If I could only con her to tell me where the film was!
“Yes . . . that's real money. What do we do?”
“I've got the film. Jesse was scared of it. He gave it to me to keep. He said he could handle the little suckers on the other film, but it would need the two of us to swing the big one.”
“So you have it? Where is it?”
She lifted her arms above her head and smiled at me.
“That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, buster. I have it so that makes me worth a million bucks.”
“Unless you get shot like Gordy did, then you're worth Nothing.”
She grimaced.
“Whoever shot Jesse didn't get the film. Whoever shoots me won't get it either. It's stashed away and safe.”
“Who's the big sucker on the film?”
“He didn't tell me, but she's on the film. Jesse told me that. I have only to run off the film to know her.”
“What makes you think you would know her?”
She thought about this, then nodded.
“There's that. Yeah . . . there are so many rich bitches around.”
“But I would know her. It's part of my job to know everyone with money in this city. Suppose you and I work together? Where's the film?”
“I'll think about it. You could have a point, buster. Do you want to join me in bed?”
I stood up. The time was 01.40. My head still ached.
“Not tonight.”
She looked relieved.
“Then fade away. I want my sleep.”
I left her and bedded down in the spare bedroom. I tried to sleep, but thoughts kept churning through my mind.
Finally, I got up, went into the bathroom and took a pill . . .a mistake.
***
The sound of the telephone bell brought me awake. I looked at the bedside clock. The time, to my consternation, was 09.35. My head still felt sore, but it no longer ached. I grabbed up the receiver.
“Steve?” It was Jean. “Are you all right?”
I tried to gather what wits I had left.
“I'm okay . . . I've overslept.”
“Mr. Chandler is asking for you.”
“Tell him I'll be right over.”
“You have an appointment with Larry Hersche at ten.”
Hersche was our artist and not important.
“Put him off.” I got out of bed. “What's the mail like?”
“It's heavy.”
“Okay, Jean, I'll be with you,” and I hung up.
Then I remembered I had Freda still in my hair. She couldn't stay here. It was Cissy's afternoon to clean. I went into the main bedroom expecting to find Freda still asleep, but the bed was empty. I looked around, then went into the kitchen. A used coffee cup stood on the sink.
“Freda?”
No answer. I went through the house, but she had gone.
I dunked my face in cold water, shaved, then hurried back to the spare bedroom. I made the bed. I could leave the main bedroom for Cissy to fix. It wouldn't do for her to find both bedrooms had been used. As I threw on my clothes, I wondered where Freda had got to. Surely, she hadn't walked down to the taxi rank which was a good half-mile from my house.
The solution came when I went into the garage. She had taken Linda's Mini. I returned to the house, looked up her number and called her. There was a delay, then she answered.
“This is me,” I said. “No names. What's going on?”
“I'm packing and getting out.” She sounded breathless.
“You have my car.”
“Oh, sure. It's parked on 22nd Street. The key's under the mat. Listen, buster, I need a getaway stake. Meet me at The Annex on 12th Street at nine tonight and bring me fifteen hundred bucks. We'll talk business,” and she hung up.
I put down the receiver, went to the front door as a police car pulled up. I paused, seeing Lieutenant Goldstein get out.
I shut the door, locked it as he came up the drive.
“Can you spare me a minute, Mr. Manson?”
“Not right now, Lieutenant. I've overslept and in a hurry to get to Mr. Chandler who is calling for me.”
He eyed me, his expression wooden.
“We could talk as you drove.”
“Okay.”
I opened the garage doors, backed the Merc out and he got in. As I drove down the avenue, I saw in my driving mirror the police car was following.
“What's on your mind, Lieutenant?” I asked as I moved into the flow of traffic.
“The Gordy killing. I have reason to believe that a number of people living on the Eastlake estate have been shoplifting. The store has installed scanners. The master scanner ran a 16 mm film. Gordy's hobby appears to have been photography. There's no film in the store: no film in his house. It points to blackmail.”
“I can see that.” I made my voice disinterested.
“Yes. I'm talking to everyone who used the store. Did you?”
“No.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
A pause, then he asked, “Regularly?”
“I think so.”
I had my eyes on the road. The traffic was heavy. I didn't have to look at him.
“I would like to talk to her. She might give me ideas.”
“I doubt that.”
“When can I see her?”
“She's in Dallas right now.”
“Well, that's not on the moon. I'd be glad if you will give me her address in Dallas.”
“I see no point in bothering her. I'm sure she won't be able to help you.”
“This is a murder inquiry, Mr. Manson.”
I knew when I was licked.
“I'm terrible about addresses. I have it written down. I'll call you.”
“If you will do that, Mr. Manson.”
We were now driving along the highway, heading for the city.
“Mr. Manson, I like to be fed ideas,” Goldstein said. “You are a trained journalist. What do you think? I can't see a woman walking into Gordy's house and shooting him, but I can see a husband of a woman who has been stealing and is being blackmailed doing just that. What do you think?”
“Sounds reasonable.”
A long silence as we entered the city, then he said, “There was a complaint last night about a woman screaming in your house.”
