‘I have a phone call to make, then we take off.’ I called the Bellevue Hotel. I was lucky to catch Suzy. She sounded breathless. I could hear the sound of voices as people converged on the reception desk.
‘Just a word, love,’ I said. ‘Thanks for putting the wall right and for the locks. You are marvellous!’
‘That makes two of us, my hero. Keep out of trouble. See you next Wednesday,’ and she hung up.
Leaving the office, Bill and I went down to the car. It was still drizzling. I drove to Secomb’s main street, fought for parking, then we walked to Lucino’s restaurant.
I often dined there, and Lucino, squat, enormously fat and more Italian than the Italians, beamed a welcome. We shook hands, said this and that, then he conducted us to a corner table. At this early hour, the restaurant was nearly empty.
‘The special, Lucino,’ I said as I sat down.
‘For you, Mr. Wallace, the very special.’
He brought us a rough Italian wine, poured the drinks, then went away.
‘If we come out of this disco alive,’ Bill said, ‘what’s the next move?’
‘We go in there as Acme operators,’ I said. ‘I ask to see Hank. If by then there isn’t a rough house, and if Hank shows up, I am asking him if he can help us to find Terry. Do you now see how important Terry is to this investigation?’
Bill scratched his head.
‘I guess so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I see he gets you around.’
‘That’s the idea. So you ask what’s the next move to be. This depends on how cooperative Hank is. I doubt if he’ll tell us anything. So the next move is we latch on to Angela, and follow her from the moment she gets up to the moment she goes to bed.’
Bill nodded. This was the kind of work he liked.
‘Think you’ll get something from that?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.’
Lucino came to the table bearing a vast platter of spaghetti, decorated with crisp, fried octopus, pieces of chicken and shrimps. Hot plates were produced and a big bowl of sauce that smelt of garlic and tomatoes was planked down on the table.
‘The best, Mr. Wallace,’ Lucino said, beaming. ‘Nothing but the best for you.’
We ate. Both of us were hungry. When there was nothing left, we sat back and looked at each other.
‘Ready for a possible rough house, Bill?’ I asked.
He grinned.
‘After that meal, I’m ready to take on the Marines.’
The time was 20.15. A little early for the Black Cassette to be in action.
I drove down to the waterfront, found a parking space, then we walked the rest of the way to the disco. As we reached the shoddy entrance to the club, I eased my gun for a quick draw. I saw Bill had his hands in his pockets.
I shoved open the door and we walked into a large room, furnished with small tables against the walls, a polished dance floor in the centre and, at the end of the room, a bar.
There was a distinct smell of reefer smoke hanging in the air. As I had thought, the action hadn’t started, but there were a number of black people: men and women, sitting at some of the tables drinking beer.
Three men, one holding a trumpet, one holding a sax and the third one setting up a drum set, were on a raised platform.
The whole outfit looked respectable enough.
There was a sudden, solid silence as we walked in. In a moment a big black came sliding out of the shadows and blocked our further entrance. He looked big enough and powerful enough to knock over a bull.
‘Can’t you guys read?’ he demanded in a harsh, loud voice.
‘Move over, black boy,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Hank.’
His bloodshot eyes flickered.
‘No white trash in here!’
‘Can you read?’ I said, and shoved my professional card at him.
The card made an impression on him. He stared at it, and I saw his thick lips move as he read.
‘You a cop?’ he asked, his voice less harsh.
‘Look, black boy,’ I barked, ‘take that card to Hank and tell him I want to talk to him. Get moving!’
He hesitated, then shambled away, walking across the dance floor to a door he opened, then disappeared from sight.
The dozen or so blacks were watching all this. None of them moved nor spoke. I guess they thought we were cops.
I wasn’t going to let my advantage rest.
‘Come on,’ I said to Bill and walked across the dance floor, pushed open the door through which the black had disappeared and found myself in a dimly lit corridor which led to another door. As I walked down the corridor, followed by Bill, the far end door jerked open.
I was confronted by Hank Smedley.
