1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 8

“He called on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn't he have telephoned? It's quite a trip from his store to your office.”

  “I do it every day and think nothing of it.”

  “Yes.” A long pause, then he said, “I am investigating a murder. Since you are here and since you own - or owned, I should say - a .38 automatic, could you tell me what you were doing between 20.00 and 21.00 last night.”

  I was aware my hands were damp now, but I still kept a deadpan expression.

  “I thought I made that clear. I was talking to my wife at Miss Bower's home around 20.15. I returned to my home around 21.00 and I worked until 23.30, then I went to bed.”

  “Apart from seeing your wife, did you meet any of your neighbours?”

  “A little after 20.00 as I was leaving for home I ran into Harry Mitchell whom you know. We talked for a few minutes. After I left my wife, I met Frank Latimer whom you also know and had a word with him. That would be around 21.00.”

  “No one else?”

  Here was the crunch. If Creeden had told Goldstein or would tell him we had met on East Avenue I would be in trouble.

  “No one else.”

  Goldstein put down his pen.

  “Thank you, Mr. Manson.” As I began to get up, he raised his hand. “May I take up a little more of your time? I have a lot of respect for your magazine and that means respect for your brains. This is an odd murder. Gordy wasn't anything special. I am asking myself why someone should walk into his house and kill him. On the face of it, there appears to be no motive.” He stared at me. “You see my problem? Why should anyone want to kill this man?”

  “I have no idea.” I got to my feet.

  “You talked to Gordy. What kind of man would you say he was?”

  I wasn't to be drawn.

  “As you said: nothing special.”

  He stared thoughtfully at me.

  “Could you enlarge on that?”

  “To me he had no personality. Maybe he was competent in his job. I was busy and his proposition didn't interest me so he didn't interest me.”

  “I understand.” He paused, then went on, “His hobby seemed to be photography. He had a well-equipped dark room and a sophisticated enlarger. What surprises me is this, Mr. Manson: although he had this equipment there were no specimens of his work in the house. You follow me?” He rubbed his hooked nose. “Here was a man with an obvious hobby and one would expect to find some photographs, wouldn't you?”

  “Seems odd.” I shrugged. “The explanation could be he had just started and he hadn't taken any photographs?”

  He shook his head.

  “No. The developing tank and the fixing dishes had been used. The killer could have taken all the photographs. If he did that, it would give me a motive: that Gordy was a blackmailer.”

  “Yes. Well, Lieutenant, I have to get to my office.”

  “Of course.” Again he stared at me. “I may have to bother you again, Mr. Manson.”

  “Sure,” I said and left him.

  In my car, I sat for some moments while I thought about our conversation. It seemed certain that whoever had shot Gordy had taken the film and the blow-ups. It bothered me that Goldstein had so quickly arrived at a blackmail motive.

  My big lie was saying I hadn't met Creeden on East Avenue, but Creeden was also involved and I felt sure he wouldn't talk. Then I remembered something else. I had told Goldstein that Gordy had come to my office to talk about advertising. I remembered the tape of his blackmail threat was still on my recorder at home. If Goldstein suddenly descended on me with a search warrant - that tape would sink me. I had move and at once. I drove back home. Pulling up outside my house I walked swiftly up the drive, unlocked the front door, entered my living room and crossed over to where I kept the recorder. I was halfway across the room when I saw the reel of tape was gone. Then I saw something glittering in the sunshine on the floor by the French windows: a small puddle of broken glass. I examined the window. By the lock, someone had smashed a pane of glass.

  I went back to the recorder. Whoever had taken the reel of tape had just lifted it and ripped the tape free. A small bit of tape still remained on the take-up reel. A hurried, panicky job, but whoever had taken the reel now had evidence that Gordy was trying to blackmail me.

  The police? I was sure not. The police wouldn't have broken in like this. Then . . . who?

  I stood there, controlling a rising panic, knowing the tape could be as damaging as the gun and the film if ever they were found. Then I remembered the blow-up photograph of Linda putting the bottle of perfume in her bag which I had put in my desk drawer. I went to my desk and pulled open the drawer. The blow-up was no longer there.

  The sound of the telephone bell startled me.

  It was Jean.

  “Steve?” Her voice sounded anxious. “What's happening? Are you coming? Your desk is loaded and Max is here, waiting.”

  Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady.

  “I'm on my way,” and I hung up.

  I took out my handkerchief and wiped off my face and hands. The thought of coping with the business of the office made me cringe, but it had to be done.

  Then the front door bell rang.

  Looking out of the window, I saw Creeden's Rolls parked at the gate. I went to the front door and opened it.

  “I was hoping to catch you,” Creeden said. “Just a moment, huh?”

  I stood back and let him in.

  He moved into the living room, paused and stared at the broken glass, then he looked at me.

  “You've had a breakin here?”

  “Let's skip that,” I said. “Your wife and my wife are thieves. The only way you and I can keep them in the clear and keep ourselves from a murder rap is to keep our mouths shut. I've already been investigated by Goldstein. It'll be your turn before long. I said I didn't see you on East Avenue: you say the same thing.”

  “You've already talked to the police?”

