A Can of Worms

Chapter one

The offices of the Parnell Detective Agency were situated on the top floor of the Trueman building on Paradise Avenue. Founded and run by Colonel Victor Parnell, the Agency was head and shoulders above the other agencies on the Atlantic coast.

After leaving the army, Parnell had been smart to start the Agency in Paradise City, the playground of billionaires. The Agency was strictly for the rich, and there were more rich in Paradise City than in any other city in the United States of America.

Parnell was from Texas. He had inherited his father’s oil fortune, and had all the capital he needed to set up the Agency in the lush-plush style expected by the citizens of the city. He employed twenty operators, ten typists, an accountant, Charles Edwards, and Glenda Kerry, his personal assistant.

The twenty operators, all ex-cops and ex-M.P.s, worked in pairs. Each pair had an office, and unless there was an emergency, they knew nothing about the work being done by their colleagues. This system prevented leaks to the press. Should there be a leak, and it happened just once, both operators, working on the case, got the gate.

I paired with Chick Barley, who, like me, had served during the Vietnam War as Lieutenant (Military Police) under Parnell. We were both thirty-eight years of age and unmarried. We had been working as a pair for the past three years, and we had earned the reputation of being the best pair of operators under Parnell’s direction.

The Agency handled divorce, parents’ problems, blackmail, extortion, hotel swindles, wife or husband watching, and pretty near everything, short of murder.

The Agency worked closely with the Paradise City police. Should an operator trip over a criminal case, Parnell would hand the operator’s report to Chief of Police Terrell, and we would duck out of the scene. In this way, the Agency didn’t tread on any toes. But the Agency reserved the right to protect a client until Parnell was satisfied that the case was police business, and only police business.

On this bright, summer morning, Chick and I were at our desks, temporarily unemployed. We had just buttoned up a kleptomania case, and were waiting for a new assignment.

His feet on his desk, Chick was reading a girlie mag. He was tall and massively built with sandy-coloured hair and a flattened nose of a boxer. From time to time, he would release a long, low whistle, indicating that he had reached a photograph that made him horny.

Across the room, at my desk, I was doing sums on a scratch pad, and was coming to the inevitable conclusion that I would be in the red once again before the end of the month when I got paid. Money never seemed to stay with me. Every week, before payday, I had to borrow. When I got paid, I returned what I had borrowed, and was short again. It wasn’t that I was badly paid. Parnell’s salary scale was much higher than the other agencies. Money just refused to stay with me.

I pushed aside my scratch pad in disgust and regarded Chick hopefully.

“Old timer,” I said, using my begging-bowl face, “how are you fixed with the green stuff?”

Chick lowered the magazine and sighed.

“It’s about time you kicked this habit, Bart,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? What do you do with your money?”

“That’s a good question. I wish I knew. It comes and it vanishes, and I have damn all to show for it.”

“I know,” he said, looking smug. “I’m a detective, remember? If you stopped taking that expensive chick around, if you gave up living in that expensive apartment, if you made do with a reasonable car instead of that beat-up Maserati that eats gas, if you let up on the booze, if you stopped dressing like a movie actor, then, and only then, would you stop borrowing off me.”

“A good point. In fact, good points, old timer.” I smiled at him. “So how about a hundred bucks until payday?”

“To hear you talk, anyone would imagine I was a goddamn banker. I can manage fifty, and not a dime more.” He took out his wallet, eased out a fifty bill and held it up. “Okay?”

“It’ll have to be.” I left my chair, crossed over to him and snapped up the bill. “Thanks, Chick. I’ll let you have it back payday... boy scout’s honour.”

“Yeah, until next time. Seriously, Bart, you had better do something about your spending. If the Colonel knew you were in hock every third week of the month, he wouldn’t like it.”

“Then he should pay me better.”

“What good would that do? You’d only spend it and still be in hock.”

“You have another good point,” I said. “You’re stuffed with good points this morning.” I wandered over to the big window and looked way down at the sea, glittering in the sun, the miles of sand and palm trees, and the bodies, half concealed by beach umbrellas.

