“Freddie . . . I didn't make it last night. I want that projector. Will you send it over?”
“Sure, Steve.”
“Wrap it. I don't want anyone here to know it's a projector.”
A pause, then he said, “James Bond stuff, huh?”
“That's the idea. Make a parcel of it and get it over here fast.”
“Will and can do,” and he hung up.
I then called Max Berry.
“Bring that envelope over right away, Max. Put it under your jacket. As I told you, it's dynamite.”
“Okay, Steve. I'm on my way.”
There was nothing else I could do now but to hope.
Although I hadn't the time to spare, I told Judy to call Jean for me.
While I was wrestling with a heap of mail, the call came through.
“Jean! How do you feel?”
“I'm all right. I told Judy to tell you I'll be in after lunch. I'm still a bit queasy, but I'll survive.”
“Don't come in unless you're really fit.”
“I'm coming in.”
I couldn't resist it.
“I've missed you.”
“Thank you. I'll be in,” and the line went dead.
My old man had told me to hang on. I wasn't getting any encouragement, but I loved her, I wanted her, I needed her, so I was going to hang on.
I settled down to read Rafferty's film column that had come in the mail. I was only half concentrating. Suddenly, I got up, went to the window and looked down on the street.
This time it was O'Hara who was propping up the fire hydrant. The sight of him was reassuring. As long as he was there I couldn't imagine Webber's men visiting me. Taylor was probably covering the lobby.
The intercom buzzed.
“There's a parcel for you, Mr. Manson,” Judy told me. “Shall I bring it in?”
“Thanks.”
It was the projector, carefully wrapped. A note from Freddie saying he enclosed the instruction book and if I was in trouble to call him.
I put the projector in a closet and finished the Rafferty article. I okayed it and tossed it in my out-tray. As I was starting to read a short story submitted by one of my agents, Max Berry came in.
“Here it is,” he said, putting the envelope on my desk.
“What's the big excitement about, Steve? You got me out of bed twice last night. What's all this about dynamite?”
“No comment, Max, for the moment,” I said. “Thanks for bringing it. How's the Linsky article building?”
He gaped at me.
“For Pete's sake, is that all you're going to say?”
“That's all. How's the Linsky article building?”
“I'll have it finished tomorrow.” He eyed the envelope, looked questioningly at me, then said, “Well, if that's all, I'll get back to it.”
“Do that and thanks again.”
Looking mystified, he left me.
I stared at the envelope, then looked at my desk clock.
The time was close to midday. In another quarter of an hour, Judy would be going to lunch and I would have the office to myself. I put the envelope in my desk drawer, then tried to settle to reading the short story but concentration was impossible. I was sweating and my heart was thumping. In a few minutes now I could know the truth unless Freda had sold me a pup. There was always that chance, but thinking back, seeing her serious eyes, hearing her say, 'Boy scout's honour' I felt sure this was the film now in my desk drawer that had caused her and Gordy's death.
The minutes dragged by. I wanted to get up and tell Judy to go, but I restrained myself.
It wasn't until 12.20 that she looked in.
“All right for me to go to lunch, Mr. Manson?”
“Sure.”
She nodded brightly and I heard her go off to the rest room. At 12.30 I heard her leave. I went to the outer door and locked it. I had only an hour before she returned. Then hurrying back to my office I got out the projector and set it on my desk. Opposite was a blank white wall. My hands were unsteady as I ripped open the envelope and took out the cassette. It was a self-loading job, but even at that I spent a few minutes before I got it loaded. I pulled out the plug of my electric desk clock and connected up the projector. Then I lowered the sunblinds and pulled the curtains.
As I returned to my desk, the telephone bell rang.
The sound made my heart skip a beat. For a long moment, I hesitated, then I lifted the receiver.
“Mr. Manson? Mr. Chandler on the line.”
Sweat dripped off my chin.
