1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (2 page)

“Morning, Steve,” she said, smiling at me. “Mr. Chandler wants you. 'As soon as he comes in, I want him.' His very words.”

“Did he say why?”

“It's all right. I know by his voice. No trouble.”

I looked at my watch. It was 09.08.

“Doesn't he ever sleep?”

She laughed.

“Not often . . . he's waiting.”

So I went down to my car and drove over to the Chandler building.

His secretary, a middle-aged woman with eyes like the points of ice picks waved me to his office door.

“Mr. Chandler is expecting you, Mr. Manson.”

Chandler was behind his big desk, reading his mail. He looked up as I came in, rested his bulk back in his executive chair and waved me to the visitor's chair.

“Steve, you've done a swell job. I've just read the proofs about Schultz. I think we've got this sonofabitch on the hot seat. It's well done.”

I sat down.

“I could also be on the hot seat, Mr. Chandler.”

He grinned.

“Sure . . . that's what I want to talk to you about. From now on, you're going to be a marked man. The cops will be told to hate you. They're scared of me, but not of you. I'm willing to bet Schultz will resign in a few weeks, but before he goes, he'll try to hit back at you. I want to take care of this.” He paused to study me. “Have you any personal problems?”

“Who hasn't?” I said. “Yes, I have personal problems.”

He nodded.

“Nothing worse than money?”

“No.”

“Sure? Level with me, Steve. You have done a damn fine job with my magazine. I'm on your side.”

“It's just money.”

“That's what I thought. That lovely wife of yours is running you into debt, isn't she?”

“I'm running myself into debt, Mr. Chandler.”

“That's right. People these days overspend. They live beyond their means. Their wives compete with the other wives and it costs. Don't imagine I don't know the problem although it doesn't nor ever will happen to me. That article you wrote rates a bonus.” He flicked a cheque across his desk. “Fix your debts, and from now on control your wife. She's a beauty, but no woman should be allowed to run wild.”

I picked up the cheque. It was for $10,000. “Thank you, Mr. Chandler.”

“This mustn't happen again. Remember what I said: goldfish have no hiding place and you're living in a goldfish bowl. I'm bailing you out, giving you a new start, but if you can't control the situation from now on, you're not the man for me.”

We looked at each other.

“I understand.”

I drove to the bank and paid in the cheque. I talked to Ernie Mayhew, my bank manager. This cheque would clear my overdraft, take care of my debts and leave me with a decent credit balance. I left the bank, feeling like a man who has shifted a ton of cement off his back.

Although I had been determined to talk to Linda about our finances, we had stayed so late with the Mitchells, the opportunity didn't arise. We were both slightly drunk on our return and we flopped into bed. I had tried to make love, but she had moved away, muttering, “Oh, for God's sake . . . not now.” So we had drifted off to sleep and she was still sleeping when I got up, made myself coffee and she was still sleeping when I left for the office.

The morning was spent putting the magazine to bed. I decided that because of the attack on the Chief of Police I would increase the printing order by 15,000 copies.

After a desk lunch, I settled down to plan the next issue.

While I was planning, the thought that I would have to talk to Linda tonight kept creeping into my mind.

This mustn't happen again. I'm bailing you out. If you can't control the situation from now on, you're not the man for me.

I recognised this as a warning and I knew Chandler always meant what he said. So, tonight, I had to talk straight to Linda and she would have to accept the fact that we could not go on living at our present standards.

The coming battle - and it was going to be a battle - with Linda made creative thinking impossible. I shoved aside my chair, got up and began to move around my big office. I could hear the faint clack of Jean's typewriter. I also could hear Wally Mitford's voice as he dictated into a Grundig. I looked at my desk clock. The time was 16.15. I had two hours yet before I could go home and talk to Linda.

I lit a cigarette and moved to the big window that gave me a view of the city. Smog made it necessary for the cars to turn on their headlights. I looked across at the Chandler building. The penthouse, where Chandler worked, was a blaze of lights.

The buzzer sounded. I walked over and flicked down a switch.

“There is a Mr. Gordy here, Mr. Manson,” Jean told me.

“He would like to see you.”

