1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 5

  ‘I am looking for Terry. It’s important that I find him. Can you tell me where he is?’

  Smedley shook his head.

  ‘I wish I could, Mr. Wallace. I would so much like to see him again and talk with him. I haven’t heard from him since he walked out.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why it is important that I get in contact with him. An old lady has left him one hundred thousand dollars. She was a Miss Angus and she was murdered. The money can’t come to him until I can contact him. One hundred thousand dollars, Josh.’

  I waited, watching him.

  ‘The old lady was murdered?’ he asked, staring at me.

  ‘Yes. The killer must have found out that she kept all this money in her apartment at the Breakers where Terry lived. The killer was looking for the money, but he was too late. It is now in a bank, and waiting for Terry to claim it.’

  ‘I just don’t know where he is, Mr. Wallace.’

  I got to my feet and moved to the door.

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You have a son, Hank, who runs the Black Cassette Disco. Correct?’

  He shrivelled back in his chair.

  ‘That is right, Mr. Wallace,’ he said in a low, quavering voice.

  ‘When I first came here and Mrs. Thorsen hired me, you telephoned your son, telling him about me, didn’t you?’

  He remained silent, closing his eyes, his drink trembling in his hand.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ I barked, using my cop voice.

  ‘I talk to my son every day,’ he muttered.

  ‘You told him about me?’

  ‘My son is interested in what goes on here,’ he said after a long pause.

  ‘OK, Josh,’ I said, not taking it further. I had the answer. Smedley had tipped his son that I had been hired to watch Angela, and Hank had immediately given me a warning, spoiling my wall, and taking it further to underline the message, had sapped me.

  I let myself out and Smedley seemed hardly to notice.

  Back in my office, I found my note to Bill still on his desk. I sat at my desk and made a report of my talk with Josh Smedley. By the time I had finished it was 13.15, and I was hungry.

  As I was putting my report in the Thorsen file, Bill came in. I could see by his excited expression he had news.

  ‘Let’s eat, Bill,’ I said, getting to my feet.

  ‘Great! I could eat an elephant!’

  Without further talk, we went down to a restaurant that was close by, just around the corner from the Trueman building.

  We ordered breaded lamb chops and french fries: the special for the day. We both had beers. The service was fast. We had scarcely time to settle ourselves when two plates arrived with two enormous lamb chops and a mountain of french fries. The lamb chops were as tender as an old man’s leg, but we were hungry, so we chewed.

  ‘What’s new, Bill?’ I asked as I sawed at my meat.

  ‘The Olds is now registered in the name of Hank Smedley. Transferred to him some three months ago. How do you like that?’

  ‘I like it,’ I said and ate some of the crisp potatoes.

  ‘And. . .?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Bill said. ‘I got Hank’s address, 56 Seagrove Road, Seacombe. I went along and look a look. Hank has a pad on the top floor. The place is nice and with style. I then went along to the cop house and talked to Tom Lepski. I told him we were interested in Hank Smedley. As he had nothing to do, he gave out. The cops know all about Hank. Lepski dug out his file. Hank’s been in trouble since the age of twelve. D.J. Three times in a reform. Stealing, violence, beating up kids: a real hellion. Then suddenly he appears to have turned respectable. For the past year, the cops have nothing on him. He runs this disco. Every so often Lepski walks in, but it’s all respectable. Yet Lepski said he has a hunch that something is going on there, but he doesn’t know what. He itches to raid the place, but can’t get a search warrant. That’s about it, Dirk.’

  ‘Nice work,’ I said.

  As we chewed I told him what I had learned from Josh Smedley, which didn’t seem to add up to much, but left a doubt or two, a whiff of a scent we would have to pick up somewhere.

  While Bill was thumping out his report, I read through every word in the Thorsen file.

  The time now was 16.15. I wondered if Mrs. Thorsen was back home. No harm in trying, I thought, and taking it slow, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence.

