1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (3 page)

What was I to do? Twenty thousand dollars by tomorrow night or this film would go to Schultz. I could imagine the police arresting Linda. I could imagine the sensation and how the press would love it. Chandler would immediately give me the gate. I thought of all our neighbours: the yak, the head wagging and for the first time since I married Linda, I was thankful we had no children.

But there must be a way out.

I had cleared my overdraft. Would Ernie Mayhew advance the $20,000? That, after brief consideration, I knew was a pipe dream. He might advance me $5,000 if I thought up some reasonable excuse. But how to raise the rest of the money? I thought of Lu Meir who lent money and who I was planning to attack. Max Berry, my other researcher, had already drafted a blueprint. We were going to attack Meir on his 60% interest loans and Max had details about Meir's collectors: thugs who beat-up those unfortunates who couldn't pay this exorbitant interest.

Maybe if I killed the article, Meir would lend me the money at reasonable rates, but then I remembered Chandler had already seen Max's first draft and had approved it.

I shifted the gear stick to drive and headed for home.

***

Once out of the city and through the smog belt, the evening sun was hot and the air clear. I didn't expect to find Linda at home and I wasn't disappointed. The garage doors were open and the Austin Cooper not there. I drove my car into the garage, looked at my watch — the time was just after 18.00 - then unlocked the door from the garage into the house and went to my study. I wound the tape onto my recorder, put the photograph in my desk drawer, then went into Linda's dressing-room. It took me only a few minutes to find the bottle of Chanel No. 5. I then opened her make-up cabinet and surveyed the bottles and lotions that lined the shelves. Any of these, of course, could have been stolen.

There was a large, ornate bottle of Joy perfume. The New Yorker had told me in an ad that this was the most expensive perfume you could give a woman. I closed the cabinet door and went into the kitchen to get ice for a drink I badly needed.

The kitchen was in a mess: our breakfast things stood in the sink, the remains of a Quick-lunch curry chicken cluttered the kitchen table with a used plate, knife and fork.

Bread crumbs were scattered on the floor. I remembered that Cissy would arrive tomorrow. I went back to my study, fixed a drink and sat behind my desk. I sat there, trying to think up a solution. I admit to panic. I saw everything I had worked for, my whole future blown sky high because my stupid, beautiful wife had to be greedy. Why couldn't she have asked me to buy her perfume? How could she have been so utterly irresponsible as to turn thief, knowing if she were caught, what it would mean to both of us?

I forced my mind away from her and thought of Jesse Gordy. I thought back on what he had said, then not sure, I switched on the tape and listened to his voice.

The film I now have, Mr. Manson is so convincing, I hesitate to hand it to Captain Schultz. I felt I should first consult you and a number of other husbands whose wives shop in my store.

So, obviously, Linda wasn't the only thieving wife.

Others of my neighbours were being blackmailed. My mind darted as I thought of the people we knew who lived around us. The Mitchells? The Latimers? The Thiessens?

The Gilroys? The Creedens? The list could go on and on: all wealthy men with spoilt wives: much more wealthy than I was, but I doubted if their wives who I knew well were more spoilt than Linda. Could these husbands have received a visit from Gordy? Suppose there had been four other thieving wives? A demand of $20,000 a wife. $80,000 for a visit, a threat and a snippet of film!

I felt a sudden surge of anger and picking up the telephone receiver I called Herman Webber.

The Alert Detective Agency was owned by Henry Chandler and was run by Herman Webber. This man had been a police lieutenant, had resigned because his promotion wasn't rapid enough and had set up a private inquiry agency. He had been popular with the police and in next to no rime, five top-class police officers had deserted the force and had joined him. Chandler had financed him and had now taken him and his five officers under his wing.

Webber had done all the dirty research for
The Voice of the People
. I didn't like him: he was tough, hard and tricky to deal with, but he came up with facts and his facts stuck.

His hard, clipped voice came on the line.

“Webber.”

“This is Steve, Herman,” I said. “I have a little job that needs taking care of.”

“Go ahead: you're being taped.”

That was Webber: efficient and still the cop. He never took any assignment unless he had everything on tape.

