1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 2

  Prune-face returned.

  ‘Mr. Ackland will see you.’ Her voice was frosty enough to put the air conditioner on the blink. ‘Over there. First door on your right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and, leaving her, took her directions to come up before a polished oak door with: Horace Ackland. General Manager printed in large gold lettering: an impressive sight. I rapped, turned the glittering brass door handle and entered an imposing office with lounging chairs, a settee, a cocktail cabinet, and a desk large enough to play snooker on.

  Behind this desk sat Horace Ackland. He rose to his feet as I entered and closed the door.

  He was fat, short, balding and benign-looking, but there was nothing benign in his alert, brown eyes. He regarded me with a stare that could compete with a laser ray, then waved me to a chair.

  ‘Mrs. Thorsen told me you would be calling, Mr. Wallace,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly deep. ‘You will have some questions to ask.’

  I settled myself in the comfortable chair, facing his desk while he lowered his bulk back into his chair.

  ‘Would you give me your opinion about the daughter, Mr. Ackland? Her mother says she is retarded. What do you think?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know. It would seem she has grown out of her handicap.’ Ackland paused, then went on. ‘She appears to be normal, but then I only see her for a few minutes when she picks up this money. She dresses oddly, but so do most young people. I wouldn’t care to give you an opinion.’

  ‘I understand there is a trust and she can only touch the income, which is fifteen thousand a month. What happens in the event that the daughter dies?’

  His eyebrows lifted.

  ‘She is only 24, Mr. Wallace.’

  ‘You can die by accident at any age.’

  ‘If she dies, the trust ceases to exist, and the money goes back to the estate.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Mr. Thorsen was one of the richest men in the world. I couldn’t possibly tell you how much money.’

  ‘Mrs. Thorsen has inherited his money, and at the death of her daughter, she will come into more money?’

  ‘Yes. There are no other heirs.’

  ‘There is a son.’

  Ackland grimaced.

  ‘Yes. Terrance Thorsen. He was disinherited when he left the Thorsen residence two years ago. He has no claim on the estate.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Ackland moved in his chair as if my questions were beginning to bore him.

  ‘A number of bequests. Mr. Thorsen left money to his butler, Smedley. The will provided Smedley with an immediate payment of five thousand dollars at Mr. Thorsen’s death.’

  ‘You think, Mr. Ackland, that these monthly withdrawals of ten thousand a month point to blackmail?’

  Ackland placed his fingertips together, making an arch. He looked suddenly like a bishop.

  ‘Mr. Wallace, I have had thirty-five years in banking. Miss Thorsen is 24 years of age and appears, anyway to me, normal. She has the right to do what she likes with her money. But Henry Thorsen and I were very close friends, and trusted each other, and I gave him my promise that if anything should happen to him, I would keep a close eye on Angela when she inherited this fortune. Also, Mrs. Thorsen is now a dear friend of mine and relies on me for financial advice, and for help in any problems which might arise. But for these special circumstances I would not have told her about these odd withdrawals. I hesitated, I admit, as it was not entirely ethical for me to tell her what Angela was doing. I held back for ten months, but as these withdrawals continued, I felt it my duty to these old friends to alert Mrs. Thorsen and advise her that this possibility of blackmail should be investigated.’

  ‘I see your point, Mr. Ackland.’

  ‘What I have told you is in strict confidence. That is understood?’

  ‘Of course. Now, Mr. Ackland, I need to know Miss Thorsen by sight. Her mother told me on no account should I approach the girl. How do I see her?’

  ‘Nothing easier. Tomorrow, she will arrive here to collect the money. I will arrange that you see her enter my office and leave. Then it is up to you.’

  ‘That’s fine. What time should I be here?’

  ‘She always comes at ten o’clock. I suggest you come here at 9.45, and wait in the lobby.

  I will tell Miss Kertch to give you a signal when she arrives.’

  A soft buzzer sounded on his desk. He lost his benign expression and looked what I knew he must be, a shrewd, tough banker.

