1979 - A Can of Worms (2 page)

“So we watch Mrs. Hamel, and she is not to know she’s being watched . . . right?” I looked at Palmer who nodded. I could see by Chick’s expression he, like me, was dismayed to be landed with a wife-watching assignment.

“Let me have a description of Mrs. Hamel,” I said.

“I can do better than that. I have brought a photograph of her,” and opening his brief case, Palmer produced a ten by six glossy which he handed to me.

I regarded the woman in the photograph. Quite a dish, I thought. Darkish hair, big eyes, slender nose and full lips. To judge by the way her breasts pushed against her white shirt, she was nicely stacked. I handed the photo to Chick who scarcely suppressed a whistle.

“How about her daily routine, Mr. Palmer?”

“She rises at nine, leaves the house to play tennis with her close friend, Penny Highbee, who is the wife of Mark Highbee, Mr. Hamel’s attorney. She usually lunches at the Country Club, then apparently amuses herself either with the boat or goes fishing or meets other friends. This is what she tells Mr. Hamel.” Palmer lifted his fat shoulders. “I have no reason to doubt her, but Mr. Hamel thinks her afternoons should be checked. He doesn’t query her playing tennis with Mrs. Highbee. That, he thinks, would be too dangerous to lie about.”

“These letters, Mr. Palmer.”

“I have them.” Again he dipped into his briefcase and produced two blue-tinted envelopes and his business card which he gave me. Then he looked at his watch. “I have another appointment. If there is any further information you need, contact me. Mr. Hamel is not to be disturbed.”

He started for the door, then paused. “It is understood that this unfortunate affair is strictly confidential.”

“That is understood, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my boy scout’s smile. I conducted him to Glenda’s office.

“Miss Kerry will explain our terms.”

“Yes — yes, of course.” He looked glum. “I am quite sure this is all a waste of time and money, but Mr. Hamel is important people. I must get him working again.” He stared at me through his green sunglasses. “If you do happen to get an adverse report on Mrs. Hamel — I am sure you won’t — then alert me immediately. There is a lot of money involved.”

Ten percent of eleven million dollars was a lot of loot, I thought, as I ushered him into Glenda’s office. I was getting the idea that Palmer was worrying more about his commission than about Hamel and his wife.

Glenda was at her desk. Although she wasn’t my favourite woman, she was restful on the eyes. Tall, dark and good looking, wearing a dark blue frock with white collar and cuffs, her hair immaculate, she looked what she was: one hundred percent efficient and a go-getter.

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, and leaving Palmer to face Glenda’s steely smile, I returned to my office.

Chick was reading one of the poison pen letters, his feet on his desk. I saw he had replenished his drink so I replenished mine before sitting down.

“Listen to this,” he said, and read, “While you are writing your trash, your sexy wife is having it off with Waldo Carmichael. A race horse will always beat a cart horse, especially an old cart horse.” He looked at me as he reached for the second letter. “This one is a real niftie,”

and read, “Carmichael does it a lot better than you do, and Nancy loves it. Sex is for the young: strictly not for the elderly.” He dropped the letter on his desk. “Both of them signed: Your Non-Fan. I guess if I was his age and got this crap, I could go in a corner and make whimpering noises.”

I examined the letters. They were typewritten.

I examined the envelopes: mailed in Paradise City.

I then picked up Nancy Hamel’s photograph and regarded it.

“I know what’s going on in that sewer you call your mind,” Chick said. “If you were her, married to a guy who works from nine to seven and leaves you high and dry, you would get something on the side.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. So . . .?”

I looked at my watch. The time was five minutes after midday.

“According to Palmer, she should now be at the Country Club. I’ve just time to grab a snack, then I’ll get over there. I’ll stay with her until she goes home. So, suppose you find out who Waldo Carmichael is? Let’s get some dope on him.”

On our way to the elevator, I looked in on Glenda.

“I start work as soon as I have fed my face,” I said. “How about expenses?”

“Reasonable expenses,” she told me. “I’ve done a nice deal with him.”

“I bet. I could hear him screaming in my office. How much?”

“Ask the Colonel. He’ll tell you if he wants you to know,” and she went back to her writing.

