1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (18 page)

I saw Hammer was busy writing in his notebook.

Goldstein, looking thoughtful, was stroking his hooked nose.

“What did you do, Mr. Manson, after she left you at nine-forty?”

Watch it, I told myself. I had to keep Brenner out of this.

“I went to the Half Moon bar,” I said. “I arrived there just after ten.”

“Why did you go there?”

“Looking for information. Freda Hawes mentioned that she used the bar. I was looking for background material. I talked to the barman, but she was either lying or he wasn't passing out information. I got nothing from him so I came back here.”

He studied me, then nodded.

“You didn't think to tell me this when I arrived, Mr. Manson.”

“You didn't give me much chance, did you?”

Again he studied me, then said, “You gave her fifteen hundred dollars for this information . . . in cash?”

“Yes. She put the money in her handbag. She was also carrying a Pan-Am overnight bag.”

“When she was found, she had no handbag . . . no overnight bag.”

“If you could find the film, Lieutenant, it could solve your problems.”

“That's right.” He rubbed his hooked nose and then got to his feet. He started to move to the door. Sergeant Hammer picked up the box of cartridges and started after him. Goldstein paused and stared at me. “Mr. Manson, it would help this investigation if you were frank with me. Was Gordy blackmailing you?”

“Suppose you wait until you get that film, Lieutenant?” I said. “If he was blackmailing me, I wasn't the only one.”

“You will be seeing me again, Mr. Manson,” he said and they went away.

I waited until I heard the elevator descend, then I sat in a chair, feeling shaky.

Goldstein hadn't been talking for the sake of hearing his own voice. He had said the gun that had killed Freda was the gun issued to me by Borg. He, like Brenner, had identified the cartridge case. Jean had told me she had dumped the gun in a sack of refuse. She and I had been satisfied the gun was lost, but it couldn't have been. For some time now I had had the feeling that someone was breathing down my neck. Suppose that someone had followed me to Jean's place, then “followed her, seen where she had dumped the gun and as soon as she had gone, had collected it? This could be the only explanation. Someone on the second film who was desperate to get that film. So desperate, he/she had been watching Freda. Seeing her with the Pan-Am bag, he/she had decided she had the second film in the bag, shot her with the same ruthlessness as Gordy had been shot: using my gun.

I felt cold sweat on my face as I thought of this. It seemed more than likely that the killer was the one who had broken in and taken the reel of tape that would hook me to Gordy's killing. It also pointed to him as the man who had hit me over the head and taken the first film.

My mind turned to Creeden. He fitted my picture of a ruthless killer. I looked at my watch. The time was five minutes to midnight. I knew the Creedens kept late hours.

Crossing to the telephone, I called his number.

His wife, Mabel, answered.

“Hello, Mabel, this is Steve Manson,” I said. “Sorry to call so late. Is Mark there?”

“Mark is down town somewhere,” she told me. “He should be back any moment now. He had a business dinner. I can't think what's keeping him.”

“I just wanted a word. I'll call him tomorrow.”

“Steve . . . I'm so sorry about Linda.”

I had to listen to ten minutes of her yakking, but finally cut her short.

“Well, do come and see us, Steve.” She gave her high pitched laugh. “After all, single men are always in demand.”

I said I would and hung up.

It didn't mean much, but at least, Creeden had been in the city around the time Freda was shot.

I did some more thinking without getting anywhere, then seeing it was now fifteen after midnight, I remembered Brenner telling me he wouldn't telephone after midnight if he had proof that I was being tailed. So this meant a couple of trained cops were planted outside my building.

I was sure, I told myself, that the second film held the key to all this, but if I was now going to be tailed how was I going to get it, hire a projector and see the film without two cops busting in?

Going to my bank wouldn't be suspicious. I'd take my briefcase with me. I remembered I was going to talk to Ernie about investments. When I left .him, I would go down to the vault and get the film. It would be unlikely my tails would know about the vault.

Freddie Dunmore had a photographic studio. He did a lot of artwork for me. That too wouldn't be suspicious. He would have a 16 mm projector. I could talk him into letting me have his projection room for ten minutes.