  He picked up the receiver, nodded, then said, ‘In three minutes, Miss Kertch.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace, I can give you no further time. If there is anything. . .’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘Maybe I’ll need to talk to you again, Mr. Ackland. I won’t hold you up. I’ll be here at 9.45 tomorrow.’

  ‘Do that.’ He rose to his feet and offered a firm but damp hand. ‘I am sure you will be able to unravel this little problem. I have heard great things about your agency.’

  Tomorrow morning should be interesting, I thought, as I got in my car. I itched to set eyes on Angela Thorsen.

  Glenda Kerry heard me out, making occasional notes, as I gave her my report.

  ‘Mrs. Thorsen wants this wrapped up fast,’ I concluded. ‘She thinks our charges are excessive.’

  ‘They all do, but they still come to us,’ Glenda said with a wintry smile. ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘Go to the bank, tail Angela, see where she delivers the money, and with luck, get the general photo. I’ve got Bill digging into Thorsen’s background.’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK. Go to it,’ and reached for the telephone.

  I found Bill at his typewriter and gave him a blow-by-blow account of my interview with Mrs. Thorsen, and also with Horace Ackland.

  ‘That’s it so far,’ I concluded. ‘What puzzles me is why Mrs. Thorsen, who couldn’t care less about her daughter, who in turn couldn’t care less about her, should spend good money hiring us to find out if her daughter is being blackmailed. Why? That’s what I need to know. There’s a smell about this that bothers me.’

  ‘Is that our funeral, Dirk?’ Bill asked. ‘We have been hired to find out if and why the girl is being blackmailed. The why and the wherefore of Mrs. Thorsen’s motives don’t concern us.’

  ‘I think it could make this case very interesting. I can’t wait to see Angela. We have to play this smooth, Bill. I’ll go to the bank, wait for Ackland’s signal. You will wait outside. I’ll give the high sign, and you follow her from in front. We’ll both have cars. She is certain to be on wheels. We mustn’t lose her. She could lead us to the blackmailer.’

  ‘OK, Dirk. Could be that easy.’

  ‘Now, give me your report.’

  ‘This could also be interesting. I spent the morning going through the Herald’s clippings on Thorsen. Make no mistake about this, Thorsen was a big wheel. He was the senior partner of Thorsen & Charteris, the top stockbrokers in this city. They have a branch in New York, but their main business is with the super-rich in this city. Thorsen had a magic touch to pick the right stock or bond, when to buy and when to sell. He not only did big deals for his clients, but also for himself. At the age of 35, already established as an up-and-coming broker, he married Kathleen Livingston whose father was Joe Livingston. Joe dabbled in oil, and just after the wedding, went bust on three dry wells. It was a lucky break for Kathleen to have hooked Thorsen as her family soon weren’t worth a dime. There were two children. Terrance and Angela. The clippings have nothing of interest to say about them, but plenty to say of the way Mrs. Thorsen entertained and spent her husband’s money. She is regarded even now as one of the big social hostesses. People flock to her parties and generally scrounge on her.

  ‘Last year, at the age of 62, Thorsen was found dead in his library. He had a long history of heart attacks for which his doctor had treated him for some ten years. He had always lived at high pressure, making and nursing fo
rtunes for himself and for some very influential folk in this city. It was no surprise to Mrs. Thorsen or his doctor, and the death certificate was clear. Only thing the coroner, Herbert Dawson, showed interest in was how the deceased had managed to get a nasty wound on the temple, but the medical view was quite emphatic that this happened after his heart attack, when he fell and hit his head on a corner of his desk. His butler, long-serving Josh Smedley, testified that he heard a noise like a heavy fall, and hurried in, to find his master dead. He tested the breathing with a hand mirror from the desk. Death from natural causes, and sympathy for widow and family from Coroner Herbert Dawson, who it seems is a very good friend of Mrs. Thorsen’s. She comes in to the money, to boost her entertaining funds, Miss Angela gets a trust fund, Mr. Terrance gets nothing.’

  ‘Good enough, Bill,’ I said. ‘It’s interesting.’

