1979 - A Can of Worms Page 2

  * * *

  All operators of the Parnell Detective Agency were members of the Country Club, the Yacht Club, the Casino, and all the nightclubs, frequented by the rich.

  All the operators carried The Parnell Credit Card which entitled them to free meals, free drinks, you-name-it-you-have-it in all these clubs. It must have cost Parnell a bomb, but it paid off. There was always steely-eyed Charles Edwards, the accountant, to check on any excessive spending. The credit card gave us operators access to the clubs when working.

  I was flicking through Time magazine in the super-duper lounge of the Country Club, keeping my eye on the restaurant exit when Nancy Hamel appeared. I recognized her from the photograph, but, in the flesh, she made the photograph a very poor imitation.

  She was wearing a white Tee shirt and white shorts, and she had a figure that made me prick up my eyes. There were loads of dishes and beauts in Paradise City, but she was exceptional. With her was a woman, some ten years older, short-legged, wide in the beam, blonde, cuddly, if you like the cuddly type . . . I don’t. I guessed she was Penny Highbee.

  The two women were in animated conversation. They swept by me, and I heard Penny say, “I can’t believe it! At her age!” What she couldn’t believe remained a mystery.

  They reached the exit and waved to each other. Penny ran off to a Caddy and Nancy set off towards a steel grey Ferrari.

  I managed to reach the office car as the Ferrari took off.

  I never used my Maser when on a tail job. I would have lost her except for the traffic. She was forced to a crawl and I tucked myself behind a Lincoln and followed her down to the harbour.

  She got out of the car and I got out of mine. She then walked along the quay where the cruisers and the yachts were moored. I tagged along behind her. She paused at a seventy-foot motor yacht. She ran up the gangplank and disappeared below.

  There was nothing I could do about this, so I waited.

  A big, muscular negro appeared and cast off. Moments later the motor yacht edged its way out of the crowded harbour, then roared off into the sun and the sea.

  I watched it disappear out of sight.

  On a bollard, clutching a can of beer, sat Al Barney.

  Now Al Barney was the ears and the eyes of the City’s waterfront. If you provided him with beer, he would let loose with his mouth. No beer: no talk.

  “Hi, Barney,” I said, coming to rest before him. “How about a drink?”

  He tossed the can into the sea, hitched up his trousers over his enormous belly and smiled. He looked like an amiable shark seeing dinner coming his way.

  “Hi, Mr. Anderson. Sure, a little beer would be fine.”

  He heaved himself to his feet and walked purposely towards the Neptune Tavern. I followed him into the dark bar. It was empty at this time, but Sam, the barkeep, was there. He grinned, flashing his white teeth when he saw Barney and me.

  “Hi, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “What will it be?”

  “All the beer he needs and a coke for me,” I said, and followed Barney to a corner table.

  “That sounds good, Mr. Anderson,” Barney said, settling himself down on a wooden bench. “You need something?”

  A beer and a coke arrived.

  “Well, you know: work is work. I saw that yacht leave. Curious. Any info?”

  Barney drank the beer, slowly and steadily until the glass was empty, then he set the glass down with a bang.

  Immediately, Sam rushed over with a refill.

  “That was Russ Hamel’s boat,” Barney said, reaching for the beer. “The writer. Sells big, they tell me.” He scowled. “Reading books is a waste of time.”

  “Sure. The girl who went aboard. Was that his wife?”

  Barney’s tiny eyes surveyed me with suspicion.

  “That’s her: nice girl. She’s a big improvement on the other one. Now that one was a real bitch. The present Mrs. Hamel is nice. She gives me a wave or a good day. There’s nothing snob about her.” He drank a little, sighed, then went on. “What’s your interest?”

  “More interested in the big buck,” I lied. “Is he the permanent crew?”

  “Josh Jones?” Barney grimaced. “A no-good nigger. A born gambler. Always short of money. He’d sell his mother for a dime if anyone wanted his mother which is unlikely. He works for Hamel. He’s worked for him for the past two years. He’s a good crewman, but that’s about all.”

