1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  Hit Them Where It Hurts

  James Hadley Chase

  1984

  CHAPTER 1

  My name is Dirk Wallace: unmarried, pushing 40 years of age, tall, dark, with a face that, so far, doesn’t frighten the kiddies. I am one of the twenty operators working for the Acme Detective Agency which is housed on the top floor of the Trueman Building, Paradise Avenue, Paradise City, Florida.

  The Acme Detective Agency is the most expensive and best agency on the east coast of the USA. Founded by Colonel Victor Parnell, a Vietnam war veteran, some six years ago, the agency had prospered. Parnell had been smart enough to realise that sooner or later many of the billionaires living in Paradise City would soon need the services of a top class detective agency. The agency specialised in divorce, parents’ problems, blackmail, extortion, hotel swindles, husband and wife watching, and pretty near everything short of mayhem and murder.

  The twenty operators, most of us ex-cops or ex-military police, work in pairs. Each pair has an office, and unless there is an emergency, the operators know nothing about the work done by their colleagues. This system is to prevent leaks to the press. Should there be a leak, and it happened once, both operators working on the case are given the gate.

  Having worked for the agency for the past eighteen months I had been promoted and given an office of my own, but my assistant, ex-Deputy Sheriff Bill Anderson, also had a desk in my office.

  Bill Anderson was pint-sized, but he had plenty of muscle and beef around his shoulders.

  He had been a big help to me sorting out a tricky case when I had been sent to Searle to find a missing youngster. Then he had been deputy sheriff and was longing to join the agency. Because of his help I cracked the case and in return I got him into the agency.

  In every way Bill Anderson proved invaluable to me. He didn’t care what hours he worked, and in this racket this is important. He was top class at ferreting out information I needed, saving me dreary hours of research. When we weren’t working, he explored the city, and became an expert on restaurants, nightclubs, and the lower strata of the waterfront. The toughs, to their cost, ignored him because of his size. Tiny as he is, his punch would knock over an elephant.

  This morning in July we were sitting in my office, waiting for action. It was raining and humid. Only the elderly residents remained in the city: the rich visitors and the tourists waited until September.

  Anderson, chewing gum, was writing a letter home. With my feet on my desk, I was thinking of Suzy. She and I had met some six months ago, and we had liked each other on sight.

  Suzy Long was a receptionist at the Bellevue Hotel. I had made an enquiry about a creep, staying there, who was a suspected blackmailer.

  Once I had explained the set-up to Suzy, she was helpful and I got enough evidence to pass to the cops, and the creep got five years in the slammer.

  Suzy had long, glossy brown hair with a hint of red in her tresses, grey eyes and a lively, almost mischievous smile. She was built the way I liked girls to be built: full-breasted, tiny waist, voluptuous hips and long legs. We got together, and now had a standing date for dinner at a modest seafood restaurant every Wednesday night when she had a night off from the hotel. After eating, we went back to her tiny apartment and rolled together on her rather too small bed. This went on for three months or so, then we both realised we were really in love with each other. During my life as an operator I had had a score of women, but now Suzy meant more to me than any other woman. I suggested it could be an idea for us to get married. She had given her mischievous smile, shaking her head. ‘Not yet, Dirk,’ she had said. ‘I like the idea, but I have a good, well paid job, and if I married you I would have to give it up. Your hours of work and mine just don’t jell. Not yet, my love, but later.’

  I had to be content with that, so, today being Wednesday, I was thinking of the fun she and I would have tonight, when my intercom buzzed.

  I turned the switch down and said, ‘Wallace.’

  ‘Will you come to my office, please?’ I recognised Glenda Kerry’s harsh voice.

  Glenda Kerry was the colonel’s secretary and right hand. Tall, good-looking, dark, she was alarmingly efficient. When she said, ‘Come,’ you went.

  I walked fast down the long corridor to her office. The colonel was away in Washington.

