1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

by James Hadley Chase

  That was the last time I saw her.

  8

  It was a little after 22.00 when I arrived at the Half Moon bar. When Freda had left me, I took a taxi to my bank where they had an all-night safe deposit service. The film she had given me had already caused Gordy's death. I wasn't taking any chances with it. It wasn't until I had locked it safely away that I was able to relax. Sometime tomorrow I would hire a 16 mm projector and take a look at the film.

  I found Brenner nursing a beer in the upstairs room. He looked sourly at me as I shut the door.

  “I'm on early duty,” he said. “I've got to get some sleep. What's cooking?”

  I sat at the table, facing him. I had to confide in someone and who better than a disinterested cop?

  So I told him about Freda, about finding the film in Gordy's desk drawer, how I was slugged, how the film had gone missing, how she had told me there was a second film and it was now in my bank.

  He sipped his beer, smoked, stared down at the table and listened. By the time I had finished, tiny sweat beads made his face glisten.

  “Do you think Creeden's got it?”

  “I hope so. If he has it, he'll destroy it.”

  He thought about this, then wiped his hand over his face.

  “As long as that film exists, we both are in trouble.”

  “I know that.”

  We stared at each other.

  “What about this second film? When are you looking at it?”

  “I'll hire a projector tomorrow.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “Who wouldn't?” I looked at the dirty white wall facing me. “I could bring the film and the projector here in my lunch hour.”

  He shook his head.

  “I'm not off duty until four.”

  “Come to my new apartment?”

  Again he shook his head.

  “I'll tell you something, Manson. Goldstein has his eye on you. Watch it. You could be tailed. If he saw you and me together, it would sink me.”

  “So what do we do?”

  He thought about this, then said, “I'll check if you're being tailed. Give me your telephone number. If you're in the clear, I'll call you around midnight. I'll say 'Roger' and hang up. If you're being tailed, I won't call. If you aren't, we meet here* tomorrow night. Bring the film and projector . . .right?”

  “Okay.”

  He lit another cigarette and brooded for a moment, then he said, “Let's look at this set-up. Let's run through the suspects. There's you, me, Creeden and Latimer. Your gun killed the creep so that puts you way ahead of the rest. I'm thinking as Goldstein would think. But if this hustler is giving it to you straight, the second film is the money maker so that puts Creeden who has that kind of money in the photo . . . right?”

  I thought about Creeden. He was rich, tough and ruthless: not a man who would stand for blackmail. If his wife had been stealing and if Gordy tried to squeeze him for something like a million dollars, Creeden could turn killer.

  He had had the opportunity of stealing my gun, shooting Gordy and returning it.

  But how did he know I had the gun?

  I asked Brenner.

  “Pistol permits have to be cleared in this city by an acting magistrate,” Brenner told me. “That's what Creeden is.”

  “His signature wasn't on the permit.”

  “He doesn't sign it. It's a matter of form. He okays it and the Chief of Police signs it.”

  “So he would have known I had the gun.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I ran into him coming away from Gordy's house on the night of the murder. I ran into him when I got knocked on the head and lost the film. Damn it! It points to Creeden.”

  Brenner showed his teeth in a cynical smile.

  “Try to prove it.”

  I scribbled down my new telephone number and gave it to him.

  “I'm going back to my apartment now. Call me.”

  “If you don't hear from me by midnight, you're being tailed.”

  Leaving the Half Moon bar, I walked to the end of the street before I found a taxi. I gave the driver my new address and looked through the rear window to see if I could spot anyone following me. At this hour the traffic was heavy. All I saw was a mass of cars behind the cab.

  Again I had a feeling of someone breathing down the back of my neck and I felt very alone.

  When the cab stopped outside my apartment block, I paid the cabby, then took the elevator up to my new home.

  I turned on the light and looked around. Strange surroundings and again I felt lonely.

  Whoever Jean had found to arrange things in the apartment had done a good job. There was even a vase of roses on an occasional table, but they didn't help me.