“Steve? Come over and have lunch with me. I've got some real poison that will fix Linsky. I want to discuss it with you.”
I sat staring at the projector.
“You there, Steve? Come right ever. We'll have a working lunch here.”
Trying to steady my voice, I said, “I can't make it, Mr. Chandler. Jean's away sick and Judy's just gone to lunch.”
“Well, lock up! The office won't run away. Come on over!” and he hung up.
That was something I was not going to do. I switched on the projector, moving the focusing ring as a picture appeared on the white wall. I found myself looking down one of the aisles, packed either side with groceries, of the Welcome store.
It was an excellent picture. I could even read the labels on some of the cans. There were no customers, which puzzled me. After a few moments the scanner shifted and I caught a glimpse of a suspended clock. The time showed 09.03. The store had just opened. Now the picture showed where you got hard liquor. Then from around a corner, pushing a market cart, came a woman. As she walked, she was looking over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was watching her. She paused by the whisky section, then looked fully into the lens of the hidden scanner.
My heart skipped a beat and I heard myself gasp.
The woman was Jean!
My hand turned into fists and my nails dug into my palms.
She was looking down the aisle, her expression expectant. Seldom do you see that expression but I had seen it before and I recognised it. It was the look of a lover, waiting for a lover.
Then a man moved into the picture: tall, heavily built, wearing a black hat and a city suit. There was something horribly familiar about his broad back. He caught Jean in his arms and she flung her arms around his neck. They kissed the way only starved lovers kiss.
So brief, and yet to me it was like a knife thrust in my heart. Then he moved back, giving her a warning sign, and I saw his face.
It was Henry Chandler!
The telephone bell rang.
With a shaking hand I turned off the projector, then lifted the receiver.
“Mr. Manson?” I recognised Chandler's secretary's sharp voice. “Mr. Chandler is waiting.”
“Tell him I am held up.”
“He won't like that, Mr. Manson.”
“I'm sorry,” and I replaced the receiver. I ran the film back into the cassette, took it off the projector, removed the plug, then moving like an automaton, I put the projector into my closet, the cassette in my pocket and pulled up the blinds. As I did so, the telephone bell rang again.
It was Chandler and there was an angry rasp in his voice.
“What's going on? I'm waiting. You're holding up my lunch!”
I found myself hating him. The thought of eating with him, even looking at him, knowing Jean loved him, revolted me.
“I have a client with me, Mr. Chandler,” I said woodenly. “I can't get away.”
“Who is it?” he barked.
“Mr. Coulston, the advertising executive for Hartmans.”
Hartmans was one of our most important advertisers.
A pause, then Chandler said irritably, “Well, all right. Why didn't you say so? Okay, I'll send the stuff about Linsky over right away. I'm booked solid this afternoon. You read it and come to my place for dinner. We'll discuss it, huh?”
“I'll read it and telephone you, Mr. Chandler. I have a long-standing date for tonight,” and not giving a
damn, I hung up.
I stared at the blank white wall which only a few minutes ago had shown me Jean and Chandler embracing.
She and he! That they were lovers was obvious. I had only to remember the expression of love and longing on Jean's face to know that was a fact. How Gordy must have rubbed his hands when he had run off the film.
Henry Chandler, the leading citizen, the leading Quaker who had built the city's church! Chandler, who owned the magazine who threw stones at people! Chandler who had amassed two hundred million dollars and was on first name terms with the President caught on a film in a self-service store (of all places) kissing a girl who had been his fourth secretary! No wonder Gordy had told Freda the film was worth a million dollars. If it became public property, Chandler was finished!
Sitting there, still shaking, I remembered his words when I accepted his offer to edit The Voice of the People. Those words now burned into my brain: You will be attacking the corrupt and the dishonest.
Remember you will be a goldfish in a bowl. Be careful: don't give anyone a chance to hit back at you. Take me: I'm a Quaker. I believe in God. My private life can't be criticised. No finger can point to me and no one must be able to point a finger at you.
