1979 - A Can of Worms (18 page)

I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage, my mind busy. As I reached the cottage, I heard the telephone bell ringing. Entering, I picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Anderson,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Herschenheimer heard the shot. He is extremely nervous. I am staying with him. Will you watch the gates? I told him about this unfortunate suicide, but he doesn’t believe it. He is sure an assassin is on the island.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell him no one will get near him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He will be relieved.”

I replaced the receiver, then realizing that Mel Palmer could have trouble getting past the security barrier, I called Mike O’Flagherty at the guardhouse.

I explained the situation.

“I’ve alerted Mr. Hamel’s agent, Mr. Palmer,” I said.

“He’ll be arriving any moment. Let him through, Mike. The police will also be arriving. Let them through.”

“Holy Mary!” Mike exclaimed. “The poor man has killed himself?”

“Let Mr. Palmer through,” I said, and hung up.

I went down to the gates and waited. Ten minutes later, a Cadillac pulled up outside Hamel’s gates. I watched Palmer get out of the car, push open the gates and hurry up the drive.

I waited, and while I waited, I thought of the fifty thousand dollars I had squandered. I stopped thinking when I began to think of my future: those thoughts were too depressing.

Around 23.00, a police car arrived. From it spilled Tom Lepski and Max Jacoby. I walked across the road as they got from the car.

Lepski regarded me.

“What’s cooking?” he demanded.

I explained I had been on duty guarding Herschenheimer. I had heard a shot, found Hamel dead, alerted Palmer and was now back on guard duty.

Lepski glared at me.

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“That’s Palmer’s job,” I said. “The suicide note could be damaging. There’s a load of money involved.”

“What suicide note?”

“Hamel was impotent according to the note. The press will love it, Tom. A big selling author of porno, impotent! It’s something only Palmer can handle.”

“You have been up there?”

“I found him.”

Lepski’s eyes narrowed.

“Touch anything?”

“Come on, Tom, you know better than to ask a stupid question. Mrs. Hamel was out on the yacht. She got back around half an hour ago.”

“Okay. I’ll want to talk to you again,” and he and Jacoby hurried up the drive.

Just before midnight, Carl arrived to relieve me.

“Mike told me,” he said. “Excitements, huh?”

“You can say that. The old nut is laying an egg. He heard the shot.”

Carl groaned.

“That means I keep awake tonight.”

“That’s what it means.”

“Had some excitement down on the waterfront this afternoon,” he said, and laughed. “Some joker let off a smoke bomb on the harbour. Man! You should have seen the panic! I was getting a snack at the Alameda bar when the bomb went off! In two seconds, the rubberneckers and all the other crumbs vanished. Some kid, I guess, but you should have seen how fast everyone ran.”

I wasn’t interested.

“I guess I’ll get home,” I said. “See you tomorrow and keep alert.”

Carl laughed.

“Oh, sure.”

“If the cops want me, tell them I’m home.”

“Why should they want you?”

“Why do cops want anything?”

We walked together up the drive.

“Why did this rich jerk want to knock himself off?”

“It happens,” I said, started the car and drove down to the barrier.

O’Flagherty came out of the guardhouse.

“What a thing!” he said. “Why should Mr. Hamel do that?”

“It happens,” I said and gunned the engine impatiently. He took the hint and lifted the pole. I gave him a wave and headed for home.

The first thing I did when I had shut my front door was to pour a double Scotch. I took the drink to a lounging chair and sat down.

The time was 00.30. Should I call Bertha and break the news? I didn’t believe she had sold her apartment and her furniture, but suppose she had? I had a depressing feeling that as soon as she learned there was to be no million dollars, I would see the last of her.

The telephone bell rang.

Bertha?

I hesitated, then got up and walked over to the desk.

Lifting the receiver, I said, “Hello there?”

“Mr. Anderson?”

I stiffened. I recognized Joey’s voice.

“That you, Joey?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“I’ve been trying to contact you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Jimbo. Where are you calling from?”

“Mr. Anderson, that man left the Alameda this morning. I’ve been trying to get you.”

“The man who’s hiding there?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson. I saw him leave. I saw someone throw something from the upper window. It exploded in smoke. There was excitement. While everyone was running, the bearded man came out and got in the boot of a car that was parked right outside.”