  The humid drizzle had stopped and the sun had come out. I was in luck. As I walked up the drive, leaving my car parked outside the villa’s gates, I saw her drinking tea, under the shelter of a garden awning.

  As I approached she regarded me with a cold, haughty stare.

  ‘I was under the impression, Mr. Wallace, that I told you to telephone before you came here.’

  ‘I did. You were out. So here I am.’

  There was a chair near hers so I sat down.

  ‘Well?’ She put down her half-finished cup of tea and continued to stare at me.

  ‘I have been instructed by my people to report progress to you and ask if you wish the investigation to go further.’

  She stiffened.

  ‘What progress?’

  ‘You hired me to find out if your daughter is being blackmailed and, if so, by whom,’ I said carefully. ‘I saw your daughter collect the money from the bank. I followed her to a slum quarter of the waterfront. She left her car and entered the Black Cassette Disco. She remained there for ten minutes or so, then left without the money.’

  Mrs. Thorsen sat as if turned to stone.

  ‘The Black Cassette? What is that?’ Her voice was harsh.

  ‘It is an all-black nightclub. No whites are allowed.’

  ‘Yet you say my daughter went in there?’

  ‘Obviously she was paying someone in the club the ten thousand dollars. That doesn’t mean she associates with blacks, Mrs. Thorsen.’

  ‘Then what does it mean?’

  ‘For all I know she may be contributing to a black fund; helping certain blacks who are living rough. I don’t know. But I do know that this club is owned by Hank Smedley, the son of your butler.’

  Once again she turned to stone. I had to admire her. I could see how shocked she was, but her self-control couldn’t be faulted.

  She sat for three long minutes, staring down at her beautiful hands.

  ‘Hank Smedley,’ she finally muttered, not looking at me. ‘Yes, of course. He used to help in the garden. I noticed my daughter and he were getting too friendly. He used to play with her. This was Angela’s growing-up period. She liked to romp and be stupid, and Hank, who was ten years older than she, encouraged her. I complained to my husband. He got rid of Hank. For a time Angela seemed to miss him.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘So it would seem that she still meets him, and now gives him money. How dreadful!’

  ‘It looks like that, but it may not be so.’

  ‘I must talk to my butler about this!’ Her voice turned savage and she glared at me.

  ‘It would be better, Mrs. Thorsen, for you first to talk to your daughter.’

  ‘To Angela?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘She wouldn’t tell me anything. I really believe she hates me.’

  ‘There are complications, Mrs. Thorsen. I haven’t been wasting your money,’ I said. ‘If you want me to go further with this, then it is up to you. Just tell me, and my agency will either close the case or continue it.’

  ‘What complications?’

  I certainly wasn’t going to bring her son onto the scene at this stage.

  ‘Hank is dangerous, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I would like to find out what is going on in his club. The police have tried, but have got nowhere. If I can find enough evidence of wrongdoing, I want to put this man behind bars. This is now up to you.’

  There was a cruel, hard look on her gaunt lace as she said, ‘Nothing would please me more than to know that useless scum is in prison! Very well! I don’t care how much it costs! Continue the investigation!’

  ‘I will do that, but only on one c
ondition, Mrs. Thorsen,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I ask you to say nothing about this to your daughter nor to your butler. Is that understood!’

  ‘I leave it to you to put that animal behind bars!’ she said, and the viciousness in her voice was startling. ‘I leave it to you, and you take the responsibility!’

  On that note, I left her.

  CHAPTER 4

  I sat in my car outside the Thorsens’ residence, listening to the steady rain drumming on the roof of my car. I turned over in my mind the conversation I had had with Mrs. Thorsen. At least she had given the agency the green light to go ahead with the investigation. As it was costing her, I decided she must get value for money.

  I drove slowly along the high wall that encircled the estate. As I expected, I came on a narrow lane to my right, and I drove up it, still seeing the high wall. I hoped this lane would lead directly to the cottage where Angela Thorsen lived, and I was right.

