1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Read online

  This was my moment of truth as I watched Linda's hand hover over the telephone as she looked at the bottle of Chanel No. 5. I watched her hand slowly withdraw and I watched the wary, sly expression come into her beautiful grey eyes. I watched her mouth set in a thin tight line, and for the first time since I had met her, I realised she wasn't as beautiful as I had thought she was.

  When two people fall in love they have this thing that can never be replaced between them. It is a fragile thing: a wonderful thing, but it is fragile. Looking at Linda across my desk, this thing within me for her sparked out: the way an electric light bulb goes: one moment a bright light; the next moment darkness.

  I waited, watching her. The tip of her tongue moved over her lips. She stiffened, then looked at me.

  “What are you doing with my perfume?”

  “Sit down, Linda. You've got us in a mess. Let's see if, between us, we can get out of it.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.” She had got over the shock and her voice was quite steady. There was now that bored look on her face she put on when she thought I was being tiresome. “Call Frank and tell him we're coming.”

  “Does Jesse Gordy mean anything to you?”

  She frowned.

  “No. What's the matter with you tonight? Look, if you don't want to go, I'm going. I . . .”

  “Gordy is the manager of the Welcome Self-service store. He came to me this afternoon and I took our conversation down on tape. Sit down. I want you to hear it.”

  She hesitated, then sat down.

  “Why should I hear it?” But now her voice lacked her usual hard confidence. She eyed the recorder and I saw her hands turn into fists.

  I pressed the playback button and we both sat motionless while Gordy's voice told its sordid tale. When he mentioned the photograph, I took it from my desk drawer and put it in front of her.

  She took a quick look at it and her face became haggard.

  She suddenly looked five years older and when he said: your nice, beautiful wife, Mr. Manson, could even go to prison, she flinched as if flicked by a whip.

  We listened to his voice to the end. “I suggest $20,000 and you get the film. It is not a lot of money considering your success. Tomorrow night, Mr. Manson . . . Cash please.”

  I pressed the stop button and we looked at each other.

  There was a long, long pause, then she said, “What a goddamn fuss about a bottle of perfume. Well, I suppose you had better give him the money.” She got to her feet. “It was stupid of me, but all the girls do it: why shouldn't I? As he said, considering your success, it is not a lot of money.”

  She started for the door. I don't think I have ever been so angry. I jumped to my feet, came around the desk and caught hold of her wrist as she was reaching for the door handle. I slapped her across her face so violently that if I hadn't been holding her wrist she would have fallen. As it was, she cannoned against the wall and went down on her knees. I jerked her upright and with a savage shove, sent her spinning into her chair. She landed breathless, her hand against her red, burning cheek and she looked hatred at me.

  “You bastard!”

  “And I could say . . . you thief!”

  “I'll divorce you for this! You hit me!” She was screaming at me now. “You've bruised me, you brute! God! How I hate you! I can't go out tonight! What will they say when they see me? Swine! To hit a woman! I'll make you pay for this! I'll make you sorry!”

  I sat in my chair and watched her. She banged her fists on her knees. Her eye was beginning to swell. She looked silly and stupid: a spoilt, hysterical child showing off. Then suddenly she began to cry. She slid off the chair and came to me, falling on her knees, her arms around my waist, burying her face against my chest.

  “Don't let them arrest me, Steve! Don't let them send me to prison!”

  I had pity for her, but nothing else. Her clutching fingers could have aroused me to make love to her yesterday, but now they meant nothing to me.

  “Linda! Get hold of yourself!” I could hear the hard note in my voice. “We have to work together on this. Come on!

  Get up! Sit down!”

  She lifted her bruised, tear stained face, her hands moving away from me.

  “You hate me, don't you, Steve? I suppose I deserve to be hated.” She choked on her sobs. “But, Steve, get me out of this mess and I'll be a good wife to you. I'll . . .”

