1977 - My Laugh Comes Last Read online

  'He'll thank you. I swear he will!' I was shouting now.

  ‘You know he trusts me! This is an emergency! Now, come on, Lois! Give me the number!'

  There was a long pause, then she said, 'It's 333-447-7880. I must go or I'll miss my train,' and she hung up.

  I scribbled the number down on a memo pad, lying on the desk. 333 was the code number of Pennon Bay, a small beach resort some ten miles from Sharnville. Bill Dixon and I had once considered renting one of the many beach cabins there with the idea we could work together Sundays, and sunbathe at the same time. I had gone down there, but had decided there were too many screaming children around to allow us to work in peace. I remembered the Bay: sand, sea, palm trees, well-appointed bungalows, and a couple of decent restaurants. When I had inspected a few of the bungalows with the estate agent, I had thought many of them could be love nests, although most of them were weekend family accommodations. The more isolated bungalows, which I was sure were love nests, the agent told me regretfully weren't for rent.

  My hands unsteady, I picked up the telephone book and flicked through the pages until I came to Pennon Bay. There were not more than two hundred entries. Carefully, I went down the list of numbers until I came to 447-7880.

  Miss Sheila Vance, 14, Sea Road.

  Brannigan's mistress?

  Picking up the telephone receiver, I dialled the number.

  I listened to the ringing tone for over a minute, then I hung up. I looked at my watch. The time now was 09.25.

  I had to see Brannigan! I had to throw this whole mess into his lap! I was beyond caring what would happen to me. I couldn't care less if he took the occasional weekend away from his wife, and found consolation with another woman. He had done so much for me in the past, and I felt that if I told him the whole sick story, he would help me . . . no one else could!

  Leaving the house, I ran to my car, climbed in and started the engine. As I reversed to drive down the dirt road, I thought of the four men, trapped in the vault, then I thought of Glenda. Well, they were trapped. At least, her murder would be avenged!

  At the end of the dirt road, I had a long, impatient wait before I could drive on to the highway. Already families were driving to the beaches. The usual Saturday morning exodus from Sharnville was on.

  Finally, I was on the highway, but my progress was slow.

  Cars, with inflated rubber boats strapped to their roofs, were almost bumper to bumper. Kids, leaning out of car windows, screamed and yelled, anticipating the excitement of the sea.

  Bored-looking husbands, sitting behind the driving wheels, turned, from time to time, to swear at their children, while harassed-looking mothers, dragged the kids back on to their seats. It was a typical Sharnville Saturday morning.

  Ahead, were Hampton Bay, Bay Greek, Little Cove, Happy Bay, and then Pennon Bay,

  The most popular Bay was Little Gove. Once past the turn-off to Little Cove, the traffic thinned and I could increase speed. Only one car signalled to turn left at Pennon Bay. I followed it down the sandy road that led to the beach.

  The car, ahead of me, pulled up outside a deluxe bungalow, facing the sea, and four kids tumbled out, and ran yelling across the sand while the driver got out to open the gate leading to the garage.

  I kept on until I reached a parking bay, then got out of my car. I had no idea where to find Sea Road. I looked to right and left, then seeing a youngish man in swim shorts coming my way, I stopped him and asked.

  'Sea Road?' He was overweight, and had a mat of black hair on his chest. He looked as intelligent as an amputated leg. 'Sea Road?' He scratched his hairy chest. 'Yeah . . . Sea Road.' He frowned. ‘Yeah . . . you go straight ahead, turn left, and you're on it.'

  'Thanks,' I said.

  ‘You're welcome. Have a nice day,' and he plodded away towards the sea.

  I started off down the road, then as I was about to turn left, I heard a voice calling. I stopped and turned.

  The hairy-chested man was running after me.

  "Bud, I'm sorry. You want Sea Road . . . right?'

  The sun was now up, and in my city clothes, I was sweating.

  ‘Yes.’

  'My error, bud. You turn right.'

  I could have strangled him.

  ‘You mean I go back to the intersection, and take the right-hand road?'

  He scratched his chest, frowned, then nodded.

  ‘Yep. You've got it, bud.' As I started back, he said, ‘you got kids, bud?'

  Without pausing, I said no.

