1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (8 page)

With a shaky hand, I got out my front door key and sank it into the lock. It wouldn't turn. I tried again, then pulling out the key, I turned the door handle and the door opened.

It passed through my mind, as I entered the dark lobby, that I had forgotten to lock up.

As I closed the front door, I heard the sound of a police siren and saw the lights of a patrol car through the window, storming past and towards East Avenue.

4

I
n the familiar background of my big living room, I was able to think. I sat in an armchair and considered the situation.

Gordy had been murdered. A woman (who?) had alerted the police who were already on the scene. Before very long more police and the Homicide squad would arrive. They would search the house, hunt for fingerprints and ask around. If they found the blackmail film then Linda and I, Mark and Mabel Creeden, Frank and Sally Latimer and possibly others living on the estate would be on the hot seat. From the film the police would know our wives were thieves: a motive for murder. We all would be checked. If it was discovered that Creeden had been near Gordy's house around the time of the killing he would be an immediate suspect and as he had seen me, I would also be a suspect. . .unless Creeden kept his mouth shut and I also kept my mouth shut.

It seemed to me my first move was to try to shut Creeden's mouth.

Time was pressing. I went over to the telephone and called his number. His butler answered. I told him who I was and said I wanted to speak to Mr. Creeden. There was a delay, then Creeden came on the line.

“Yes, Steve?”

“Listen carefully, Creeden,” I said. “I have information that your wife has been stealing from the Welcome store. My wife has been doing the same thing. I am being blackmailed. I suspect you are too. I went tonight to pay Gordy off. I found him murdered. I saw you in East Avenue where his house is and you saw me. There will be an investigation. I suggest we didn't see each other tonight.”

A long pause, then he said, “That makes remarkable sense to me. You didn't see me . . . I didn't see you . . . right?”

“Yes.”

“That's how it will be,” he said and hung up.

I put down the receiver and drew in a long deep breath.

It was hard to believe it could be this easy.

Now Linda.

This was something I couldn't do over the telephone. I had to see her. I didn't want to, but I had to. As I got to my feet, I saw the gun and the holster lying on the settee. I picked them up and put them in my desk drawer. Then turning off the light, I left the house, locked the front door and started down the drive. As I reached the gate, I heard a police siren. I watched two police cars sweep past, heading for East Avenue.

I started the long walk to Lucilla's bungalow. Again I heard approaching police sirens and I stepped off the road as another police car, followed by an ambulance went by.

By now my heart was thumping. Fortunately there must have been a good TV show on and the sound had drowned the sirens, otherwise everyone would have been at their garden gates.

I finally reached Lucilla's place, walked up the path and rang the bell.

There was an irritating delay, then Lucilla opened the door.

“Ah, Steve,” she drawled. “So you've come to give us good news . . . or have you?”

“No good news.”

I followed her into the living room. Linda was still reclining on the settee. She looked at me, her one eye cold and hostile.

“Well?”

Lucilla moved back.

“I'll leave you two dears to talk,” she said.

“I'd rather you stay. You could be involved in this,” I said.

“Really?” She walked over to a chair, sat down and began to fit a cigarette into a foot long holder.

Briefly, I told them that I had gone to Gordy's place, found him murdered and the police were already arriving.

“If Gordy kept the film in the house and the negatives of the blow-ups and the police find them, we are in real trouble.” I was talking to Linda. Her face slowly went to pieces and her complexion turned the colour of putty.

“Well, at least you don't have to pay the beastly man,” Lucilla said.

Suddenly Linda exploded in hysterical rage.

“I wish to God I had never married you!” she screamed at me. She turned to Lucilla. “Lucy! Help me! What are we going to do?”

Watching her, seeing the way she looked at this middle-aged lesbian told me Lucilla meant much more to her than I ever did.

“Do?” Lucilla tapped ash off her cigarette. “You want a divorce, don't you, my pet?”

“Of course!”

“Well, then, what could be simpler?” Lucilla looked at me. “I imagine you will give Lindy a divorce?”