* * *

All operators of the Parnell Detective Agency were members of the Country Club, the Yacht Club, the Casino, and all the nightclubs, frequented by the rich.

All the operators carried The Parnell Credit Card which entitled them to free meals, free drinks, you-name-it-you-have-it in all these clubs. It must have cost Parnell a bomb, but it paid off. There was always steely-eyed Charles Edwards, the accountant, to check on any excessive spending. The credit card gave us operators access to the clubs when working.

I was flicking through
Time
magazine in the super-duper lounge of the Country Club, keeping my eye on the restaurant exit when Nancy Hamel appeared. I recognized her from the photograph, but, in the flesh, she made the photograph a very poor imitation.

She was wearing a white Tee shirt and white shorts, and she had a figure that made me prick up my eyes. There were loads of dishes and beauts in Paradise City, but she was exceptional. With her was a woman, some ten years older, short-legged, wide in the beam, blonde, cuddly, if you like the cuddly type . . . I don’t. I guessed she was Penny Highbee.

The two women were in animated conversation. They swept by me, and I heard Penny say, “I can’t believe it! At her age!” What she couldn’t believe remained a mystery.

They reached the exit and waved to each other. Penny ran off to a Caddy and Nancy set off towards a steel grey Ferrari.

I managed to reach the office car as the Ferrari took off.

I never used my Maser when on a tail job. I would have lost her except for the traffic. She was forced to a crawl and I tucked myself behind a Lincoln and followed her down to the harbour.

She got out of the car and I got out of mine. She then walked along the quay where the cruisers and the yachts were moored. I tagged along behind her. She paused at a seventy-foot motor yacht. She ran up the gangplank and disappeared below.

There was nothing I could do about this, so I waited.

A big, muscular negro appeared and cast off. Moments later the motor yacht edged its way out of the crowded harbour, then roared off into the sun and the sea.

I watched it disappear out of sight.

On a bollard, clutching a can of beer, sat Al Barney.

Now Al Barney was the ears and the eyes of the City’s waterfront. If you provided him with beer, he would let loose with his mouth. No beer: no talk.

“Hi, Barney,” I said, coming to rest before him. “How about a drink?”

He tossed the can into the sea, hitched up his trousers over his enormous belly and smiled. He looked like an amiable shark seeing dinner coming his way.

“Hi, Mr. Anderson. Sure, a little beer would be fine.”

He heaved himself to his feet and walked purposely towards the Neptune Tavern. I followed him into the dark bar. It was empty at this time, but Sam, the barkeep, was there. He grinned, flashing his white teeth when he saw Barney and me.

“Hi, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “What will it be?”

“All the beer he needs and a coke for me,” I said, and followed Barney to a corner table.

“That sounds good, Mr. Anderson,” Barney said, settling himself down on a wooden bench. “You need something?”

A beer and a coke arrived.

“Well, you know: work is work. I saw that yacht leave. Curious. Any info?”

Barney drank the beer, slowly and steadily until the glass was empty, then he set the glass down with a bang.

Immediately, Sam rushed over with a refill.

“That was Russ Hamel’s boat,” Barney said, reaching for the beer. “The writer. Sells big, they tell me.” He scowled. “Reading books is a waste of time.”

“Sure. The girl who went aboard. Was that his wife?”

Barney’s tiny eyes surveyed me with suspicion.

“That’s her: nice girl. She’s a big improvement on the other one. Now that one was a real bitch. The present Mrs. Hamel is nice. She gives me a wave or a good day. There’s nothing snob about her.” He drank a little, sighed, then went on. “What’s your interest?”

“More interested in the big buck,” I lied. “Is he the permanent crew?”

“Josh Jones?” Barney grimaced. “A no-good nigger. A born gambler. Always short of money. He’d sell his mother for a dime if anyone wanted his mother which is unlikely. He works for Hamel. He’s worked for him for the past two years. He’s a good crewman, but that’s about all.”

“Does Mrs. Hamel take the boat out often?”

“About four times a week. Gives her something to do. From what I hear, she leads a lonely life.”

“How about Hamel? What kind of a guy is he?”

Barney finished his beer and Sam whipped over with another refill.