“What car, Joey?”

“A Ferrari. There was a woman, driving. As soon as he was in the trunk, she drove off. No one saw, but me. Everyone was running around because of the smoke.”

“What time was this, Joey?”

“Eleven forty, Mr. Anderson.”

“Was the woman wearing a red head scarf and big sunglasses?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“Right. Now listen, Joey . . .”

The line went dead as he hung up.

I replaced the receiver and stood staring down at the carpet.

Nancy had left home soon after Hamel had left for Hollywood. She had returned a little after midday and had left again five minutes later.

I lit a cigarette with a slightly unsteady hand.

She had brought Pofferi, hidden in the trunk of the
Ferrari, to the ranch house.
O’Flagherty would have waved her through.

Pofferi had been hidden somewhere in the ranch house when Hamel had returned.

Suicide?

I crushed out my cigarette.

Hamel hadn’t committed suicide. Pofferi had
murdered him!

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
s I sat thinking, the pieces of the jigsaw began to fall into place.

Hamel, enormously rich, had met Nancy (Lucia Pofferi) in Rome, and had fallen for her. He wasn’t to know that she was on the run for two murders. By dying her hair dark and wearing big sun goggles, she had evaded the police hunt, but she knew the net was drawing tighter.

Hamel had offered marriage. The fact that she was already married to Pofferi didn’t stop her accepting. By marrying Hamel she had the safe way of escaping from Italy.

Pofferi, also hunted by the police, had been trying to raise funds for his murderous organisation. Nancy would inherit Hamel’s fortune if she became Hamel’s widow.

Once she got the money, Pofferi would use it for his organisation. Somehow, Pofferi had reached the United States, and with Nancy’s help, had hidden on the pirates’ island. He had learned from Nancy that Hamel was impotent.

The pair had been patient. They had waited some six weeks before putting their plan into operation. They wanted Hamel to finish his book and collect all those millions on the advances. As soon as he had finished the book, they moved into action.

Nancy knew she couldn’t get Pofferi past the barrier without O’Flagherty spotting him. Probably Pofferi had solved this problem by creating a diversion on the waterfront, hiding in the trunk of the Ferrari, and O’Flagherty had been fooled.

When the police investigated Hamel’s death, they would be satisfied that no outsider could have been involved. Nancy was out on the yacht. Washington Smith and his wife were above suspicion. So . . . suicide.

But I knew Nancy had smuggled Pofferi into the ranch house, and I was now certain Pofferi had shot Hamel and had staged the scene to look like suicide.

I sat up with a jerk.

Right at this moment, Pofferi must he hiding somewhere in the ranch house. He couldn’t get off the Largo
without Nancy’s help, and she had to stay to answer police
questions.

So what should I do? Call the cops and tell them that Pofferi was hiding in the ranch house? Then what?

Keep out of it, baby, I said to myself. If you start flapping with your mouth, you’ll be in trouble. So keep out of it.

I went to bed. It took me a little time before I slept. For the first ten minutes, I wondered what Pofferi was doing: what Nancy was doing: what the cops were doing. I had no answers, so eventually, I slept.

The telephone bell woke me at 10.23. I dragged myself across the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah?”

“Bart!” Bertha’s strident voice slammed against my eardrum.

“Hi, honey,” I said feebly.

“Have you seen the papers? Hamel’s shot himself!”

“Yeah . . . I know.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“For God’s sake, baby . . .”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No.”

She made a noise like a hornet trapped in a bottle.

“Okay, Bart. You have had your chance, and you fluffed it.”

“You can say that again.”

“My fink called me. He wants to marry me.”

I stiffened.

“Do you want to marry him, baby?”

“Why not? He has this yacht, a penthouse, servants and a bloated bank account, so why not?”

“Wait a minute! Think! Do you want to spend the next best years of your life waving your fanny at a kink?”

“For that yacht, his penthouse, his slaves and his money, I’d do a lot more than wave my ass. Wouldn’t you?”

I heaved a sigh.

“You have a point. Okay, go ahead and marry him. Be happy.”

“When I marry him, I’ll be faithful. This is the big goodbye, Bart. You can’t say you didn’t have your chance,” and she hung up.

