1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (12 page)

I drew in a long deep breath.

“I might do, but this is a little sudden.”

He paused while he chewed some ham.

“Sure. Would a hundred thousand, including the furniture and fittings interest you?”

“For a hundred and thirty thousand, Harry, you have yourself a deal.”

He grinned widely and slapped me on the shoulder.

“You old horse thief! It's a deal. Man! How I love spending other people's money! When can they move in?”

“When I get the money, I move out.”

“That's fighting talk.” He produced a chequebook, scribbled and handed the cheque to me.

“Okay. So I move out at the end of the week.”

“This calls for a drink. What will you have?”

I shook my head, pushed back my chair and stood up.

“I have a magazine to produce, Harry. Tell your parents they can move in if they want to next Monday.” I patted his shoulder and walked away, leaving most of my lunch uneaten.

Back in the office, I told Jean about the deal.

“It's fantastic! A hundred and thirty thousand! No bother about getting rid of the furniture and I'll be shot of Eastlake!”

“I'm so glad,” she said, “but you will be homeless. You have only five days to move out.”

In my excitement to get all that money and to be rid of the house, I hadn't thought of that.

“I'll go to a hotel.”

“Do you want to live in the city?”

“I guess so. This commuting has been driving me crazy.”

“I'll find you a service apartment. That's no problem. If you will put everything you want to keep in one room, I'll arrange for someone to pack and deliver it to the apartment.”

I stared at her. If only she could be my wife!

“That's marvellous, Jean. Will you really do that?”

“Of course. That's what I'm paid for.” She smiled to take the curse off that. “I'll fix it,” and she left me.

I got away from the office soon after 18.00. As I was walking to my car, Frank Latimer came from his office building.

“Hi, Steve! What's this I hear . . . you leaving Eastlake?”

I knew I was going to get a lot of this so I made it short.

“That's right. Linda and I are parting. I don't want to keep the house.”

“I'm sorry.” He wagged his head. “When Harry told me, I couldn't believe it. Still, you have done a swell deal with him. His old man must be loaded to turn out that kind of money. We'll miss you. Come on over and have dinner with us.”

“I have packing to do . . . thanks all the same.”

“Well, because you're leaving Eastlake that doesn't mean we won't see you. Sally will be upset. Like me, she loves you two.”

“That's the way the cookie crumbles,” I said and got in my car.

How glad I would be to be rid of Eastlake! Every move, every whisper were known in seconds. At least, living in the city I would be out of the goldfish bowl.

I spent a depressing evening and half the night putting my personal things and Linda's things in the study. I was surprised they amounted to so little. Cissy had packed most of Linda's clothes. I had to pack mine. There were books, gramophone discs and a few knick-knacks but little else.

Finally, around midnight, I went to bed, but not to sleep.

I kept thinking of that reel of tape that had been stolen. I also kept thinking of Jean. She was really marvellous. All right, she had said that was what she was paid to do, but that didn't make her any less marvellous to me. What really kept me awake until the small hours was the knowledge that Harry Mitchell had yakked around that he was paying me one hundred and thirty thousand dollars for my house.

If there was a second blackmailer, and I felt in my bones there was, this news if it reached him/her would be like sweet music. I wondered too if Brenner had found out anything about Freda Hawes. Could she be the second blackmailer if there was to be one?

I thought of tomorrow. With luck I might have a word with Wally. I realised how much I was relying on him to get me clear of this jam. He must have got his information about the stealing from someone, and maybe this someone could point to Gordy's killer and get me off the hook.

Reaching the office the following morning, I told Jean I had put all my personal things in the study and she said she would take care of it. I gave her a duplicate key to the front door.

“I've asked around, Steve,” she went on. “There's a good furnished apartment on Eastern Avenue which I think you will like. Would you take a look at it lunch time?”

“As quick as that?”

She smiled.

“I hope you will like it.” She put a slip of paper on my desk. “Here's the address and the rent and the name of the agents. The rent comes a little high, but I think you'll agree it is worth it.”

“You have seen it?”