“Brother! How I would like to be down there with those sexy dolls,” I said. “We’ve just finished a job, haven’t we? Why doesn’t the Colonel give us a day off as a reward for good work done? Why doesn’t he?”

“You ask him,” Chick said without dragging his eyes from the mag.

I lit a cigarette, and moving behind him, peered over his shoulder. He turned a page, and we both whistled.

“Now that’s what I call a bishop’s temptation,” Chick said. “Wouldn’t I like to spend a week on a desert island with this babe.”

“And it needn’t be a desert island.”

“How wrong can you be! On a desert island, you don’t have to buy her a thing.”

The intercom buzzed. Chick thumbed down the switch.

“The Colonel wants Bart,” Glenda Kerry said and clicked off. Glenda never wasted words nor time.

“Here we go,” I said. “More work. What’s it this time?”

“Some old trout has lost her dog,” Chick said indifferently and settled back with his mag.

I went along to Parnell’s office, tapped and entered.

Parnell was a giant of a man with a fleshy, sun-tanned face, small piercing eyes and a mouth like a rattrap. He looked every inch a tough veteran, and I had to watch myself every time I came before him, not to salute.

He was behind his desk. In the client’s chair sat a portly man, balding, his complexion pink and white, his eyebrows shaggy and his eyes hidden behind green sunglasses.

“Bart Anderson,” Parnell said, waving to me. “Bart, this is Mr. Mel Palmer.”

The fat man struggled out of his chair to shake hands. The top of his balding head just reached my shoulder. I was aware of keen, hard scrutiny behind the green sunglasses.

“Anderson is one of my best operators,” Parnell went on as the fat man sank back into his chair. “You can rely on his discretion.” He signalled to me to take a chair and as I sat, he went on, “Mr. Palmer is the agent and manager for Mr. Russ Hamel.” He paused to give me one of his stoney stares. “Russ Hamel mean anything to you?”

I don’t read novels, but I knew of Hamel. Only last week I had taken Bertha to see a movie based on one of his books. I don’t know about his books, but the movie stank.

“Sure,” I said, putting on my intelligent expression.

“Paperback sales must run into millions. I saw a movie of his only last week.”

Mel Palmer beamed.

“I would say Mr. Hamel is in the same stable as Robbins and Sheldon.”

I switched to my awe-stricken expression, but wiped it when I saw Parnell glaring at me. Then he looked at Palmer.

“Okay for me to brief Anderson? Have you made up your mind you want action, Mr. Palmer?”

Palmer grimaced.

“I don’t want action, but Mr. Hamel does. Yes, go ahead.”

Parnell turned to me.

“Mr. Hamel has been receiving poison pen letters about his wife. She is twenty-five and he is forty-eight. He is beginning to think he has made a mistake marrying a woman so young. When he is writing, he needs to be alone. She is left to amuse herself. These letters say she is amusing herself with a younger man. Hamel is in the middle of an important work.” He looked at Palmer. “That’s correct?”

Palmer rubbed his fat little hands together.

“It’s important if you call a movie deal worth ten million dollars, a paperback deal worth a million dollars and, of course, foreign rights. Mr. Hamel has signed all these contracts, and the book is promised to be delivered in four months’ time.”

I strangled a whistle. Eleven million dollars for writing a book! Man! I thought, are you in the wrong racket!

Talking to me, Parnell went on, “These letters have broken Mr. Hamel’s concentration.”

“He’s just stopped writing!” Palmer said, his voice shrill. “I’ve told him these letters are written by some sick crank and he should ignore them. If the book doesn’t make its dateline, the movie people might sue.” He waved his hands. “Mr. Hamel says he can’t continue to write until he is completely satisfied that there is no truth in this crank’s insinuations. He wants his wife watched.”

Another dreary wife-watching case, I thought. Hours of sitting in a car with nothing happening for days, then suddenly, something does happen, and if you’re lulled by the sun and boredom, you lose her. Wife watching was my least favourite assignment.