I lay back on the pillow, feeling depressed, then I began to use my smart brain. There were many other beautiful dolls in the world. Variety is the spice of life, and a change of doll-scene offered fresh excitement. Anyway, that gag about Bertha being faithful, was the big laugh of the day.

I went asleep again.

* * *

After a late dinner, I read Hamel’s obituary in
The
Paradise City Herald.
His suicide made front page headlines. There was no mention of the suicide note. I guessed Mel Palmer had swept that under the rug. There was a vague suggestion that Hamel had been over-working and had become depressed. His wife had collapsed, and Palmer, very much in charge, had gone down to the barrier to be interviewed by the press and the T.V. vultures. No one was allowed past the barrier. I imagined Mike O’Flagherty was having the time of his life. Palmer had made a brief statement. Mrs. Hamel would grant no interviews.

All around me in the restaurant, people were talking about Hamel’s death.

One loud-mouthed woman summed it up. She said, “Well, when a guy writes the muck he did, he must have been a nutcase. I mean, those bedroom scenes! He’s better off dead.”

I wanted to tell her how wrong she was, but I didn’t. I thought of Hamel. I had liked him. I felt sorry for him.

Soon after 23.20, I drove to Paradise Largo. As I pulled up at the barrier, I saw some dozen men, sitting on the grass verge, smoking and talking. The press vultures never gave up!

O’Flagherty came out of the guardhouse.

“Man!” I said. “You are certainly having a ball!”

He grinned.

“Yeah. No one gets by me, Bart. No one got by me. I told Lepski.” O’Flagherty’s moon-shaped face was glistening with sweat. “What a thing!”

“Sure is.” I waited until he raised the pole, watched by envious eyes, then I drove to Herschenheimer’s gates. Carl let me in.

“Man!” he exclaimed. “The old man’s flipping.”

“So?”

He grinned.

“So nothing. He’s keeping Jarvis out of bed. Just look busy. I’ve had enough of it. See you.”

When he had gone, I went into the cottage, found a pack of sandwiches waiting, and I sat down. I wondered what was going on across the road. I wondered if Palmer was still there, fussing around.

As I began to eat the sandwiches, Jarvis appeared. I saw he was doing a flipping act.

“Mr. Anderson, I couldn’t sleep until I talked to you.”

“Something wrong?”

“Yes.” He moved forward and sat down. “What a day I’ve had! I have had to give Mr. Herschenheimer a sedative. He is now sleeping.”

I munched on the third sandwich.

“What’s cooking?”

“Mr. Washington Smith and his wife have been dismissed.”

This news didn’t surprise me. It made sense. Knowing what I knew, Smith and his wife would be a menace to Pofferi, hiding in the house.

I put on my surprised expression.

“Dismissed?”

“Yes.” Jarvis looked miserable. “Mr. Palmer told them they must go immediately. They were given no time . . .just pack and go. Dreadful! After fifteen years of faithful service! They were paid a year’s salary. Mr. Palmer explained that Mrs. Hamel wanted them to go. He was nice about it. He seemed shocked.”

“That’s tough,” I said.

“I will miss Mr. Smith. It is difficult to understand. Mr. and Mrs. Smith kept that house beautifully.”

“Any news of Mrs. Hamel?”

Jarvis lifted his lean shoulders. From his expression, I could see Nancy Hamel was no longer in favour.

“Mr. Smith didn’t even see her to say goodbye. It was so abrupt.”

I took another sandwich: thinly cut lobster meat with a touch of mayonnaise.

“So who’s going to run the house?”

“That is something Mr. Smith or I cannot understand. Mr. Smith was told by Mr. Palmer that Josh Jones will look after things until Mrs. Hamel leaves. She intends to sell the estate as soon as the burial has taken place.”

“Josh Jones? Who is he?” I asked, probing.

“Mr. Hamel’s crewman.” Jarvis looked down his nose. “A no-good nigger.”

“Is Mr. Palmer still over there?”

“He left after the police had gone.”

I now had all the information I needed. I wanted Jarvis out of the way. I told him he looked tired. I said I would be right here if he needed me and taking the hint, he went back to the house. I gave him five minutes, then walked down to the gates and climbed the tree.