  Leaving the car on the wet grass verge and struggling into my mac, I walked up the short tarmac drive until I saw the cottage: small, probably three bedrooms and a big living room.

  Standing before the cottage was Angela’s beat—up, rusty Beetle car.

  I arrived at the front door. There was no porch. As I pressed the bell, the rain dripped down on me.

  The door jerked open. I was confronted by a large black woman who looked big enough, tough enough and strong enough to give Larry Holmes a workout.

  She looked me up and down, then demanded in a harsh voice, ‘What do you want, mister?’

  ‘Miss Angela Thorsen,’ I said, staring directly at her.

  ‘On your way, mister. Miss Angela doesn’t see strangers. Beat it!’

  I had my professional card ready and I poked it at her.

  ‘She’ll see me,’ I said in my cop voice. ‘Let’s have some action! I’m getting wet!’

  She read the card, stared at me, then snapped, ‘Wait!’ and slammed the door.

  So this was Hanna Smedley. I felt sorry for Josh. No wonder he had taken to the bottle.

  I stood there in the rain and waited.

  Five minutes crawled by. By then, I was exasperated. I put my finger on the bell push and leaned on it. That produced some action.

  The door jerked open, and Mrs. Smedley glared at me.

  ‘Well, come in! Take that mac off. I don’t want the place sopping wet.’

  I took off my mac and hat and dropped them in a puddle of rain on the floor of the lobby.

  She opened a door and waved me in, so I entered a large living room, comfortably furnished with lounging chairs and a big TV set.

  I took this in with a quick glance, then turned my attention to the girl who was sitting in a lounging chair, looking enquiringly at me.

  Angela Thorsen wasn’t wearing her sun goggles or her concealing hat. The dim light from the rain-filled sky fell directly on her.

  I was startled. When I had asked her mother if Angela had boyfriends, I remembered her exact words: ‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is not attractive.’

  Mother’s jealousy?

  I looked at this girl. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn when she first appeared on the screen: the same classical features, the dark hair, the serious, dark brown eyes. OK, she had a starvation body, but shift your eyes to her face, you found sexual attraction.

  ‘Excuse me for intruding, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I am hoping you can help me.’

  She smiled and waved me to a chair.

  ‘I hope I can, Mr. Wallace. Please sit down. Would you like tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I sat down.

  ‘You are a private detective?’ I saw she was holding my card.

  ‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’

  ‘It must be an exciting life. I often read thrillers about private detectives.’

  ‘A private detective’s life is far from thrilling except in books, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘Most of my time is spent sitting in cars or talking to people who don’t cooperate.’

  Again she smiled.

  ‘So you have come to me. Please, tell me why.’

  ‘I have been hired to find your brother.’ I was watching her, but her smile didn’t slip. She just looked interested.

  ‘My brother? Terry?’

  ‘That’s right. An old lady has left him money, and unless he is found, the money remains in the bank. I have been hired to find him.’

  ‘An old lady has left Terry money?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Thorsen.’

  ‘How nice of her. Who is she?’

  I put on my mournful look.

  ‘That’s why my job is so dull,’ I said. ‘My boss just tells me to find Terry Thorsen as he has been left money by an old lady. He doesn’t tell me her name, but he did tell me she has left your brother one hundred thousand dollars. So I am making enquiries.’

  She leaned forward.

  ‘Did you say one hundred thousand dollars?’

  ‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’

  She sat back and gave me her guileless smile.

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘Wonderful for him,’ I said, ‘but I still have to find him. Can you help me?’

  ‘I wish I could. I haven’t seen my brother for months.’

  ‘He hasn’t written to you or telephoned you?’

  ‘No.’ Her smile was replaced by a sad expression. ‘It grieves me, Mr. Wallace. At one time, my brother and I were close.’