You hypocrite! I thought. You bloody, bloody hypocrite!
You set yourself up as the second God to be a scourge of the corrupt and the dishonest and you're even worse than any of them because, behind your sanctimonious facade, you are a liar, an adulterer and a cheat!
I was shaking with rage and my body was cold. I wanted to ruin him. I wanted to expose him for what he was. I could do it! I could get Dunmore to blow up one of the frames and I could put the blow-up on the cover of The Voice of the People. I wouldn't even have to write a commentary. That picture alone would bring him and his empire crashing down!
My searing thoughts were disturbed by the sound of knocking. I controlled mv rage, looked at my watch and saw it was 13.02. I walked unsteadily into the outer office and unlocked the door.
Judy came in.
“Did you have lunch, Mr. Manson?” she asked as she put her handbag on the desk. “I'll get you a sandwich if you like.”
The thought of food revolted me.
“It's okay. I'm busy,” and I went back to my office and shut the door.
I sat at my desk. Judy with her freshness and youth had broken the thread of my rage. I began to think rationally. If it hadn't been Jean, who I loved, but for the sake of argument, it had been Judy on that film, would I have reacted the way I had been reacting? I knew at once that I wouldn't have. It was because this rich, Quaker hypocrite had taken Jean from me that I had been in this revengeful rage. If it had been any other woman except Jean I would have been surprised, shrugged my shoulders and have destroyed the film.
I picked up my paperknife and began to dig holes in my blotter.
A man and a woman meet, I thought. Some kind of chemistry takes place and suddenly they are in love. Are either of them to blame? It had taken months for me suddenly to realise Jean was the woman I wanted: my chemistry had been diluted by Linda. Chandler had been ahead of me. When this chemistry explosion happens and when you are in a vulnerable position of a goldfish in a Quaker bowl, what are you to do? It would depend, I told myself, how big the explosion had been. If it was merely a sudden sex urge, then it should be resisted, but if it was real love . . .?
Chandler couldn't ask for a divorce. Lois was the kind of woman who would fight tooth and nail to hold onto what she had. He would have to make the reason known and this would bring him down. So he was faced with meeting Jean in sneaky places like the Welcome store and God knows what other places for a hurried kiss.
So to keep his sanctimonious reputation, two worthless people had been murdered. Who had killed them? Certainly not Chandler. When you had unlimited money as Chandler had there was no problem to hire a professional gunman.
Borg did all Chandler's dirty work. He could easily hire some killer to walk into Gordy's house and shoot him.
I paused in my thinking and realised I was letting my imagination run away with me.
Gordy and Freda had been shot with my gun. A professional killer would have used his own gun! So it was unlikely that those two had been killed by a hired gunman.
Then who?
I pressed my hands against my hot face.
Why should I care? I asked myself. Why should I care if a blackmailer and a drunken hustler died?
But I did care that Jean was Chandler's mistress. The shock was still with me. She had said she was coming to the office this afternoon. I felt in no state to face her. If she came, I knew I couldn't stay in the office. I had to have time to adjust.
I asked Judy for an outside line, then called Jean's number. She answered almost at once.
“This is Steve,” I said. “Please don't come in today, Jean.”
“But I'm just on my way.” Her voice sounded low and unsteady.
“Please stay at home. There is nothing for you to do. Come in tomorrow.”
A long pause, then she said, “Well, all right.”
I put down the receiver as Judy came in with a sealed envelope from Chandler.
“Jean won't be in until tomorrow,” I told her.
“I'm not surprised. I once had clam poisoning and it nearly killed me.”
When she had left me, I tossed the envelope into my in-tray. The Voice of the People was now such a symbol of hypocrisy to me I had no further interest in it.
I pulled my IBM towards me and wrote the following letter:
Henry Chandler,
I can no longer work for you. Accept this as my resignation from today. There is enough material for the next issue. The editorial staff of your newspaper will be able to bring out the magazine.