Thinking about this, I decided it was the only way, but remembering Gordy's killing and now Freda's killing, I would start the day with the gun I had forgotten to give Max.

It was now pushing 01.00. I went into the bedroom and turned down the bed. I took a quick shower, got into my pyjamas and climbed into the strange bed. I realised as I lay there, with the bedside lamp making shadows that after all I did miss my own home. This was something I had to get used to.

If only Jean was by my side, I thought, stretching out in the king-size bed, what a difference all this would make! I wondered about the man she had chosen and I felt a pang of jealousy. Who knows? I told myself, he might get bored with her or she with him and then, maybe I would still stand a chance. As I snapped off the light, I told myself that she was the one woman who meant anything to me. I lay in the darkness and thought of her. Then I remembered something my father told me when I was a kid. My father and I had got along fine together. He was a gentle, understanding man but he hadn't been wonderfully successful. He had said, “Look, Steve, here's something to think about. If you ever really want something, never let go. Hang on and keep hanging on and sooner or later if you hang on long enough you'll get it.” He had smiled and ruffled my hair. “The trouble with me is I've really never wanted anything bad enough.”

Well, I wanted Jean. Remembering my father's words, I decided to hang on. With that thought in my mind, I slipped into sleep.

Dreams are strange things. I kept dreaming that I wasn't alone. I dreamed a shadowy figure was looking down at me as I slept. This figure was moving around me: dark, with no outline: neither man nor woman: just a silent, sinister figure and I knew, in my dream, this shadowy figure meant me harm.

I woke with a start. All I could hear was the traffic passing below. I found I was sweating. Then I heard the elevator descend and I looked at the lighted face of the bedside clock. It was 03.40.

I turned over, pulling the bedclothes around my shoulders.

But I didn't sleep anymore that night.

***

On my way to my office the following morning, I kept looking in my driving mirror, but the traffic was too heavy to spot a tail.

Knowing that I was now being watched gave me an uneasy feeling. I told myself that as soon as I had dealt with the mail, I would leave Jean to take care of the office and go over to the bank for the film. With any luck, before lunchtime I would know who was on the film.

But it wasn't to be. When I walked into the office where Judy was already at work, she swung around in her typing-chair.

“Morning, Mr. Manson. Jean called. She's sick.”

I came to an abrupt standstill.

“Isn't she coming in?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Manson. She's in bed. Something she ate last night.”

“Is she bad?”

Judy nodded.

“I think so, but she says she'll be okay tomorrow.”

I realised it would now be impossible for me to leave the office until 18.00. If Chandler should call and found both Jean and myself absent there could be trouble.

“I've opened the mail, Mr. Manson, and Miss Shelley from Secretarial Services is already here for dictation,” Judy said.

“Fine . . . thanks.”

Somehow I got through the morning. It was just as well I hadn't taken a chance and had gone to the bank for Chandler came through soon after 11.00. He thought it was time we began to research Senator Linsky. When I told him Max Berry was already working on it, he was pleased.

Judy got me a sandwich lunch. I told her to give me a direct line and go for her own lunch. That left me alone in the office. She hadn't been gone more than ten minutes when the telephone bell rang. I heard coins dropping into the box, then Brenner came on the line.

“Listen, Manson,” he said, “you're being tailed. Don't underestimate these two. They know their job, so watch it.”

“Give me a description of them,” I said. “I guessed as you didn't call last night I was being tailed, but I haven't spotted them. It'd be a help to know their car and what they look like.”

“Dark blue Mustang XP 55001,” Brenner told me.

“Taylor is tall, thin with dark crew cut, wears sports clothes. O'Hara is short, thickset, red hair, wears dark clothes and a dark blue hat, but it's my bet you won't spot either of them: they are professionals.” A pause, then he asked, “Have you looked at that film yet?”

“I can't until tonight.”

“You'll have to tell me about it. I'm not taking the chance of being seen with you. You know you're in trouble? I thought you told me that gun was lost.”

“I thought so too. It was dumped in a sack of rubbish. Someone must have seen it dumped and collected it.”