  I went into the bedroom, stripped off my jacket, dropped it on the bed, then went into the bathroom and washed my hands. Was this going to be my future life? I wondered, drying my hands on a towel. Alone? I thought of Jean. If she had been here, how the scene would have changed!

  How wonderful it would be!

  I wandered back into the living room and sat down. I now thought of the film I had locked away in the safe deposit box. If, when I ran it off, it showed Mabel Creeden stealing, what was I going to do? Hand it over to Goldstein? Thinking about this, I decided no. Creeden, fighting back, could involve me too and Linda's stealing would be exposed. At the moment, Chandler was leaning over backwards for me, but I was sure he would give me the gate if Linda's stealing became news.

  I would keep the film as an insurance. Someone had the reel of tape with Gordy's voice threatening me with blackmail. This someone probably had the film showing Linda stealing. If this someone was Creeden, then he would hold onto this evidence in case Goldstein caught up with him. A clever defence attorney could shift the killing on to me.

  I looked at my watch. The time was now 23.20. I would sit up until midnight, hoping Brenner would call. I lit a cigarette and tried to relax, but thoughts kept moving through my mind.

  Then the front door bell rang.

  I stiffened, hesitated, and after a long moment, I got to my feet, went into the lobby and opened the door.

  Lieutenant Goldstein stood in the corridor. Behind him was a bulky man with cop written all over him.

  “I saw your light, Mr. Manson,” Goldstein said smoothly.

  “May we come in? This is Sergeant Hammer.”

  I stood aside.

  “I was just going to bed, Lieutenant, but come in. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” He entered the living room, glanced around, nodded as if with approval. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Just moved in. How did you know where to find me?”

  He moved to a chair and sat down. Hammer went to the table and sat by it.

  “We have ways and means,” Goldstein said and smiled his thin smile. “I tried to contact your wife, Mr. Manson. Apparently she is touring Mexico.”

  “Is she? I'm arranging a divorce, Lieutenant. Frankly, I couldn't care less where my wife is right at this moment.”

  I sat on the arm of a lounging chair.

  “Is that what you wanted to see me about?” I asked, after a long pause.

  “No . . . no . . .” He regarded me, his little eyes probing.

  “That gun of yours still worries me, Mr. Manson. When it was issued to Mr. Borg for you there was a box of slugs to go with it . . . fifty slugs. Right?”

  I felt a slight tension.

  “That is correct.”

  “You still have the box of slugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “They should have been returned.”

  “In the confusion of the move here, I forgot them. If you will tell me to whom I should return them, I will do so.”

  “We won't bother you with that. Let me have them now.”

  “You don't mean you have come here at half past eleven to collect a box of cartridges, Lieutenant?”

  “I would like the slugs!” There was a cop snap in his voice.<
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  I shrugged and went to a closet. After a search, I found the box and handed it to him. He in turn handed it to Hammer who examined the cartridges.

  “Six missing,” he said in a hard, flat voice.

  “I loaded the gun,” I explained. “If you remember, the gun was stolen. The cartridges went with the gun.”

  “Yes.” Goldstein stared down at his hands. “Mr. Manson, are you acquainted with Freda Hawes?” He looked up sharply and his eyes probed. It was a sucker punch and it had me floundering for a brief second as he meant it to do.

  “Yes.”

  I was back on even keel now, but the damage was done.

  Creeden had warned me about Goldstein. He had slipped in a mean one and he had got his reaction.

  “When did you last see her, Mr. Manson?”

  I felt it time to assert myself.

  “Why should I answer that question, Lieutenant?”

  He leaned forward, staring intently at me.

  “She was shot dead this evening. A cartridge case, matching these issued to you, was found by her side. I have reason to believe the gun that killed her also killed Gordy: the gun you allege was stolen from your car. So I ask again, when did you last see her?”

  A long silence built up in the room while I stared at Goldstein. I felt a chill crawl over me and I felt blood leaving my face.

