1979 - A Can of Worms

by James Hadley Chase

  “They went in by the back way, and then Jones returned to his place. My brother, Jimbo, is there now, watching.”

  “You have another brother, Joey?”

  “Yes. He worked for Pete too.”

  “Keep watching. I’ll pay you more later. I want to know if they move, and be careful.”

  He got to his feet, tucked the two bills into his hip pocket, nodded and made for the door.

  “Hold it, Joey. Where can I find you?”

  “Lobster Court. It’s right by Crab Court. No 2. Top floor. My brothers and I have a room.”

  “How about your mother?”

  “She killed herself when they took dad,” Joey said, his face wooden. “There’s only Jimbo and me now.”

  “Watch out, Joey,” I said.

  I saw him to the front door, then walked back to the lounging chair and sat down.

  I did some thinking. Pofferi and his wife had been hiding on the pirates’ island. Nancy had visited them and had taken them ort the yacht back to the harbour. Josh Jones then had taken them to his room, and later to the Alameda bar. Why had he taken them there? It seemed to me that Jones, through Gloria Cort, had done a deal with Diaz to hide these two: a much safer hiding place than keeping them in his (Jones’) room. He had gone to Gloria because, as Hamel’s ex-wife, she knew him, crewman of the yacht. So far, this made sense, but what didn’t make sense was why a nice girl like Nancy should be helping a couple of dangerous terrorists. Had she met them in Rome? That seemed likely. Had they some hold on her?

  I stubbed out my cigarette impatiently. So what should I do? I knew what I ought to do. I ought to call the police and tell them where Pofferi and his wife were hiding, but if I did that, what was in it for me? Nothing that I could see except trouble. Lepski would want to know how I had found out that the Pofferis were at the Alameda. Even if I dreamed up a convincing lie, I would still be left with nothing. No one was going to give me a reward.

  It suddenly occurred to me the time was ripe to talk to Nancy Hamel. Would she be prepared to buy my silence?

  I grimaced. This would have to be handled carefully.

  The last thing I needed was to be charged with blackmail.

  Blackmail?

  I had dealt with a number of blackmailers since I had joined the Agency. I had been the means of sending them to jail. Up to this moment, I had considered blackmail to be the lowest form of crime.

  But was this blackmail? All I was going to do was to have a confidential talk with Nancy Hamel. I would tell her I knew of her connection with Pofferi and I knew where he and his wife were hiding. I would explain that a shamus didn’t make much of a living. I would give her my sincere smile. Of course if we could come to some financial arrangement, then I would forget the whole thing and everyone would be happy. It was, of course, up to her to decide.

  Was that blackmail?

  A business arrangement, yes. Blackmail, no.

  I am pretty smart at kidding people, but I am in a class of my own when I begin to kid myself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The following morning, around 09.00, I walked into Glenda’s office to find her sorting the mail.

  “Hi, there,” I said, placing my hands on her desk and leaning over her. “How’s the busy bee this sunny day?”

  She didn’t pause in her reading.

  “What do you want? You should be on the job.”

  “Never off it, gorgeous. Those poison pen letters. I need them. I’ve an idea I can trace the paper. Harry has given me a clue.”

  “Help yourself.” She waved to a filing cabinet and went on reading.

  “Business brisk? Lots of new suckers?” I asked as I found the two letters. Getting no reply, I put the letters in my wallet and breezed out of the office.

  Taking the elevator down to the garage, I drove the Maser to the Country Club. I parked, then settled in a lounging chair, with a copy of Newsweek, to wait.

  I had been up early and had made two reports, plus carbon copies. I now felt ready to have a confidential chat with Nancy Hamel. As I sat in the lounge, I thought about her. I recalled the impression she had made on me, both from her photograph and from seeing her. I was sure as I could be that I would have no trouble with her if I handled her right, and I intended to handle her right.

  Around 10.30, she came into the lounge, carrying a tennis racket, and dressed for tennis. She went over to the Club’s porter, an ageing black with white, frizzy hair, who beamed at her.