  I thought, then took my feet off my desk. ‘As you say, it’s not our business to do anything except find out if Angela is being blackmailed. All the same, I am interested in the Thorsens’ background. I wonder about the son, Terrance. I wonder also about the drunken butler. Well, let’s make a start and open a file. You know the colonel. When he returns he’ll want all the dope.’

  ‘I guess.’ Bill sighed and pulled his typewriter towards him.

  It was close on 18.30 by the time we had finished and my mind was now turning to Suzy Long. This was the night when we always met at the Lobster & Crab restaurant, on the beach, among dozens of other such restaurants, but this one was reasonable in price, and the owner, Freddy Cortel, knew more about lobsters and crabs than the fishermen who caught them.

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Bill?’ I asked as I cleared my desk.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I guess I’ll go back to my pad, heat up a quick-dinner mess, then watch the box until bedtime.’

  Feeling a little smug, I shook my head.

  ‘That’s not the way to live, Bill. You should find yourself a nice, willing girl as I have.’

  He grinned.

  ‘Think of the money I save. Suits me. See you, Dirk,’ and with a wave of his hand he took off. I drove to my two-room apartment just on the fringe of Seacomb which is the slum district where the workers live. I parked my car and climbed up four floors in a creaking elevator to my home.

  When I had first arrived in Paradise City, I found this furnished apartment going cheap, and decided it was good enough, although rather a dismal affair.

  The walls were painted dark brown; the furniture was shabby and uncomfortable. The bed creaked and the mattress had lumps.

  I had told myself that I wouldn’t be spending much time in the place, and as the rent was so low it made sense to take it.

  All that changed when Suzy insisted on visiting me. She had taken one horrified look around and exclaimed, ‘You can’t live in a hole like this!’

  I told her about the rent and she was duly impressed.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave this to me.’

  Within a week, while I stayed with Bill in his tiny pad, with the aid of two of the Bellevue Hotel painters, plus furniture from the hotel storeroom at a giveaway price, Suzy converted my home into something lush. I loved it! Suzy purred every time she came in.

  As you enter the apartment, you are faced with a large blank wall. Neither of us had as yet decided what to do with this wall. I thought of bookshelves, but Suzy was all for finding a good copy of a modern painting. We spent much agreeable time arguing about this, and I was getting the feeling she was going to get her way.

  As I entered the apartment, I was no longer confronted by the blank wall.

  Instead, scrawled in aerosol black paint in six-inch letters was the message: KEEP AWAY FROM ANGIE OR ELSE.

  He must have been waiting for me behind the front door. He was quick and very expert.

  I just heard the swish of a descending sap, then saw flashes of light, then there was a complete blackout.

  CHAPTER 2

  At 09.45 the following morning I walked, somewhat flat-footed, into the lobby of the Pacific & National Bank to be greeted with a cold stare from Miss Kertch, the receptionist.

  ‘I will inform Mr. Ackland,’ she said. ‘It is Mr. Wallace?’

  I was bored with this old trout.

  ‘Very efficient of you, Miss Kertch. It is Miss Kertch, isn’t it?’

  Tight-lipped, she flicked down a switch.

  ‘Mr. Wallace is here, Mr. Ackland.’

  Horace Ackland, looking this time like a bishop who has breakfasted well, appeared from his office and shook hands.

  ‘If you will sit over there, Mr. Wallace, I have told Miss Kertch to alert you when Miss Thorsen arrives.’

  I did just that and was glad to sink into a comfortable chair within ten feet of the reception desk.

  I was battling with a life-sized headache which, in spite of Suzy’s administrations and five Aspros taken this morning, still plagued me.

  I thought back on the previous evening.

  When Suzy arrived to pick me up, she had found the front door open, the graffiti on the wall, and me dragging myself off the floor.

  Suzy was one of the rare, unflappable girls who could handle any emergency. She helped me to the settee, saw the egg-sized swelling at the back of my right ear and, without talking, dashed into the kitchen, made an ice pack and held it tenderly against the swelling. After ten minutes of this treatment, my head began to clear, and I managed a wry grin.

  ‘Sorry about this love,’ I said. ‘I had an unexpected visitor.’

  ‘Just relax, darling. Don’t talk. You must get into bed.’