“I looked at it last night.”

I regarded her.

“But you said you had a date last night.”

“I can do two things at once. I was a little late, but I wanted you to be fixed up.” Then picking up the mail and before I could thank her, she went back to her office.

I had a quick lunch and then drove to Eastern Avenue: a good district, overlooking the park. The janitor, a large, smiling Negro who told me his name was Sam Washington (“No relation to the great Mr. George, Mr. Manson”) showed me the apartment. It couldn't have been better. It consisted of a large bedroom, a large sitting room and the rest, comfortably furnished.

I said I would take it.

“Yeah, Mr. Manson, you could do a lot worse.”

I returned to the office, thanked Jean and she said she would fix it with the agents.

Around 17.00 I telephoned the hospital and was again lucky to catch Stanstead.

“Can I see Wally?” I asked.

“Suppose we make it tomorrow morning, Steve? He has already seen his wife and also Lieutenant Goldstein. I think he has had enough for today.”

“This is really important, Henry. I promise I won't stay for more than ten minutes.”

“Well, all right, if it is that important. No longer than ten minutes.”

I told Jean I was seeing Wally.

“I'll get you some flowers and give him my love.”

I arrived at the hospital soon after 18.00, carrying a bouquet of violets. I ran into Stanstead who was leaving.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Better than I thought possible, but he still needs care. His eye will be all right. There is also a suggestion of amnesia. The police didn't seem satisfied.”

I smiled to myself. Shirley had got the message home.

I took the elevator to the third floor, found Wally's room, tapped and entered.

Wally, his head in bandages, one eye covered, lay in the bed. As I closed the door, I said, “Wally! Is it good to see you!”

“Hello, Steve.” His voice sounded depressingly feeble.

“Good of you to come.”

I put down the violets.

“From Jean . . . she sends her love.”

“Great girl.” His hands moved over the sheet.

“How do you feel?”

“Not so good.”

Looking at him I realised the truth of what Stanstead had said about Wally being too fat and too flabby.

“You're going to be all right, Wally. As soon as you can get on your feet you and Shirley will be off to Palm Beach.”

“Yes.” He didn't appear to be particularly pleased.

“Wally . . . I mustn't stay long. Stanstead said ten minutes, but this is important. Jean told me you have been researching the Welcome store and you have come up with three names . . . Lucilla Bower, Mabel Creeden and Sally Latimer. Who told you?”

His fat face was as expressionless as a hole in a wall.

“I don't understand.”

“Did you research the Welcome store?”

“No.”

I began to feel a chilly sensation.

“Think, Wally. How did Jean get those names unless from you?”

“I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Wally, please concentrate. This is vitally important to me to know the source of your information. I know you are always secretive about where you get your facts, but this time, because you and I are close friends, I ask you who told you these three women were stealing from the store.”

He lay there: a fat, broken lump and stared at me.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“What did you have in your briefcase that was stolen?”

His one eye closed and he moaned a little.

“The Hammond thing.”

“Nothing about the Welcome store?”

“I don't know a thing about that. I don't know even what you are saying.”

Leaning forward, my voice hard, I said, “Wally! Pull yourself together! Think! You have been working on this stealing! You found someone who talked. You got names! Wally! Who was this someone?”

Okay, I was getting worked up and I must have raised my voice for the door opened and a nurse came in.

“Your time is up, Mr. Manson,” she said in that flat, final voice nurses have.

“Wally!”

“I don't know anything,” he said and putting his hands to his bandaged head, he began to groan.

The nurse practically threw me out. I walked down the corridor, into the elevator and into the night.

I stood by my car. Wally had been my big hope. I had a feeling that a door was slowly shutting and I was trying to hold it open, but the force of the door as it closed was pushing me back and defeating me.

Was Wally really suffering from amnesia or had someone so badly frightened him he was lying to me . . . as Webber had lied to me?

Leaving my car, I crossed the road to a drug store and rang Jean. There was a delay, then she answered.

“Jean . . . it's Steve. I've just seen Wally. He says he hasn't researched the Welcome store. Did you keep a copy of his report you typed?”

