1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts (2 page)

‘Does she have friends of her own?’

‘I have no idea. She lives her life, I live mine.’

‘Would there be boyfriends? Maybe a special boyfriend?’

Mrs. Thorsen looked sour.

‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is unattractive.’

‘But she is rich, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I pointed out. ‘Lots of men can put up with unattractive girls if they have money.’

‘Both Mr. Ackland and I have thought of that. That is for you to find out.’

‘That I can certainly do,’ I said. ‘I would like to know a little more about your daughter. Have you any idea how she passes her time: does she swim, play tennis, go dancing?’

Mrs. Thorsen shrugged impatiently.

‘I wouldn’t know. As I told you we seldom meet.’

I began to dislike this woman: as a mother she wouldn’t get my nomination for an Oscar.

‘She is the only child?’

Mrs. Thorsen stiffened, and her eyes flashed.

‘I had a son, but we need not discuss him. All it is necessary to say about him is that he left home some time ago. I am glad to say I haven’t seen him nor heard from him since he left. He certainly doesn’t come into this problem I have with Angela.’

‘Would you have any objection to my seeing Mr. Ackland?’

‘None at all. Mr. Ackland has my complete confidence. In fact, it was he who suggested I should seek your help. See him by all means.’

‘How about your daughter? I would have to see her.’

‘Yes. Tomorrow is the first of the month. She is certain to go to the bank. Mr. Ackland will arrange for you to see her, but on no account are you to approach her or speak to her. I don’t want Angela to know that she is being investigated, nor do I want anyone, except Mr. Ackland, to know either. I understand your agency is most discreet.’

‘You can be sure of that, Mrs. Thorsen.’ I got to my feet. ‘I will see Mr. Ackland this afternoon. When I have something to tell you, I will contact you.’

‘I trust you won’t take long. I find your charges excessive.’

‘We have a lot of work on hand, Mrs. Thorsen. You can be sure we will be as quick as we can to give you the information you want.’

‘When you have this information, kindly telephone for an appointment. I lead a very busy life.’ She waved to the door. ‘Will you see yourself out? Smedley, my butler, is a drunkard, and I disturb him as little as possible.’

‘Are you thinking of getting rid of him, Mrs. Thorsen?’ I asked at the door.

She lifted her eyebrows and gave me a cold stare.

‘Smedley has been with the family for over thirty years. He knows my habits, and is good with the silver. He also amuses my friends. Until his condition worsens, I will keep him. Good day, Mr. Wallace.’

I let myself out of the silent house, closing the front door behind me, then ran through the steady rain to my car.

After a hamburger lunch, I drove to the Pacific & National Bank, arriving there at 15.00.

The bank couldn’t be faulted. It looked rich: it had two alert-looking security guards, the tellers were behind bulletproof glass. There were vases of flowers and a heavy pile carpet.

The air conditioner hummed softly.

Under the cold scrutiny of the two guards, I crossed to a desk which carried a banner:
RECEPTION.
Sitting behind the desk was an elderly, prune-faced woman who regarded me without enthusiasm. I could see by her expression that she had been trained to smell money, and there was no smell of money coming from me.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr. Ackland,’ I said.

‘Have you an appointment?’

I took from my wallet one of my professional cards and laid it before her.

‘Give him this and he’ll see me.’

The woman regarded the card, then stared at me.

‘Mr. Ackland is busy. What is your business?’

‘If you are that curious,’ I said, ‘telephone Mrs. Henry Thorsen who will explain everything to you, but, on the other hand, she might make your future life disagreeable.’ I gave her my wide friendly smile. ‘Take a chance: telephone her.’

Mrs. Henry Thorsen’s name appeared to ring an alarm bell in her mind. She picked up my card, got to her feet and walked away, her head held high, her back rigid.

One of the security guards moved a little closer. I winked at him, and he immediately shifted his stare, fingered the butt of his gun, then moved away.

Minutes ticked by while I watched the elderly rich pay in money, draw out money, and talk to the tellers who gushed, bowed and did everything servile except stand on their heads.

Prune-face returned.

‘Mr. Ackland will see you.’ Her voice was frosty enough to put the air conditioner on the blink. ‘Over there. First door on your right.’

