bell pounded my brain. I heard a moan, then a four-letter word, and saw Gloria, half sitting up, naked, beside me.

“Stay still,” I croaked. “It’s nothing.”

I knew it was Bertha, trying to get to me. I had taken a risk, bringing Gloria to my apartment, but she had dangled her sexual equipment so enticingly, I had been swept off my feet.

I have bedded many dolls in my past, but Gloria was something else beside. As a bed partner, she was unique.

I had already told Bertha that I was back to the grindstone, and not to expect to hear from me for a few days, but now Bertha dreamed of sharing my million dollars, she would be hard to shake off.

After a few more rings, the telephone bell sulked into silence.

“Hi,” Gloria said, smiling at me. She looked depressingly lively. “That sure was a night, honey.”

Feeling boneless, I managed to nod.

“Some coffee. I’ll get it.” She slid off the bed and ran naked towards the kitchen. I watched her with carnal appreciation.

After a while, she came back with coffee: strong and reviving. We drank, and I slowly became knitted together. After another cup, this time laced with brandy, my brain began to function. Looking at her, as she sat beside me, I realized she could be useful to me: now was, the moment to fish for information.

“Baby,” I said. “Tell me about Diaz. Why has he lost his glamour for you?”

“Things are going on at the Alameda I don’t like.”

“What things?”

“I found that Alphonso is more dangerous than a rattlesnake. He has me scared.”

“I know that, but what’s going on at the Alameda?”

“People who talk come to a sudden end.”

“Like old Pete.”

“And those two kids. I’m not talking. I don’t want to end up the way they did.”

“Who wants to? But something is going on there, huh?”

“He’s hiding people there. He’s given them the top floor.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, and don’t want to know.” She set down her coffee cup. “Bart, I want out. I’ve had it up to here with this goddamn city. It’s time I moved on. I want to go to Frisco. There’s a guy there who does an act, and he wants me to join him, but he needs me to put up some money.”