Bill had described him, but I didn’t realise until I was facing him just how big he was. He wasn’t big: he was enormous, standing some six feet seven inches high, with shoulders as wide as a barn door. Bill had said he had a small head: this was correct. Hank had a tiny head, ugly, flat broad nose, leathery-looking lips and glittering bloodshot eyes. He was the perfect model for a horror movie.
‘What do you want?’ he rasped, blocking the doorway. He had fists like hams, and they were clenched at his sides.
In a mild voice I said, ‘Mr. Hank Smedley?’
This seemed to throw him. Probably no white man had called him ‘mister’ before. His fists unclenched.
‘Yeah. What you want?’
‘I am from the Acme Detective Agency, Mr. Smedley,’ I said, still keeping the mild tone. ‘I’m hoping you can help me.’
He stared suspiciously at me. I could almost hear what brain he had creaking.
‘Help?’ he finally snarled. ‘I don’t help white men. On your way. You stink up my place.’
‘Let’s cut out the black man, white man shit,’ I said. ‘My name is Wallace. So I call you Hank, and you call me Wallace. That way we might be able to have a civilised talk.’
This approach wasn’t his scene. I could see him, hesitating. He was trying to make up his moronic mind whether to hit me or just stand there.
He stood there.
‘I’m looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, slowly and distinctly as if speaking to a child.
That got a reaction. He leaned forward, glaring at me. Right at that moment he made King Kong look like a powder-puff.
‘What do you want with him?’ he demanded.
I looked beyond him to where the black I had first spoken to was lurking and listening.
‘Tell that boy to get the hell out,’ I said. ‘This is confidential.’
I was deliberately trying to impose my will on this ape.
It worked.
He turned around.
‘Beat it!’ he snarled.
The black shoved by me and went back into the main room.
‘I’m trying to find Terry,’ I said, ‘because someone has left him a heap of jack. Unless I find him, the loot will remain in the bank.’
A spark of intelligence lit up his bloodshot eyes.
‘How much?’
‘Could be a hundred thousand. I don’t know for sure.’
‘A hundred thousand!’ he exclaimed, staring at me. I could see money would always make an impact on him.
‘That’s what I understand. I won’t swear to the amount: it could be more. Where do I find him?’
Blue-black veins stood out on his forehead as he thought.
Finally, he said, ‘So what happens if you do find him?’
‘No problem. I take him to the bank, he signs a few forms, and the money is his. It’s as simple as that.’
He scratched his head while he continued to batter his brain.
‘A hundred thousand?’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of jack.’
‘It sure is. Where do I find him?’
‘I dunno where he is, but I might find out. I could ask around. For all I know he isn’t living here. He could be anywhere.’
I had a feeling he was lying, but this had to be a pa
tient game.
‘OK, Hank,’ I said. ‘You have my card. If you do contact Terry, and he wants the money, give me a call. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
He looked beyond me and became aware of Bill who was lolling against the wall, chewing gum.
‘Who’s that midget?’ he demanded.
‘He’s my bodyguard,’ I said, deadpan. ‘He’s a good man to have around if smart boys think they’re tough.’
‘That little jerk?’ Hank gave a wide, sneering grin. ‘Man! He couldn’t blow froth off beer.’
Seeing Bill slide his hands into his pockets, I backed away. I wanted to get out of this dump in one piece.
‘Let’s go, Bill,’ I said sharply. ‘OK, Hank, if you locate Terry let me know,’ and taking a firm grip on Bill’s arm, I walked him across the dance floor and into the bustle and humid heat of the waterfront.
‘Why didn’t you let me hang one on that ape?’ Bill demanded as we reached my car.
‘Patience,’ I said, getting into the car. ‘You’ll have your chance, but not right now.’
As I drove from the waterfront Bill asked, ‘What’s the next move?’
‘We go home,’ I said. ‘I still think Terry could give us the key to this case. I’ve hung out two baits. Angela and Hank now know that Terry is worth a hundred thousand. I’m sure they know where he is. I’m hoping one of them will tell him and he’ll surface.’
‘Suppose they don’t know where he is?’
‘I think they do. We’ll see. We’ll meet at the office tomorrow at nine.’