  “Has Mrs. Highbee come yet, Johnson?” she asked.

  I was near enough to hear her.

  “She’s down on the courts, Mrs. Hamel.”

  Nancy smiled, nodded and walked across the lobby, heading for the tennis courts. I watched her go. Her hip movement was nice.

  After waiting for some fifteen minutes, I went out onto the terrace and saw her playing with Penny Highbee.

  Lunchtime, I told myself, would be right to talk to her, so I went down to the swimming pool, changed and swam.

  The pool was crowded with the big, the fat, the slim and the dolly birds.

  After an hour, I dried off, changed and wandered back to the tennis courts. Nancy and Penny were still playing.

  I found a chair under a sun umbrella and sat down. A waiter slid up. I ordered a Scotch and coke. He brought the drink, I signed, tipped and he went away.

  A voice said, “It’s Mr. Anderson, I believe?”

  I looked up to find Mel Palmer, Hamel’s agent, wearing an immaculate off-white tropical suit, standing before me.

  I gave him my wide, friendly smile, but I wasn’t smiling beneath the surface. He was the last person I needed to see.

  “Hi, there, Mr. Palmer.” I got to my feet. “Have a drink?”

  He lowered his bulk into a chair as a waiter came swiftly to his side. He ordered a pink gin, then sat back, his sunglasses aimed in my direction.

  “I see you are working.” He looked in the direction of the tennis courts, then back to me.

  “Pretty dull work,” I said.

  The waiter put Palmer’s drink on the table and Palmer signed. When the waiter had gone, he took a sip, wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief and smiled at me.

  “Dull work? This is, of course, good news. Have you anything to report so far?”

  “The subject is giving no cause for worry, sir. I have been watching her for the past four days, and there is nothing to report.”

  His smile broadened.

  “Just as I thought. I have tried to convince Mr. Hamel he is wasting his money, but he has a stubborn nature.”

  “We have checked on Waldo Carmichael, Mr. Palmer. He does not exist,” I said.

  Palmer nodded.

  “I am not surprised. We are, of course, dealing with a sick crank. I have told Mr. Hamel this again and again, but he refuses to be convinced. It is a very worrying situation.”

  Worrying for you, Fatso, I thought. You’re seeing all that nice commission disappearing into smoke.

  “At the end of the week, I will be writing a full report on Mrs. Hamel’s activities. This report will show that she is leading a blameless, rather dull, life. If my report doesn’t convince Mr. Hamel, then nothing will.”

  “Excellent.” Palmer finished his drink, then got to his feet. “I must run along. I can expect your report then at the end of the week?”

  “You can rely on it, sir.” I got to my feet and shook his hand. “I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”

  I watched him bounce across the terrace and move out of sight. Then I looked over at the tennis courts. Nancy and Penny had finished playing and were putting on their sweaters. I waited. Talking together, the two women came towards me.

  “Have a drink, Penny?” Nancy said as they were a few yards from me.

  “Can’t stop, honey. I’m late as it is. See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Penny hurried away, and Nancy went over to a distant table and sat down. A waiter reached her, took her order and made fo
r the bar.

  This seemed to me to be the right time. I waited until the waiter had brought a Tom Collins which he set on the table, waited until Nancy had signed, and waited until the waiter moved away. Then I walked up to her and gave her my respectful smile.

  “Mrs. Hamel. I am Bart Anderson. I have just been talking to Mel Palmer who is, as you know, your husband’s agent.”

  She leaned back in her chair and regarded me. Her cool, dark eyes showed interest, mixed with surprise.

  “You know Mr. Palmer?”

  “Sure.” I gave her my tentative smile. “You play a fine game of tennis, Mrs. Hamel. I was watching.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Well, not in your class. That backhand of yours really rips them in.”