  Glenda was in charge. I tapped on her door, entered to find her at her desk, looking immaculate in white blouse and black shirt.

  ‘An assignment has come in,’ she said as I sat down, facing her. ‘Mrs. Henry Thorsen telephoned. She wants an operator to call on her at twelve this morning when she will explain her requirements. She asked for an intelligent, decently dressed man.’

  ‘So you immediately thought of me,’ I said.

  ‘I thought of you because all operators except you have cases,’ Glenda said curtly. ‘Does the name Henry Thorsen mean anything to you?’

  I shrugged

  ‘Can’t say it does. Is he important?’

  Glenda sighed.

  ‘He is dead. Mrs. Thorsen has been a widow for a year. She is extremely wealthy and has a lot of clout. Handle her with kid gloves. All I can tell you is she’s difficult. Go, find out what she wants.’ She pushed a slip of paper across her desk. ‘That’s her address. Be there at twelve sharp. We can use some of the Thorsen money, so go along with her.’

  ‘I just call on her, listen, say amen to everything. Right?’

  Glenda nodded.

  ‘That’s it. Then report to me.’

  Her telephone began to ring, so I picked up the slip of paper and returned to my office.

  ‘We have a job, Bill,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Henry Thorsen wants an operator. I want you to go to the Herald’s morgue and dig out all you can about the Thorsens. I’m seeing the old trout at twelve. We’ll meet here around four o’clock. Have information for me.’

  Bill bounced out of his chair. This was the kind of job he liked.

  ‘See you,’ he said, and took off.

  I arrived at the Thorsens’ residence three minutes before twelve.

  The imposing looking house was set in two acres of woodland and lawns with a drive up to a tarmac for parking. It was one of the few houses that really had seclusion.

  The house looked as if it had at least fifteen bedrooms and spacious living rooms with terraces.

  I climbed steps to the front entrance with double doors and a hanging chain bell which I tugged.

  I had a five-minute wait before one of the doors opened cautiously, and I was confronted by a tall black man wearing a white coat, a black bow tie and black trousers. He was at a guess close on seventy years of age. His woolly white hair was receding.

  I saw by his bloodshot eyes and the sagging muscles of his face that he was a bottle-hitter.

  I haven’t been a private eye for more than twenty years without recognising the signs.

  ‘Dirk Wallace,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Thorsen is expecting me. The Acme Detective Agency.’

  He inclined his head in agreement and stood aside.

  ‘This way, sir,’ he said, and with an attempt at dignity, but with lurching steps, he led me through a big lobby and to a door which he opened. ‘Madam will be here soon,’ he said, and waved me into a vast room furnished with antiques and some massive pictures, and with as much comfort as a waiting room in a railroad station.

  I moved to the big window and regarded the vast stretch of closely cut lawn and the trees and in the dis
tance the grey, sullen, rain swollen clouds.

  I wondered how long this drunken butler would take to tell Mrs. Thorsen I had arrived.

  It took twenty-five minutes by my watch. By that time I had sized up the oil paintings, priced the antique furniture and become generally bored. Then the door opened and Mrs. Henry Thorsen swept in.

  I had expected to see a fat, overdressed, elderly woman, the likes of whom you see everywhere in the city.

  Mrs. Henry Thorsen was tall, slim, and self-conscious with steel-grey hair, a rather kind face with good features, and piercing grey eyes which matched her immaculate hairdo.

  She regarded me as she closed the door. No smile. A lift of plucked eyebrows, the eyes going over me with a scrutiny that made me feel I had left my zipper undone.

  ‘Mr. Wallace?’ Her voice was harsh and cold.

  ‘That’s correct,’ I said.

  She waved to a chair.

  ‘Sit down. This need not keep me long.’

  The atmosphere was every bit as warm and friendly as a funeral.

  Glenda had warned me to treat this woman with kid gloves, so, with a little bow; I took the hellishly uncomfortable chair she had indicated.

