I regarded her.
“But you said you had a date last night.”
“I can do two things at once. I was a little late, but I wanted you to be fixed up.” Then picking up the mail and before I could thank her, she went back to her office.
I had a quick lunch and then drove to Eastern Avenue: a good district, overlooking the park. The janitor, a large, smiling Negro who told me his name was Sam Washington (“No relation to the great Mr. George, Mr. Manson”) showed me the apartment. It couldn't have been better. It consisted of a large bedroom, a large sitting room and the rest, comfortably furnished.
I said I would take it.
“Yeah, Mr. Manson, you could do a lot worse.”
I returned to the office, thanked Jean and she said she would fix it with the agents.
Around 17.00 I telephoned the hospital and was again lucky to catch Stanstead.
“Can I see Wally?” I asked.
“Suppose we make it tomorrow morning, Steve? He has already seen his wife and also Lieutenant Goldstein. I think he has had enough for today.”
“This is really important, Henry. I promise I won't stay for more than ten minutes.”
“Well, all right, if it is that important. No longer than ten minutes.”
I told Jean I was seeing Wally.
“I'll get you some flowers and give him my love.”
I arrived at the hospital soon after 18.00, carrying a bouquet of violets. I ran into Stanstead who was leaving.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Better than I thought possible, but he still needs care. His eye will be all right. There is also a suggestion of amnesia. The police didn't seem satisfied.”
I smiled to myself. Shirley had got the message home.
I took the elevator to the third floor, found Wally's room, tapped and entered.
Wally, his head in bandages, one eye covered, lay in the bed. As I closed the door, I said, “Wally! Is it good to see you!”
“Hello, Steve.” His voice sounded depressingly feeble.
“Good of you to come.”
I put down the violets.
“From Jean . . . she sends her love.”
“Great girl.” His hands moved over the sheet.
“How do you feel?”
“Not so good.”
Looking at him I realised the truth of what Stanstead had said about Wally being too fat and too flabby.
“You're going to be all right, Wally. As soon as you can get on your feet you and Shirley will be off to Palm Beach.”
“Yes.” He didn't appear to be particularly pleased.
“Wally . . . I mustn't stay long. Stanstead said ten minutes, but this is important. Jean told me you have been researching the Welcome store and you have come up with three names . . . Lucilla Bower, Mabel Creeden and Sally Latimer. Who told you?”
His fat face was as expressionless as a hole in a wall.
“I don't understand.”
“Did you research the Welcome store?”
“No.”
I began to feel a chilly sensation.
“Think, Wally. How did Jean get those names unless from you?”
“I don't know what you are talking about.”
“Wally, please concentrate. This is vitally important to me to know the source of your information. I know you are always secretive about where you get your facts, but this time, because you and I are close friends, I ask you who told you these three women were stealing from the store.”
He lay there: a fat, broken lump and stared at me.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“What did you have in your briefcase that was stolen?”
His one eye closed and he moaned a little.
“The Hammond thing.”
“Nothing about the Welcome store?”
“I don't know a thing about that. I don't know even what you are saying.”
Leaning forward, my voice hard, I said, “Wally! Pull yourself together! Think! You have been working on this stealing! You found someone who talked. You got names! Wally! Who was this someone?”
Okay, I was getting worked up and I must have raised my voice for the door opened and a nurse came in.
“Your time is up, Mr. Manson,” she said in that flat, final voice nurses have.
“Wally!”
“I don't know anything,” he said and putting his hands to his bandaged head, he began to groan.
The nurse practically threw me out. I walked down the corridor, into the elevator and into the night.
I stood by my car. Wally had been my big hope. I had a feeling that a door was slowly shutting and I was trying to hold it open, but the force of the door as it closed was pushing me back and defeating me.
Was Wally really suffering from amnesia or had someone so badly frightened him he was lying to me . . . as Webber had lied to me?
Leaving my car, I crossed the road to a drug store and rang Jean. There was a delay, then she answered.
“Jean . . . it's Steve. I've just seen Wally. He says he hasn't researched the Welcome store. Did you keep a copy of his report you typed?”
A pause, then she said, “No.”
“But you're sure he did mention Lucilla Bower, Mabel Creeden and Sally Latimer?”
“I am quite sure. I did warn you, Steve, that Wally just won't give his informants away.”
“You said there were other names. Try to think, Jean. It's important.”
“I've already thought. I'm sorry, Steve. I can't remember any of the other names. His report was very brief. It said he had evidence that a number of women living at Eastlake had been stealing from the store. He then gave names. This was scribbled in his notebook. I typed it and gave him two copies.”
“His notebook?”
“That's right.”
“Maybe Shirley would have that.”
“Should I ask her?”
“No. I'll do it. Well, thanks Jean . . . see you tomorrow.”
I got in my car and drove over to Wally's home.
Shirley welcomed me. After talking about Wally and her delight about going to Palm Beach, I said, “Shirley, Wally had notebooks. I need them. Do you know where they are?”
“Why sure. Mr. Webber took them all when he came. He said Mr. Chandler wanted them. You ask him . . . he'll give them to you.”
“Herman Webber?” I stared at her.