  This seemed to me a good idea. With her help I undressed, crawled into my pyjamas and got into bed.

  ‘I think a double Scotch and ice would now meet the bill.’ I said as I rested my aching head on the pillow.

  ‘No alcohol,’ Suzy said firmly. ‘You could have concussion. I’ll call a doctor.’

  I patted her hand.

  ‘It’s OK. No doctor. I’ve just had a professional tap on my skull. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just get me a drink.’

  She sighed and left me and I heard her mixing the drink. When she returned, I was feeling better. I was glad to see she had made a drink for herself. She sat on the bed beside me and regarded me anxiously.

  ‘It’s OK, baby,’ I said. ‘Don’t look so tragic.’

  She took a long pull at her drink and shivered.

  ‘You scared the life out of me. Oh, Dirk, what’s been happening?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about. I’m working on a new case. It would seem I have opposition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Suzy nodded. By now, she knew that I never talked about my work. I had drummed into her head that no Acme operator was allowed to talk about his case. ‘I can’t ask who Angie is?’

  ‘You can’t ask period.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to give you three sleeping pills and I’m going to leave you to sleep.’ She went into the bathroom, found the pills and returned. ‘Now be good, Dirk. You need a long sleep.’

  ‘I could do with your company in bed.’

  ‘No way. Take these pills.’

  By the way my head was splitting open, it wasn’t such a bad idea, so I took them.

  ‘I’ll get my painter pals in tomorrow to fix that wall. How did these people get in?’

  ‘I guess they picked the lock.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get a locksmith here tomorrow to really fix your door. I’ll put the new keys in your mailbox.’ She bent and kissed me. ‘Now, sleep,’ and she left me.

  I did sleep, and although I still had a bad headache, I had met Bill outside his apartment block at 09.15. He in his car and I in mine, we drove to the bank. As we were early, I sat in his car and filled him in about the previous night. He listened, nodding from time to time.

  ‘Looks like trouble, Dirk,’ he said.

  ‘Feels like it, too. But trouble is our business.’

  ‘Quick work, huh? Someone must have alerted
these guys that you are investigating Angie. They went into action fast. Who alerted them?’

  ‘That’s something we have to find out.’

  It was now close on 09.45. I slid out of his car.

  ‘I’ll give you the high sign,’ I said and walked into the lobby of the bank.

  At least it had stopped raining. I sat in the comfortable chair, pretending to read The Paradise City Herald, and keeping one eye on Miss Kertch who was busy answering the telephone in a low inaudible voice, pressing buttons and looking sour.

  Then suddenly, she rose to her feet and produced an autumnal smile, a few degrees less chilly than her wintry smile.

  I guessed the big moment had arrived. I looked towards the bank’s entrance.

  A girl had entered and was saluted by the doorman. She came across the big lobby swiftly. I had time to give her an in-depth look.

  Thin as a matchstick; no front, no behind, she wore a big straw hat like those you see on the heads of peons working in the fields in Mexico. The hat was pulled down, obscuring her face. She wore four-inch sun goggles. Her clothes were a dark loosely fitting T-shirt, and the usual blue jeans every girl, all over the world, wears. She had on sandals. Her toenails weren’t painted. She could pass as any young girl tourist on vacation. As heiress to the Thorsens’ billions, she couldn’t have been more incognito than Garbo in her prime.

  Miss Kertch was already leading her to Ackland’s office.

  I hurried out to where Bill was sitting in his car.

  ‘The chick in the straw hat and jeans,’ I said. ‘You spotted her?’

  ‘I guessed she was our party,’ Bill said.

  ‘That’s her car, two cars ahead. A Volkswagen. She’s certainly keeping a low profile.’

  ‘OK, Bill. I’ll leave my car,’ and I slid in beside him. ‘We’ll wait and follow her.’

  She appeared some ten minutes later. She had with her a small plastic briefcase, no doubt supplied by Ackland, and no doubt containing ten thousand dollars in big bills.

  There was no problem following her. She drove at the correct speed, then turned off the boulevard and headed towards the waterfront.