A pause, then she said, “No.”

“But you're sure he did mention Lucilla Bower, Mabel Creeden and Sally Latimer?”

“I am quite sure. I did warn you, Steve, that Wally just won't give his informants away.”

“You said there were other names. Try to think, Jean. It's important.”

“I've already thought. I'm sorry, Steve. I can't remember any of the other names. His report was very brief. It said he had evidence that a number of women living at Eastlake had been stealing from the store. He then gave names. This was scribbled in his notebook. I typed it and gave him two copies.”

“His notebook?”

“That's right.”

“Maybe Shirley would have that.”

“Should I ask her?”

“No. I'll do it. Well, thanks Jean . . . see you tomorrow.”

I got in my car and drove over to Wally's home.

Shirley welcomed me. After talking about Wally and her delight about going to Palm Beach, I said, “Shirley, Wally had notebooks. I need them. Do you know where they are?”

“Why sure. Mr. Webber took them all when he came. He said Mr. Chandler wanted them. You ask him . . . he'll give them to you.”

“Herman Webber?” I stared at her.

“He was here just as I got back. He said Mr. Chandler wanted all Wally's notebooks.”

“I see. I'll talk to him.”

“You do that.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “I can't say I like Mr. Webber very much.”

“Neither do I,” I said and left her.

6

H
erman Webber was a big, heavily built man who looked every inch a cop. His face could have been carved out of granite. His small blue eyes probed. His thin lips remained in a hard, unsmiling line.

“Hello, Steve,” he said, not getting up from behind his desk. “Sit down. What's cooking?”

As soon as I had gone through the morning mail and had dictated to Jean, I had dropped everything and had driven over to Webber's office.

“Wally's notebooks,” I said, sitting down. “Shirley tells me you have them.”

“Yeah.”

I stared at him.

“What's the idea?”

“Playing it smart.” Webber pulled at his cigar, clenched between his teeth and released a cloud of smoke in my direction. “That's what I'm here for . . . to play it smart.”

“So?”

“That punk Goldstein has been questioning Wally. He wants to know who gave Wally the tip-off that Hammond has been padding the accounts. Wally always protects his informants. I know Wally keeps names in his notebooks so before Goldstein could get around to Shirley, I got around and I have the books.”

It sounded good, but too smooth to me.

“So Shirley tells Goldstein - as she told me - that you have the books. So Goldstein comes to you and what do you do?”

Webber blew smoke at me.

“Shirley is a cooperative girl. She won't tell Goldstein. Like I said: I've played it smart.”

“Fine.” I stared at him. “Wally works for me. I want those books.”

He nodded.

“If you want them, you can have them.” He flicked down a switch on his intercom. “Mavis? Get me Mitford's notebooks. Put them in a sack. Mr. Manson wants them.”

He looked at me. “Okay? Well, I guess you have work to do . . . me too.”

“The Gordy file,” I said. “I want it.”

His eyes turned a little sleepy.

“I told you . . . some nut stole it with other files.”

“Come on! Don't feed me that crap! I have reason to believe you didn't have a breakin. I want that file!”

“Yeah?” He was too much of a cop to betray any feelings. “What are you talking about?”

“I want that file. I believe you have it and I want it.”

“I told you, pal, it was stolen. I haven't got it.”

“Gordy's been murdered. Do you want me to tell Goldstein you had a breakin and Gordy's file was stolen? I either get the file or that's what I'll tell him.”

“Go ahead.” Webber tapped ash off his cigar. He looked very sure of himself. “Why should I care?”

“I'll tell you why. Goldstein will want to know why you didn't report the breakin and knowing Gordy has been murdered why you haven't reported the theft of his file. He must love you. He 'could stick it in and turn it.”

“You think so?” He leaned forward, his little eyes suddenly glaring. “And you could land yourself in much more trouble if you start shooting your mouth off to Goldstein!” His cop voice was like a punch in the face.

“Keep your snout out of this. I'm telling you!” He waved to the door. “Piss off! I've work to do!”