“Jesse Gordy,” I said. “He runs the Welcome Self-service store. I want everything about him: repeat everything about him down to how often he cuts his toenails and fast.”

“Can do. No problem. I have a file on him that only needs bringing up to date. You'll have it by noon tomorrow.”

“Make it ten o'clock.”

He whistled.

“Like that?”

“I want it on my desk by ten o'clock,” and I hung up. I looked at my watch. The time now was 18.20. I looked in my address book, then called Ernie Mayhew's private number. Martha, Mayhew's wife, answered.

“Is Ernie back yet? This is Steve,” I said.

“He's just taking a pee,” Martha said and laughed.

“How are you both? It seems ages since we saw each other. When can we get together? How about next Friday? Do come along.”

“Fine. I'll talk to Linda. You know how it is, Martha, the man never counts. She could have something on.”

Martha squealed.

“Well, I hope so, Steve.”

Then Ernie took over.

“Hi, Steve!”

“Look, Ernie, an emergency has come up. Linda's mother has to have an operation. Sorry to talk business at this time but I want to pour oil. Am I okay for $15,000?”

There was a pause.

“You don't mean you're asking . . .” Suddenly aware that Martha was listening, he stopped.

“That's what I'm asking. You can have the house for security, Ernie.”

Again a long pause.

“Suppose we discuss this tomorrow, Steve? I'll make a date for nine-fifteen at my office.”

“Can you give me some idea if you could or you couldn't?”

“We'll talk about it. I would say the amount isn't realistic. Anyway, let's talk. Sorry about Linda's mother.”

“Yes.”

“Let's get together, huh?”

“Sure. Okay. Ernie, tomorrow,” and I hung up.

I heard Linda's Austin Cooper as she drove into the garage. I flicked on my desk light, finished my drink and waited.

I heard the front door open and slam. She didn't bother to call out to me, but ran upstairs. I heard her heels thumping over my head as she crossed to the bathroom.

There was a pause, then the toilet flushed. I sat there, waiting. The telephone bell rang. Although the receiver was just by my hand I didn't touch it.

I heard Linda, from our bedroom, take the call. I listened to her yakking.

“Steve! It's Frank.” She had come out on the landing and was calling down. “He wants you.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Hi, Frank!”

“How's about coming over in twenty minutes?” Frank Latimer asked. Listening to his deep baritone voice I wondered if his wife was a thief as mine was. “Sally has just bought a box of King size prawns. Jack, Suzy, Merrill and Mabel are coming. How's about it?”

Linda came into the study.

“Not tonight, Frank . . . thanks all the same,” I said. “I've got a chill or something. I'm planning an early night.” I listened to his commiseration, then hung up.

“Chill?” Linda was glaring at me. “What are you talking about? We haven't any food in the house! Call him back and tell him you have changed your mind!”

“It won't hurt us to starve,” I said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

“If you don't want to go, I do!” She came over to my desk and reached for the telephone receiver as I took from my desk drawer the bottle of Chanel No. 5 and put it directly before her.

2

O
ften enough, and sadly enough, there comes a moment of truth when a husband or a wife looks at his/her partner and realises he/she is no longer in love. That the months and even years they have lived together have turned suddenly into grey ash, and love - which is a precious thing - no longer exists between them.

This was my moment of truth as I watched Linda's hand hover over the telephone as she looked at the bottle of Chanel No. 5. I watched her hand slowly withdraw and I watched the wary, sly expression come into her beautiful grey eyes. I watched her mouth set in a thin tight line, and for the first time since I had met her, I realised she wasn't as beautiful as I had thought she was.

When two people fall in love they have this thing that can never be replaced between them. It is a fragile thing: a wonderful thing, but it is fragile. Looking at Linda across my desk, this thing within me for her sparked out: the way an electric light bulb goes: one moment a bright light; the next moment darkness.

I waited, watching her. The tip of her tongue moved over her lips. She stiffened, then looked at me.

“What are you doing with my perfume?”

“Sit down, Linda. You've got us in a mess. Let's see if, between us, we can get out of it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She had got over the shock and her voice was quite steady. There was now that bored look on her face she put on when she thought I was being tiresome. “Call Frank and tell him we're coming.”

