1979 - A Can of Worms (21 page)

“I trust not, but Mr. Herschenheimer is also unpredictable.”

Taking the tray, he left me. I went down to the tree, climbed it and surveyed the ranch house. Josh Jones was standing in the doorway of the front door, smoking.

Around his waist, cowboy style, was a gun belt from which dangled a mean-looking .45. Hidden in the foliage of the tree, I watched him. He remained there, breathing in the warm air, motionless and menacing. I told myself that Coldwell and his men wouldn’t have a picnic when they moved in.

After a while, he stepped back and closed the front door. I waited, but there was no further action. I wondered what was happening to Nancy. Maybe, like the old nut, she was under sedation.

When it was 11.30, I returned to the cottage and waited for Carl to relieve me. As soon as he arrived, I got in the Maser and headed for Mel Palmer’s office.

Palmer’s secretary was a sexy-looking doll with Venetian red hair and a bust line that would” make a brigade of guards misstep. She eyed me the way she would eye a roach in her soup.

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving her my sexy smile. “Bart Anderson.”

“Have you an appointment, Mr. Anderson?” Cool and distant as the moon.

“Just tell him. I don’t need an appointment.”

She hesitated, then rising from behind her desk, she went into an inner office. She was a tail-wagger: a condition that always makes me horny.

She stood in the doorway and jerked her head.

“Mr. Palmer will see you.”

As I passed her, my right hand strayed, but that had happened to her countless times, and my hand encountered nothing.

Palmer, dwelling behind a big cigar, regarded me doubtfully.

“What is it, Anderson?”

I selected a comfortable chair and sat down.

“Your client, Mrs. Nancy Hamel,” I said. “She is your client?”

“Of course. What about her?” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I have an important lunch date.”

“This is something you will want to hear, and it can’t be rushed. Did you know Mrs. Hamel had an identical twin sister?”

He blinked.

“No, but is that important?”

“The twin is Lucia Pofferi, an Italian terrorist wanted for two murders. Her husband, Aldo Pofferi, is also a terrorist; one of the leaders of the Italian Red Brigade, wanted for at least three murders, and I have proof he murdered Russ Hamel.”

If I had driven a nail into his fat behind, he couldn’t have reacted more. His face flushing, his eyes bulging, he jumped to his feet.

“Are you drunk?” he squealed. “How dare you say such a thing!”

“The FBI have the facts, and they are taking action tonight.”

“Good God!” He sank into his chair and began mopping his face with a silk handkerchief.

“It’s a complicated story,” I said. “You had better hear it from the beginning. When it is finally sorted out, the publicity will be red hot. It can’t do Hamel’s books any harm. Handled right, it should treble his sales, and you’re the man to handle it right.”

That made him take notice as I knew it would. He put away his handkerchief and put on his business face.

I gave him the same story as I had given Lu Coldwell. I concluded by saying, “So the set-up is this: the two terrorists hold Nancy Hamel in her home. The woman who joined you when I found Hamel dead wasn’t Nancy, but Lucia.”

“Damn it! I’ll swear it was Nancy, he muttered.

“Identical twins, and you saw her in half-light and you were naturally shocked. Nancy will certainly be murdered once she has been forced to sign a batch of cheques which will give her sister access to Hamel’s money.”

He sat and thought, then he nodded.

“That would explain it. Only this morning, this woman telephoned me. She sounded hysterical. She told me she couldn’t attend her husband’s funeral and asked me to handle all the details. She asked me to leave her alone. She had to grieve by herself.”

“Sure, that figures. Lucia wouldn’t want to expose herself to a lot of mourners, and she’s not risking seeing you again.”

“Good God!” Palmer began to mop his face again.

“I’m going to make a suggestion to you, Mr. Palmer,” I said, putting on my sincere expression. “I’m going to suggest that you appoint me as Mrs. Hamel’s representative.”

He stopped mopping his face and regarded me suspiciously.

“Mrs. Hamel’s representative? What does that mean?”