  'If you knew how lucky you are . . . ' His voice faded away as I kept on.

  The bungalows along this beach road were more deluxe than the others I had passed. They stood in fair-sized gardens which were screened either by laurel hedges or stone walls. None of the bungalows had numbers: just names like The Nest, Happy Home, You & Me: crazy names people dream up for their houses.

  I had walked some hundred yards when I came upon a teenage girl, swinging on the gate leading to a big bungalow.

  She was pencil thin, fair and wore jeans and a sweat shirt.

  She regarded me with worldly eyes and an impish grin..

  'Hello,' she said.

  I paused.

  "I'm looking for 14 Sea Road.'

  Her grin turned to a sly little smile. 'Are you looking for Sheila?'

  'That's right. Do you know her?'

  She pouted, 'My mum won't let me talk to her. I say hello to her when my mum's not around.'

  Fishing for information, I asked, ‘what's your mum got against her?'

  The girl wrinkled her nose,

  'My mum's square. Just because Sheila has a boyfriend or two, my mum says she's a whore.'

  'Where do I find her place?'

  Again the sly little smile.

  'If I were you, I wouldn't go there right now. She's got her fat friend with her. He's old and horrid looking, but her real boyfriend is super. When Sheila doesn't want to swim, he comes swimming with me. When my mum's not around,' and she giggled.

  Still fishing, I asked, 'How do you know he is her real boyfriend? Her fat friend could be her real boyfriend, couldn't he?'

  ‘That's a load of crap. The fat one comes only once a month, but Harry lives with her.'

  'Harry?'

  I felt a cold chill run over me. Then I told myself Harry was a common name, but instinct warned me to probe, 'Harry - tall, thin with a beard?'

  Her eyes opened wide.

  ‘Sure, do you know him?' Holding the gate with one hand as she swung backwards and forwards, she tossed her long fair hair off her shoulders. 'What's your name? How did you meet Harry?'

  ‘You haven't told me where I can find Sheila.'

  'Right at the end of the road. It's the only bungalow with a number. When did you meet Harry?'

  A raucous voice bawled from somewhere: 'Jenny! Come in at once!'

  The girl grimaced, 'that's my mum. See you,' and climbing off the gate, she ran away towards the bungalow.

  As I started down the sandy road, I was asking myself what was going on. I told myself I mustn't jump to conclusions. There could be hundreds of bearded men called Harry.

  My mind in a turmoil, I hurried on. At the end of the road was a high laurel hedge, screening a bungalow. On the gate was the number 14. I pushed open the gate and looked into the big garden. Ahead of me, up a crazy path was a lowlying, biggish bungalow. I walked quickly up the path until I reached the front door.

  What kind of reception would I receive when Brannigan found I had tracked him down to his love nest? I hesitated for a brief moment, then thumbed the bell push.

  Somewhere inside the bungalow, I heard the bell ring.

  Then, after a brief moment, the door jerked open.

  Standing in the doorway, wearing white pyjamas, her red hair tousled, her big, green eyes wide, was Glenda.

  A bunch of kids, dressed in cowboy outfits, burst into the garden. The toy guns they carried were perfect replicas of the real thing. As they shot at each othe
r, the snapping bark of their guns was horribly realistic.

  Two of the kids fell down, clutching at their chests, their legs jerking as they simulated violent death. One of the other kids, his face snarling, rah over to them and shot at them, screaming: You're dead . . . you're dead!'

  Then leaving the two, now lying still, the rest of them charged back on to the road, and went, yelling, towards the sea.

  The sight of Glenda, and this sudden invasion of noise, paralysed me. I could only stand motionless, staring at her, seeing the two kids get to their feet.

  One pointed his gun at me and fired.

  "You're dead!' he yelled, fired again, then he and his companion charged after the others.

  'Glenda!' I managed to say.

  Her face was the colour of tallow. Her eyes were terror-stricken. Slowly, she backed away as if she were seeing a ghost, her hand to her mouth. She half moaned to herself: 'Oh, my God! My God!'

  'Glenda!'

  I took a step forward.

  With a stifled scream, she turned and stumbled down the long passage, threw open a door on her right, stumbled inside the room and slammed the door.

  My mind wouldn't work. I stood in the doorway, unable to move. I had been so sure Klaus had had her murdered.