  “Shut up! Don't say things you'll regret later. Sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

  She got unsteadily to her feet.

  “God! You're hard. I never thought. . .”

  She flopped in her chair.

  I went to the liquor cabinet and poured two stiff whiskies. As I carried them to the desk, the telephone bell rang. I set down the glasses and picked up the receiver.

  “Is Linda there?” A woman's voice.

  “Linda is in bed with the flu. Who is it?”

  “Lucilla. Flu? I'm so sorry. Anything I can do? You have only to ask. I could come over. I'm marvellous at making soup.”

  Lucilla Bower lived in a bungalow at the far end of our road. She was a tall, rather ugly, middle-aged lesbian who, I suspected, was far too interested in some of the wives on the estate.

  “Thanks, Lucilla. No . . . we can manage.”

  “The poor dear. I could come over and hold her hand.”

  “Three Aspros are holding her hand at the moment. Anyway . . . thanks.”

  “Well . . . I mustn't keep you. I know how busy you always are. I do love your magazine, Steve.”

  “Fine. Well, goodbye for now,” and I hung up.

  Linda had finished her drink. I could see she was shivering and her eye was puffy. I poured more whisky into her glass.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked. “God! You've hurt me! What are we going to do? Can you pay this bastard the money?”

  I sat down and lit a cigarette.

  “It's blackmail. Do you think we should?”

  “Should?” Her voice went shrill. “He could send me to prison!”

  “Would that scare you so much?” I regarded her. “After all there is proof that you are a thief and thieves expect to go to prison if they are caught.”

  “You're trying to frighten me! I won't listen to you! You hate me, don't you? You're mad about that two-faced secretary of yours. I know you have it off with her in the office. I know!”

  I leaned forward and stared at her.

  “Do you want me to hit you again? If you continue to talk like that, I will.”

  “Don't you dare touch me! I'll scream! I'll call the police! Don't you dare!”

  I was sick of her and I was sick of everything.

  “Go away, Linda. Let me think about this. Just leave me.”

  “I couldn't bear to go to prison! The disgrace of it!” She was crying again. “Help me! I didn't mean that about Jean! I'm so frightened! I don't know why I did it. they all do it!”

  I couldn't bear this any longer. I had to think. I had to be alone. I got up and left the room.

  “Steve! Where are you going? Don't leave me!”

  Her cry of despair only made me move faster. I left the house, got in my car and drove off the estate. I passed the luxury houses, seeing groups of people gathered around their barbecues. I felt I wanted to drive off the rim of the world and drop into oblivion.

  ***

  The City Hall clock was striking seven as I drove into my parking bay outside my office block.

  I had to buzz for the nightman, Joey Small, who let me in.

  “Working late, Mr. Manson?”

  “That's it.”

  My office was my only refuge: a place where I could sit and think and try to come up with a solution. I travelled up in the elevator, walked down the corridor and unlocked my office door. As I entered, I heard the clack of a typewriter, coming from Jean's room.

  I was surprised she was still working although I knew from past experience she always left a clear desk before going home. I had come
to regard her with tremendous respect and I knew that without her behind me The Voice of the People wouldn't have been the success it was.

  I switched on my office lights, then crossed over to her door, opened it and looked in.

  She was at her desk, her expert fingers flying over the keyboard and she looked up, her eyes widening; her typing stopped.

  “I didn't mean to startle you,” I said. “Aren't you nearly through?”

  “What are you doing back here, Steve?”

  “I have things to think about.”

  “Wally has left me with a load, but I'm nearly through.”

  I looked at her, and for the first time I looked at her as a woman and not as an efficient secretary and what I saw pleased me.

  She was tall, dark and her eyes were serious and intelligent. For the first time I realised she had well-formed breasts and nice hands. Her hair reached to her shoulders and was silky. She had a lovely throat.

  “Is there anything wrong?” she asked. “You look ill.”