“Someone, representing her, should be on the spot when the Pofferis are taken. Someone who can get Mrs. Hamel away before the press move in. Mrs. Hamel will be in shock. She must not be exposed to the press until she has recovered.” I leaned forward and stared hard at him. “You are Mrs. Hamel’s representative. Do you want to be there during the gun battle? The FBI expect to kill both Pofferi and his wife. It will be a battlefield. Do you want to be there or do you want me to be there, acting on your behalf and Mrs. Hamel’s behalf?”

He reacted as I knew he would react. The very thought of putting himself anywhere near a gun battle made his face turn ashen. “I see what you mean. Would you do that, Mr. Anderson?”

I put on my modest expression.

“That’s my job. Leave this to me I guarantee Mrs. Hamel’s safety, and also guarantee the press won’t get near her.”

“How will you do that?” He frowned suspiciously. “How will you get her off the Largo without the press knowing about it?”

“Mr. Palmer I have a good friend who owns a chopper. As soon as the battle is over, he will land and we’ll whisk Mrs. Hamel away. I suggest you reserve a penthouse suite at the Spanish Bay. They have a chopper landing pad on the roof. Mrs. Hamel can stay there until she recovers. The hotel won’t let any unauthorised person near her.”

His fat face brightened.

“That is an excellent idea. The Spanish Bay Hotel have a resident doctor and nurse should Mrs. Hamel need medical care. I’ll leave the helicopter arrangement to you Anderson. I will take care of the reservation. I must go, there are two little things, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my boyish smile. “I need written authority from you that I am acting as Mrs. Hamel’s representative. The FBI might be difficult unless they know I have official standing.”

“Yes, yes.” He called in his tail-wagging secretary and dictated to her the necessary authorization. “Get it typed right away.”

She eyed me as she left the room.

“And the second thing?”

“Expenses. I’ll need two thousand for the chopper and the pilot.”

He stiffened.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Danger money, Mr. Palmer. There’s going to be a shoot-up. The money will come from Hamel’s estate, so why should you care?”

“Yes, of course.”

The secretary returned with the authorization, and Palmer signed it.

“Give Mr. Anderson two thousand dollars in cash, Miss Hills.” Palmer shook my hand and made for the door.

“When will this operation take place?”

“Tonight.”

“I will be waiting at the hotel.” Nodding, he was gone.

Miss Hills regarded me.

“Two thousand in cash?”

“That’s what the man said.”

I followed her out of the office, waited until she produced the money, then stowed the money in my wallet.

“Did anyone tell you you have big, beautiful eyes?” I said.

“Frequently,” she returned coldly. “I’m busy. Bye, Mr. Anderson,” and she sat down and began to type.

I filed her away for future reference. She would need working on. Now wasn’t the time.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, as I climbed into the Maser, everything, so far, is going your way.

Zero hour was to be 03.00.

As Nancy Hamel’s representative, plus the fact that I had been inside the ranch house and knew its geography, I was given a seat at the round table in the conference room at the Mayor’s office.

Mayor Hedley, Chief of Police Terrell, Sergeant Hess, together with Coldwell, Stoneham and Jackson of the FBI, were present.

Coldwell explained that the information he had revealed to the other men had come from an informer. No questions were asked about the informer. Coldwell went on to say that I was present as I had been instructed to get Mrs. Hamel away from the press as soon as the Pofferis had been taken. . .I drew a plan of the ranch house, explained the electronic controls at the gate, explained that, as a guard working for Mr. Herschenheimer, I had been keeping watch on the ranch house and I knew where Nancy Hamel was located. I put an X on the map of the house.

After more talk, it was decided to cut off the electricity on the Largo so a silent entry could be made through the gates. Police guards were already in place. When the time came, the three FBI agents, supported by ten armed police would storm the house.

I then went on to tell them that I had arranged for Nick Hardy in his chopper to be overhead at Zero hour, and when Nancy Hamel was freed, I would be on the spot to convey her by air to the Spanish Bay hotel where Mel Palmer would be waiting to take care of her.

There were no objections, and the meeting broke up.

I had paid Nick Hardy five hundred dollars for his services. That left me fifteen hundred dollars in hand. The time when the meeting broke up was 19.30. I had a lot of hours to kill before the action. I returned to my apartment, hesitated, then called Bertha When she came on the line, I said, “Is that Mrs. Fink?”

She giggled.