“He was here just as I got back. He said Mr. Chandler wanted all Wally's notebooks.”
“I see. I'll talk to him.”
“You do that.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “I can't say I like Mr. Webber very much.”
“Neither do I,” I said and left her.
6
Herman Webber was a big, heavily built man who looked every inch a cop. His face could have been carved out of granite. His small blue eyes probed. His thin lips remained in a hard, unsmiling line.
“Hello, Steve,” he said, not getting up from behind his desk. “Sit down. What's cooking?”
As soon as I had gone through the morning mail and had dictated to Jean, I had dropped everything and had driven over to Webber's office.
“Wally's notebooks,” I said, sitting down. “Shirley tells me you have them.”
“Yeah.”
I stared at him.
“What's the idea?”
“Playing it smart.” Webber pulled at his cigar, clenched between his teeth and released a cloud of smoke in my direction. “That's what I'm here for . . . to play it smart.”
“So?”
“That punk Goldstein has been questioning Wally. He wants to know who gave Wally the tip-off that Hammond has been padding the accounts. Wally always protects his informants. I know Wally keeps names in his notebooks so before Goldstein could get around to Shirley, I got around and I have the books.”
It sounded good, but too smooth to me.
“So Shirley tells Goldstein - as she told me - that you have the books. So Goldstein comes to you and what do
you do?”
Webber blew smoke at me.
“Shirley is a cooperative girl. She won't tell Goldstein. Like I said: I've played it smart.”
“Fine.” I stared at him. “Wally works for me. I want those books.”
He nodded.
“If you want them, you can have them.” He flicked down a switch on his intercom. “Mavis? Get me Mitford's notebooks. Put them in a sack. Mr. Manson wants them.”
He looked at me. “Okay? Well, I guess you have work to do . . . me too.”
“The Gordy file,” I said. “I want it.”
His eyes turned a little sleepy.
“I told you . . . some nut stole it with other files.”
“Come on! Don't feed me that crap! I have reason to believe you didn't have a breakin. I want that file!”
“Yeah?” He was too much of a cop to betray any feelings. “What are you talking about?”
“I want that file. I believe you have it and I want it.”
“I told you, pal, it was stolen. I haven't got it.”
“Gordy's been murdered. Do you want me to tell Goldstein you had a breakin and Gordy's file was stolen? I either get the file or that's what I'll tell him.”
“Go ahead.” Webber tapped ash off his cigar. He looked very sure of himself. “Why should I care?”
“I'll tell you why. Goldstein will want to know why you didn't report the breakin and knowing Gordy has been murdered why you haven't reported the theft of his file. He must love you. He 'could stick it in and turn it.”
“You think so?” He leaned forward, his little eyes suddenly glaring. “And you could land yourself in much more trouble if you start shooting your mouth off to Goldstein!” His cop voice was like a punch in the face.
“Keep your snout out of this. I'm telling you!” He waved to the door. “Piss off! I've work to do!”
I got to my feet.
“I'll talk to Mr. Chandler. It's time he knew what's going on.”
“Yeah?” He sat back and his thin lips twisted into a sneering grin. “Take another think. Can't you get it into your skull that I am protecting you? You drag the boss into this and you're really in the crap. Now piss off and let me get on with my work!”
I then realised he had the ace against my queen. I'm protecting you. That must mean he knew about Linda and her thieving.
As I went into the outer office, Mavis Sherman, thin, dark and worried looking, handed me a plastic sack stuffed with Wally's notebooks.
Back in my office, I laid the books on my desk. There were fourteen of them. Each book was numbered from one onwards. I found No. 13 was missing. I didn't bother to examine the books. I was sure No. 13 covered the stealing at the Welcome store. Like the Gordy file, it had gone missing.
I sat back and thought about the situation. Webber's warning told me I couldn't go to Chandler. If I got tough with Webber, he could get tougher with me. I was sure someone (Webber?) had thrown a scare into Wally. Maybe this was wrong thinking. The beating Wally had had could have scared him, but I didn't think so. I felt almost sure that Wally had been warned as I had been warned. Keep your mouth shut or else . . .
I decided I would have to see Wally tonight. Maybe if I confided in him, handling him gently, telling him about the mess Linda had landed me in, I could persuade him to talk.
The telephone bell rang and from then until lunchtime I was caught up in the business of producing a magazine.
After lunch, Jean came in to tell me my personal things had been packed and had been taken to the Eastern Avenue apartment.
“You can move in whenever you like,” she said. “It's all ready. I've ordered a stock of groceries: coffee, milk and canned food.”
“You're really wonderful, Jean,” I said, looking at her with an ache in my heart. “I'd like to buy you a very expensive dinner . . . may I?”
“Thanks, but no.”
“This invitation also includes your boyfriend. I would like to meet him.”
She regarded me, her eyes serious.
“Look, Steve, please leave me my private life. It's my job to look after you in the office and at home if I can. May we leave it like that?” She gave me a ghost of a smile, then returned to her room.
Well, I thought, that was final enough.
I was kept busy until after 18.00, then I left Jean to lock up and drove to the hospital. I went to the reception desk and asked if I could see Mr. Wally Mitford.