“No problem,” Parnell said. “That’s what we are here for, Mr. Palmer. I agree with you that Mr. Hamel’s wisest move would be to show these letters to his wife, but, you tell me, he is emphatically against this?”

“I’m afraid so. He thinks it would be insulting.” Palmer moved irritably. “There it is. He wants her watched, and a weekly report sent to him.”

“He doesn’t trust his wife?”

“He has had a previous, most unfortunate experience which has made him distrustful.” Palmer hesitated, then went on, “Nancy isn’t his first wife. Three years ago, he married a woman of Nancy’s present age. This woman felt neglected, and in my opinion, rightly so, and Hamel caught her with some young playboy, and there was a divorce.”

“Rightly so?” Parnell quizzed.

“When Mr. Hamel is writing, he cuts himself off from any social contact. His working hours are from nine to seven, and during that time, no one is permitted to approach him. He even has his lunch served in his workroom. For a young, newly married woman, this routine can be and, of course, with his first wife, was, a disaster.”

The telephone bell buzzed on Parnell’s desk. Frowning, he answered, said, “Okay, in ten minutes,” and hung up. He looked at Palmer. “I suggest you go with Anderson and give him a description of Mrs. Hamel, who her friends are, what she does with herself during the day if that is known.” He stood up. “There is nothing to worry about, Mr. Palmer. Please tell Mr. Hamel he will receive our report, delivered by hand, in seven days’ time. When Anderson has all the information you can give him, would you be good enough to see Miss Kerry who will explain about our fees and the retainer.”

Palmer looked glum.

“I hope this isn’t going to be too expensive.”

Parnell’s fleshy face creased into a wintry smile.

“Nothing that Mr. Hamel can’t afford. I assure you of that.”

I led Palmer down the long corridor and into my office. Chick hurriedly removed his feet from the desk and dropped the girlie mag into a desk drawer.

I introduced Palmer and Chick and they shook hands. As I was thirsting for a drink, I said, “Make yourself at home, Mr. Palmer. Have a Scotch?”

I saw Chick’s face brighten, then fall as Palmer said, “No — no, thank you. Scotch I find a little heavy for me at this time of the day. Perhaps a pink gin?”

“Let’s have some drinks, huh?” I said to Chick.

While he was fixing two Scotches and a pink gin, I sat Palmer down in the client’s chair, then took my place behind my desk.

“I’d like to fill my colleague in,” I said. “He and I work together.”

Palmer nodded and accepted a double pink gin that Chick thrust at him.

Every office was equipped with a cocktail cabinet, but the operators weren’t supposed to drink, except with clients. We got around that problem by buying our own bottles of Scotch, and keeping them in our desk drawers.

I outlined to Chick what Parnell had told me.

“So we watch Mrs. Hamel, and she is not to know she’s being watched... right?” I looked at Palmer who nodded. I could see by Chick’s expression he, like me, was dismayed to be landed with a wife-watching assignment.

“Let me have a description of Mrs. Hamel,” I said.

“I can do better than that. I have brought a photograph of her,” and opening his brief case, Palmer produced a ten by six glossy which he handed to me.

I regarded the woman in the photograph. Quite a dish, I thought. Darkish hair, big eyes, slender nose and full lips. To judge by the way her breasts pushed against her white shirt, she was nicely stacked. I handed the photo to Chick who scarcely suppressed a whistle.

“How about her daily routine, Mr. Palmer?”

“She rises at nine, leaves the house to play tennis with her close friend, Penny Highbee, who is the wife of Mark Highbee, Mr. Hamel’s attorney. She usually lunches at the Country Club, then apparently amuses herself either with the boat or goes fishing or meets other friends. This is what she tells Mr. Hamel.” Palmer lifted his fat shoulders. “I have no reason to doubt her, but Mr. Hamel thinks her afternoons should be checked. He doesn’t query her playing tennis with Mrs. Highbee. That, he thinks, would be too dangerous to lie about.”

“These letters, Mr. Palmer.”