  The shock of finding her alive, and even worse, the realization that the sight of me had reduced her to terrifying panic, crushed me.

  I stood there, looking down the passage at the closed door behind which she was. Somewhere in the bungalow a clock began to chime. Standing there, feeling the sun on my back, I counted the chimes. It was now 11.00. The clock chimes brought my mind into focus. I moved into the passage, and closed the front door. I walked down the passage, reached the door to the room , where Glenda was, turned the handle, but found the door locked.

  'Glenda!' I shouted. 'Let me in! You have nothing to be frightened about. Glenda . . . please!'

  A gravelly voice said, behind me, 'Leave her alone, Larry. She's had a shock.'

  I spun around.

  Farrell Brannigan stood in the passage. He was wearing a white open-neck shirt and blue slacks. Although casually dressed, he still exuded all the authority of the President of the largest banking syndicate in California.

  'Come on, son,' he said. ‘We have things to talk about. Just let her alone for a while. Women need to get over a shock like this.'

  Bewildered, and off balance, I hesitated, then followed him into the big living-room, comfortably furnished with lounging chairs, settees and a big desk.

  'Now, Larry,' Brannigan said quietly as he moved behind the desk, 'just so you don't get wrong ideas about Glenda and myself, I will tell you in confidence that she is my illegitimate daughter.'

  I stared at him, feeling a wave of relief go through me.

  His daughter! My reaction, when I had seen her standing in the doorway, had been that she was Sheila Vance, Brannigan's mistress.

  "Your daughter?' I said, continuing to stare at him.

  He dropped into the big chair behind the desk, then took a cigar from a box as he waved me to a chair, 'Come on, Larry, sit down. I've some history to tell you.'

  Even more bewildered, I sat down. He was as calm as if he were presiding at a board meeting.

  'I'm going to tell you something in strict confidence, Larry,' he went on, 'Not a word to anyone else. I know I can trust you. Right?'

  'Glenda is your daughter?’

  He nodded, 'That's it. Glenda's mother was a secretary of mine. This was twenty-six years ago.' He puffed smoke. 'I had been married for a few months. Merle, as you know is occupied with her health. She never gave me any bed satisfaction.'

  He pointed his cigar at me. 'A man wants bed satisfaction. That's what marriage is all about. That, and companionship.' He drew on his cigar, then went on, 'What no one knows, Larry, is that it is Merle's money that gave me my start. I'm putting the cards on the table. If she wasn't so rich, I wouldn't have married her. I wanted money, so I married her. Merle was difficult. She is one of these women who is above sex. I got nothing from her, so, after a while, I began to screw around. What man wouldn't? Let's look at it, Larry. There are two things in a man's life: money and screwing.'

  As I didn't say anything, he went on, 'Stupidly I screwed my secretary, Anne, Glenda's mother. Anne was a nice girl . . . a decent girl. She died giving birth to Glenda.' He heaved a sigh. 'I found I had a baby daughter on my hands. I knew if Merle heard about it, she would divorce me, and I would lose her financial backing. I wanted my daughter. Merle would never give me children. I found two worthy people to take care of Glenda, and from time to time, I saw her.' He puffed more smoke. 'You probably won't realize how a man feels when he has a daughter, but never mind. You could learn. I saw Glenda once a month as she grew up. She lacked for nothing. I gave her the best education. I even taught her to play golf. I bought her this place so we could meet from time to time. We met at some out-of-the-way golf course, and played. Then something went wrong. Maybe, she didn't see enough of me. There were times when I was so goddamn busy, I didn't see her more than three times a year. I don't know, but something went wrong. This man Harry Brett came into her life. I knew sooner or later, some man would come, but I hoped that whoever it was, he would be better than Brett. Whenever I can, I come here, and spend a weekend with her, as I'm doing now. I alert her, and she gets rid of Brett.' He moved back his chair and crossed one heavy leg over the other. 'Now, there's a change, Larry.' He looked at me soberly, the relaxed President at the board table, his cigar between his thick fingers, expensive Havana smoke in the air, 'A big change,' he went on. 'She is now in love with you. She doesn't want Brett anymore. She wants you.' He leaned forward to touch off the ash from his cigar into the ash bowl. 'At the moment, son, the situation is difficult, but I feel sure you and I can sort it out. What you must keep in mind is that my daughter loves you, needs you, and relies on you to help her and help me.'