Bill shrugged.
‘Suits me.’
I dropped him off at his walkup, then drove to the Bellevue Hotel.
Suzy gave me a loving smile as I crossed the lobby to the reception desk.
‘Honey, how about tonight? Any time?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘Impossible tonight, Dirk, dear. I won’t be free until three. By then I’ll be half-dead. Be patient, my love. Wednesday as usual.’
Two fat elderly men came to the desk, and with a bright smile Suzy joined them.
I tramped back to my car and drove home.
With junk on the TV, I took a shower and went to bed.
In the office, the following morning, around 09.30 with Bill at his desk and me at mine, the telephone bell rang.
I scooped up the receiver.
‘Wallace?’ I recognised Hank’s gravelly voice.
‘Hi, Hank,’ I said and motioned to Bill who snatched up the extension so he could listen in.
‘You got news for me?’
‘Yeah.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘I found him, and he wants the money fast.’
‘Where did you find him, Hank?’
A long pause, then he said, ‘Never mind. When does he get the money?’
‘No problem, Hank,’ I said and grinned at Bill. ‘I’ll get it organised. I’ll call you back?’
‘What do you mean—organised?’
‘I’ll have to contact the bank and fix an appointment. Mr. Ackland who runs the bank, will need identification and time to prepare forms for Terry to sign. No problem. I’ll call you back,’ and I hung up.
‘Stinks of a con,’ Bill said as he hung up.
‘Maybe. OK, here’s what you do. Go, see that Harry Rich of the Dead End club and ask him if he will be willing to identify Terry at the bank. I think he will be there pronto, to see Terry again. You take care of that. I’ll take care of Ackland.’
Twenty minutes later, I walked into Ackland’s office. He rose from his desk, shook hands and gave me his benign bishop’s smile.
‘How do we progress, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked as we both sat down.
‘I understand that you hold a hundred thousand dollars in the favour of Terrance Thorsen or Zeigler, left him by a Miss Angus of the Breakers building.’
He stared at me.
‘That is correct, but I don’t understand, Mr. Wallace. I am in touch with a Mr. Lewis who is Miss Angus’s executor, and until he finds Mr. Thorsen, who appears to have disappeared, the money remains in the bank. What is this to do with your investigation?’
‘I am hoping that Terrance Thorsen could be helpful, Mr. Ackland. He has been told by friends that he can pick up this large sum of money, and it seems he has appeared. Up to now, he has not been in evidence, but the amount of money due to him brings him to the surface.’
‘Extraordinary,’ Ackland muttered.
‘Have you ever met Terry Thorsen?’
Ackland looked startled.
‘No. I’ve never seen him.’
‘So when a man walks into your office claiming a hundred thousand dollars you wouldn’t know if he was Terry Thorsen?’
Ackland half rose out of his chair, then sat hack.
‘You mean there could be an impostor?’
‘Well, a hundred thousand—it isn’t peanuts.’
‘Of course, I would need identification.’
‘It occurred to me, Mr. Ackland, the best identification you could have is to invite Miss Angela Thorsen to attend, and if she identifies her brother, there should be no problem.’
His fat face brightened.
‘That is a very constructive idea, Mr. Wallace.’
‘Could we set this up sometime this afternoon?’
‘Well—’ He looked at his appointment book. ‘Yes, perhaps, around three o’clock.’
‘Would you telephone Miss Thorsen to see if she will come? I expect she will be happy to see her brother again.’
‘Yes, of course. I want to do everything I can to help the Thorsen family. Let me see if I can reach her.’ He pressed a button and told Miss Kertch to connect him with Miss Angela Thorsen.
There was a good five-minute wait while I smoked a cigarette and Ackland turned papers around on his desk. When the call came through, he was all oil.
‘This is Horace Ackland of the Pacific & National Bank. I do hope I am not disturbing you.’ He listened, nodded, then went on, ‘I don’t know if you are aware that your brother, Terrance, has inherited a hundred thousand dollars.’ He listened again, then went on, ‘Yes. Mr. Wallace has been most helpful. Now, Miss Thorsen, it is necessary to make sure the man who is claiming all this money is your brother. This is, of course, red tape, but as I have never met nor seen your brother I need him to be identified. Would you be prepared to come here at three o’clock this afternoon and identify your brother for me?’