‘Thanks,’ I said and, leaving her, took her directions to come up before a polished oak door with:
Horace Ackland. General Manager
printed in large gold lettering: an impressive sight. I rapped, turned the glittering brass door handle and entered an imposing office with lounging chairs, a settee, a cocktail cabinet, and a desk large enough to play snooker on.

Behind this desk sat Horace Ackland. He rose to his feet as I entered and closed the door.

He was fat, short, balding and benign-looking, but there was nothing benign in his alert, brown eyes. He regarded me with a stare that could compete with a laser ray, then waved me to a chair.

‘Mrs. Thorsen told me you would be calling, Mr. Wallace,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly deep. ‘You will have some questions to ask.’

I settled myself in the comfortable chair, facing his desk while he lowered his bulk back into his chair.

‘Would you give me your opinion about the daughter, Mr. Ackland? Her mother says she is retarded. What do you think?’

‘Frankly, I don’t know. It would seem she has grown out of her handicap.’ Ackland paused, then went on. ‘She appears to be normal, but then I only see her for a few minutes when she picks up this money. She dresses oddly, but so do most young people. I wouldn’t care to give you an opinion.’

‘I understand there is a trust and she can only touch the income, which is fifteen thousand a month. What happens in the event that the daughter dies?’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘She is only 24, Mr. Wallace.’

‘You can die by accident at any age.’

‘If she dies, the trust ceases to exist, and the money goes back to the estate.’

‘How much money?’

‘Mr. Thorsen was one of the richest men in the world. I couldn’t possibly tell you how much money.’

‘Mrs. Thorsen has inherited his money, and at the death of her daughter, she will come into more money?’

‘Yes. There are no other heirs.’

‘There is a son.’

Ackland grimaced.

‘Yes. Terrance Thorsen. He was disinherited when he left the Thorsen residence two years ago. He has no claim on the estate.’

‘No one else?’

Ackland moved in his chair as if my questions were beginning to bore him.

‘A number of bequests. Mr. Thorsen left money to his butler, Smedley. The will provided Smedley with an immediate payment of five thousand dollars at Mr. Thorsen’s death.’

‘You think, Mr. Ackland, that these monthly withdrawals of ten thousand a month point to blackmail?’

Ackland placed his fingertips together, making an arch. He looked suddenly like a bishop.

‘Mr. Wallace, I have had thirty-five years in banking. Miss Thorsen is 24 years of age and appears, anyway to me, normal. She has the right to do what she likes with her money. But Henry Thorsen and I were very close friends, and trusted each other, and I gave him my promise that if anything should happen to him, I would keep a close eye on Angela when she inherited this fortune. Also, Mrs. Thorsen is now a dear friend of mine and relies on me for financial advice, and for help in any problems which might arise. But for these special circumstances I would not have told her about these odd withdrawals. I hesitated, I admit, as it was not entirely ethical for me to tell her what Angela was doing. I held back for ten months, but as these withdrawals continued, I felt it my duty to these old friends to alert Mrs. Thorsen and advise her that this possibility of blackmail should be investigated.’

‘I see your point, Mr. Ackland.’

‘What I have told you is in strict confidence. That is understood?’

‘Of course. Now, Mr. Ackland, I need to know Miss Thorsen by sight. Her mother told me on no account should I approach the girl. How do I see her?’

‘Nothing easier. Tomorrow, she will arrive here to collect the money. I will arrange that you see her enter my office and leave. Then it is up to you.’

‘That’s fine. What time should I be here?’

‘She always comes at ten o’clock. I suggest you come here at 9.45, and wait in the lobby.

I will tell Miss Kertch to give you a signal when she arrives.’

A soft buzzer sounded on his desk. He lost his benign expression and looked what I knew he must be, a shrewd, tough banker.

He picked up the receiver, nodded, then said, ‘In three minutes, Miss Kertch.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace, I can give you no further time. If there is anything. . .’

I got to my feet.

‘Maybe I’ll need to talk to you again, Mr. Ackland. I won’t hold you up. I’ll be here at 9.45 tomorrow.’

‘Do that.’ He rose to his feet and offered a firm but damp hand. ‘I am sure you will be able to unravel this little problem. I have heard great things about your agency.’

Tomorrow morning should be interesting, I thought, as I got in my car. I itched to set eyes on Angela Thorsen.