“You've missed him,” the girl told me.
I gaped at her.
“Missed him? What do you mean?”
“He left with his wife in an ambulance half an hour ago.”
Again I felt that chilly sensation.
“Where has he gone?”
“I don't really know.”
“Is Dr. Stanstead still here?”
“He's in his office.”
I found Stanstead preparing to go home.
“What's all this about Wally? I'm told he's gone.”
He shrugged. He looked weary and harassed.
“I don't approve, but there it is. They've taken him by ambulance to the airport and are flying him to Miami. He wanted to go and he was fit enough to travel . . . so he's gone.”
“Was this something Mr. Chandler arranged?”
“I guess so. Mr. Borg handled it.”
“Shirley went with him?”
“Yes. He's to go to some clinic either in Miami or Palm Beach.”
“You don't know the clinic?”
“No. Look, Steve, I've got more work than I can cope with,” he said impatiently. “I'm sure Wally will be in good hands and the sun will do him good.”
“Yes. Well, see you, Henry,” and I left the hospital, got in my car and sat thinking.
Was there a conspiracy going on? First Gordy's file, the film and the blow-ups had vanished, then the reel of tape, recording Gordy's blackmail threat to me, had been stolen, then Wally's notebook had gone missing and now Wally had been whisked out of reach. I had an uneasy feeling that someone was breathing down my neck.
What to do?
The door now seemed shut. Trying to control a rising panic, I told myself the only thing I could do was to sit it out and hope nothing would develop. Maybe nothing would, but I felt sure, at the back of my mind, I was kidding myself.
I started to drive home. This was a reflex action.
Halfway, I remembered there would be no food in the house so I pulled into the forecourt of the Imperial hotel.
There I had a steak. As I was paying the check, the front man came over to me.
“Mr. Manson?”
“That's right.”
“There's a telephone call for you . . . booth 5.”
Surprised, I took the call. It was Sergeant Brenner.
“Saw your car,” he said curtly. “I want to talk to you. Do you know the Half Moon bar?”
“I don't.”
“It's on 15th Street, next to the drug store. You can't miss it. Take a cab: you can't park anyway. Ask for Jake. See you in half an hour,” and he hung up.
I picked up a cab outside the hotel, leaving my car in the hotel's forecourt.
The Half Moon bar was sleazy and half empty. There were three painted hookers propping up the bar. A couple of coloured men were drinking beer at one of the tables. A dirty-looking youth with hair to his shoulders was sitting at another table, aimlessly picking his nose.
As I walked up to the bar, a beefy man in shirtsleeves flopped a dirty rag in front of me and began polishing.
“You Jake?” I asked.
He eyed me over, nodded, then jerked his thumb towards a door. Watched by the three hookers, I pushed open the door, climbed a short flight of stairs and pushed open another door.
Brenner was nursing a beer. The room was small: a bed, a table and two chairs. A torn blind screened the window. I closed the door.
“This looks like a set for a B movie,” I said, joining him at the table.
“Yeah, but it's safe. Jake owes me a lo
t. I could have put him away for five years. Sit down.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Freda Hawes,” Brenner said. “I've checked her out and so has Goldstein. She says nothing, even under pressure. She says she slept with Gordy from time to time, but she knows nothing about him. She's scared and she's lying. She's not opening her mouth to the Law, but she just could talk to you. I could be wrong, but it's worth a try.”
“She could be a blackmailer. She could have the film and the blow-ups. I don't want to tangle with her.”
“I'll be surprised if she is. She's not the type and I know blackmailers. Go take a look at her. She hangs out at the Blue Room on 22nd. You'll find her there any time from now to dawn. She's a drinker. If you think you can handle her, talk to her. When a guy sleeps with a woman, sooner or later, he lets his hair down. I'm pretty sure Gordy has stashed away that film somewhere. He might have told her. That's our only hope, Manson. We've got to get to that film before Goldstein does.”
I didn't like this, but at least, I could take a look at this woman.
“How do I know her?”
“Short, dark, around twenty-five, well built,” Brenner said. “You can't miss her. Her thing is to wear brass bracelets that crawl half way up her arms.”
“Okay, I'll take a look.” I then told him I was moving into the apartment on Eastern Avenue. He wrote down my telephone number.
“Goldstein has talked to Creeden, to Latimer and the rest of them,” Brenner went on. “Kid glove stuff. Very smooth, gentle, just probing, but he's probing. He'll come to you next, so watch it. He is asking have you any idea that there was stealing at the Welcome store? Of course everyone has been open-eyed and saying no, but Goldstein is a damn smart cookie. He digs in the question fast and there is always a blink of the eyes and that is what he is watching for. He's got nowhere so far, but once he gets his teeth into a murder case, he is hard to shake loose.”
“I'll watch it.” I wondered if I should tell him about the reel of tape and about Wally's notebook. I decided not. I had a feeling that I would be better off if I kept my mouth shut from now on and tried to work this out on my own.
“I'll go along to the Blue Room right away. Suppose you call me tomorrow morning at the office? We could meet here again if I have anything.”
“Yeah, but I don't want to call you. Let's meet this time tomorrow.”
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 10