He listened nodding.
‘Yes, I can understand that. It is a long time since you have seen him. I understand that you will be pleased to see him again. Splendid! Then I will expect you at my office at three o’clock this afternoon. Thank you, Miss Thorsen,’ and he hung up.
Looking at me, he said, ‘Of course, she will be only too happy to cooperate. I see no problem.’
I felt sorry for him. Horace Ackland didn’t know Angela Thorsen as I did.
‘Fine,’ I said, and got to my feet. ‘I’ll be here at three o’clock.’
‘Do that, Mr. Wallace.’ He rose to his feet and, leaning across his desk, shook hands.
‘This should be a very interesting meeting.’
‘I guess so. See you later,’ and I left him.
At 14.45, I walked into the Pacific & National Bank and gave Miss Kertch my friendly smile, which bounced off her like a golf ball flung against a concrete wall.
‘Mr. Ackland is engaged,’ she snapped.
‘OK. Just tell him I’m here.’ I walked to a lounging chair and made myself comfortable.
I have always found banks offer a lot of interest. I watched people come and go. I watched fat old women putting money into their bags. I watched them chat up the teller, who had a fixed, kindly smile for each of the old t rout as they arrived. Banking was not for me, I decided.
Bill and I had had a scratch lunch. He had told me he had seen not only Harry Rich but also a Miss Liza Manchini, his receptionist, who had been Terry’s girlfriend at the time of his disappearance.
; ‘Great stuff, Bill. A really nice bit of probing, and dead on time.’
‘No problem,’ he said, chewing on his hamburger. ‘Rich wants to talk to Terry. He’s hoping he can persuade him to return to his club.
Liza is panting to get Terry back into bed. Both of them will play.’
‘Fine. Collect them, Bill, and bring them to the bank at 15.20. Not before. I want them to be a surprise.’
After a ten-minute wait Miss Kertch said, ‘Mr. Ackland is free now.’
I got up and entered Ackland’s office. As usual, he shook hands and beamed his bishop’s smile.
‘Well, Mr. Wallace, this should be most interesting,’ he said, waving me to a chair. ‘It’s not often I have an affair like this.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘I have all the necessary papers. I have spoken to Mr. Lewis. When Miss Thorsen identifies her brother the matter can be finalised.’
I lit a cigarette, then relaxed back in the chair At exactly 15.00, the buzzer on Ackland’s desk sounded.
I heard Miss Kertch’s voice squawk, ‘Mr. Terry Thorsen is here.’
‘Send him in,’ Ackland said, then beamed at me. ‘This will be more than interesting.’
‘You can say that yet again,’ I said.
The door opened, and a man around 25 or so walked in. He was wearing a white shirt, and black trousers tucked into Mexican boots. His black hair was long to his shoulders. He was thin and had a lean, rat-like face with small, black suspicious eyes.
Beaming, Ackland got to his feet.
‘Mr. Thorsen?’
‘Yeah,’ the man said, then stared at me. ‘Who’s this?’
‘I am representing your interests,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘The name’s Wallace. I am working with Mr. Solly Lewis who is the late Miss Angus’s attorney.’
His eyes shifted and he stared at Ackland.
‘Well, come on. I’m in a hurry. Where’s the money?’ His voice was harsh and his bearing hostile.
Ackland flinched.
‘Naturally, Mr. Thorsen, I will require identification before giving you the money.’ He had lost his bishop’s smile.
‘What do you mean?’ There was a snarl in the voice, then the buzzer sounded.
‘Miss Thorsen, Mr. Ackland,’ Miss Kertch squawked. ‘Your sister, Mr. Thorsen,’ Ackland said. ‘I am sure you will be glad to see her again.’
The door opened and Angela Thorsen entered. She was wearing the sweatshirt, blue jeans, the Mexican hat and the big sun goggles.
1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 6