1979 - A Can of Worms

by James Hadley Chase

  Chick shrugged.

  “Don’t get drowned,” then he left.

  I regarded the envelope, puzzled, then I opened it.

  There was a brief note and a mug shot of a woman. The note ran: I promised to let you have this photo of Aldo Pofferi’s wife, Lucia Pofferi. Keep an eye out for her. Lu.

  I picked up the mug shot and looked at it. It showed a blonde woman of around twenty-four or five who stared at me from the photograph with hard, vicious eyes.

  I felt an explosive shock run through me. If this woman hadn’t been blonde, I would have sworn she was Nancy Hamel! With unsteady fingers, I picked up a felt pen and inked the hair black. Again I stared at the mug shot.

  I had no doubt now.

  This woman, wanted on two murder charges and married to one of the most dangerous Italian terrorists was Nancy Hamel!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fanny Battley, the night clerk in charge of The Paradise City Herald’s morgue, looked up as I entered the big room, lined with folios containing the back editions of the newspaper, and steel cabinets containing a complete record of all the photographs that had appeared in the paper since its inception.

  The Parnell operators often made use of the facilities of the morgue, and we were all well known to Fanny, a lively coloured girl, good at her job and always helpful.

  “Hi, Bart! Don’t tell me you’re still working?” she said with a wide smile of welcome.

  “Hi, Fan!” I came to rest at her desk. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow. I have one little job to clear up.”

  “Lucky you! Where are you going?”

  “Who wants to go anywhere but here? Look, honey, I need a little help. I want to know when and who to and where Russ Hamel, the author, married.”

  “No problem. Sit down.” She waved to a desk. “I’ll bring you what we’ve got.”

  That was the big thing about Fanny. She never asked questions.

  I sat down, lit a cigarette and waited. She went nimbly through a big card index, then crossed over to one of the folios, dragged it out and dumped it on my desk.

  “Have you any photographs of the happy pair?” I asked.

  She produced an envelope from one of the steel cabinets and put it on the desk.

  “That’s all we have, Bart.”

  “Fine, Fan, and thanks.”

  She went back to her desk and resumed card indexing.

  I looked at the photographs. Russ Hamel turned out to be a square faced, heavily built man handsome with greying hair, and with that arrogant look of a rich man who is sure of his success. I concentrated on Nancy s photographs. In all of them, she wore dark, goggle sunglasses that successfully screened her face. Anyone seeing her on the streets wouldn’t have known her by these photographs through the wedding account Interviewed, Hamel said he had met Nancy in Rome. There had been a whirlwind courtship, and they had married two months after their first meeting. Hamel said Nancy was too shy to comment, and he didn’t want her bothered I paused to check dates, and worked out that Hamel had me her eight months ago. I then remembered Coldwell had said she had begun criminal operations with Pofferi eighteen months ago. It occurred to me with feeling of shock, that she was married to Aldo Pofferi when he had married Hamel! Had she married Hamel to get out of Italy after her arrest and murderous escape? I liked this idea. Who would suspect the wife of Russ Hamel to be a wanted terrorist? Satisfied there was nothing else in the article of any use to me, I carried the folio back. “Thanks Fan. “ I gave her the envelope containing the photographs “That about buttons it up. See you around,” and blowing her a kiss, I left her.

  I sat in the Maser and considered my next move.

  Tomorrow, at midday, I was to meet Mrs. Hamel at the Country Club. With my usual optimism I thought there was a slim chance of her producing the money but if she didn’t I was now in a very good position to put on the pressure. To tell her I could now prove she was Lucia Pofferi would surely produce the green This new information needed quiet and careful thought. I decided to return home, put my feet up and exercise my brain. I set the car in motion, and on the way, I stopped at a sandwich bar and bought a pack of sandwiches.

  As I was turning onto the street, leading to my highrise, a small figure darted out of the shadows, frantically waving.

  I stood on the brake pedal and the Maser squealed to a stop.