  I suddenly felt I could share this burden with her. I moved into her room, closed the door and wandered over to a chair by her desk.

  “Linda has just told me that you and I are having it off in the office,” I said as I sat down. I didn't look at her, but stared down at my hands.

  “Why did she say that?” Jean's voice was quiet and gentle.

  “I guess we've fallen out. She was thrashing around for an excuse to hurt.”

  “I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  I looked at her. She was staring at me, her eyes worried and I could see she really wanted to be helpful.

  “There's a lot more to it than that, Jean. I'm in a jam. I can't tell you about it. It's not my secret. Look, let Wally wait for his report. Get off. I want to be alone to think without the sound of a typewriter. Will you do that?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “God, no! I couldn't eat a thing! I just want to do some thinking.”

  She stood up.

  “Let's eat. I'm hungry. Then you can come back here and think as long as you like.”

  I realised this made sense. I was so goddamn tense I knew, unless I unwound, my thinking would be useless.

  And another thing: this would be the first time, since I had married, that I had taken a woman, except Linda, out to dinner.

  “Wise girl. Let's go then . . . where?”

  “Luigi.” She snapped off her desk light. “Give me three minutes?”

  I went back to my office, lit a cigarette and waited. My mind was empty. I was just thankful to have company and I refused to think of Linda with her black eye, alone in our expensive house.

  Jean came in, putting on a light dustcoat.

  “We'll use my car,” she said. “Let's go.”

  She drove me in her Porsche which had been a present from Chandler when she had left him to come to me. The traffic was heavy and parking was tricky. I realised it would have been a burden to me to have driven in my big Mercedes and she had taken this burden off my shoulders.

  Within ten minutes, she had found parking and we were entering Luigi's small, comfortable restaurant: a restaurant I never used for some reason or other, but I could tell at once that Jean used it a lot. At this hour, there were only three other couples: people I didn't know. Luigi, fat and beaming, brushed Jean's fingers with his lips, bowed to me and took us to a corner table.

  “May I order?” Jean asked as we settled.

  “I'm not hungry.” I felt so low the idea of food revolted me.

  Luigi stood over her, his little black eyes like oily olives.

  “Oysters, Luigi, please: the big ones and Chablis.”

  She was right. Oysters were the only food I could have swallowed.

  He went away.

  “It's about Gordy, isn't it?” she said, looking directly at me.

  I hesitated, surprised, then nodded.

  “Blackmail?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “It's not so difficult. Wally has been researching. I've been typing his notes. When Gordy asked to see you, it became obvious.”

  “Wally's been researching?” I stiffened. “Does he know about Linda?”

  “No. If he had he would have come to you. Wally admires you, Steve. He has a few names and he is still digging. Mostly maids: Cissy, your maid, is on his list.”

  I took out my handkerchief and wiped off my damp hands.

  “Do you remember any names . . . not maids?”

  “Sally Latimer. Mabel Creeden. Lucilla Bower.”

  The oysters arrived, bedded in crushed ice. The Chablis was poured. Luigi, officiating, beamed, then he and the waiter went away.

  “How did Wally find out? How did he get those names?”

  “I don't know. I typed up his report. There were other names, but I don't remember them.”

  “You're sure Linda wasn't on his list?”

  “Of course.”

  “He said something about doing an exposure on the store. How is it he didn't tell me he had started?”

  Jean speared an oyster and conveyed it to her mouth.

  “You know Wally: he loves to spring a surprise. I guess he wanted to have it all tied up to present to you.”

  That I could accept. Wally was a loner. He had come up with facts and figures about Captain Schultz, all neatly tied up and I had had no idea he had been researching Schultz.

  I found I could eat an oyster, so I ate three of them.

  “Linda stole a bottle of perfume. Gordy has her on film. He wants twenty thousand dollars.”

  Jean drew in a quick, sharp breath.

  “Which you haven't got.” She was in the position to know as she handled my personal cheques.