“I have them.” Again he dipped into his briefcase and produced two blue-tinted envelopes and his business card which he gave me. Then he looked at his watch. “I have another appointment. If there is any further information you need, contact me. Mr. Hamel is not to be disturbed.” He started for the door, then paused. “It is understood that this unfortunate affair is strictly confidential.”

“That is understood, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my boy scout’s smile. I conducted him to Glenda’s office. “Miss Kerry will explain our terms.”

“Yes — yes, of course.” He looked glum. “I am quite sure this is all a waste of time and money, but Mr. Hamel is important people. I must get him working again.” He stared at me through his green sunglasses. “If you do happen to get an adverse report on Mrs. Hamel — I am sure you won’t — then alert me immediately. There is a lot of money involved.”

Ten percent of eleven million dollars was a lot of loot, I thought, as I ushered him into Glenda’s office. I was getting the idea that Palmer was worrying more about his commission than about Hamel and his wife.

Glenda was at her desk. Although she wasn’t my favourite woman, she was restful on the eyes. Tall, dark and good looking, wearing a dark blue frock with white collar and cuffs, her hair immaculate, she looked what she was: one hundred percent efficient and a go-getter.

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, and leaving Palmer to face Glenda’s steely smile, I returned to my office.

Chick was reading one of the poison pen letters, his feet on his desk. I saw he had replenished his drink so I replenished mine before sitting down.

“Listen to this,” he said, and read, “While you are writing your trash, your sexy wife is having it off with Waldo Carmichael. A race horse will always beat a cart horse, especially an old cart horse.” He looked at me as he reached for the second letter. “This one is a real niftie,” and read, “ ‘Carmichael does it a lot better than you do, and Nancy loves it. Sex is for the young: strictly not for the elderly.’ ” He dropped the letter on his desk. “Both of them signed: Your Non-Fan. I guess if I was his age and got this crap, I could go in a corner and make whimpering noises.”

I examined the letters. They were typewritten. I examined the envelopes: mailed in Paradise City. I then picked up Nancy Hamel’s photograph and regarded it.

“I know what’s going on in that sewer you call your mind,” Chick said. “If you were her, married to a guy who works from nine to seven and leaves you high and dry, you would get something on the side.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. So...?”

I looked at my watch. The time was five minutes after midday.

“According to Palmer, she should now be at the Country Club. I’ve just time to grab a snack, then I’ll get over there. I’ll stay with her until she goes home. So, suppose you find out who Waldo Carmichael is? Let’s get some dope on him.”

On our way to the elevator, I looked in on Glenda.

“I start work as soon as I have fed my face,” I said. “How about expenses?”

“Reasonable expenses,” she told me. “I’ve done a nice deal with him.”

“I bet. I could hear him screaming in my office. How much?”

“Ask the Colonel. He’ll tell you if he wants you to know,” and she went back to her writing.

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 high-rise, 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 Largo 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? Sexy, huh?”

“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.”

“How about smuggling? I know a guy who is stuffed with loot, smuggling cigars from Cuba.”

“Are you trying to talk me into a jail?”

She shrugged.

“Forget it. I know what I would do in your place.”

I steered the car into the basement garage of my high-rise.

“So what would you do in my place?” I asked as I turned off the engine and the lights.

“I’d look around among the rich creeps I worked for, and put a bite on them,” Bertha said as she got out of the car.

“Meaning the creeps I work for?”

“Meaning the rich creeps like Russ Hamel you are working for.”

I joined her and we walked towards the elevator.

“Did I tell you I was working for Hamel?”

“Skip it, Bart. You didn’t tell me, but it’s obvious. Let’s forget it. You are not using your brains. Few get the chance to work for all these rich creeps as you do. Those few who have your chances wouldn’t waste them as you are wasting them. There’s big money to be made out of these rich creeps. It just needs some thought. Come on, let’s get upstairs or my mood will fade on me.”

As I followed her into the elevator, I began to think about what she had said. I was still thinking when we rolled into bed, but once her arms and her legs wrapped around me, I stopped thinking.

There is a time and a place for everything.