  Joey appeared at my window.

  “Don’t go home, Mr. Anderson,” he said urgently. “They are waiting for you.”

  Behind me, a car hooted. Joey ran around the Maser, opened the passenger’s door and scrambled in beside me. I eased the car to the kerb.

  “Gone to sleep, birdbrain?” the driver in the car behind me bawled, and drove on.

  “What is it, Joey?” I asked.

  “Diaz and Jones,” Joey said breathlessly. “I followed them. They went to your place. I saw a light flash on and off in your apartment. They are still there.”

  I felt a prickly sensation run up my spine. Nancy had blown the whistle on me! She had gone to Diaz and told him I was twisting her arm! I remembered Al Barney’s warning to keep clear of Diaz and Jones. I broke out into a cold sweat.

  Joey nudged me.

  “I’m looking after you, Mr. Anderson,” he said.

  “You can say that again, Joey. Stay still for a moment. I want to think.”

  “I’m hungry, Mr. Anderson.”

  I saw he had found the pack of sandwiches and was fondling it.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Just relax with the mouth.”

  While he was munching, I considered what I was to do.

  I thought of Pete who had got too close to Diaz and had been ruthlessly wiped out. I remembered I had told Nancy that I had given a statement to my lawyer that would not only incriminate her, but give away Pofferi’s hiding place.

  Maybe Diaz thought I was bluffing and had moved into action. He would be right that I had been bluffing, so now I had to make the bluff stick. I would have to write a complete statement, including the fact that I knew Nancy was Pofferi’s wife. I would then show the statement to Diaz plus a receipt from my lawyer that the original statement was in his hands. In this way, and only this way, would I be able to” draw Diaz’s teeth.

  After further thought, I decided to go to my office and use my typewriter there. I was not, repeat not, returning to my apartment. The agency’s night guard would let me in and I could park the Maser in the underground garage, out of sight.

  “Okay, Joey,” I said. “You get back and watch. When they leave, call me.”

  I gave him my business card.

  With his mouth full, he nodded, staring hard at me with his bright, little eyes. I took the hint and gave him a $20 bill. He grinned, slid out of the car and was away.

  Jackson, the Agency’s night guard, opened the door after I had rung a couple of times.

  “Have you forgotten something, Mr. Anderson,” he asked as I stepped around him and into the reception lobby.

  “Clearing my desk,” I said. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow.”

  “Have a good time, Mr. Anderson.”

  I hope so, I thought. Man! I hope so!

  It took me close on two hours to get my statement right, and I made three copies. I then went along to the typist pool and ran off three photocopies of the mug shots of Pofferi and Nancy, Coldwell had given me.

  Returning to my office, I pinned the mug shots to the copies of the statement, then put them in separate envelopes On each envelope, I typed: To be handed to Chief of Police Terrell in the event of my death or if I go missing.

  I then found a larger envelope and put the envelope containing the top copy of my statement, plus the original mug shots into the larger envelope. I addressed the envelope to Howard Selby, a smart attorney with whom the Agency often did business and who was a good friend of mine. I then wrote him a letter, telling him I was on to a dangerous gang and was collecting evidence against them.

  I wanted him to keep the enclosed envelope (unope
ned) until I had completed my case. I had been threatened, so I was taking out insurance by giving him half the evidence.

  I concluded by saying if he heard of my death or that I had gone missing, he was to give the envelope to Chief of Police Terrell. I wanted a letter from him stating these facts and this letter must reach me at my home address by special messenger before midday tomorrow.

  Selby had offices on the fifth floor of the Trueman building. I took the elevator down and put the letter in his mailbox, then returned to my office.

  The night guard watched these manoeuvres with a blank stare, but he kept from asking questions.

  I sat again behind my desk and managed to grin. At least, I was nearly safe. I put the second envelope between the pages of Robertson’s Law Index and the book into my Scotch bottle drawer. Seeing there was still some Scotch left, I made myself a drink. The third envelope I put in my wallet.