  “Yes. Now, you keep your mouth shut.”

  “Of course.” He moved around the room. “God knows why women have to steal. It isn't as if I keep Mabel short.”

  “Was Gordy blackmailing you?”

  As he said nothing, I went on, “He wanted twenty thousand from me. How much from you?”

  He lifted his heavy shoulders.

  “Eighty thousand.”

  “What was his approach?”

  “He stopped me in the street.”

  “He didn't come to your home or office?”

  “No. I was getting into my car and he arrived and put on the bite.”

  “Were you going to pay him last night?”

  “Tonight. I had to sell stock.”

  We looked at each other.

  “You realise, don't you, you and I could be suspected for his murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that's the situation,” I said. “You cover for me and I cover for you . . . right?”

  He stared at me.

  “I've never owned a gun.” He started for the door, paused and asked, “Have you?”

  I met his stare and said nothing.

  “I think you could be in a hotter seat than I am,” he said, then moving heavily, he left the house and walked down the drive to his Rolls.

  5

  Jean hadn't exaggerated when she had said my desk was loaded. I also found Max Berry pacing around my office like a caged tiger. We spent the entire morning working on the Hammond article. I had no chance to speak to Jean while Max was with me.

  Finally, I got rid of him, then Jeremy Rafferty arrived with his piece about violence in the streets. It was so good, I decided to run it in the next issue. I called the artist who did our illustrations and explained to him how to illustrate the article. In spite of being caught up in the machinery of producing a magazine, every now and then my mind kept darting to the stolen reel of tape. When Rafferty left I went into Jean's office but found her in a huddle with one of our advertisers and they looke
d set for some time. By now it was midday. I asked Judy to phone the Eat's bar and have a sandwich sent over. While I was eating it, I called the hospital to inquire after Wally. I was lucky to catch Stanstead.

  “What's the news, Henry? How's Wally?”

  “Not so good,” Stanstead told me. “He's not responding as he should. I have got Carson coming to look at him this afternoon. Those kicks in the head have done more damage than I had thought.”

  I stiffened, shocked.

  “For God's sake, Henry! You said he wasn't in danger . . .is he?”

  “Let us say he isn't responding. Carson has seen the X-rays. He's deciding whether to operate or not.”

  “Have you told Shirley?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “No. You see, Steve, Wally is badly out of condition. He's too fat and bluntly, he's flabby. You can't take the kind of beating he had without being in trouble.”

  “Who is Carson anyway?”

  “He is our best brain surgeon.” Stanstead sounded a little impatient that I didn't know. “Mr. Chandler said Wally was to have the best treatment and he's getting it.”

  “When will you know?”

  “Around five o'clock. I'll call you.”

  “Thanks,” and I hung up.

  I sat back. I had a definite feeling that Wally could give me information about Gordy. I wanted to know how he had got those three names - Lucilla Bower, Creeden and Latimer and if there were any other names.

  The door opened and Jean came in.

  “What a morning!” she said. “I have only a minute but I wanted you to know I got rid of the gun last night. I drove down town and dumped it in a sack of refuse. It was the best I could do, but I'm sure it won't be found.”

  “You are wonderful, Jean. I can't thank you enough. Wally . . .”

  “I know. I called Shirley. She told me.”

  “How is she?”

  “Bearing up. She's gone to the hospital.”

  “Stanstead will call me around five.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Will you have dinner with me tonight, Jean? There's a lot to talk about.”

  The telephone bell started up. She answered, then handed me the receiver. “It's Borg. I'll get back to my desk.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, all right,” and she was gone.

  “Steve? I hear you've lost your gun.” Borg's voice sounded tough.

  “It was stolen from my car.”

  “Hell! I can't get you another and you'd better not tell the boss. What's the matter with you? Don't you lock your car for God's sake?”

  “Last night I had things on my mind.”

  “Send the permit back to me and I'll try to sort it out. The cops are cursing me,” and he hung up.

  I remembered that Max and I had been so busy with the Hammond article, I had forgotten to give him his gun and permit. I went over to the closet to check if the gun was still there: it was.

  Then Harry Lancing arrived. He handled our financial column which was a big success. He and I spent the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by telephone calls, mapping out his article for the next issue.

  When he had gone, the time was nearly 18.00. My intercom buzzed.

  “Mr. Chandler on the line,” Jean told me.

  I lifted the receiver.

  “Hi, Steve! I'm just back.” Chandler's voice boomed.

  “Damn good trip. I have things to talk to you about. Come over and have dinner with us and bring Linda. She can keep Lois company while we talk, huh?”

  I thought of my date with Jean, but this was an invitation I couldn't refuse. '

  “Linda is in Dallas with her mother, Mr. Chandler.”

  “Then bring Jean with you. I have to keep Lois occupied.” He laughed. “The Hammond article ready?”

  “The layout is with the printers. On my way over to you, I'll get some pulls.”

  “Fine. Say around seven? I want an early night.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chandler.”

  I went into Jean's office and told her Chandler had invited her to dinner.

  She threw up her hands, her face registering despair.

  “Oh, no!”

  “There it is.”

  “I must drop everything and go home, Steve. I have to change. His wife is so formal. I'll meet you there at seven.”