“I sorted that out with Patrol Officer Flynn,” I said. “My radio is on the blink.”
Another long silence, then as I pulled into a parking bay outside Chandler's block, Goldstein said, “I have to listen to gossip, Mr. Manson. Is it correct that you and your wife are parting?”
I faced him.
“It is correct but I don't see it is any business of yours.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “You will let me have her address?”
“Yes.”
He studied me, his grey eyes like gimlets.
“Perhaps the screaming woman last night wasn't the radio, Mr. Manson?”
I had had enough of him.
“Don't bet on it, Lieutenant. As long as Mr. Chandler is my boss, don't bet on anything regarding me.”
It was the best I could do, but it held him. I left him, rubbing his hooked nose and staring into space.
***
As I walked into Chandler's office, I could see he was in a bad mood. There was that deep wrinkle between his heavy eyebrows that was the danger signal.
“Sit down. What's this I hear about you and Linda?”
I was in no mood to be browbeaten.
“Linda and I have decided to divorce,” I said, sitting down. “It happens every hour of every day.”
He glowered at me.
“I warned you. In your position, you can't afford to run this magazine and have scandal.”
My head began to ache again and I suddenly didn't give a damn. I had a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in the bank. I could go back to Los Angeles and start again as a columnist.
“You warned me, Mr. Chandler,” I said. “So
I'll resign. How's that?”
He leaned forward.
“You serious, Steve?”
“I'm serious,” I said. “If I can't get a divorce without you getting on a high horse, then I'll quit.”
His glower went away.
“That's the last thing you're going to do.” He took a cigar from the box on his desk, cut and lit it, then he went on, “If you quit, Steve, the magazine would fold. You're doing a fine job. Is there another woman?”
It was time to give it to him straight.
“Yes. There's another woman. Linda has got hooked with a middle-aged, ugly dyke. I haven't any woman.”
He blew our his cheeks, studied his cigar, then grimaced.
“You shock me, Steve.”
“Can you imagine what it has done to me?”
“Turn a stone and find a worm, huh?”
“It is easy to criticise.”
He drew more smoke from the cigar, then shrugged.
“Hammond says he is going to sue.”
“That's what we want, isn't it?”
Chandler nodded.
“But he won't. The cards are stacked.”
“Is that all, Mr. Chandler? I have work to do.”
He regarded me, then nodded.
“You're doing a fine job, Steve. I'm sorry about this thing. I want you to know I'm behind you.”
“Thanks.” I got to my feet. “Well . . .”
“We must do something about Wally Mitford. When he's fit, I want him in the sun.”
I was already halfway across his office. I stopped short.
“Wally is already in Miami.”
He looked surprised.
“Is that right?” He shook his head. “That Borg! He's always three jumps ahead of the gun. Good.” He waved his cigar at me. “Keep going, Steve. Try to forget your troubles. I've already forgotten them.”
I left him on that note.
Back in my office, I coped with the mail, discussed with Jean the layout for Rafferty's article, then settled down to the routine grind. I told Jean I would have a desk lunch and she got Judy to organise sandwiches for me. She said she had a lunch date, but would be back at 14.00. I wondered if she was lunching with her boyfriend. Again, as she left my office, I felt a little pang.
I had the office to myself so I put a call through to Dallas.
Mrs. Lucas - Linda's mother - answered. As soon as I made myself known, she said, as Linda and I were going to get a divorce, was it wise for me to talk to her?
I said it was and after a delay, Linda came on the line.
“Lieutenant Goldstein wants to question you,” I said.
“He's a toughie. I suggest you and Lucilla take off for a trip around Mexico. Stay away and out of his reach for at least two months.” Before she could start bleating, I hung up.
I was sure Lucilla, who was no one's fool, would see the red light, and by the evening, they would be on their way.
Linda's mother was rich enough to finance the trip.
I was eating my second sandwich when Max Berry breezed in.
“Look, Steve, I have an idea,” he said, dropping into the chair by my desk. “How's about me going after Senator Linsky? That old crook has been feathering his nest for years. I've got a lead on him that could shoot him up to the moon.”
“Okay, Max. See what you can dig up.”
He rubbed his hand around his face, hesitated, then said, “You know how it is, Steve . . . talk. About Linda . . .?”
I froze, thinking: is it getting around she is a thief?
“What about her?”
“Well, you and she . . .” He shifted uneasily. “Not my business, of course.”
“That's okay.” I relaxed. “Yes, we're parting. That reminds me. You had better have my new address.” I scribbled the address and the telephone number on a scratch pad and handed it to him. “I'll be moving in tomorrow.”
“Fine.” He looked at the address, then at me. “Did Borg fix this for you?”
“Borg! No, Jean did.”
“This is one of Borg's apartments.”
I stared at him.
“Does Borg own apartments?”
“Sure. He's smart. He's put most of his money in bricks and cement.”
“I didn't know. Well, okay, Max, see what you can dig up about Linsky.”
He said he would and left me.
I sat for some moments staring down at my cluttered desk. Borg again? Once more I felt as if someone was breathing down the back of my neck.