  “Does Mrs. Hamel take the boat out often?”

  “About four times a week. Gives her something to do. From what I hear, she leads a lonely life.”

  “How about Hamel? What kind of a guy is he?”

  Barney finished his beer and Sam whipped over with another refill.

  “A rich snob,” Barney said. “Like the rest of them who own boats. Don’t see him often. When he does take the boat out, you’d think he owned the whole waterfront: that kind of guy.”

  I decided I had all the information I could get from Barney without making him curious, so I pushed back my chair.

  “Is Jones a local man?” I asked as I stood up.

  “Sure. He lives behind the waterfront.” Barney peered at me. “Is he in trouble? It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been in trouble before with the cops. They suspected him of smuggling, but they never pinned it on him.”

  “What time does the yacht get back?” I asked, ignoring his question.

  “Six: bang on the nose. You can set your watch by it.”

  “See you, Al.” I settled with Sam, then went out into the hot sunshine. I had four hours to wait so I drove back to the office.

  I looked in on Glenda.

  “The Colonel tied up?”

  “Go in. He’s free for twenty minutes.”

  Parnell was reading a fat file when I entered his office.

  “A problem, sir,” I said, then told him about Nancy going off in the yacht. “No way of following her. She stays somewhere on the yacht for four hours: plenty of time to get into mischief. Her crewman is black. He reacts to money, but I wanted to check with you before I approached him. He could tell me a load of lies for money, and then tip Nancy I’ve been questioning him.”

  “Leave him alone,” Parnell said. “Our instructions are she is not to know she’s being watched. The next time she takes off in the yacht, follow her in a chopper. Get one on standby. It’ll cost, but Hamel’s loaded.”

  I said I would do that and returned to my office. Chick was out. I called the helicopter taxi service and spoke to Nick Hardy, a good friend of mine. He said there would be no problem, and one of his choppers would standby if I gave him an early alert. With time on my hands, I called up Bertha. She was my current sleeping partner. We had been around together for some six months. She liked my money, and I found her willing. There was nothing serious about our association: no wedding bells. She was a great companion and fun to take around. She had a job with a fashion house doing something or other, and lived in a studio apartment in a highrise, facing the sea.

  Some chick told me that Bertha was tied up with a client. I said not to bother, I would call back, then I left the office, paused at the news stall in the lobby and bought a pack of cigarettes and Newsweek and drove down to the waterfront. I parked where I could see Hamel’s yacht when it returned and settled down to wait.

  As the hands of my watch moved to 18.00, I saw the yacht approaching the harbour. In a few minutes, Josh Jones had made fast. Nancy came running down the gangplank and onto the quay.

  She paused and called, “Tomorrow at the same time, Josh.” She waved and went over to where she had left the Ferrari. As she set the car in motion, I started my engine and followed her.

  Glenda had told me that Hamel lived on Paradise Largo where only the real rich dwelt. Paradise Largo was an isthmus in the seawater canal and formed a link between E.I. highway and the A.I.A. highway.

  The causeway, leading to the Largo, was guarded by armed security men, plus an electronic controlled barrier. No one — repeat no one — was allowed on the L
argo without first identifying himself and stating his business. There were some forty magnificent houses and villas on the Largo. They were hidden behind twenty-foot high flowering hedges and double oak, nail studded gates.

  I followed Nancy’s car to the causeway, then sure she was going home, I turned off the highway and headed back to the office. I found Chick pouring himself a Scotch, his feet on his desk.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Use your own bottle.” Chick put his bottle back in his desk drawer. “Any action?”

  “Routine.” I sat behind my desk. “She played tennis, ate, then went off on a swank yacht. The Colonel says I can chase her in a chopper tomorrow. Should be fun. And you?”

  Chick pursed his lips.

  “I’m getting the idea that Waldo Carmichael might not exist. No one, so far, knows of him.”

  I hoisted my bottle into sight, regarded it and found I had one small drink left. I poured and tossed the empty bottle into the trash basket.

  “Tried the hotels?”

  “All the big ones. I’ll try the smaller ones tomorrow. I’ve talked to Ernie and Wally. They don’t know him, but they promise to check.”

