1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (15 page)

I stared at her.

“Don't give me that crap! The police would have looked there!”

She shook her head.

“Jesse was smart. There's a false bottom. He had a cabinet maker fix it. There's a hidden catch under the desk. That's where it is.”

I left her, took a shower and changed into dark casuals.

It was worth a try.

The time was just after midnight.

I armed myself with a small powerful flashlight and a heavy screwdriver. I returned to the living room. She was sleeping. She had dropped her glass and there was a small puddle of gin and water by her.

I left her, and headed for Gordy's house.

7

I
approached Gordy's house with stealth, pausing every twenty yards to listen and peer into the gloom. No one was walking his dog. I passed two houses still emitting the sound of television. I was tense, wondering if I was going to walk into a cop. When I was in sight of the house, I stepped off the road and got behind a tree. I watched and waited.

There were no signs of life. I didn't hurry. I had plenty of time. After some fifteen minutes, I began to assure myself that there was no cop around so I moved out of my cover and cautiously reached the house. There was no light showing. Was there a cop sitting in the living room in the dark? Moving silently, I stepped onto the small grass lawn and made my way around to the back of the house. Here, I paused and surveyed the scene: there was nothing to survey, so nerving myself, I moved up to the back door. It was locked of course. The police wouldn't have left it unlocked that was why I had brought the screwdriver.

A quick look at the lock in the light of my flash showed me it was flimsy. I inserted the screwdriver and levered gently. After a little more pressure the lock sprang and the door opened. There had been a minimum of noise. I didn't move into the darkness, but stood, listening. I only heard the thump of my heartbeats. I turned on my flash, found I was in a small kitchen, entered and closed the door. I eased open the kitchen door, paused to listen again, then sent the beam of my flash down the short corridor which ended at the front door. I remembered the living room lay to my left.

I moved silently down the corridor until I reached the living room door which was closed. I hesitated. If a cop was sitting in there, waiting, I would be in real trouble. As I stood, sweating, I told myself I would be in more trouble if I didn't get the film.

I turned the handle and opened the door. Faint moonlight came through the big window. I looked around. No one sprang at me. No bawling cop voice challenged me. I moved into the room, closing the door and fumbled my way to the window. I pulled the flimsy curtains. I couldn't risk turning on the electric light.

I located the desk. It stood in a corner. I crossed to it, knelt and examined the underneath in the light of my flash.

It took me several seconds to find a tiny wooden knob. If Freda hadn't told me, I would have missed it.

I pulled open the bottom drawer which was full of account books and old cheque stubs. I scooped these onto the floor, then reaching under the desk, I pressed the knob.

The bottom of the drawer moved back four inches and there lying in the hollow was a carton of 16 mm film.

I knelt there, staring at it, scarcely believing my eyes, then I snatched it up and put it on the desk. I pressed the knob again, closing the partition, then carefully returned the junk I had spilled on the floor.

Picking up the carton, I moved fast to the door and into the corridor.

Maybe he had been in the house all the time or maybe he had been hiding in the garden and had followed me in.

That's something I didn't discover.

As I reached the back door, clutching the carton, I heard a tiny rustle behind me. As I was turning, much too late, a light seemed to explode inside my head and I was down on hands and knees. There was a vague flicker of light, then the sound of running feet.

I remained still, my head trying to burst, then with an effort I supported myself against the wall, my eyes closed, while my head screamed at me. After same moments the screaming died down and I felt the back of my head. There was a small bump. The blow hadn't been vicious, but bad enough.

I groped around on the floor, found my flashlight and turned it on. I made sure the carton of film had gone. Then with a feeling of sick despair, I tottered out into the warm night air.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to get to the end of East Avenue. I kept losing my balance like a drunk and twice I had to sit on the grass verge, then the night air or something cleared my throbbing head and I was able to walk straight and I walked straight into Mark Creeden and his dog.

“Well, for God's sake!” he exploded. “Are you working out another problem?”