  He and Hammer watched me the way a cat watches a mouse.

  “She's dead?” I finally managed to say.

  “That's right. She's dead.”

  I hadn't lived in the tough newspaper world for nothing.

  Somehow I pulled myself together and got my mind working.

  “Well, for God's sake!” I said. “I only saw her a couple of hours ago!”

  “You saw her . . . two hours ago?”

  “That's right.” I was thinking fast now. “I'll explain. Ever since Gordy's killing, I have been wondering why someone should have killed him, as you have been. I edit a successful magazine. Gordy's killing is topical news so I decided I would investigate this blackmail angle you suggested to me. The only lead that looked promising was this woman: Freda Hawes. I wondered if she might tell me more than you, so I telephoned her. She was scared and planning to leave, but she wanted a getaway stake. She said she had information she would sell for fifteen hundred dollars. This sounded interesting. I got the money and met her at The Annex bar. We talked. She was half drunk and frightened. She said someone might kill her as Gordy was killed. She told me Gordy had a film showing a number of women, living at Eastlake, stealing and he had been blackmailing them. She wanted to know if she told me where the film was, would I give her money. I have had a lot of experience interviewing people and I was satisfied she meant business. I gave her the money and she told me the film was in a hidden compartment in Gordy's desk drawer. There is a little knob under the desk that releases the partition in the desk. We met at nine-fifteen and she left me twenty minutes later with the money. I was going to call you tomorrow to tell you to check the desk. I'm pretty sure when you do, you will find the film.”

  I saw Hammer was busy writing in his notebook.

  Goldstein, looking thoughtful, was stroking his hooked nose.

  “What did you do, Mr. Manson, after she left you at nine-forty?”

  Watch it, I told myself. I had to keep Brenner out of this.

  “I went to the Half Moon bar,” I said. “I arrived there just after ten.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “Looking for information. Freda Hawes mentioned that she used the bar. I was looking for background material. I talked to the barman, but she was either lying or he wasn't passing out information. I got nothing from him so I came back here.”

  He studied me, then nodded.

  “You didn't think to tell me this when I arrived, Mr. Manson.”

  “You didn't give me much chance, did you?”

  Again he studied me, then said, “You gave her fifteen hundred dollars for this information . . . in cash?”

  “Yes. She put the money in her handbag. She was also carrying a Pan-Am overnight bag.”

  “When she was found, she had no handbag . . . no overnight bag.”

  “If you could find the film, Lieutenant, it could solve your problems.”

  “That's right.” He rubbed his hooked nose and then got to his feet. He started to move to the door. Sergeant Hammer picked up the box of cartridges and started after him. Goldstein paused and stared at me. “Mr. Manson, it would help this investigation if you were frank with me. Was Gordy blackmailing you?”

  “Suppose you wait until you get that film, Lieutenant?” I said. “If he was blackmailing me, I wasn't the only one.”

  “You will be seeing me again, Mr. Manson,” he said and they went away.

  I waited until I heard the elevator descend, then I sat in a chair, feeling shaky.

  Goldstein hadn't been talking for the sake of hearing his own voice. He had said the gun that had killed Freda was the gun issued to me by Borg. He, like Brenner, had identified the cartridge case. Jean had told me she had dumped the gun in a sack of refuse. She and I had been satisfied the gun was lost, but it couldn't have been. For some time now I had had the feeling that someone was breathing down my neck. Suppose that someone had followed me to Jean's place, then “followed her, seen where she had dumped the gun and as soon as she had gone, had collected it? This could be the only explanation. Someone on the second film who was desperate to get that film. So desperate, he/she had been watching Freda. Seeing her with the Pan-Am bag, he/she had decided she had the second film in the bag, shot her with the same ruthlessness as Gordy had been shot: using my gun.