It came to me what a relief it would be to be rid of Linda.

I had had little pleasure from her. For over three years I had put up with her grumbles and her greed.

“Yes.”

“Well, then there is no problem. We will leave immediately for Dallas. The story Steve has already put our that your mother has to have an operation is just a cover to stop gossip that you two are divorcing. Don't bother about clothes, Lindy. Steve will send everything you need to Dallas. I'm sure he can give you some money, but if he can't, I can. I'm sure your mother will understand.”

Linda began to cry.

“Oh, darling Lucy, I don't know what I would do without you,” she mumbled.

Sickened, I took out my billfold and put the three thousand dollars I was going to give to Gordy on the table.

“I'll leave you two,” I said and started for the door, paused, looking at Lucilla. “You really mean you can go tonight?”

She smiled at me.

“I have no problems. You take care of your problems. Within an hour, we'll be on our way.”

“The police will check.”

“Of course. Men always check, but there will be no problem. You and Linda have been quarrelling. She came to me. I took her to her mother. You wanted to give her money so you told the bank you needed an emergency fund.”

I stared at her, then nodded. Then not looking at Linda, I left the room and started the long walk back to my house.

Back home again, I called Jean.

She answered so quickly, I had the impression she had been sitting by the telephone.

“Could we meet somewhere?” I said. “There are complications.”

“Come to me? 1190, Westside, top floor.”

“In twenty minutes.”

As I started to the door, the telephone bell rang. I hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

“Steve? This is Max,” Berry said. “I've got the photocopy of the Hammond estimates. It's taken me until now. Man! Will this cut this punk down to size! I've also got photocopies of the three estimates from the other contractors. They really kick the floor from under Hammond.”

“Wonderful! Let's go over them tomorrow. I have your gun and pistol permit.”

He laughed.

“See you tomorrow, Steve. I thought I had to tell you. Linda okay?”

“Sure . . . great work, Max,” and I hung up.

Again as I started for the door, I paused. Why go without the gun? I had asked for a gun and I had got it. I would look a pea brain if I ran into trouble and had left the gun at home.

Taking the gun and the holster from my desk drawer, I put the gun on the desk while I strapped on the holster. As I was about to put the gun into the holster, I smelt gun powder. I have a very sensitive nose. I can smell things that few people seem able to smell. I lifted the gun barrel to my nose. It had been fired very recently. I stared at it for a long moment, then slid out the magazine. I had loaded the gun with six slugs. Examining the magazine, I found there were only five slugs.

I stood there, feeling a cold chill run through me. The gun had been fired. Was the ejected cartridge case lying on the floor of Gordy's shabby living room?

***

Jean opened the door of her apartment a moment after I had pressed the bell.

She was wearing a claret-coloured pyjama suit and her feet in embroidered slippers. To me, she looked lovely.

I moved into the big, furnished room as she stood aside.

“More trouble, Steve?” she said as she closed the door.

“I'll say.” I looked at her. “I shouldn't have come here, but I just had to talk to someone and who better than you?”

“Sit down and tell me.”

“Jean . . . Linda wants a divorce. Our marriage is washed up.”

“I'm sorry, but sit down.” She moved away from me and sat in a chair a yard or so from the chair she waved me to.

“Is that the jam or is there more?”

I sat down and told her the whole story of what had happened this evening and concluded with the gun.

“I'm almost certain that someone took the gun, killed Gordy with it and put it back,” I said. “So you see . . . I'm really in a hell of a jam.”

“But you don't know Gordy was shot. He could have been stabbed.”

“The gun was fired. Gordy is dead. Why else was the gun fired?”

She nodded.

“Yes. Let's accept the fact that he was killed with your gun.” Her calm, quiet voice had a soothing effect on my jumping nerves. “Let's take a look at this from what we already know. From Wally's report, we can suspect both Latimer and Creeden: both have motives for getting rid of Gordy. You found Latimer outside your house. You tell me the front door was unlocked. Suppose he entered, looking for you, saw the gun and took it? Suppose he went to Gordy's place, killed him while you were talking to Linda, returned and replaced the gun. Creeden could have done exactly the same thing, couldn't he?”