  I could see from her slight change of expression, she had lost interest in me. I was sure I wouldn’t be invited to sit down, so I sat down. I believe positive action gets the business. , She was startled to find me sitting at her side, but, after a very brief moment, when she had stiffened, she relaxed, but her eyes were cool and her expression unfriendly.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mrs. Hamel, I said in my most gentle voice. “I am in a quandary.”

  As she regarded me, she stiffened.

  “I am sorry Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

  “Bart Anderson.”

  “Mr. Anderson, I don’t know you, and I am not interested in any quandary you may be in. I can’t imagine why you should want to talk to me. I have no inclination to talk to you.” I pasted on my patient smile. Maybe she wasn't going to be that easy to handle.

  “You have a point, Mrs. Hamel. If I hadn’t your interests at heart, I would now fold my tent and creep away, but may I suggest you give me a hearing?”

  “If you don’t leave me immediately, I will call a waiter!” The snap in her voice warned me she meant just what she was saying.

  So I had to give it to her the hard way. I took out my business card and placed it on the table so she could read it.

  “Your husband has hired me to watch you, Mrs. Hamel.”

  Man! Did that hit her where she lived! The colour went out of her face, her eyes receded into her face, and she shrivelled. For a long moment, she remained motionless, staring at the card, then I saw a little shiver run through her.

  I gave her time. I didn’t sit, gloating. I looked away at a dizzy dish who was crossing the terrace to the pool. She was long legged, high breasted and blonde: the kind of babe I like to bed with when my wallet is stuffed with the green. I watched her swing her tail, and I wasn’t the only one watching. The fat, old finks with white hair on their chests and knotted veins in their spindly legs were also watching.

  When the dish had tail-wagged herself out of sight, I turned to look at Nancy.

  She still sat motionless, staring down at my business card.

  “To understand the situation,” I said, keeping my voice low and gentle, “I think you should read these two letters your husband has received. They are the reason why he has hired me to watch you.”

  She looked up then. Her eyes were like holes in a white sheet.

  I took the two letters from my wallet, took them from their envelopes and placed them on the table.

  She picked them up. The blue tinted paper rustled in her trembling fingers. I lit a cigarette and waited. I had all the time in the world. A setup like this should never be hurried. I didn’t watch her, but shifted my eyes to an elderly couple who had sat down, four tables away. The woman, nudging sixty, was a dyed blonde. She had crushed her fat into a bikini. The man was dyed black.

  He had breasts like a woman, and body hair a chimp might envy.

  People! I thought. The Oldies! They hang on with grim tenacity. The graveyard is around the corner, but they stay in the ring, feebly punching.

  Nancy laid the letters back on the table.

  “My husband wrote those letters,” she said. “Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading character in the book he is now writing.”

  I gaped at her. For a long moment, I sat as still as she was sitting. Then I pulled myself together.

  “Mrs. Hamel . . . there must be some mistake.”

  “There is no mistake. My husband uses this notepaper. I recognize the typing. He wrote these letters.”

  “But why?”

  She looked directly at me.

  “He wanted an excuse to hire a detective.”

  I got back on even keel. He wanted an excuse to hire a detective. My brain raced. Could be, but why have his wife watched?

  I picked up the letters, folded them and put them back in my wallet, my brain still racing. I was aware she was now watching me. I kept my expression deadpan.

  “There are complications, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally.

  “As I told you, I am in a quandary. I have been watching you for the past four days. I am supposed to turn in a report, covering your movements at the end of the week.”

  Still very tense, she looked straight at me.

  “What complications?” she asked, her voice husky. “Send in your report. It can contain nothing that would upset my husband,” and she made a move to get up.

  “Don’t go, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “Two days ago, I followed you in your yacht in a chopper to the pirates’ islands.”

  She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists.

  “So you see, Mrs. Hamel, I am in a quandary,” I went on, watching her. “I came across Aldo Pofferi, a wanted murderer, on the island. You and your crewman, Jones, got Pofferi and his wife off the island. I even know where they are hiding. If I turned in a report covering these facts, don’t you think your husband would be upset?”