Gordy? The name rang no bell.

“What does he want?”

There was a pause, then Jean said, her voice sounding a little troubled, “He says it is personal and confidential.”

“Send him in in three minutes.”

This would give me time to put a tape on the recorder, switch on the mike, settle myself behind my desk and light another cigarette.

Jean opened my door and stood aside as a tall, thin man, wearing a well-worn, but neatly pressed suit, came into my office. He was around forty years of age, balding with a broad forehead, tapering down to narrow jaws, a thin nose, deep-set eyes and an almost lipless mouth.

I stood up to shake hands. His hand felt dry and hard.

“Mr. Gordy?”

“That's right. Jesse Gordy.” He smiled and showed small yellow teeth. “You wouldn't know me, Mr. Manson, but, of course, I know you.”

I waved him to a chair.

“Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” He settled himself in the chair, took out a pack of Camels and lit up. There was something about his movements, his expression, his arrogant, confident ease that began to bother me.

“Was there something?” I moved some papers to give him the hint I hadn't time to waste.

“I think I have information for you, Mr. Manson that would make an interesting article.” He again revealed his yellow teeth in a tight smile. “I have been reading your magazine: quite first class: quite the thing this city needs.”

“I'm glad you think so, Mr. Gordy. What is this information?”

“First, let me introduce myself. I am the manager of the Welcome Self-service store on the Eastlake estate. I don't believe you come to the store, but your wife shops with us I am happy to say.” Again the lips lifted, again I saw the small yellow teeth: they began to make me think of a rat.

“Every lady living at Eastlake shops with us.”

I had a growing feeling that there was something menacing behind this smooth talk and I was careful to look interested, to nod encouragingly and to wait.

“Mr. Manson, you have created a splendid, vigorous magazine that attacks dishonest people. It is a fine, much needed endeavour,” Gordy said. “I have read all the issues and I look forward to reading the next.” He leaned forward to tap ash off his cigarette into my glass ashtray. “I'm here, Mr. Manson, to offer you information concerning petty theft in my store. It is called petty theft, but over a year, the amount of stealing comes to some $80,000.”

I stared at him.

“You mean people living on the estate steal $80,000 a year from your store?”

He nodded.

“That is correct. I don't know why it is, but people do steal: even well-off people. It is an oddity that, so far, hasn't been explained. A servant working on the estate will buy ten dollars' worth of goods and will steal two packs of cigarettes. A wealthy lady will buy a hundred dollars' worth of goods and yet will steal an expensive bottle of perfume.”

This began to interest me. If what this man was telling me was true I could write an explosive article which Chandler would love. '

“You surprise me, Mr. Gordy,” I said. “You have proof?”

“Of course.”

“What proof have you?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another as he smiled at me.

“In spite of the heavy cost, my directors decided to install camera scanners that cover the whole store. The cameras began to operate two weeks ago. My directors consulted the Chief of Police who expressed his willingness to prosecute on the evidence the film produced, providing the film was convincing.” He relaxed back in his chair. “The film I now have, Mr. Manson, is so convincing, I hesitate to hand it over to Captain Schultz. I felt I should first consult you and a number of husbands whose wives shop in my store.”

I felt a sudden rush of cold blood up my spine.

“I'm not following you, Mr. Gordy,” I said and heard my voice was husky. “Just what do you mean?”

“Mr. Manson, please don't let us waste time. Your time is precious and so is mine.” He produced from his pocket an envelope and flicked it on to my desk. “Look at this. It is a blow-up from a frame of twenty feet of film. I suggest it is enough proof, apart from the film, to tell you that Mrs. Manson has been naughty.”

I picked up the envelope and drew from it a glossy photograph. It showed Linda, looking furtive, putting a bottle of Chanel No. 5 into her handbag.

I sat still, like a stone man, staring at the photograph.

“Of course she isn't the only one,” Gordy said gently.

“So many ladies of Eastlake do this kind of thing. The film is very revealing. Captain Schultz would have no difficulty in prosecuting. Your nice, beautiful wife, Mr. Manson, could even go to prison.”

Slowly, I put the photograph down on my desk.

Gordy got to his feet.