  Ernie Bolshaw wrote a breezy gossip column for the Paradise City Herald. Wally Simmonds was the City’s P.R.O. If anyone would know about Waldo Carmichael, they would.

  “Palmer could be right,” I said. “These letters might come from some sick crank, trying to make mischief.”

  “Could be. I’ve sent the letters to the lab. They might come up with something.”

  I pulled the telephone towards me and called Nick Hardy. I booked a helicopter for tomorrow afternoon.

  The time was 18.45. By now, Bertha should be home. I dialled her number as Chick began clearing his desk.

  When Bertha came on the line, I said, “Hi, babe! How about a hamburger and me for company?”

  “Is that you, Bart?”

  ‘Well, if it isn’t, someone is wearing my suit.”

  “I can’t eat hamburgers. They disagree with me. Let’s go to the Seagull. I’m hungry.”

  “Not the Seagull, honey. Funds are low right now. Next month, we’ll go to the Seagull.”

  “Ask Chick to lend you something,” Bertha suggested.

  She knew I bit Chick’s ear from time to time. “I’m starving!”

  “I’ve already asked him. He came up with a mean fifty.”

  “Then let’s go to the Lobster and Crab. We can eat well there for fifty.”

  “I’m coming over, honey. We can make plans, huh?” and I hung up.

  “Are you spending my money on that extortionist of yours?” Chick demanded. “The Seagull! You need your head examined!”

  “We only die once,” I said. “No Seagull. What are you doing tonight?”

  Chick looked smug.

  “I’m feeding with Wally. He picks up the tab. I’ve conned him I can give him something: business and pleasure. So long, sucker,” and he took himself off.

  I typed my report, stating that I had checked out Nancy, and tossed the report into my out-tray. Then I cleared my desk and made for the elevator.

  Charles Edwards, who handled the financial end of the Agency, came out of his office and joined me as we walked to the elevator. He was short, dark, middle-aged and tough. He glanced at me from behind his pebble glasses disapprovingly.

  “Just the man!” I said as I thumbed the elevator call button. “Let’s have a fifty, pal. Deduct it off my next pay. This is an emergency.”

  “You are always asking for an advance,” Edwards said, moving into the elevator. “The Colonel wouldn’t approve.”

  “Who’s going to tell him? Come on, pal, you wouldn’t want to deprive my old mother from her gin, would you?”

  As the elevator descended, Edwards took out his wallet and produced a fifty bill.

  “That comes off your next pay, Anderson. Remember that.”

  “Thanks.” I snapped up the bill. “I’ll do the same for you in an emergency.”

  The doors swished open and Edwards, giving me a curt nod, walked away. I thumbed the button to the basement garage, got in the Maser, gunned the engine which gave off a deep-throated roar, then I edged the car into the thick, home-going traffic.

  * * *

  Bertha talked me into taking her to the Seagull. She had a special talent for talking any sucker her way. I was sure she would talk her way out of her coffin when the time came.

  As soon as we had settled at the table and I had ordered very dry martinis, I sat back and regarded her.

  She looked good enough to eat. Her flame coloured hair, her big green eyes and ochre tan, plus a body that could and did stop traffic, all added up to a scrumptious, sexy explosion.

  To look at her, apart from her glamour, you would have thought she was just a gorgeous, sexy birdbrain. She could put on a bright, interested expression that fooled the guys who were suckers enough to imagine that she was sincerely interested in them, longed to listen to their boasting about their big, successful deals, their prowess at golf or fishing or what-have-you, but she didn’t fool me. I had known her long enough to know that Bertha Kinsley was strictly interested only in money and herself.

  In spite of this failing, she was gay, gorgeous and sensational between the sheets. I would rather spend money on her than on any other girl I knew. She was strictly value for money even though she came high.

  “Don’t stare at me like that,” she said. “You look as if you’re about to drag me under the table and rape me.”

  “That’s a good idea!” I said. “Let’s show these creeps what we can do together in a confined space.”