  As I sipped my drink, my thoughts turned once again to owning one hundred thousand dollars. Would Nancy be at the Country Club tomorrow at midday? I rather doubted it. She had gone to Diaz for help. His immediate reaction was to go to my apartment and wait for me. Was he waiting with a gun or waiting to do a deal?

  I finished my drink and was considering pouring another when my telephone came alive.

  Joey said, “They left five minutes ago, Mr. Anderson, and are heading back to the Alameda.”

  “Thanks, Joey. Get some sleep. How’s Jimbo?”

  “He’s watching the Alameda, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Keep watching, Joey. If you have news, call me at my apartment.”

  “Yes Mr. Anderson,” and he rang off.

  I now needed some sleep. I said goodnight to the night guard, went down to the garage and drove home.

  Not a bad day’s work, I thought, as I let myself into my apartment. Tomorrow would be the crunch.

  Looking around, I found nothing had been disturbed.

  There was some cigar ash on the carpet, but otherwise I wouldn’t have known Diaz and Jones had been here.

  Tomorrow! I had already decided what I would do. I was very confident. I shot the bolt on the front door and headed for my bedroom.

  I could almost hear the rustle of the green stuff: my idea of sweet music.

  * * *

  I came awake with a start. Someone was ringing on my front door bell. Cursing, I levered myself out of bed and looked blearily at my watch. The time was 10.35.

  I called through the door: “Who is it?”

  “From Mr. Selby,” a girl’s voice said.

  I opened up and accepted an envelope from one of Selby’s clerks. She was the mousey type who expected to be raped at any moment. She gave me a scared stare and retreated.

  I opened the envelope and took out the letter:

  Dear Bart Anderson,

  This acknowledges that I have an envelope from you on which is written: “To be handed to the Chief of Police Terrell in the event of my death or if I go missing.”

  I have arranged for the envelope’s safekeeping, and will follow out your instructions.

  Yours etc.

  Howard Selby.

  Humming under my breath, I put the letter on my desk, then went into the kitchen and made coffee. I felt I had taken out all the insurance I needed.

  At 11.30, shaved, showered and wearing my fancy cream and blue striped suit, I locked up my apartment and went down to the Maser.

  I drove to the Country Club, parked and wandered into the spacious lobby. The time now was 11.55. I asked the porter if Mrs. Hamel had arrived.

  “No, sir, not yet,” he told me.

  I sat down where I could see the entrance, lit a cigarette and waited. I wasn’t expecting her to show, but I went through the motions. We had a date, but if she didn’t keep it, I would shift to operation B.

  I waited until 12.30, then I went into the restaurant and had the club salad, taking my time. Just to make sure, after my lunch, I wandered down to the tennis courts and around the pool. Nancy Hamel was not in evidence.

  So, operation B.

  Bart, baby, I said to myself, as I walked to the parking lot, you can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without working for it. So work for it.

  I drove down to the waterfront, parked within sight of the Alameda bar, left the car and crossed the crowded waterfront to the Alameda entrance. Pushing aside the bead curtains, I walked into the big room.

  There was a number of waterfront riff-raff up at the bar. Several tourists were eating at the tables. The Mexican waiters were busy, serving.

  The fat barkeep gave me an oily smile as I walked up to the bar.

  “Mr. Diaz,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

  The barkeep’s little eyes widened.

  “You want Mr. Diaz?”

  “You deaf or something?” I gave him a smile to take the curse off it.

  “Mr. Diaz is busy.”

  “So am I. Hurry it up, fatso. Tell him it’s Bart Anderson.”

  He hesitated, then moved down the bar to a telephone.

  He spoke softly, nodded and hung up.

  “Through there,” he said, and pointed to a door at the far end of the room.

  I walked over to the door, opened it and stepped into a room furnished as an office: a desk facing me, filing cabinets to the right and left of me, two telephones on the desk and a smaller desk on which stood a typewriter.