As you once said to me: goldfish have no hiding place.
Goldfish in a Quaker bowl have none at all.
Steve Manson.
I put the note in an envelope, marked it “Private and Personal,” sealed it, then asked Judy to have it sent over to the Chandler building by special delivery.
“I'm not taking any telephone calls nor seeing any visitors, Judy,” I said. “I don't want to be disturbed. Say I am out and won't be back until tomorrow.”
Her eyes popped open wide.
“Well, okay, Mr. Manson.”
“That includes Mr. Chandler. If he calls, I'm still out.”
I went back to my office and locked the door.
I spent the next two hours clearing my desk and putting all the material, the notes, the sketched ideas for the next issue of the magazine together.
I heard Judy answering the telephone from time to time.
I wondered what would happen to her. My own future didn't worry me. I had money in the bank, I was free of Linda and I could return to Los Angeles where I could become a freelance.
Finally, around 18.00, I had completed the clearing up.
Everything was in order. One of the bright boys on the California Times could pick up where I had left off, but that didn't mean The Voice of the People would survive. I hoped it wouldn't.
Carrying my bulging briefcase, I went into the outer office.
Poor Judy looked bothered.
“Oh, Mr. Manson, Mr. Chandler has twice called asking for you.”
“That's all right, Judy. Don't worry about a thing. You get off home.” I smiled at her. “Will you lock up? I'm through for the day.”
The telephone bell rang. Judy picked up the receiver as I opened the outer door.
“Mr. Manson!” she hissed. “It's Mr. Chandler.”
“I'm still out,” I said and crossing the corridor, I rode the elevator down for the last time and with no regrets.
***
As I drove towards my apartment, I began to make plans.
There was a midnight plane to Los Angeles. I would pack and get out. Once back on my old home ground I was sure I would be able to adjust myself. The loose ends like the apartment lease, my personal things could be tied u
p later, but this city was now suffocating me. I had to have four or five days away from it.
Looking in my driving mirror, I spotted the blue Mustang following me. I didn't give a damn. I wondered how the cops would react when they followed me to the airport and watched me board a plane for LA. They couldn't stop me.
They wouldn't know I wasn't on an assignment for the magazine.
I left the Merc in the parking bay and went up to my apartment, imagining Taylor and O'Hara settling down to a long and dreary wait.
I unlocked my front door and walked into the lobby. The door leading to the living room was half open and I saw the lights were on. I was still carrying Max's gun. Dropping my briefcase, I got the gun into my hand, then kicked the door wide open and stood in the doorway.
I was expecting to be faced by Webber's men, but instead, facing me, looking a ghost of herself, was Jean.
Slowly, I lowered the gun.
As I stared at her, the thought came into my mind - the same thought that had come into my mind when I put the bottle of Chanel No. 5 in front of Linda - was this the woman I was in love with?
I continued to look at her and as I looked the fragile light of love flickered and went out. I was facing a stranger: white faced, gaunt, hard and perhaps even dangerous.
My eyes moved from her and I looked around the room.
It had been wrecked. Every possible hiding place had been explored with frantic frenzy. Even the cushions in the chairs and the settee had been ripped open. The stuffing, like little white islands, lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied: its contents thrown anyhow.
I tossed my gun on the ripped settee and walked into the bedroom. That too was wrecked. Even the mattress had been slit open. My clothes lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and its contents spilled everywhere.
I returned to the living room. She still stood motionless, pressed against the wall, her eyes like two red hot embers.
“Joe Borg will love this,” I said quietly. “He'll probably sue you.”
“Where is it?” she said, her voice husky.
I regarded her, then I knew and I felt a cold chill run over me.
“Is that how you looked when you shot Gordy?” I asked. “Did you say that to him . . . where is it? Is that how you looked when you shot that stupid, drunken hooker?”
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 16