  “Which I haven't got. This could be my end and the end of the magazine. I've already told Webber to dig into Gordy's background. He could come up with something. It's my only hope. With luck, I could blackmail Gordy to stop blackmailing me.”

  “You'll have to be careful about Webber. He is Mr. Chandler's man.”

  “Yes. I must talk to Wally tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to find out where he got those names from. This is important.”

  “But, Steve, you know Wally. He never divulges his sources of information. You won't get anything from him.”

  “I've got to try.”

  She nodded.

  “Finish your oysters. I'll call his home. He could be in.”

  She slid off her chair and walked over to a telephone booth. I looked at the oysters and decided I had had enough. I watched her slim back as she telephoned. Three minutes later, she joined me.

  “He's just left. Shirley says he'll be back in an hour or so. He's gone over to Max's place.”

  “You don't think he's told Max about this?”

  “I'm sure he hasn't.” She looked worried. “You know, Steve, I'm breaking a confidence by telling you about what Wally is doing. He told me to type up his notes in confidence.”

  “This is too important to me to worry about that,” I said.

  “Well, don't be surprised if Wally won't talk.”

  “He'll talk! He's got to!”

  “You're not eating.”

  “I guess I've had enough.”

  “Steve! Eat up! This isn't the end of the world.”

  I thought of Linda with her black eye alone and without food in the house. I shouldn't have left her.

  “I want to make a call.”

  I went into the booth and called my home number. There was a long delay, then a woman's voice said, “Mrs. Manson is indisposed and Mr. Manson is out. Who is this?”

  I recognised Lucilla Bower's drawling voice. Without answering, I hung up. So Linda had quickly found comfort.

  I hoped she hadn't been so stupid as to tell this woman what she had done, then I remembered that Wally had Lucilla's name on his list as a thief. Well, thieves together!

  I returned to the table.

  “Let's have some more oysters,
” I said. “Nothing like oysters for sick people.”

  “Oh, shut up, Steve!” Jean said sharply. “Don't start pitying yourself. That's something I just won't take!”

  I stared at her.

  “You're quite a woman. Sorry: it's been a tough evening. All the same I'd like some more oysters.”

  She looked across at Luigi and raised her hand. The oysters arrived as if they had been waiting.

  ***

  Forty minutes later, we left the restaurant and Jean drove mc back to the office block. I had decided I should talk to Wally on my own. Jean said why not leave it until tomorrow, but if I could catch Wally tonight I had to go.

  “Thanks for everything, Jean,” I said. “You're a life saver.”

  She stared at me for a brief moment, smiled, got in her car and drove away.

  I drove fast across the city to where Wally lived: a modest, nice bungalow, but in the smog belt and nothing very de luxe. All the same, I was pretty sure Wally had a bigger bank balance than I had.

  I pulled up outside the bungalow and was surprised to find it in darkness. I looked at my watch. It was just after 21.00. I got out of the car, opened the gate and walked up the drive. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. I rang again, then a voice said, “They're not in.”

  I turned around. There was an elderly man with a dog by the gate.

  “There's been trouble,” the man went on. “Are you a friend of Mr. Mitford? I'm his neighbour.”

  I came down the path.

  “I'm Steve Manson. Trouble?”

  “I've read about you, Mr. Manson. Your magazine is just fine. Yes . . . trouble . . . poor Wally has been mugged. They've rushed him to hospital.”

  I felt a chill run up my spine.

  “Is he bad?”

  “I guess so. The police took him with Mrs. Mitford in an ambulance.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “The Northern.”

  “Could I use your phone?”

  “Of course, Mr. Manson. I'm right next door.” He whistled to his dog and then led me up a path to a bungalow just like Wally's.

  In two minutes, I was speaking to Jean.

  “Wally's hurt, Jean. He's at the Northern. Will you come over? Shirley will want help.”

  “I'll be right over,” she said and hung up.