  “Quiet! I’m hungry!” She began to study the menu like a refugee from a detention centre. “Hmmm! King prawns! Certainly! Then something solid.” She flashed her sexy smile at Luigi, the Maître d’ who had approached our table. “What can you suggest for a starving woman, Luigi?”

  “Don’t listen to her,” I said firmly. “We’ll have the prawns and steaks.”

  Luigi glanced at me coldly, then beamed at Bertha.

  “I was about to suggest, Miss Kingsley, our spit chicken, stuffed with lobster meat and served in a cream sauce with truffles.”

  “Yes!” Bertha practically screamed.

  Ignoring me, Luigi wrote on his pad, smiled again at Bertha and went away.

  “I have exactly fifty bucks,” I lied. “If it comes to more, and it will, I’ll have to borrow from you, chick.”

  “Never borrow from a woman,” Bertha said. “It’s not chivalrous. Wave your credit card. That’s what credit cards are all about.”

  “My credit card is strictly for business.”

  “So what? We’re on business, aren’t we?”

  The prawns arrived.

  While we ate, I asked, “Does the name Waldo Carmichael mean anything to you?”

  “So it’s business.” Bertha smiled at me.

  “Could be. Answer the question, honey. Ever heard of the name?”

  She shook her head.

  “New one on me. Waldo Carmichael?”

  “Still playing name games. Russ Hamel. Mean anything to you?”

  “You kidding? Russ Hamel! I love his books!” Then she gave a double take. “Are you working for him?”

  “Never mind the questions. You come up with the answers and eat at my expense. Do you know more about him than that he writes books you love?”

  “Well yes. . . a little. He’s newly married. He lives on Paradise Largo. Now you tell me. Why the questions?”

  “Just feed your beautiful face.” The prawns were out of this world. “Do you know anything about his wife?”

  Bertha continued to stare thoughtfully at me and I knew this was a bad sign.

  “His wife? I’ve seen her around. She’s too young for a guy like Hamel. Not my type.” She gave me a cunning smile. “If you asked me about his first wife . . .’ She let it hang.

  “So okay. I ask you about his first wife.”

  “Gloria Cort.
” Bertha sniffed. “When Hamel gave her the gate for sleeping around, she reverted to her maiden name. Did I say maiden? Remind me to laugh some time. That floosie hasn’t been a maiden since she was six years old.”

  “Never mind past history,” I said. “Give.”

  “She lives with a Mexican who calls himself Alphonso Diaz. He owns the Alameda bar on the waterfront: strictly for the non-carriage trade.”

  I knew of the Alameda bar. It was the hangout for the waterfront riff-raff. There were more fights on a Saturday night in that bar than any of the other bars on the waterfront.

  “Gloria does a topless guitar act there.” Bertha put on her snooty expression. “Can you imagine? When you think she was once the wife of Russ Hamel! That’s the way the cookie crumbles. You have it one day: you lose it the next. And let me tell you I’d rather bed with a goat than with Alphonso Diaz!”

  The chicken arrived with a lot of fuss. We ate. It was so good, I ceased to worry about what it was going to cost.

  After we had finished and had coffee, my mind turned to the night before us.

  Bertha was quick to respond.

  “Let’s go, stallion,” she said, patting my hand. “I’m in the mood too.”

  I called for the check, flinched when I saw the amount and parted with my two fifty bills. By the time I had paid, tipped the waiter, tipped the Maître d’, tipped the door-man who brought the Maser to the entrance, I had thirty dollars to see me through to the end of the week.

  As I was driving back to my apartment, Bertha said, “I’ve been thinking about you, Bart. It’s time you changed your job. If you and I are going to continue, you have to find something that pays better than being a shamus.”

  “That is not an original thought,” I said. “I’ve been thinking along those lines for the past year, but there is nothing I can do that would earn me more than being a shamus.”

  “Think some more. With your experience in crime, there must be something. I met a fella last week who was rolling in the green. He cons old ladies. They give him sacks of money just to smile at them.”

  “You should be more careful who you go around with, honey,” I said. “Gigolos are strictly not my scene.”