  I felt cold sweat on my face as I thought of this. It seemed more than likely that the killer was the one who had broken in and taken the reel of tape that would hook me to Gordy's killing. It also pointed to him as the man who had hit me over the head and taken the first film.

  My mind turned to Creeden. He fitted my picture of a ruthless killer. I looked at my watch. The time was five minutes to midnight. I knew the Creedens kept late hours.

  Crossing to the telephone, I called his number.

  His wife, Mabel, answered.

  “Hello, Mabel, this is Steve Manson,” I said. “Sorry to call so late. Is Mark there?”

  “Mark is down town somewhere,” she told me. “He should be back any moment now. He had a business dinner. I can't think what's keeping him.”

  “I just wanted a word. I'll call him tomorrow.”

  “Steve . . . I'm so sorry about Linda.”

  I had to listen to ten minutes of her yakking, but finally cut her short.

  “Well, do come and see us, Steve.” She gave her high pitched laugh. “After all, single men are always in demand.”

  I said I would and hung up.

  It didn't mean much, but at least, Creeden had been in the city around the time Freda was shot.

  I did some more thinking without getting anywhere, then seeing it was now fifteen after midnight, I remembered Brenner telling me he wouldn't telephone after midnight if he had proof that I was being tailed. So this meant a couple of trained cops were planted outside my building.

  I was sure, I told myself, that the second film held the key to all this, but if I was now going to be tailed how was I going to get it, hire a projector and see the film without two cops busting in?

  Going to my bank wouldn't be suspicious. I'd take my briefcase with me. I remembered I was going to talk to Ernie about investments. When I left .him, I would go down to the vault and get the film. It would be unlikely my tails would know about the vault.

  Freddie Dunmore had a photographic studio. He did a lot of artwork for me. That too wouldn't be suspicious. He would have a 16 mm projector. I could talk him into letting me have his projection room for ten minutes.

  Thinking about this, I decided it was the only way, but remembering Gordy's killing and now Freda's killing, I would start the day with the gun I had forgotten to give Max.
>
  It was now pushing 01.00. I went into the bedroom and turned down the bed. I took a quick shower, got into my pyjamas and climbed into the strange bed. I realised as I lay there, with the bedside lamp making shadows that after all I did miss my own home. This was something I had to get used to.

  If only Jean was by my side, I thought, stretching out in the king-size bed, what a difference all this would make! I wondered about the man she had chosen and I felt a pang of jealousy. Who knows? I told myself, he might get bored with her or she with him and then, maybe I would still stand a chance. As I snapped off the light, I told myself that she was the one woman who meant anything to me. I lay in the darkness and thought of her. Then I remembered something my father told me when I was a kid. My father and I had got along fine together. He was a gentle, understanding man but he hadn't been wonderfully successful. He had said, “Look, Steve, here's something to think about. If you ever really want something, never let go. Hang on and keep hanging on and sooner or later if you hang on long enough you'll get it.” He had smiled and ruffled my hair. “The trouble with me is I've really never wanted anything bad enough.”

  Well, I wanted Jean. Remembering my father's words, I decided to hang on. With that thought in my mind, I slipped into sleep.

  Dreams are strange things. I kept dreaming that I wasn't alone. I dreamed a shadowy figure was looking down at me as I slept. This figure was moving around me: dark, with no outline: neither man nor woman: just a silent, sinister figure and I knew, in my dream, this shadowy figure meant me harm.

  I woke with a start. All I could hear was the traffic passing below. I found I was sweating. Then I heard the elevator descend and I looked at the lighted face of the bedside clock. It was 03.40.

  I turned over, pulling the bedclothes around my shoulders.

  But I didn't sleep anymore that night.

  ***

  On my way to my office the following morning, I kept looking in my driving mirror, but the traffic was too heavy to spot a tail.

  Knowing that I was now being watched gave me an uneasy feeling. I told myself that as soon as I had dealt with the mail, I would leave Jean to take care of the office and go over to the bank for the film. With any luck, before lunchtime I would know who was on the film.