“Yes, but will the police believe it?”

She sat motionless, her hands gripped between her knees, then she said, “You must get rid of the gun and you must report to the police that it has been lost.” She shook her head. “No . . . stolen from your car.”

This I hadn't thought of.

“You have the gun with you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How will you get rid of it?”

How the hell did you get rid of a gun and be sure it wouldn't be found? I thought of the artificial lake on the estate, but could imagine the police would also think of that.

“Dump it in a trash bin down town,” I said finally.

“Yes. Give it to me. I'll do it. You must go home, Steve.”

“To hell with that for an idea! I'm not involving you!”

“But it will be easy for me. You could be seen doing it.

Tomorrow, I'll make a parcel of the gun, put it in my shopping bag and drop it in a trash bin on my way to work.”

“That's something you are not going to do.” I got to my feet. “I shouldn't have come here. I can handle it.”

She smiled wearily, then shrugged.

“All right. Men have to be heroes, don't they? I suppose I mustn't persuade you not to be a hero.”

Looking at her, I knew I needed her badly and I knew I was in love with her. I unstrapped the holster and put it on the table with the gun.

“I'm no hero, Jean. I want to say something . . .”

“Please not!” Her voice was curt. “Not now. I'll get rid of the gun. Now go home.”

She got to her feet and went to the front door, opening it.

I hesitated then moved by her.

“Thanks,” I said. “When this mess has been sorted out, I want badly to talk to you about yourself and myself.”

“One thing at a time, Steve,” she said quietly and closed the door on me.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and reached my car. I got in and sat thinking.

I wanted so badly to tell her I was in love with her, but she was right, of course. This wasn't the time. I turned my thoughts to my next move. I decided it would be unwise to go to the police and report the gun was missing right now.

This would have to be done in the morning. My story would be I had left the gun in my glove compartment when I had left the office. I had parked the car the following morning, then remembering the gun, I had found it missing.

I had at once driven to police headquarters to report the theft.

So long as Creeden kept his mouth shut, so long as the film showing Linda was a thief wasn't found, then I felt confident, even if the gun was eventually found and proved to be the gun that had killed Gordy, no jury could find me guilty of his murder on such flimsy evidence.

But it didn't work out quite that easily.

As I pulled up outside my garage door, I saw a police car parked across the way. The sight of it set my heart thumping. I got out to open the garage doors as a broad shouldered, heavily built man got out of the police car. It was Sergeant Lu Brenner.

“Mr. Manson?”

I turned.

“Hello, Sergeant.”

“A word with you.”

“Sure. Let me put the car away and come on in.”

He stood back. I drove the car into the garage, turned off the lights, then walked around to the front door. By this time I had my jumping nerves under control.

Together we walked into the living room and I switched on the lights.

“Sit down, Sergeant. What is it?”

I moved to my desk and sat behind it while he stood before me. His craggy face could have been carved from teak. His small, restless eyes kept shifting from me to around the room and back to me again.

“You have a .38 automatic number 4553 with a pistol permit number 75560?” he asked, staring at me.

“I have an automatic, Sergeant,” I said. “I wouldn't know about the number.” I took out my billfold and found the pistol permit which I offered him. He examined it, then dropped in on my desk.

“Where's the gun?”

“In the glove compartment of my car.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Never mind why. Go get it.”

We stared at each other.

“Have you a search warrant, Sergeant?” I said.

He nodded as if with approval.

“No, but I could get one.”

“Suppose you tell me what all this is about. I could then be cooperative, but I'm not just accepting loud talk from you, Sergeant.”

He studied me, his little eyes like chips of ice, then he took from his jacket pocket a small object which he set on the desk in front of me. It was a cartridge case.

Keeping my face expressionless, I said, “So?”