  Then she proceeded to move around the room, adjusting one expensive looking knick-knack after another. From behind, she had a figure of a woman half her age. I guessed she was around 56, maybe more, but she had certainly taken care of her body.

  I waited. I am good at waiting. Waiting is part of an operator’s business.

  She reached the far end of the room, turned and paused, and again regarded me. I met her steady scrutiny with one of my own.

  Although we were now some thirty feet apart, her cold, harsh voice reached me.

  ‘I have been told your agency is the best on the east coast,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be working for it if it wasn’t, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I said.

  She began to walk towards me. Her movements flowed like gentle water.

  ‘Then I suppose, Mr. Wallace, you consider yourself a good operator.’

  The sneer in her voice irritated me.

  ‘No I don’t consider myself a good operator,’ I said, an edge to my voice. ‘I am a good operator.’

  She was now within six feet of me. She again stared thoughtfully at me, then nodded and sat down on one of the God-awful antique chairs that could give you a twisted spine and certainly corns on your ass.

  ‘I have reason to believe that my daughter is being blackmailed,’ she said, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap. ‘I understand you people are good with cases of blackmail.’

  ‘None better, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I said, my face and voice deadpan.

  ‘I want you to find out why my daughter is being blackmailed and who the blackmailer is.’

  ‘With your cooperation, this should be no problem,’ I said. ‘Will you tell me what reasons you have to think your daughter is being blackmailed?’

  ‘My daughter is drawing ten thousand dollars a month in cash from her account. This has become a regular withdrawal for the past ten months.’ She frowned down at her hands. ‘Mr. Ackland has become worried, and was good enough to alert me.’

  ‘Mr. Ackland?’

  ‘He is the family’s banker: the Pacific & National. He and my late husband were very close friends.’

  ‘Your daughter has an income of her own and her own account?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. My late husband was fond of Angela, our daughter. He left her a large sum of money in trust. The monthly income from this trust is fifteen thousand. This is, of course, an absurd amount of money for a girl of her age.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought it abnormal for a girl of 24, with an income of fifteen thousand a month, to spend ten thousand a month, but you will be able to enlighten me.’

  ‘It is certainly abnormal,’ Mrs. Thorsen said sharply. ‘I must tell you that Angela is not a normal girl. Unfortunately, she was a measles-baby.’ She paused to stare at me with those probing grey eyes. ‘You understand?’

  ‘Sure. It happens. The mother, when pregnant, catches measles, and it affects the baby.’

  ‘Exactly. Angela is greatly retarded. She had to have a tutor, but even then, she has scarcely any education. It wasn’t until she was twenty years of age that she showed signs of growing up. My husband made this absurd provision for her. For the first two months she showed no interest in the monthly income, then she began drawing these big sums every month. Mr. Ackland, who is a dear friend of mine, became uneasy, and only last week he decided to consult me. He suggested to me that Angela was being blackmailed. He is very astute. I rely on him.’

  ‘To get the record straight, Mrs. Thorsen, I understand Mr. Thorsen died twelve months ago. Your daughter then came into this income, and has been drawing ten thousand dollars a month for the past ten months. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But for the first two months she didn’t use the money?’

  ‘According to Mr. Ackland she spent two thousand a month to keep herself and pay the black woman who looks after her.’

  ‘Your daughter lives with you?’

  Mrs. Thorsen stiffened.

  ‘Certainly not! We are not close. As well as this absurd trust, my husband left her a cottage at the far end of the estate. She lives there with a black woman who does all the housework and provides meals. I haven’t seen Angela for some weeks. She wouldn’t mix with my social circle. Unfortunately, she is not attractive. She is a hopeless conversationalist.’

  ‘Does she have friends of her own?’

  ‘I have no idea. She lives her life, I live mine.’

  ‘Would there be boyfriends? Maybe a special boyfriend?’

  Mrs. Thorsen looked sour.

  ‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is unattractive.’

  ‘But she is rich, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I pointed out. ‘Lots of men can put up with unattractive girls if they have money.’

  ‘Both Mr. Ackland and I have thought of that. That is for you to find out.’

  ‘That I can certainly do,’ I said. ‘I would like to know a little more about your daughter. Have you any idea how she passes her time: does she swim, play tennis, go dancing?’

  Mrs. Thorsen shrugged impatiently.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. As I told you we seldom meet.’

  I began to dislike this woman: as a mother she wouldn’t get my nomination for an Oscar.

  ‘She is the only child?’

  Mrs. Thorsen stiffened, and her eyes flashed.

  ‘I had a son, but we need not discuss him. All it is necessary to say about him is that he left home some time ago. I am glad to say I haven’t seen him nor heard from him since he left. He certainly doesn’t come into this problem I have with Angela.’

  ‘Would you have any objection to my seeing Mr. Ackland?’

  ‘None at all. Mr. Ackland has my complete confidence. In fact, it was he who suggested I should seek your help. See him by all means.’

  ‘How about your daughter? I would have to see her.’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow is the first of the month. She is certain to go to the bank. Mr. Ackland will arrange for you to see her, but on no account are you to approach her or speak to her. I don’t want Angela to know that she is being investigated, nor do I want anyone, except Mr. Ackland, to know either. I understand your agency is most discreet.’

  ‘You can be sure of that, Mrs. Thorsen.’ I got to my feet. ‘I will see Mr. Ackland this afternoon. When I have something to tell you, I will contact you.’

  ‘I trust you won’t take long. I find your charges excessive.’

  ‘We have a lot of work on hand, Mrs. Thorsen. You can be sure we will be as quick as we can to give you the information you want.’

  ‘When you have this information, kindly telephone for an appointment. I lead a very busy life.’ She waved to the door. ‘Wi
ll you see yourself out? Smedley, my butler, is a drunkard, and I disturb him as little as possible.’

  ‘Are you thinking of getting rid of him, Mrs. Thorsen?’ I asked at the door.

  She lifted her eyebrows and gave me a cold stare.

  ‘Smedley has been with the family for over thirty years. He knows my habits, and is good with the silver. He also amuses my friends. Until his condition worsens, I will keep him. Good day, Mr. Wallace.’

  I let myself out of the silent house, closing the front door behind me, then ran through the steady rain to my car.

  After a hamburger lunch, I drove to the Pacific & National Bank, arriving there at 15.00.

  The bank couldn’t be faulted. It looked rich: it had two alert-looking security guards, the tellers were behind bulletproof glass. There were vases of flowers and a heavy pile carpet.

  The air conditioner hummed softly.

  Under the cold scrutiny of the two guards, I crossed to a desk which carried a banner: RECEPTION. Sitting behind the desk was an elderly, prune-faced woman who regarded me without enthusiasm. I could see by her expression that she had been trained to smell money, and there was no smell of money coming from me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr. Ackland,’ I said.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’

  I took from my wallet one of my professional cards and laid it before her.

  ‘Give him this and he’ll see me.’

  The woman regarded the card, then stared at me.

  ‘Mr. Ackland is busy. What is your business?’

  ‘If you are that curious,’ I said, ‘telephone Mrs. Henry Thorsen who will explain everything to you, but, on the other hand, she might make your future life disagreeable.’ I gave her my wide friendly smile. ‘Take a chance: telephone her.’

  Mrs. Henry Thorsen’s name appeared to ring an alarm bell in her mind. She picked up my card, got to her feet and walked away, her head held high, her back rigid.

  One of the security guards moved a little closer. I winked at him, and he immediately shifted his stare, fingered the butt of his gun, then moved away.

  Minutes ticked by while I watched the elderly rich pay in money, draw out money, and talk to the tellers who gushed, bowed and did everything servile except stand on their heads.