“This is, of course, a shock to you,” he said, showing his yellow teeth. “You will need time to think about it and even discuss it with Mrs. Manson. We could arrange this sad affair. Before I give Captain Schultz this revealing cassette of film I could snip out your wife's participation. I suggest $20,000 and you get the film. It is not a lot of money considering your success. May I suggest you come and see me tomorrow night with cash. I have a small, modest house not so far from your beautiful house. No. 189 Eastlake.”

He leaned forward, staring at me, his eyes like chips of ice, his yellow teeth now revealed in a snarl. “Tomorrow night, Mr. Manson . . . cash please,” and he walked out of my office while I sat there, staring at Linda's beautiful face, seeing her doing this mean, mean thing and knowing I would have to save her from prosecution.

But how?

I had always told myself that if ever anyone tried to blackmail me, I would go immediately to the police: the only way of dealing with a situation like that. But my attack on Schultz would make this impossible for me to go to him.

He would certainly stamp on Gordy, but he would have no mercy on Linda unless . . .

Could I withdraw the article? I still had over a week before the printing run. I had a lot of material I could substitute but Chandler had okayed the article. He had given me a bonus of $10,000, clearing my debts, for creating the article. Could I now persuade him that our facts might not stand up and we could get landed with a hell of a libel suit?

There was a tap on my door and Wally Mitford came in.

“Have you time to look at this draft about the new High school building, Steve?”

I wanted to be alone to think and it was an effort to say, “Sure. Sit down.”

Wally took a chair and began spreading papers on my desk. I slid the photo of Linda into my desk drawer and turned off the tape recorder.

Wally was tubby and amiable looking, around forty years of age. He had a receding hairline, eyes almost hidden behind thick-lensed glasses and the jaw of a bulldog. He was the best research reporter I knew and I have met a lot of them.

We discussed the new High School which was being built by a contractor employed by the City Hall. Wally thought the estimate was far too high. He had inquired around and had discovered at least three other contractors who had put in a much lower bid.

“It's Hammond,” he said. “He's getting a big rake off. We could start trouble for him. What do you think?”

“See what Webber can dig up about him.”

Webber was head of Chandler's detective agency.

“Okay.” Wally made a note. “Are you all right, Steve? You look as if you're sickening for the flu.”

“Nothing more than a headache.” I paused, then said, “That article about Schultz. Do you think we should run it?”

“Run it?” He gaped at me. “Are you fooling?”

“I've been thinking about it. It could land us in a lot of trouble. I mean the cops will really turn sour and it could mean personal trouble for us all.”

“We talked that out when we planned the article, didn't we?” Wally grinned. “You planned it and I wrote it: so you and I are the boys out on a limb. What have we to worry about? What can the cops do to us? I, like you, behave myself. . . so what?” He regarded me. “Are you getting cold feet, Steve? Have you a secret past?” His wide grin did nothing for me. “Besides the boss has given us the green light. If there is any trouble he takes care of it and that sonofabitch Schultz has it coming.”

“Yes. Okay. You talk to Webber and see what you can dig up about Hammond.”

He gave me a thoughtful stare, gathered up his papers and started for the door.

“Take it easy tonight, Steve. Go to bed early.”

When he had gone, I ran off the tape and put the cassette in my pocket. I put the photograph in my briefcase, then I went into Jean's office.

“I'm going home, Jean. I've got a chill or something. Wally will be here if anything turns up.”

She looked with concern at me.

“Have you any Aspros at home?”

“Sure. I'll be fine tomorrow,” and I went out into the corridor. Wally's office door was open. I looked in.

“I'm going home, Wally. If there's trouble, call me.”

“There won't be. Have an early night.”

I hesitated, but I had to know.

“Does Shirley shop at the Welcome stores?”

Shirley was Wally's nice, practical wife.

“That den of thieves?” Wally shook his head. “I reckon they are more than fifteen percent ahead of any other store in the district. It's just for the rich and the snobs. We could do an exposure on them, Steve. We could cut them down to size.”

“It's a thought. Well, see you tomorrow,” and I took the elevator down to the street level. I got in my car, started the motor and stared bleakly through the windshield.