  I couldn’t decide if she was telling me the truth, but if not, she was lying with impressive expertise.

  ‘Perhaps you know of a friend of his who would give me a lead,’ I suggested.

  Sadly, she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know any of his friends.’

  ‘I guess you know he was playing the piano at the Dead End club, then suddenly left.’

  Her eyes opened a trifle in what could have been surprise.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘So you can give me no help?’

  ‘I wish I could. I have your card. If I do hear from Terry, I will telephone you.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘I’d be glad if you would do that. It’s a shame. There’s this large amount of money in the bank, and your brother isn’t aware it is his.’

  She nodded, then got to her feet.

  ‘It is a shame.’

  Then I produced the question that would tell me if she was an expert liar or was speaking the truth.

  Watching her closely, I said, ‘Do you happen to know where I can locate Hank Smedley?’

  If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would have missed the slight flicker of her eyes, and the slight tightening of her guileless smile.

  I knew for sure I had got under her guard.

  A slight pause, then her smile came into place as she said, ‘Hank Smedley? How surprising. You mean the black boy who once worked in our garden?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss Thorsen. Hank, who is Mrs. Smedley’s son. Do you know where I can locate him?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Again the guileless smile. ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time, nor has his mother.’

  Then I knew she was lying, and had been lying with an expertise I had not encountered before. She could easily have fooled me but for the fact I had seen her walk into the Black Cassette.

  I too could put on an act. I lifted my shoulders in a resigned shrug.

  ‘Looks like your brother is going to be hard to find.’ I gave her my hard cop stare, ‘But we keep on digging, Miss Thorsen. When my agency is hired for a job, we don’t give up until the job is nicely finished. I am sure you will be interested to know when we do find your brother.’ I smiled at her. ‘I will let you know.’

  Leaving her standing motionless, her smile now gone, I went out into the lobby, picked up my mac, slapped on my wet hat and walked down the tarmac to my car.

  Retarded, her mother had told me. Unattractive?

 
; This girl, around 24 years of age, was the finest liar I had ever questioned. What a mug she had nearly made of me! If I hadn’t asked her about Hank, I would have had every reason to believe the lies she had been telling me.

  I slid into my car.

  As I started the motor, I wondered what she was going to do? Alert her brother? Alert Hank? Perhaps do nothing.

  I reversed the car and drove down to the highway.

  * * *

  Back in my office, I found Bill thumping on his typewriter.

  I told him of my interview with Angela, then concluded, ‘Here we have a real character. She lies beautifully, she has steel nerves, she has sex, she pretends she doesn’t know where to locate her brother, and bluntly says she hasn’t seen Hank Smedley for years.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you want to find the brother,’ Bill said. ‘Hank seems to me to be the leading character in this business.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, pulling my typewriter towards me, ‘but I have a hunch that Terry could be the key. I could be wrong. Let’s get these reports off the desk.’

  It was around 19.20 by the time we had completed our reports, and I had put them away in the Thorsen file.

  ‘What now?’ Bill asked.

  ‘We’ll go eat Italian,’ I said, ‘then I am going to talk to Hank Smedley.’

  Bill cocked his head on one side.

  ‘You’re going to that all-black club?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Fine, and I’m coming with you.’

  I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk and took out my .38 gun. I checked it and then thrust it into my trouser belt.

  ‘Get your gun too, Bill,’ I said. ‘We could walk into trouble.’

  He unlocked his drawer and produced a pair of brass knuckle-dusters. He slid them on each hand and surveyed them with loving eyes.

  ‘If you have a gun, Dirk, I don’t need a gun.’

  ‘Hey! Those things are illegal!’

  ‘That’s a fact. So they are illegal.’ He took them off and dropped them into his pocket. ‘Nothing like a lump of brass if one gets into a fight with a black.’

  I shrugged. I knew he had a punch that would put a mule to sleep. With those lethal bits of brass, he could put an elephant to sleep.