  Sitting behind the bigger desk was a slim, middle-aged man who regarded me with glittering, flat eyes a cobra might envy. His thick, well-oiled black hair grew down to his collar. He had a black moustache that climbed down either side of his face to his chin. Looking at him, I saw why Al Barney had warned me about him. As Barney had said, this Mexican was a very tough hombre.

  “Mr. Diaz?” I said, closing the door and leaning against it.

  He nodded, found a matchstick and began to probe his teeth.

  “Are you acting for Lucia Pofferi?” I asked, watching him.

  His face remained deadpan.

  “You’ve got a wrong number,” he said.

  “Maybe you are acting for Nancy Hamel?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I had a date with her at the Country Club. She didn’t show.”

  He lifted his shoulders and looked bored.

  “I was expecting her to hand over a lump of the green,” I said. “No green.”

  Again he lifted his shoulders and looked more bored.

  I saw this was going to take a little time. I pulled an upright chair up to his desk and sat astride it. Then I took out the envelope containing a copy of my detailed statement and dropped it in front of him.

  He eyed it and read what I had written on it. “Are you expecting to die?” he asked quietly.

  “Well, Pete Lewinski did. No, I’m not expecting to die now.”

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Go ahead and read what’s in the envelope. It’s for you to keep. After you’ve read it, maybe you’ll stop acting like a fugitive from a B movie, and start talking sense.”

  His eyes gleamed, but his face remained expressionless.

  Then he picked up a thin bladed knife lying on his desk, slit open the envelope and extracted the typewritten pages.

  I lit a cigarette and watched him. He first examined the mug shots. They might have been blank bits of paper for all the impact they appeared to make on him. Then leaning back in his chair, he read through the five pages of typewriting, his face still expressionless.

  I would hate to play poker with him, I thought as I waited.

  Finally he laid down the sheets of paper and looked at me.

  “And there is this,” I said, and handed him Howard Selby’s receipt.

  This he studied, then placed it on top of the statement.

  “Smells very strongly of blackmail,” he said. “Could get you fifteen years.”

  “That’s a fact. Could get her twenty years in a smelly Italian jail, could get Pofferi the s
ame, could get you five years for harbouring dangerous criminals.”

  He reached in a box and took out a Havana cigar. He bit off the end, spat, then lit up carefully.

  “What had you in mind, Mr. Anderson?”

  “She told you. Let’s have some action. Breathing the same air as you, Diaz, is bad for my health.”

  He blew smoke at me.

  “She mentioned a hundred thousand,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I told her that was bluff.”

  “Call it, and see what happens. It’s a hundred thousand or I blow the whistle.”

  “And land in jail.”

  “It won’t come to that. She’ll find the money. I have an ace against your king.” I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette in his ashtray. “Think about it. How much has she raised already?”

  “Enough to pay you off if you play smart.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  I shook my head.

  “One hundred is better.”

  He opened a drawer in his desk and began to put packets of $100 bills in front of me. He made a line of five packets. Then again from the drawer he took out a leather document case.

  “Fifty thousand, Mr. Anderson, and I will throw in this very fine case,” he said.

  I stared at the money and felt my hands turn clammy. I had never seen so much money in one lump, and the sight of all that green really turned me on.

  “Seventy-five,” I said, my voice a croak.

  “Fifty, Mr. Anderson. Act smart. She’s scraped the barrel.”

  He began putting the packets info the document case and I just sat there, hypnotized. I knew I should bargain, but I also knew I hadn’t really believed it would be as easy as this: I didn’t really believe I would get anything. I had dreamed of laying my hands on big money, but up to this moment, I knew I had been kidding myself. Now, here I was being handed fifty thousand dollars! I could scarcely believe it.

  He pushed the loaded case across his desk towards me.

  “Don’t come back for more, Mr. Anderson,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes menacing. “Blackmailers are greedy, but this is the final payment. Okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, and pushed back my chair.