  Returning to my desk, I called the printers and asked if they could have pulls of the Hammond article in an hour.

  Because Chandler owned the works, they said they would.

  I looked at my watch. I had three-quarters of an hour before I need leave the office. In the bustle, I had forgotten Stanstead hadn't telephoned.

  I called the hospital. Stanstead apologised for not calling me.

  “He's been operated on. I would have called you sooner but Mr. Borg has been taking up my time.”

  “Borg?”

  “That's right. He represents Mr. Chandler, doesn't he? Wally will be all right. In a couple of days, now the pressure on the brain has been removed, he'll be able to have visitors. Mr. Borg wants to get him to some clinic in Miami as soon as it is safe for him to travel. Mr. Chandler certainly looks after his staff.”

  “In a couple of days, I can talk to him?”

  “I think so. The police have priority. Lieutenant Goldstein is already pressing.”

  “I'll call you Friday.”

  “Do that.”

  I sat for a long moment, thinking. Would Wally give the police the story about Gordy? I was sure Shirley would be the first to see him and she must be told to warn Wally to say nothing. I telephoned Wally's house but got no reply.

  Shirley was probably still at the hospital. Well, I had two days. It was time I was moving. I locked up the office and went down to my car.

  I stopped off at the printers and collected the damp pulls of the Hammond article. I paused to look them over. They looked good to me. Then I drove uptown to Chandler's opulent house, arriving there at 19.05. I saw Jean's Porsche already parked. The butler, imported from England, took me into a vast lounge: every piece of furniture had a history and a price, and the paintings in the gilt frames, lit by special lighting, were all museum treasures.

  “Come on in, Steve,” Chandler said.

  Jean, looking lovely in a simple white dress, was nursing a dry martini. Lois Chandler was sitting by her side and she smiled at me as I came forward.

  Lois Chandler was some twenty years younger than her husband and that would make her thirty-six or -seven. She was tall, elegant and sophisticated. She appeared to have nothing else to do except entertain her husband's guests, buy clothes, visit beauty parlours and look glamorous. She was so immaculate that I had the feeling that if I touched her it would be like touching a masterpiece in oils that had not completely dried. Her hair, thick and impressively groomed, was tinted sable. Her large green eyes, her rather sharp little nose, her sensual mouth and her determined chin explained why Chandler had married her and doted on her.

  “You are a stranger, Steve,” she said, smiling at me. “We don't see enough of you.”

  We all made small talk while drinks were served, then we went into dinner which was formal and over-rich and while we ate Chandler talked about his visit to Washington. We were told how the President was looking, that Chandler thought the inflation problem was on the way to being solved, that the President and he were now on first name terms. While we were being served dessert, Lois suddenly broke in, looking at her husband as she said, “Darling, aren't you monopolising the conversation? I want to hear from Steve about this odd murder at Eastlake.”

  “You're right, honey.” Chandler beamed at her.

  “Murder? What has happened?”

  Lois looked at me.

  “You can tell us. Who is this man and why was he shot?”

  “I have no idea why he was shot,” I said, aware she was staring curiously at me. “He managed the Welcome Self-service store.”

  “I know that
! It was in the paper, but why?”

  “Even the police don't know. Someone walked into his house and shot him dead. That's all I know.” I saw Chandler was looking bored.

  “Some drug addict after money,” he said impatiently. “It happens every day.”

  “But surely on the Eastlake estate there are many more prosperous homes to go to?” Lois said, still looking at me.

  “I don't suppose this man had much money.”

  “I wouldn't know.”

  “Well, I am disappointed,” she said and smiled at me. “I was quite, quite sure you would have some inside information. I adore a murder case.”

  Chandler leaned forward and patted her hand.

  “Look, honey, I have to talk to Steve. So suppose you two girls get together, huh?”

  Lois lifted her elegant shoulders and turned to Jean.

  “Let's go,” she said. “Obviously we're outstaying our welcome.”

  When the door closed behind them, Chandler pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

  “We'll go to my study. I want to see the Hammond pulls.”

  It was not until after midnight that I escaped from his study. By then Jean had gone home and Lois had gone to bed.

  Chandler was delighted with the Hammond article. He also talked about the President's anti-inflation plans and together we mapped out an article explaining what the President had in mind. This would have to be written by Lancing. Chandler also talked about the Schultz article. He wanted that to appear in the following issue.

  “We'll keep them on the run, Steve,” he said, grinning like a schoolboy. “Hit them and keep hitting them. It's good news - Wally will be all right. He's a damn fine researcher. As soon as he's on his feet, I'll send him and his wife down to Palm Beach for some sun. How about a replacement until he can start work again?”

  “Berry can handle it. I have a lot of good stuff we haven't used yet.”

  As he walked me to the front door, he said, “You're doing a fine job. Sorry Linda couldn't come. I like that girl.”

  I hesitated whether to tell him our marriage had broken down, but decided against it. There was time.

  I got in my car, then drove to the Imperial hotel and using one of the telephone booths, I called Jean. There was a delay, then she answered.

  “Could I come over?” I asked. “There's so much to tell you.”