“A rich snob,” Barney said. “Like the rest of them who own boats. Don’t see him often. When he does take the boat out, you’d think he owned the whole waterfront: that kind of guy.”

I decided I had all the information I could get from Barney without making him curious, so I pushed back my chair.

“Is Jones a local man?” I asked as I stood up.

“Sure. He lives behind the waterfront.” Barney peered at me. “Is he in trouble? It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been in trouble before with the cops. They suspected him of smuggling, but they never pinned it on him.”

“What time does the yacht get back?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“Six: bang on the nose. You can set your watch by it.”

“See you, Al.” I settled with Sam, then went out into the hot sunshine. I had four hours to wait so I drove back to the office.

I looked in on Glenda.

“The Colonel tied up?”

“Go in. He’s free for twenty minutes.”

Parnell was reading a fat file when I entered his office.

“A problem, sir,” I said, then told him about Nancy going off in the yacht. “No way of following her. She stays somewhere on the yacht for four hours: plenty of time to get into mischief. Her crewman is black. He reacts to money, but I wanted to check with you before I approached him. He could tell me a load of lies for money, and then tip Nancy I’ve been questioning him.”

“Leave him alone,” Parnell said. “Our instructions are she is not to know she’s being watched. The next time she takes off in the yacht, follow her in a chopper. Get one on standby. It’ll cost, but Hamel’s loaded.”

I said I would do that and returned to my office. Chick was out. I called the helicopter taxi service and spoke to Nick Hardy, a good friend of mine. He said there would be no problem, and one of his choppers would standby if I gave him an early alert. With time on my hands, I called up Bertha. She was my current sleeping partner. We had been around together for some six months. She liked my money, and I found her willing. There was nothing serious about our association: no wedding bells. She was a great companion and fun to take around. She had a job with a fashion house doing something or other, and lived in a studio apartment in a highrise, facing the sea.

Some chick told me that Bertha was tied up with a client. I said not to bother, I would call back, then I left the office, paused at the news stall in the lobby and bought a pack of cigarettes and
Newsweek
and drove down to the waterfront. I parked where I could see Hamel’s yacht when it returned and settled down to wait.

As the hands of my watch moved to 18.00, I saw the yacht approaching the harbour. In a few minutes, Josh Jones had made fast. Nancy came running down the gangplank and onto the quay.

She paused and called, “Tomorrow at the same time, Josh.” She waved and went over to where she had left the Ferrari. As she set the car in motion, I started my engine and followed her.

Glenda had told me that Hamel lived on Paradise Largo where only the real rich dwelt. Paradise Largo was an isthmus in the seawater canal and formed a link between E.I. highway and the A.I.A. highway.

The causeway, leading to the Largo, was guarded by armed security men, plus an electronic controlled barrier. No one — repeat no one — was allowed on the Largo without first identifying himself and stating his business. There were some forty magnificent houses and villas on the Largo. They were hidden behind twenty-foot high flowering hedges and double oak, nail studded gates.

I followed Nancy’s car to the causeway, then sure she was going home, I turned off the highway and headed back to the office. I found Chick pouring himself a Scotch, his feet on his desk.

“Me too,” I said.

“Use your own bottle.” Chick put his bottle back in his desk drawer. “Any action?”

“Routine.” I sat behind my desk. “She played tennis, ate, then went off on a swank yacht. The Colonel says I can chase her in a chopper tomorrow. Should be fun. And you?”

Chick pursed his lips.

“I’m getting the idea that Waldo Carmichael might not exist. No one, so far, knows of him.”

I hoisted my bottle into sight, regarded it and found I had one small drink left. I poured and tossed the empty bottle into the trash basket.

“Tried the hotels?”

“All the big ones. I’ll try the smaller ones tomorrow. I’ve talked to Ernie and Wally. They don’t know him, but they promise to check.”

Ernie Bolshaw wrote a breezy gossip column for the
Paradise City Herald.
Wally Simmonds was the City’s P.R.O. If anyone would know about Waldo Carmichael, they would.

“Palmer could be right,” I said. “These letters might come from some sick crank, trying to make mischief.”

“Could be. I’ve sent the letters to the lab. They might come up with something.”

I pulled the telephone towards me and called Nick Hardy. I booked a helicopter for tomorrow afternoon.