The telephone bell snapped me out of my thinking and for the next hour I was kept busy.
Jean returned. I asked her if she had had a good lunch and she nodded: no information forthcoming. When she began typing, I remembered Freda Hawes. She had asked for fifteen hundred dollars. Maybe she would give me the film. I wrote a cheque, looked in on Jean, telling her I was going across to the bank. I collected fifteen one-hundred dollar bills. Ernie came out of his office and beamed at me.
“What are you going to do with all that money, Steve?” he asked as he shook hands. “How about investing it? Dow Jones is flat on its back right now. It's a good time.”
“Yeah. I'll come and see you. You might get some ideas down on paper, Ernie.”
“Sorry about Linda.”
“Yes. Well, see you,” and I returned to the office.
I was kept busy until 18.00, then things quieted down. I remembered to call police headquarters. I asked to speak to Lieutenant Goldstein. Whoever took the call said he was out. I told him who I was and that my wife could be reached at 1113, Westside, Dallas. I was told the Lieutenant would be informed. By the time Goldstein got busy, Linda and Lucilla would be lost in Mexico. At least that was one problem solved.
I decided I had had enough for the day. I could hear Jean's typewriter clacking. I cleared my desk and went into her office. She paused, looking at me.
“When are you moving in, Steve?”
“Maybe tonight. I didn't see the lease. Who owns the apartment?”
“Western Properties.”
“Who are they?”
“Real estate people.”
“Max tells me the apartment is owned by Joe Borg.”
“That's right. He is in real estate as a sideline.” She sat back. “Mr. Chandler wouldn't approve so it is confidential. I help Mr. Borg let some of his apartments. I knew this one was vacant. That was how I could fix you up so quickly.”
We looked at each other. Her calm eyes told me nothing.
“Are you working late?” I asked.
“Another half an hour.”
“Well, I'll get off home. There are still things I have to clear up.”
“Goodnight, Steve.”
“Goodnight.”
I drove home, took a shower and changed into casuals. I walked around the house. I had no feeling for it now. It was no longer mine. In two days, Harry Mitchell's parents would be installed.
I spent the next hour clearing up. Cissy had made a reasonable job of cleaning and she had cleared the refrigerator. I put my remaining clothes in a suitcase and dumped it into the back of the Merc.
I remembered that Freda had said she had parked the Mini on 22nd Street. I called a cab service. The cab took me to 22nd Street where I found the Mini. I drove it to an all-night car dealer and after haggling, he gave me less than a quarter of what it was worth.
The time now was 20.10. I spent half an hour in an Eat's bar, chewing on a hamburger and sipping a double scotch on the rocks. Then I remembered - it seemed I was always remembering - I had a date with Sergeant Brenner at the Half Moon bar at 21.00. I looked up the number of the bar and called.
When a voice answered I said, “Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Brenner not until ten o'clock.”
“Okay,” and the line went dead.
I finished my drink, then as I still had time to kill, I decided I would walk to 12th Street. I arrived at The Annex ten minutes before 21.00.
The
Annex was one of those glossy bars with lots of mirrors, high stools, banquettes in semi-darkness, soft music and a barman with choppers a horse would envy.
The place was nearly empty. There were four couples supporting the bar: young, well-dressed, bored looking. I glanced around. Freda hadn't arrived.
The barman showed me his teeth. I said a scotch on the rocks. When I got it, I carried it to one of the banquettes and sat down. I had a view of the entrance.
At 21.15, just as I was getting worried, Freda came in.
She was wearing a light dust coat over an orange and red cotton dress. She carried an air travel bag, slung over her shoulder. She saw me and moved a little unsteadily to the banquette and sat down, facing me. She looked a little drunk.
“Mine's a double gin, straight,” she said.
The barman came over, took the order, came back with the drink and placed it before her.
We waited until he had gone away, then Freda said, “I'm on my way, buster.” She blew out her cheeks and fanned my face with gin fumes. “What a day! I've been chasing my goddamn tail until now. When a girl with my connections pulls out, she has one hell of a pull out, but never mind that.” She leaned forward, staring at me. “But in spite of the rush, I've had time to think. Blackmail is not for me. It didn't do Jesse any good. Who wants a million if you land up in jail or you get a bullet the way he did? Give me the money and the film is yours. I've got it right here.”
“You could be selling me any film, couldn't you?”
She drank half the gin, nodded, then poked an unsteady finger in my direction.
“Boy scout's honour.”
“Okay. It's a deal.”
“Let's have the bread, buster.”
I looked around. No one was paying us any attention. I took the fifteen one-hundred dollar bills from my hip pocket and shoved the roll across the table. She snatched it up and stuffed it into her handbag. Then she zipped open her air travel bag and gave me a carton of 16 mm film.
“That's it,” she said. “I'm on my way to get lost. Watch it, buster. That film is loaded with trouble and I'm damn glad to be shot of it.”
“Where are you going?”
“The moon won't be far enough.” She swallowed her drink, shuddered, then slid out of the banquette. “If that film can fix the sonofabitch who killed Jesse, it'll make my day.” With a brief nod, she was gone.
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 13