  She sat still, looking down at her clenched fists. She sat like that for several minutes while I waited. I could afford to give her plenty of time to think what to do. I knew I had her over a barrel. This wasn’t the moment to put on pressure. I wanted her to come to the right decision without a nudge from me.

  Finally, she said, “Are you sending in this report?”

  “That’s just it, Mrs. Hamel. That’s why I am in a quandary. Look at it from my angle.” I paused to give her my friendly, understanding smile. “Mr. Hamel hires me or rather, he hires the Agency I work for. It is going to cost him money. I’m just one of twenty detectives paid by the Agency, and paid badly. Although the Agency regards Mr. Hamel as their client, there is no need for me to regard him as my client. Frankly, Mrs. Hamel, I don’t approve of husbands who distrust their wives. Unfortunately for me, because I have to earn a living, I have to do what I am told by my Agency.” I paused to put on my worried, depressed expression. “So now, perhaps, you see my quandary.”

  She looked away from me.

  “I think so,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s really it, Mrs. Hamel. I have two reports: either of them I could give Mr. Hamel. The first one will satisfy him that he has started something he should never have even contemplated.”

  I took the two reports from my wallet and handed her the first one which stated that I had followed her for four days and had found she was leading a blameless existence.

  She read it.

  “And the other one?”

  I gave it to her. It was in detail: the pirates’ island, Aldo Pofferi, and who he was. Josh Jones. The Alameda bar.

  This time I watched her. As she read, her face became whiter, and her hands were shaking when she put the report down on the table.

  “What am I to do, Mrs. Hamel?” I asked. “You must understand that I should give Mr. Hamel this second report. If I don’t, I could lose my job, and frankly, I can’t afford to lose my job. I would like to be helpful. As I’ve said, I don’t approve of husbands distrusting their wives. But there it is. . .my quandary.”

  She sat still, again staring down at her hands. I waited, but as she said nothing, I decided to help her.

  “Of course, if you hired me to look after your interests, Mrs. Hamel, I would be relieved of my quandary. I would no longe
r be working for Mr. Hamel. I could be working for you. I would then send in the first report without any problems . . . if I were working for you.”

  She moved, then looked up from her hands, but not at me.

  “I understand,” she said. “Would you work for me?”

  Nearly home, I told myself. Like any sale, the payoff hinged on the price. We hadn’t got that far, but we were nearing it.

  “I would be happy to, Mrs. Hamel.” I even surprised myself how sincere I sounded.

  “What would your services entail?” She was now looking steadily at me. The cold, contemptuous expression in her eyes slightly dented my ego.

  “Well, of course, Mr. Hamel would receive the first, negative report and not the second damaging report,” I said. “Then I would, if Mr. Hamel was still not satisfied, give him more negative reports until he was satisfied.”

  She waited. I waited. I had to hitch my smile into place.

  “That’s it, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally, because the silence and the way she was looking at me began to nibble at my nerves.

  “Naturally, you would expect to be paid to work for me,” she said.

  Well, here it was: the payoff.

  “This would be a business transaction, Mrs. Hamel. Yes, I would expect to be paid. I have to live. If it ever got out that I had turned in a false report, I would be in trouble.” I hitched up the smile. “I have a licence. Frankly, that’s about all I do have. To work for you, Mrs. Hamel, would be putting my licence on the line. If I lost that, I would be out in the cold, cold world. That is, no other agency would employ me. So . . .I would be taking a considerable risk if I worked for you.”

  “What would I have to pay?” Her voice was low and her eyes narrowed. “Although my husband is wealthy, I have very little personal money.”

  I put my smile to bed and gave her, instead, my cop stare.

  “Mrs. Hamel, by associating with Italian terrorists, wanted for at least five murders, you have placed yourself in jeopardy. You should have considered the consequences before you opted to give them sanctuary. Why you did this is not my business. You could be arrested and charged with accessory to murder. By helping you, I could also be charged as an accessory. I am offering my help. The payoff is one hundred thousand dollars.”