  For a long moment, I sat silent. I looked at this big, impressive man, and I felt a despairing sickness as it dawned on me he was lying. Farrell Brannigan! The man, who, with a wave of his hand, had done so much for me. My mind flashed back to the past few weeks. Marsh murdered. Thomson, murdered. The blackmail threat. Klaus, Benny, Joe and Harry Brett. Glenda pleading for me to tell them how to break into the bank. Her faked captivity. The impish smile from the teenager as she swung on the gate, when she spoke of Harry Brett.

  Keeping my face expressionless, I asked, ‘You are saying Glenda relies on me to help you. How can I possibly help you, Mr. Brannigan? Why should a man of your status need my help?'

  His eyes shifted from me to the wall behind me, and back to me again.

  ‘Do I have to remind you, Larry, if it wasn't for me, you would still be a mechanic? Because of me, you now own a flourishing business, and you are regarded as an important citizen in Sharnville . . . because of me.'

  I continued to look directly at him, saying nothing.

  After a long pause, he went on, 'I need your help, Larry, as you once needed my help. This thing has developed into a dangerous mess. You, and only you, can straighten it out. Both Glenda and I are relying on your help.'

  What thing, Mr. Brannigan?'

  His fatherly smile became fixed. He rubbed his jaw, pulled at his cigar, then released a cloud of smoke that half screened his face.

  ‘Larry, we both are relying on you. I brought you from nothing. Don't you think you can return favour for favour?'

  'I ask again, Mr. Brannigan, what thing has developed into a dangerous mess?'

  A faint flush came to his heavy face. He sat upright. He was now no longer the father figure, but the tough President, up against opposition.

  ‘We're wasting time, son!' There was a snap in his voice. ‘You know very well what I'm talking about! Don't fence with me! What has happened at the bank?'

  Then I knew, just by looking at the hard eyes, that Farrell Brannigan was involved in the bank breakin. By now, I was shockproof, and my mind was working actively.
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  ‘You needn't worry about the bank, Mr. Brannigan,' I said. 'Four evil men are trapped in the vault. There is no possible way for them to get out unless I let them out. I guaranteed to build you the safest bank in the world . . . it is the safest bank in the world.'

  Slowly, he crushed out his cigar in the ash bowl. Beneath his heavy golfer's tan, his complexion turned yellow.

  'You're telling me they are trapped in the vault?' His voice was now husky. I could see his confidence oozing away.

  'It is the safest bank in the world, Mr. Brannigan. When a psychopath, and three morons, one a vicious killer, try to break into your bank which I built, they become trapped.'

  He reached for another cigar, and I saw his hand was unsteady, then he changed his mind, withdrew his hand, then looked at me.

  'But you can get them out, Larry?'

  ‘Yes, I could get them out,' I said, ‘but I don't intend to.' I leaned forward, then asked, 'Do you want them to escape, Mr. Brannigan?'

  He sat still, and I could see him visibly shrinking. He was now no longer the President of the biggest banking syndicate in California: he was an ageing, fat man whom I could no longer respect.

  'They must escape, Larry,' he said finally, his voice a husky whisper.

  'They are not going to escape,' I said. 'My next move is to telephone Manson, and warn him there are four bank robbers locked in the vault. Once he has alerted the police, I will go down to the bank, and open the vault. The way I've fixed it, no one, except me, can do this. It is still the safest bank in the world.'

  I got up and walked over to the desk and reached for the telephone. As I picked up the receiver, the door slammed open, and Glenda rushed in.

  She was now wearing green slacks and a white shirt. In her hand, she held an automatic pistol. She pointed the gun at me.

  'Get away from that phone!' she screamed.

  There was a mad look of frenzy in her eyes. Her mouth was working, the gun wavered in her hand.

  I took two steps away from the desk.

  'Glenda!' Brannigan's voice was sharp.

  She looked at him, her eyes loathing.

  'There is no one now, Glenda, except Larry, who can help us,' Brannigan said, his voice pleading. Don't do anything dramatic.'