Brenner grunted.

“Goldstein's working on it. From tomorrow, your apartment phone is going to be tapped.”

I stiffened.

“Is this line clean?”

“He can't do anything about that. He's too scared of Chandler to tap anything belonging to him.”

“He hasn't a case against me, has he?” I said, feeling my hands turning damp.

“Not yet, but he's got his teeth into you and he'll need shaking off. Take a look at that film and I'll call you this time tomorrow,” and he hung up.

I got up and went to the window and looked down on the busy street some eight storeys below. It took me five minutes watching before I spotted Taylor. Without Brenner's description he would have been an anonymous man, but there he was, propping up a fire hydrant while he read a newspaper. I studied him, made sure I would recognise him anywhere, then looked around for his buddy, but O'Hara was not to be seen. He was probably covering the lobby.

Then the telephone bell started up and I was back in the business of producing the magazine.

Around 14.15, I called Jean's apartment.

When she answered, her voice rather far away, I said, “I'm sorry about this, Jean. How do you feel now?”

“I'm recovering. I swear I'll never eat a clam again as long as I live. How are you getting on?”

I told her Judy had everything organised.

“Do you feel like a visit?” I went on. “I could come around after six and bring you something.”

“Thank you. It's kind of you but my tummy just couldn't face any visitors.”

I felt a pang of disappointment.

“I can imagine.” A pause, then I said, “Jean, you remember dumping something in a sack of rubbish?”

“Yes.”

“Someone must have followed you and found it.”

I heard her catch her breath.

“Not now! This line goes through the switchboard. I'll see you tomorrow,” and she hung up.

I sat staring at the telephone for a long moment, then replaced the receiver. As I did so there came a tap on my door and Max Berry came in.

From then on until after 17.00, he and I worked on the material he had dug up on Senator Linsky. This was sensational stuff and I told him he had done a fine job. He grinned and said he would now get the article written.

Because of the time I had spent with him, I found I had more work left on my desk than I had bargained for. I was still hard at it when Judy looked in to ask if it was all right for her to go home. I looked at my watch and saw it was 18.30.

“Sure. I've talked with Jean. She thinks she'll be in tomorrow. Thanks for all you've done, Judy.”

She looked happy.

“Have you nearly finished, Mr. Manson?”

I had still some printers' proofs to go through.

“About an hour.” I got up and locked the office door after her, then I went back to my desk and got down to work again.

It was after 19.00 before I had finished. I called Freddie Dunmore at the photographic studio.

“You just caught me, Steve,” he said. “I'm in a rush. My wife's throwing a goddamn party and I swore by my back teeth I'd be there on time. What's cooking?”

“I want the use of a 16 mm projector, Freddie.”

“No problem. I'll have it sent over to you tomorrow morning. How's that?”

“I want it tonight.”

He groaned.

“Well, okay. I'll leave it with . . .”

“I also want to borrow your projection room tonight,” I broke in.

The magazine account with Dunmore was substantial.

He was in no position to refuse me.

“God help me! Okay. I'll call Betty . . . she'll kill me.”

“Can't you leave the key somewhere? I could be late. I'll run off the film, lock up and return the key. How's that?”

“Can you handle a projector?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, okay. For Pete's sake, don't forget to lock up. There's a lot of expensive equipment here I wouldn't want to lose.”

“Where do I find the key?”

“On the ledge above the door. It's my spare. God! I'm already twenty minutes late! See you, Steve,” and he hung up.

Now I had to lose those two cops. Remembering Brenner's warning, I decided not to rush it. I had most of the night ahead of me.

As I started to the door, I paused. Two people had been killed because of the film I was going to collect. I could make a third. I went to the closet and got out the gun that Max Berry hadn't taken away. I loaded it, put on the holster, adjusted my jacket, and turned off the lights. I locked up the office, then carrying my briefcase, I took the elevator to the lobby.

A short, thickset man with red hair, wearing a dark blue hat was examining the indicator board. He didn't look in my direction. He was a pro all right. Even when I paused on the street and glanced back, he was still examining the board.