Glenda Kerry heard me out, making occasional notes, as I gave her my report.

‘Mrs. Thorsen wants this wrapped up fast,’ I concluded. ‘She thinks our charges are excessive.’

‘They all do, but they still come to us,’ Glenda said with a wintry smile. ‘What’s your next move?’

‘Go to the bank, tail Angela, see where she delivers the money, and with luck, get the general photo. I’ve got Bill digging into Thorsen’s background.’

She nodded.

‘OK. Go to it,’ and reached for the telephone.

I found Bill at his typewriter and gave him a blow-by-blow account of my interview with Mrs. Thorsen, and also with Horace Ackland.

‘That’s it so far,’ I concluded. ‘What puzzles me is why Mrs. Thorsen, who couldn’t care less about her daughter, who in turn couldn’t care less about her, should spend good money hiring us to find out if her daughter is being blackmailed. Why? That’s what I need to know. There’s a smell about this that bothers me.’

‘Is that our funeral, Dirk?’ Bill asked. ‘We have been hired to find out if and why the girl is being blackmailed. The why and the wherefore of Mrs. Thorsen’s motives don’t concern us.’

‘I think it could make this case very interesting. I can’t wait to see Angela. We have to play this smooth, Bill. I’ll go to the bank, wait for Ackland’s signal. You will wait outside. I’ll give the high sign, and you follow her from in front. We’ll both have cars. She is certain to be on wheels. We mustn’t lose her. She could lead us to the blackmailer.’

‘OK, Dirk. Could be that easy.’

‘Now, give me your report.’

‘This could also be interesting. I spent the morning going through the
Herald’s
clippings on Thorsen. Make no mistake about this, Thorsen was a big wheel. He was the senior partner of Thorsen & Charteris, the top stockbrokers in this city. They have a branch in New York, but their main business is with the super-rich in this city. Thorsen had a magic touch to pick the right stock or bond, when to buy and when to sell. He not only did big deals for his clients, but also for himself. At the age of 35, already established as an up-and-coming broker, he married Kathleen Livingston whose father was Joe Livingston. Joe dabbled in oil, and just after the wedding, went bust on three dry wells. It was a lucky break for Kathleen to have hooked Thorsen as her family soon weren’t worth a dime. There were two children. Terrance and Angela. The clippings have nothing of interest to say about them, but plenty to say of the way Mrs. Thorsen entertained and spent her husband’s money. She is regarded even now as one of the big social hostesses. People flock to her parties and generally scrounge on her.

‘Last year, at the age of 62, Thorsen was found dead in his library. He had a long history of heart attacks for which his doctor had treated him for some ten years. He had always lived at high pressure, making and nursing fortunes for himself and for some very influential folk in this city. It was no surprise to Mrs. Thorsen or his doctor, and the death certificate was clear. Only thing the coroner, Herbert Dawson, showed interest in was how the deceased had managed to get a nasty wound on the temple, but the medical view was quite emphatic that this happened after his heart attack, when he fell and hit his head on a corner of his desk. His butler, long-serving Josh Smedley, testified that he heard a noise like a heavy fall, and hurried in, to find his master dead. He tested the breathing with a hand mirror from the desk. Death from natural causes, and sympathy for widow and family from Coroner Herbert Dawson, who it seems is a very good friend of Mrs. Thorsen’s. She comes in to the money, to boost her entertaining funds, Miss Angela gets a trust fund, Mr. Terrance gets nothing.’

‘Good enough, Bill,’ I said. ‘It’s interesting.’

I thought, then took my feet off my desk. ‘As you say, it’s not our business to do anything except find out if Angela is being blackmailed. All the same, I am interested in the Thorsens’ background. I wonder about the son, Terrance. I wonder also about the drunken butler. Well, let’s make a start and open a file. You know the colonel. When he returns he’ll want all the dope.’

‘I guess.’ Bill sighed and pulled his typewriter towards him.

It was close on 18.30 by the time we had finished and my mind was now turning to Suzy Long. This was the night when we always met at the Lobster & Crab restaurant, on the beach, among dozens of other such restaurants, but this one was reasonable in price, and the owner, Freddy Cortel, knew more about lobsters and crabs than the fishermen who caught them.

‘What are you doing tonight, Bill?’ I asked as I cleared my desk.