“That's it.” My voice was husky. “Always problems.”

He laughed.

“You're right. I have a problem with this pooch. Look at the time! At my age . . . dog walking after midnight.”

I tried to see his face but it was too dark. Was this the man who had killed Gordy? Was this the man who had just hit me over the head and had taken the film?

“I hear you're leaving Eastlake, Manson. I'm sorry. I'm sorry too about the break-up.”

“Thank you.” My head was throbbing badly now. I was in no mood for chit-chat. “Well, I'll get along.”

I started off again and he fell into step.

“May as well go back myself.”

We walked in silence for some yards, then he said, “Do you think we're going to be blackmailed again, Manson?”

“I don't know.”

“Someone must have this goddamn film.”

If you haven't, I thought.

“Yes.”

A long pause as we walked side by side.

“Haven't you, with your connections, some way of finding it?”

“Haven't you?”

“I guess I would have to be careful, but you, running a magazine, could make inquiries.”

Had he got the film in his pocket? Was he bluffing me?

“I'm trying.”

“It affects both you and me, Manson. Do more than try. If Goldstein finds the film, we're both in serious trouble. I've already lied to him. Tomorrow, it'll be your turn.”

We had now reached my house.

“I understand Mitchell's parents are taking over your house,” Creeden said as I opened the gate.

“That's right.”

“We should keep in touch. Where are you going to live?”

“I'm looking around. When I find some place, I'll telephone you.” My head was giving me hell. All I wanted now was to get away from him.

“Do that. Try for the film and watch Goldstein.”

“Sure.”

I walked up the drive, leaving him standing by the gate, his spaniel by him.

As I unlocked the front door, I remembered I had Freda Hawes in my living room. I entered silently, shut and locked the door, then looked into the living room. She was still there, still asleep.

I went into the kitchen, broke open a tray of ice cubes, collected a number in a towel and applied them to the bump on my head. After a while, the raging headache diminished. I looked at my watch. The time was 01.10. I was now able to think. An odd time for a man as rich as Creeden to walk his dog. Had it been Creeden? I hoped it was for I was sure Creeden would destroy the film. But was it Creeden?

I heard sounds from the living room.

“Who's there?” Freda's voice was shrill.

“It’s me.”

I braced myself, then dropping the ice cubes in the sink, I walked into the living room.

She was sitting straight up in the chair, her eyes pools of terror, but when she saw me, she relaxed.

“Hell! You scared the pants right off me!” she said.

“Remember? You're not wearing pants.” I went to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a shot of scotch. “You want a drink?”

“No.”

This startled me. I looked at her. She had become sober and there was a hard expression on her face that should have warned me.

“You got it, huh? Just like I said?” She leaned forward, staring at me. “So now you give me the money, huh?”

I drank half the whisky and then put down the glass. I was still feeling pretty shaky, but I was alert enough to know I had yet another problem on my hands.

I came over and sat close to her.

“I went over there and got the film,” I said.

She nodded.

“So I get the money, huh?”

“Are you sober enough to get to your feet?”

She stared at me. The drunken peer had gone.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Get to your feet and come here.”

She stood up and moved to me.

“Give me your hand.”

“What's this, buster?”

“Give me your hand.”

She held out her hand and I took it, then guided it to the back of my head.

“Feel, but carefully.”

Her fingers crossed over the growing egg on the back of my head, then she shoved my head forward and peered. She hurt, but I let her look. She drew in a hissing breath and moved away from me.

“What's that?”

“I got the film, but someone was there and he hit me solid. He now has the film.”

She flew into a rage that shocked me. Standing over me she screamed filth.

“Boy scout's honour!” she finally yelled. “I knew it! You're lying! You give me the money! Hear me? Fifteen hundred! I'm going to have it!”

Her screaming voice could have been heard halfway down the avenue. I couldn't believe any woman could make such an uproar. I suddenly realised that someone in this quiet avenue might be calling the police.