“Does Jesse Gordy mean anything to you?”

She frowned.

“No. What's the matter with you tonight? Look, if you don't want to go, I'm going. I . . .”

“Gordy is the manager of the Welcome Self-service store. He came to me this afternoon and I took our conversation down on tape. Sit down. I want you to hear it.”

She hesitated, then sat down.

“Why should I hear it?” But now her voice lacked her usual hard confidence. She eyed the recorder and I saw her hands turn into fists.

I pressed the playback button and we both sat motionless while Gordy's voice told its sordid tale. When he mentioned the photograph, I took it from my desk drawer and put it in front of her.

She took a quick look at it and her face became haggard.

She suddenly looked five years older and when he said: your nice, beautiful wife, Mr. Manson, could even go to prison, she flinched as if flicked by a whip.

We listened to his voice to the end. “I suggest $20,000 and you get the film. It is not a lot of money considering your success. Tomorrow night, Mr. Manson . . . Cash please.”

I pressed the stop button and we looked at each other.

There was a long, long pause, then she said, “What a goddamn fuss about a bottle of perfume. Well, I suppose you had better give him the money.” She got to her feet. “It was stupid of me, but all the girls do it: why shouldn't I? As he said, considering your success, it is not a lot of money.”

She started for the door. I don't think I have ever been so angry. I jumped to my feet, came around the desk and caught hold of her wrist as she was reaching for the door handle. I slapped her across her face so violently that if I hadn't been holding her wrist she would have fallen. As it was, she cannoned against the wall and went down on her knees. I jerked her upright and with a savage shove, sent her spinning into her chair. She landed breathless, her hand against her red, burning cheek and she looked hatred at me.

“You bastard!”

“And I could say . . . you thief!”

“I'll divorce you for this! You hit me!” She was screaming at me now. “You've bruised me, you brute! God! How I hate you! I can't go out tonight! What will they say when they see me? Swine! To hit a woman! I'll make you pay for this! I'll make you sorry!”

I sat in my chair and watched her. She banged her fists on her knees. Her eye was beginning to swell. She looked silly and stupid: a spoilt, hysterical child showing off. Then suddenly she began to cry. She slid off the chair and came to me, falling on her knees, her arms around my waist, burying her face against my chest.

“Don't let them arrest me, Steve! Don't let them send me to prison!”

I had pity for her, but nothing else. Her clutching fingers could have aroused me to make love to her yesterday, but now they meant nothing to me.

“Linda! Get hold of yourself!” I could hear the hard note in my voice. “We have to work together on this. Come on!

Get up! Sit down!”

She lifted her bruised, tear stained face, her hands moving away from me.

“You hate me, don't you, Steve? I suppose I deserve to be hated.” She choked on her sobs. “But, Steve, get me out of this mess and I'll be a good wife to you. I'll . . .”

“Shut up! Don't say things you'll regret later. Sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

She got unsteadily to her feet.

“God! You're hard. I never thought. . .”

She flopped in her chair.

I went to the liquor cabinet and poured two stiff whiskies. As I carried them to the desk, the telephone bell rang. I set down the glasses and picked up the receiver.

“Is Linda there?” A woman's voice.

“Linda is in bed with the flu. Who is it?”

“Lucilla. Flu? I'm so sorry. Anything I can do? You have only to ask. I could come over. I'm marvellous at making soup.”

Lucilla Bower lived in a bungalow at the far end of our road. She was a tall, rather ugly, middle-aged lesbian who, I suspected, was far too interested in some of the wives on the estate.

“Thanks, Lucilla. No . . . we can manage.”

“The poor dear. I could come over and hold her hand.”

“Three Aspros are holding her hand at the moment. Anyway . . . thanks.”

“Well . . . I mustn't keep you. I know how busy you always are. I do love your magazine, Steve.”

“Fine. Well, goodbye for now,” and I hung up.

Linda had finished her drink. I could see she was shivering and her eye was puffy. I poured more whisky into her glass.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “God! You've hurt me! What are we going to do? Can you pay this bastard the money?”