“Oh, you.”

“Who else? Baby, I’m lonely. Are you married yet?”

“Next week, and listen, Bart, I told you we were through. When I say a thing, I mean it!”

“Since when? Listen, baby, I have a wallet stuffed with the green. How about you and me sharing a gorgeous dinner at the Spanish Bay grill?”

“How did you get the money?” Bertha demanded.

“Don’t ask silly questions. Do you or don’t you want to share this meal with me?”

There was a long pause.

“I’m engaged to be married,” she said feebly.

“Since when did that stop any right minded doll accepting an invitation?”

“Well, okay, Bart, but this will be the last time.”

“Fine. We will eat at nine-thirty. Come over here right away, baby.”

“If we are eating at nine-thirty, why should I come over to you right away?”

“Guess,” I said, and hung up.

I drove Bertha back to her apartment around 01.30. It had been a very satisfactory evening. We had done our physical gymnastics together until it was time to eat. We had eaten a beautiful, sustaining meal, we had danced, then we had sat on the crowded terrace in the moonlight, holding hands.

“Bart, I wish this could go on forever,” Bertha sighed. “I know you are a heel, but you are a beautiful heel.”

I patted her hand.

“Get married, baby. Get some security. That’s what really counts. Once you get it, you can enjoy yourself. Your fink won’t know if you get something on the side. I’ll be around.” I gave her my boyish smile. “Next time, you’ll pick up the check. Imagine! It will give you a marvellous lift.”

She laughed.

“Bart! You’re hopeless!”

Leaving her, I drove to Paradise Largo. There were two cops standing at the barrier with O’Flagherty. He came over to me, his eyes popping with excitement.

“This is going to be some night, Bart,” he said.

“You can say that again.”

The two cops came over and peered at me, then nodded to O’Flagherty who lifted the barrier.

It had been agreed at the meeting that Carl should be alerted. He opened the gates to let me in. He too was excited. We went up to the cottage to find Jarvis with drinks and sandwiches. I told them what was about to happen.

“There could be a lot of noise,” I said. “Better give the old nut a real shot so he sleeps through it.”

Jarvis said he had already done that.

I looked at my watch. Another hour. I ate the sandwiches, took a drink, then walked down to the tree.

So far, it was going beautifully, I thought, but the crunch would come when I walked in to take Nancy to the chopper. Man! Could that turn sour! Suppose she recognized me and blew the whistle on me to Coldwell? I thought about this, and although the thought gave me goose pimples, I told myself in the heat of the moment, the noise, the confusion, the cops trampling around, she might not connect me with the guy who had tried to blackmail her. Besides, with luck she would be half doped. It was a gamble I had to take.

I climbed the tree. Immediately below me, I could see shadowy figures. The FBI and the cops were already gathering. I looked over at the ranch house. It was in total darkness.

I wondered if they had posted a guard: either Jones or Pofferi, but doubted it. They must have felt completely secure behind those electronically controlled gates and on the Largo.

I recognized Coldwell’s tall figure.

“All in darkness,” I called down softly. “No movement.”

He glanced up, grunted, then drawing the group to him, he began going over his instructions again in a whisper.

The men were standing by the gates.

Faintly, in the distance, I could hear the approaching chopper. Nick had instructions from me to stay overhead until I flashed a torch, then he was to turn on his floods, and make a landing on Hamel’s lawn.

Coldwell said, “The current’s off.”

The moon, coming from behind a dense pack of cloud, cast light on the gates.

I saw a car being pushed down the road by four cops.

Coldwell and his men shoved open the gates and the four cops pushed the car onto the drive to the ranch house.

They had some hundred of yards to cover before they reached the vast expanse of lawn. There they stopped.

Coldwell’s men fanned out and moved into the shrubs, keeping away from the nakedness of the lawn.

I was puzzled by the car until suddenly the headlights went on: not ordinary headlights, but powerful beams, specially fitted to the car.

The beams lit up the front of the house.

Coldwell, using a bullhorn, began yelling to Pofferi to come out with his hands in the air. His voice, greatly magnified, seemed to hit the house like the blows of a sledgehammer.

Nothing happened.

Coldwell’s voice continued to hammer against the house. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my face.