Reaching forward, I jabbed my thumb into her tummy, hard. Her screaming voice cut as if I had snapped off a radio programme. She staggered back, her mouth as big as a fire bucket, over-balanced and sat down on the floor with a spine-jarring thud.

“Do you want the cops here, you stupid bitch?” I said.

She held her tummy and stared up at me.

“If they come here, you're in trouble. Get up, sit down and shut up!”

She sat there, trying to get her breath. Finally, as I made no move to help her, she crawled to her feet, her hands cupping her buttocks.

“You bastard! You've broken my spine!” But her voice was low. She staggered to a chair and sank into it, moaning.

I lit a cigarette and waited. She took some minutes to start thinking again.

“You wouldn't kid me?” she asked finally. “Someone took the film?”

“Do you imagine I would knock myself on the head?”

She brooded about this, then nodded.

“Well, the creep has the little suckers, but he hasn't got the big one.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are two films. The one you lost isn't worth much. The other one could be worth a million bucks.” She stared thoughtfully at me. “Suppose you and me work together, buster? You take a quarter. I take the rest. How's about it?”

At that moment the front door bell rang.

I grabbed hold of Freda's arm, jerked her to her feet and rushed her into my bedroom.

“Stay still and quiet!” I said, then shutting the door I went to the front door and opened it as the bell rang again.

In Eastlake you get cop service. Someone had telephoned and within minutes the cops had arrived.

Standing on my doorstep was a big, bulky cop and by the gate was a younger, less bulky cop.

“What's going on?” The big cop regarded me, his hand fingering his pistol holster. I recognised him.

“Hello there, Flynn. What do you mean?”

He stared stonily at me.

“We had a call, Mr. Manson. A woman screaming.”

“Come in,” I said. “I'm sorry. My goddamn radio is on the blink. I was listening to the late night horror.”

He moved and entered the living room.

“I was in my bedroom with the volume turned up and the radio went haywire. The sound nearly knocked my ears off.” I forced a grin. “Sorry if I've caused a disturbance.”

He regarded me, his little eyes suspicious.

“I was told a woman was in trouble.”

“There's no woman here.”

“Your radio, huh?”

“That's right. I'll get it fixed tomorrow.”

He looked at the set and I knew he was itching to turn it on, but he also knew I was the editor of
The Voice of the People
.

“Okay,” he said. “You caused an alarm, Mr. Manson.”

“It alarmed me, too.”

“A horror programme, huh?”

He could check this, but there was no other way out.

“That's it.”

He nodded.

“Pretty late to listen to the radio, Mr. Manson.”

“Is there a law against it?” I stared him eyeball to eyeball and he decided I was a heavyweight against his lightweight.

“Well, it's plenty late.”

He looked around the lounge, saw the puddle of gin and water, saw my half-finished drink, saw Freda's empty glass.

This cop was nobody's fool.

“I'm sleeping badly,” I said.

He nodded, then made for the front door.

“And thanks, Sergeant, for coming so quickly,” I said.

He gave me a cold, cop stare as he said, “That's my job.”

I watched him walk down the drive, join the other cop, watched him pause and talk. They got in their car.

Freda came out of my bedroom.

“You played that smooth, buster,” she said. “I'm beginning to respect you.”

“As if you could respect anyone. You wouldn't know the meaning of the word. Go back in there.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Getting that feeling, buster? Sure, the bedroom is my territory.”

She went into the bedroom. I turned off the lights in the sitting room, then lifted the heavy curtains aside and saw the police car was still there. After some minutes it drove away.

My head still throbbed, but not badly enough to prevent me from thinking. Two films! The film that had been stolen would reveal those stupid women - like Linda - stealing, but the second film could and probably did show someone like Mabel Creeden stealing and there was the big money.

There too was the reason for murder: why Gordy had been shot. Thinking about it, as I stood in the darkness, by the window, I realised the second film - worth a million dollars in blackmail money - could be more important now to me than the film I had lost. It would nail the killer.